She swallowed and then set her drink down, afraid to test fate by taking another sip. “So,” she said as she let her hand linger around her glass. “How was your day?” Her mind didn’t seem to want to fully function and that was all she could think to say. It had been so easy to talk to him last night, yet, suddenly, she felt as if she was tongue-tied.
“My day was fine.” He set his drink down. “How was yours?”
“Fine. It was baking day, but we got most of it done before the heat of the day became too great.”
“Baking day?”
Her throat locked up again. Had she really said that it had been baking day? She’d never done that before. Normally she held her tongue, never told anyone anything about her real life. Why was she having a hard time being Libby tonight and not Patsy?
“What did you bake?” he asked.
What was she going to say? What could she say to cover up her blunder? She reached across the table and grabbed his glass, knowing the bitterness of the beer would open her throat. She took a big gulp and forced it down before handing him back his glass.
She wasn’t sure if that gave her any sense or not, but now she really had to answer his question because her throat was certainly open. “Bread.” She let out a cough to ease the bitterness in her throat. “We—I baked bread, and pies, and several dozen cookies. Because I have to eat. You have to eat, too, don’t you, Oliver?”
“Yes, I have to eat.”
She nodded. Everyone has to eat. There was nothing wrong with admitting that, or with admitting it was baking day. “What did you do today?”
“Worked.”
She bit the tip of her tongue to prevent it from working until her mind was ready. “Oh, and where do you work?”
“Downtown.”
“Where downtown?”
He took a swig of his beer, and then held it out to her.
She shook her head.
He nodded and set it down. “You know where I work, Libby. You know who I am.”
A shiver rippled up her spine. “Do I?”
“Yes, you do.”
She tried her best to keep anything from showing on her face, but had no idea how to answer that. She did know, but didn’t want him to know she knew.
“That’s why you asked me to dance last night, so you could learn what I know about Rex Gaynor.” He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “What I want to know, is why? Why are so you interested in an escaped convict? Most young women would be afraid to know a criminal of his caliber is on the loose.”
Patsy bit the inside of her cheek, contemplating exactly how she should answer. The one thing she had learned by living a dual life was that honesty, as much as possible, was the best route. One lie could easily lead to another, and soon it was hard to remember whom she’d told what to. That was the reason she never wanted to go back to the Green Door, a speakeasy a few blocks from here. She’d used two different aliases there, in the same night, and trying to keep things straight had proved to be more work than fun.
Not quite ready to admit to anything, she leaned back in her chair. “Well, now, Oliver, that is an interesting theory.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “Theory?”
Keeping her chin up, she nodded.
He let out a low chuckle. “Let me assure you, it’s not a theory.”
Taking her chances at being as believable as possible, she leaned forward and released the smile tickling her lips. “I asked you to dance because you were the only man I wanted to dance with last night.”
Slowly, as if deliberately making her watch his smallest movement, he uncrossed his arms, planted his hands on the table and then leaned nearly halfway across the table, until they were almost nose to nose.
Her heart was thudding excitedly. He smelled so good. The same spicy cologne as last night, and his eyes were shimmering. He did believe her. Thankfully, because that would make getting more information easier. A good reporter never shared their secrets, and Lane was the best.
“I don’t believe that for a moment,” he said.
She caught herself before her shoulders slumped, and locked her lips together to keep her mouth from falling open.
“Not, a single moment,” he added.
The disappointment filling her was too great to keep completely hidden. She planted her elbows on the table, something her father would have frowned upon if she were at home, and rested her chin on one palm. It was the truth. He had been the only man she’d wanted to dance with last night, but she had a feeling that wasn’t exactly what he didn’t believe.
“Why are you so interested in Rex Gaynor?” he asked. “And please, tell me the truth.”
She let out a sigh. This was certainly not how she’d imagined events playing out this evening. Another dance-off, with the opportunity to learn more about Rex Gaynor, was what she’d been thinking about all day. That and how handsome he was. Perhaps more than she remembered.
“Is that possible?” he asked.
Her heart leaped up to her throat. He couldn’t possibly know her thoughts. “Is what possible?”
“You telling the truth? You are capable of that, aren’t you?”
They were still practically nose to nose, but now her heart was pounding for a different reason. His rash tone that implied she couldn’t tell the truth. “Yes, I’m capable of telling the truth.”
“Then do so.”
Not only was his statement a challenge, it was in his eyes. They were saying she wouldn’t tell him the truth. The entire truth.
She stiffened and leaned back slightly, needing the space between them to keep her thoughts as straight as possible. “Fine. I asked you to dance in order to learn more about Rex Gaynor.”
He nodded slightly and sat back. “Why?”
Huffing out a breath, she admitted, “You know why.”
“I do?”
“Yes, that’s what every good reporter does.”
