An innocent country girl...

With stars in her eyes!

In this Brides of the Roaring Twenties story, hotshot lawyer Walter Russell knows an innocent country girl like Shirley Burnette is going to find it tough in cutthroat Hollywood. A stolen kiss with this bright, young singer may be worthy of the silver screen—but Walter hates show business and has sworn off starlets. He knows he should steer well clear...if only he wasn’t so compelled to help her!

A lover of fairytales and cowboy boots, LAURI ROBINSON can’t imagine a better profession than penning happily-ever-after stories about men—and women—who pull on a pair of boots before riding off into the sunset…or kick them off for other reasons. Lauri and her husband raised three sons in their rural Minnesota home, and are now getting their just rewards by spoiling their grandchildren. Visit: laurirobinson.blogspot.com, facebook.com/lauri.robinsonl or twitter.com/LauriR.

Also by Lauri Robinson

The Cowboy’s Orphan Bride

Mail-Order Brides of Oak Grove

Winning the Mail-Order Bride

Western Christmas Brides

Married to Claim the Rancher’s Heir

In the Sheriff’s Protection

Diary of a War Bride

Brides of the Roaring Twenties miniseries

Baby on His Hollywood Doorstep

Stolen Kiss with the Hollywood Starlet

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

Stolen Kiss with the Hollywood Starlet

Lauri Robinson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-08936-4

STOLEN KISS WITH THE HOLLYWOOD STARLET

© 2019 Lauri Robinson

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

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Version: 2020-03-02

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To my sister-in-law Jeannette.

An angel among the living.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Epilogue

Extract

About the Publisher

Chapter One
1927

Look out, Los Angeles! Shirley Burnette’s rolling into town!

Shirley giggled at her own thoughts. Could almost hear Pappy saying them.

He used to say, “Look out, Shirley’s up and at ’em,” every morning without fail.

Nose glued to the window, she was enthralled, so thrilled her own breath kept fogging up the glass. Swiping the glass clean, she felt her excitement rise higher and higher as she watched the buildings roll by.

Big ones, little ones and those in between.

Los Angeles.

Hollywood.

The place where dreams came true.

No more washing dishes. No more shucking corn. No more mucking out stalls. Nebraska was half a nation behind her, and that’s where it was going to stay.

The train whistle, a screech that could make the hair on your arms stand on end, sounded like bells straight out of heaven to her. She’d waited years to hear that sound.

Years and years.

This wasn’t just her dream, it had been her mother’s, and she had to make it come true. No matter what.

There had been times she’d wondered if that was possible, especially four years ago, when Pappy had died. That’s also when she’d focused on making it come true even harder. She’d tucked away every spare penny she’d made working for Olin Swaggert, and made sure none of the overgrown thugs he called sons didn’t get their grubby hands on it. She made sure they didn’t get their grubby hands on anything else, too.

Olin kept saying that she was bound to fall in love with one of his boys, get married and live right there on that pig farm forever.

She’d assured him that would never happen.

Never.

Ever.

A lot of lazy dewdroppers, that’s what the entire clan of Swaggert boys were, and more than once she’d wanted to throw in the towel. The only reason she hadn’t was because Olin had paid her. The Swaggerts were one of the few families who could afford to have a live-in worker.

Live-in because, thanks to some city slicker lawyer, as soon as Pappy had died, the Swaggerts got the farm. Lock, stock and barrel. The lawyer claimed Pappy had owed Olin money. Lots of it. She’d argued that, but that hadn’t done a wit of good. In the end, she’d been left with no place to live. No place to do much of anything. Olin had offered her a job—out of the goodness of his heart, that’s how he’d put it.

A heart like his didn’t have any goodness. He’d known how badly it had hurt her to see the house she’d grown up in, lived in her entire life, torn down, but that hadn’t stopped him from tearing it all down and plowing up the land.

Corn. That was all that was there now. A field of corn.

That lawyer hadn’t had a heart, either. He’d refused to listen to a word she’d had to say. So had the sheriff, who’d ordered her out of the house. It had been hard to swallow, that there was nothing left of her family. Other than memories and a dream, so with no other options, she’d taken the job with the Swaggerts and turned her focus to saving up the money to get here. To where the only thing she had left was sure to come true.

Los Angeles. The City of Angels.

It was fitting. A girl who sang like an angel should live in the City of Angels.

People had been saying for years that she sang like an angel. Pappy, of course, and other family members before they’d died, but town folks had said it, too.

Granted, the population of Roca, Nebraska, was little more than two hundred, but a couple of churches in Lincoln had paid her to sing at funerals. Donations. She’d gotten donations. Piddly ones. But money was money and every penny she’d earned had brought her one step closer to this day.

She was here to become a singer. Sing like she and Pappy used to. Sing like her mother had, years ago, when she’d been young and traveled the country. That’s how her mother and father had met. He’d heard Momma sing at a playhouse in Lincoln. Within two shakes of a cat’s tail, they were married and Momma moved to the farm.

Pappy had claimed that Momma had never regretted that because she still sang all the time. Just not on a stage. Shirley couldn’t say if that was true or not. She’d been young when her parents had died. Sometimes, late at night when it was dark and quiet, she could hear her momma singing inside her head and her heart. That’s where her singing lived, inside her, where no one could take it away from her.

Pappy had said that, as a baby, she’d never cried. She’d sung instead. Sung her lungs out from the day she’d been born. He said it was in her genes and that she’d grow up to be just like her momma. A singer. A famous one, like her momma had dreamed of becoming before she’d married her father.

That’s what she was here to do. Become a singer. A famous one. She would learn how to dance, too. Really cut a rug. Had to. The two, singing and dancing, went hand in hand.

Oh, yes, she was going to sing and dance, and live and laugh!

The train jerked and bucked as it rolled into the station, and she swiped away the fog on the window one last time before straightening the collar of her blue paisley dress and picking up her purse, ready to get her first real look at her new world.

An entire new world that was there for the taking. Her taking. Like apples hanging on a tree ready to be plucked.

Life is good. When you make it that way.

Smiling at her own thoughts, Shirley was first in line, standing at the door, when the heavy metal was slid aside. She rushed down the steps, wishing she could twist her head like an owl. There was so much to see.

Buildings that went so high into the sky a person could dang near touch the clouds if they were to stand on top of one, and cars, more than she’d seen in a month back in Nebraska, and people. Tall ones, short ones, skinny ones, fat ones, old ones, young ones...just all sorts. All sorts!

We’re here, Momma. The place where our dreams are going to come true!

In an attempt to quell her enthusiasm long enough to collect her luggage, she gave herself a nod and leaped off the edge of the train station platform.

A second later she comprehended the baggage compartment was in the other direction, and had to step back up on the wooden platform and follow the crowd heading that way.

That didn’t faze her.

She was too happy.

Too free.

Shirley stood in line, tapping a toe and looking in all directions, until it was her turn. Then she collected her suitcase, thanked the man wearing a bright blue coat with shiny brass buttons and spun around while filling her lungs with California air.

Full of train smoke, the air stuck in her throat. She had to cough three times to clear her passageway, and wipe aside the tears the coughing caused.

But none of that fazed her, either.

Nothing could.

Her ordinary life was over.

Or soon would be. Her first order of business was to find a job. The money she’d saved was down to a pouch of coins and a few bills.

She wasn’t overly particular, and certainly wasn’t afraid of hard work. Things took time; she fully understood that. Becoming a singing sensation would be no different. Until then, she could only imagine that no matter where she got a job, it would be wonderful. It had to be. This was California!

Swinging her purse in one hand, her suitcase in the other, she headed toward the blocks upon blocks of tall buildings. Made of brick and concrete, every building was connected to the next one. The entire block was that way. Every block for as far as the eye could see. Some buildings were tall, some short, some had arched windows and decorative dormers, others just had rows and rows of windows.

Ten. That one building had ten rows of windows! She couldn’t help but wonder what could be behind all those windows, and scurried forward, rushing across the street to the next block. The first floors of most every building were businesses, all sorts of them. One sold only shoes. Another cigars and tobacco. Another one sold cakes.

