Manolos in Manhattan (16 page)

Popular nightclub chanteuse “Moxie, the Singing Rose of Omaha” performs regularly in the Greenwich Village nightclub owned by criminal kingpin, Clyde Caruso.

Caruso, charged last year with several counts of racketeering including extortion, obstruction of justice, and money laundering, was acquitted.

Despite persistent rumors, Miss Drayer denies that she and Caruso are romantically involved.

Holly lifted her brow. Was Jamie right? Had Daisy and the Italian gangster been lovers?

In another newspaper dated six months later, she found a piece about Daisy’s disappearance. Eagerly, Holly read the article.

On the eve of her elopement with wealthy businessman Braydon Averell III, Daisy Drayer, popular singer at gangster Clyde Caruso’s nightclub, has disappeared. Despite a thorough police investigation, Miss Drayer has not been found. Foul play is suspected.

Thus far police have been unable to link Caruso with the young woman’s disappearance.

And still later, in a 1931 edition of
The
New York Times
:

Today Clyde Caruso, head of local New York Italian crime syndicate, was convicted on sixteen RICO violations and sentenced to twenty-five years in Alcatraz Federal Penitentiary.

Holly scribbled the information on her notepad as her thoughts raced. So Daisy had disappeared? What happened to her? Had she changed her mind about eloping with Bix, and left town? Did she return to Omaha? Did Caruso ‒ or one of his gangsters ‒ kidnap her? She paused and chewed the end of her pen.

Or did someone murder her?

The sudden shrilling of her cell phone on the table made her jump. She grabbed it and glanced at the screen.
Caller unknown.
“Hello?” she said warily.

“Holly? It’s Ciaran. I’m back in New York a couple of days early. Filming starts on Monday. Are you free tonight?”

Although his voice was every bit as sexy and persuasive as she remembered, Holly refused to be swayed.
Play it cool
.

“That depends,” she informed him, “on what you have in mind. It’s pretty short notice. And don’t forget, I’m—”

“Engaged,” he finished. “I know. You remind me often enough.” He paused. “What if I told you I have two tickets to
Wicked
? Private box seats, no less?”

She let out a squeal. “Are you
serious
? I’ve been longing to go see that.” Holly winced.
So much for playing it cool...

“We can have an early dinner first.”

“That sounds suspiciously like a date.”

“It isn’t,” he assured her. “I need your advice about those apartments we looked at last week. I can’t decide between the Dakota or the Dunleigh.”

“Well...” Holly hesitated. Jamie would be working, after all; otherwise, she’d only spend the evening alone, staring at the television in their hotel room...

“I’ll have you back before Jamie gets home,” he promised, as if he’d read her mind. “We’ll skip all those boring curtain calls.”

“All right, then.” She felt her lips curving up in anticipation. “As long as we’re back by eleven.”

“You have my word, Cinderella.” His voice was warmed by amusement. “I’ll pick you up at six.”

“Six?” Holly said, and glanced at her wristwatch in panic. “But it’s already 3:30. I’ll never be ready in time.”

“Six,” Ciaran said firmly. “Be gorgeous. And don’t be late.”

“Ciaran,” she began, but the ring tone in her ear told her he’d already hung up.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Holly was just leaving work when her cell phone rang. She got in the Jetta and dived for the phone. “Ciaran,” she admonished, “I’m not even home yet. I’m leaving now. I promise I’ll be ready by six.”

“I’m so glad to hear it,” Coco Welch snapped.

“Coco,” Holly stammered, and nearly rear-ended a bus. “I thought you were Ciaran.”

“Obviously.” She paused, and there was the sound of papers being shuffled. “Alastair needs you to stop by and pick up some insurance forms for your mother.”

“Now? But I don’t have time. And why doesn’t he give them to her himself? I’m on my way home to get ready for my date with Ciaran.” She stopped and added quickly, “Well, it’s not a
date
exactly, but—”

“Sorry, Holly, but unlike your date with Mr Duncan, this is important. I wouldn’t have called otherwise. And I’m sure I don’t know why he wants you to give the forms to Cherie, but he does. I’ll leave them on the corner of my desk. I’ve a date of my own to get ready for. Goodbye.” And Coco clicked off.

