Stolen Kiss with the Hollywood Starlet Read online

  He’d been so determined, so set on having everything he’d wanted that he’d not taken the time to realize she hadn’t wanted the same thing. That their marriage had been destined to fail from the start.

  That had been exactly what he hadn’t wanted to face.

  Failure.

  He’d failed once before with Theodore, and like it or not, ultimately, he’d failed with Lucy, too.

  “Mr. Russell, do you not care for the beef?”

  Walter glanced up, forced a smile to form for Mrs. McCaffrey. “No. I mean, the beef is fine. Excellent. I just find I’m not hungry this evening.”

  The twinkle faded from her green eyes as her frown added more wrinkles to her usually jolly face. “I do hope you aren’t coming down with something.”

  She was one in a million. Finding Mrs. McCaffrey was one of the things he had done right. She was the best housekeeper in the state, and he was lucky that she’d stuck with him through thick and thin. Her husband had died many years ago, and having no children, she’d dedicated herself to taking care of others. He’d hired her six years ago, before he and Lucy had gotten married, which had proven insightful on his end because Lucy had wanted nothing to do with housekeeping.

  Of course she hadn’t. She’d been a star.

  He muffled a sigh. “I’m fine. I just had a late lunch. I should have telephoned you, but the afternoon got away from me. I do apologize.”

  Mrs. McCaffrey waved a hand and then lifted the serving dish holding several slices of roast beef off the table. “That’s nothing to apologize about. You’re a busy man. The most sought-after lawyer in all of Los Angeles. And this beef will keep just fine for tomorrow night.”

  Walter nodded. “I’m sure I’ll be hungry tomorrow night.” He hadn’t had a late lunch; he just wasn’t hungry because his mind was on that girl from Nebraska. He hadn’t been back to that state since he’d left over ten years ago. Not that she was making him homesick. He hoped she was homesick, though, and that she had already gotten on an eastbound train.

  It was all rather foolish and out of the ordinary for him to be so worried about a stranger. He’d met hundreds of young women over the years, and never thought twice about the decisions they made. Because those had been their decisions, just like the ones she made were hers—that woman from Nebraska with her short blond hair and big blue eyes.

  She didn’t look like anyone he knew, nor did she remind him of someone, of anyone, so there really was no reason for his fixation.

  Then again, he’d never almost run someone over before, either.

  “Would you care for a piece of cake and a cup of coffee?” Mrs. McCaffrey asked, returning to the dining room.

  “No, thank you.” He stood. “I have some work to finish.”

  She pulled the serving spoon out of the potatoes and waved it at him. “You shouldn’t work so much. It’s not good for the soul.”

  “Someday I won’t,” he said, just to placate her. In all honesty, there was nothing else for him to do. It was a good thing that his clients kept him busy. In more ways than one. Being a lawyer for the rich and famous was a time-consuming job, but also one that had created a bank account that was far beyond what he’d ever have imagined.

  Money hadn’t been the reason he’d gone into this profession, but he certainly couldn’t complain over how profitable it had become.

  He strolled out of the dining room and down the hall to his home office. The house was big, five bedrooms upstairs, and one downstairs—a suite of rooms—off the kitchen, which was where Mrs. McCaffrey lived. There were other rooms on the main floor, but other than the dining room and his office, he rarely entered them.

  There had been a time when he’d imagined this house full of children. A family. A real family. That’s what he’d wanted. Why he’d bought this house. A family like the one he’d had before he’d become an orphan at the age of ten.

  That had been eighteen years ago now. He could barely remember what his parents had looked like, but he remembered that they’d loved him. And his little brother, Owen. He remembered the storm, too, and the flash flood. Parts of it. Especially being so cold that he didn’t think he would ever warm up.

  It had been that way at the orphanage, too. Cold. Bitterly cold. A few months before he’d turned sixteen, he and Theodore Grahams had decided they’d had enough of being cold, and enough of being farmed out as day laborers to people who expected orphans to work harder than anyone else, so they’d escaped. Hopped on a train, and rode it to the end of the rails.

  That happened to be California, and that suited them both just fine.

  They’d found work on the docks, and thought their futures were as bright as the sunshine. It had been, for a few months. Until Theodore, big for his age, got in a fight with another dockworker. A serious fight that changed both of their lives. The other dockworker died, drowned, and Theodore was charged with his death.

  Walter argued it was self-defense when Theodore was arrested, only to be told to shut up or he’d be arrested, too. He hadn’t been about to shut up, and went to the police station, still arguing, trying to prove Theodore’s innocence. He was kicked out several times, and finally went to a lawyer, hoping for help.

  Arthur Marlow hadn’t been willing to take on the case, not at first, but Walter hadn’t given up. He and Theodore had been as close as brothers, and he’d had to help him. Had to. With no money to pay the attorney, Walter begged Marlow to let him work off the fees to represent Theodore. Arthur eventually agreed and Walter had thought everything would work out perfectly.

  It hadn’t.

  The jangle of the phone pulled Walter out of the past. He entered his office and crossed the room.

  Hope. That’s what that girl from Nebraska said she had. He’d had that once, too. So had Theodore.