Just cakes?

She stepped closer and peeked in the big window. Sure enough. That’s all that was inside there. Cakes. And people buying them.

People. Good heavens but there were people everywhere. Dressed in fancy suits and work clothes alike. Men, that is. The women, they all had on stylish clothes. Not simple dresses like the one she was wearing. Someday, she’d have dresses like they were wearing, but she wasn’t going to worry about that. Not today. Not when there was so much to see.

Like that cake shop.

Who’d have thought a store could sell nothing but cakes? That was truly fascinating.

Everything was fascinating.

There were big signs, like the one about selling nothing but cakes, everywhere. In all the windows. On the storefronts and on the sides of the buildings, even sprouting out of the rooftops like an old man with only a few strands of hair sticking straight up.

Billboards. That’s what those signs were called. She’d seen pictures of them in magazines. Every chance she’d got the past few years, she’d popped into Lester Frank’s store and read those magazines cover to cover. When she had time to read. Other days, when she had to hurry or be left behind by one of the Swaggerts, she’d just looked at the pictures. Every last picture before she put the magazine back and bought the items on her lists.

The pictures in those magazines looked just like everything around her.

Everything.

Except those pictures had been black-and-white. Here, everything was colorful.

Right down to the automobiles parked along the curb and those buzzing up and down the street. They were red, green, yellow, blue, silver, even white. Why, there was hardly a black one to be seen.

Back home, they’d all been black.

Dull black cars. Just like her life had been. Dull. Colorless.

Happiness bubbled inside her. She was here. Truly here! And everything about her old life was behind her.

All those colorful cars, of all different makes and models, were something, but the roads, they were amazing. These roads weren’t made of dirt like back in Nebraska. No, sirree! They were paved. And the sidewalks concrete. Her heels clicked against it as she walked.

That made her smile.

Everything made her smile. She spun in a circle, looking up at all the signs, around at all the stores and cars and down at all the concrete. It was all she’d dreamed it would be.

Stopping before she made herself dizzy, she drew in a breath and set her focus on her first necessity.

Money made the world go around and she needed to find a way to make a few bucks—seed money—to get her world spinning.

Her smile increased upon noticing a newspaper stand across the street.

Ask and you shall receive!

She stepped off the curb and walked between two parked cars. When there was a break in traffic, she took the opportunity and hurried forward to cross the street.

Out of nowhere, a sound, or flash of color, had her looking left.

A big red car was barreling right at her.

Shirley leaped backward, but her feet went out from beneath her as a screech the likes she’d never heard before scared the very soul out of her body. The next second, her rump landed on the pavement so hard her teeth nearly rattled out of her mouth.

* * *

Walter Russell shut off the engine of his Packard at the same time he threw open the door. Thank goodness the roadster had mechanical brakes on all four wheels, otherwise he would have hit the woman. He didn’t think he had hit her, but couldn’t see her over the hood. She’d gone down while his brakes were squealing like a stuck hog.

Where had she come from? It was as if she’d shot right out in front of him on purpose.

He rounded the front of the car, saw her sitting on the pavement and ran closer. “Are you all right? Are you hurt anywhere?”

Eyes wide and mouth open, it was a moment before she shook her head. “My behind is throbbing and my teeth are stinging ’cause this here pavement is a hell of a lot harder than dirt. I can tell you that. And hotter. Boy-oh-howdy but it’s hot. That sun is doing its job.”

He held back a grin, because it certainly wasn’t funny. Not even her thoughts about the pavement. She just looked so cute, so startled, sitting there, shaking her head.

Walter gave his head a clearing shake. “Here,” he said, taking ahold of her arm. “Let me help you up.”

She pulled her arm away. “I can get up all on my own. Been doing it every morning since the day I was born.” She let out a tiny giggle. “Well, dang near since then.”

He stepped back as she planted her heels and palms on the pavement, then arching her back, she literally leaped upright. It was a smooth, somewhat graceful movement, just one he’d never seen done before. And wasn’t overly sure he’d seen it this time. She was a little thing. The top of her head barely came up to his shoulders. That could explain why she was so agile. How she’d hopped up off the ground like some acrobat in a circus show.

“Hand me that suitcase, would you?” she asked, nodding toward the Packard as she picked up her handbag.

He spun, and frustration washed over him. The suitcase had landed on the hood of his roadster. His brand-new roadster. He’d owned it less than a month. Gingerly, he lifted the hard-sided suitcase off the hood, checking to make sure none of the bright red paint had been scratched.

It didn’t appear to be. The chrome Flying Goddess of Speed hood ornament appeared undamaged, too, so did the big chrome headlights on both sides of the ornament.

“Well, give it here,” she said. “Why’d you try to run me down like that?”

Walter handed her the suitcase as more frustration filled him. “Run you down? I wasn’t attempting to run you down. I’d just pulled away from the curb and you jumped out in front of me. There is a city ordinance against jaywalking. You can be arrested for that.”

“Arrested?” She took a step back. “For what?”

“Jaywalking.”

“Ain’t never heard of that.” A deep frown wrinkled the smooth skin between her brows. “What is it?”

“Jaywalking?”

She nodded.

Between her accent and knowledge, it was apparent she was not from California. Had most likely just stepped off the train from some Midwest town. That was where most of the newcomers came from. The center of the nation. He’d been born and raised there, smack-dab in the middle of nowhere, and had been happy to leave. “It means you can’t cross the street in the center of the block. You have to walk to one corner or the other.”

She looked up the road, and then down it, before turning to look at him again. “Now, why would I want to walk all the way to that there corner?” She pointed up the street. “Or all the way down to that there one.” She pointed to the corner behind him. “When where I want to go is right there.” She pointed directly across the street. “Makes no living sense to me.”

Yes, she was most certainly from the Midwest. Walter pointed to one, then the other corner. “Drivers know to watch for pedestrians at the corners.” He then pointed at the road before her. “Not in the middle of the road.”

Her short blond hair bounced as she shook her head. “Well, they better learn to. It ain’t that hard. Folks back home do it all the time.” She gestured at his car. “You need to learn it, too.”

A horn honked. “Get out of the road!” a driver shouted while steering around the Packard.

Walter ignored the driver. “No, you need to learn not to jaywalk. Better yet, why don’t you just walk back to the train station, on the sidewalk, and go back home.”

Her eyes, a deep blue, narrowed and darkened as she planted a hand on her hip. “I just got here and no one is going to make me leave.”

A part of him felt sorry for her, the other part was thoroughly disgusted. Not by her, but by what she expected. Los Angeles was full of newcomers. Just like her. All dreaming the same dream. “Look around. The streets aren’t lined with gold and the beds aren’t made of rose petals.” That was what the magazines made people believe, and believe they did. “Go home. You’ll be glad you did.”

“No, I won’t. I came here planning to stay, and stay I will.”

“Plan on becoming a star, do you?” He huffed out a breath. That wasn’t a dream. It was a nightmare. One he was still living.

“No. A singer.” She squared her shoulders. “Folks back home say I got the voice of an angel.”

He shook his head. She’d find out sooner or later, so he might as well tell her. “There are no angels in Los Angeles.” Just a lot of devils. He personally knew several of them.

She lifted her chin a bit higher. “There are now.”

He should just surrender. Leave her to her head-in-the-sky dreams. “Where are you from? Kansas? Oklahoma?” Her accent wasn’t deep enough for Texas.

“Nebraska. And I ain’t going back.”

He remembered wanting to leave that state, and had left it, only to discover there were times that he wished he’d ended up someplace other than here. Burying those thoughts, he asked, “Why?”

“Because I’m a singer.” A tiny frown formed over the bridge of her nose. “At least, that’s what I’m going to be. Soon. Real soon.”

Another car honked, the driver shouted, shaking a fist while driving past.

