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POP WAS NOT SUPPOSED to be in London.
He was supposed to be in Los Angeles, or possibly Palm Springs or Las Vegas. London was not his home, even though it was Cora’s now.
Still.
That was definitely Mr. Nick Valenti.
Pop.
Cora stared at the set of posters outside Club Paradiso in Soho. His name was emblazoned in a joyful font together with dates of a performance, and he tilted his head toward a microphone. Pop’s perpetually black hair gleamed, and he gave a wide smile that showcased his equally well-maintained teeth. He was dressed in one of his impeccable suits. Other men might shy from wearing scarlet, but Pop was not most men.
Pop was an entertainer.
Pop was a singer.
Pop was famous.
Veronica elbowed her. “Gee, isn’t that your father?”
“Yes,” Cora said quietly. “That’s him.”
“I didn’t know he was here.”
“I didn’t either.”
Archibald pulled against his lead, no doubt desiring to continue their walk through Soho, but Cora continued to stare at the poster.
Veronica didn’t raise an eyebrow. Veronica was an orphan. They’d been child stars together, back in Hollywood, but now Veronica was newly single and eager to put scandal behind her, and Cora was eager to put Hollywood behind her.
London offered an opportunity for a new beginning, one not only filled with people who said boot instead of trunk, queue instead of line, and pavement instead of sidewalk, but of a place with a long history, where she could be anonymous.
Her father evidently did not harbor the same dreams for anonymity.
Cora found her lips turning up. She hadn’t realized how much she missed him, even if his presence was unexpected. “Do you think he’s there now?”
“Let’s see.” Veronica grabbed her hand, and they headed inside Club Paradiso. The performance was not until eight pm, but when they entered the club, the sound of Pop’s lilting voice was immediately recognizable.
Whatever her father’s faults were, he knew how to sing.
A coat check girl swayed softly before empty hangers to the music. “We’re not open for another four hours.”
“She’s the entertainment’s daughter,” Veronica announced.
The coat check girl’s eyes widened. “You’re Veronica James.”
Veronica gave a cursory nod. “Indeed.”
The coat check girl assessed Cora. “And you’re his daughter.” Her forehead wrinkled slightly, as it always did when people met her after they met Cora’s father.
Pop was suave, charming and debonair.
Cary Grant could take lessons from him.
Pop didn’t let his ever increasing age impede being an idol for millions of women.
Cora, in the prime of her life, was slightly more disappointing. She was too shy, and her features too ordinary to warrant stardom. Petiteness was not a common trait in starlets.
“Let me ring his manager.” The woman scrambled through some papers.
“We can hear him,” Veronica said. “We’ll just go in.”
The coat check girl halted her search, and a rigidity her face had not possessed before appeared. “I’m under strict instructions not to let anyone see him.”
“Nonsense.” Veronica grabbed Cora’s arm, and her always abundant collection of bracelets jangled. “Let’s go, honey.”
“But Miss James—”
Veronica marched through a glossy black door, and they entered the club. It seemed composed of all rich dark wood and claret colored walls and furnishings. Scents of cocktails lingered in the air. Tables faced the stage, and on the stage, stood Pop.
He wore a dapper suit, even though the poster had clearly stated his show didn’t start until tomorrow night. Cora felt an instant sense of uncertainty. But he halted his singing and rushed down the steps from the stage.
“Honey bunny.” Pop swept her into a hug.
“What are you doing in London?” she asked.
“Oh, California’s too small for me,” Pop said amiably. He turned to Veronica. “And how are you?”
“Splendid,” Veronica said.
“Managing not being a duchess instead anymore?”
“Technically, I am still a duchess,” Veronica said icily.
The dissolution of her marriage was a sore spot for Veronica. She’d left Hollywood last year, declaring her intentions to become an English aristocrat to the sorrow of many audience goers. She’d been reluctant to return to Hollywood quickly, even though everyone knew the duke lacked the magnificence his title indicated.
“So grand!” Pop grinned, unperturbed by Veronica’s proclivity toward frostiness
“You should have told me you were coming to London,” Cora said.
Her father’s cheeks turned an uncharacteristic ruddy shade, and he lowered his voice. “It was a sudden trip. I called the number you’d given, but it seemed you’d already left.”
“Oh. I moved into a new apartment. Or at least, I’ll move in this afternoon. I just procured the keys, and we’re going there now.”
“That’s swell.” Her father’s gaze drifted to Archibald. “Say, you got a dog.”
“Archibald, meet my father,” Cora said formally, and Archibald offered him his paw.
Pop slipped from his chair and settled onto the ground opposite her bichon. Her father shook Archibald’s paw, and Archibald offered him his other paw. Pop shook that one as well, and her dog wagged his tail.
“You’re a pretty pup.” Pop ruffled Archibald’s white coat.
Archibald continued to wag his tail and he settled into Pop’s lap.
“He likes you,” Cora said.
“Most people do,” Pop said with a shrug.
It was true.
Most people adored her father.
He’d been a singer in Las Vegas when Cora was a child, and when they’d moved to Los Angeles so she could become a child star in the pictures, Pop’s career had exploded.
Everyone loved Pop. He was handsome, much handsomer than Cora was pretty, and women adored his chiseled cheeks and propensity to swagger.
“Looks like a perfect Bichon Frisé specimen,” Pop said. “Have you taken him to dog shows?”
Pop’s eyes gleamed, and visions of Archibald at various dog shows filled her mind. She stepped away. “I don’t have his birth information. He might not even be a purebred.”
“Never mind then. You should attend tomorrow night’s performance.”
“I’d love to,” Cora said sincerely, and Veronica concurred.
Pop grinned. “I’m staying at the Savoy.” He leaned closer. “Though tell the front desk you’re looking for Mr. Adam Jones.”
Cora blinked. It was unlike Pop to go by a different name. He’d always lauded the virtues of publicity, and it seemed uncharacteristic for him to not indulge in any improved room service his name might offer him.
“Are you quite alright?” she asked.
“Naturally,” Pop said, a bit too forcefully. “Now tell me, where are you staying?”
Right.
Cora scrambled in her purse for a piece of paper and wrote her new address and number. “You’re welcome to join Veronica and me now.”
A short man with a stocky build stepped from behind the red velvet curtains that surrounded the stage.
“I better not,” Pop said hastily. “I’m a trifle occupied.”
“What’s all this?” The man scowled and yanked his cigar from his mouth. Ash fluttered to the floor. “No visitors now. Club Paradiso is closed.”
“Not necessary, Vinny,” Pop said. “This is my daughter and her good friend Veronica James.”
Vinny’s eyes remained narrowed, but he slowed his pace. “Are you sure, Mr. Valenti?”
The man’s accent was American, and Cora fought the urge to frown. Wouldn’t it be more likely that club security would be British? This was London, after all. Was it possible Vinny was Pop’s personal security? Why would he see the need for that?
Something seemed to trouble her father, and when Veronica and Cora left, Cora felt unsettled.