A Love Surrendered (29 page)

Annie nodded dumbly. She sagged against the booth, a buzz in her brain without ever taking a drink.
I am SO stupid!

“So, what’ll it be?” Erica said with a smile. “Joanie, Ashley, and I are buying your first drink—Annie’s for her birthday and Peg’s, just because.”

“Pick something you think I’ll like,” Peggy said, hooking an arm to Annie’s shoulder. She gave her a squeeze. “But Annie just wants Dr Pepper, okay?”

“You got it.” Erica handed out menus with a wink. “Figure out what you want and I’ll be right back.”

She hurried away and Annie’s eyes fluttered closed.
Stay calm, then just eat and run . . .

“My name is Rudy and this is Vince. Any of you ladies care to dance?”

Annie’s eyes popped open, pulse catching at the sight of two men, easily in their thirties. “Rudy” offered a lazy smile, gaze circling the table till it landed on Annie. “How ’bout it, doll?”

Muscles quivered in her throat. “Uh, no thank you,” she whispered, cheeks aflame.

“Ashley and I will,” Joanie said, jumping up so fast she
almost toppled her drink. She tugged Ashley with her, and the two couples made their way to the floor while Peggy powdered her nose.

“Hey, where’d everybody go?” Erica handed a glass of what looked like lemonade to Peggy and Dr Pepper to Annie before she slid in the booth.

“Joanie and Ashley are dancing.” Peggy took a sip of her drink. “So, what is this?”

“It’s called a daiquiri and you’re gonna love it, trust me.”

“And this is . . . ?” Annie sniffed, quite sure “trust” was not something Erica inspired.

“Dr Pepper, sweetie . . . just what the doctor ordered.” Erica lifted her glass. “To Annie.”

More than a little nervous, Annie sipped the Dr Pepper to authenticate its purity. It tasted like it all right, but still . . . She sipped again. “You sure, Erica, because it tastes a little different.”

Erica rolled her eyes. “Of course it does, kid—it’s from a soda fountain, not a bottle.”

Satisfied it was only pop, Annie took a swallow and then another, closing her eyes to allow the music to seep into her limbs while thoughts of Steven O’Connor seeped into her mind.

“Annie!”

“Oh!” She almost dropped her drink, eyes popping open. “What?”

Peggy grinned. “Oliver wants your order.”

Blood warmed her cheeks as she offered a smile of apology to the waiter, fumbling the menu. “I’m sorry, Oliver, I’m afraid I haven’t even looked yet.”

“Whew, that was fun,” Joanie said, back from her dance.

“You know what you want?” Erica made room for Ashley with a nod at the waiter.

“Anything without garlic,” Joanie said with a chuckle, eyeing the menu.

“Oh, I forgot to tell you guys.” Annie looked up. “I’m
picking up the bill because my aunt wanted to buy everyone dinner for my birthday.”

Ashley blinked. “How much did she give you, Annie, ’cause Lorenzo’s is pretty steep?”

“I . . . don’t know—let me look.” Digging through her purse, she pulled out the money Aunt Eleanor had given her. Her mouth went slack when she counted out eight twenty-dollar bills. “It’s . . . it’s a hundred sixty dollars,” she whispered, moisture pricking her eyes.

Erica cut loose with a whistle. “Well, in that case, I’ll have the filet mignon,” she said with a chuckle, handing the menu to the waiter. “Your aunt’s a dream, Annie, you know that?”

“Oooo, I’ll have the filet too,” Peggy said, glass raised in the air. “To Aunt Eleanor!”

“To Aunt Eleanor,” the others echoed, and Annie giggled, upending her drink with everyone else.

Oliver took their orders, then paused. “Another round, ladies?”

“Oh, I like a man who thinks ahead,” Erica said with a smile. “Daiquiris all around, except for the birthday girl.” She winked at the waiter. “Dr Pepper—heavy on the Dr.”

Oliver smiled with a slight bow at the waist. “Very good, ladies.”

A slow song began, and Peggy and Erica left to dance. Annie sighed and rested her head on the back of the booth while Joanie and Ashley chatted away, her mind as mellow as the flow of the music. She closed her eyes, the last of her Dr Pepper going down smoothly as thoughts of Steven curved her lips into a smile.

“Care to dance?”

Joanie jabbed an elbow into Annie’s side, and she startled. “He’s asking you to dance, Annie,” she said with a jerk of her head, indicating a nice-looking man with an easy smile.

“The name’s Eddie.” He nodded to the dance floor. “What do you say . . . Annie, is it?”

