“That’s terrible. No wonder he’s such a loner.”
“Oh, don’t get me wrong, darlin’. Truman Hawk has no problem making nice with the ladies.” She winked. “Just be careful he doesn’t make nice with you.”
Lilly pulled bowls out of a crate. “Don’t worry. I fell in love with a flyer once, and—”
“He broke your heart?”
“Almost.”
“Those flyers are all alike. They promise you the stars.” She glanced up, and Lilly followed her gaze to Eddie, standing outside the tent talking to Rango. A soft smile touched her lips.
Eddie, with his curly blond hair, his aw-shucks smile, didn’t have to work hard to win a girl’s heart.
Moseby turned away, her face red.
Lilly lowered her voice. “Are you sure you haven’t found anyone to love?”
Moseby shook her head. “Eddie told me that he wanted me to wing walk for him. That we’d make a great team.” She glanced at him again. “He brought me flowers last week after the show.”
“He’s sweet on you.”
Moseby shrugged.
“Do it.” Lilly put her hand on hers. “It’ll be good for Truman. Show him that he doesn’t own you.”
Moseby gave her a wicked smile. “And that he might expand his horizons.” She held up the spoon.
Lilly blew on it and tasted the beans. “You’re a good cook.”
“I think you’re not too bad yourself.”
Lilly slept in her bedroll under the wing, waking to dew on the grass and the sound of buzzing in the air.
She climbed out from under the plane, cupped her hands over her eyes, and found Eddie’s red and white biplane circling the field.
“Are you kidding me?” The noise must have awakened Truman because he scrambled out, standing beside her, his shirt flapping, his hat shadowing his eyes as he watched Eddie do a barrel roll. And then—
“I’m going to kill him.”
He stood with his hands on his hips, shaking his head as Moseby climbed out of the front seat and toward the wings. He added a bit of color to his opinions, but Lilly said nothing, just watched as Moseby edged out onto the right wing, wearing the new red suit Marvel had ordered.
“She looks like a bird, a cardinal.”
“Birds can fly, Moseby can’t,” Truman snapped. “Was this your idea?”
“You give me way too much credit, Truman. I just hand out tickets.”
“Sure you do,” he said, his jaw tight.
The plane circled the field then did a barrel roll, coming up late out of the turn.
“He’s not ready for her weight on his wing.”
Perhaps Eddie had figured this out, because Moseby started to make her way back to the cockpit. He leveled out across the field.
“I’m getting some breakfast,” Truman said, his tone surly.
She ignored him.
Then, “Truman—stop.” She may have even put a hand on his arm as she watched Moseby’s foot shatter through the right wing. She couldn’t hear it, but she imagined a terrible, wrenching rip as the fabric separated.
For a moment, only Moseby’s legs dangled through, a macabre dance as she tried to hold herself up. Then the fabric gave way and she dropped to the earth.
Lilly screamed. She ran toward the plane as Moseby hit the ground, crumpling.
Truman passed her, his long legs doubling her pace. He skidded to his knees beside Moseby. She lay at a cruel angle, one leg splayed, the other bent beneath her. A bone protruded from her thigh. Her eyes were closed and blood bubbled up from her mouth.
“She’s still breathing. Get help!” Truman turned to her, his eyes wild. “Run, Lilly!”
But she didn’t have to alert anyone. Marvel was already in the truck, barreling over the grasses. Eddie had managed to put the plane down, had started calling her name as he leaped out of the cockpit. She wanted to weep for him as he landed beside Truman, rocking back and forth, almost in a wail.
“She’s still alive,” Truman said as Marvel pulled up. “Let’s get her into town.”
Rango produced a blanket, and Beck and he slid Moseby’s broken body onto it as Dan tossed out their remaining supplies. Oil cans and hoses, fabric, glue, signs, tires—everything that kept their fleet alive.