His expression turned stoic, and the chuckle in his tone bitter. “You are not a reporter.”
He’d told her that last night, but this time, it bothered her more. “Yes, I am,” she insisted.
“Tell me who you work for. One article you’ve written.”
She clamped her lips tight as a wave of disappointment washed over her. This was not going how she’d imagined, not at all.
“You haven’t written anything, have you?”
“Yes.” She locked her back teeth together to keep from saying more. It was the truth. She had written several articles. Half a suitcase full. And one that was burning a hole in her pocket right now. She’d brought it along tonight, thinking about somehow slipping it in his pocket, so he could see how good she was. A foolish idea for sure.
“Published where?”
“They haven’t been published because—” She stopped herself before saying he was the reason none of her articles had been printed. Him and his Not suitable for the Gazette at this time notes, written in red ink.
His expression was almost smug as he picked up his beer.
She slumped back in her chair as he drank. Fine, she wasn’t a real reporter, but that doesn’t mean she can’t become one. A wave of determination filled her. She could still get all the information he had on Rex Gaynor. It would just have to happen in another manner. Not on the dance floor. And she could still write the article, her best one ever. And she’d send it to a different newspaper to print.
There was an odd dullness in his eyes as he set down his empty glass. “Where did you learn about the money?”
Patsy shook her head. She was here to gain, not give. “A source.”
“What did the source say?”
“Why should I tell you? So you can publish it in your newspaper?” Although she’d already told him all she knew, she couldn’t let him know that. A real reporter wouldn’t. In fact
, a real reporter would... What would a real reporter do? She balled her hands into fists. She didn’t know any real reporters. Other than him.
“I might put it in my article, that is if I can prove it’s true,” he said. “That is the first rule of order of reporting, fact checking.”
“I know that.” At least she’d heard that.
“Then you verified your source,” he said.
He wasn’t asking, just assuming, and she chose not to comment, even though she hadn’t verified anything. But why would that Charlie say that last night if it wasn’t true?
“That’s good to know,” he said.
Guilt at not having confirmed to verifying anything rolled across her stomach.
“You’d be amazed by how many articles people send into the Gazette, wanting to have them published, only to forget that one detail. The verification of facts. I can’t print anything that hasn’t been fully confirmed. Readers of the Gazette have come to expect that, and that’s what they will get. The truth.”
Confused, Patsy said, “But reporters don’t reveal their sources.” She wasn’t exactly sure where she’d heard that, but she had, and she believed it.
“That’s true, and that’s also why they have an editor. My reporters, those who write regularly for the Gazette, turn in verification along with every article they write for me, everything from dates and times of when they met with sources, to pictures of being at the scene of the crime. As the owner of the paper, it’s my call in the end, and I only print the truth. The verified truth.”
She’d never thought of that, of having to verify all the information in an article, or of its importance. “Is that why you turn down so many articles?”
The briefest hint of a grin appeared before his face became somber again. “No, the majority of them aren’t well written enough for the Gazette, but for those that are, the absence of verification is the main reason I won’t, or can’t, print them.”
“Do you tell the people sending them in that?”
“No. If they are true reporters, they would already know that.”
She let that settle. It made sense. The Gazette had a reputation. Everyone relied on the articles being truthful. Not like some of the magazines that were full of stories about movie stars. Her parents never allowed them to read such magazines, but Jane snuck them into the house. They made Hollywood sound outlandish, including Hollywoodland, the very neighborhood they lived it. She and her sisters often laughed at how the magazines made it sound as if the streets were made of gold. They weren’t. Most of them weren’t even paved.
It appeared as if she had some things to learn about being a reporter. Perhaps more than she realized. However, it was still her way out of her father’s house, her only way out. “If they don’t know, and you don’t tell them, how are they going to learn?”
He shrugged. “If I were to spend the time telling every person what they needed to know, I wouldn’t have the time to publish a single copy of the Gazette.”
That, too, made sense. If only she was allowed to visit the library again. Father had seen one of the books she’d checked out, claimed it indecent and refused to allow her to check out any more. The only reason she was able to read the newspapers was because it was her job to cut them in squares to use in washing the windows with vinegar and water.
“How did you find the source to confirm your information?” he asked.
Her mind shifted between the truth and, well, fibbing. It didn’t take her but a moment to figure out which way she needed to go. “I haven’t totally confirmed it.” She shrugged. “Yet.”
“You haven’t?”
“No.”
“Then how do you know there was any money?” he asked.
She didn’t for sure, but was going to find out. Spinning around, she looked at the bar. Another shiver of excitement zipped up her spine. The three men who’d been there last night were there again.
* * *
Lane balled his hand into a fist to keep from reaching out and catching her arm as she pushed away from the table and stood. Last night, he’d been convinced she was somehow connected to Gaynor, until he’d seriously thought about it. Then he’d come to the conclusion that she was merely doing the same thing as him, looking for information.
