The Unforgettable Queen of Diamonds

by Nellie K Neves

  “You have to show me,” I say to him from outside the dressing rooms. “Come out and do a little twirl.”

  “I don’t twirl, Kennedy.”

  “A sashay perhaps?”

  The latch on the dressing room door pops open, and I shift to watch him exit the doors. At this point, I’m pretty sure there’s nothing Roman Palmero can’t pull off without looking gorgeous, at least in my eyes. Even a mustard yellow pinstriped zoot suit. The pants are about two sizes too big for his legs. I press my hands over my mouth to hide away my laughter, but his jaw stretches side to side with mild frustration.

  “I look like a…” he struggles to find a word, “jar of mustard or something.”

  “Okay,” I press my hands to his arm, only slightly distracted by them, “we’ll find something that does. Try that double-breasted suit.”

  “It makes me look fat.”

  “Fine, how about the soldier’s uniform?”

  “That makes no sense with the piano. Why would a soldier be playing for—” he stops short of the dressing room. “I don’t even know what you’re wearing.”

  “But I do, and that’s enough.”

  Roman spins and catches my wrists. My breath hitches, my mind flooded with the memory of that gun beneath his jacket. I could be in danger. But the look in his eyes is a different kind of danger. He presses my hands against his chest and takes a step to collapse the distance between us.

  “Tell me. I want to know.”

  For a second, I consider telling him about the silver dress with the slit up my leg, the cowl neckline and bare back. But I want to see his face the first time he sees it cling to my figure. I want his eyes to follow the bend in the waist and every highlighted curve. For once, age will be nothing more than a number, because I’m one hundred-fifty percent adult woman in that dress.

  “Let’s just say,” I finger walk the front of his chest and trace from his ear to his neckline with one finger. “No one is going to be looking at you.”

  We haven’t kissed, not since the cottage. Even with three practices at Santos Sound, he’s been nothing but professional. But his eyes drop to my lips and nothing’s changed.

  “Even if I look like a bottle of mustard?”

  His joke breaks the spell between us. I lean forward into his arms, laughing against his chest while he takes me close. For a moment, the professional Roman fades away. For a moment, he’s content to hold me, breath rushing over my hair and neck. For a moment, it all works.

  “I’ll try on the last suit,” he whispers. With a quick kiss to the top of my head, he reverses out of my reach into the dressing room. The latch slides into place, and once more I try to do the same to my heart. But that’s the thing, I don’t want to latch my heart closed. I want to invite him in, ask him to stay for tea and cookies. Maybe longer.

  If not for that glimpse of the gun, nothing would hold me back. But I saw it. I saw the gun, and I can’t erase that memory, no matter how hard I try. If it’s not going anywhere, then I have to decide if it’s a deal breaker. Hudson could be right. Maybe he’s prepared like a boy scout, or a gun lover. He could have been carrying a weapon every time we went out; I don’t know for sure. He could have a gun right now.

  My heart quickens at the idea. I’m not a fan of firearms. I understand the purpose. I’m grateful to the people who protect us with them, but I never planned to have them be a part of my life. If Roman really is a gun lover, to the point that he can’t leave the house without them, is our relationship doomed from the start?

  “I think this is it. I think you might like this one.” The latch slides back, metal grating hard. I whip around to see him, possibly to tell him we can never be, but the only part of me that’s doomed is my self-control.

  The cut of the vest highlights his build, lean shoulders tapering down to what I have to assume is at least a six pack, if not a party pack, of ab muscles. He’s rolling up the sleeves of the white shirt beneath, like the bartenders from old movies I’ve watched. The silver tie will match my dress to perfection, but I doubt my ability to sing without forgetting a few words with him around.

  “You’re right,” I say, sounding star struck, “this is the one.”

  His grin rises with a rakish tilt. “Is that so? You think I might turn a few heads?”

  I can’t stop staring at his chest and wondering what’s beneath that black vest. “You’ve got mine.” I run my eyes over the shop, grateful I was able to call in some favors, so we’d have the place to ourselves. On the far side, I see what I’m looking for. I grab it from the rack and turn back to Roman, fedora in hand.

