It Had to be You Page 13

  “Yeah.” Booker slides his hands to a different position on my coat, and I immediately miss their warmth. After slipping the garment off my shoulders, he holds it for me while I slide my arms into the arm holes, then buttons me up as if I’m a four-year-old. I don’t know if I should be insulted he thinks I can’t handle the job on my own, or just accept there is something kind of nice about being taken care of this way.

  Warmth returns the moment he finishes, mostly because he promptly pulls me into a back-cracking, feet-lifted-a-good-foot-off-the-ground hug. Seconds later, as he sets me back on my feet without letting go of me, I marvel I was able to forget the way he hugs in the first place. They were once a Booker special. How could I have forgotten just how tight and warm and real they are? How secure they make me feel?

  “That is a definite downside of owning or working in a bar if you’re not a smoker,” Booker agrees. “I have never understood the appeal, myself.” He draws back a little, tucking his chin in to look down at me. “But is it the only reason you’re out here, Lena? Because I thought we had—I don’t know—a moment in there on the dance floor.” His gaze is dead level as it meets my own. “Or maybe I was mistaken. Was I the only one affected?”

  I so want to say yes. Lord, I yearn for it to be just him. But his intense gaze drags the truth out of me. “No.”

  “No?” His mouth curves up. “So, you felt it, too?”

  I shrug. “Maybe.”

  “No, you don’t get to say maybe, baby.” Once again, he commands my gaze. “You either felt it as well, or you didn’t.”

  “Okay, fine. I felt...something.”

  Booker bends his head and presses a kiss to the left side of my neck just below the curve of my jaw. “Something that made you feel...flushed, maybe? Stimulated?” His voice is low and rough, as if he has to push his words through a throat full of gravel. He shifts his head to breathe directly into the whorls of my ear, “Hot?”

  It spurs a shaky little sigh that shudders up my own throat. I tip my head a fraction to the right to give him more room to maneuver. As much as I would rather not answer the question, I murmur, “Um-hmm.”

  To any or all of what he said.

  With an extremely deep, extremely male groan reverberating in his chest, he crouches slightly to kiss his way down my neck. I have no idea if it’s his hungry-sounding rumble or the feel of the unfamiliar stubble on his chin and jaw scratching my skin that’s doing the trick.

  Whatever it is, thrill bumps flash to far-reaching parts of my body. They wash a crazy pattern across my breasts, twisting my nipples into hard, aching points. From there sensation zings—as if on a direct, private non-party line—deep in my lady place.

  When Booker reaches the little hollow at the base of my throat, he gives it a small lick with the flat of his tongue. Then he lifts his head and the hot, damp spot goes icy with the loss of his body heat.

  He looks up at me through half lowered eyelids. Says, in what even I recognize as a sexually charged voice, “I have something for you.”

  The wash of disappointment his words cause promptly drowns every bit of pleasure I felt, and I stiffen in his arms. “Yeah?” I say flatly. “I’ve heard that one before.”

  Eyes narrowing, he surges to his full height, his hand wrapped around the back of my neck keeping us near. “Who the hell from?” he demands in a hard voice that somehow commands an immediate response.

  “Other men wanting the exact same thing you want from me right now!” I snap back at him.

  “And how many of those men have gotten what they wanted from you?”

  I thrust my chin up. “I fail to see how that is any of your beeswax, Booker.”

  “How many?” he persists.

  “Oh, dozens,” I lie with a breezy flip of my hand. “Heck, maybe even hundreds.”

  His hand tightens on my nape. “How. Many, Lena?”

  Oh, botheration! “None,” I spit out. “Okay? I have refused—well, not hordes of men—but my share. Even when it meant I didn’t get the job I was more than qualified for and really deserved.” I shove my face as close to his as I can , given our height differences. “I have earned every single singing engagement I’ve ever had with my voice, if you can imagine such a thing.”

