He reached across the table and took my hands in his. Looking deeply into my eyes, he said, "Come on upstairs and I'll play some music just for you, Bebe."
"Jus' for me?" I asked, feeling like a cloud had picked me up and carried me away.
"Just for you," Keith confirmed with a sexy smile.
"Miss Bennett!"
I sat up straight in my chair, as if one of the nuns at school had just rapped me with a ruler.
Bradley Williams was standing over me, glaring at us.
CHAPTER EIGHT
"Bra—Mr. . . . Mr. Williams!" I stuttered, my head spinning.
Bradley glared down at Keith with the most disapproving expression on his handsome face. I couldn't imagine what was wrong. Everything was fuzzy, though. I took another sip of my drink.
Keith lounged back in his chair and returned Bradley's gaze.
It seemed a standoff.
Then Bradley spoke in a quiet voice. "You know she's underage."
My mouth dropped open. My brows came together. I wasn't underage. What was he talking about? I began to protest. "I'm not—"
"Be quiet please, Miss Bennett. I'll order you some coffee," Bradley said, motioning to a waitress.
Keith's face had gone pale. A telltale flash of alarm had crossed his face at the word underage. He rose to his feet. "I have to go. The guys and I are going down to the Gaslight in the Village tonight to hear a hot new band. We were going to ask you to go, but I expect we'd better not. See you later, Bebe."
He made tracks out of the lounge before I could say I'd go. Instead I turned to Bradley, who'd taken Keith's place at the table. "That was rude. And I'm not . . . not under . . . under . . . underage."
"Miss Bennett, I do believe you're tipsy. Here, drink this coffee."
Indignation rose in me. "I'm not tipsy. This is a fr- fruit drink."
Bradley leaned across the table and took the remains of the strawberry daiquiri away from me. He put the steaming cup of coffee the waitress had brought in its place. "Those fruit drinks can be deceptively potent. There now, drink this coffee."
Like an obedient child, I did as he said. "What are you doing here anyhow?" I asked.
He sat back in his chair. His dark brown suit with a beige shirt and a dark tie set off his blond hair nicely. In fact, he looked quite dashing. But then, when didn't he?
He looked at me with his incredible blue eyes. "I had no idea when I called you this morning that I'd be coming over here. About an hour after I talked to you, I received a phone call from one of my contacts in London. Do you know Astrid Loveday, the model Philip had dated? She's seeing Peter now, supposedly."
I squinted my eyes. Through the fog that was my brain I remembered the curvy blonde. "Yes."
"It seems that over in England she's been spreading stories. One of the tabloids had the headline 'Pinup Cutie Reveals Secret Marriage to Dead Pop Star.' "
"Oh, gosh. I wonder if that reporter Patty Gentry had anything to do with it. They don't like each other, but maybe they're using each other." The words came out slowly. I had to think hard before I could verbalize my thoughts.
"Regardless of how it happened, I'll be issuing a retraction from the record label," Bradley said grimly. "I want Astrid's explanation and her cooperation. Here she comes. Now you just be quiet, kid."
Oh! There he went again, treating me like a child. In this case, a naughty child. And what made things worse was that I should have known better about the daiquiri.
I took too big a gulp of the hot coffee and burned my tongue.
Bradley rose to his feet to greet Astrid. The blond model was dressed in a tight-fitting black skirt, pumps, and a baby-blue, low-cut sweater she had poured her generous bosom into, an outfit carefully put together to tempt men. Her long blond hair flowed down her back in silken waves. She took a chair between Bradley and me and ordered a beer.
"The boys and I find it refreshing to have cold beer instead of warm. So different," she said in a well- practiced upper-class English accent.
But Bradley was not here for chitchat. "Miss Loveday, I asked you to meet me here for a serious reason."
"Oh, what would that be?" The blonde opened her blue eyes to their widest. She had ignored me after Bradley introduced us, and now it was clear that her entire attention was on him.
To my frustration, his attention was on her as well. Every couple of minutes I saw that his glance strayed to the expanse of cleavage she was showing. And I was in a turtleneck! Not that I could measure up to her.
