How smooth, his manner. Like an ice cream soda, only much more sophisticated. Upperclass from the cut of his clothes.
Kate sniffed and spun in the direction of a new customer, leaving a thin black line of rubber in her wake. The swish of her woolen skirt mingled with Reilly’s low laughter.
“What a dry dame. She’d rub more than a man’s mood the wrong way.”
At his carnal comments, Moira melted under the pressure of her own raging emotions. This Reilly Dunne might be the Devil in disguise. “She’s a hard one to get along with, that’s for sure.”
“You’re not hard to get along with. I can tell that by the way you’re trembling. You let her walk all over you like a new rug. I’m used to living life among all sorts. Don’t care for her type. Learned to take care of myself at an early age. Seen some sights, for sure. Not the type of sights to discuss with a lady like you, though.” Reilly leaned against the display case.
One glance at the front of his trousers confirmed Moira’s suspicion. What an eyeful. How would it feel to have his hardness filling her wet softness? Would he behave like a mad bull or a gentle lamb? Moira jerked her hand away from the glass countertop. A damp palm print remained. No doubt about it. Definitely, a bull, and from all appearances, thick as an Irish potato and twice as hot.
“You’re going to get me sacked,” Moira said, but he pressed two fingers against her quivering lips.
“No. They won’t want to lose the most gorgeous girl between here and Harlem. If they cause you a problem, let me know. Bainbridge’s owner, Horace VanMuir, and I are well-acquainted.” Reilly’s voice lowered with each word. “Actually, he owes quite a big debt at one of the club’s card tables. I’ll get it forgiven if need be.”
What powers of persuasion did Reilly possess? Other than making her giddy at his intense gaze? She shook her head to clear her thoughts. Gloves. He’d mentioned something about a Christmas present and gloves. She’d get an additional selection from the stockroom. That would bide time and allow her pulse to return to normal.
Kate Flannigan headed in their direction again, and Moira made up her mind. “Excuse me. I’ll be back in a minute with more samples and sizes.”
“You’re the right size for me, Moira Monaghan,” he called after her.
* * * *
As she passed through the storeroom’s curtain, it flapped dust in her face and caused her to sneeze. Moira pulled on the light cord but to no avail. “
Damnu
,” she muttered. Why didn’t someone change the bulb?
Feeling her way along the shelves, Moira’s found the glove boxes. Her eyes gradually adjusted to the dimly lit confines of the stockroom. A floorboard creaked. With several samples in her hand, she turned and stopped in her tracks. Had Kate followed her?
Better hold on to these. Make it look good, just in case
.
Not one to normally carry on a private conversation with herself, Moira began a verbal inventory. “Let’s see, size seven in the white gloves with lace trim. A pair of the same, only in jet black. Yes, I think he’ll find these quite pleasing.”
“Oh, he does indeed,” came the reply. “More pleasing than a hot bath on a winter’s day.”
At hearing his voice, she dropped the gloves and rushed to escape the darkness surrounding her. Then she saw him. His long, lean body positioned near the opposite shelving.
“Who’s there?” Moira’s voice quavered.
“Your best customer.”
“Reilly?”
“In the flesh. How’d you guess?”
“You’re the only one other than Kate who knows I’m back here. If she catches...”
“Ah, nonsense. I sent her off on a goose chase. By the time she gets back, she’ll think I’m long gone.” He closed the gap between them and held out his hands for the gloves.
Hot fingers teased hers, and Moira drew closer to him. A shaft of sunlight sliced through a tiny window at the rear of the storeroom and illuminated his handsome face.
“Let me see how these fit you,” Reilly said.
“We can go out there and try them on. We can’t…”
“Can’t what? You protest too much, Moira.”
Before she could continue, his strong arms laced around her waist and lifted her atop a nearby table. One table leg was worn, and the whole thing wobbled underneath her weight.
“Here. That’s better.” He patted her leg. “Now you can be comfortable while you model these for me.” She reached for the white gloves, but he moved them out of her reach. “No, no. I’ll put them on.”
