Of all the speakeasies, in all the world...
Mysterious city slicker Ty Bradshaw might have won her father’s trust, but everyone knows Norma Rose is the true boss of Nightingale’s resort. And it’ll take more than that charming smile to shake the feeling that Ty is not all he seems...
He walks into hers
Ty is a federal agent on a personal mission of revenge. But he hasn’t figured on falling for a bootlegger’s daughter. Suddenly, flirting with headstrong Norma Rose seems far more exhilarating than chasing gangsters!
Shine your shoes, slip on your flapper dress and prepare for the ride of your life in Lauri Robinson’s rip-roaring new miniseries
Daughters of the Roaring Twenties
Their hair is short and their skirts are even shorter!
Prohibition has made Roger Nightingale a wealthy man. With his bootlegging business in full swing, and his swanky hotel the most popular joint in town, his greatest challenge is keeping his four willful daughters in check!
Join
Ginger, Norma Rose, Twyla and Josie as they foxtrot their way into four gorgeous men’s hearts!
First travel with Ginger to Chicago in
The Runaway Daughter
Available now as a
Harlequin® Historical Undone! ebook
Then see Norma Rose go head-to-head
with Ty Bradshaw in
The Bootlegger’s Daughter
Available now
Can Forrest Reynolds tame mischievous Twyla?
Find out in
The Rebel Daughter
Available September 2015
And, last but not least, discover Josie’s secret in
The Forgotten Daughter
Available October 2015
Author Note
Welcome to the Roaring Twenties! A time in America when almost every citizen broke the law and new freedoms were discovered.
When I started researching the first book in this series I was amazed by how deeply embedded Minnesota was in the illegal moonshine business. Decades before Prohibition hit, the University of Minnesota had perfected a corn hybrid that flourished in Minnesota’s shorter growing season. They named this hybrid “Minnesota 13.”
Minnesota 13 was also the name given to the whiskey moonshined from this same corn. A hub of farmers distilling, selling and transporting Minnesota 13 was formed in Central Minnesota, the whiskey became known worldwide, and it was highly sought after for years.
The Bootlegger’s Daughter is the second book in my Daughters of the Roaring Twenties miniseries. Norma Rose is the oldest Nightingale sister, and very protective of her siblings and the family business, Nightingale’s—a resort that caters to those with money to spend.
Bootlegging Minnesota 13 is part of the family business, and where there are bootleggers there are prohibition men ready to take them down. Norma Rose recognizes Ty Bradshaw as an agent as soon as she sets eyes on him, but when he also comes to her rescue she has some hard decisions to make.
I hope you enjoy Norma Rose and Ty’s story, and reading about this time period that brought more freedom and independence for women.
Lauri
Robinson
The Bootlegger’s
Daughter
A lover of fairy tales and cowboy boots, Lauri Robinson can’t imagine a better profession than penning happily-ever-after stories about men (and women) who pull on a pair of boots before riding off into the sunset—or kick them off for other reasons. Lauri and her husband raised three sons in their rural Minnesota home, and are now getting their just rewards by spoiling their grandchildren. Visit: laurirobinson.blogspot.com, facebook.com/lauri.robinson1 and twitter.com/LauriR.
Books by Lauri Robinson
Harlequin Historical
Daughters of the Roaring Twenties
The Runaway Daughter (Undone!)
The Bootlegger’s Daughter
Stand-Alone Novels
Unclaimed Bride
Inheriting a Bride
The Cowboy Who Caught Her Eye
Christmas Cowboy Kisses
“Christmas with Her Cowboy”
The Major’s Wife
The Wrong Cowboy
A Fortune for the Outlaw’s Daughter
Harlequin Historical Undone! ebooks
Testing the Lawman’s Honor
The Sheriff’s Last Gamble
What a Cowboy Wants
His Wild West Wife
Dance with the Rancher
Rescued by the Ranger
Snowbound with the Sheriff
Never Tempt a Lawman
Visit the Author Profile page at Harlequin.com.
