She was enjoying the dancing far more than she should, considering the circumstances, Amalie thought. There were, after all, matters of national security at stake. A valuable cipher machine had gone missing. A legendary gunrunner named Smith, or someone working for him, had recently tried to kill them with a grenade. Granted, the person who had hurled the small bomb into Pickwell’s workshop had been attempting to murder Matthias, but nevertheless, she would have been just as dead if the effort had been successful.
And now, to top things off, Raina Kirk had fanned the flames of the smoldering embers of a nightmare—the possibility that Marcus Harding had a partner who might have tracked her down.
She should definitely be focused on other, more important things, and yet here she was, thrilling to the feel of Matthias’s warm, strong hand on the skin of her lower back and the heat of his body so close to her own. She was flying again.
Memories of their time together in the big four-poster bed had been tormenting her ever since she had awakened that morning. He had made no mention of the interlude and she was afraid to bring up the subject in case it hadn’t meant as much to him as it had to her. She was fighting hard to resist the temptation to indulge in fantasies of a future with Matthias Jones. That way lay disaster or, at the very least, heartbreak. Better to stay focused on the here and now. But as fate would have it, she was dancing with the man of her dreams—right here and right now.
“Your celebrity guest just arrived with none other than the gossip columnist who labeled your inn the Psychic Curse Mansion,” Matthias said.
So much for the fantasy that he might have been entertaining warm thoughts about last night.
“How do you know Mr. Hyde is with Lorraine Pierce?” Amalie asked.
“Luther mentioned earlier that Pierce had reserved one of the star tables for Hyde and herself tonight.”
“There are star tables?”
“Luther holds the first row of booths around the dance floor for the celebrities. That way they can be sure they will be noticed. The stars don’t come to a place like the Paradise for privacy.”
“Who gets the other tables?”
“The people who hope to become celebrities and those who like to be seen with them. The goal here at the Paradise is to convince the customers that they are part of the fantasy.”
Amalie looked around, taking in the candlelit booths, the musicians in their snappy white jackets and bow ties, and the glittering crowd. The illusion of glamour shimmered in the atmosphere.
“Mr. Pell certainly makes it feel real,” she said.
“It is real.” Matthias tightened his hand on her bare back, pulling her closer. “At least for a night. That’s why it works.”
Real for a night. She decided not to pursue that cryptic thought. There are dangerous forces at play here. Matters of life and death and, oh yeah, national security. Stay focused, woman.
“I think Lorraine Pierce is sizing you up for another headline,” Matthias said.
Amalie groaned. “What makes you say that?”
“Something about the way she’s watching you.”
“She recognized me?” Amalie asked, startled.
“Vincent Hyde must have pointed you out to her. I’ve got a feeling she’s planning to ride her story about the Psychic Curse Mansion as long as she can. And Hyde is probably encouraging her. After all, he’s getting a lot of press out of it, too.”
The music drew to a close. Amalie ruthlessly suppressed a wistful sensation. Matthias took her elbow and steered her off the dance floor. The route he chose took them directly past the booth where Vincent Hyde and a woman in a dark red evening gown sat smoking cigarettes and sipping cocktails. Both were cloaked in the dramatic ennui that only genuine celebrities could successfully project.
Lorraine Pierce’s hair was as red as her gown and piled high on her head in a cascade of curls. She was, Amalie decided, one of those women who must have been stunningly beautiful in her younger days. She looked to be in her late thirties or early forties now. The bones were still elegant but the face had a hard, tightly drawn appearance that was only somewhat softened by the candlelight.
Vincent smiled his silver-screen smile and raised his glass in a mocking salute.
“Good news, Miss Vaughn, I have survived the Psychic Curse Mansion for yet another day,” he announced. “I may live long enough to pay my bill.”
Lorraine managed to look dryly entertained by the remark but the sharp glitter in her eyes told Amalie that she was practically holding her breath in anticipation of a response to Vincent’s little joke.
Rule Number One when you’ve got an audience: Make ’em wait for it.
Amalie summoned her most dazzling smile.
“I’m so glad you’re enjoying the atmosphere of the Hidden Beach Inn,” she said. “As I recall, you did say you thought it would provide the perfect inspiration for your next role.”
Vincent chuckled. “No doubt about it.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Amalie saw Lorraine’s mouth open on what would no doubt be a highly charged comment or question.
Rule Number Two: See Rule Number One.
Amalie turned to Matthias. “Will you excuse me? I want to powder my nose.”