There was nothing he could do to change her mind. That was for sure. So there was no use trying. He should have known better right from the beginning. “You keep jaywalking, and you’ll become an angel, all right.” He pointed toward the sidewalk. “Walk to one corner or the other before you try crossing the street again.”

She shook her head. “I tell you, that there is about the craziest thing I ever did hear.”

He took a step toward his car, but stopped, looked at her again. She was cute with her big blue eyes, blond hair and catalog-ordered dress. Cute enough to catch attention. He didn’t like the thought of that, but it was a reality. She was of no concern of his; however, he knew one thing for sure. “You won’t get a singing job here.”

She puffed up like a hen shooed off its nest. “You can bet your darn tooting boots I will.”

He lifted up a foot, showing her a shoe. “I’m not wearing boots. No one here wears boots. And no one is going to hire you to sing speaking the way you speak.”

“Speak—” Her eyes narrowed. “What’s wrong with the way I talk?”

“Nothing.” He let out a sigh because being rude wasn’t his way, but neither was lying. “In Nebraska. But California wants the entire nation to believe everyone here is sophisticated. A cut above the rest, and you sound like you’re a country bumpkin straight off the train. Which you are.” A solid stab of guilt hit his stomach at the way her face fell. However, a little disappointment now was nothing compared to what she was going to experience. “Go home,” he said earnestly. “Just go home.”

She spun around. “You go home.”

A heavy sigh escaped as Walter watched her march between the cars and back onto the sidewalk. He couldn’t help but think how another beautiful woman would soon be gobbled up by the evils that be, and that there wasn’t anything anyone could do about it.

Trying one last time, he leaned against the side of his car, and shouted, “It’s not here. Whatever you hope to find, it isn’t here.”

She looked at him and spread her arms wide. “Hope? Hope is everywhere. You should go get yourself some.”

Chapter Two

The clicking of her heels on the concrete no longer made Shirley smile. She was too mad for that. He had to be the rudest man ever. Almost running her down with his big red car, and telling her to go home ’cause there’s no hope here.

Fool.

Hope was everywhere. Like dreams. You just had to snatch it up and hold it inside. Without it, there was no point in living. Hope was all she’d had for years; it’s what kept her going after she’d lost everything, everyone. It was what had brought her all the way to California. He was wrong. Hope was here, all right, because it was inside her. If a person didn’t have hope, they didn’t have anything. He needed to learn that.

“There ain’t nothing wrong with the way I talk, either,” she muttered under her breath.

Goose bumps rose up on her arms as she remembered Miss Larsen, the schoolteacher she’d had for only a short time. Pretty and young, Miss Larsen had been from out east somewhere, and had talked so funny the kids had teased her. Teased her so much she’d left.

Miss Larsen had said that ain’t was not a word. They’d all thought she’d been wrong. The silliest teacher ever.

“Excuse me.”

Shirley turned, but the person who’d spoken stepped past her into the street. So did others. She looked left and right, twice, and then followed. Others followed her, and they all made it across without anyone getting hit. The cars stopped, letting the last few folks make it all the way to the sidewalk before the cars started moving again.

She looked up and down the blocks. The only place people were walking across the streets were at the corners.

Dang.

Huffing out a breath, she shook her head. Just because he was right about that—jaywalking—didn’t mean he was right about everything. Him in his fancy black-and-white suit. Even his shoes had been black-and-white. Shoes like that weren’t made for working. That’s for sure. Neither was that fancy suit, even though it sure made him look nice. So did his hair, the way it was trimmed and combed over to one side. She’d only seen men who looked that spiffy, that handsome, in magazines. There hadn’t been a hint of a whisker on his chin. Matter of fact, his face had been so pleasant to look at she’d kept trying not to look at him because for some silly reason it made her heart pitter-patter.

She wasn’t here for pitter-patter. She was here to sing.

Turning about, she walked toward the newspaper stand. It sure seemed like a waste of time to walk all the way to the corner, then across the street, and all the way back down this side of the street, but if that was way folks around here did things, she’d just have to get used to it.

That wouldn’t be so hard.

A few minutes later, she decided crossing the street at the corners was downright easy compared to deciding what newspaper to buy. She’d never seen so many. In the end, she picked the one with a picture of a big building on the front page and a headline about a new theater that would open soon. The man selling the newspapers said that building was only a few blocks away, so that paper seemed like a logical choice.

She paid the man, tucked the newspaper under her arm and walked down the block to where a sign said the soup of the day was tomato.

The inside of the café was red and white everything, right down to the floor. She found a seat at a white table and sat down on a red chair, smiling at how bright and cheery everything appeared. Far cheerier than that man driving the red car. He had been nice looking, though. Far nicer than any of Olin’s sons. It could have been his suit. She wasn’t used to seeing men in suits.

“What can I get for you?”

Shirley glanced up at the woman with a red scarf tied around her dark brown hair. It was tied with a big red bow smack-dab in the middle of the top of her head. It looked spiffy. Shirley figured she might have to tie a scarf that way on her head. She’d have to buy one first. Which meant she needed to get a job.

“I would like a bowl of soup, please, and a cup of coffee,” she said, and then held her breath, waiting for the woman to comment on the way she talked.

The woman smiled and nodded. “Coming right up.”

Shirley smiled, too, mainly to herself. That man didn’t know what he was talking about. Determined to forget all about him, she laid the newspaper on the table, but then, just out of curiosity, scanned the entire front page for the word ain’t.

By the time a bowl of soup and cup of coffee were set on the table, she’d skimmed the entire newspaper and hadn’t found the word. Not once.

That was fine, she didn’t need that word, anyway. Pert-near never said it.

She scanned the newspaper again while eating her soup.

“Well, gal-darn it,” she whispered.

The soup was gone, except for a small amount on the bottom. She grasped the bowl with both hands, but then looked around the room. Others had bowls of soup, but none had picked up the bowl to drink the last bits, so she slid her hands off the bowl and folded them in her lap.

She watched and listened to other people, especially a woman dressed in a dark blue dress and wearing white shoes.

“More coffee?”

Shirley nodded and slid her cup to the edge of the table.

“New to town?” the waitress asked as she poured the coffee.

“Yes, I am,” Shirley answered, conscious of how she sounded. She didn’t sound like that other woman, that was for sure. “I truly am,” she added, focusing on sounding less like, well, a country bumpkin.

“If you’re looking for a job, Mel—he owns this place—is looking for a dishwasher.”

If felt as if someone had just kicked her in the stomach. Washing dishes. Beggars couldn’t be choosers, but she’d washed dishes her entire life, and had sworn she wouldn’t do that again. Not for someone other than herself.

Once again, trying to make herself sound different, sophisticated, Shirley nodded. “Thank you, I will keep that in mind.” She’d heard the woman in the blue dress say that just a few moments ago. Then a hint of excitement fluttered across her stomach. If the waitress knew about a dishwashing job, she might know about other ones. “Do you know of any singing jobs?”

The waitress shook her head. “No.” She nodded toward a man sitting at a table. The same man who’d been talking to the woman in the blue dress. She’d left, but he hadn’t. “Roy would be the man to talk to about that.” The waitress slid the coffee cup back to the center of the table. “Coffee and soup’s fifty cents.”

Fifty cents? Shirley picked her purse up off the floor. At these prices she’d be broke in less time than it took to sneeze. She counted out the change and handed it to the waitress. “Thank you.”

“Good luck to you.”

As soon as the waitress walked away, the man rose from his chair and walked over.

“I couldn’t help but overhear you say that you’re a singer.” He pulled out the chair on the other side of her table. “Mind if I sit down?”

Shirley’s insides leaped so fast she almost flew off her chair. “Yes, I am a singer.” He was wearing a suit, like that fella that had almost run her down with his big red car. She peeked around the edge of the table. He wasn’t wearing boots, either. She wouldn’t hold that against him. Nodding at the chair so he’d go ahead and sit down, she added, “Been singing my entire life.”

