CLARA
Clara wanted to slap that smug grin right off Parker’s face.
She didn’t know what bothered her more—Parker’s constant bragging and self-congratulation, or how every guest but her at Forrest Hamilton’s party seemed completely bewitched by him.
“She said I could come see her in Los Angeles whenever I happen to be in town,” Parker explained to his friends.
Two men and three women scrunched together on a dusky red davenport. The group had left the main room of the party and were holed up in one of the studies, where it was quieter. The men grinned in awe at Parker’s story, while the girls all sought desperately to meet Parker’s jade eyes. When Parker wasn’t looking, these women fluffed their bobs and checked their makeup in the mirror on the wall. They were trying to be subtle and they were failing miserably.
Parker and Clara stood across from the group; Parker had explained the oh-so-impressive ways in which he’d met each of these flat tires, but Clara hadn’t really been listening. So far this evening had been a total waste of Clara’s favorite dark blue Chanel evening dress.
Now Parker pulled Clara’s arm tighter around his own. “But I guess I won’t be doing that anytime soon. Not now that I’ve got this knockout by my side.”
Clara smiled and dug her red fingernails into his arm. Hopefully he could feel it through his linen suit.
“Aw, come on, it’s Madge Bellamy!” a handsome swell in white exclaimed. Clara had already forgotten his name. “I think Clara would understand.”
“He’s absolutely right,” Clara said. “You go off to Hollywood to wine and dine the pretty little actress. Meanwhile, I’ll take over the Manhattanite and turn it into something actually worth reading.”
Parker laughed with the others, but Clara could see annoyance in his eyes. “I discovered her and taught Clara everything she knows, I’m happy to confess.”
“You’ve always had an eye for talent, Parker,” said a brunette beauty in a sparkling sheath, fluttering her lashes.
Parker’s cigarette dangled elegantly between his fingers and his green eyes lit up with interest as the brunette began to tell a story about running into Charlie Chaplin at the 21 Club. Parker looked like he was posing for a photograph, just like everyone else at Forrest Hamilton’s party.
Clara had been hoping to find more stimulating conversation, but alas—she hadn’t. She’d left the dance floor when she saw a girl in an orange beaded dress dance the treacherously fast quick-time fox-trot with a man in a blue suit. Their moves were perfect, without even the hint of a stumble, their faces etched with the self-satisfied, determined smiles of people eager to impress.
It had annoyed her.
Everyone at this party was trying so hard to prove how wonderful and interesting they were. These flappers and swells were supposed to be the most fun-loving people in the world. But what time was there for fun when a person had to put so much effort into having it?
“You know, Hamilton’s a Broadway producer!” Parker’s oh-so-admiring brunette friend exclaimed, startling Clara out of her reverie. “Harold and I have invested in his new show, Moonshine Melody.”
The much-older man sitting beside her nodded. “No one liked The Cat’s Meow, but a man this young with so much money—this Forrest Hamilton must have some idea what he’s doing.”
“Mmm, because if he’s got money, he must be talented!” Clara said. No one but Parker caught her sarcastic tone. “It’s not like anyone ever made a dishonest dollar in show business. Like Parker here!” she continued. “He makes his living trying to guess which starlet might have an affair next and which ones are married to crooks.”
The mood of the group grew a bit sour. Parker loosened his collar and narrowed his eyes at Clara. “If you’ll excuse us,” he said.
He grabbed Clara’s wrist and steered her out of the room and down the hallway, back to where the party was in full swing. She could hear the faint sounds of someone, a girl with a pretty voice, singing with the band. “What has gotten into you?” Parker asked in a hushed voice.
Clara backed up. Was he serious? “What’s gotten into me? What about you? Where do you think you got the right to call me your Clara?”
He raised his eyebrows. “We’ve been together for weeks now—”
“No! No, we have not,” Clara said. It had been a stupid idea to come here with Parker. She hadn’t been able to get up the courage to embarrass him in front of his friends. And anyway, what good would it have done? It probably would’ve just gotten Clara fired. Bursting in and making a scene without thinking of the consequences—that was more horrid Lorraine Dyer’s style. Clara just needed to put an end to this … whatever it was Parker thought was going on between them, once and for all. No matter the consequences.
“We’ve gone to dinner twice,” Clara went on, seething. “Where do you get off bragging to everyone in New York that you and I are an item—ugh! I have half a mind to slap you across the face.” She raised her clutch as though to strike him.
Parker ducked, then opened his mouth and closed it, at a loss for what to say.
“You don’t care about me—all you care about is yourself. I’m just one more trophy on your way to the top!”
Parker’s cheeks reddened. “Clara, lower your voice.”
“I’ve got a better idea.”
Clara whipped around and walked away without looking back. She could faintly hear Parker call her name, but she quickly let herself get lost in the crowd.
And ran straight into a girl in a red dress, sloshing half the girl’s martini onto the marble floor.