"Miss Loveday, have you been telling the press that you and Philip were married?" Bradley asked.
Astrid took a sip of her beer. "Philip and I weren't married," she said. "Is that more of the trash Patty Gentry spreads? She'll write anything to get attention."
"That's not what he asked," I said, feeling bold.
"I can handle this, Miss Bennett," Bradley said with a stern gaze in my direction.
I felt like sticking my tongue out at him. I had to clench my teeth together to avoid doing so.
He turned back to Astrid. "Did you tell the press you married Philip Royal?"
"No."
"Then why would they report such a rumor?"
"I don't know. Did they?"
"I have it on good authority that they did. Now what part did you play in this?"
"I don't know what you mean," Astrid said, trying hard for the wide-eyed innocent. "Patty or one of the others must have made it up. There are always press following us in England."
"See," I said to Bradley. "I told you Patty was involved."
Bradley ignored me. "Well, let me make it plain, Miss Loveday. The London Reporter ran an article with the headline 'Pinup Cutie Reveals Secret Marriage to Dead Pop Star.'"
Astrid bristled. " 'Pinup Cutie'? And that's supposed to be me? I'm a runway model."
Bradley did not let up. "That may or may not be true. But my source also told me you posed topless in Saucy Damsels and Hot and Spicy."
"Hot and Spicy?" I was almost sure they weren't talking about a cooking magazine. "What kind of magazine is that?"
Bradley pointed a finger at me. "Not now, Miss Bennett."
Astrid looked militant.
Bradley opened a briefcase I hadn't even noticed he had with him. He extracted a manila envelope and opened it to reveal what looked like a set of photographs. I couldn't really see from where I was sitting. He showed them to Astrid, though, and her lips pursed.
"Every fashion model does it to advance her career."
I half stood up, curiosity getting the better of me. The room swayed a little, but I was able to see the top photo. It was a black-and-white shot of Astrid posed in a pair of dangly triangle-shaped gold earrings, a scrap of lace, and nothing else.
I couldn't get much more of a peek because Bradley saw me looking and whisked the photos away.
"Sit down, Miss Bennett. You're weaving."
Bradley turned back to Astrid. "I still want to know what you told the tabloids."
"I might have told them that Philip and I were engaged," she admitted. "We were, you know, at one time, and he would have come back to me had he lived, so it's all the same."
Bradley shook his head. "You can't go around saying that you were married to him or even engaged to him. It wasn't true. You were broken up. What about Peter?"
"What about him?"
I remembered what it was that had been trying to come to the surface of my brain earlier. "Last night at the tribute you were telling reporters that you were engaged to Philip."
Bradley cut a sharp look at Astrid. "Is that true?"
Astrid shot me a glare. It seemed we weren't destined to be friends. "Look, a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do to get ahead in life. I spent a lot of time with Philip. I should be able to reap the rewards of that relationship. I use the benefits of the press when I can. God knows they aren't often kind to me, especially Patty."
"What you're going to do is issue a joint retraction with me to the London Repor
ter, saying that you were not married or engaged to Philip."
Astrid's blond hair shook like wheat in a windy field as she moved her head in the negative. "No. You say what you want, but I put up with Philip for three years. All his tantrums and the band's ups and downs. I'm making the most of things now." She got to her feet, then leaned down and placed her hands on the table, palms down, leaving Bradley with a bird's-eye view down the front of her top. "But if you ever want to get together and have an actual friendly talk, Bradley, you know where to find me."
With that she sashayed out of the lounge, leaving me alone with him.
Bradley put his head in his hands, mussing his perfect hair.
He quickly recovered, smoothed his hair, and said, "Come on, Miss Bennett; we need to get you home."
"I'll just get a cab." I rose to my feet and immediately had to sit back down when the room spun. I felt faintly sick to my stomach.
"You won't be going anywhere by yourself," Bradley said.
"Yes, I will. I'm capable of taking care of myself. I know I've had too much to drink, but I think I can make it to a cab on my own, thank you."
He motioned for the waitress and paid the check while I held my reeling head. How had I gotten into this state? It was only a fruit drink!