The guy with the red car, his hair had been the color of sand; this fella’s was as dark as garden dirt. So were his eyes, and he had a pointed jaw. Made her wonder if it was on account he rubbed it so much. That’s what he was doing now. Rubbing his chin.

“Tell me about your experience,” he said, still rubbing his jaw.

“My experience?”

He smiled. “Yes. Singing. Where have you sung before?”

“Oh.” She waved a hand. Should have known that’s what he meant. “Everywhere. While cooking, cleaning, gardening, working in the barn, feeding the hogs. I just sing all the time. Have for as long as I can remember.”

“I see.”

He leaned back in his chair and stared at her so hard she wanted to make sure her collar wasn’t flipped up or something. She was about to check when he gave a slight nod.

“Have you ever sung in front of people?” he asked.

“Oh, sure. Every Sunday I could make it to church.” Wanting him to know how good she was, she continued. “Folks there said I had the voice of an angel. Churches up over in Lincoln had me come sing at funerals whenever I could make it.”

“Lincoln?”

She nodded. “Lincoln.” The way he frowned said he might not know where that was, so she added, “Nebraska.”

“Oh, yes, Nebraska. I’ve heard of that.” He folded his arms across his chest. “How long have you been in California?”

“Since the train I just got off crossed the state line.” Her heart shot into her throat as he glanced at the door. Afraid he might leave, she asked, “Wanna hear?”

“Hear what?”

“Me sing.” Before he could say no, she drew in a deep breath and let the words flow. “Amazing grace, how sweet...”

She continued through the third verse, then, repeating the final line, she held on to the notes while letting her voice slowly fade away. Others back home liked how she’d always done that.

Folks here must, too, because everyone in the café was looking at her and clapping. Excitement fluttered inside her stomach. She smiled and nodded at them, and then turned her full attention to the man sitting at her table.

“That was very good,” he said when the clapping stopped.

“I know.” Folks had been telling her that for years. “That’s why I’m here.”

Smiling, he nodded. “What is your name?”

“Shirley. Shirley Burnette.”

“Well, Miss Burnette, I’m Roy Harrison.” He stretched a hand across the table. “It’s very nice to make your acquaintance.”

She gave his hand a solid shake. “You, too, Mr. Harrison.”

He leaned back in his chair again. “Miss Burnette, I’d like to offer you the opportunity to audition for some people I know. I’m confident once they hear you, they will offer you a job.”

Her heart nearly stopped right then and there. At the exact same time happiness burst inside her. She’d never been so happy in her entire life. If she hadn’t been sitting down, she’d be jumping up and down like a baby bird learning to fly.

“Do you have accommodations?” Mr. Harrison asked.

Still trying to stay seated, for the excitement inside her was getting harder and harder to control, she held her breath for a moment. “Accommodations? You mean a place to stay?”

“Yes.”

“No, sir, not yet.”

“Well, Miss Burnette, I can help with that, too.”

Oh! Glory be! California is the place to be! Ain’t even—No, haven’t even been here a day and already have a job and a place to live. That guy in the red car might have been right about the boots and the jaywalking, but he sure was wrong about everything else.

* * *

Walter couldn’t get the sassy, country-bumpkin blonde woman out of his head. It had been over two weeks but she was still there. On his mind. He was worried about her. About where she ended up. He’d like to think she’d taken his advice and gone back home, but he highly doubted that. She was too determined to do anything that reasonable.

He’d known another woman like that, and she was dead. It had been four years now; the days had gotten easier, but other things, namely the guilt, had gotten worse. In hindsight, he would have done things differently. Given her the divorce she’d wanted. Maybe then Lucy would still be alive.

He’d been so determined, so set on having everything he’d wanted that he’d not taken the time to realize she hadn’t wanted the same thing. That their marriage had been destined to fail from the start.

That had been exactly what he hadn’t wanted to face.

Failure.

He’d failed once before with Theodore, and like it or not, ultimately, he’d failed with Lucy, too.

“Mr. Russell, do you not care for the beef?”

Walter glanced up, forced a smile to form for Mrs. McCaffrey. “No. I mean, the beef is fine. Excellent. I just find I’m not hungry this evening.”

The twinkle faded from her green eyes as her frown added more wrinkles to her usually jolly face. “I do hope you aren’t coming down with something.”

She was one in a million. Finding Mrs. McCaffrey was one of the things he had done right. She was the best housekeeper in the state, and he was lucky that she’d stuck with him through thick and thin. Her husband had died many years ago, and having no children, she’d dedicated herself to taking care of others. He’d hired her six years ago, before he and Lucy had gotten married, which had proven insightful on his end because Lucy had wanted nothing to do with housekeeping.

Of course she hadn’t. She’d been a star.

He muffled a sigh. “I’m fine. I just had a late lunch. I should have telephoned you, but the afternoon got away from me. I do apologize.”

Mrs. McCaffrey waved a hand and then lifted the serving dish holding several slices of roast beef off the table. “That’s nothing to apologize about. You’re a busy man. The most sought-after lawyer in all of Los Angeles. And this beef will keep just fine for tomorrow night.”

Walter nodded. “I’m sure I’ll be hungry tomorrow night.” He hadn’t had a late lunch; he just wasn’t hungry because his mind was on that girl from Nebraska. He hadn’t been back to that state since he’d left over ten years ago. Not that she was making him homesick. He hoped she was homesick, though, and that she had already gotten on an eastbound train.

It was all rather foolish and out of the ordinary for him to be so worried about a stranger. He’d met hundreds of young women over the years, and never thought twice about the decisions they made. Because those had been their decisions, just like the ones she made were hers—that woman from Nebraska with her short blond hair and big blue eyes.

She didn’t look like anyone he knew, nor did she remind him of someone, of anyone, so there really was no reason for his fixation.

Then again, he’d never almost run someone over before, either.

“Would you care for a piece of cake and a cup of coffee?” Mrs. McCaffrey asked, returning to the dining room.

“No, thank you.” He stood. “I have some work to finish.”

She pulled the serving spoon out of the potatoes and waved it at him. “You shouldn’t work so much. It’s not good for the soul.”

“Someday I won’t,” he said, just to placate her. In all honesty, there was nothing else for him to do. It was a good thing that his clients kept him busy. In more ways than one. Being a lawyer for the rich and famous was a time-consuming job, but also one that had created a bank account that was far beyond what he’d ever have imagined.

Money hadn’t been the reason he’d gone into this profession, but he certainly couldn’t complain over how profitable it had become.

He strolled out of the dining room and down the hall to his home office. The house was big, five bedrooms upstairs, and one downstairs—a suite of rooms—off the kitchen, which was where Mrs. McCaffrey lived. There were other rooms on the main floor, but other than the dining room and his office, he rarely entered them.

There had been a time when he’d imagined this house full of children. A family. A real family. That’s what he’d wanted. Why he’d bought this house. A family like the one he’d had before he’d become an orphan at the age of ten.

That had been eighteen years ago now. He could barely remember what his parents had looked like, but he remembered that they’d loved him. And his little brother, Owen. He remembered the storm, too, and the flash flood. Parts of it. Especially being so cold that he didn’t think he would ever warm up.

It had been that way at the orphanage, too. Cold. Bitterly cold. A few months before he’d turned sixteen, he and Theodore Grahams had decided they’d had enough of being cold, and enough of being farmed out as day laborers to people who expected orphans to work harder than anyone else, so they’d escaped. Hopped on a train, and rode it to the end of the rails.

That happened to be California, and that suited them both just fine.

They’d found work on the docks, and thought their futures were as bright as the sunshine. It had been, for a few months. Until Theodore, big for his age, got in a fight with another dockworker. A serious fight that changed both of their lives. The other dockworker died, drowned, and Theodore was charged with his death.

Walter argued it was self-defense when Theodore was arrested, only to be told to shut up or he’d be arrested, too. He hadn’t been about to shut up, and went to the police station, still arguing, trying to prove Theodore’s innocence. He was kicked out several times, and finally went to a lawyer, hoping for help.

