Baroness (20 page)

Even Hollywood.

Cesar's eyes grew dark, and for a moment their texture changed from desire to something that put a fist in her gut. Then, abruptly, he formed a smile. “Later,” he said and leaned away from her.

She puckered her lips, hoping he hadn't mussed her lipstick.

The Rolls splashed through the shiny streets, past the other clubs, toward Fifth Avenue, across from Central Park. Esme had once lived here, in a grand chateau. Imagine what Lilly might think of her now, an actress on a stage, just like Sarah Bernhardt.

They pulled up to a well-lit mansion, with men in livery attending. She allowed one of them to help her out. “Where are we?”

“This is my father's house,” Cesar said. He offered his arm but didn't look at her. “He's having a little party.”

Indeed. The place swam with men holding martinis and whiskey—apparently, someone had raided the local prohibition office's confiscations. Most in suits, a few had shed their jackets, rolling up their sleeves. There seemed to be a wrestling match of some sort happening in the parlor, the furniture cleared back. She watched a blond-headed man best a dark-haired brawler.

Cesar pulled her into another room, a sitting room of sorts, with men smoking cigars, bedazzled women, with low-cut fringed dresses like her own, on their arms, or laps. In various stages of clothing, some wore dresses, others just slips, and even a couple, silk robes. Her stomach tightened as they went in search of a drink. Cesar walked up to a robust man entertaining two ladies, one on each leg. He smoked a cigar, his eyes glinting with satisfaction. “Cesar.”

“Happy birthday, Papa.”

“This your girl?”

Cesar pushed her forward, his hand pressed at the small of her back. “Red, meet Vito Napoli.”

She smiled at him. The man inhaled a long time, his gaze running over her. Then, finally, “Nice-lookin' gams.” He winked at Cesar, and heat climbed up Rosie's cheeks.

Cesar grinned and moved his hand down to rest on her backside. She looked at him, but he didn't remove it. In fact, he turned to her, bent close to her ear. “Why don't ya find me a brandy, pet?” She frowned at him, his words a fist in her chest. But nothing burned as much as the tiny spank he gave her.

She jumped then moved away from him, her eyes on the ground.

More commotion erupted in the parlor. She watched for a moment as the blond man squared off with yet another opponent. They circled for a moment then leaped at each other. No punching, just rolling and grabbing and one man's arm snaked around the throat of another. The blond brawler finally twisted the other man's arm behind his back.

She realized she'd been holding her breath when the victor finally freed the beaten man.

Brandy.

She wandered into the dining room and found a group of men playing poker, their “dates” standing behind their chairs. In a large anteroom, a few couples danced to the small band set up in the corner. The doors to the terrace were open, and lights glowed on the verandah.

She meandered into the kitchen, usually located in the basement, but in this house, on the ground floor, and stood for a moment amidst the bustle of waiters. The smell of roasting pork could turn her inside out, and she couldn't remember the last time she ate.

“What are you doing in my kitchen?”

She found the voice, bruised by his tone, his crisp French accent.

“I was looking for a glass of brandy?”

He rolled his eyes. “Ramone!” The rest of it was in French, something so fast she couldn't unravel it. But moments later, a glass of brandy appeared on the tray of a waiter.

“Thank you,” she said. She exited the kitchen the way she came, back through the anteroom. But the redolence of summer tugged her out onto the verandah, just for a moment. She stood there, staring at the tiny city garden, the crimson climbing roses, the marmalade marigolds, the hosta lush with color, an oasis.

“Plotting your escape?”

She turned at the voice, found it attached to the blond from the parlor. He stepped out on the verandah beside her, his skin glistening, his hair—more auburn than blond in this light—tousled, his shirt wrinkled from the hand-holds upon it. Up close he had a rough energy about him, something raw and simmering right under his skin. The sense of it drew her in, held her there.

“No,” she breathed then found her voice. “I just got here.”

“Hmm,” he said, and began unbuttoning his shirt.

“What are you doing?”

“I'm sorry, miss, I just need to cool off.”