“I’m so sor—” Clara began. But as she took in the girl’s dark brown bob, wide hazel eyes, and too-smoky eye makeup, the words died on her lips. “You have got to be kidding me.”
Lorraine latched on to Clara’s arm with her free hand. “Why, Clara Knowles! I’m so glad you’re here!” Lorraine said with a slightly desperate smile. A diminutive blonde in a white dress who looked way too nice and normal to be friends with Lorraine stood beside her. “We need to talk.”
“I have nothing to say to you,” Clara snapped, yanking her arm away. “And don’t ever touch me again.”
A very tiny part of Clara wanted to know what Lorraine Dyer was doing here. But she couldn’t imagine a person she wanted to see—or chat with—less. Lorraine was just one more reminder of Chicago. Of Marcus. And Clara couldn’t bear to think about her ex-boyfriend just now. Don’t cry, she told herself.
Clara whipped her head around, trying to find an escape route, when a tall redheaded boy with thick-framed glasses appeared and blocked her in.
“Raine, I’ve been looking all over for you. You said you and Becky were just going to get drinks!” His brown suit hung baggy on his thin frame. He might have been cute, but the oversized glasses made it nearly impossible to tell.
“It was crowded at the bar,” the blonde girl—Becky—said dreamily, “but I think I saw Rudolph Valentino!”
Lorraine ignored them. “Clara, I’m not playing any games this time.” She waved a hand in the air. “I’ve turned over a new leaf! A whole tree of new leaves! I haven’t had a drink in eight weeks!”
Clara pointed to the half-empty martini glass in Lorraine’s hand.
Lorraine’s face twisted. “Other than this one!”
“She’s telling the truth,” Becky said. “She’s been sober as a nun.”
Clara groaned. “I don’t care whether you’re drier than the Gobi; I don’t want to have anything to do with you.” She shoved past them.
As she walked away, she half recognized a few faces from the Manhattan party scene: a handsome man wearing a top hat, a blonde in shimmering gold lamé. What were their names? Maybe she could convince one of them to give her a ride home.…
“This isn’t about me!” Clara heard Lorraine call out from behind her. “It’s about Marcus!”
Clara stopped dead in her tracks.
Marcus. She couldn’t escape him for even a few minutes, could she? They were no longer together, he was about to marry someone else, yet even now hearing his name gave her chills. It called him up where he was always lurking at the surface of her memory, and suddenly it was as if he were standing right next to her, looking dapper and slightly amused, one blond eyebrow raised, a smile quirking the corners of his lips, just before kissing her ever so lightly at the nape of her neck.
“He’s in mortal danger!” Lorraine yelled, causing several guests to glance over.
Before Clara even realized what she was doing, she marched her patent-leather heels right back to Lorraine. She crossed her arms and looked up at the taller girl. “Mortal danger? Really, Lorraine? Start talking. This had better be good.”
As soon as Lorraine opened her in-desperate-need-of-blotting mouth to speak, she froze with her eyes fixed on the stage. Ruby was still singing—she was absolutely killing it. Clara had never seen the Broadway star’s hit show, but her voice definitely sounded familiar. Lorraine’s mouth continued to hang open. “Oh my God,” she finally said.
Clara whipped around to face the stage. And she saw that the singer wasn’t Ruby Hayworth at all. It was Gloria.
“Seriously?” Clara said. “You have got to be kidding me.”
LORRAINE
Lorraine always thought that if heartbreak were a sound, it would be like shattering glass or the angry screech of a halting train. But Gloria Carmody’s voice was pure heartbreak, all right, and it sounded fantastic.
Her old friend looked beyond beautiful. Gloria’s short, flame-red hair waved softly around her doll-like face like some kind of halo. She’d gained some of her weight back since her stint at the Opera House, but those sharp cheekbones and that world-weary depth in her big, pale eyes were here to stay. Her dress was pink, as it had been the night of her first and only performance at the Opera House. But that dress had been pale pink—just a rosy shade darker than white. Lorraine remembered thinking how well the color would’ve suited the blushing ingenue Gloria had once been. This dress was a deep, sultry pink that suited the full-blown diva Gloria had become. This Gloria knew men, life, and love—and she knew how to make the audience feel all she’d been through with a flash of her emerald eyes. She wasn’t the by-the-book deb Lorraine had grown up with, but she wasn’t the beaten-down, desperate woman who’d walked in to audition at the Opera House, either.
No, the Gloria who held her hand to her chest, closed her eyes, and wailed onstage was someone else altogether.
I ain’t got nobody,
And nobody cares for me
That’s why I’m sad and lonely,
Say, won’t you just take a chance with me?
’Cause I’ll sing sweet love songs all the time
If you will be a pal of mine
’Cause I ain’t got nobody,
And nobody cares for me.