Arthur Marlow hadn’t been willing to take on the case, not at first, but Walter hadn’t given up. He and Theodore had been as close as brothers, and he’d had to help him. Had to. With no money to pay the attorney, Walter begged Marlow to let him work off the fees to represent Theodore. Arthur eventually agreed and Walter had thought everything would work out perfectly.

It hadn’t.

The jangle of the phone pulled Walter out of the past. He entered his office and crossed the room.

Hope. That’s what that girl from Nebraska said she had. He’d had that once, too. So had Theodore.

Picking up the phone, Walter held the receiver to his ear and the mouthpiece to his mouth. “Hello.”

“Walter? Walter, that you?”

Instantly recognizing Sam Wharton’s voice, Walter answered, “Yes, Sam, it’s me. How are you this evening?”

“Good. Real good. I’m down at CB’s, and Tony Ebbert and I need some legal advice. Can you drive over here?”

Sam had been a client for years; the money he’d paid for assistance on business deals had nearly paid for Walter’s house.

Walter considered the request for a moment. Normally, he’d suggest a meeting in his office tomorrow, but an evening out could be exactly what he needed to get his mind off other things, including that girl from Nebraska, and on to things that mattered. “Sure, Sam. I’ll be there shortly.”

“Hee-haw!” Sam replied with his signature statement. “See you soon!”

Cartwright’s Basement would never be his first choice to visit. Known as CB’s, it was downtown, in the basement of the ten-story Cartwright building. The main level was a grocery store, the upper levels apartments, including a floor where the girls who worked at CB’s lived and used for alternate activities.

There were too many speakeasies like CB’s within the city to count and Walter had figured out long ago that some things a person just had to accept. Like them or not.

He grabbed his suitcoat, told Mrs. McCaffrey he was going out and walked out the back door and to the garage.

After opening the wide double doors, he climbed in the car and hit the ignition. The engine roared to life with so much power the seat shook. The car was a luxury. There hadn’t been anything wrong with his old one, except that he’d wanted a new one, and getting it had been easy, unlike some of the other things he’d wanted. Still wanted but continued to tell himself that he didn’t.

He backed the car out and onto the road, then grinned as he shifted into First and laid his foot on the gas pedal. The roadster was a dream to drive.

Morning, noon or night, traffic always rolled up and down the streets downtown, and Walter had to circle the block before he found a place to park. He climbed out, then took the sidewalk to the alley, where the entrance to CB’s was located.

The joint might be in the basement, but their secret had long been released. Everyone, including the police, knew where it was located and what went on in there, as well as hundreds of other places. In fact, there were just as many laws on the city books to protect the speakeasy owners as there were against prohibition. Federal agents didn’t have a hope in hell of upholding the laws Congress had passed.

Cigarette and cigar smoke swirled up the steps as he walked down them, and music echoed off the walls, as did joyous laughter and the murmur of conversations.

He entered the long and wide room full of tables and an elaborately carved wooden bar that ran the entire length of the back wall. A band played music at the far end, where people danced, and cigarette girls sashayed around the tables, wearing tight, short red dresses and carrying more than packs of cigarettes in the white wooden trays hooked around their necks with thick white straps.

Walter scanned the chairs, looking for Sam and Tony. He and Sam noticed each other at the same time. Sam stood, waved one of his long and gangly arms. Where he found shirts with sleeves that long had been the topic of more than one conversation.

Weaving his way toward Sam, Walter nodded and said hello to numerous people at various other tables. Some he knew well, others were mere acquaintances, and a few, he wouldn’t mind never seeing again.

“Hey, Walter. I ordered you a drink,” Sam said, his straw-colored hair sticking out from beneath the rim of his flat tweed hat. “The good stuff. Have a seat. You know Tony.”

“Thanks.” Walter took a seat and nodded at Tony. A redheaded heavyweight champion boxer who had a good chance at the world title this year. “Good seeing you, Tony. Congrats. Hear this could be your year.”

“It sure could,” Tony replied with a voice so low it had to come from the depths of his stomach.

The conversation bounced from boxing to cars, to the latest rumors, including who had financed the building of the new theater, and back to boxing. Walter had finished his drink during that time, and enjoying the camaraderie, he reached out to snag a cigarette girl so he could order another drink.

Catching one by the arm, he twisted to tell her, “I’d like another—”

The startled blue eyes looking down at him stopped his ability to speak. To think. Except for remembering her eyes looked exactly like they had when he’d rounded his car and saw her sitting on her butt on the pavement.

She tugged her arm out of his hold just like she had that day. “Another what?” she asked.

“Whatever you got on that tray, darling,” Sam said.

She kept her eyes averted as she set three drinks on the table and then spun around.

Walter jumped to his feet and followed. She stopped at the bar to refill her tray, and he stepped up beside her.

“What are you doing here?” He kept his voice low to not draw attention.

“Getting more drinks.” She set drinks of rotgut on her tray.

He firmly but gently turned her to face him. “I mean, what are you doing here? Working at CB’s?”

Her eyes snapped as she stepped back. “We can’t all start at the top, but we still gotta start or we won’t get anywhere.”

“What? This isn’t a start. It’s a dead end.” He meant that literally and pulled out his pocketbook. “If you need money for the train ride, I’ll give it to you. Right now.” He held out several bills. “Take it. Go back to Nebraska.”

She glanced around as if making sure no one was looking. He hoped that meant she’d finally come to her senses.

Settling her gaze on him, she asked, “What’s in that noggin’ of yours? Nothing? I don’t want your money, and I ain’t—am not going back to Nebraska.” She pulled several bills out from beneath an ashtray on her tray and handed them to the bartender.

Walter knew how these joints worked. The girls had to pay for the drinks on their trays, and then collect the money from the customers. Any spilled drinks or unpaid ones came out of their pockets, not the owners’. “You aren’t going to make enough money here—”

“Beat it,” she whispered fiercely. “And mind your own beeswax while you’re at it!” She spun in the other direction and marched off.

With a cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth, the bartender leaned across the bar. “That dame’s a closed bank, forget her. We got ones that are more...friendly. For a couple of clams, I’ll send one to your table.”

“No, thanks.” Walter walked back to his table and positioned his chair so he could keep an eye on the room. On her.

“You know that doll?” Sam asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Do you?” Walter asked instead of answering.

“Never saw her before.” Sam looked at Tony. “You?”

Tony shook his head. “No, but Mel has a longer assembly line of girls than Ford does cars.”

Which was exactly why she shouldn’t be here. She couldn’t possibly know the dangers of working here. Walter’s back teeth clamped tight. If she was working here, she was living here. Upstairs. His blood ran cold at that thought.

Sam started explaining the reason he’d called. He and Tony wanted to put on a boxing exhibition show and needed advice on the legal side of things. Walter listened, and answered their questions, and kept one eye on the woman the entire time. He didn’t even know her name, so in his mind, started calling her Blondie.

She was still working the room, serving drinks, when Sam and Tony must have had all the information they needed from him, and called it a night. He bade them goodbye and stayed at the table, still keeping an eye on Blondie. Other girls had brought their table the drinks Sam and Tony had consumed. He was still nursing the only one she’d brought him. The ice had long ago melted. He didn’t care. He wasn’t drinking it. Just using the glass as something to twirl between his fingers.

There were no laws governing speakeasies; most were open twenty-four hours, and it was up to the owners what sort of hours the workers put in. Walter glanced at his wristwatch. Almost two-thirty in the morning. He hadn’t stayed up this late in years, but would sit right here until her shift ended.

A large portion of the patrons had long ago left. Some with cigarette girls on their arms as they walked out the doors; a few left in stumbling, ossified stupors, and others, like Sam and Tony, left alone, had simply been there to enjoy the nightlife but had jobs to go to in the morning.

So did he. Had to be at the courthouse by eight.

The room was almost empty by the time she made her way toward the bar with a full tray of drinks still strapped around her neck. He knew how that would play out. That the drinks would be dumped, and she’d be out the money for them. He stood and sidestepped, cutting her off before she made it to the bar.

