The Runaway Daughter

by Lauri Robinson

  A chill sliced his spine. If Nightingale heard they were pretending to be married—

  The phone rang and he grabbed it.

  “Is it true?” Roger’s voice blared through the line. “My Ginger’s with you?”

  “Yes, sir,” Brock answered. Few men scared him, but Roger Nightingale frightened gangsters. “She’s fine,” he went on to say. “I didn’t discover her in the back of my truck until I was almost in Chicago. I couldn’t turn around—”

  “Damn it,” Roger interrupted. “That girl is so like her mother was, God rest her soul.” He let out a string of curse words.

  “I’ll put her on the first train to Minnesota, right af—”

  “Like hell you will,” Roger shouted. “You put her on a train by herself and she’ll end up in California.”

  Brock couldn’t deny that. Everyone knew Ginger wanted to go to Hollywood.

  “You don’t let her out of your sight,” Roger said. “I need time to figure out what to do. This couldn’t have happened at a worse time.” After another curse, he said, “Any harm comes to that girl, boy, and you’ll take a fall. A big one.”

  Brock tightened his hold on the phone. Nightingale didn’t make false threats.

  “Don’t tell her we’ve talked, either,” Roger went on. “She may bolt. I’ll call you at this number tomorrow.”

  The line went dead. Brock had just set the phone down when Oscar walked into the room.

  “Everything all right?” the man asked.

  “Yeah,” Brock answered, swallowing a groan. This was the worst thing that could happen. It was downright dangerous. The desire he’d felt for Ginger in the past had multiplied into substantial demands today. There was no way for Nightingale or Ginger to know that. Valuing his life, Brock had always kept his distance from her, while privately dreaming of the day he’d be in the same class as her. He’d dated one of her friends once, just to be in the same circle. Missy or Minnie, or something. That girl had just about strangled him with her tongue. He got the chills every time he thought about it.

  He had the chills right now, too. They might as well start building his coffin. He’d soon need one. Being with Ginger and not touching her might kill him. And if he did touch her, Nightingale was sure to kill him.

  Chapter Six

  Ginger wanted to agree with Rene, that everything was absolutely swell, but Rene hadn’t been the recipient of Brock’s glare. Nor had the other woman insulted him by dropping money at his feet or tried to kiss him. Except they had kissed—even though he’d ended it rather abruptly—and it had been absolutely the most amazing thing ever.

  Brock’s performance was stellar. The phone jingled nonstop. Clubs calling, requesting songs. Rene explained that many of the gin mills weren’t large enough to host a band, so they had radios mounted in the ceiling to blast music down to the crowd.

  The excitement of it all revived Ginger’s optimism.

  Money would soon no longer be an issue between them. She’d make sure he was rolling in dough, and then try to kiss him again. It might not be as easy as she’d imagined, but it would happen.

  Hours later, Oscar pointed toward the men behind the glass window and announced, “That’s a wrap.”

  Ginger squealed, and ran across the room where she jumped into Brock’s arms as he rose off the piano bench. “You were fabulous!”

  “Yes, he was,” Oscar agreed. “Let’s head across the street.”

  Brock hugged her in return, and kept one arm around her when he asked, “What for?”

  “To visit the hotel’s club,” Oscar answered. “They called and want to meet you. Both of you.”

  Ginger attempted to follow Oscar, once again flying high, but Brock’s hold stopped her.

  “Why’d you tell them we were married?” he asked.

  She knew he’d bring that up. “I didn’t. They assumed. I just went along with it,” she said. “Come on. We gotta go.”

  Brock started walking, but said, “You should have told them the truth.”

  “As I recall, you said the same thing.”

  “Only after you did,” he pointed out.

  Ginger held her breath against the frustration building. But the pressure was too great and she had to let it out. “Fine, I’ll tell them we aren’t married.”

  “No,” he said. “It’s too late for that. Just don’t tell anyone else.”

  “I won’t.” She grabbed her purse from Rene’s desk. “I’ll tell them I’m your agent.”