“Not right here!”

He looked around, behind her, then finally met her eyes. “I don't think anyone is going to care.”

“I care.”

He smiled, stopped unbuttoning, and leaned against the rail. “Do you now?”

He had a funny accent, flat, nothing of New York in it.

“It's just—I don't think it's right to undress in front of a lady.”

His gaze traveled down her, back up. “My apologies.”

It was his tone, mocking, that stirred her. “What does that mean?”

“Just what I said.” He buttoned his shirt back up, but not before she glimpsed the chest of a man familiar with hard work. “I'm sorry. I have to admit that I mistook you for one of the Napoli bimbos. Apparently, you're from different stock.”

She drew herself up, considered her current job title and chose, “I'm Rosie Worth, daughter of Foster Worth. And you are?”

“Guthrie Storme.” He held out his hand, and she clasped it.

“Guthrie,” she said, aware of the strength of his hand. “Do you work for Cesar?”

She expected something simple, something perhaps within the Napoli world. Deliveryman, or perhaps security enforcement. She wasn't ignorant of Cesar's empire, or its activities. She just preferred to focus on the club.

“Hardly. I play baseball. For the Robins. Vito's a big fan and invited us out for his bash.”

She considered him. Taller than her by a few inches, and shoulders that looked more suited for a dockworker, he didn't look anything like the type of man who would play baseball in the hot sun all day. “What position do you play?”

“Pitcher. I throw a mean knuckleball.” He put his right hand in his fist and then pretended to throw an imaginary ball into the darkness.

“Really? Then what was that back there?”

“Aw, that? That's just for fun.” He lowered his voice. “And a few extra smackerels.” He pulled a wad of cash from his shirt pocket and winked. “That's what having three brothers gets you.”

She liked him. He had an aura that suggested he didn't take life too seriously. Someone that, indeed, she could escape with. If she wanted to escape.

“I have to find Cesar and bring him his brandy.”

His eyebrows rose. “You're Cesar's girl?”

She smiled, feeling glittery again. Nodded.

“Of course you are.”

Her smile dimmed. “What does that mean?”

He turned his back to her. “Just, either you're slumming, or you're not quite the lady I pegged you as.”

She stared at his broad shoulders, not sure how to respond. Finally, “Good night, Mr. Storme.” She turned and walked away, his words sour in her stomach.

Cesar had vanished when she finally found her way back to the smoking room. She stood there, holding his brandy like she might be a servant, and searched the room for him, eyes upon her. His father disentangled himself from two girls and a conversation and said, “He left.”

He left?

“Try the poker game.”

But he wasn't there, or with the crowd of men, now betting on two different grapplers. She looked for Guthrie and didn't see him.

She stopped a waiter in the foyer. “Have you seen Cesar?”

He glanced past her, up the stairs, then shook his head.

Perfect. She climbed the stairs, feeling like a fool to chase him around the house, carrying his brandy. She had a good mind to take a sip of it.

The first door to the left hung ajar and she moved toward it, her hand on the knob when she heard a giggle. She froze, listening.

“In my next show, doll. The main attraction. Your name in lights.”

Then silence, and Rosie had a good guess at what had followed. She stood there, gripping the glass, her hand shaking, when suddenly the door creaked. She must have pushed it, for it swung open.

And then she had a perfect view of Cesar and one of his girls tangled together on the leather sofa. He looked up, and she expected surprise, even remorse. But Cesar didn't even bother to put himself back together. Just a vicious, “Get out!”

She recoiled, stung.

“You hear me, Red? Get out!”

She started to back away, to reach for the handle, when suddenly, she stopped. Then, with everything she had in her, she threw the brandy glass at his head.

It went wide and smashed on the bookcases behind him. The girl screamed. Cesar pushed himself off the sofa, menace in his face. He advanced toward her, and she backed away, but not fast enough. His hand snaked around her neck. Just tight enough that it stifled her breathing, turned her weak. He pushed her out of the room, against the far wall, and put a finger in her face. “I told you to get out.”