Through everything, Gloria had never completely lost her adorably naïve innocence, that hopeful fire that had allowed her to march into a love affair with a black man without looking back. Now Gloria’s innocence had just been bruised. The audience could see it in the way Gloria sometimes hugged herself as she sang, the faraway look she got in her eyes. But that vulnerability made her even more fetching and compelling. Gloria Carmody didn’t just sing the blues—she lived them; she was their very essence.
As Gloria wailed on about her sorrow and loneliness, it made Lorraine wonder where Jerome Johnson was. Gloria was so convincing when she sang about her broken heart. Had something gone wrong between her and her fiancé?
As soon as Gloria finished singing, the room exploded into deafening applause. Before Gloria had come onstage, small groups had been convening around the furniture scattered throughout the room—playing cards on the wooden coffee tables, sitting in cushioned chairs around the dark fireplace, lounging on the long couches and davenports that stood near the ivory walls. Now those cards lay forgotten on deserted tables, and several guests had dragged their chairs and couches closer to the stage and dance floor. Lorraine could barely see Gloria over the heads of the scores of men who’d risen from their seats. Everyone in the large room had leaped to their feet with such enthusiasm that more than one flute of champagne had tumbled to the floor.
The guests chanted “Encore, encore” until Gloria whispered to the band, taking the mike for a second time.
Clara’s silver bangle slipped down to her elbow as she brushed away tears. “I keep thinking she can’t get any better, and then she goes and does something like that.” In her amazement at Gloria’s performance, she seemed to Lorraine to have forgotten how angry she’d been a few minutes earlier.
Which meant Lorraine needed to tell Clara about Marcus now.
The bald piano player banged out a short, upbeat introduction, his shoulders rocking. This was the orchestra that had been playing all night, but they had found a new energy with Gloria onstage. She turned to give the musicians a dazzling smile before she launched into a faster tune.
There ain’t nothin’ I can do or nothin’ I can say
That folks don’t criticize me
But I’m going to do just as I want to anyway
And don’t care if they all despise me.
Many of the guests abandoned their chairs and couches for the dance floor, shaking and shimmying all over the place. Lorraine gulped down the rest of her second martini before someone’s jabbing elbow could knock it out of her hands. She’d already sacrificed half a drink on her night of freedom—she wasn’t going to let any more good booze go to waste.
“That’s Gloria Carmody?” Becky asked, her brown eyes full of awe. “The way you described her, I expected her to be less … just less, I think.”
“Yeah, gosh, isn’t she amazing?” Melvin exclaimed with a goofy smile.
No one, not even Lorraine’s best friends at school, could help falling head over heels in love with Gloria Carmody. Didn’t they remember the way she had abandoned Lorraine, how she had believed Lorraine would tell Gloria’s then fiancé Bastian about her affair with Jerome back in Chicago?
“She’s okay, I guess,” Lorraine replied, fuming.
Melvin shook his head. “Don’t worry, Raine, I still think you’re prettier.” Lorraine brightened a little at that.
She felt that oh-so-familiar twinge of jealousy when she looked at Gloria’s glamorous cousin. Tonight Clara wore a red-carpet-worthy dress of sapphire tulle. The torso was decorated with Egyptian motifs made of iridescent sequins, and the semisheer skirt fell to her knees. Her blond bob was swept off to the side and pinned back with a blue-feathered hairpin.
Lorraine pushed her envy away. It would be one huge understatement to say that she and Clara had had their differences in the past. But if Raine was going to save Marcus, she’d need Clara’s help. When she had spied Clara from the bar she’d known it was a sign. She and Clara were meant to drag Marcus away from that gold-digging roundheel.
Now she just had to convince Clara of that.
Lorraine tugged on her arm. Clara frowned. “Not now, Lorraine—Gloria’s still singing.”
“This is important!” Lorraine insisted. “Come on!”
Reluctantly, Clara allowed herself to be led between twisting and turning couples and under the waiters’ silver serving platters. But her narrowed blue-gray eyes showed that she didn’t like it one bit.
Lorraine smiled while she marched through the crowd with Clara. No one whispered behind their hands as Lorraine passed or cut angry glares in her direction. They didn’t notice her at all! Once upon a time Lorraine had loved being the center of attention. But now it felt so nice to be free of the shady reputation that clung to her like some kind of disease in the city. Here the only looks she got were from the women who admired her dress and the men who admired everything else.
This was what Lorraine hoped it would be like at Barnard, once she’d secured Marcus’s friendship and the popularity that would come with it.
Finally, Lorraine followed a white-suited man with coffee-and-cream skin through a swinging white door into a bustling kitchen. It didn’t seem like the kind of kitchen that would be in a person’s home: Several men assembled cucumber sandwiches and shrimp cocktails on a wide steel table while others squirted delicate twists of whipped cream onto decadent miniature chocolate cakes to prepare for the dessert course later on.