  And I am so through with this garbage. After knocking his arm aside to make him drop his grip on my nape, I take a sizable step back. “How about you, lover boy? How many women have you gotten what you wanted from?”

  For the first time since tracking me down out here, Booker looks uncomfortable, and he mumbles something I don’t quite catch.

  “Speak up!” I demand, then use his own method of interrogation against him as I rap out, “How. Many, Booker?”

  One broad shoulder hitches toward his ear. “I don’t know, exactly.”

  “Why, because there have been so many?” I barely take note of the half-seas-over airman and woman stumbling out through Swanny Don’s front door, as I shoot only the briefest glance in their direction. I am too busy bracing myself against the sudden pain radiating out from the region of my heart.

  The latter makes me so angry. “Isn’t that just like a man?” I demand sourly. “Demanding ‘the little woman’ hold herself to the highest standards while they go catting around with any woman who will put up with their sorry selves?”

  “Or, maybe,” he says in that low, gravelly voice that sets up tingles in long-ignored parts of my body, “I was just practicing so I could get it right for the one woman who matters.”

  “Well, good luck explaining that to her when you find her.” The thought of him with “the one woman who matters” shouldn’t grind like so much broken glass in my stomach. Yet it does—and I hate it.

  “Yeah, it’s not going real swell so far,” I think I hear him mutter under his breath.

  Before I have time to process if those were the words I heard, he straightens. “Look, can we back this up and start over? I bought you something today to commemorate tonight’s success, because I knew in my gut your version of the song was going to be a success. I didn’t do it to get in your damn knickers.”

  “Oh.” My voice comes out small, and in truth, that’s how I suddenly feel: small. Over-reactive and petty. “I—” I clear my throat “I apologize for jumping to conclusions.”

  “It’s clear you still have some issues with me.”

  That shoves the poker back up my spine in a red-hot hurry and I take another step back. Because, really? “Can you honestly say you’re surprised by my “issues”, Booker? I loved you with everything I had and I thought you felt the same way about me.”

  I see him about to respond and with a hissed, “Tsk!” I thrust a hush your mouth finger in his face. “This is not me bringing up the letters again. I agree there is something fishy about neither of us ever getting so much as one from the other. But you left me, Booker. I don’t want to hear about your father spiriting you out of town without giving you a chance to contact me, either, because I accept his doing that was an impossible situation you had no control over. But your daddy didn’t stick around Seattle to stand guard over you. You were the one who made the decision to join the Army and go off without so much as a by your leave. You were the one who didn’t bother coming back to Walla Walla to let me hear from your own lips you were going halfway around the world. It was also you who didn’t find a way to call me or to send me a telegram. You. Just. Left. Me.” I poke a finger into his chest to underscore each word. Then take yet another step back and look him in the eye. “Without one damn word.”

  22

  susan andersen

  What can a girl expect from a palooka like you?

  BOOKER

  Shit. She’s not wrong. I could argue I was so damn young, so full of beans—as well as about a thousand conflicting emotions. That I was excited about my decision to join the Army and what I was convinced would be the glory of war. But the truth is, I didn’t do a single one of the things she just listed. Well, I tried to call, but when it didn’t work out I d
idn’t follow up. I also wrote my very first letter to her to tell her I loved her and let her know what I had done. But we both know how well those worked out between us. Other than that, I didn’t go out of my way.

  Annnnd...I guess I owe it her to actually say some of this to her, face to face, instead of trying to justify my behavior to myself.

  I meet her gaze head on. “I’m sorry.”

  She blinks up at me. “What?”

  I can’t help the small smile tugging up one corner of my mouth, because it is clearer than Seattle’s blue sky in summer she didn’t expect that. “I said I’m sorry. You’re right. I was livid with my father for dragging me to the U-dub like a ten-year-old schoolboy. And I was thrilled to be going off to war. I thought I was going to save the world from the Jerrys and have a big adventure while I was at it.” I shake my head at my long-lost innocence, but it was nothing short of the truth at the time. Briefly remembering the time when I still had those beliefs, makes my sudden laugh drier than dust. “Turns out, my view of what I assumed war would be was wildly romanticized and about as far off center as it gets.”

