The Flapper's Fake Fiancé

by Lauri Robinson

  The way she kept her chin up, barely moved, concerned him. He expected more of a reaction from her. “It appears you’ve thought of everything. Except one thing.”

  Before he could respond, she looped her arms around his neck.

  Then, before he had time to stop her, she kissed him.

  Her lips slid across his like a dance, and tasted even sweeter than the candy they’d just shared. She leaned closer, pressing her lithe, perfect body against his. The pounding of his heart increased, and blood rushed throughout his body, throbbing in places.

  She used her tongue to tease his lips, run the very tip of it along the seam of his mouth. He fought the desire to give in, but it was no use. His lips parted and he welcomed her tongue inside his mouth.

  Her back arched, pressing her breasts more firmly against his chest, teasing his already heightened system.

  His hands roamed over her back, up her sides, his palms tingling at the heat beneath the thin material of her dress. He wanted her like he’d never wanted anything. His groin muscles jolted as his thumbs encountered the undersides of her breasts, and then the pebbled hardness of her nipples.

  Her hands combed into his hair as a whimper of a sigh left her throat and entered his mouth at the same time she pressed her hips up against his.

  He pulled back, out of the kiss, searching for common sense to prevail, but her lips were still next to his, and there was something so intimate, so special about breathing the same air as her, that his mind couldn’t think of anything else.

  His body couldn’t ignore how drawn it was to her.

  Capturing her lips again, he drove his tongue inside her mouth and cupped one of her supple breasts. Unrestrained beneath her dress, the weight of her breast filled his palm. His arousal peaked with anticipation and expectation.

  The jolt of that was oddly a virtue at that moment, one he needed. It forced him to realize where they were, what he was doing and, mostly, how this should not be happening. Not here.

  Not anywhere.

  Not anytime.

  He pulled himself out of the kiss, and took a step back, gulping air.

  Her breasts were rising with her labored breathing as she stepped over and opened the car door. “Take me home.”

  The ride was quiet, and torturous. Lane tried to explain this was how it had to be, but she held up a hand his way and looked out the passenger window. He considered telling her that he loved her, and would for a long time. That had been hard to admit. Even to himself, but he did love her. Despite believing he’d never love again, despite digging deep and trying to find enough guilt over finding someone to take Naomi’s place in his heart. That hadn’t happened. There was no guilt. Naomi wouldn’t have wanted that. He understood it completely because he would never have wanted that for her, and he didn’t want that for Patsy, either. He also didn’t want her forced to marry someone for the wrong reason. Which was also why this all had to end. He was still chasing down the killer of his first wife. If that didn’t prove to her father that he would never be the husband she deserved, nothing would.

  She wouldn’t understand that. He barely understood it all himself, but knew it to be true.

  At her house, he parked the car. Her father stood at the door, waiting. As usual.

  Lane got out, walked around and opened her car door.

  She looked up at him as she took his hand, let him help her. As soon as she was out, she released his hand. “Goodbye, Oliver.”

  Head up, she walked to the house.

  He closed the door and followed.

  “Good night, Father,” she said as she walked into the house.

  Lane gestured to the open door behind William. “We need to talk.”

  * * *

  Patsy made it all the way upstairs and down the hall into her bedroom before the tears hit. She pressed the back of her head against the door and cried until she felt empty. Then she pushed off the door and stumbled through the darkness to the bed.

  She shouldn’t have kissed him, but she’d had to. She had to know for sure if she was truly in love with him.

  She was.

  Completely in love with Lane Cox.

  Shouldn’t there have been a dramatic moment, something that she could pinpoint to say that was exactly when she fell in love with him?

  A person would think so, but it hadn’t happened that way. Perhaps because every moment she’d spent with him had been amazing. Being with him filled her with dazzling freedom, and incredible adventures.

  Sadness filled her. If only he wasn’t someone her father had chosen. If only he wasn’t still in love with his first wife. If only she was someone he wanted to marry.

  Two lights shone into the darkness, and she climbed off the bed, went to the window.

  Lane’s car backed out of the driveway, then stopped in the street. She couldn’t see him inside it, but felt him looking up. At her window. Her fingers started to tremble, then her arms. Her torso. Her legs.

  Slowly, his car started moving, driving away, and an incredible sense of loss gripped her heart. Further proof she was in love with him.

  Now she just had to figure out what to do about that.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Patsy lifted her chin and drew in a deep breath before raising a hand and knocking upon the door of the brownstone house. The sound of the ocean crashing into the shore echoed up the hill as she waited, wondering if she should knock again, louder this time.

  The click of the knob turning caused her to stiffen, stand straighter and force her lips to form a smile. She had figured out what she was going to do about loving Lane, and that didn’t include sitting at home, waiting for the week of their pretend engagement to end.

  “Patsy?” Victoria Lloyd frowned deeply. “What are you doing here?”

  “I need to talk with you, Mrs. Lloyd, if you don’t mind.”

  “Of course.” Victoria opened the door wider. “Come in.”

  “Thank you.” Patsy stepped over the threshold, and followed Victoria across the entranceway, into the room that had held the dance-off she and Lane had won. Her throat tightened at the memory.

