Lane caught her around the waist and held her there, with his lips pressed against hers. The music played on, faintly. She could hear it beyond the pounding of her heart echoing in her ears.
She looped her arms around his neck, and gasped slightly as Lane’s tongue slid between her lips and into her mouth. A bolt as hot and powerful as the lightning they’d taken shelter against yesterday shot through her. Heating everything about her, and increasing that powerful ache in her most private parts.
When Lane ended the kiss, a distinct craving for more had her a bit shaky. So did something else. Her heart. The way it felt. Warm. Happy. Full of...
No. It couldn’t be love.
She couldn’t be falling in love with Lane.
Couldn’t.
That would mean she’d want to marry him. But he didn’t want to marry her. He’d said so. Furthermore, if that were to happen, it would mean that Father would get what he’d wanted all along. For her to marry a man he picked out.
Father would say that had been right, and that wouldn’t change anything for her sisters. It would make it worse, and it would all be her fault. She could never marry Lane.
Chapter Fourteen
“I—uh—I don’t see Henry,” Patsy said, stepping out of his arms. “Do you?”
“No,” Lane said, pulling his eyes off her to glance around the room. What was happening to him? He’d hardly looked for Henry. He’d been too focused on her. She consumed him, when he was with her and when he wasn’t. It was like he felt whole again. There was no longer an emptiness inside him. An emptiness that he’d continued to try to fill by thinking about Naomi and Sarah, by avenging their deaths. But that hadn’t been working for some time now. Because of Patsy.
Stepping back, he gave the room a full and solid once-over. Henry was nowhere to be seen. He had to get his head back in place and couldn’t do that with her around. Luckily for him, it was time to change that. “It’s going on eleven. Time for us to leave.”
“Leave? Eleven isn’t that late.”
“Not to some, but eleven is what time I’d told your father you’d be home.” Her father. Lane swallowed at the way his stomach churned. He couldn’t be falling in love with her, because that was exactly what William Dryer wanted, and not at all what Patsy wanted.
Wrinkles formed between her eyes. “When? When did you tell him that?”
“When I picked you up and told him where we’d be going.” He took her arm. “You hadn’t come downstairs yet. He said he’d be waiting up for you, so we need to leave.”
She started to nod, then her eyes snapped wide open. “Waiting up?”
“Yes.” Did she really expect anything different? This was the same man who’d threatened to send them all to a convent. How had he become so deeply involved in all this? It wasn’t like him at all.
“Oh, no!” She shot around him. “I’ll be right back!”
She made a beeline to her sister Jane, who was leaning against the piano. He couldn’t hear the exchange, but it was animated with plenty of hand gestures and head shaking. A moment later, Jane disappeared in another direction while Patsy hurried toward him.
Lane bit the tip of his tongue to keep from saying that their sneaking out had to come to an end at some point.
Once he saw her eyes, any humor he may have had disappeared. She was petrified. Like she had been in the cave yesterday upon learning the time.
“We have to give them a ride home,” she said, nearly breathless. “They’ll never make it if they wait for the streetcar, or by running.”
“That’s fine.” He guided her toward the door. “We can give them a ride. Did you tell them where we are parked?”
“Yes. Jane’s getting Betty and will meet us outside.”
She was visibly shaking. “It’ll be fine,” he said.
“Not if my father finds out they’ve been gone.”
Jane and Betty arrived at the car as he was opening Patsy’s door. They didn’t wait for him to open their doors.
“Get a waggle on, Lane,” Jane said as she slammed her door. “Our father’s going to have a lather on if we aren’t home when Patsy arrives.”
“He might already know you aren’t there,” Patsy whispered, as if not wanting anyone else to hear.
“He’s never gone upstairs before,” Jane said. “We have to hope he didn’t tonight, either.”
Lane had never done anything unlawful, but as he started the car and pulled away from the curb, he felt as if he was driving a bank robbery getaway car with stolen loot in the backseat.
There was little traffic, allowing him to arrive on the street to their house in mere minutes. Far enough away from the Dryer home that if someone was looking out a window, they wouldn’t see his headlights, he pulled the car over to the curb as the women requested.
Jane and Betty leaped out and ran into the shadows of the trees.
“How will they get inside the house?” he asked as they disappeared.
“They’ll climb the trellis.”
“Climb the trellis?” His insides buckled. “Is that how you snuck out every night? Climbing up and down the trellis?”
“Yes.”
“All the way to the second floor?”
“Yes, and in through the bathroom window.”
“You could fall, break a leg, or worse.”
“No, we’re careful.”
Whatever filled him was more than a sense of obligation, or of fear. It was real, and sincere. He reached over and touched her cheek, forced her to turn away from the window and look at him. “Careful? What if one of the boards broke? They are not strong enough for climbing up and down.”
“We stay away from the weak boards.” She glanced toward the passenger window. “They should be there by now.”
He clamped his back teeth together and pulled the car back onto the road. The mixture of emotions rolling around inside him was foreign. Any kind of emotions had been foreign to him for years, until he’d met her.