With her fingers splayed wide and palms facing him, Moira awaited the fitting. Her drawers dampened at his suggestion. What was wrong with her? How silly that a simple thing like putting on a pair of gloves would arouse her. It did and she wouldn’t protest any further.
“We need to unfasten the button at the wrist. That way we make sure they’re wide open,” he said in a husky voice.
Wide open? Moira glanced down and noticed her parted legs. She made every attempt to close them, but to no avail. Between them, Reilly positioned his body. A strange current sizzled in her womb. Her skirt had inched up above her knees, revealing them and the baggy black stockings.
Deftly, he rolled up the left glove and placed each opening over her fingertips. The soft silk caressed each finger as he eased the sections downward toward her palm. Wrinkles remained and she attempted to smooth them.
He stilled her shaking hand. “I’ll take care of that.”
With the patience of a saint, but the touch of a sinner, he pinched each of her fingers in turn between his thumb and forefinger and milked them in the most delicious manner.
When finished, he slipped his thumbs underneath the cuffs and caressed her palms. “Perfect. Never have I seen something fit so well. I’ll take them.”
Moira removed the tape measure from around her neck. “Let me measure my hand to make sure it’s the size you really want.”
Reilly teased the tape from her hands and whipped it around her upper body. Her nose bumped against his in the process. “Do you really know what I want?”
The wool fabric of his suit chafed her palms as she gripped his shoulders. His breath fanned against her face. Their lips were less than an inch apart. “Yes. The gloves. Wrapped up with a bright red bow on the top.”
His lips brushed lightly against hers. Soft as a butterfly’s wings. “You’re right about the red, Clara Bow. Red to match that kisser of yours. Red like my heart.”
Say something or he’ll think you’re a total innocent. “I’ll take care of wrapping them.” With his assistance, Moira clambered from her fitting post. “Is there anything else you’d like?” Today, Satan spurred her on in the wickedest way.
Once spoken, her words couldn’t be retracted. Who cared? It’s
my
turn to catch
him
off guard.
Reilly pursued, hot on her heels. “What I like can’t be bought at Bainbridge’s,” he said. “It’s far too precious for this place. There is something you can help me with.”
“What’s that?”
“Come back here for a minute and find out.”
What was he up to? She closed the gap between them and heard the rasp of his breathing. As he flapped one side of his coat jacket open, she swallowed hard.
“Here.” He removed and held up a safety pin. “You can use this to mend the garter later unless...”
She accepted the pin. “Unless what? I can fix it by myself.”
A devilish grin inched across his lips. “Of course. What I meant was I’d wait out there until you mended it. Always have one of those with me. Guess that goes with being a clothier.”
His hands molded against her hips, and her attempts to escape this erotic encounter made him even more determined to hold her hostage. A willing one. His nose skimmed her cheek, and their lips touched again, even more wonderful this time. Reilly pulled away just as she was getting used to the notion.
“I’ll...I have to get back out there.” Moira shot past him.
At the counter, she sucked in several deep breaths. From underneath, she secured some ribbon and cut it to size. Thankful that Reilly waited several minutes before emerging from behind the curtain, Moira monitored Kate’s whereabouts all the while. One last twist secured the final loop of the red bow. She admired her handiwork. Moira licked her lips, amazed at how they still tingled from the brief tango with Reilly’s.
Cunning as a cat, he slipped from the storeroom and approached her. “Thanks, again, Irish Rose. I got what I came for.” He winked and walked away, tapping the package and whistling
The Sheik of Araby
.
She pressed her legs together and shivered at the wetness developing in her most secret spot. How did he know my name before I told him? Oh, to have my heart and love belong to him. Now that would be an adventure. One I’d love to take and not care about getting lost.
* * * *
Tea sloshed over the edge of Helen Flynn’s cup. Moira shuddered. The brew dripping into the chipped saucer was nearly as scalding as her best friend’s sentiment. She longed to shut out the litany, but it was impolite not to listen.