  He didn’t comment and remained quiet as they rode down in the elevator. That gave her hope. She’d helped Norma Rose book musicians at the resort for years, and was good at writing up contracts. Brock would soon realize just how much he needed her. He might even kiss her then, and the thought put a grin on her face.

  He scowled, but she saw beneath it to the excitement he was attempting to hide. She laughed and caught his arm as they followed Rene and Oscar out the front door.

  The night air was cool and thick with fumes from the night traffic cruising up and down the road, but Ginger’s ears picked up the noise coming from across the street. While securing a hotel room, Rene had pointed out the ballroom was on the top floor. Being raided there was impossible. Coppers were spotted and the crowd dispersed long before anyone reached the fifth floor. Still, the chance of a raid was rather thrilling.

  A caged elevator carried them to the top floor, and Ginger didn’t even attempt to hide her excitement. Especially not when Brock let his enthusiasm show as Oscar and Rene talked about all the clubs that had called, wanting to know about their new performer.

  In some ways the crowd reminded her of the resort. Laughter filled the room as people mingled about, carrying long-stemmed glasses, women with cigarette holders and men puffing on stogies. But walking into the ballroom on Brock’s arm transformed everything Ginger knew about parties. There was no hiding at the top of the stairs this time; she was a queen entering her kingdom.

  The crowd parted as she and Brock walked across the plush carpet toward a bar along the back wall, but gathered close when Oscar started making introductions. People were jazzed to meet Brock, and her. She’d make the most of that. Grabbing this sort of attention was called advertising; people did it at the resort all the time.

  The floor was full of people dancing to a man pounding on the piano who wasn’t nearly as good as Brock, and everyone wanted to talk. A while later, when Brock grabbed her hand and said, “Come on, doll, let’s cut the rug,” Ginger knew without a doubt her life had never been better.

  * * *

  Brock hadn’t ever been so caught between heaven and hell. He’d never experienced this level of success where people were handing him tips like candy at a parade, and he’d never known such despair. Oscar was introducing them as Mr. and Mrs. Brock Ness. With a crowd this size, word would spread fast. Not just of his performance—which he wanted—but of his supposed wife.

  His only hope was for no one to recognize Ginger—and discover she was The Night’s daughter. The way she schmoozed, that could very well happen, therefore he pulled her onto the dance floor. Here, too, he was thwarted. The way she kicked up her heels during the fast tunes and plastered her delicious, tender body against his during the slow ones had the crowd ogling and him as hard as iron.

  If just paying off his family’s debt had been enough, he’d have stayed at the resort. But it wasn’t enough. He wanted this. Ginger on his arm. He always had, but this wasn’t the way to make it happen.

  Oscar soon waved them back to the table. “We should leave. We don’t want to give away too much for free.”

  Brock agreed, and led Ginger through the crowd and into the elevator, but when it stopped on the third floor, and Oscar and Rene bid them good-night, his insides froze.

  A hotel room.

  With Ginger.

  Alone.

  Aw, hell.

  Leaving the party hadn’t deflated her mood at all. She hummed and giggled while withdrawing a key from her purse. “Th
e washroom is at the end of the hall,” she explained, unlocking the door.

  To their room.

  Brock spun around to take advantage of the room at the end of the hall.

  “Wait.”

  He glanced over his shoulder. Her cheeks were flushed and her headband crooked from all their dancing, and she was cuter than he’d ever seen her.

  “You’ll need this.” She handed him the room key.

  Brock took it, and briefly visited the washroom. The queue of others leaving the ballroom party upstairs made the little room popular.

  He entered their hotel room, a rather large room furnished with a bed, night table, washstand, dresser and chair. Ginger had already removed her headband and shoes, and stood with one foot on the chair, rolling down her silk stockings.

  Fighting his own desire, Brock walked straight to the bed where he kicked off his boots and lay down, facing the wall.

  “Aren’t you going to get under the covers?” Ginger asked.