  “It’s all about the accessories,” I say.

  He crosses the space, each step deliberate, each one agonizing for my patience. I want his arms around me. I want to feel him take control and tell me there’s nothing holding us back anymore. I want him to tell me he understood what I was trying to tell him about his brother and our situation is nothing like that. Most of all, I want him.

  “Do you mind?” He nods to the hat, as if it’s my job to determine the placement. “I’m hopeless when it comes to fashion.”

  The stiff bill runs between my fingers before I reach to set it on his head. Square is all wrong, so I tilt the angle to a roguish level, leaving my hands there to catch it in case it tumbles. Roman’s hands take mine, wrapping them around his neck before he pulls me close.

  “I can’t stop thinking about you,” he says as if admitting his worst sins. “I’m completely distracted at work.”

  “I feel the same way.” I lick my lips once, dying for his touch. “Today Vic asked me what I was thinking about so hard, and I told her Roman. Before she could tease me, I had to cover by saying I wanted Roman blinds in my office.”

  He could tease me, laugh at the joke, brush this off, but I get the feeling he’s aching as bad as I am to get past all this talking.

  “If I talk about Kennedy in my line of work, everyone will assume I’m going into the secret service.”

  I barely hear him. My fingers trace the bend of his jaw, his face, study the way his eyes close and his lips press tight. But it registers like a light switch clicking on.

  “What does the president have to do with the music business?”

  Fear flickers once in his eye, but his mouth finds mine and every other thought falls blank. He tightens his grip, lifting me to my toes, then to my tip toes where I’m barely touching the ground. Combined with the spinning in my head, I might as well be flying. My heart races with excitement every time he’s close, but this intensity is new, as if he’s unlatched some part of him, something he’s been holding back or guarding from me. His kiss deepens, lips insistent and eager. I match his pace, happy to show him that this is where I wanted to be all along.

  Roman’s head twists, shifting, but not breaking the rhythm of his affection. “Kennedy.” My name flashes against my cheek, but there’s nothing more, no direction, no request, nothing more than a gasp to remind himself who he has in his arms. We stumble back, colliding once with a clothes rack, then slamming against the counter. His strength takes my breath away. His grip on my hip, pulling me close, as if it takes every bit of his willpower not to lift me up on this counter like he did in his jeep. The jolt wakes up his common sense. Roman pushes back against my hips, shoving space between us, even though his head hangs low, forehead against mine, hot, rushed breath heating up my skin.

  “Are you sure you want to do this show?” Roman’s eyes remain closed, squeezed tight as if the sight of me might destroy him. “How well do you know these guys?”

  Leave it to a music professional to want to talk shop at a moment like this.

  “I don’t know, okay, I guess. Why are you hung up on this?” I twist to set my lips to his jaw. Like aftershocks, his body quakes at the sensation. “What are you worried about?”

  “I have to keep you safe.” Chills flash across my skin where he’s pulled back and left me exposed to the air. “I couldn’t live with myself if you got hurt.�
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  “It’s a birthday party,” I tell him, confused as always by his behavior. “I’m singing, and then we’re eating cake. It’ll be fine.”

  He nods, but I don’t feel his confidence in it. “I should change back.”

  One by one his fingers slip from my hips. As always, he leaves me with more questions than answers. Hot and cold, like two people shoved into one body. One side of him that can’t keep his hands off me, and the other determined to do exactly that. The problem is, there’s only one version of me, and I want all of him.

  ✽✽✽

  Roman

  Safe to say, I lost control. I slipped up about Kennedy and protecting the president, tried to cover my tracks and fell off the cliff instead. Thankfully, I had enough sense to stop before I dragged her with me. This hot and cold act I’m doing with her has to be driving her away from me. That’s not what I want. I don’t know what I want, but I know that’s not it.