  Picking up the phone, Walter held the receiver to his ear and the mouthpiece to his mouth. “Hello.”

  “Walter? Walter, that you?”

  Instantly recognizing Sam Wharton’s voice, Walter answered, “Yes, Sam, it’s me. How are you this evening?”

  “Good. Real good. I’m down at CB’s, and Tony Ebbert and I need some legal advice. Can you drive over here?”

  Sam had been a client for years; the money he’d paid for assistance on business deals had nearly paid for Walter’s house.

  Walter considered the request for a moment. Normally, he’d suggest a meeting in his office tomorrow, but an evening out could be exactly what he needed to get his mind off other things, including that girl from Nebraska, and on to things that mattered. “Sure, Sam. I’ll be there shortly.”

  “Hee-haw!” Sam replied with his signature statement. “See you soon!”

  Cartwright’s Basement would never be his first choice to visit. Known as CB’s, it was downtown, in the basement of the ten-story Cartwright building. The main level was a grocery store, the upper levels apartments, including a floor where the girls who worked at CB’s lived and used for alternate activities.

  There were too many speakeasies like CB’s within the city to count and Walter had figured out long ago that some things a person just had to accept. Like them or not.

  He grabbed his suitcoat, told Mrs. McCaffrey he was going out and walked out the back door and to the garage.

  After opening the wide double doors, he climbed in the car and hit the ignition. The engine roared to life with so much power the seat shook. The car was a luxury. There hadn’t been anything wrong with his old one, except that he’d wanted a new one, and getting it had been easy, unlike some of the other things he’d wanted. Still wanted but continued to tell himself that he didn’t.

  He backed the car out and onto the road, then grinned as he shifted into First and laid his foot on the gas pedal. The roadster was a dream to drive.

  Morning, noon or night, traffic always rolled up and down the streets downtown, and Walter
had to circle the block before he found a place to park. He climbed out, then took the sidewalk to the alley, where the entrance to CB’s was located.

  The joint might be in the basement, but their secret had long been released. Everyone, including the police, knew where it was located and what went on in there, as well as hundreds of other places. In fact, there were just as many laws on the city books to protect the speakeasy owners as there were against prohibition. Federal agents didn’t have a hope in hell of upholding the laws Congress had passed.

  Cigarette and cigar smoke swirled up the steps as he walked down them, and music echoed off the walls, as did joyous laughter and the murmur of conversations.

  He entered the long and wide room full of tables and an elaborately carved wooden bar that ran the entire length of the back wall. A band played music at the far end, where people danced, and cigarette girls sashayed around the tables, wearing tight, short red dresses and carrying more than packs of cigarettes in the white wooden trays hooked around their necks with thick white straps.

  Walter scanned the chairs, looking for Sam and Tony. He and Sam noticed each other at the same time. Sam stood, waved one of his long and gangly arms. Where he found shirts with sleeves that long had been the topic of more than one conversation.

  Weaving his way toward Sam, Walter nodded and said hello to numerous people at various other tables. Some he knew well, others were mere acquaintances, and a few, he wouldn’t mind never seeing again.

  “Hey, Walter. I ordered you a drink,” Sam said, his straw-colored hair sticking out from beneath the rim of his flat tweed hat. “The good stuff. Have a seat. You know Tony.”

  “Thanks.” Walter took a seat and nodded at Tony. A redheaded heavyweight champion boxer who had a good chance at the world title this year. “Good seeing you, Tony. Congrats. Hear this could be your year.”

  “It sure could,” Tony replied with a voice so low it had to come from the depths of his stomach.

  The conversation bounced from boxing to cars, to the latest rumors, including who had financed the building of the new theater, and back to boxing. Walter had finished his drink during that time, and enjoying the camaraderie, he reached out to snag a cigarette girl so he could order another drink.

  Catching one by the arm, he twisted to tell her, “I’d like another—”

  The startled blue eyes looking down at him stopped his ability to speak. To think. Except for remembering her eyes looked exactly like they had when he’d rounded his car and saw her sitting on her butt on the pavement.

  She tugged her arm out of his hold just like she had that day. “Another what?” she asked.

  “Whatever you got on that tray, darling,” Sam said.

  She kept her eyes averted as she set three drinks on the table and then spun around.

  Walter jumped to his feet and followed. She stopped at the bar to refill her tray, and he stepped up beside her.

  “What are you doing here?” He kept his voice low to not draw attention.

  “Getting more drinks.” She set drinks of rotgut on her tray.

  He firmly but gently turned her to face him. “I mean, what are you doing here? Working at CB’s?”

  Her eyes snapped as she stepped back. “We can’t all start at the top, but we still gotta start or we won’t get anywhere.”

  “What? This isn’t a start. It’s a dead end.” He meant that literally and pulled out his pocketbook. “If you need money for the train ride, I’ll give it to you. Right now.” He held out several bills. “Take it. Go back to Nebraska.”

  She glanced around as if making sure no one was looking. He hoped that meant she’d finally come to her senses.

  Settling her gaze on him, she asked, “What’s in that noggin’ of yours? Nothing? I don’t want your money, and I ain’t—am not going back to Nebraska.” She pulled several bills out from beneath an ashtray on her tray and handed them to the bartender.