They loaded her into the cargo area, and then Lilly was standing alone, in the field with Truman as the realization slid through her like poison.
This was her fault.
* * * * *
Cesar Napoli made Rosie glitter inside. A hot sparkle that lit in her every time he met her outside the dressing room, bidding good night to the other chorus line girls. Often he held a single red rose between his sausage fingers, that too-cocky smile on his lips, as if he knew exactly the way her heart gave a little start when she saw him.
She might not be a headline yet, but on his arm, she felt like a star, shiny and bright. Sort of how she should have felt with Dash, if she hadn’t always felt she had to keep up, impress him. With Cesar, all she had to do was smile.
“There’s my gal,” he said as she emerged from the dressing room, pushing up from the wall and handing her the flower. He wore a three-piece suit with thin gray stripes and matching gray vest, his dark hair slicked back. “You were a smash tonight.”
“I was in the back row,” she said, adding a pout to her words. He responded best when she gave him a little drama. She sniffed the rose. “When is this show going to end, Cesar? When am I going to be your star attraction?”
He took her hands, met her eyes, his dark and with a magnetic power that could steal her thoughts. “Soon, doll. Soon.” Then he held out his elbow for her to slip her gloved hand through.
She hid her disappointment, sharp in her throat, as they walked through the club.
“A chorus girl is not a star,” she’d said after she discovered the role he’d landed for her. She’d watched the girls perform and her heart sank. How was she going to prove anything to her mother if she didn’t earn top billing? Worse, on a chorus girl’s salary, she’d never make enough to keep a room at the Algonquin, where she’d escaped after the Cotton Club, with Lexie.
“Don’t you worry, kitty. I’ll keep you in your digs.” Cesar had peeled out a wad of bills. Of course, she still had her last monthly allowance, tucked away in her bank, but she took the green anyway. He owed her for the broken promises. And, he still made her feel as if she might be made of tinsel, something to decorate his arm. Wherever they went, doors opened, gloved attendants handed her champagne, and men eyed Cesar with envy.
Perhaps being treated like a starlet would suffice, for now.
In the daylight, Valerie’s looked worn, even drab: black tablecloths, an unlit bar, an empty stage, saggy velvet curtain tied back with fraying golden ropes. But at night, with the chandeliers lit, Mickey at the bar, the cigarette girls hawking goodies, and men drinking old-fashioneds, the crimson shine from the glasses like firelight, the place sizzled. She loved the hum of conversation, a thrill curling inside her stomach as she painted on her face in the dressing room before her performance. She was born for the stage, and if she had to room with Lexie and make her tidy up now and then….
At least she was on her own, her mother’s matchmaking behind her. Hopefully the Duke of Lexington had already returned home. She could find her own beau—and besides, Lexie’s words became truer every night. Rosie wasn’t made for marriage.
She was made for Cesar’s arm.
Outside, rain had washed away the day, leaving a murky smell on the street where his Rolls waited. He held open the door, and she climbed inside. He settled next to her on the velvet seat.
Cesar gave the address to his driver as she settled back in the pocket of his arm. It wasn’t long before he began to smell her neck, press his lips to her skin. Different from Dash—who made her feel bold and independent—Cesar’s touch drew her into a world of sultry danger, a feeling that could frighten her if she allowed it. She turned in his arms and let him kiss her, drawing some sec
urity in the fact that they were in the car and that he wouldn’t dare soil her makeup before they arrived at whatever party he’d scheduled.
Still, when his hand moved to her décolletage, she caught his wrist.
“Cesar.” She pushed his hand away, adding a giggle. “No.”
He didn’t smile, just touched her face. “Pet. You’re so beautiful, it makes me lose my mind.”
She put her hand to his clean-shaven chin, something he must have done after her show. Met his eyes. “Later, perhaps.”
Indeed, a dangerous game she played, because later she’d have to find another ploy, something else to divert his attention.