Curious as to what she was up to, he didn’t stop her as she turned away from the table. So far, he’d played his cards right, uncovered some of the truth and needed to continue doing just that.
She was a want-to-be, and from some of the expressions on her face while they’d talked, he’d guessed she’d sent an article to the Gazette at least once, if not more than once. That really shouldn’t surprise him. Other want-to-bes had sought him out. They just usually weren’t flappers with big blue eyes and matching dimples.
Or had a backside that made the hem of her dress sashay back and forth over the backs of her legs as she walked away from the table, straight to the bar.
He watched as she planted a foot on the foot rail and leaned against the varnished top of the bar. The grin she gave the three men sitting there was all it took to start up a conversation. They were more than willing to answer whatever she’d asked. His instincts were going up against something else inside him. He couldn’t say exactly what, but that other part of him was ready to walk over to the bar and...
And what? Haul her out of here? To where? He still didn’t know her real name, or why she was researching the Rex Gaynor story.
He leaned back in his chair and noticed something on the floor. An envelope. He glanced around, and then scooped it up.
His name was on the front of it. He glanced around again, looking to see who might be watching him. For a moment, he wondered if Raymond had dropped it, until recalling the man had said he’d have called.
Lane opened the envelope, and grinned at the title neatly written across the top. Shifting his gaze between her and the paper, he scanned the article about the dance-off. He was impressed. She had an attention to detail, and the writing flowed well, all the way to the end. Even if he hadn’t been a part of the dance-off, he’d have been able to see it in his mind by the way she’d recreated it.
He glanced up at her again, how she was interacting with the men at the bar. She may not be a seasoned reporter, but he now had to admit, she had the makings of one. What she was doing remarkably well, starting up a friendly conversation with virtual strangers, wasn’t easy for everyone, yet she had a knack for it.
The men at the bar laughed at something she’d said, and another, odd sensation rippled in his chest. He couldn’t call it jealousy. Didn’t know her well enough to be jealous of her talking to other men. He wasn’t the jealous type, not of anyone or anything.
However, he would like to know what she and those men were talking and laughing about. They were average dockworkers and he had a gut feeling that they’d tell her far more than they’d ever tell him.
Lane folded the paper, tucked it in the envelope and slid that into his pocket. As her lilting laughter hit his ears again, another sound filled the room. The notes the piano player struck gave him an excuse to get her away from those dockworkers. Not because of the information they might give her, but because of what they might expect from her for the answers they gave her. There was a give-and-take when it came to information gathering, and he’d bet she knew nothing about that.
He stood, walked over to the bar and took a hold of her elbow. “Excuse us, fellas, the lady promised me a dance.”
She shot him a quizzical look.
He grinned and didn’t give her a choice but to accompany him to the dance floor. The song playing was a waltz, on the slow side, and he led her through a series of spins to carry them to the other side of the floor, where it wasn’t quite so crowded. She was as graceful as last night. Her smile was as bright, too. A fact that relieved him. He wasn’t in the habit of forcing women to dance with him.
; Glancing behind them, toward the bar, she said, “I’ll have you know, I wasn’t done speaking with those gentlemen.”
“Yes, you were.” He considered telling her about the envelope, but decided not to, just yet. “You won’t get any more out of them.”
“You don’t know that.”
He spun her around beneath their clasped hands, and then drew her so close the hem of her dress brushed against his pants. He ignored how that sent a tingle down his legs. Mixing business with pleasure was something he never did, mainly because pleasure was not something he engaged in, and wasn’t this time, either. This was business. Pure business. “Yes, I do.”
She stepped a mite closer and peered up at him from beneath those long lashes. A warm flush filled his chest cavity, forcing him to draw in a breath of fortitude. Business. This was business.
“What if I told you they know the source who told me about the money, and where I can find him?” Drawing closer still, she whispered, “To verify the fact of the stolen money.”
Air locked in his lungs as her breath tickled his neck. The effect she had on him was distracting, and it was a moment before her words settled in his mind. “What man? What’s his name?”
“I was about to find that out when you dragged me onto the dance floor.”
“I didn’t drag you,” he corrected.
“You would have if I hadn’t followed you.”
That may be true. Needing space to think clearly, he stepped back and twirled her beneath his arm, but that, watching her swing around, looking at him with that charming little dimpled grin, consumed every thought he had.
Enchanting. That described her, and he’d bet she’d charmed those men at the bar as easily as she did him. She could charm a rabbit from its hole. Before he had a chance to contemplate the thought fully, he asked, “Are you busy tomorrow night?”
“Why?”
He pulled her close again. His entire body tingled at the nearness of hers. “Because I’d like you to attend a party with me.”
The Flapper's Fake Fiancé Page 6