"You will do no such thing, Miss Bennett. You will come with me."
"Well, this is a side of you I haven't seen before, a bully!"
"It's for your own good. Now come along like a good girl."
I took two steps away from him. "I am not a girl!"
His gaze started at the top of my head and moved ever so slowly down my chest, my waist, and down my legs to my feet. "You could have fooled me, Miss Bennett."
Oh. Oh, my.
Bradley held my arm—oh, if only I could enjoy his touch with a clear head—and guided me through the lounge and out the front door of the hotel. It was early evening now, and the taillights from the cars all seemed to rim together.
"Game on, kid, in you go," Bradley said. He held the door to a cab open. I climbed in and he followed.
Realizing he meant to see me to my door, I felt miserable. "Really, this isn't necessary. I'm feeling better."
"Yes, it is necessary. I wouldn't sleep tonight if I just sent you off on your own in your condition."
"I only had one drink!"
"Apparently that's all it took."
I gave the driver my address, and we rode in silence to my apartment. Every block that passed I was acutely aware of sitting so close to Bradley in the backseat of the cab. I could smell his delicious masculine cologne.
If only right now it weren't making me queasy.
Finally we arrived at my apartment building.
"Driver, wait here. I'll be right back," Bradley said.
"Please. You don't have to see me to my door. I can make it up the stairs," I said, humiliated.
"I've come this far, kid."
We got out of the cab. Again a wave of dizziness gripped me as I stood on the sidewalk. I placed a hand to my stomach.
I didn't notice a man standing on my front stoop.
But he saw me.
"What's going on here?" he said.
"Daddy!"
"You there, boy! Have you taken my Little Magnolia out and gotten her drunk?"
My father punched Bradley right in the eye.
CHAPTER NINE
Bradley fell to the cement sidewalk.
"Oh, Daddy, what have you done?" I leaned down and cradled Bradley's head in my lap. I don't know whether it was because of the sight of my father appearing out of nowhere or that of Bradley lying there hurt, but I was suddenly sober.
Bradley groaned and put a hand over his left eye where my father's fist had made contact.
Daddy was outraged. "Bebe, what were you doing out drinking with this low-life Yankee? I knew men like him in the war. Get a girl drunk and have their way."
I looked over my shoulder at my father. By "the war" he meant World War II. A veteran and proud of it, my father was a big guy at six-feet-one. I got my height from him. He had dark hair that was now iron gray. He carried himself like he was still in the military, even though he had a big belly from drinking too much Budweiser. He had built a fallout shelter in our backyard, in preparation for any enemy attack.
Earl Bennett had always been a good father to me, if a teensy bit overprotective, as evidenced by his sudden appearance outside my apartment.
"Daddy, this is my boss, Bradley Williams. He's not a lowlife. He's vice president of Rip-City Records."
"Nice to meet you, Mr. Bennett," Bradley said, struggling to his feet. "I'm from Oklahoma, so I don't think
that makes me a Yankee. And I spent two years in a foxhole in Korea."
I swung my head around at this information. Bradley in Korea?
"Your boss?" Daddy said, ignoring Bradley, disapproval dripping from the words. Daddy had on an overcoat and a hat in deference to the Northern climate. I thought at any minute he might pull a gun out from under the coat and aim it at Bradley's heart. Daddy had quite a collection of guns at home, something that scared me as a child and still did. Guns just terrified me.
I nodded my head earnestly. "Yes, the one I told you and Mama about in my last letter, remember?"
Daddy grunted.
"Besides, Mr. Williams didn't buy me the drink," I explained. "He was just seeing me home safely. Honest."
Daddy looked from Bradley to me. "Who did buy you the drink?"
"Keith."
"Who's he?"
"One of the members of Philip Royal and the Beefeaters."
Daddy got mad all over again. "Philip Royal's the one who got himself murdered by your Texas roommate. Always was something strange about that state. Thinks it's a country all to itself. I know about Miss Roland. I read the newspapers, you know. You can't keep things from me. I told you New York City was full of violence. Things haven't changed since I came through here on my way to Europe during the war. That's why I left your mother in Richmond and came up here to check on you. I want to make sure this Darlene Roland person is locked up, and you're safe from harm. You haven't been anywhere near Times Square, have you?"