Moira balled her hands into fists. So much for a pleasant afternoon tea in the front parlor. Why couldn’t Helen understand? “I have to do this for Janet. You know how ill her father is. Her mother’s afflicted with something terrible in her joints. If she loses that job, they’ll turn her out onto the street.”
“That need not concern you,” said Helen, setting the teacup and saucer down. “Why do you always have to be a do-gooder? Let someone else pick up that family’s broken pieces for once.” Tiny bits of scone clung to the corners of Helen’s mouth, and she removed them with her napkin. Her stiff shoes squeaked as she rose from the settee.
“It’s only for two nights. How much trouble can I find as a coat-check girl? Janet’s never mentioned any.”
Helen huffed at the trend of their conversation, stormed into the hallway and reached for her woolen coat. Moira followed her down the stairs leading to the greengrocery below.
“There’s no talking sense into that thick head of yours. One of these days...”
Once out on the sidewalk, Moira placed a hand over her mouth and nose as a buffer against the harsh December wind. “What? You’ll find me face down in an alleyway? Dead from some bully’s fist or boot? Look at this neighborhood, Helen. If I can survive here, I can survive anywhere. I’m doing this for Janet and there’s no persuading me otherwise.”
“Those Dunnes are gangsters.
Gadai
. Morgan Dunne is known to make payoffs to the police so they don’t shut down his speakeasies. The Continental Club is a hellhole.” Helen dabbed at her reddened nose with a linen handkerchief.
Gangsters? Thieves? Such was Helen’s contention only. Moira wouldn’t condemn anyone without knowing the facts first. Her gut churned. Wait a minute. Reilly said his last name was Dunne. He’d been so kind yesterday. Surely, he wouldn’t keep company with gangsters or have bad blood running through his body? Not Reilly. If he were the devil, then she’d soon be consumed by her attraction to him as well as hellfire. For another glimpse of Reilly, and to help her ill friend, she wouldn’t mind a bit. All in a day’s work...and pleasure when it came to being around Reilly.
* * * *
Reilly Dunne displayed his poker hand. A royal flush. The pile of coins he’d won could buy him several pairs of shoes. He snickered. What use were snazzy leather shoes when he was down in this damp cellar surrounded by cardsharps and drunkards?
“Old boy, you cleaned me out again,” Michael Morrison said and straightened his coat collar.
“Not to worry.” Reilly shook hands with the veteran gambler. “You’ll take my shirt the next time we sit down together.”
Reilly strained to see who else lingered downstairs in the private cellar of The Continental Club. Across the room, his head barely visible for the bluish-gray cloud of cigar smoke, Morgan Dunne chatted with his cronies. He bristled. The walls of this place were closing in around him. It was past time for him to get out of this den of despair for good. Whether his uncle liked it or not.
Westminster chimes announced the six o’clock hour. Time to get some fresh air. He downed the dregs of his whiskey and pushed back the rickety wooden chair. The liquor burned his gut but braced him for the evening ahead. What he needed was a new lease on life. Something or someone to shed some light on his otherwise dreary existence.
Perhaps Flossie would entertain him tonight? He’d never shared her bed, but she was good for a couple laughs. If there was one thing he loved in life, it was women. He loved their laughter, their perfumes. Most of all their bodies. He stayed away from his uncle’s brothels and the disease-ridden whores’ beds. He loved women, but not that type.
He stood and stretched. Time to bid this stinking cellar goodbye. Stop dwelling in darkness when there was so much light and life outside this speakeasy. Heading through the dimly lit tunnel, he made his way toward the set of steps leading to the upstairs office. Fine notion of his uncle’s—putting secret panels and passageways in this place. Like the Meridian Hotel, this club was impervious to goon busts.
Once in the oak-paneled office, Reilly flipped through the ledgers piled on the desk. Despite Prohibition, Uncle Morgan made more money in one week from liquor sales than most honest men made in a year. Morgan’s Meridian Hotel ranked as one of Manhattan’s most upscale retreats for the rich and famous. Also, Manhattan’s biggest deals wined and dined in the Wharf supper club, his uncle’s latest acquisition.