She blinked, her body suddenly so heavy, she wasn’t sure she could stand up.

Joanie prodded her out. “Come on, Birthday Girl, the man’s asking you to dance.”

“But—”

“No ‘buts,’ please,” Eddie said, giving her a boyish smile. “You’re too cute to sit out.” He led her onto the floor, and all at once, she felt afloat as he pulled her into his arms, her body wonderfully limp. Closing her eyes, she felt the warmth of his hands at her waist, and when he tucked his head to hers, his scent reminded her so much of Steven, her heart began to race.

“Mmm . . . this is nice,” she whispered, and Eddie pulled her closer.

“Make a wish, Annie,” he said, whirling her with a heady spin. “And I’ll make one too.”

People pressed in on all sides, yet for Annie, everyone disappeared but the man who held her in his arms. “Here’s hoping both of our wishes come true,” he breathed, and tipping her chin, he kissed her softly on the mouth.

A glorious warmth traveled her body as the room began to spin. “Oh, me too,” she whispered, and with a languid sigh, she returned Steven’s kiss with a gentle one of her own.

11

J
oe looked at his watch and sighed. “Man, I’m whipped. Two raids tonight and one yet to go. And to think I could be dancing with the girl of my dreams right now at the Pier.” He loosened his tie and wiped the sweat from his face with the sleeve of his coat. “Life isn’t fair.”

“Sure it is,” Steven said with a half smile, eyes closed and hat tipped low while resting on the backseat of the bureau vehicle driven by Lee Raby. “You were home free till you pulled that stunt this week. You’re lucky you got this detail instead of Hackett pulling your badge.”

Joe shot a glance at the front seat where Raby was in deep discussion with Donze, then lowered his voice. “Hey, I was just trying to assess if it was booze in those milk jugs, or water.”

One of Steven’s eyes edged up. “By upending it in front of the director?”

Joe grinned. “So I was thirsty,” he said, poking Steven with his elbow. “Besides, how was I supposed to know Hack was in the head?” He braced an arm along the open window, hand splayed to catch the breeze. “I’ll tell you what, O’Connor, about broke my heart pouring that moonshine down the toilet—smoothest stuff I ever had.” He chuckled, pulling
Wrigley’s Doublemint from his pocket. “Talk about white lightning! Made the rotgut we cooked up in college taste like Clorox.” He popped a piece in his mouth, then offered one to Steven. “Gum?”

“Yeah, thanks.” Steven plucked the piece from Joe’s hand and unwrapped it, shoving it into his mouth before pocketing the crumpled wrapper. He looked out his window, eyes glazing into an emotionless stare at the mention of the bathtub gin they used to brew in college. Yeah, it was Clorox, all right, he thought with a clamp of his jaw, pure poison that traveled a man’s bloodstream until it had him by the throat, stealing both his will and his conscience.

And sometimes his life . . .

Steven’s eyelids weighted closed, guilt surging his system as naturally as booze once surged his veins. The same booze that had killed a kid on his watch. No, he hadn’t poured the rotgut down Vinnie Logan’s throat, but he may as well have. He was fraternity president when Vinnie died, so much hard stuff inside he passed out and choked on his own vomit. Vinnie’s rich family hushed it up with little more than a suspension for the fraternity, saving Steven’s hide.

Except with his father.
And with my conscience.

“O’Connor!”

He jerked at the sound of Joe’s voice, facing him with a pinch of brows. “What?”

“You haven’t heard a word I’ve said, have you?”

Steven exhaled loudly. “Sorry, Joe, my mind was somewhere else.”

“No joke. And I bet I know where.”

Steven slid him a narrow gaze. “Bet you don’t.”

“So you weren’t thinking about you-know-who?”

For once, no.
His mouth took a slant. “Nope, but thanks for the reminder.”

Hat angled low on his forehead, Joe laid his head back, giving Steven a sideways smile. “Sorry, buddy, but I just spent the last few minutes talking to myself, so I figured it was a
safe guess.” He folded his arms and closed his eyes. “Hard to believe she’s Maggie’s sister, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Steven said quietly, suddenly seeing the resemblance in ways that hadn’t been obvious before—in the almond shape of the eyes, the golden hair color, or that certain sparkle that Maggie always had. Steven’s lips tightened. Only Maggie had been a flirt, seductive. Not innocent and naïve like Annie—or like Maggie
used
to be. His mouth thinned.
Before me.

