The Song Bird (Siren Publishing Ménage Amour) (2 page)

“Get back to work!” the big man snarled. He placed himself in front of her, blocking their sight. Avilon took a deep breath, feeling relieved, and she raised her eyes to meet his.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Can you finish this, Ellis?”

The Chinaman nodded and said something to the deliverymen. Much to Avilon’s surprise, the workers followed the order promptly. The blond man took her arm and led her away from the work.

“Listen, perhaps you should go back to your convent.”

“I’m not a nun. My name is Avilon Chambert, and I’m here looking for my sister, Mr…?”

He gave her a brief amused smile, flashing a dimple in his right cheek. His green eyes lit up like springtime after a morning shower. “Braddock. Jason Braddock at your service, love.”

Heat engulfed her face. She’d never had anyone call her anything so intimate before. “Mr. Braddock,” she whispered and cleared her throat, “like I said, I’m looking for my sister. Her name is Amelia Chambert.”

He shook his head. “I’m afraid I don’t know her.”

Avilon frowned. “But she sent me a letter saying she worked here. It’s been a couple of months. Perhaps you just don’t recognize the name—”

“I don’t think the girls we have are who you’re looking for,” he murmured in a slightly consolatory tone.

“Unfortunately, Mr. Braddock, they are.” She pulled the letter out of her bag and held it up. “My sister wrote to me almost six months ago, saying how she worked upstairs at Mr. Masters’s gambling house. She said she was in danger. Please, I’ve come a long way trying to find her.”

Jason took the letter from her and looked at it, reading quickly through it. He frowned and shook his head. “I’m sorry, but girls come and go all the time. I’m afraid that’s the nature of such a life.”

Her shoulders slumped a bit. “Then can I please see Mr. Masters? Perhaps he remembers her.”

He tilted his head, studying her face. “Can you sing? He only has time for auditions today.”

“For the singing job?”

“Like I said, we lost our song bird.”

Her mind raced. She couldn’t leave without seeing Eli Masters, the only man her sister named in her letter. She had come all this way, and she felt so close to finding Amelia. “I can sing. I’ll…do it. I’ll audition if I can have just a moment of his time.”

He nodded and held out his hand. She looked at it hesitantly. “I don’t bite. Unless you want me to.”

Startled, she shot her gaze to his. His green eyes looked at her with a mixture of humor and curiosity, along with something else, something that made her tingle deep down in her belly. Disconcerted, she tentatively placed her trembling hand in his. He gripped it tight and brought it against his chest, where she felt his heart stammer slightly before pounding hard.

His eyes turned a deep, stormy green, narrowing as surprise and awareness suddenly blazed in the depths as he did a slow perusal over her face.

“Avilon,” he murmured.

She swallowed thickly, her heart almost hammering out of her chest.

“Let me take you to see Eli.”

He escorted her into the dark interior of the club through the kitchen, where the cook and his staff were already preparing the meals of the day. They paused in various tasks to glance at her, though not one person said anything.

Avilon kept her cloak wrapped around her tightly, using the dark material to keep the stares at bay. The kitchen area led to a small hallway made of stone before opening up to a large dining area. The walls were a light blue with a painted mural of vines and flowers. The ceiling had fat little cherubs peeking from big, fluffy clouds. There was a stack of unopened wine sitting in the center of a table, with hundreds of small glasses perched around the bottles. Even more tables were pushed against the walls, waiting for food to be placed upon the surfaces.

They left that area and made their way into the heart of the gaming tables. The red-velvet surfaces clashed horribly with the burgundy-painted walls along with the mottled black rugs laid upon the floors. It gave the air an oppressive heaviness that settled in her chest, choking her.

A dark room veered off to the left side of the room, too dark to make anything out. On the right side of the room was a grand staircase that swept up to the mezzanine, showing a multitude of closed doors around the mahogany rail. A beautiful stained-glass wall divided the entrance foyer from the gaming club, depicting Greek gods in all their powerful glory. It would be beautiful when sunlight hit it, but now it sat flat and lackluster. Everything was either dark or gave the impression of being dark, even the chandelier that hung in the center of the high ceiling.