  He reached behind his back and tugged the blankets off the other side of the bed, exposing the sheets for her to climb between. “Shut off the light.”

  * * *

  Ginger contemplated his words while pulling her dress over her head and draping it across the back of the chair. The silk cami knickers still felt luscious against her skin, and she recalled why she’d purchased them. Brock may attempt to act colder than a stiff, but she knew differently. She’d watched enough men and women to understand certain things. The way Brock had looked at her while they were dancing, the way he wouldn’t let anyone else dance with her, gave her all the encouragement she needed.

  She clicked off the light, and then leaped on the bed like a cat. Wrapping her arms around Brock, she nuzzled her nose where his neck met his shoulder. “I told you they’d love you.”

  He stiffened, but she wasn’t going to let him off that easy. This was what she wanted. Him. In a place where no one could say she couldn’t have him.

  He grasped her hand as it slid over his chest. “Go to sleep, doll. It’s been a long day.”

  “I know. The best day of my life.” Digging her fingers in, she tickled him. “Yours, too.”

  “Ginger,” he said, trying to stop her.

  Tickling him harder, she teased, “Come on. Admit it. It was the best day of your life, too.”

  She kept tickling him until, eventually, he flipped onto his back.

  The smile on his face set off fireworks inside her.

  “All right,” he said, holding both of her hands against his chest. “I admit it.”

  The impulse was too great. She had to press her lips to his. He didn’t pull back. Instead he kissed her until she was gasping for air, and then cradled her against his side. “Sweet dreams, doll.”

  On edge because she wanted more, but content for now, she whispered, “Good night.”

  Chapter Seven

  Brock slept, but soon found himself staring at the ceiling, not quite sure if it was the dream that had awakened him or Ginger snuggled to his side.

  He’d dreamed of her for years, but her bank was closed. One step out of line with any of Nightingale’s daughters was a sure trip to the bottom of the river with more chain than a man could swim with. So why now, after The Night had put Ginger’s protection in his hands, did Brock want to rob that bank more than ever?

  Muscles tense, Brock burned with resistance, but the sound of her breathing beside him echoed in his ears.

  Unable to overcome his desire, Brock scooted to the edge of the bed. Grabbing the key from the dresser, he carried his boots out the door and slipped them on while waiting for the elevator to carry him to the ground floor of the hotel.

  A wooden phone booth stood prominently in the hotel foyer. Brock made a brief stop at the front desk to exchange several bills for coins. Leave it to him to go goofy over a woman with a hard-boiled father. Any other dame and he’d just lay down the law, claim her for his own and get on with living.

  There was more at stake here than just his life. He had his family to consider, but more importantly, Ginger.

  He dropped a coin in the phone box and once the operator answered, he waited for her to calculate the cost of calling the resort before depositing more coins.

  Roger Nightingale’s voice came on the other end and Brock immediately started to explain, “Sorry for calling so early, but—”

  “Brock, is that you?” Roger asked. “Has something happened?”

  “No, yes,” Brock answered. He clarified, “Yes, it’s me, and no, nothing’s happened. Ginger’s fine. I’m calling to see if you’ve figured out how to get her home.”

  “Not yet. We’ve got a lot going on here right now. Not to mention Palooka George’s birthday party next weekend.”

  Brock flinched. Palooka George lived in Chicago. He might easily learn that he and Ginger were masquerading as a married couple. “Maybe one of your men could come and get her.”

  Roger guffawed. “She’d ditch them. I know that girl.”

  So did Brock. “What about one of her sisters?”

  “They’d all end up in California. The only one I could send would be Norma Rose and I need her here. With you gone, she’s having to dig up a decent musician for the parties.”

  “Have her try Slim Johnson. He’s good,” Brock said, wanting to offer the man something before he asked, “Maybe there’s someone here in Chicago who could take Ginger home?”

  “No one I’d trust with one of my girls.” Roger’s tone turned more understanding. “I know she’s put you in the squeeze, Brock, but I’m calling you out on this one, boy. I need you to take care of Ginger. I don’t have the time to deal with her right now.”