  I reach across the cab and take her hand. It’s a simple gesture, but the tension exhales with her. Is there a future for us? She’s probably right about our ages. We’re nothing like Sabastian and Brinley. If only that was all that held me back. The bigger question looms in front of me. Is there a future for us while I work for the FBI? Can she forgive my lies? I don’t work in the music industry. I can’t sign her to a label. It’s all stacking up around me, and I’m starting to fear I’m about to lose everything.

  Chapter 17

  Kennedy

  I’ll never get tired of walking down the staircase and watching Roman take me in for the first time. It’s like watching someone open a present you know they want.

  The excitement.

  The wonder.

  The absolute joy that it’s better than they ever imagined.

  The only part I could do without is my dad glowering from the kitchen, and Hudson watching Roman like he’s gonna steal the fine china.

  “Don’t wait up,” I call over my shoulder as I follow Roman out the door. Dad grumbles something, but I have to give him credit that at least he left his rifle in the gun safe.

  “Be careful!” Hudson calls after us. I wave my hand, but he stays in the doorway, watching my date like he might murder me. I shouldn’t have told him about the attack in the ballroom. I got him worried about nothing.

  “Are you hungry?” Roman asks, pulling open my door.

  “Starved, but I’m afraid I’ll hurl if I eat before the show.”

  He smiles, but it’s not as easy as it normally is. He’s probably nervous for me. I have enough butterflies in my stomach to populate a botanical garden.

  “Maybe we’ll get pizza afterward or something?”

  “I can look forward to that.”

  He shuts the door, and jogs to the other side. The fedora rests on the dashboard. It brings back memories of our last encounter, of the moment he actually let his guard down. I hope he’s not back to keeping his distance. I don’t know how much more I can take.

  Roman slides into the driver seat and turns the key to start the engine. “I have to make a quick stop at Santos Sound. I forgot something. Is that okay?”

  I glance at my watch, fastened around my matching silver gloves. “If you’re quick.”

  “Promise.”

  It’s fifteen minutes of uncomfortable silence before we arrive. I hate being late. He steals a kiss before he rushes from the car and slips inside. The blinds are drawn but cracked. Light slips through them. He’s not alone inside. Through the slats I watch one shadowy figure hand something to another one.

  The outline is unmistakable. Though smaller than most, I know the shape of a handgun. Roman turns, the light flips off and ten seconds later he jogs out the door. My heart hammers in my chest, nervous to be alone with the type of guy who has to stop by work to pick up a weapon.

  Roman crosses the headlights with something in his hands, but the light reflects and blinds me. The door rips back. I face him with wide eyes, but it’s not a barrel of a gun I’m looking at, it’s a bouquet of sunflowers, my favorite.

  “I left them here earlier. I’m sorry. I didn’t want you to miss out.”

  The plastic crinkles beneath my grip. I cradle them close like a baby. One glance at Roman tells me I had to be wrong. With no jacket, he has no place to hide the gun. Shadows are funny that way, like clouds, they’re open to imagination. I scold myself for thinking that Roman is anyone other than the guy I know.

  ✽✽✽

  Roman

  My nerves are tighter than piano wire. My only comfort is the .38 Ruger strapped to my ankle that I picked up from a tech at Santos Sound. Thankfully, he tracked down her flowers as well. That look she shot me when I pulled open the door has me wondering if she knows more than I think she does.

  I stop at the curb, ten feet down from the pizza shop and, of course, The Nightingale. I smash the hat on my head, but Kennedy’s soft touch pulls my face around to adjust it. It’s impossible not to stare at her. The dress lights up my imagination with plans, none that I should share with her. The most innocent among them being the desire to shower her bare shoulders in my kisses.

  But her face, her face brings me back to what I really want, and it’s nowhere near those other thoughts. Spending the last couple days with her, listening to her sing, feeling her warmth beside me on the piano bench, it’s what I’ve been searching for. Last night, after we finished our final song, her head flopped against my shoulder, as if she might fall asleep. I ached to let her stay the night in my arms.

  I’m falling in love with her.

