Speak Low by Melanie Harlow Page A

natty bow tie and severely parted hair. But I hoped there was no expectation that I would be his date for the evening.
    I had other plans.
    My stomach flipped uncontrollably as we went down the cement steps into the hidden vestibule that served as the entrance for Club 23. Enzo and I had once shared a kiss in the dark, tight space between the outer and inner doors of the underground speakeasy. My toes curled inside my satin t-straps as I recalled the way I’d been backed up against the brick wall, one hand pinned over my head, one knee hitched up to his hip.
    We were granted permission to enter, and walked down the long cement-walled hallway toward the music, our heels click-clacking on the tiles. A Dixieland beat thumped louder and louder as we approached the velvet drapes that opened onto the dark, ritzy club. As usual, the dance floor down in front, as well as all the cocktail tables and large crescent-shaped booths lining the two-tiered room, were packed with revelers. The bar along the back was mobbed as well. The room was hazy with cigarette smoke, and the entire place smelled of perfume, tobacco, and whisky, but underneath it all, I detected the faintest whiff of sex and sweat.
    The men checked their hats at the door, and as I looked at the attractive, smiling girl who took them, I wondered again about Enzo’s offer to work at the club. Would I be happy here, night after night, working while I watched my friends come to have fun? Watching Enzo as he played host, buying drinks and kissing hands and making deals under the table? I looked around but didn’t see him anywhere.
    “Hey, there’s Rosie. Come on.” Evelyn grabbed my hand and the group moved across the room, skirting tables dressed with white tablecloths and low candles. Along the way, Ted stopped a waitress to let her know we’d like cocktails at the end booth on the far wall, and I scanned the club over my shoulder again for Enzo. I was still looking back when we reached the velvet-curtained booth, but I heard Rosie’s mocking voice above the music.
    “Well, would you look what the cat dragged in. Heya, kiddo, nice dress. You knock over your sister’s closet or what?”
    Annoyed, I turned toward her. Despite the fact that she was only a few months older than me, she was always calling me kiddo because of my size, and she didn’t mean it affectionately. We got along all right, and she was always up for a good time, but I much preferred Evelyn’s sweet to Rosie’s tart. Nothing Rosie liked more than stirring up trouble, which was why her eyes glittered with pure mischief as she poked at me from where she sat, right on some poor sot’s lap.
    I was about to bite back when I bit my tongue instead.
    Because the sot was Joey.

Chapter Six
     
    “What are you doing here?” I blurted. I couldn’t help it. He hadn’t contacted me in days and I’d been so worried, assuming the worst, and here he was at Enzo’s club with Rosie’s round little ass on his lap. What the hell was going on?
    “I was invited.” He raised his dark eyebrows. “It’s nice to see you too.”
    “Invited by whom? Rosie?” I looked at her, and she smiled at me like a cat looming over the fishbowl, then blew smoke in my direction.
    “No, not that it’s any of your business,” he answered.
    My ears were burning hot, and furious energy vibrated throughout my body. But before I could think of what to say, a waitress came over to take drink orders. I requested Canadian Club, straight, and wondered if I’d survive the five minutes it would take to arrive.
    “Have a seat, gang,” said Rosie, sweet as pie now that she saw my jealous reaction. “Joey and I were just about to dance. You can save our table.”
    Blustering on the inside, I watched them slide out from the booth and felt like tripping her as she glided by me with a smug look on her face. “Don’t look so put out, kiddo,” she said over her shoulder. “Your man’s around here somewhere, and he looks mighty fine