In the back of her mind, she’d known there’d be a trade-off, something in barter for her role, despite his “no strings attached” declaration. But if she became his lead attraction, singer-dancer-actress, then she had something of a commodity from the deal. Maybe someday she could even land a role at one of the bigger theaters—the Hippodrome, or the Select.
Even Hollywood.
Cesar’s eyes grew dark, and for a moment their texture changed from desire to something that put a fist in her gut. Then, abruptly, he formed a smile. “Later,” he said and leaned away from her.
She puckered her lips, hoping he hadn’t mussed her lipstick.
The Rolls splashed through the shiny streets, past the other clubs, toward Fifth Avenue, across from Central Park. Esme had once lived here, in a grand chateau. Imagine what Lilly might think of her now, an actress on a stage, just like Sarah Bernhardt.
They pulled up to a well-lit mansion, with men in livery attending. She allowed one of them to help her out. “Where are we?”
“This is my father’s house,” Cesar said. He offered his arm but didn’t look at her. “He’s having a little party.”
Indeed. The place swam with men holding martinis and whiskey—apparently, someone had raided the local prohibition office’s confiscations. Most in suits, a few had shed their jackets, rolling up their sleeves. There seemed to be a wrestling match of some sort happening in the parlor, the furniture cleared back. She watched a blond-headed man best a dark-haired brawler.
Cesar pulled her into another room, a sitting room of sorts, with men smoking cigars, bedazzled women, with low-cut fringed dresses like her own, on their arms, or laps. In various stages of clothing, some wore dresses, others just slips, and even a couple, silk robes. Her stomach tightened as they went in search of a drink. Cesar walked up to a robust man entertaining two ladies, one on each leg. He smoked a cigar, his eyes glinting with satisfaction. “Cesar.”
“Happy birthday, Papa.”
“This your girl?”
Cesar pushed her forward, his hand pressed at the small of her back. “Red, meet Vito Napoli.”
She smiled at him. The man inhaled a long time, his gaze running over her. Then, finally, “Nice-lookin’ gams.” He winked at Cesar, and heat climbed up Rosie’s cheeks.
Cesar grinned and moved his hand down to rest on her backside. She looked at him, but he didn’t remove it. In fact, he turned to her, bent close to her ear. “Why don’t ya find me a brandy, pet?” She frowned at him, his words a fist in her chest. But nothing burned as much as the tiny spank he gave her.
She jumped then moved away from him, her eyes on the ground.
More commotion erupted in the parlor. She watched for a moment as the blond man squared off with yet another opponent. They circled for a moment then leaped at each other. No punching, just rolling and grabbing and one man’s arm snaked around the throat of another. The blond brawler finally twisted the other man’s arm behind his back.
She realized she’d been holding her breath when the victor finally freed the beaten man.
Brandy.
She wandered into the dining room and found a group of men playing poker, their “dates” standing behind their chairs. In a large anteroom, a few couples danced to the small band set up in the corner. The doors to the terrace were open, and lights glowed on the verandah.
She meandered into the kitchen, usually located in the basement, but in this house, on the ground floor, and stood for a moment amidst the bustle of waiters. The smell of roasting pork could turn her inside out, and she couldn’t remember the last time she ate.
“What are you doing in my kitchen?”
She found the voice, bruised by his tone, his crisp French accent.
“I was looking for a glass of brandy?”
He rolled his eyes. “Ramone!” The rest of it was in French, something so fast she couldn’t unravel it. But moments later, a glass of brandy appeared on the tray of a waiter.
“Thank you,” she said. She exited the kitchen the way she came, back through the anteroom. But the redolence of summer tugged her out onto the verandah, just for a moment. She stood there, staring at the tiny city garden, the crimson climbing roses, the marmalade marigolds, the hosta lush with color, an oasis.
“Plotting your escape?”