  The room was full of furniture today. Two maroon brocade couches, facing each other, and several side chairs.

  “Please, have a seat,” Victoria said, while sitting down on one of the sofas. “Has something happened?”

  She lowered onto the edge of one of the couch cushions, and folded her trembling hands together. Huffing out a breath, she said, “I’m curious to know if you’ve seen Lane recently.”

  Victoria frowned. “No. Not since the restaurant the other night, when I saw both of you.”

  The undeniable anxiety that had filled Patsy when she’d gone to his office, and not seen his car there, filled her all over again. She’d spent all day yesterday confused, even scared, about being in love with him, but this morning, she’d decided that although her father might think he’d chosen Lane for her, he hadn’t.

  She had.

  The night she’d forced him to dance with her. Lane had said he didn’t dance, but he had that night. He also said he didn’t want to get married, but he must like her. He’d kissed her. Several times. He still loved Naomi, but that’s normal. Everyone continued to love people long after they’d died. She still loved her grandmother. Hadn’t stopped just because she’d died, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t love other people. Lane had to know that. Know that he could love her, and still love Naomi and Sarah. She’d expect that, understand that. She’d come to that conclusion this morning, too.

  Now, she was prepared to force him to admit that he loved her, too. That’s why he’d said he didn’t want to go through that again—losing someone he loved.

  She didn’t want to go through it once, let alone twice.

  “Patsy? What’s happened?” Victoria asked.

  “Nancy Wells sai
d Lane was out on an assignment, and didn’t know when he’ll be back.”

  “Perhaps he is.” Victoria smiled slowly. “Did the two of you have a disagreement?”

  “No.” That’s not what Patsy would call it. “He did suggest we call it all off.”

  “Your pretend engagement?”

  She gulped in a breath of air, hoping that would keep the tears at bay. “Yes, I didn’t know where else to go.”

  Victoria leaned forward and grasped her hands. “You’ve come to the right place. And don’t you worry, Lane loves you. I could tell that the night I saw you dancing with him at Raymond Klein’s party. I know I’m much too old for him, but I loved teasing him. He was so devastated when his wife and child died. I was, too, for him, but that was a long time ago and it’s time he learns to live again.”

  “If Vincent Burrows lets him,” Patsy said. “I’m sure Lane is out looking for him.”

  * * *

  Lane slouched down in his seat, staring into his drink, like the other occupants in the room were doing. He’d taken a page out of Patsy’s playbook, was in disguise.

  A grin tugged at his lips. Libby. Liberty. Liberty Bell.

  His disguise wasn’t as good as hers.

  Heaviness filled his chest and he huffed it out. He missed her. Patsy.

  Her smile.

  Her laugh.

  Her lips.

  Pushing all that to the back of his mind, he scanned the room.

  He’d never gone to this length before to get a story, but this was more than a story. This was his future, and he was taking precautions so that once it was all over, he could court Patsy properly, and ask her to marry him without any shenanigans involved. He was done living in the past. He had a future and wanted it. One that included Patsy.

  The FBI was as convinced that Henry and his partner had been shanghaied, and that Burrows was behind it. Two other agents, Les Wilkson and Doug Osmond, were at this seaside gin joint, too. Both dressed like him. In dirty clothes, smelling like fish guts, and looking like the dozens of dockworkers in the room.

  He’d spent the past two days following up leads on Burrows and his whereabouts, and tonight, finally, he was a step ahead of the criminal rather than two steps behind. This was Burrows’s lair and he was due any moment now.

  The door opened, and Lane shifted his gaze in that direction, waiting. Two women walked in. One older. One younger. A flapper. Wearing a black beaded hat and dress.

  His heart skipped a beat. He looked away, flustered. Every woman reminded him of Patsy. The little beaded hat on that flapper’s head was a lot like the one she’d worn the night they’d attended Raymond’s engagement party.

  Engagement.

  Guilt filled him. He’d told Dryer as much as he could. That he was on the cusp of a major story, one that could get too perilous for Patsy to know about.

  Dryer had taken that well. Even offered to help.

  A tingle rippled up his spine as he watched the flapper plant a foot on the foot rail beneath the bar as she leaned on one elbow on the wooden top.

  That, too, reminded him of Patsy.

  Damn it.

  That flapper had red hair, not blond.

  Clamping his back teeth together, Lane turned to the door again. Where the hell was Burrows? He should have arrived by now.

  As if he had no control over his eyes, they roamed back to the flapper. She and the older woman were moving along the length of the bar. Even her walk reminded him of Patsy.

  When Dryer had offered his help, Lane had told him he could do that by keeping an eye on Patsy. Twenty-four/seven.

  A shiver rippled Lane’s spine as the women rounded the bar and walked through a door that opened just then.

  Twenty-four/seven.

  Damn!

  Dryer thought he’d always known where Patsy was 24/7, but didn’t. Her father didn’t have a clue about her Liberty Bell life.

  But he did.

  Red hair or blond, that flapper was Patsy.

  Leaping to his feet, Lane barreled his way through the crowd, tossing aside chairs and people in his hurry to get to the door that Patsy had just walked through.