“I’ll buy those.” He laid a bill on her tray, one that would pay for twice that many drinks.

Exhaustion showed on her face. He could understand why. She’d not only delivered drinks all night, she’d spent a fair share of time declining offers of more. More than once he’d wanted to grab her and haul her out of the door. The only thing that had stopped him was her. She’d handled herself well. That left him in a quandary. If he did haul her out of here and she came back, she’d get the wrath of Mel, the owner. If he didn’t, there would soon be a man she couldn’t fend off. Or worse.

“No.” She nodded toward his table. “You still have a drink, and I don’t need you or anyone else doing me any favors.”

“It’s not a favor.” He picked up a drink and downed it, nearly choking at the rotgut whiskey. If it hadn’t been so watered down, he wouldn’t have been able to swallow it. “I’m thirsty,” he said despite his burning throat.

“You’re...” She shook her head.

She thought he was crazy. He might be. “I’m Walter Russell,” he said. “Who are you?”

She huffed out a tired-sounding sigh. “It doesn’t matter. Take your money and leave.”

He took another drink off her tray. “Not until you tell me your name.”

She glanced around and then sidestepped to the table he’d sat at all night. There, she lifted the final four drinks off her tray and set them on the table. Tucking his bill beneath her ashtray, she nodded. “Enjoy your drinks, Mr. Russell.”

Walter grasped her arm, but the bartender, with yet another cigarette hanging out of his mouth, cleared his throat. The glare the man gave Walter said he’d be in charge of anything that happened from here on out.

That could include her leaving with him, for a price, Walter understood that. He also understood it wouldn’t be her choice. But she’d be expected to do whatever he wanted or she’d lose her job.

She, however, probably did not understand that.

Walter let that settle for a moment before he set the drink in his hand on the table and then pulled a calling card out of his suit pocket and laid it on her tray. He gave her and the bartender a nod before he turned about and left.

Every step got harder and harder to take, and by the time he was at the door, he was ripped right down the middle. She wasn’t his problem, but she had no idea what she’d gotten herself into.

He did, and would do something about it.

Chapter Three

Shirley lay on the lumpy cot in the room she shared with six other cigarette girls and stared at the calling card. It was shiny, like the pages of a magazine, but harder, stiff and small, just a few inches long and a couple inches wide. And the writing on it was gold.

Gold.

She’d never seen a calling card before, but had heard about them. The other girls had said she better not let Mel learn about it. He was the owner of CB’s and would be mad because when a man gives you a calling card, he wants to see you outside of the basement.

That wasn’t going to happen. She didn’t want to see Walter Russell again. Not inside or outside of the basement.

Under his name it said The Russell Firm. She wasn’t sure what that meant, but there was also an address and a phone number on the card. A phone was very expensive. Not even the Swaggerts could afford one. They sure as heck didn’t have calling cards, either.

One of the other girls, Alice, rolled over, and Shirley quickly tucked the card beneath the one and only cover on the bed, a scratchy wool blanket.

Alice didn’t open her eyes, but she did pull her blanket over her head to block the light shining in through the window.

It was the middle of the night, but the city, so full of lights, was never dark. The building next door had a big cigarette billboard on top of it, and the lights on the billboard lit up the room all night as brightly as the sun did all day.

Alice had been tricked into working at Cartwright’s, too; so had Rita and all the other girls sleeping on the cots.

Shirley pulled her arm out from under the blanket and stared at the calling card again. It was him. The same man who’d almost run her over. She’d felt as if he had run her over tonight when she’d recognized him sitting at the table with a man that was as skinny as a match. The second man at the table not only had hair the color of a carrot, but he looked like one, too. A big one. Wide at the top and skinny on the bottom.

Walter wasn’t skinny or fat. Just somewhere right smack in the middle. He was nicer to look at than the other two, too. Actually, he was nicer to look at than any other man in the room. Any other man she’d met since arriving in California. Mayhap in her whole life.

His eyes. There was something about them that made it hard to look away from him. It was as if they were sad or lonely. No—lost. That’s what they looked like. Like he was lost.

She felt that way herself. Lost. With nowhere to go. All the fancy talking Roy Harrison had done turned out to be nothing but baloney. He’d hoodwinked her, that’s what he’d done. It hadn’t taken long to figure that out, but it had been too late.

Oh, he’d gotten her an audition where she’d sung her heart out, and had jumped with joy when she’d been given the job. Roy had even given her a fancy dress to wear and had shown her an apartment. Not this one. That one had been a real apartment. With nice furniture and a bathroom complete with tub, right next to the kitchen with a stove and refrigerator. This one, the one she was staying in, only had two rooms, and both of those rooms had nothing but cots in them. This apartment dang near packed in as many people as the Swaggerts’ bunkhouse had during harvest time.

After all that, him showing her that apartment, giving her that dress and then the audition where she’d sung her heart out, Roy had left. She’d spent that first night in that fancy apartment, dreaming about the days to come. Believing her dream had finally come true, until morning.

That’s when she’d met Stella.

Stella took away the dress, gave her the skimpy red dress and hideous white tray, showed her this apartment and then led her downstairs to work.

Shirley wasn’t about to schlep drinks, and had said so. Also said she was here to sing, and had headed for the door.

Stella said she could leave right after paying the breach of contract amount.

Shirley’s stomach had sunk all over again. She had signed a contract, and evidently hadn’t read it closely enough because she hadn’t known about a breach of contract, nor had she known the amount of money that had been listed. That any amount had been listed. She’d had nowhere near that amount in her purse. Not then or now. Weeks later.

Her options had been to work it off or go to jail.

Jail.

So here she was, working off a debt that grew rather than shrank each day.

Some of the other girls said she had a good chance of being discovered here. Rita claimed lots of famous people came to the basement. Stars and producers, radio jockeys and singers. She took that to heart the first night, but soon thereafter figured out no one visiting the basement was looking for a singer.

The only person who had discovered her was Walter Russell.

The one person she wished hadn’t seen her. He’d been right about too many things, and she didn’t want him to be right about one more. He’d told her to go home, but she didn’t have a home to go to. Hadn’t for years.

The wage she made schlepping drinks was less than the Swaggerts had paid her. It had taken her four years to save enough to leave there, and at the rate she was going right now, it was going to take that long to pay off CB’s.

Not only did she owe for the dress and the night staying in that fancy apartment, with a real bed and sheets, she had to pay for her lodging in this room. And the meals they fed her. At first, she’d decided she just wouldn’t eat, until she was told she had to pay for the food whether she ate it or not.

The air in her lungs grew so heavy she had to push it out, but she refused to let the sting in her eyes get to her. She would not cry. Would not. She’d told Walter that not everyone could start at the top, but that they had to start. That’s what she’d told herself, too. She had managed to make it to California, and somehow, she would become a singer. Make a life for herself, one where she didn’t have to answer to anyone.

It would just take a little longer than she’d first thought.

Nothing was going to change her mind about that.

She took a final look at the calling card and then tucked it beneath her pillow.

That was the good thing about dreams. No one could take them away. She’d lost everything else. Her family. Her home. But not her dream. Not her hope.

No one could take that away from her.

* * *

Shirley was at work by ten the next morning. Schlepping drinks. She figured that by working all day and night, she’d make money faster, pay off her debt and get out of Cartwright’s.

The morning and afternoon crowds were nothing like the evening and night ones, but she worked them because every penny counted. Every single cent was one step closer to getting out of here. She hadn’t felt this trapped at the Swaggerts’. She may have thought she’d waited on them hand and foot, but it hadn’t been anything like this. Here, she didn’t have any sort of a life of her own. At times, like now, when her feet were hurting and disgust rolled in her stomach, she felt her determination slipping, but that couldn’t happen. She couldn’t give up on herself. She was all she had. That had been easier to accept four years ago, because she’d had hope then. Now, she had to dig deep to find that. Partially because of the other girls—those who had been here for months. They were so downtrodden, so lifeless, as if they’d completely given up. Given in to Mel and his contracts.