  What man didn’t have the time to deal with his own daughter? Ginger surely meant more than a gangster’s birthday party. She did to him, and should to Nightingale, too.

  “Look,” Roger said, “I have to go, but I’ll call you in a day or so.”

  Brock didn’t bother with a farewell, simply hung up and gathered up the change that fell into the metal cup at the bottom of the phone.

  Oscar was standing outside the phone booth when Brock slid back the door. “You’re an early bird.”

  “Habit,” Brock answered. “You always at the station this early?”

  “Nope,” Oscar said, taking a deck of cigarettes out of his pocket. “Couldn’t sleep. Had to make sure last night hadn’t been a dream.”

  “A dream?” Brock asked, taking one of the cigarettes Oscar offered while walking out of the hotel’s front door.

  “I ain’t gotta tell you what a hit you were last night, do I?” Oscar puffed up a good cloud of smoke.

  “No, I guess not,” Brock answered, puffing a ring to float in the air. He should be riding high. He might well be if not for Ginger and her father.

  “Law says we can only broadcast until midnight.” Oscar waved a hand at the quiet city street. “But, as you saw, Chicagoville doesn’t go to bed until the wee hours of the morning.” Pitching his cigarette butt onto the street, Oscar slapped Brock’s shoulder with his other hand. “You and that dame of yours took this town by the horns last night. Keep doing that, hitting the joints after your performances, and you’ll become a real celebrity. I like how she worked that crowd, promising you’d mention the club’s name between sets. Did you see the clams that doll collected?”

  “Ginger?”

  Oscar nodded and laughed. “Yes, Ginger. You’ve not only got a doll for a wife, you’ve got yourself one heck of an agent.”

  No wonder people had been handing him tip money.

  “I’ll see you at the station at five,” Oscar said, stepping off the curb.

  * * *

  Ginger was still in bed when Brock entered the hotel room. He’d taken advantage of the empty washroom, thinking hard while soaking in the tub, and he needed a fresh set of clothes.

  “Is it time to get up?” she mumbled sleepily.

  “No,” he whispered. “I just need my suitcase.”

&nb
sp; Ginger’s eyes popped open. Water dripped from his hair and glistened on his skin. Stretching her arms over her head, a stirring desire, hotter and stronger than ever, brought her renewed determination, and she tossed aside the sheet.

  “You can stay in bed,” Brock said. “I’ll get dressed in the washroom.”

  Ginger grinned, climbing off the bed. It was time for him to know she never backed down. Not from something she wanted. He spun around before she reached him.

  A primitive need had her nipples turning hard when his gaze landed on her silk underclothes. She’d bought the red-and-white set just for this purpose and wasn’t about to let the opportunity escape. Brock needed her as his agent, but she needed something, too.

  Him.

  She reached out and ran a fingertip down his belly.

  “Ginger,” he growled, stepping back.

  Moving forward, she slid both hands around his sides, just above the waistband of his pants. “What?”

  He dropped the suitcase from his hand and grabbed her shoulders. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”

  His skin was hot and moist and devastatingly perfect. “Yes, I do,” she said, forcing him to step backward again, up against the wall. He still had a hold of her shoulders, and could easily push her away, yet he didn’t, and his stomach muscles hardened as she skimmed her fingertips over his skin.

  She could sense his desire as well as some kind of battle going on inside him. Having come this far, Ginger wasn’t about to stop now. Stretching onto her toes, she pressed her lips against his. Doubt or fear crossed her mind for a split second, but then he pulled her forward and parted his lips, letting her tongue enter his mouth.

  Exploring the caverns of his mouth was more divine than having him explore hers. Every part of her melted, turning all warm and liquid and perfectly splendid. As he returned her kiss, Brock’s hands ran down her back. The silk of her camisole felt dreamy, warmed by his palm sliding across her skin. His kisses grew more heated and faster, making her tongue race to keep up with his.