  Commotion ensued in his wake. Dockworkers could be an ornery bunch and it didn’t take a lot to get punches flying.

  Lane made his way to the door, and shoved aside a bulky goon who tried to stop him from opening it. The goon stumbled into a table, and that’s all it took for an all-out brawl to ensue.

  Lane shot into the room. Full of shelves and booze, the room was void of people.

  “What happened?” Doug asked, arriving in the room.

  “Did you see Burrows?” Les asked, right behind Doug.

  Lane ran across the room, to another door. “Burrows is here, and he has two women. They went through here.”

  He should have been prepared for this. For Patsy to keep looking for Burrows. She wouldn’t have stopped just because he’d asked her to. No, she’d have kept on looking for Burrows until she found him.

  Wrenching open the door, Lane entered a dark and dank hallway. The only light was the one shining behind him. The only sounds were that of the brawl still going on in the gin joint.

  Knowing the bouncer would be on his tail soon, Lane searched the darkness.

  Where’d they go? They couldn’t be that far ahead of him.

  “Split up,” Lane directed. Going on instinct, he ran forward to the closest door while Doug and Les shot down the hallway, one in each direction.

  Lane pulled open the door, and started down a set of stone steps. The walls were built of large boulders, as well. Dampness grew as he ran down the slick, uneven steps. The air was heavy with the musty scents of mold and mildew. Pausing briefly, he listened, certain he’d heard something.

  He had.

  Voices.

  More specifically, a raspy female voice. One he recognized.

  Victoria Lloyd.

  Damn it. He should have known. Continuing downward, Lane walked on the balls of his feet so his heels wouldn’t click against the stones. Footsteps sounded above him. He ran faster, leaped off the bottom step and shot around the corner. Old, rotting crates with faded coffee bean labels were stacked high, and he slid between two rows, listening and watching.

  The goon he’d shoved aside upstairs stepped off the stairway and continued forward, past the crates. A string of lightbulbs was draped along the low ceiling, leading through a stone archway.

  Warehouses like this lined the wharf, dating back to long before California was a state. The wooden structures aboveground had been replaced, rebuilt, but those underground had withstood time, weather and man, including numerous fires that had leveled the area more than once in the past century.

  Lane stayed hidden amid the old cargo crates and made his way toward the archway that the goon had entered. Edging his way along, he had his ears pricked, focusing on deciphering sounds beyond distant foghorns and the thud of the goon’s footsteps.

  Carefully, he peered around the corner of the archway. More crates. These ones new, with colorful labels of sugar and corn, and in the center of the room was a massive still.

  The goon didn’t pause as he walked around the big copper burners, pipes and holding tanks toward yet another door.

  Sounds entered when the man opened that door. Traffic, ships, people.

  Lane shot out from behind the wall, and crouching down, ran across the room as the man walked out the door. More crates lined the walls here. These ones were stacked five tall, and full of whiskey bottles, but still labeled sugar and corn.

  Easing open the door, Lane saw the goon walking up a ramp that led to a loading dock for both trucks that would deliver cargo by land and the shipping containers that would be pulled onto the big ships heading out to sea and foreign ports.

  Hugging the wall made of heavy logs to w
ithstand the force of rushing water crashing into the rock seawall not far away, Lane ran up the hill.

  It was as if a hand grasped him around the neck, squeezing the air out of him, when he got his first glance over the ramp wall. Moonlight beamed down on a head of blond hair like a stage show spotlight.

  Burrows had a hold of Patsy, and the goon whom Lane had followed was running along the pier, toward them.

  Lane had no idea what possessed him at that moment. He had no gun, no weapon of any sorts. All he knew was the woman he loved was in the hands of a killer.

  With a growl that came from the very bowels of his being, he shot up the ramp, and ran toward the pier.

  * * *

  Patsy tried everything she could think of to break the man’s hold. She twisted and kicked and slap, but Burrows had her in an iron grip, so tight she could barely breathe.

  Her struggles were futile, but she kept trying. As soon as she and Victoria had walked through the door behind the bar, two goons had grabbed them, hauled them downstairs and then out to this pier, to Burrows. Who’d laughed when he’d grabbed her and started dragging her down the pier. They were being shanghaied. Just like Lane had written about.

  The man she loved.

  The man she’d never see again.

  She almost thought she heard his voice, shouting her name, beyond the ship horns bellowing and the black water slapping against the sides of the concrete pier. That was impossible. Still she twisted her neck, trying to see behind her as she thought she heard him again.

  Her heart leaped for a hopeful moment, at the man running toward them. That hope shattered. It wasn’t Lane, but another one of Burrows’s thugs. They were all as ugly and mean as him. Victoria had called the tavern and said she needed to talk to Burrows. He’d called back hours later, said to come to the tavern. Then, when the thugs had grabbed them and hauled them to the pier, he’d said he was going to get rid of them once and for all. Just like he had Rex Gaynor and the Federal Reserve agent on the train. The one he’d been following for months, looking for the right moment to steal the old bills being transported. Along with his partner Billy Phillips.