The men were all black and acted as though Lorraine and Clara were invisible. They didn’t even look up when Melvin shuffled through the door a few moments after Clara and Lorraine, dusting the remains of a deviled egg off his coat.
“Scram, Melvin, this is a private conversation!” Lorraine yelled at him.
“But I don’t know anyone else here—”
“Can’t you socialize for once in your life instead of just mooning after me all the time?” Lorraine glanced at Clara to find her scowling. Was she actually getting angry on Melvin’s behalf? “You can talk to Becky,” Lorraine said more gently. She looked behind Melvin, confused. “Where is Becky?”
“She wouldn’t come in—she said we probably shouldn’t be in the kitchen.”
Lorraine chuckled. Shouldn’t be in the kitchen! Becky and her jokes. “That girl is hilarious.”
“So out with it,” Clara said impatiently. “Marcus? In mortal danger?”
“I know you’re still in love with him,” Lorraine said, hoping to see a crack in Clara’s cool mask.
“I’m over him,” Clara replied. “Completely. Besides, he’s getting married.” She watched Lorraine’s face. “As if you didn’t know! Don’t tell me that you’re trying to destroy him, too? Haven’t you ruined enough lives?”
“No, no!” Lorraine exclaimed. “Becky, the blond girl out there—she’s my roommate at Barnard. I’m enrolled at Barnard now, did you know? It’s a—”
“College, Raine; we all know,” Clara said, rolling her eyes.
“Anyway, Becky says that the woman Marcus is marrying isn’t really who she says she is. She’s little better than a common criminal. A grifter! A cheat! A liar! A …” Lorraine paused and tried to think of more insults.
“Hmm … that sounds an awful lot like you.”
Lorraine waved her hand in the air, then paused to pick up a miniquiche from one of the nearby platters. “The old me, maybe.” She popped the hors d’oeuvre into her mouth. “But that was so a-month-and-a-half ago. I told you, I’ve got new leaves! ”
“Yes, yes, you’re an absolute tree, Raine,” Clara said with a sigh. “Go on.”
“This girl, she’s bad news. She’s only marrying him for his money! ”
Clara dug through her sequined clutch. She withdrew a cigarette from a silver case. “So what am I supposed to do? Break them up?”
“Yes! Basically. That’s what I would do.”
“Lorraine,” Clara said darkly, “no one does the things you do. Because the things you do are stupid. And selfish. And thoughtless. And mean.”
“No, they’re not! I think about them a lot!”
“Marcus is happy—doesn’t that matter to you at all? Is the happiness of other people so repulsive to you?”
“You’re not listening to me, Clara! This woman is a snake! She’s absolutely reptilian!”
“You listen to me: I am not going to ruin his life. And neither are you. Try being a friend for once.” She turned and stormed toward the kitchen door.
“You think he’s happy?” Lorraine called at Clara’s sparkling back, making her halt. “Who gets engaged five weeks after breaking up with the love of his life? That’s not the act of a happy person, no sirree.”
Clara turned, blinking. Lorraine thought she saw a hint of something in the girl’s eyes—longing, perhaps?
Suddenly, a handsome swell with dark, wavy hair and brilliant green eyes poked his head in. He looked familiar from the Opera House—was he a gangster? No, after a few moments Lorraine remembered that he was Clara’s editor at the Manhattanite … Parker Richards. Not only did Clara have a glamorous job writing for one of the city’s hottest magazines, but she got to stare at this man’s gorgeous mug all day at the office. Some girls had all the luck.
“Clara, there you are! I’ve been looking all over for you,” he said. “You’re missing a great show out there.”
“Well, you’re missing a pathetic show in here,” Clara replied. She glanced from Parker to Lorraine. “Huh, would you look at that? My two least favorite people in one place. I’ll take that as my cue to leave.” Then she marched back out to the party, nearly mowing Parker over, and the door swung closed behind her.
Lorraine swallowed hard. How was she supposed to help Marcus now? She wanted to have new leaves, she really did. But already her plan had gotten all fouled up, just like all her plans did.
“That didn’t go so well,” Melvin observed. “What did you do to her to make her hate you so much?”
Lorraine bit her bottom lip. It seemed that Clara really did hate her. And deep down, Lorraine couldn’t blame her. She couldn’t blame Gloria, Marcus, her parents, or anyone else. She was a life ruiner, just like Clara had said. There was nothing she could do to fix it.
“Oh, please,” she said, her voice breaking. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
Melvin pulled her into his skinny arms, and she felt so pathetic that tears pricked at her eyes. She cried against his tweed jacket while he patted her hair. “There, there, Raine. It’ll be all right.”
As she clung to him, Lorraine realized he smelled really nice. Not of cologne, like the other boys, but of the comforting scent of soap and clean laundry. His arms felt stronger around her than she’d expected. Maybe lifting all those heavy books had given him a bit of muscle.