Holly scowled and threw her phone down. Now she’d waste precious minutes ‒ minutes she might’ve spent getting ready for tonight ‒ going back to the brownstone. She gritted her teeth, signaled, and navigated her way back through crosstown traffic to Greenwich Village.

She really didn’t want to see her father right now. He was certain to bring up the subject of his disapproval of the film star, and Holly really didn’t want to hear it.

Fifteen minutes later, double-parked in front of the brownstone – too bad, she didn’t have time to walk two blocks – Holly dashed inside and made her way to the fourth floor.

Coco was gone (thank God) and the papers were stacked neatly on the corner of her desk. Holly grabbed them, intent on rushing straight back out the door, when she heard a footstep behind her.

“Hello, Miss James.”

She turned to see Hugh Darcy standing there. “If you’re looking for Coco, she’s already left. For a date,” she added pointedly. She thought of the piece of paper she’d found in his jacket with Coco’s number scrawled on it.

“I wasn’t looking for her.” He paused. “I thought you’d gone for the day.”

“Insurance forms.” She held up the papers in her hand. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go. Some of us have an actual personal life to go home to. Even us puddles.”

He stiffened. “You’re still angry with me.”

“Angry?” she echoed. “Why would I be
angry
? You refuse to call me ‘Holly’ and you won’t ask me to call you ‘Hugh.’ You’ve made your low opinion of me known to anyone who’ll listen, especially your new girlfriend, Coco.”

Puzzlement clouded his expression. “My
girlfriend
? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Right.”

“Since we’re on the subject, what about you and that…” his expression darkened “…film star? The two of you are plastered all over the tabloids, and one can’t help but see the headlines on newsstands all over Manhattan.”

“You know very well that those photos are publicity for the store, Mr Darcy, nothing more.” She turned to go. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m in a bit of a hurry—”

“Holly. There you are.”

Shit
. She whirled around, clutching the papers to her chest. “Hi, Dad.”

“I’m glad I caught you before you left. I want to have a word, if I might.”

“Sorry,” Holly said quickly, “but I haven’t time.”

“This won’t take a moment. I only want to tell you that your mother needs to sign all of those forms. She’ll need to sign twice on a couple of pages. I’ve flagged them.”

“Why not give them to her yourself?”

He cleared his throat. “The thing is, she’s not speaking to me at the moment. It’s all just a...silly misunderstanding.”

“Oh...sorry.” She edged towards the door, anxious to leave. “I’m sure you’ll patch it up,” she added, and cast another glare in Hugh’s direction as she turned to go. Why was he still here?

“Holly, wait,” her father called out after her. “I want a word with you about Ciaran.”

“Sorry, but I don’t have time, I have a—” She stopped. Oh, crap, she’d walked right into it, hadn’t she? “I don’t have time,” she said again.

“You have another date with him, don’t you?” Alastair accused her.

Holly thought about lying. She could deny it; after all, her father couldn’t possibly know she’d agreed to go see
Wicked
with Ciaran Duncan.

“I know you do,” he went on grimly, “because Coco mentioned it before she left.”

Holly’s heart sank.
Thanks, Coco
.
I owe you one...again
.

She met her father’s gaze. “Yes, I do. But it’s not a date. He wants my opinion on which apartment he should buy. I need to leave and get ready,” she added.

“What about Jamie?”

“What about him?” she retorted. “He’s working, Dad, same as he always is. He won’t care – or know – if I spend a couple of hours helping Ciaran decide on an apartment.”

“I’m sorry, Holly,” he said, his words low but firm, “but I don’t agree. You haven’t even told Jamie about this, have you?”

Guilt stabbed her, replaced by anger. “Jamie’s my fiancé, not my jailer. I don’t need his permission to hang out with a friend.”

“This – whatever it is you have with Ciaran – doesn’t sound like friendship to me. It sounds like a bit more than that...at least on his part.” He scowled. “I forbid it. You’re not to see that actor again.”

“What?” she sputtered, and stared at him. “You
forbid
it? Are you serious?”

“Completely.” His expression was implacable.

“Dad, look, I’m not asking for permission to go on a...a sixth-form excursion! I’m not
asking
for anything. I’m telling you that I’m. Going. Out. With Ciaran,” she finished through gritted teeth.

They glared at one another.