She wouldn’t do that. Give in.

If she’d been on the other side of this tray, the place might be considered fun. Besides the piano player, two men played trumpets, and another pounded a huge drum, filling the room with jazz music that had women in bright-colored dresses and men wearing striped shirts and bow ties dancing, laughing and carrying on. It was a sight to see. The feathered headbands, strings of pearls and fancy hats were like the ones she’d seen in magazines back in Nebraska. Like the ones she wanted to wear. She would. Someday. Although the people appeared friendly—it was only to each other. She’d quickly learned very few wanted to know anything more than what was on her tray, and the number of them that tried to stiff her for their drinks was more than not.

She wasn’t about to take that. Not from anyone.

While things were slow during the late afternoon, she took her break, ate a bowl of chili that was sure to leave her with a good bout of heartburn and then hooked her tray over her neck and headed back into the main room of the speakeasy.

The crowd had grown in her absence, and she hurried to fill her tray with drinks and get them sold. It hadn’t taken her long to figure out who bought the more expensive drinks, and though they cost her more, too, those buying the higher priced drinks didn’t try to short her.

She was filling her tray for the third time in less than ten minutes when she saw him.

Him.

Walter Russell.

He was as pesky as a fly that kept landing on a person’s nose in the middle of the night. She purposefully didn’t stop by his table, but kept an eye on him. He may not look it, but he was slippery. Had to be up to no good. Why else would he be here? Watching her.

Was he another Roy Harrison? Or Olin Swaggert and his fast-talking lawyer? Or Mel Cartwright with his contract? Tricksters, liars and cheats. That’s what they’d been. He could be, too. Most likely was. Two other men, not the same ones from last night, were at his table. All three of them laughing.

At what? Her?

That possibility nagged at her for the next few hours, and grated at her nerves like a squeaky hinge. Not even having people fill the joint wall to wall helped. She knew he was still here. Knew exactly where he was sitting.

The room was in full swing, people dancing, laughing, buying drinks and having the times of their lives. She wasn’t. Her feet were aching from the shoes she had to wear. White, with tall heels, and at least one size too small. It would be hours before she could take them off, so she forced herself not to think about them and kept passing out drinks, all the while keeping an eye on Walter.

A pretty young woman with hair as red as her lipstick and wearing a white-and-red polka-dot dress had been talking with him a short time ago, but was nowhere in sight now.

Shirley scanned the room for the red-haired woman as she made her way toward the end of the long wooden bar to refill her tray when, suddenly, he was at her side.

Startled, she jolted sideways.

He grasped her waist and pulled her against his side. “Stay close to me.”

His aftershave was like a breath of fresh air. For weeks all she’d smelled was cigarette smoke and whiskey. He smelled so fresh and clean all she wanted to do was close her eyes and breathe. Just breathe.

She stopped herself before that happened and twisted so her cheek was no longer up against his shoulder. “My tray is empty. I—”

“Doesn’t matter.” He started walking, forcing her to walk with him. “You’re leaving.”

“Leave? I can’t—” Her words were cut short by a high-pitched siren. It was so loud she couldn’t hear what he said.

He grabbed the strap of her tray and pulled it over her head.

She was reaching to grab it when pandemonium hit. Chairs toppled and people started running, pushing and shoving others in their way.

Shocked, frozen, Shirley didn’t know what to do. Didn’t know what was happening.

Walter pushed her out of the way as a table toppled in the wake of two huge men. She stumbled backward, up against the wall. Sirens still filled the air, along with screams and shouts. “What’s happening?”

Walter grasped her face with both hands. His nose was inches from hers, the length of his body pressed tight against hers.

“I’ll get you out of here, Blondie, don’t worry.”

She heard him, but didn’t. Her heart was pounding too hard, echoing in her ears. The heat of his palms, the pressure of his body, his fresh, clean scent, had her mind swirling. She swallowed, tried to breathe, but couldn’t. His lips were too close to hers. So close they were breathing the same air. A heavy, tingling warmth filled her as she reached up and wrapped her fingers around his arms.

He was so handsome, so—

The haze around her shattered. The roar of the panicking crowd once again filled her ears. Someone had bumped into them and fallen. Recognizing the black curls, Shirley grabbed the arm of the cigarette girl and helped Walter lift her off the floor before she got trampled.

“The bulls are outside!” Alice shouted.

“Bulls?” Shirley asked. “Cattle? A stampede?”

“No! Police!” Alice shouted. “We have to run or be arrested!”

Shirley’s heart leaped into her throat. There were too many people to run. To get anywhere.

Alice grabbed her arm. “This way!”

Walter grabbed her other arm. “No! This way.”

“Only the customers can go out through the kitchen,” Alice said. “We have to go out through the back and get upstairs before the bulls see us.”

“No,” Walter said. “We have to go this way.”

“No! The bulls gotta arrest someone!” Alice shouted. “That will be anyone dressed like us going that way!”

Shirley felt as if she was being torn in two with the way they each tugged on her arm.

“Trust me,” Walter said. “This way.”

Shirley couldn’t say why, but she pulled her arm out of Alice’s hold and then grabbed the woman’s hand. “This way!”

“Hurry,” Walter said, pulling her forward.

“We are hurrying,” she said, pulling Alice behind her. “We just ain’t getting nowhere!”

“We will!”

She hoped he was right. For all their sakes.

The next thing she knew, they were in the men’s restroom. Others were in there, too, rushing through another door on the far wall. Walter hurried them through that door, then up a flight of stairs that led outside. To the side of the building.

“Rosie!” he shouted. “Take these two with you!”

The woman in the red-and-white polka-dot dress was climbing in a car, and waved frantically at them. “Hurry! Hurry!”

Sirens filled the air. Walter pushed her forward. “Go. Run.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Come on, Shirley! Run,” Alice said, pulling her toward the car. “Run.”

Shirley ran, and as she climbed in the car, she twisted, scanning the crowd. He was gone. Gone. She sat down, and was shutting the door, while still searching the crowd, when she noticed Rita, who was a foot taller than even some of the men, running out of the door along with others.

“Rita!” Shirley shouted out the window. “Here!”

As Rita elbowed her way through the crowd and ran toward them, Shirley told the redheaded woman, “We can’t leave her behind. Just can’t.”

Rita climbed in the back seat with her and Alice and then the redheaded woman leaped in the front seat and closed the door. The driver, another woman, shouted, “Duck down. Don’t let anyone see you. All of you!”

They all complied, bending over and putting their head between their knees. The sirens were louder and the shine of flashing red lights filled the car as they drove away.

* * *

Walter watched the car drive away. That hadn’t been part of his plan. Running into Rosie, a waitress from Julia’s café, had been pure luck, and something that had worked out perfectly.

He walked to his car and climbed in, waiting as the police barreled down on the Cartwright building. The raid wasn’t for the speakeasy; it was for the secretive opium room on the third floor. He’d heard rumors about that room, and had spent some time investigating it this morning, learning they weren’t just rumors. This afternoon, he’d contacted a city council member. One he knew disliked the drug dens as much as he did.

Busts of joints like that happened daily. Speakeasies were overlooked for the most part, unless someone got riled or annoyed, someone with power. But very few agreed with the operating of opium dens. Other than those who were operating them, and those they dragged down into the bowels of hell with them.

Anger filled him, came from nowhere, as it did sometimes. Lucy had been dragged down into that world. Where very little mattered other than the next high. It’s what had killed her in the end.

He glanced at the building again, at the police cars with red lights flashing. Whether Blondie appreciated it or not, he wasn’t going to let what happened to Lucy happen to her.

He’d investigated her, too, earlier, learned her name was Shirley, but he still thought of her as Blondie. His plan had been to be at CB’s when the raid happened and pull her aside. Show her the dangers she was in by working in the basement and then convince her to get on the next train heading east.