Lorraine pulled away a little and looked up at him. Melvin wasn’t so unattractive, really. He had a fine, straight nose and a cleft in his chin that she’d never taken the time to notice. He didn’t have too many freckles, just a few—and they were sort of cute. Plus Melvin had always been so nice to her. Unlike Hank, he didn’t have any ulterior motives.
“I wonder what you’d look like without your glasses,” Raine said, her voice light and feathery.
Melvin kept one arm around her and raised the other to take his glasses off.
His eyes immediately crossed, and any hint of romance Lorraine might have felt was whisked away.
“Oh God, put those back on right this instant!” she ordered.
He slid the glasses back onto the bridge of his nose, then put his hands in his pockets and gave her a bashful smile. “Yeah, they really do something for my face.”
Lorraine nodded. “They hide it. But enough of this.” She dragged her fingertips under her eyes to remove any black tracks of mascara and turned toward the door to walk back out to the party. Lorraine had come here to have a good time; she wasn’t going to let Clara Knowles or Melvin and his disconcertingly small eyes keep her from doing just that.
She thought about her sorry life at Barnard and how much it would be improved if Marcus introduced her to his friends, if the other girls saw that she was popular and fun and a good person—whatever that meant. Was it just a silly dream? She didn’t think so. Even the worst sinner could be redeemed, if only she found the right task to prove her worth.
“If Clara won’t help Marcus,” she announced, “I’m going to have to do it myself.”
GLORIA
Gloria loved the Long Island Sound.
Especially when she was looking at it from the deck of a yacht.
The Sabrina, Forrest’s yacht, represented the highest standard of luxury—just like everything else Forrest owned. It was a long, pearly white affair with a shining wooden deck.
Gloria had been walking along the steel railing until she’d stopped to take in the view. To her left, Forrest’s other houseguests were lounging on cushioned chairs on the foredeck. All afternoon the gin had been flowing as freely as Ma Rainey’s voice pouring out of the gramophone on deck.
Forrest appeared next to her at the boat’s railing. He’d abandoned his pale blue seersucker jacket and wore only the matching waistcoat, a white shirt, and a dark blue tie.
“I was wondering where you disappeared to,” he said with one of his entrancing smiles. He offered Gloria a flute of champagne. His fingers grazed hers when she accepted it. “You look like you’re having thoughts far too deep for this little soiree.”
Gloria could hear Glitz’s and Glamour’s raucous laughter wafting from the foredeck. Those girls sure could turn life into a party wherever they went. “Well, your boat gives such a glorious view of the Sound. It seemed a shame not to spend a few minutes looking at it.”
“Mmm, absolutely beautiful,” Forrest agreed. But when Gloria turned to him, he wasn’t looking at the sea. He was looking at her. “It seems you and I are a matching set this evening. Though the color suits you far better.”
Her Babani dress was nearly the same shade of blue as his suit. Gloria ran her finger quickly across Forrest’s cheek. “You’re just not wearing enough rouge.”
He laughed, but he didn’t stop looking at her. Even though Gloria liked joking around with him, she knew what his look meant. He was interested.
But why would he look at her like that? Wasn’t he carrying a torch for Ruby? Besides, she wasn’t interested in him. She had Jerome.
Wherever he was.
Forrest withdrew a tortoiseshell cigar case from his trouser pocket. He opened the case and offered it to Gloria. “We’d practically be twins if you took one of these.”
“Smoke a cigar? That wouldn’t be very ladylike.”
“Well, then, it would suit you. You’re a hell of a lot more fun than a proper lady could ever be.”
Gloria smiled back and accepted a cigar. While Forrest lit it for her, he leaned in far closer than necessary and placed his hand on the small of her back.
She shook off his hand and puffed on the cigar, pointing to the case. If Forrest was going to flirt with her, she might as well use it to her advantage and dig up some dirt. “That’s gorgeous. Must have set you back a pretty penny.”
“Seemed like a good investment, considering how often I smoke these things.”
“Beautiful little yacht you’ve got, too,” Gloria went on, motioning around her. “For such a young man, you’re able to afford quite a number of beautiful things.”
Forrest tilted his head. The late-afternoon sun reflected off his cheeks, making his skin look warm, tanner than it already was. “I think the company I keep is much better to look at than anything I could possibly buy.”
But Gloria wasn’t going to let him worm away from her questions again. “Really, Forrest. You know everything about me already. It isn’t fair that I know so little about you.” She paused, inhaling. “How did a fellow like you come into so much dough? I’d love to know so … you know, maybe some of your secrets could rub off on me. If you haven’t noticed, I’m not exactly rolling in it these days.”
Forrest smoked silently for a moment, and Gloria thought they’d hit yet another dead end. In the few days since Forrest’s party, she hadn’t found a spare moment alone to make another attempt at searching his bedroom or any other room in his huge house. There was always a new club in the Hamptons to visit, or a drunken picnic to be had on the Village Green, or Glam and Glitz waking her up at two in the morning for a late-night stroll on the beach. At this rate, she’d never get the information she needed to hold up her end of the bargain with Hank.