“We don’t light it till we open,” he murmured.

Avilon looked from the chandelier to him. “Pardon?”

He pointed up. “Oil is expensive, so we conserve when we can.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“Eli had it imported. Cost him an arm and a leg, but he only likes the nicer things for his clientele. He wants a level of sophistication other clubs lack.”

“An air for the wealthy gentlemen?”

“Something like that. We’re the high-end gambling club in Sydney Town, maybe even all of San Francisco. We have many wealthy patrons that visit us.”

“And yet he manages prostitutes like a pimp.”

Jason stopped and frowned at her. “Where on earth did a lady like you ever hear that word? And by the way, I probably wouldn’t call him that to his face, if I were you.”

She lifted her chin a notch. “Why? Does he hit women?”

“No, but he can curb your searching efforts. This club sees a lot of men, and if your sister worked upstairs, more than likely one of them remembers her.”

“So if I work here, I could question people.”

“Only if you’re discreet, but you didn’t hear that from me.”

She smiled at him. “Hear what?”

Jason chuckled, and his dimple flashed again. As he placed his big hand against her lower back and they continued their journey through the club, she was acutely aware of his body next to her, the accidental brushing of his legs against hers, and the splay of heat radiating from where he touched her. It disturbed her more than she cared to admit.

“Right through here,” Jason murmured, taking her elbow through the cloak and guiding her from the gambling hall into a side door marked “Auditorium.”

There were half a dozen tables whose candlewicks were half burned down. Around the walls were shadowed booths, faded-velvet curtains ready to be pulled shut when customers were able to pay enough for the pleasure of a girl. The floor in front of the stage held open tables with plush chairs currently occupied by a bevy of scantily clad women who turned to look at her as she walked in behind Jason Braddock.

“We have another girl to audition,” Jason informed the room of people.

Avilon saw several women roll their eyes while others snickered and nudged each other. She came to a stop.

“Who else auditioned for the singing position?” she asked.

All of them raised a hand. She bit her lip, gripping her cloak tightly. It was the only recourse she had to fight off her anxiety.

“Here you go, Avilon,” Jason murmured, gesturing to the stage.

“I have to sing in front of everyone?” she whispered, aghast.

“That’s kind of the definition of a singer, eh?” murmured one woman sarcastically as she flipped her red hair over her shoulder.

The others laughed.

Avilon looked at each girl, seeing flinty eyes, under kohl-painted lids, staring unpleasantly back at her. There were eight women total, most a tad too thin beneath their threadbare wraps. All had the unhealthy pallor of spending too much time indoors, the world-weary glower of abuse clinging to them like sour perfume.

“Did you bring us a mute singer, Jace?” another girl asked, causing all of them to laugh.

“Now, girls, give Avilon a chance,” Jason said, holding a hand up.

“Avilon, eh? Well, dearie,” said one particular voluptuous blonde in front, “the stage is up there. Have a go.”

Avilon took a deep breath and grounded herself. She’d had to do that a lot over the past few months as she traveled from Europe to Louisiana to San Francisco. It helped calm her nerves and quell the butterflies in her stomach. On hesitant feet, she climbed the stairs to the stage and nodded at the piano man who sat waiting for her song choice. He was a solemn-faced black man, the carved grooves on his face placing his age anywhere between twenty and fifty.

“Do you happen to know ‘Amazing Grace’? The new British melody?”

When he nodded, she smiled tentatively.

“Thank you. I’m a soprano,” she added as a side thought. Absently she noted the instrument was a Pleyel grand, and though it was an older model, it was still nicely maintained, as evidenced by the crystal-clear sound coming from its wires.

Avilon stood in the center of the stage, closed her eyes, and sang. Her light, airy voice carried the notes as piously as possible.

“Stop,” came a harsh voice from the back of the room.

The piano music immediately halted, and Avilon opened her eyes.

“This is not church,” the voice said again.

Avilon squinted as she searched the dark corners for the owner of the voice.