  Despite my best efforts otherwise, I’m falling in love with her.

  “There,” she says with a wink, “I think that’s perfect.” I move to kiss her because I can’t stand another second being apart, but her gloved fingers press over my mouth. “Don’t you dare mess up my hair or make up. I might have to kill you. I’m at least seventy-two percent serious.”

  “Yes ma’am.” I pop the door latch and hurry to her side to help her from the car in her towering heels. Her arm linked through mine, I lead the way to The Nightingale. Passing the pizza joint, I spot Rick in the back corner. He’s pulled a baseball cap low over his eyes, and someone gave him a scraggly blonde wig that bushes out from beneath it.

  “They have great breadsticks,” Kennedy says, oblivious to what we’re walking into. “You’ll see.”

  Dinner later feels like another life, or rather a miracle if we make it through the next two hours without being shot or at least caught in a firefight. I grip the steel door handle and pull it back.

  Immediately, two men pull Kennedy from my grasp, shoving me against a wall, gun to my temple. Kennedy screams, but the sound is cut short. Whether the thug hurt her, or simply covered her mouth, I’m not sure, but rage seeps through my veins.

  “What are you doing here?” The guard’s forearm cuts into my throat, limiting air supply. “Club ain’t open tonight.”

  I grit my teeth, trying to gain composure while the muzzle of his gun burrows into my brain. “She’s the talent. She’s singing for the party.”

  My date’s soft whimpers catch my ear. Afraid of what she’s enduring, I jerk against the grip of my captor. The hammer on his gun clicks back.

  “And who are you?”

  “Hey, hey, hey, hey,” a voice comes from across the bar, “boys, that’s our lady of the night. Let them go.”

  Five seconds pass before the pressure pulls away from not only my head, but my throat where he had me pinned.

  Pedro Marquez makes his way between the booths, acting like it’s common business practice to attack patrons. “Boys, I said pat downs, not detainment.” He shrugs at wide-eyed Kennedy. “I swear, you can’t get good help anymore.”

  Pedro lets out a short whistle, and the goon presses his hands down my chest, between my legs, under my arms, but my concern is elsewhere. Kennedy’s lip trembles as the bodyguard checking her rubs his hands down her frame, never lifting pressure once. I step away seconds before the bouncer finds the g
un hidden under my pant leg.

  “Hey,” I growl the word out, “pat down, not a third date.”

  Pedro whistles again, and the goons take a step back. “Sorry, we’ve had some bad business in the past. We have to be careful.”

  Tears glisten in Kennedy’s eyes, heightened by the low lighting of the club. “Even for old friends?”

  Pedro reaches for her hand, and graciously she gives it to him. Fire lights in my chest as he presses his lips to the back of her gloved hand. “Especially with old friends. They think they’ve earned your trust. It’s only moments later that they rob you blind.”

  She snatches her hand back, shifting to stand closer to me. Pedro laughs as if it was all a joke. “Come on, let’s put this unpleasantness behind us. I’m sure you want to warm up, both of you.”

  Visibly shaken, Kennedy follows him, but not without linking her fingers between mine. She glances back at me, eyes full of fear and questions. Maybe now she understands why I’ve been dragging my feet.

  ✽✽✽

  Kennedy

  The print his hands made are still glowing all over my body. Like trails of oil I can’t see, another dress is ruined by memories. I can’t sing, not when I feel like this. Not when I’m internally rattled.

  They put a gun to Roman’s head. I search him out at the piano again, wishing he’d show even the slightest crack in his armor. How’d he recover? He had it worse than me. I swear two more seconds and they would have shot him. I was two seconds from being covered in my date’s brain matter.

  Satin brushes my lips as I try to cover another sob with my hand. I spin away from the microphone, desperate for a little air. Too many eyes watch me. Even if they’re nothing more than Pedro and his staff, they’re all judging me. I’m sure Pedro told them stories about how his friend heard me sing one song and hired me on the spot. But I feel like a fraud with my shaking knees and trembling hands.