But after a waiter collected their empty champagne flutes, Forrest leaned his elbows on the railing beside her. “You’re right, Glo. I’ve become pretty fond of you, you know. You’re smart and brave, and now we all know you’ve got real talent. And here you must think I’m barely more than a stranger. I’m afraid my story’s nowhere near as interesting as yours, though.” He sucked in a breath. “My father … died, and left me a large inheritance.”
“I’m sorry,” Gloria said, an immediate reaction to hearing such news. She placed a hand on Forrest’s shoulder.
Forrest waved off her concern. “That’s all right. It’s my lot in life, I suppose. Anyhow, that’s how I got my money, Gloria. No secrets to share. No stock tips. Things … weren’t going well for me, but Pop’s fortune gave me new hope. I decided to let my heart dictate how I spent my money—that’s why I’m here.”
“So you can be close to Broadway?”
Forrest gave a little nod. “There’s been a lot of sadness in my life. Theater makes me happy. Besides, artsy folks are always such a hoot. They make me laugh like nobody else. Now that I’ve got some money, I’ve got another shot at happiness.”
“You think producing Broadway shows will make you happy?”
“With the right talent.”
“With Ruby, you mean?”
“I was actually talking about you.”
Gloria withdrew her hand from Forrest’s shoulder so she could place it over her heart, which was beating so rapidly she thought it might burst. A real Broadway producer wanted to work with her?
He smiled. “You blew the roof off my villa Saturday night, you really did.” He moved a little closer on the railing. Gloria could smell the salt in the water, and the movement of the yacht was making her seasick. “You know, doll, with the right role I bet I could make you a star.”
Gloria closed her eyes when she heard the word star.
Broadway. No more singing for drunken men who focused more on her body than her voice, no more frightening mobster bosses. She’d spend each afternoon and evening in a gilded theater full of well-dressed patrons who paid very well for the privilege to watch her perform.
Then she opened her eyes. Her stomach felt like it was being attacked by angry butterflies. People would be paying to watch her perform. And not just the cost of some gin at a nightclub. Tickets were expensive. What if she was bad, and they wanted their money back? What then? “I don’t really have any experience.”
“Well, how else do you think you get it, Glo?” He noticed when she dropped the butt of her cigar into the water. “So, what’d you think of your first cigar?”
“I liked it—very spicy. I should be unladylike more often.”
“Who says it has to end with a cigar? I have an idea!”
Without another word Forrest grabbed her hand and led her to the aft of the yacht. They climbed the short flight of stairs to the bridge deck. From there Gloria could look down and see Ruby, Marty, Glitz, and Glamour lying on their reclining deck chairs. Ruby read, Marty slept, and Glitz and Glamour pelted each other with cocktail olives. Glamour saw Gloria and Forrest and waved, using her other hand to overturn the entire jar of olives on Glitz’s head.
Gloria was sure Ruby noticed her—and Forrest as well—but the actress didn’t do anything more than purse her lips and return to her script.
Looking beyond Forrest’s houseguests, Gloria watched the bow cut into the deep-blue water like a knife. It was wonderful being so high up on the yacht—it made her feel like she was flying.
On the bridge deck, a man in a blue jacket with gold buttons and white trousers stood at the helm with both hands on the wooden steering wheel. He nodded at Forrest. “Afternoon, sir.”
“Good afternoon, Otto! I’d like you to meet the best singer in Chicago, New York, Long Island, and just about anywhere else she decides to grace with her presence: Gloria Carmody. Gloria, this is our captain, Otto Pendergast.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Miss Carmody,” Otto said with a nod to Gloria. “I hear you were a real hit at Mr. Hamilton’s party Saturday evening.”
“She is one talented girl,” Forrest agreed. “You know what else she can do? She can steer a yacht!”
“What? No, I can’t!” Gloria exclaimed, laughing.
Forrest gave her a look of mock surprise. “You can’t? Well, that simply won’t do. I’m afraid I’ll have to take it from here, Otto.” He tapped the captain on the shoulder. “This is something of an emergency, as you can see. A singer who can’t drive a yacht! I’ve never heard of such madness.” Forrest took the wheel and Otto walked down the steps to the lower deck, leaving them alone. “Now, are you ready for your lesson?”
Gloria tried not to sigh. There Forrest was, off on another lark again. Yes, he was charming, but Forrest couldn’t seem to talk about anything serious for longer than a few seconds. Though, really, he’d told her where his money came from—he’d inherited it. Why did Hank think any different?
She didn’t want to spoil Forrest’s good mood by asking about his father. Best to play along and hope he let something else about his past slip. As long as things didn’t progress beyond flirtation, Jerome would understand.
Or at least, she hoped he would understand.
Gloria pasted on a smile. “Okay, what do I do?”
