by Mari Carr
“So how was your first night?”
Shea found Emma smiling at her, back in business mode and attire. “Fine,” Shea said, wishing she weren’t blushing.
“I wanted to tell you that you did a great job tonight. You saved me, Shea.” Emma grinned at her. “So, what did you think of the show?”
“Well, it was,” she paused, trying to find the right word, “erotic.”
Her new boss nodded. “I should have warned you I’d be one of the performers but it completely slipped my mind. After the whole Bethany drama and hiring you so quickly, I’m afraid I’d almost forgotten it was my night to star in the show.”
Shea knew Emma was annoyed with her previous waitress for deciding to elope with her boyfriend and move to San Diego. Ordinarily losing one waitress wouldn’t have been so detrimental, but her defection had coincided with the absences of two more waitresses. Emma had been left with no one to call in and forced to hire someone on short notice.
Lucky for Shea. Her money had officially run out yesterday. Landing the job at Scoundrels was the answer to a prayer.
“Can I ask a favor?”
Shea nodded. At this point, there wasn’t anything she wouldn’t do for the woman standing between her and starvation. “Of course.”
“How are your hospital corners?” Emma asked.
“Pardon?”
Emma gestured toward the stage. “Bethany always changed the sheets after each night’s performance. She may have been flighty and impulsive, but she made one hell of a bed.”
“It just so happens I was a hotel maid in a former life. Where are the clean sheets?”
After spanking his naughty student, Jack had swept Emma to a bed positioned on the opposite side of the stage, where the two pretended to have sex. Shea decided—with a fair amount of depression—that their fake sex was hotter than any real sex she had ever had.
Emma led her backstage, showing her the hutch where the linens were stored. She also pointed out the laundry bin where the dirty sheets could be tossed. Along the way, Emma gave her a quick tour, something there hadn’t been time for after her whirlwind hiring and training session this afternoon.
Emma nodded to the mirrored glass above the stage. “And that’s the lion’s den. Only venture there under extreme caution.”
“Lion?”
Emma winked good-naturedly. “I’m kidding. Travis Knight owns the club. His office is behind that glass.”
“Oh.” Shea lowered her voice. “Is he mean or something?”
Emma laughed. “God no. His bark is worse than his bite. Although lately he’s been taking some nips. Not sure what’s gotten into him.”
“Does he come to the club often?” She worried that the owner would take exception to her super-fast hiring.
Emma shook her head. “No. I can’t tell you the last time I’ve actually seen him down here on the floor. He stays locked up in his office most of the day, taking off right after the show.”
Shea sighed a breath of relief. An absent owner was fine with her.
“Well, as soon as you change the sheets you’re free to go. I’ve finished all my chores, so I’m about to take off. Bill the bartender is always the last one out. He’ll lock up. Did you drive?”
Shea shook her head. She couldn’t afford to take the bus, let alone own a car. “No, I walked.”
“Oh, do you want a ride home then?”
Shea panicked. She was currently homeless, but she didn’t want Emma to find out. If she’d earned enough tips, she could get a room in the shitty hotel she’d stayed in upon arriving in L.A. last week. “No, I’m very close. Another reason why I was so excited to get this job.”
Emma nodded. “Sounds like the whole deal is a win-win for both of us. You get a job close to home and I get a wonderful waitress.”
“Thanks, Emma. For everything.”
“I’m the one who should be thanking you.” Emma sighed, sounding very tired. “Mercifully, tomorrow is Saturday.”
“Don’t we still have to work on Saturdays?”
“Oh yeah, but I don’t keep office hours on the weekend.”
“Office hours?” Shea asked.
“Jack swears I have the schedule of a vampire. The club is open until two a.m. Tuesday through Saturday. During the week, I come in at noon to deal with paperwork and stuff like that. Saturdays I don’t do that. Give myself a few extra hours to relax.”
“So your weekend is really Sunday and Monday.”
“Exactly. Same will hold true for you too. Hope you’re not in love with Saturday.”