She was so alive and vibrant. He’d been that way once. Is that what was happening to him? That he was trying to be young and carefree again? No. He was too mature for that. Too mature for any of this. That’s what happened. People grew up. He’d been young and alive once, but life, and death, had changed that for him, and there was no going back.
“Patsy, I’m worried about you sneaking out like that. Climbing the trellis,” he said, pulling into the driveway.
A sly smile curled up the corners of her lips. “I don’t have to sneak out right now.”
Right now, because of their pretend engagement, but what about next week, when that was over? He knew the answer. She, and her sisters, had gotten the taste of freedom, and no matter what Dryer threatened them with, the hunger they now had wasn’t going to go away.
He opened his car door. “Your father is looking out the window.”
She wheezed while sucking in air. “I hope they made it inside without him knowing.”
He opened her car door, helped her out and then guided her up the walkway. Her steps were stiff, and her arm beneath his hand trembling. It had been a long time since he’d had a father waiting when he walked someone to the door, and despite his age and experience, Lane wasn’t sure what he should do. He didn’t know what to expect, either.
Dryer opened the door while they were walking up the steps. The man’s expression was always foreboding, so the one he wore now gave no inclination as to what to expect.
Lane kept his hold on Patsy’s arm, making a split-second decision that if Dryer blew up, Patsy would be leaving with him.
Turned out that wasn’t necessary. Dryer was affable, and his wife appeared excited to ask Patsy about her evening. Before he left, Patsy assured him she’d have an article about Dominica’s for him tomorrow.
As he climbed in his car, started it, Lane questioned, onc
e again, what the hell he’d gotten himself into. He’d never thought he’d meet a woman who could tie him in knots the way Patsy had. His mind. His emotions.
Shifting into Reverse, he recalled falling in love with Naomi, and how easy that had been.
A shiver shot through him so fast, he slammed on the brakes, making the car jerk to a stop.
What the hell was he thinking? He wasn’t falling in love with Patsy, there was no reason to compare...
His thoughts stilled as he stared at the big brick house before him. The tall white pillars that framed the front porch and extended past the second floor to the roof. The massive white door and white shutters on the windows. The golden glow of light emitting out of the windows on the second floor.
Patsy was in one of those rooms, and a variety of images flashed in his mind. Of her smiling, laughing, dancing, kissing him.
Her lips were so soft, so sweet. Her smile so bright. Her actions so lively and animated.
He shook his head, dispelling the images. None of that meant he was falling in love with her. He’d sworn off love while watching the casket that held Naomi and Sarah lowered into the ground. That pain had been excruciating, something he’d vowed to never be open to feeling again. He was older now, knew how to protect himself from things. Things like falling in love again.
Releasing his foot off the brake, he backed out of the driveway. He needed to find Henry, aid the FBI in any way they needed in order to apprehend Burrows and put an end to this sham of an engagement.
Then he’d be able to forget all about Patsy. Never shed another impossible thought about caring for her, about her.
He huffed out a breath as the truth washed over him.
He wouldn’t be able to forget her. That would be no easier than forgetting Naomi and Sarah. That had been different. He’d been able to keep them in his mind through his revenge of seeing Rex Gaynor jailed, and then knowing the man was paying for what he’d done. He’d been shocked when he’d heard Gaynor had escaped because he’d thought that part of his life was over. Settled.
Then, why, when he’d heard that Rex hadn’t been directly responsible for their deaths, had he not felt that same level of revenge toward Burrows? The man was evil.
This wasn’t about Burrows. The revenge he’d sought after Naomi’s and Sarah’s deaths was no longer burning inside him. It had dissolved. He couldn’t recall exactly when. Years ago, maybe. After Rex Gaynor was sentenced, he was sure of that. But life had gone on. A lot of time since then was a blur because he’d focused on work, on building the Gazette into the most popular paper in the state.
That had happened.
He no longer had to work day and night. He could choose what he wanted to write about, to focus on. Ultimately, he’d chosen Patsy.
Why? Because he saw a little bit of himself in her? He hadn’t known she’d wanted to become a reporter until later.
He held his breath as something inside him opened up. She’d captured his attention that first night, when she’d dragged him on the dance floor and made him dance like he’d never danced before. Made him live like he’d never lived before.
That’s what had been missing from his life for years. The living part, and once she’d opened him up to it, he’d wanted to go right on living. Made up all sorts of excuses so that could keep on happening.
He wasn’t after Burrows because of the train accident. He wanted the man captured because of Patsy and had found a way for her to help him to keep her close.
That, all of what he’d done, wasn’t fair to her. She hadn’t asked for any of this. From the beginning she’d been honest about what she wanted. He was the one who hadn’t been. He had to figure out a way to put a stop to all of this.
Now, before it was too late.
Mind set that he could do that, he headed back to the Rooster’s Nest. He’d wait all night if needed for Henry to arrive.