To my dear friend Jennifer Edwards.
Thanks for so graciously loaning me your mother’s name!
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Excerpt from The Captain's Frozen Dream by Georgie Lee
Chapter One
White Bear Lake, Minnesota, 1925
The steady tick of bugs hitting the metal shield protecting the streetlamp was like a clock ticking away the seconds. Patience had never been one of Ty Bradshaw’s best virtues, not even when his life had depended on it during long stays in trenches overseas. A product of the Selective Service Act, he’d been one of the ten thousand soldiers shipped to France each day courtesy of the US armed forces eight years ago. Unlike many other twenty-year-olds back then, he’d come home alive.
Because he was lucky.
That’s what he was counting on now. Luck. His experience using a machine gun during the days of the Great War might come in handy, too. That was up in the air. He hadn’t needed to use a gun since he’d returned, and as far as he’d discovered, Roger Nightingale didn’t approve of gunfire at his resort, but the gangsters Nightingale associated with didn’t care where they burned powder. They’d pump lead into people while they were sleeping. He knew that firsthand.
Maybe he did have more patience than he gave himself credit for. He’d waited five years for this chance.
Then again, maybe he was just dedicated and savoring his revenge.
Headlights turned the corner, and deep in the shadows, Ty stood stock-still. Waiting. Watching. His smile a secret, held inside where only he knew about it, along with the rush of blood flowing through his veins like an underground spring.
The car slowed and pulled up to the curb, and Ty let loose a portion of his grin as the headlights lost their glow. The long, sleek touring car put his Model T, the cheapest and most popular one Henry Ford ever made, to shame. However, his old Ford served its purpose, allowing him to maintain his cover. Ready to put the final legs of his plan into place, Ty’s pulse hitched up one more notch as the touring car’s engine went silent.
Roger Nightingale had arrived. A legal bootlegger—if there was such a thing—Nightingale was the man behind most of the alcohol in the upper Midwest. Yet, in Ty’s eyes, “The Night” was a small fish, a means to the end. He was after the high pillow. The real McCoy. Ray Bodine. Ty had followed the trail Bodine had left of bottom-barrel boys, triggermen and torpedoes fro
m New York to Chicago, and now to St. Paul.
With federal agents on his tail, Bodine had escaped New York by faking his own death. Using an alias, he’d made plenty of money in Chicago the past year via front men, eluding and paying off agents, and now they’d moved into St. Paul—the headwater of the whiskey trade. The vast northern woods and endless waterways made running booze—namely a local brew known as Minnesota Thirteen—a mug’s dream, and Bodine wanted that more than a drunk wanted his next prescription. The mob boss would have plenty of competition here, and not just from Ty. Mobsters from all over had ties to St. Paul, and almost every loop led one way or another to Roger Nightingale. Ty had coveted that information, and now he was prepared to use it. Bringing down Bodine is what he was here to do, and he didn’t care who he had to put the screws to in order for that to happen.
Palooka George’s birthday was coming up in two weeks. The one-time boxer had a long list of friends, and enemies. Gangsters far and wide would attend the birthday bash. Ty would be there, too, come hell or high water.
The Cadillac’s driver’s door opened—a red phaeton with four doors and a fold-down black roof. New. The red paint still had a showroom gleam that glistened brightly in the yellow-hued light cast from the bug-attracting streetlamp.
A foot appeared, and a second one, covered with black patent leather shining as brightly as the paint on the car.
With heels.
Ty was still taking note of that when what emerged next had him licking his lips to wash aside the wolf whistle itching to let loose. A fine pair of legs. Shapely, and covered in sheer silk stockings. He bit down on his bottom lip as the woman completely exited the car. The hem of her dress stopped just below her knees, giving way for plenty to be admired. He continued to admire as his gaze roamed upward, over subtle curves that had him sucking in a good amount of air just to keep that whistle contained.