“I won’t have it.” Alastair, as he always did when he was angry, fell back on icy civility. “You’re not to see Ciaran Duncan again, young lady, and there’s an end to it.”

Outrage swept over Holly. “No, Dad, that’s where you’re wrong,” she snapped. “That’s
not
an end to it. I
will
see Ciaran, and we
will
go out tonight, whether you like it or not.”

“Damn it, Holly, I’m still your father,” he began, white-lipped with fury, “and you’ll do as I say—”

“Wrong again.” She took the papers she’d picked up from Coco’s desk and thrust them into her purse with trembling hands. “You’ve only been my father when it suits you. Just like Jamie, you’re always working. Dashwood and James always comes first, and always will. You’ve never been there for me in the ways that count, the way Mum has.”

His face was stricken. “Holly, that’s not true. You know I’ve always wanted to see more of you, but my involvement with the store prevented it—”

“Yes, that’s always your excuse,” she interrupted. “And it’s okay, really. It doesn’t matter anymore. But you can’t tell me who I can date or how I should live my life. Because you really don’t have that right.”

Feeling dangerously close to tears, Holly spun on her heels and bolted out the door, before her father could see her cry.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

The lights came up as the final curtain fell on the cast of
Wicked
. Holly, on her feet for the standing ovation, stood next to Ciaran in their private box.

“That was amazing,” she said as she took his arm, her eyes shining. “Thank you
so
much.”

“We can go backstage if you like. I know the director.”

Holly hesitated. “Normally I’d love to, but I’m feeling a little...under the weather,” she lied. Well, it wasn’t a lie, exactly; the fight with her father
had
left her feeling miserable. “And you promised to get me back by eleven.”

“I did,” he agreed. He eyed her and added, “Are you all right, Holly? You’ve been a bit...subdued, all evening.”

She attempted a smile. “Sorry. I’m fine. I just have a lot on my mind at the moment.”

They left the theatre via the underground exit to find the Town Car and driver waiting for them. Holly slid into the back seat as Ciaran quickly followed, and she was okay until they emerged on the street once again, and she saw the father and his daughter on a crowded crosswalk.

The girl was perhaps eight or nine, swinging her hand in her father’s as they left the theatre. She skipped with excitement.

Holly couldn’t help it. She began, quietly, to cry.

Ciaran shifted on the seat next to her. Wordlessly, his arm came around her and drew her close. Holly laid her head on his shoulder. She regretted the angry words she’d had with her own father earlier, and for the time they’d lost, time they’d never really shared the way this little girl and her father had.

After a few minutes Holly sat up and took the handkerchief Ciaran handed her. “I’m sorry,” she said as she dabbed at her eyes. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” She handed the handkerchief back to him. “Sorry about the mascara smears,” she added with a watery smile. “They’ll come out in the wash, I promise.”

“Please stop apologizing,” Ciaran told her as he removed his arm from her shoulder to thrust the handkerchief back in his breast pocket. “You’re obviously upset about something. Care to share it? If you don’t, I’ll completely understand.”

She hesitated. His eyes were dark with concern, and she wanted, so much, to tell him; but she couldn’t. The argument had been about him, after all. How could she tell him that her father didn’t want her to see him?

“It’s about me, isn’t it?” There was an edge to his voice. “Your father doesn’t approve. He doesn’t want you to see me.”

She looked at him in surprise. “How did you know?”

He shrugged. “It’s not hard to figure out. If you were my daughter, I wouldn’t want you to see me, either.” He smiled. “It’s an understandable paternal reaction. Did he give you a particular reason?” he added casually.

“No. It’s because you’re an actor, and you’re older than me, et cetera, lather, rinse, and repeat.” She didn’t add the bit about Alastair questioning Ciaran’s intentions towards her.

He sighed. “Ah yes, the eternal actor’s stigma. We’re all sex-mad liars, always on the prowl, bedding our co-stars and fans and casting them aside afterwards like used tissues.”

“I told him you’re not like that,” Holly said. “I don’t think he believed me, though.”

“I doubt,” Ciaran agreed shortly, “that he’d believe the Bishop of Canterbury, when it comes to me.”

“How do you know my dad, anyway?” Holly asked him, curious.

He glanced at her. “I don’t, really. I did a couple of print ads for Dashwood and James a few years ago, for the London relaunch. But we’ve never actually met.”