“She seems so different than Maggie, a sweet kid with a conscience. I don’t know, if it were me, I think I’d give her a shot, Maggie’s sister or no. Girls like her don’t grow on trees.”

Steven’s smile went stiff. “That’s for darn sure. Until jokers like you and me pluck ’em off.” He exhaled. “Nope, already ruined one Kennedy’s life. No sense in ruining another.”

“O’Connor, you got the layouts?” Raby shot a glance over his shoulder before coasting to a stop in front of the curb two blocks from Lorenzo’s, a speakeasy they’d cased earlier in the week. Two more bureau cars eased in behind them, headlights fading to dark.

“Yeah, Boss, right here.” Steven pulled several papers from his suit coat and handed them over. “According to my source, the speak’s in the basement and it’s a class joint, not a blind pig like the last dive we hit. It’s brand-new, so it’s pretty sophisticated—three exits with reinforced doors, buzzer alarms behind the bar, and shelves that button-flip to dump the booze down a shoot into the sewer. We either have to break in or one of us goes in legit, with a dame on our arm, which is what I suggest.” He leaned over the front seat and pointed to several spots on the diagram. “This is the main entrance with access through the restaurant, then exits at either side of the bar on the south wall, including one that tunnels to the hat shop next door.”

Raby pushed his fedora up and glanced in the rearview mirror, prompting Steven to look behind. A steady stream of squad cars and paddy wagons made their way down the street. “Okay, Brennan’s boys are here, so let’s move it. O’Connor,
you think you can pick up a dame inside or do we need to break out the axe?”

Joe grunted with a roll of his eyes.

“Sure, Boss. Give me five minutes, and I’ll flag you at the door.”

“Make that two,” Joe muttered with another grunt.

“Walsh, you and Donze flank the wall for O’Connor and make a beeline for those exits as soon as you get in. Savarino and Flannery’s men will be waiting with Brennan’s cops right behind.” Raby handed sheets to Donze and Walsh. “Pass these out when you brief Rimmel and Flannery, and I’ll take care of Brennan. O’Connor, once you flag, don’t make a move till I give the signal, understood?” He hurled his door open and swung out while each of the men followed suit. “Okay, we’ve got plenty of paddies to fill up, so let’s make Hackett proud.”

Steven watched Joe, Donze, and Raby make their way to the other vehicles while he slid his suit jacket off. He slipped his badge and two sets of handcuffs into his trousers’ pocket, then folded his coat and laid it on the backseat before rolling up the sleeves of his crisp white dress shirt. Closing his door, he removed his hat and made a quick pass through his hair to disrupt the groomed, slicked-back style before tapping it back on. He buttoned his suit vest to hide his firearm and straightened his tie, then buried his hands in his pockets and strolled the two blocks to Lorenzo’s. A quarter block away, the front door wheeled open, and a group of five young women exited, their laughter mingling with the sound of a string quartet. Steven picked up pace, eyeing each of the girls, then zeroed in on the redhead who glanced up and held his gaze. He smiled and noted the pretty blush that crept into her cheeks when she smiled back.

Their chatter died when he approached, and he flashed some teeth, eyes scanning their faces before fixing on the redhead. “I hear this place is new, so tell me, ladies—how’s the food?”

“Wonderful,” they agreed in unison with a few nervous giggles and several bold stares.

Steven nudged his fedora up. “Dining upstairs, downstairs, both? What do you suggest?”

“I think there’s only one level as far as I know,” a petite blonde said.

The redhead nodded, gaze fused to Steven’s. “But there’s plenty of seating, so you should get a table.” She paused, eyes twinkling. “Goodness, you’re not eating alone, I hope?”

He smiled and reached into his vest pocket. “I’m not eating at all, but I am going in, and I’d rather not go in alone if I can help it.” He flipped his badge open, and the redhead’s eyes practically doubled in size. “I’m Agent O’Connor with the Prohibition Bureau and you ladies are . . .”

A lump bobbed in her throat as she peeked up. “I’m Josephine Moncado,” she said with a shy smile, then nodded to the others. “And this is my sister, Carol, and our friends Emily Reilly, Kayla Hughes, and Eileen Jo Legat.”

“Ladies,” he said with a nod before refocusing on the redhead. His smile eased into a grin, deepening the blush on her cheeks. “Well, Miss Moncado, I was wondering if you would do me a favor that won’t take much of your time. You see, I need a lady on my arm for about five minutes in Lorenzo’s. Are you game?”

“Five minutes?” she said with a tilt of her head, her smile warming.

He raised his palm. “Scout’s honor. And the federal government will be forever indebted.”