* * *
Once Patsy was sure her sisters were fine, and that no one was the wiser about their being gone, she sat down to write an article about the restaurant, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead her mind kept playing images of Lane. Of talking with him, laughing with him, dancing with him.
Kissing him.
She picked up the paper she’d been trying to write on, balled it up and tossed it on the floor. Being Patsy was so much harder than being Libby ever had been. Libby would never have fallen in love with anyone. She was too liberated for that.
But Patsy. She huffed out a burning breath of air. But Patsy wasn’t. She’d fallen in love. What else could it be?
She couldn’t love Lane. That would mean everything she’d done was for naught. That her father would get exactly what he’d wanted right from the beginning. And Lane...
Lane didn’t want to get married. He’d said so. He was still in love with his wife. Had to be, that’s why he wanted to see Burrows behind bars. So all she had to do was not fall any deeper in love with him. She could do that.
No, Libby could do that.
A great sense of relief washed over her.
Convinced Libby could do that, she picked up her pencil, and started to write. She’d just have to be Libby all the time.
Which turned out to be harder than she’d thought.
The moment she saw Lane the following evening, her heart began to race. Ignoring it, she kept her distance as they walked to his car, and was thankful that he didn’t seem to mind.
He was corrigible, and praised her about the article for the restaurant, but there was no hand holding, and she’d make absolute certain there was no kissing.
They went to a movie premiere that night, and though it was a wonderful experience, she knew she’d never be able to write an article about it. The entire time the movie had played, an alternate one had played in her head. One that included snuggling close to him in the dark theater, and laying her head on his shoulder. The things Patsy wanted to do, but she was Libby, so she kept her distance.
Thankful once the movie had ended, she nearly shot out of her seat. “Are we going to the Rooster’s Nest now?” she asked, hoping that being among a crowd would make everything easier.
“No.” Lane stepped aside for her to walk ahead of him between the velvet chairs. “I’ll take you home now.”
She waited until they were outside, walking toward his car before asking, “But what about Henry? We still need to find him.”
“He must have found the information he needed without us. I went out to the cabin today. His stuff is gone.”
“Just like that? Without telling us?”
“He’s working undercover, so can’t tell us.”
That could be true, but something about his tone made her ask, “Where are you going, after you take me home?”
“Back to my office. I have a lot of work to do.”
“Do you need any help?”
“No.”
This was what she wanted, to hold herself back from him, not fall in love with him, because Libby wasn’t in love with him, only Patsy was, but it sure made her sick to her stomach.
She still felt that way the next morning, when she arrived at the breakfast table and found her entire family fawning over the article about Dominica’s in the newspaper. The one that had her name under the article. Even her father was beaming, and joyous.
“Oh, we are so proud of you, Patsy,” Mother said. “So proud.”
Patsy tried to act elated, as excited as they all were at seeing her name in the paper, but it just wasn’t there. Happiness. Deep inside her. It might have been if she’d never realized she’d fallen in love with Lane.
She did her best to keep a smile on her face all day, even when Lane appeared at the door to take her out that evening. To another restaurant—where she once again tried her best. This time so she could write another article about the place.
Her concentration b
ecame sidetracked when Victoria Lloyd stopped by their table. Afterward, she and Lane came close to having a row.
“Stay close to my side at this place,” he said as he opened her car door.
He was referring to a juice joint near the docks. The smell of decaying fish and saltwater filled the air and there were no streetlights to brighten the dark, dank area. “I will.”
There was a hint of disgust in Lane’s eyes as he took her arm. “I don’t like this idea.”
“You heard what that dockworker said. If anyone knows where Burrows is, it’s the owner of this place.”
“Yes, I heard him, and I’d also heard when I told you not to talk to him.”
His tone was sharp, but she ignored it. They had just left the Underground Feed Pen, a real two-bit joint that had been so smoky her eyes still burned. The stench of bad booze and body odor was still lingering in her nose, too.
Lane hadn’t wanted to go to that joint, either, but back at the restaurant Victoria had said that she’d heard through the pipeline that Vincent Burrows had been at the Feed Pen last night.
Lane had wanted to take her home as soon as they’d finished their meal, but Patsy wouldn’t let him. “He wouldn’t have told you that,” she pointed out. “As soon as he saw you, he clammed up.” She had taken a moment when Lane had been stopped by someone he knew to find out any information she could. She’d hurried to the bar, where seeing a man puffing on a cigarette, she’d asked him to bum her one and give her a light.
The man had given her a cigarette, lit it and answered her questions about knowing a man named Burrows while she’d let the cigarette smolder into a butt between her fingers.
“Just don’t talk to anyone here,” he said.
She planted her heels into the gravel, making them both stop. “If I don’t, we won’t get the information we need on Burrows.”
Lane shook his head.
She nodded. “No one is going to talk to you. Everyone knows who you are. That dockworker at the Feed Pen certainly did. He called you ‘that reporter’ before he took a hike.”
The Flapper's Fake Fiancé Page 20