Shea reached into the hutch, pulling out fresh sheets. “No. Not at all.”
“The chef and I will show up around three tomorrow, but I don’t need you here until four. We open for dinner at five and the performance takes place at ten, followed by the dance-’til-you-drop routine.” Emma reached into her pocket. “This is my cell phone number in case you need to get in touch with me for some reason.”
Shea took the business card and tucked it in her pocket.
Emma stifled a yawn and Shea struggled not to mimic the action. She was dead on her feet, but she refused to let Emma see how tired she was.
“Damn. I’m beat. I’ll see you tomorrow, Shea.”
“Night, Emma.”
Shea walked to the stage and slowly stripped the sheets from the bed. As she flipped out the new ones, tucking the fitted sheet around the mattress, she resisted the urge to lie down and close her eyes. She tried to batten down the anxiety that had been eating at her all night. She had nowhere to go. It had taken her longer to find a job than she’d anticipated and she’d used up the lousy few hundred dollars she’d traveled to L.A. with.
Once the bed was made, she sat down on the edge of it, sinking into the mattress and almost groaning. She’d never felt a softer, more comfortable bed in her life.
Pulling out her tips for the night, Shea counted the money. She had a little over two hundred dollars. She sighed with relief, so happy to have money in her hands. It was enough for a room at the fleabag motel—as she liked to call the crummy place she’d been staying—and some food. Unfortunately it was two a.m. and she didn’t like the idea of venturing into East Hollywood so late. While she was desperate for a roof over her head, especially after spending last night dozing in a Laundromat chair, she wasn’t stupid enough to put herself in danger.
She rubbed her eyes wearily, too tired to think. She couldn’t keep trying to exist from day to day. When she’d come to L.A., she’d had a plan, a goal. She looked one last time at the comfortable bed, wishing she could lay her head on the pristine white pillow. Then she stood up and headed back to the bar.
“How you doin’, kid?” Bill asked.
Shea had instantly liked the bartender. He was a gruff-looking man—ex-Marine, according to Emma—in his mid-forties. He was quick to laugh and just as quick to eviscerate rude drunks. As long as patrons behaved at his bar, all was well.
“Fine. I finished cleaning in the theater.”
“Great. The other gals took care of the dance floor area and the bar. I’m just about to finish a few things. You mind checking the bathrooms for me one last time? Make sure there aren’t any drunks curled up in the corner and the lights are off.”
She grinned. “I don’t mind. I’ll do it before I head out.” The back door to the club led to a parking lot. Shea recalled seeing an all-night diner across the street from the lot. Maybe she could have a cup of coffee there, caffeine up and try to figure out her next move. If she could remain awake until daybreak, she could hit the subway with the commuters and head back to the cheap motel to catch a few hours of sleep on the lumpy mattress.
“Oh hey. Here’s your bag.”
She’d asked Bill to stow her duffel behind the bar. She was ashamed to say everything she owned in the world was in that bag. He’d remarked on the size of it when she’d come to work, but mercifully hadn’t questioned her. “See you tomorrow, Shea.”
She took the bag and hitched
it onto her arm. “Good night, Bill.”
Walking down the hallway, she heard Bill humming as he worked. She opened the door to the men’s room, peering inside. The place was empty. Switching the lights off, she crossed the hall to the women’s bathroom. It was also deserted.
She recalled the bed on stage…the clean sheets, the soft mattress.
An idea formed. A terribly stupid idea.
Glancing back toward the bar, she noticed Bill had gone to the kitchen. She took a deep breath for courage—then walked into the bathroom and turned off the lights.
The room was plunged into darkness and her heart began to race. Her earlier exhaustion gave way to nervousness and fear. What the hell was she doing?
Feeling her way across the room, she let herself into the stall farthest from the door. Sitting down on the toilet, she waited in silence. Too many minutes later, she heard the sound she’d been dreading and anticipating. She lifted her feet and sat frozen. The back door opened then closed. She heard a lock being thrown into place.