  Looking at her, I realize I have a gut-deep need to win back Lena’s respect. Hell, who am I kidding, to win back her love. And what the hey, now seems like a good time to start.

  But before I can say a word, I see Lena shiver and, with a silent sigh, I take her arm. “Look, let’s go inside and warm you up. I’ll tell you anything, everything, you want to know. We should have sat down and had a serious conversation a long time ago.”

  “It’s too loud inside to carry on a conversation.”

  I grimace. “Yeah. There is that. I’m sorry if I ruined your night to dance.”

  She shrugs, and I have no clue if it means Don’t worry about it, not a problem, or Big problem, but what the hell can a girl expect from a palooka like you?

  She wouldn’t be wrong about option two. I haven’t once tried to woo her. Haven’t taken her on a date or even shown her the smooth, savoir-faire I was known for in Paris, and have gained a reputation for here in Seattle as well, once I got the club up and running.

  I look at Lena, not feeling smooth in the slightest right this moment, yet determined to set things straight between us. “Maybe Will’ll let me borrow his car for a while. You and I could try to find an open diner somewhere. Give us a chance to sit down over a cup of coffee, identify any other misunderstandings we might have and deal with them once and for all.” Okay, it’s hardly two dozen roses or taking her to the top floor of the Sorrento Hotel for dinner and the best view in town. But it would be a start.

  Lena is shaking her head even before I finish. “Who knows how long that could tie up his car?” she asks, but mildly, her voice and attitude displaying no rancor. “We have no idea when he and the girls might be ready to go home, so I’d be a nervous wreck worrying about leaving them stranded.”

  She suddenly stands a little straighter. “Why don’t we just go in and have some fun with my friends?” she counters. “I swear I’m not trying to avoid a conversation—this simply doesn’t seem like the greatest time or the place. But you could drive me back to the Women’s Residence when we get back to the club. Or to a diner for a piece of pie if you know of any twenty-four-hour ones downtown. We’ll talk then.”

  I bend my knees slightly to look into her eyes. “Really talk, Lena. No dancing around the stuff you don’t want to say.”

  “Yes. All our cards on the table.” Her eyes are solemn, and as she nods with matching earnestness, her pale, pretty hair swishes against her cheekbones. “Because, you’re right. We need to have a serious sit-down. We are long overdue.”

  I squeeze her shoulders and step back. I want to kiss her again—quite desperately I want that. But one lesson my father managed to teach me was to know when to walk away.

  “Then that’s the plan,” I whip her around and sling an arm over her shoulder, tucking her against my side. “C’mon. Let’s get you inside before you turn into a popsicle.”

  23

  susan andersen

  I pay the cops good money to keep the Dry Squad off my back

  LENA

  Booker and I slowly cruise along yet another buttoned up downtown street. I’m not normally a pouter, but my lower lip might be sticking out a little as I peer at the dimly lighted storefronts and eateries. I dislike admitting this, but I was looking forward to sharing a meal with Booker again. Now, that might simply be the drinks I consumed talking. I thought I had danced most of those out of my system, but I could be wrong.

  Doesn’t matter, anyway, because there isn’t a blessed thing open at this hour of the morning.

  As if reading my thoughts, Booker suddenly shoots a glance my way, then pulls over to the curb. He looks rumpled and frustrated, worlds removed from the smooth, unflappable sophistication he usually wears like one of his dapper suits. His hat is pushed back on his head, reminding me of a bookie Will once pointed out at a horse race at the Valley Fair. Booker has long since tossed his coat on the back seat, unbuttoned the top two buttons on his shirt and rolled up his shirtsleeves. Then there’s his suspenders and the dark stubble on his chin and jaw. I swear I can darn near see it growing denser by the second.