  Walter knew how these joints worked. The girls had to pay for the drinks on their trays, and then collect the money from the customers. Any spilled drinks or unpaid ones came out of their pockets, not the owners’. “You aren’t going to make enough money here—”

  “Beat it,” she whispered fiercely. “And mind your own beeswax while you’re at it!” She spun in the other direction and marched off.

  With a cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth, the bartender leaned across the bar. “That dame’s a closed bank, forget her. We got ones that are more...friendly. For a couple of clams, I’ll send one to your table.”

  “No, thanks.” Walter walked back to his table and positioned his chair so he could keep an eye on the room. On her.

  “You know that doll?” Sam asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “Do you?” Walter asked instead of answering.

  “Never saw her before.” Sam looked at Tony. “You?”

  Tony shook his head. “No, but Mel has a longer assembly line of girls than Ford does cars.”

  Which was exactly why she shouldn’t be here. She couldn’t possibly know the dangers of working here. Walter’s back teeth clamped tight. If she was working here, she was living here. Upstairs. His blood ran cold at that thought.

  Sam started explaining the reason he’d called. He and Tony wanted to put on a boxing exhibition show and needed advice on the legal side of things. Walter listened, and answered their questions, and kept one eye on the woman the entire time. He didn’t even know her name, so in his mind, started calling her Blondie.

  She was still working the room, serving drinks, when Sam and Tony must have had all the information they needed from him, and called it a night. He bade them goodbye and stayed at the table, still keeping an eye on Blondie. Other girls had brought their table the drinks Sam and Tony had consumed. He was still nursing the only one she’d brought him. The ice had long ago melted. He didn’t care. He wasn’t drinking it. Just using the glass as something to twirl between his fingers.

  There were no laws governing speakeasies; most were open twenty-four hours, and it was up to the owners what sort of hours the workers put in. Walter glanced at his wristwatch. Almost two-thirty in the morning. He hadn’t stayed up this late in years, but would sit right here until her shift ended.

  A large portion of the patrons had long ago left. Some with cigarette girls on their arms as they walked out the doors; a few left in stumbling, ossified stupors, and others, like Sam and Tony, left alone, had simply been there to enjoy the nightlife but had jobs to go to in the morning.

  So did he. Had to be at the courthouse by eight.

  The room was almost empty by the time she made her way toward the bar with a full tray of drinks still strapped around her neck. He knew how that would play out. That the drinks would be dumped, and she’d be out the money for them. He stood and sidestepped, cutting her off before she made it to the bar.

  “I’ll buy those.” He laid a bill on her tray, one that would pay for twice that many drinks.

  Exhaustion showed on her face. He could understand why. She’d not only delivered drinks all night, she’d spent a fair share of time declining offers of more. More than once he’d wanted to grab her and haul her out of the door. The only thing that had stopped him was her. She’d handled herself well. That left him in a quandary. If he did haul her out of here and she came back, she’d get the wrath of Mel, the owner. If he didn’t, there would soon be a man she couldn’t fend off. Or worse.

  “No.” She nodded toward his table. “You still have a drink, and I don’t need you or anyone else doing me any favors.”

  “It’s not a favor.” He picked up a drink and downed it, nearly choking at the rotgut whiskey. If it hadn’t been so watered down, he wouldn’t have been able to swallow it. “I’m thirsty,” he said despite his burning throat.

  “You’re...” She shook her head.

  She thought he was crazy. He migh
t be. “I’m Walter Russell,” he said. “Who are you?”

  She huffed out a tired-sounding sigh. “It doesn’t matter. Take your money and leave.”

  He took another drink off her tray. “Not until you tell me your name.”

  She glanced around and then sidestepped to the table he’d sat at all night. There, she lifted the final four drinks off her tray and set them on the table. Tucking his bill beneath her ashtray, she nodded. “Enjoy your drinks, Mr. Russell.”

  Walter grasped her arm, but the bartender, with yet another cigarette hanging out of his mouth, cleared his throat. The glare the man gave Walter said he’d be in charge of anything that happened from here on out.

  That could include her leaving with him, for a price, Walter understood that. He also understood it wouldn’t be her choice. But she’d be expected to do whatever he wanted or she’d lose her job.

  She, however, probably did not understand that.

  Walter let that settle for a moment before he set the drink in his hand on the table and then pulled a calling card out of his suit pocket and laid it on her tray. He gave her and the bartender a nod before he turned about and left.

  Every step got harder and harder to take, and by the time he was at the door, he was ripped right down the middle. She wasn’t his problem, but she had no idea what she’d gotten herself into.

  He did, and would do something about it.

  Chapter Three

  Shirley lay on the lumpy cot in the room she shared with six other cigarette girls and stared at the calling card. It was shiny, like the pages of a magazine, but harder, stiff and small, just a few inches long and a couple inches wide. And the writing on it was gold.

  Gold.

  She’d never seen a calling card before, but had heard about them. The other girls had said she better not let Mel learn about it. He was the owner of CB’s and would be mad because when a man gives you a calling card, he wants to see you outside of the basement.