"Oh, no."
"Good. Keep it that way. Place is full of drunks, dope addicts, and prostitutes."
"Daddy, Darlene didn't kill anyone. But she's out of
town right now, and you can't meet her. Let's get Mr. Williams upstairs and put a steak on his eye before it swells up."
"Thank you, Miss Bennett. But maybe I should just get back in the cab and go home," Bradley said, and winced.
I turned to him. "I won't hear of it, Mr. Williams. I have a nice porterhouse that will fix that eye right up. Come on. Daddy, I guess you'd better come, too. Where are your bags?"
"I wouldn't put my Little Magnolia out. I'm staying at the Legends Hotel."
No, God. No! Did he have to stay at the same hotel where the guys in the band were staying? I mean, really. Of all the hotels in New York . . .
We made our way up the two flights of stairs, Daddy glaring at Bradley the whole way. The area around Bradley's eye had turned a dark, puffy red. I needed to get that steak on it.
But when I opened the door, it was to find Darlene, clad in purple lounging pajamas, home from the Hamptons. She was freaking out over the new furniture I had completely forgotten would be delivered that afternoon.
"Bebe!" Sneeze. "Oh, we've got company! And someone brought furniture."
"Darlene, this is my father, Earl Bennett—"
Daddy took off his hat, pushed his way into the apartment, and took stock of the rooms. He tilted his head and glared down at Darlene like an eagle looking at prey. "You're the one the papers say killed that pop singer. Did you?"
"Daddy!"
Darlene drew herself up to her full five-foot-three. "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Bennett. No, I didn't kill him."
Daddy and Darlene engaged in a brief staring contest, and when Darlene didn't back down, gazing at him steadily with her big
blue eyes, Daddy seemed satisfied. He
nodded. "All right, then. You seem too small to be the murdering kind anyway."
I led Bradley over to the pink sectional, which Darlene had placed in front of the fireplace. "Here, sit down and I'll get you that steak, Mr. Williams. Darlene, this is my boss, Bradley Williams."
"Hi, there," she said with a big Texas smile.
"Nice to meet you," Bradley said, sounding like he'd rather be anywhere else.
I shot Darlene a look that said, Hands off! and she immediately raised her palms in a gesture that cried surrender.
I hurried to the refrigerator and got the steak I'd planned to treat myself with that night. I brought it and a dishtowel over to Bradley. He leaned his golden head back on the pink couch and applied the steak.
Darlene said, "Bebe, do you mind telling me how we managed to get this furniture?"
"Keith and I picked it out this afternoon," I told her. "I wanted to surprise you with it."
"I dig it," Darlene said.
"Keith?" Bradley mumbled.
"You went out prowling the city with some man?" Daddy said.
"Yes," I replied to Bradley.
"No," I said to Daddy.
I looked from one to the other of them. To Bradley I said, "I thought it was a good excuse to talk to Keith some more about Philip. I netted some results too. It seems Keith thought Philip was a 'rotter' and harbored a grudge against him."
Daddy said, "Would someone tell me what's going on?"
"Here, Daddy, let me take your coat. Would you like a drink? I don't have any beer, but I could bring you a Coke or a whiskey."
"A Coke would be fine."
I hung Daddy's coat up and went back into the kitchen. Daddy and Darlene settled themselves on opposite ends of the sectional, with Bradley in the middle.
When I brought him his drink, Daddy said, "Now, tell me about this Keith person and why you're trying to get information out of him."
Uh-oh. "Well, Daddy, don't get mad or anything, but Keith is the lead guitarist in the Beefeaters. He might have had reason to want to . . . to . . . you know ... do away with Philip Royal."
"What's that got to do with my Little Magnolia?" Daddy asked with a scowl.
At Daddy's lifelong nickname for me, Bradley made a noise that might have been a laugh.
It's A Mod, Mod, Mod, Mod Murder Page 7