  “Sorry, Lena,” he says, sounding as every bit as tired as I feel. “I was sure there was an all-night café around here somewhere, but clearly I had it wrong. Let me get you home. I’ll take you out for a nice dinner before work tomorrow and we can hash things out then.”

  I have the oddest urge to argue against giving up on our original plan. But the sheer size of my yawn threatens to crack my jaw in two, and I nod sleepily. “Sounds good. I’m worn to a nub.”

  A short while later, Booker pulls up in front of the Women’s Residence and shuts down his Packard. Before I can tell him he doesn’t need to see me to the front stoop, he’s already climbed out of the car and come around to open my door and usher me out. As we reach the small landing, the front door to the Women’s Residence whips open.

  My heart drops when I see Mrs. Rodale standing in the opening, her hands on her hips and one foot impatiently tapping a ratty slipper against the worn thin carpet. Her expression is nowhere in the neighborhood of friendly.

  Next to her are two suitcases I recognize as my own, and beside them a cardboard box, which I fear contains whatever leftover odds and ends didn’t fit into my luggage. I’m glad I left my new gowns in my dressing room at The Twilight Room, because I don’t even like to think about those beautiful fabrics being crammed willy-nilly in with the rest of my clothing.

  Or, worse, pinched. Heaven knows theft can be a problem at women’s residences.

  “What is this?” Booker demands authoritatively, jabbing his forefinger at my suitcases.

  Mrs. Rodale ignores him to look directly to me. “I made an allowance for you with the house curfew, missy,” she says briskly, “in deference to your work hours. “But I will not turn a blind eye to you rolling in with the dawn after you have been out doing God knows what with your Drugstore Cowboy!”

  My...what? I darn near choke on the startled laugh fighting to blow a hole in my throat. Under any other circumstance, I would no doubt howl at the idea of my landlady mistaking Booker for one of the shiftless fellas who hang around street corners trying to pick up girls. But the not-so-minor detail of Mrs. Rodale throwing me out on the street in the dead of the night sorta puts a damper on my sense of humor.

  I draw myself up and pin the older woman with the best I am not amused expression I can muster. “I beg your pardon?” I demand in a tone coated with ice. “Far from being a good-for-nothing lounge-about, Mrs. Rodale, this is my employer, Mr. Booker Jameson.”

  “And I don’t much care for your slur on either of our reputations,” Booker snaps with a steeliness a hundred times more effective than anything I can drum up. “Miss Bjornstad and I have put in long hours working overtime on the new music we’re adding to her sets.”

  Mrs. Rodale is not impressed. “Working overtime.” She snorts. “Is tha
t what you call it these days?” She uses her foot to push my belongings out onto the stoop. Then she gives me a slow up and down once-over, filled with so much contempt it threatens to shrivel me on the spot. “I run a respectable establishment,” she says snippily. “And you are no longer welcome here.”

  With a final, withering stare, she steps back and slams the door in my face.

  “Oh, my God!” I swing around to gape in shock at Booker. “What am I going to do?” I keep my gaze locked on his face, hoping he has an idea. I wrack my brain, then say tentatively, “Can you take me to Dot and Clara’s place? I’m sure they’ll take me in for tonight—and maybe even until I can find a new place.”

  “No doubt, but not tonight,” he says. Booker hands me the box, then tucks one of my suitcases beneath his upper arm, hugging it to his side as he squats to pick up the other. After rising to his full height, he rests his free hand on my lower back and escorts me back to the car. I can feel his heat clear through my coat.

  “Wait here just a sec,” he says and leaves me next to the passenger door while he opens the trunk to store my luggage and the box he’d removed from my death grip. He’s back in literally seconds to help me into the front seat with all the care he might show something precious. Or an invalid. Then he rounds the hood to climb in the driver’s side. He starts up the automobile but turns to me instead of putting it gear. “The Brasher girls are bound to be sound asleep by now. I’m taking you to my place.”

  “Oh, but—” I am amazed he can’t hear the hard thud of my heart battering the wall of my chest.