Matthias’s brows rose a little. He probably assumed that she was trying to escape.
“Of course,” he said. “I’ll wait for you in the bar.”
“I’ll just be a moment,” she assured him.
She turned to walk toward the shadowed doorway marked with a discreet sign.
Lorraine started to slide out of the booth. “I’ll come with you.”
Amalie pretended not to hear her. She went swiftly toward the entrance to the hall that led to the ladies’ lounge.
Rule Number Three: See Rule Number One and Rule Number Two.
Aware that Lorraine was hurrying to catch up with her, Amalie slipped through the doorway and went quickly down the short hall. She pushed open a door and entered a lush, glamorously decorated chamber.
The ladies’ lounge looked as if it had been designed by someone who created movie sets for a living. Now that she had met Luther Pell, Amalie was sure that was the case. The walls were covered in flocked red and gold velvet. Satin-covered stools were positioned in front of the black lacquer dressing tables scattered around the room. Large mirrors framed with dressing room lights glittered at each table.
Through an arched doorway two rows of stalls and sinks could be seen. A uniformed attendant stood at the ready in front of a cabinet that held a variety of necessities, including a stack of pristine white towels and a fully equipped sewing basket.
Several women in silk and satin gowns were seated at the dressing tables applying powder from jeweled compacts. Others carefully refreshed their lipstick in various fashionable shades of red.
Amalie sat down at one of the dressing tables and opened the tiny beaded evening bag that had once belonged to Madam Zolanda. Approximately three seconds later Lorraine burst through the door of the lounge and paused just long enough to make sure that she had the attention of almost everyone in the room. She was not a star, but she partied with stars and she published their secrets. That was more than enough to make her a celebrity in her own right.
A hush fell on the ladies’ lounge.
Lorraine looked at Amalie and arched her carefully drawn brows.
“Are you enjoying your evening out, Miss Vaughn?” she said.
“It’s been delightful,” Amalie said. She removed her lipstick from the small bag and uncapped it. “Until now.”
The women seated at the nearby dressing tables froze. Amalie could have sworn she heard some actual gasps of astonishment. Several toilets suddenly flushed and stall doors banged open. A scene was taking place in the ladies’ room of the Paradise Club. No one wanted to miss it.
Rule Number Four: See the first four rules.
Lorraine’s smile never wavered but her blue eyes were diamond-hard. She swept across the carpeted floor, sank down onto a satin stool, and took a gold compact out of a small bag.
“I wouldn’t have thought the Paradise was your sort of nightclub,” she said. “I pictured you as more of a Carousel Club girl. Rumor has it you were seen there the other night on the arm of a certain visiting mobster. Care to comment?”
Amalie flashed a smile and said nothing.
Lorraine’s eyes narrowed. “You’re with the same man tonight. Tell me, what’s it like dating a guy who probably makes his living as an enforcer for a mob boss?”
“Exciting,” Amalie said.
“Rather hard on a girl’s reputation, though, isn’t it?”
“My reputation will survive.” Amalie dropped the lipstick back into the evening bag and got to her feet. “I assume you are chatting with me because you are desperate for gossip for your column, so allow me to give you a headline, Miss Pierce.”
Lorraine blinked, clearly torn between irritation and caution. “What would that be?”
Amalie crossed the room, dropped a few coins into the tip jar on the attendant’s table, and turned to look back at her breathless, wide-eyed audience.
“The Psychic Curse Mansion has become such a popular attraction in Burning Cove that management will begin conducting guided tours of the house starting tomorrow,” she said. “The tours will begin at two in the afternoon. The price of admission includes tea and homemade shortbread served in the elegant conservatory. For reservations, call the Hidden Beach Inn.”
It was as if she had rolled a verbal grenade into the ladies’ room. Her audience went into shock.
Satisfied, Amalie smiled at the attendant. “All employees of the Paradise Club, as well as the other local restaurants, nightclubs, and hospitality establishments, will be admitted for free. Please spread the word and bring a friend.”
The attendant looked uncertain. “Even the maids and the dishwashers?”
“Everyone,” Amalie said. “But be sure to call ahead for reservations. We wouldn’t want to run out of tea and cookies.”
The attendant glowed. “My boyfriend is going to be thrilled when he hears about this.”
“At the Hidden Beach Inn, we are in the business of delivering thrilling entertainment,” Amalie said.
She opened the door and went out into the shadowed hall before the audience could recover.
Rule Number Five: Know when to make your exit.