“Well, I certainly don’t mind assisting the government,” she said. “When do we start?”

Glancing at his watch, he squinted over his shoulder where Raby’s car was now parked one block down. He waved, and headlights blinked on and off while Joe and Donze got out of the vehicle and headed toward them. Steven turned back with a smile. “Right now, as a matter of fact. Ladies—Miss Moncado will rejoin you in a few moments, and I thank you for your patience.”

Steven nodded to Joe and Donze before ushering Josephine
into the restaurant, hand pressed to the small of her back while his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting. He bent close to her ear as he steered her toward the back of the room and down a dark hall to a rear door. “Josephine, we’re going downstairs to a speakeasy, and I’m going to put my arm around you and pretend to be real cozy until they open the door.” He hesitated. “Will that be all right?”

Her smile was shy. “You don’t have to pretend, Agent O’Connor,” she said with a blush.

He grinned. “Appreciate that, Miss Moncado.” He shot a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure Joe and Donze were following at a safe distance as inconspicuously as possible, one at a time. He hooked an arm to her waist and led her down the stairs, lips to her ear. “As soon as they open the door, I want you to hightail it out of here, understood?”

With a nervous nod, she glanced back when Joe and then Donze eased down the steps and stood to the sides of the door, backs pressed to the wall.

“You get all the fun, O’Connor,” Joe whispered, giving Josephine a wink.

Steven draped a loose arm over her shoulder and knocked on the door, tugging her close to nuzzle while music thundered on the other side of the wall.

The window slid open. “Password?” The word was a low growl.

Taking his sweet time, Steven pulled away from Josephine with a lazy grin. “Al Jolson,” he said, promptly returning to whisper in Josephine’s ear. “A fine job, Miss Moncado. Thank you.”

Beady eyes narrowed on the other side of the door. “I.D.?”

“Sure thing.” Steven smiled, producing his driver’s license. He passed it through the window, then gave Josephine a casual kiss before he heard the grind of a lock. The door swung open, revealing a scowling giant at least a head taller than Steven with a coal-black mustache and a jagged scar. In the catch of Josephine’s breath, Steven nudged her toward the
steps and strode in, flashing his badge. “Federal agents,” he said quietly, “this is a raid.”

Joe and Donze pushed past, racing to the two exits at the back of the room.

“Raid!”
the bouncer yelled, scrambling to hurl the door closed and trip the alarm.

Steven lunged, adrenaline pumping as he slammed him to the wall. “I wouldn’t if I were you,” he hissed, the bouncer’s hand mere inches from a buzzer mounted behind the door.

Shoving back, the man took a swing, and Steven deflected with a straight right that thudded the goon against the door. Jerking him around, he cuffed him just as Brennan’s cops clattered down the stairs, ready to swarm the room like an army of ants after a weeklong picnic.

Music blared and Steven knew crucial seconds ticked by as he pushed his way through the crowd to the bar. Several bartenders looked up, squinting at the exits. A silent curse wedged in Steven’s throat when bells clanged and buzzers groaned, replacing the jazz of musicians who now frantically packed up to go. The grind of gears could be heard as rows of bottles disappeared from shelves that flipped upside down.
Blast! There goes our evidence . . .
The sound of breaking glass added to frantic shouts and female shrieks while bottles crashed into chutes leading to the sewer. Adrenaline surged when Steven spotted a lone bottle of bourbon that had obviously tipped off the shelf onto the counter. Vaulting over the bar, he lunged for it at the same time as one of the bartenders. The strong stench of alcohol filled the room as Steven rammed him against the back counter so hard, an empty shelf splintered and dropped.

“You don’t have anything on us,” the bartender said with a sneer, and Steven cuffed him.

“Sure I do, wise guy.” He thrust him at a cop, then wielded the bottle of booze. “This is all the proof I need.”

“Steven!” Joe huffed up, face flushed and sweat on his brow. “We got trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?” Bottle in hand, Steven hurdled the bar with little or no effort. He wiped his forehead with his sleeve while his gaze swept the room, spotting Raby and Brennan spilling out orders as furiously as cops spilling out glasses of booze. Disgruntled patrons were pushed to the wall, some griping and some too glazed to even utter a word.

“Girl trouble,” Joe muttered, eyes flitting to the far side of the room. “Joanie, Erica, Ashley, and Peggy—down there, against the wall.”

Steven cursed under his breath, a rarity that was quickly becoming habit. “What the devil are they doing here?” he said, his gaze following Joe’s.