That would happen—he’d get her on a train—but sending her home with Rosie was better than what he’d planned. Mainly because it meant he hadn’t had to haul her out of the basement kicking and screaming. He’d have done that. Carried her out. Had considered it when the first siren went off, before they’d gotten shoved up against the wall.

Walter took a deep breath, a struggle because his chest was growing tight again, like it had when he’d been pressed up against her. He hadn’t been that close to a woman in a long time, hadn’t wanted to kiss—

He spun around, gave his head a clearing, cleansing shake.

The crowd had dispersed; the customers who’d been at CB’s had driven or walked away without so much as a glance from any of the officers. The police cars were still there, lights flashing. He doubted the real people behind the opium den on the third floor would be arrested. Those there, smoking, hooked on the euphoric effects that made them forget their real lives, would have their wrists slapped, and by this time next week, they’d have already found another place. He’d seen it often enough and wished it was different. Wished he could have done something, anything, that might have saved Lucy.

She hadn’t wanted to be saved, just like she hadn’t wanted him in her life. Blondie didn’t, either, but this time he was going to fight harder. Maybe, just maybe, if he could save her, the demons of regret that lived inside him would go find someone else to haunt.

Demons. He had enough of them. Not only from Lucy, but from Theodore. There, too, he hadn’t done enough. Hadn’t acted quickly enough.

That wasn’t going to happen this time.

He started his car and pulled into the street, wondering if he should drive out to Julia’s Diner, make sure that was where Blondie was at, but instantly knew that would be a bad idea. He’d be better off going there tomorrow morning, after she’d had a chance to get to know a couple of good people. So far, she’d only met the bad Los Angeles had to offer. There were good folks here, too. Julia Shaw was one of them. She’d taken in plenty of women who had arrived in town with nothing more than the clothes on their backs and stars in their eyes. She’d fed them, clothed them, given them a job and a place to live, and then, once they’d gotten their heads on straight, she’d let them go back out into the world. No longer wearing rose-colored glasses.

Years ago, Julia had come to him, asked him to look into how the Broadbent brothers had paid little more than pennies on the dollar for her family’s property. The transaction hadn’t been illegal, so all he’d been able to do was secure the last twenty acres for her.

Julia had understood, and held on to her small chunk of land with an iron fist. She was making it pay off for her. Her café was one of the most popular places to eat in the north end of the city.

He drove home, and after parking the car in the garage and closing the door, he walked into the dark and quiet house.

Mrs. McCaffrey had long ago gone to bed.

Once again, his long-lost dream of having a family fill the house weighed heavy on his shoulders.

He was in the hallway when the phone rang. He picked up the pace, hurried into his office and answered it on the fourth ring. He hoped not, but there was a chance one of his clients had been at CB’s and needed his services.

“Walter here,” he said into the speaker while still lifting the earpiece to the side of his head.

“It’s Dean Smith.”

Walter sat down, ready to listen to whatever the city council member had to say.

“Mel Cartwright just called me,” Dean said. “He wants me to investigate who called in the raid on his joint tonight.”

Not surprised, Walter asked, “What did you tell him?”

“That I didn’t know anything about a raid on his place, but that I’d look into it tomorrow morning. Mel claims he didn’t know anything about a dope den upstairs, that he doesn’t regulate his renters. He’s also claiming that some waitress from Julia’s Diner was seen making a phone call and he’s pretty convinced she’s the one who called in the bulls.”

Walter’s heart rate increased. The moment he’d recognized Rosie, he’d pulled her aside and told her that she didn’t want to be at the basement tonight and to leave. Smart, Rosie had kept her nose clean since coming to town, knowing if she didn’t, she’d never get ahead. He made a point to breathe normally while speaking into the phone, “Really?”

“Yes,” Dean said. “Mel’s also looking for three of his cigarette girls. The rest are accounted for. He’s mad about those girls missing. He’s already reopened the doors and needs them on the floor.”

Walter’s mind went down another route. “Where does Mel recruit those girls from?” His clients were of a more elite level than those Mel recruited so he truly had no idea how women got trapped into working at CB’s.

“Scouts. He has men who watch for those new to town and offers them jobs, a place to live, clothes, all the things they need. There’s nothing illegal about it.”

Walter’s hackles raised. “Other than they are being scammed. The wages Mel pays them isn’t enough to pay the rent he charges for them to live there.”

“I know, but if we start chasing down every cheat in the city, we won’t have time to take care of any real business.” Dean let out a sigh. “Would you mind following up on that waitress for me? Under the table?”

Nearly everything in Hollywood was under the table, and Walter wondered if he was digging himself a hole by getting involved in all this. He had gotten himself involved—he’d actually initiated it, so he didn’t have much choice. “Sure. I’ll check into it. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“You might want to check into it tonight,” Dean said. “Mel asked me to call the precinct and send a car over to the café where that gal works. I’ll try to hold that off until morning, but will have to send cars over then for sure.”

“I’ll go check.” Walter stood. “Right now. There’s no reason to involve anyone else.”

“I agree, but I don’t believe I’m the only person Mel has called tonight.”

“I’ll talk to you later,” Walter said, already lowering the earpiece from the side of his face. Julia had a phone at the diner, so he jiggled the metal hanger until an operator picked up.

“Connect me to Julia’s Diner, please.”

He tapped a toe, and then paced the short distance the cord connected to the bottom of the tall mouthpiece would allow. Come on. Answer.

“No one is answering, sir,” the operator said.

“All right. Thank you.” He set the phone down and hung up the earpiece at the same time, then jogged out of the room. Once in the hallway, he ran. Not only could Julia and Rosie end up in trouble, Blondie would be taken back to CB’s.

He kept an eye out for police cars as he drove to the diner, half expecting them to fly by him at any time. They wouldn’t really fly by the Packard. He had it rolling at top speed.

Julia’s place was across the street from Star’s Studio. Jack McCarney had been a client of his for years. The studio owner was also a good friend. A lot of the girls Julia took in had arrived at her diner looking for Jack, hoping he’d make a star out of them.

Walter pulled the roadster into the driveway to Julia’s home, set back a short distance from the diner, and cut the engine.

Julia, a pretty black-haired woman, walked out of her front door while he was climbing out of his car. They met on the walkway to her house.

“Evening, Walter,” she said. “Rosie said if it had been anyone but you who told her to leave, she would never have called me to come get her.”

“I’m glad she listened,” he said. “A drug den was busted in an apartment above CB’s.”

Julia nodded, and he also saw the one thing he didn’t want to see. Sympathy. Though it had been four years ago, Lucy’s death had been the talk of the town for months, and no one believed she’d died in the car where her body had been found. Halfway down a cliff.

“Are they here?” he asked. “Rosie and the other girls who got in your car?”

She glanced past him, toward the road on the other side of the grove of trees that kept her house somewhat secluded. “Why?”

“Because Mel’s looking for them.”

“I figured as much. He guards those girls closer than prisoners in order to keep them working for him.” Her dark eyes narrowed in question as she asked, “Why are you involved in this?”

It was out of the ordinary. After spending years dealing with Lucy and her addictions, he’d kept himself separated from any of the nightlife and underworld of Los Angeles. Keeping his reasons to himself, he shrugged. “Wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Or the right place at the right time,” Julia said. “You know how those raids go. They have to arrest someone. Find a patsy to take the blame. Pay the price. Rosie could be spending the night in the hoosegow rather than sleeping in her own bed tonight.”

“That’s why I’m here, Julia.” He shook his head. “Someone saw Rosie call you, and they’re saying she’s the one that called the police.”

Julia shook her head and then smiled. “And you’re here to defend her. That’s awfully kind of you, Walter. She’ll appreciate that.” Her brows tugged together in a frown. “I didn’t think you took criminal cases. Thought you specialize in business deals.”

A hint of guilt struck him because he hadn’t considered Rosie might need an attorney. But that gave him the perfect reason for being here. “I don’t want to see anyone railroaded. I’ll represent Rosie and all three of those other women.” He looked at her house. “They are all here, aren’t they?”

Julia never blinked an eye as she said, “No.”

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