Shea remained where she was for fifteen minutes longer then lowered her feet and stood.
She’d done it. She was locked in the club. Christ, she was insane. She’d just gotten the job and with one foolish, rash act, she’d probably jeopardized it.
Reaching into her bag, she pulled out her mini-flashlight. Switching it on, she pulled off the white blouse and black mini Emma had supplied her with earlier. She didn’t want to wrinkle the material since she’d have to wear it again tomorrow and she certainly didn’t have an iron.
She pulled on a t-shirt and loose sleep shorts, brushed her teeth then left the bathroom, walking toward the stage, grabbing a blanket from the hutch along the way. If she was going to lose her job, she’d at least make it worth her while. When she reached the bed, she slipped off her shoes and lay down. She covered herself with the simple blanket but didn’t dare crawl between the sheets, already feeling guilty for taking advantage of Emma’s kindness. She took out her small travel alarm clock and set it for eleven. She prayed no one found her. Maybe after a good night’s sleep, she’d be smarter, be able to figure out what the hell she should do next. For tonight, she was too tired and the bed was too soft.
* * * *
Travis watched his new waitress curl up on the bed and fall asleep. He had watched her all night as she’d worked. Emma had stopped by after the show to tell him how impressed she was with the new girl’s waitressing abilities.
He didn’t give a damn about her drink-slinging talents. Travis had been fascinated by her face. She was pretty, but it was the look of determination and—for lack of a better word—hunger that caught his eye. He recognized the exhaustion, the desperation and fear written there. He’d come to know those emotions well. He also felt a definite attraction. That would come as a surprise to Emma, who often accused him of taking the California-girls dream too far. He typically surrounded himself with tall, slim, suntanned blondes. Shea, with her dark hair, pale complexion and curvaceous body, didn’t fit that bill.
He’d watched her walk into the women’s room on one of the security monitors and been surprised when she didn’t come back out. After Bill locked up, he’d waited patiently. She didn’t disappoint him. Travis watched her sneak out with flashlight in hand. He picked up his phone, ready to call the police. However, her attire confused him and he paused. She appeared to be dressed in pajamas.
When she walked to the stage and lay down on the bed, he rose, watching her through the two-way glass. That was when he realized her goal wasn’t robbery, it was rest.
He stood watching her for nearly half an hour. Once he decided the exhausted girl was deeply asleep, he quietly crept down the stairs at the back of the stage. Shedding his shoes at the foot of the staircase, he padded across the stage until he stood next to her. Dim lighting from his open office door illuminated her face.
Shea Landon. Emma had told Travis her name. While he was typically absent from the main parts of the club, there was very little that happened in the place he didn’t know about.
He was curious about the petite woman. Reaching down, he picked up her duffel bag, retrieving the mini-flashlight she’d used earlier. He didn’t feel guilty about searching her stuff. After all, the woman was squatting in his club. Best to make sure she didn’t have a weapon.
Her bag didn’t answer his questions. If anything, it added more. There were several changes of clothing, some toiletries, a wallet and four books—all of them reminding him of the romance novels he’d been reading lately. Who the hell was this woman?
He replaced her things and put the duffel back on the floor. Shea rolled over and curled into a ball, nearly losing her blanket in the process. Travis slowly and carefully pulled the blanket up until it once more covered his sleeping waitress.
He was losing his mind. If he had half a brain, he’d wake her and fire her ass. Shea mumbled something incoherent and he grinned.
“You’re going to be trouble, aren’t you?” he whispered.
She sighed, but didn’t stir.
Fuck it. He wasn’t going to fire her. Where was the fun in that?
He climbed the stairs to his office, shutting the door. Usually he headed to his apartment but he didn’t want to leave Shea alone. Grabbing a blanket from the chair, he lay down on the couch. For the first time in a long time, he actually felt sleepy, his usual insomnia remaining at bay. His last thought before he drifted to sleep was of Shea. He didn’t know who she was, but she’d done something no one had done in a very long time.