Women were a lot like whiskey. He didn’t need either on a regular basis, but sampling a taste every now and again was something he didn’t mind doing, and Norma Rose Nightingale was one classy dame. The real cat’s meow.
He’d only seen her from afar, through the lenses of his binoculars while hiding in the woods near the resort, but it had been enough for him to know he’d liked what he’d seen. He liked it now, too. The way her skirt swirled as she spun around to shut the car door. Black, or navy blue maybe, the material of her dress hugged her body just so and glistened in the glow from the streetlight outside the hoosegow.
With slow, precise movements, Ty tugged the front of his hat lower on his forehead and eased back against the building until the coolness of the bricks penetrated his suit coat—he needed the chill to douse the flames spiking in his lower belly. He could see her, but unless Norma Rose turned all the way around and peered directly into the shadows cast by the overhead awning, she couldn’t see him.
Roger Nightingale, Norma Rose’s father, was the person Ty had expected to visit the jail tonight. Her arrival changed his plan. He tossed around a couple of alternate options while admiring the way Norma Rose’s hips swayed as she walked around the front of the Cadillac.
A dark little hat, probably the same shade as that tailored dress, covered her short blond waves, and a small handbag with a gold-chain handle dangled from one hand. She was wearing pearls, too, a long strand tied in a knot just below rather a nice set of breasts. Dressed to catch a man’s eye, that’s what she’d done all right, dolled up just like the other night, when she’d been welcoming guests into her father’s resort.
Nightingale’s Resort was a hot vacation place for big shots with bankrolls to blow, not just those from the bustling metropolis of Minneapolis and St. Paul. Secluded deep in the woods, and just a short jaunt north of the city, the resort catered to butter-and-egg men from all over. Chicago, Milwaukee, Detroit, New York. To rent one of the dozen or more lakeside bungalows for a single evening cost more than Ty and most other folks made in a month.
Palooka George would stay in one of those bungalows. Ray Bodine would be in one, too, and Ty needed to know which one Bodine would be in, so he could get the graft on the New York mobster whose killing spree had set a ball of fire in Ty’s stomach years ago.
Turning slightly, Ty watched Norma Rose step onto the sidewalk. The hoosegow was in the center of the city, surrounded by dungeons transformed into speakeasies, high-end clip joints and nightclubs pretending to serve only coffee and tea, yet she hadn’t cast a single glance around. Her steps were purposeful, her back straight. Confident. He liked that.
The heels of her shoes clicked on the pavement as she strolled past the brightly lit front door of the city jail, heading straight for the unmarked chief of police’s private entrance.
Ty pushed off the wall and straightened his suit coat, making sure his piece—a cheap government-issued pistol—was well-concealed beneath his arm, and waited until she’d arrived at the door before he headed across the street. Five chiefs of police had come and gone in St. Paul the past few years, and there was no reason to believe Ted Williams was any less corrupt than his predecessors. That, too, would play in Ty’s favor.
* * *
Norma Rose drew a deep breath and took a moment to smooth her pleated skirt and tug at the cuffs of both gloves. The city, especially at night, was not her favorite place. Uncle Dave was going to owe her for this one. Getting arrested. He knew better. It hadn’t been that long ago when food had been scarce and money nonexistent. Now her family had the finest things of anyone in White Bear Lake. Perhaps all of Minnesota. Her wardrobe was the envy of many and it certainly didn’t take her high school diploma—the first in her family—to figure out she didn’t want things to go back to how they used to be. One wrong move could snuff out the money flowing into her father’s bank accounts. Uncle Dave was as aware of that as she.
Fueled by the ire old memories ignited, she twisted the knob on the door. Ted Williams, St. Paul’s chief of police, knew better, too. Arresting Uncle Dave would not play in his favor.
The target of her indignation sat behind his desk, dressed in a blue uniform with shiny gold buttons and a flat hat spouting a badge. He jumped to his feet as she shut the door with the perfect amount of force. It didn’t slam, but did cause the single lightbulb hanging by a black cord from the ceiling to sway, and certainly displayed her irritation.