“Get in front of me, quick. We can’t have an unmanned ship for even a moment. I don’t think Glamour would forgive us if we swerved and made her trip over those mile-high heels of hers.”
Gloria chuckled and stepped in front of Forrest, awkwardly placing her hands on the steering wheel. The wood was smooth under her hands. She took a sharp breath when Forrest put his arms on either side of hers, latching his hands onto the wheel as well. The warmth of his breath on her neck mixed with the cool early-evening air, giving her chills.
“Now we just want to make a slight left here, nice and easy,” he said softly.
She tried to keep calm as Forrest continued to give her instructions and critique her steering. But it wasn’t a real lesson—Forrest was clearly just inventing an excuse to be close to her. Gloria had no idea where his sudden amorousness had come from. Had he finally given up on Ruby as a lost cause? Even if he had, Forrest knew about Jerome. Did he think things were over between Jerome and Gloria, simply because she hadn’t heard from him in a while?
And what about Jerome—what would he think if he could see her now?
Gloria looked down at the others on the foredeck. Glitz and Glamour lay on their stomachs in the bathing suits they’d worn beneath their dresses, attempting to further deepen their already perfect tans. Ruby was still reading and Marty was still asleep beside her. If any of Forrest’s guests looked up, they’d be able to see Gloria and Forrest perfectly.
They would even be able to see how Forrest’s arms were looped around Gloria’s.
It was hardly fair: Forrest could touch Gloria in public and no one cared. But every time Gloria had been out with Jerome, they had to remember not to hold hands or even let their gazes linger on each other for a beat too long. Every second they spoke to each other in public was a second they had to censor themselves for fear of inviting unwanted attention—simply because of the colors of their skin.
Gloria sighed and leaned back a little against Forrest. He wasn’t even pretending to teach her anything now—he was content to steer on his own with his arms around her. Was there any way it could ever be like this between her and Jerome? Free and easy, without dozens of angry, narrowed eyes glued to them wherever they went? Maybe if they lived somewhere in Europe. But how would they ever get there?
“I’m not going to learn much if you just steer the boat for me.” Gloria needed to get out of the circle of Forrest’s arms. She felt too guilty.
“Fair enough.” Forrest beckoned for Otto to return to his post. When he did, Gloria slipped away, and Forrest followed her. “Good job,” he said as they climbed back down the stairs to the main deck. “Now if you want to steal the yacht for a late-night ride on your own, you’ll be prepared.”
Gloria led the way back to the foredeck. “Steal your yacht? You really think I’m capable of that?”
Forrest grabbed Gloria’s hand, pulling her to him. “I think you, Gloria Carmody, are capable of anything.” He gave a quick glance behind Gloria toward the foredeck. Then he moved still closer to her and tilted his face toward hers.
Gloria stiffened. She hadn’t meant to lead Forrest on, certainly not to the extent that he thought he could kiss her. She’d just been trying to get more information. How could she get away without insulting him? He finally seemed to trust her—Gloria didn’t want to lose that.
How ironic. A year and a half ago, it would’ve been a dream come true to have a handsome man take her out on his yacht and lean in for that big Hollywood kiss. Forrest was the sort of man Gloria had always wished Bastian could be.
But now she had Jerome. And as kind, handsome, funny, and clever as Forrest was, he would never win Gloria’s heart. It already belonged to Jerome. Now and forever.
Gloria took her hand back. Forrest could go ahead and be insulted. He could kick her out of his villa, even, and send her back to Hank with nothing. A lifetime in prison would be better than betraying Jerome like that. “We should probably get back to the others.”
“Gloria …,” Forrest said. “Listen. I know what it’s like.” His intense eyes were fixed on the blue sea that stretched out in front of them.
“What what’s like?”
“To follow your heart and damn the consequences! We understand each other, you and I, far better than you know.”
“Forrest, I don’t—”
“What are you two up to over there?” Glitz called out.
If Gloria spent another moment alone with Forrest, it wouldn’t be long before Glitz and Glamour started flapping their gums about the two of them to all of Long Island.
Gloria quickly walked the last few steps to the foredeck, and Forrest followed. “Forrest was teaching me how to steer the ship,” she said, and sank into a deck chair.
“And I had to get Gloria alone to talk about her career,” Forrest added. “I still can’t get over how much everyone adored her Saturday night.”
“I’m absolutely green with envy, Glo,” Glitz called. “I wish I were that good at something.”
“Don’t be silly, Glitz!” Glamour said. “You and I are both terrifically good at doing nothing. I challenge anyone to do nothing as well as we do!”
“You were wonderful, Gloria,” Ruby said from the other side of the deck. Even though she was giving Gloria a compliment, there was something acidic in Ruby’s tone. “I guess it’s a good thing I wasn’t able to perform, wasn’t it?”
Forrest stared at Ruby for a moment; the two seemed to have a silent conversation with their matching eyes. They did this a lot—it made Gloria wonder how long they’d known each other.