She turned at the voice, found it attached to the blond from the parlor. He stepped out on the verandah beside her, his skin glistening, his hair—more auburn than blond in this light—tousled, his shirt wrinkled from the hand-holds upon it. Up close he had a rough energy about him, something raw and simmering right under his skin. The sense of it drew her in, held her there.
“No,” she breathed then found her voice. “I just got here.”
“Hmm,” he said, and began unbuttoning his shirt.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m sorry, miss, I just need to cool off.”
“Not right here!”
He looked around, behind her, then finally met her eyes. “I don’t think anyone is going to care.”
“I care.”
He smiled, stopped unbuttoning, and leaned against the rail. “Do you now?”
He had a funny accent, flat, nothing of New York in it.
“It’s just—I don’t think it’s right to undress in front of a lady.”
His gaze traveled down her, back up. “My apologies.”
It was his tone, mocking, that stirred her. “What does that mean?”
“Just what I said.” He buttoned his shirt back up, but not before she glimpsed the chest of a man familiar with hard work. “I’m sorry. I have to admit that I mistook you for one of the Napoli bimbos. Apparently, you’re from different stock.”
She drew herself up, considered her current job title and chose, “I’m Rosie Worth, daughter of Foster Worth. And you are?”
“Guthrie Storme.” He held out his hand, and she clasped it.
“Guthrie,” she said, aware of the strength of his hand. “Do you work for Cesar?”
She expected something simple, something perhaps within the Napoli world. Deliveryman, or perhaps security enforcement. She wasn’t ignorant of Cesar’s empire, or its activities. She just preferred to focus on the club.
“Hardly. I play baseball. For the Robins. Vito’s a big fan and invited us out for his bash.”
She considered him. Taller than her by a few inches, and shoulders that looked more suited for a dockworker, he didn’t look anything like the type of man who would play baseball in the hot sun all day. “What position do you play?”
“Pitcher. I throw a mean knuckleball.” He put his right hand in his fist and then pretended to throw an imaginary ball into the darkness.
“Really? Then what was that back there?”
“Aw, that? That’s just for fun.” He lowered his voice. “And a few extra smackerels.” He pulled a wad of cash from his shirt pocket and winked. “That’s what having three brothers gets you.”
She liked him. He had an aura that suggested he didn’t take life too seriously. Someone that, indeed, she could escape with. If she wanted to escape.
“I have to find Cesar and bring him his brandy.”
His eyebrows rose. “You’re Cesar’s girl?”
She smiled, feeling glittery again. Nodded.
“Of course you are.”
Her s
mile dimmed. “What does that mean?”
He turned his back to her. “Just, either you’re slumming, or you’re not quite the lady I pegged you as.”
She stared at his broad shoulders, not sure how to respond. Finally, “Good night, Mr. Storme.” She turned and walked away, his words sour in her stomach.
Cesar had vanished when she finally found her way back to the smoking room. She stood there, holding his brandy like she might be a servant, and searched the room for him, eyes upon her. His father disentangled himself from two girls and a conversation and said, “He left.”
He left?
“Try the poker game.”
But he wasn’t there, or with the crowd of men, now betting on two different grapplers. She looked for Guthrie and didn’t see him.
She stopped a waiter in the foyer. “Have you seen Cesar?”
He glanced past her, up the stairs, then shook his head.
Perfect. She climbed the stairs, feeling like a fool to chase him around the house, carrying his brandy. She had a good mind to take a sip of it.
The first door to the left hung ajar and she moved toward it, her hand on the knob when she heard a giggle. She froze, listening.
“In my next show, doll. The main attraction. Your name in lights.”
Then silence, and Rosie had a good guess at what had followed. She stood there, gripping the glass, her hand shaking, when suddenly the door creaked. She must have pushed it, for it swung open.
And then she had a perfect view of Cesar and one of his girls tangled together on the leather sofa. He looked up, and she expected surprise, even remorse. But Cesar didn’t even bother to put himself back together. Just a vicious, “Get out!”
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