Surprised him.
* * * *
The waves crashing on the shore pulled him from his restless slumber. Lord Travis Knight had been home nearly six months and the sea still tormented him. The sounds that had comforted him throughout his childhood were now threatening, reminding him too much of the terror he’d barely escaped when the war with Napoleon finally ended, the cursed emperor at last exiled to Elba. May he rot in hell there.
Travis had never feared the ocean before, but now the thunderous roar reminded him of the sound of a thousand horses’ hooves, hammering out a deadly beat as they approached. Death following behind with her arm raised, sword in hand, recklessly taking lives without thought, without care.
He stroked the long scar on his left cheek, recalling how closely Death had come to claiming him. Sometimes in the midst of a cold, dark night, he quietly prayed to her, begging her to finish the job.
A loud banging at the door disturbed the perpetual silence that permeated every crack and crevice of his home. He’d lost his parents to a fever while at war. They’d left him to wear an ancient, unwanted title, alone in this musty old mausoleum.
The knocking at the door continued. Finnegan would answer it and send the usurper on his way. Travis lay back on his bed and sighed heavily as he faced the beginning of yet another endless day.
“Milord?”
Travis glanced toward the door as Finnegan opened it and entered. The man had served under Travis’ command in the regiment. It was Finnegan who had saved his life on the battlefield, delivering him home and tending to his wounds. After Travis recovered, Finny stayed on, taking on the role of butler, valet and jack-of-all-trades.
“What?” Travis let his annoyance show.
“You have a visitor, sir.”
Travis raised his eyebrow, equal parts anger and surprise. “I don’t see callers. You know that. Send whoever it is on their way.”
When Finny didn’t leave the room, Travis stared, frowning at the unflappable old warhorse as he fidgeted, ill at ease.
Finny cleared his throat uncomfortably. “I tole her you don’t see no one, but—”
“Her?”
“Lady Landon, from the estate next door.”
Travis groaned. It seemed his reprieve was over. The only reason he’d been spared so long was because Shea had been in London for the season when he returned home. She’d stayed in the city longer after her mother had taken ill and needed care. It appeared the elde
r Lady Landon had recovered well enough to make the trip home at last.
Travis dressed quickly, not bothering to check his appearance in the mirror. Shea was certain to find fault with it regardless.
Finny directed him to the parlor where she was waiting.
Travis paused at the door, mentally preparing himself. Shea Landon was his oldest friend in the world, the two of them having grown up together. She was also a bluestocking, far too outspoken and opinionated for his peace of mind.
Conversations with Shea often left him off guard. She knew him too well and he feared she’d make him a project if she saw how far he’d fallen. He was content to wallow in misery and he didn’t need Shea trying to change that state.
Shea glanced up at his entrance. It had been years since he’d seen her, but somehow he didn’t recall her looking quite so…beautiful before. She crossed the room, hugging him tightly.
Her scent was familiar, reminding him of far happier times.
She pulled away to look at him and shook her head. “You look dreadful.”
He nodded, not offended by her observation. He and Shea didn’t mince words and they didn’t lie to one another. “And you look lovely.”
She smiled but he sensed a sadness in her eyes he’d never seen before.
She raised her hand, lightly tracing his scar with her fingertips. “I was terribly worried about you.”
Travis grasped her wrist and gently pulled it away from his face. “As you can see, I am well.”
She nodded. “Yes. I see.”
Her tone told him just how much she saw. He needed to distract her. “You’re home to stay, I assume?”
“Yes, Mother is feeling much better.”
He crossed the room, sitting behind his large desk. He felt the overpowering need to place some distance between them. “I’m glad to hear that. I appreciate the social call, Shea, but I’m afraid I have a great deal to—”
“Oh, this isn’t a social visit. I’m here to offer you a business proposition.”
Travis reared back in his chair, surprised. “Business?”
Shea nodded. “I’ve endured my fifth season in London. I think it’s safe to say I am officially on the shelf.”