“Norma Rose,” Ted Williams said, rounding his desk. “I expected your father.”
“He’s busy.” Everyone knew the resort packed people in by the dozens on the weekends, yet she reminded him, “It is Friday night.”
“I’m aware of that.” The police chief removed his hat and laid it on his desk. “But I figured he’d want to come get his brother-in-law right away.”
She crossed the room and set her purse on the other corner of the long desk. “He’s busy, so I’m here.” Keeping her expression stony, Norma Rose leveled a solid stare on the man. “Why did you arrest Dave?”
“I didn’t arrest him,” Ted said, tugging down the hem of his uniform jacket.
Norma Rose kept her well-trained eyes from roaming. Ted Williams was a swanky-looking bird, tall and lean with sand-colored hair and periwinkle eyes. If she ever had a mind to form a crush on someone, it could very well be him. However, that would never happen. Keeping the resort running smoothly, her father satisfied, her sisters happy and, evidently, her uncle out of jail, took all her time. She was thankful for that—being busy—and liked most of it, particularly being a businesswoman. Even the big boys respected her and she was going to keep it that way. The quickest way to lose respect was to become a doxy.
“Why is he here, then?” she asked when Ted didn’t elaborate.
Rubbing the back of his neck, Ted shrugged. “I got a call about an ossified egg on the street corner and sent an officer out to get him. It turned out to be Dave.”
“Drunk? Dave?” Norma Rose shook her head. “That’s impossible.” Only the family knew Dave didn’t drink. Ever.
Ted leaned against the desk. “May
be someone slipped him a Mickey.”
Norma Rose refused to let the bubble of concern that burst in her stomach show. “No one would have done that.” Too many men feared repercussions to do such a thing, and others were paid too well.
Ted shrugged again, and lifted an eyebrow while his gaze wandered to where her string of pearls was tied. She lifted her chin and used an unwavering glare to challenge him to meet her gaze instead of stare at her breasts.
“Why didn’t you drive him home?” she asked.
He shifted his stance and his gaze. “As you pointed out, it’s Friday night. The city is hopping.”
“Who called you?” she asked. The underground world Prohibition had built was vast, and undeniably corrupt, almost as fraudulent as those with their self-righteous attitudes who’d created it in the first place.
Ted shifted his stance as if uncomfortable.
New faces did pop up now and again—men and women hoping to make a fortune selling bootlegged and home-brewed spirits who might be foolish enough to challenge the monopoly her father had built. They never lasted long. “Who was it?”
“Mel Rosengren at the Blind Bull,” Ted answered. “But he claimed Dave hadn’t been there.”
“Of course he hadn’t been there,” she said. “Dave doesn’t patronize such establishments.” The fact that her uncle didn’t drink made him the perfect man for the job he held—providing samples to buyers. Actually, Dave couldn’t drink. He broke out in hives and swelled up like a raccoon hit by a car and left on the side of the road to bake in the sun when he consumed so much as a teaspoon of alcohol. Allergic is what Gloria Kasper, the family physician, called it. Highly allergic. “Where is he?”
Before Ted spoke, the door opened—not the one to the street, but the one to the police station.
“Chief.” A portly officer Norma Rose didn’t recognize poked his head through the opening. “A lawyer wants to pay Dave Sutton’s bail.”
More than concern flared inside Norma Rose. “Bail? A lawyer?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
A fresh bout of ire stung her nerves. No one would have called in a mouthpiece. She’d told her father she’d take care of this, and she would. He was busy trying to convince Brock Ness to stay and play at the resort rather than heading to Chicago to play for some radio station. She’d offered to drive into the city and get Dave because finding another musician this close to the two large parties they had coming up would be next to impossible. “I’m here to pick up Dave,” Norma Rose told Ted, along with a look that said there would be no bail. A man who didn’t do his job didn’t deserve to be paid.
The Bootlegger's Daughter (Daughters Of The Roaring Twenties Book 1) Page 1