“As lovely as you sing, I think you’ve come to the wrong building. The nearest church is about five blocks away. Good day.”

“Wait!” she called out in a panicked voice. Unthinkingly, she raised her hand in some type of appeal, and her cloak opened. “Please, before I go, I need to speak with Mr. Masters. I’ve come such a long way—”

“Take off the cloak,” the man ordered.

“Excuse me?”

“What part of that command did you not understand?”

“The part where it was a command,” she retorted and saw the blonde woman flash a grin. “Just who are you to order me about?”

There was a slight pause. “I’m the man who’s going to hire you if you can sing.”

Avilon bit her lip. Did that mean the voice belonged to Eli Masters?

“Mr. Masters?”

“Does my reputation precede me?”

She closed her eyes for brief a moment.
Of course he is Eli Masters.
“I’m only here to ask you a few questions.”

“And I’m only here to find me a singer. If you’re interested, then take off the cloak.”

This time she didn’t think twice about flipping the hood of her cloak down and untying it. With a flick of her wrist, she draped it over her arm.

“Now unbind your hair.”

“I don’t understand how unbinding my hair will help my singing.”

A figure rose from one of the back booths and walked toward the stage. As he neared, the first thing she noticed was his height. He was about the same height as Mr. Braddock, but the width of his broad shoulders made him seem enormous. There was not one ounce of softness in his features or grace in his step as he lumbered forward to stand at the bottom of the raised platform and stare up at her.

Dark hair curled around his head and fell to his collar in a sheet of glossy waves. It was much too thick and long to be considered fashionable, but Avilon had the feeling that he didn’t care a whit about what was trendy. He wasn’t what one would call classically handsome, but there was something arresting about him. A deep worldliness seemed to have settled upon him, as if he had seen much of life and had ceased to find anything amusing. His eyes were such a light blue that they appeared almost colorless in the dim lighting, and they stared at her harshly, his mouth an angry slash of lips pressed together.

“You’d be surprised how letting down your hair helps loosen that stick up your ass.”

Avilon felt her eyes stretch wide in shock. “I beg your pardon!”

“You think my patrons come here to feel guilty about the sin they’re making? No, they want a good-looking woman teasing them, turning them on, and that church bullshit you spewed isn’t going to cut it.”

A few snickers came from the women watching, and Avilon sent them all a fierce glare. She straightened her spine and lifted her chin to address the dark-haired man glaring at her.

“That’s the only type of song I know.”

“Then we’re done, sweetheart. Take your hymns and go home.”

He turned and took a few imposing strides away, leaving Avilon staring after him in mute fury. The one man she needed to interview and he had refused to talk to her. She saw Jason Braddock leaning against the doorframe, saw him raise one eyebrow at her that seemed to mock her and ask what she planned to do.

Without thinking about her next move, she started singing another song, a different type of song, one that walked hand in hand with the atmosphere of the club.

“
Tra voi tra voi saprò dividere, il tempo mio giocondo. Tutto è follia, follia nel mondo, ciò che non è piacer.
”

She lowered her tone, made it sound more seductive. Her voice was strong, with the right inflection of sweet and sassy.
The song was one about flirtation, an exchange of flowery compliments given around one night of imbibing.

And it did the trick. Eli Masters paused. She watched him turn around slowly and study her with shrewd eyes, and this time she saw interest in their pale depths. Dropping the cloak, she reached up and pulled the pins from her hair as she put more swagger into the last bit of the song. Her black hair fell like a curtain down her back, and she shook it slightly. When she finished, the room was silent for a moment before erupting in enthusiastic clapping.

“Interesting,” Eli Masters murmured. She flushed, though she wasn’t sure if it was from his praise or his heated perusal. “What language is that?”

“Italian. It’s from an opera called
La traviata
.”

“I’ve never heard of it. You’re Italian?”

“No. I’m French Creole. I just came here to ask you about my sister.”

“What is the song about?”

Her lips compressed when he ignored her intent. “It’s a duet, actually, between two characters in the first act. It’s a drinking song.”

“You know this opera?”