She put her hand to his wrist, tried to push it away, but he held it, moved close to her ear. “Remember, you're just a chorus girl. You can be replaced.” He let her go, and just when she thought he might slap her, he pressed his hand to her face. “Wait for me downstairs.”

Then he turned, closing the door to the library behind him.

She couldn't move, everything inside her turning to liquid.

“You okay?”

Down the hall, a few feet away, Guthrie stood, his fists tight at his sides, his face solemn.

She put her hand to her neck and rubbed. “I think so.”

“You want to get out of here?”

Her gaze went to the closed door.
Wait for me downstairs.

“Please,” she said softly.

Guthrie took her hand and pulled her down the stairs to where a few guests had assembled to watch the spectacle. He left her in the foyer, dashed into the parlor, and grabbed his jacket, his hat. Then he returned and offered her a smile.

It was so kind, she wanted to weep. He held the door open for her as she shot one more look upstairs then stepped outside. The rain had resumed, the night sky weeping.

“That was a fabulous throw, by the way.” He shook out his jacket and held it over her. They stepped out onto the sidewalk. “Ever think of trying out for the majors?”

She laughed, more of a bubble of relief than humor.

“C'mon,” he said, “let's get you something to eat.”

This time of night, the city appeared deserted, streetlights glistening against the wet sidewalks. They crossed the street, then to the corner where he told her to wait. “I'll get us a cab.”

She stood, holding his coat over her head, shivering, and then saw him splash back, his shirt soaked through, water dripping into his eyes. But a car pulled up behind him, and Guthrie opened the door, ushering her in.

“Marshall's café on Eighty-Second.” He took his coat from her, shook it, then folded it beside him on the seat. “They serve amazing eggs all hours of the night.”

They pulled up and she could hardly believe the crowd, the after-clubbing assembly of socialites, men in tuxedos, and workmen pulled up to the tables or seated at stools at the long bar.

Guthrie found them a table in the back, and they slid in the booths.

“Eat here much?” she asked.

He lifted a shoulder. “Enough.” He raised a finger to a waitress. “Goldie, a couple of coffees?”

She nodded and disappeared through the swinging doors into the kitchen.

Rosie ran her hands up her arms, still shivering.

“I'm sorry my jacket's wet, but you can have it if you'd like.”

“No, I'm fine. I'm just…” She shook her head, looking away, and drew in a breath that seemed to touch her bones. “My father used to push my mother around sometimes. I never really knew how helpless that made her feel until tonight.”

He folded his hands on the table, and they turned white. “That's not the first time I've see Cesar get rough with a dame.” He met her eyes. “He's done worse, I promise.”

She swallowed, caught in his green eyes. Then, wishing to push the night away, she found a smile for her rescuer. “So, Guthrie, where are you from?”

“Kansas City. Actually, I grew up on a farm and started by playing stickball. I played some in high school, then got lucky in the minors, got traded to the Yanks, and they moved me up to the show last year. Still can't believe I'm sitting on the mound throwing to Babe Ruth.”

“What's your position again?—that's what they call it, right?”

“Pitcher.”

She made a face. “I'm sorry, I don't know much about baseball.”

“Aw, you're killing me here, Red.”

He called her by her stage name, but on his lips, it felt almost natural. As if it belonged there. He took the salt shaker, the pepper, the napkin holder, and the sugar bowl and put them out in a diamond on the table. “This here's the infield. You got home plate”—he picked up the napkin holder—“then first, second, and third. Your job is to hit the ball and get your man on base before the other team throws you out. My job is to make sure you don't get the hit.”

She had heard of baseball. Once upon a time, Jack had asked her to go to a game. But it seemed a bore to sit in the hot sun watching men stand in a field. “I'm sorry. I've heard of the Robins. I just don't know much about them.”

He shook his head again, a smile playing on his face. “Now you're breakin' my heart. Next to the Yanks, we're not too bad. We won the pennant a couple years ago.”

“The pennant?” She raised an eyebrow.

“The league championship? Played in the World Series?”

“I'm sorry. Is that something important?”