Then Forrest turned to Gloria. “Yes, well, I plan to make Gloria an enormous star.” He winked. “If she’ll let me.”
“Are we really talking about work?” Glamour turned over on her chair. She pulled off her black swimming cap and ran her hand through her short gold curls. “Glitz and I are bored.”
Forrest sat on the empty chair beside her. “Well, we can’t have that. What would you ladies rather be doing?”
“I want to drink!” Glitz said. “And dance. Possibly at the same time.”
“Hear, hear!” Glamour said. She winked at Gloria. “Enough of you lovebirds puttering around the bay.”
Damn, Gloria thought. That wink meant that gossip about Gloria and Forrest was sure to be churning through the high-society rumor mill by morning.
Forrest looked out at the sun, which was beginning to dip in the pale blue sky. “I guess it is getting a little late. I’ll go tell Otto to bring us in.” He stopped by Gloria’s chair and pointed at her. “You better save me a dance, doll.”
Gloria reddened and looked across the foredeck to where Ruby was sitting with her husband. Marty was still asleep; his graying hair flopped over his lobster-red forehead and his white suit was rumpled.
Ruby was his polar opposite in a black halter dress and a wide-brimmed white hat with a black scarf tied around it. The starlet was watching Forrest. Once he was out of sight, she shifted her gaze to Gloria. Her eyes were narrowed and she was frowning.
Gloria rose from her chair and walked over to Ruby’s. “So, how’s it been going down here?”
Ruby shrugged. “Just work, work, and more work.” She smiled, but again, something that was supposed to be friendly came off as bitter instead. “I certainly haven’t been having as much fun as you and Forrest.” Ruby’s gaze turned wistful and Gloria followed it up to the foredeck, where Forrest was talking to Otto. From her vantage point, Ruby could see the steering wheel perfectly. And she’d probably had a better view of Gloria and Forrest at the railing than any of the others.
Now it was clear: Forrest hadn’t developed sudden, inexplicable feelings for her. He’d simply been trying to make Ruby jealous! Gloria felt a rush of relief at this realization—and just tried to ignore the tiny pang of disappointment that accompanied it.
Gloria didn’t love being used, but at the same time she understood. Ruby obviously had feelings for Forrest. But that didn’t mean she was going to just up and leave her husband without a fuss. So by making her jealous, Forrest was really just trying to get Ruby to own up to her feelings and take the next step.
Still, after tonight, Forrest would have to find some other pawn to use in his games with Ruby. Gloria knew where his money came from now, and there was nothing shady about it. After they got home, Gloria would search the villa properly at last. She knew “inheritance” wouldn’t be enough to satisfy the bureau—but Forrest had to have some kind of documentation of his fortune, didn’t he? Maybe a copy of his father’s will or some bank statements?
She would call Hank in the morning. Tell him he’d been wrong about Forrest. Hank had told her to get information, and Gloria had gotten it.
She just had to hope it was enough for him.
It was nearly two in the morning by the time Gloria arrived at her bedroom. Her feet hurt from hours of dancing at a nearby beachfront club. She wanted nothing more than to sink into her cloud-soft bed. But Gloria knew that everyone else in the house was just as exhausted as she was. And that made it the perfect time to do some snooping.
Gloria hung up her dress and took out her pearl earrings. As she pulled a lacy white nightgown over her head, she heard a knock at the door. She groaned. Didn’t Glitz and Glamour ever get tired?
She grabbed a silky blue robe and flung it over her shoulders, then yanked open the door, ready to dismiss those silly girls. She gasped at who was on the other side.
Not Glitz or Glamour.
It was Jerome.
“Oh my God!” she said, nearly fainting at the sight of him. He was wearing the white shirt, black tie, and white jacket all the servants wore. He had a bruise on one cheek and another near his jaw. And he looked so thin.
But he was here. Even handsomer than she remembered, which Gloria hadn’t thought was possible. His brown eyes were nearly copper with the way they lit up at the sight of her. His full lips peeled back into a smile that warmed Gloria all over.
“Oh, Gloria,” he said, his voice breaking.
“Jerome! How did you get in here? What happened to you?”
Gloria couldn’t look at him for a moment longer—she was too busy wrapping her arms around him and pressing her face into his shoulder. His strong arms rose to hug her tightly in return, and his hand combed through her hair over and over.
“God, I missed you,” Jerome murmured into her ear, dotting kisses along her earlobe and down her neck.
Gloria pulled back to give him a fierce, hungry kiss before she burrowed back into his arms. The two of them fit as perfectly together as they always had, as if no time had passed. His heart pounded against her ear, and she wanted to get even closer.
She walked backward toward the bed without moving out of his arms, and began to unbutton his shirt. She didn’t know where Jerome had been, or what he’d been doing.
But Gloria knew this: She wasn’t letting him go. Not ever again.