Chapter 7 Chicago, 1928—Remy #6
Clay’s eyes narrowed, sharp and assessing. He gave Remy a long look, the kind meant to catch lies. “Why didn’t you tell me?” He glanced him up and down. “I didn’t see you put it on.”
“I rarely take it off.”
Clay blinked. “Even at the plantation?”
Remy didn’t hesitate. His posture stayed loose, but something harder settled behind his eyes. “I’m Elliott Fraser’s bodyguard and medic. I never travel with him unarmed.”
Skye, who had been watching the exchange in silence, tilted her head, curiosity edging into caution. “Is Elliott Fraser like Capone?” she asked.
Remy finally looked at her. The corner of his mouth twitched—not quite a smile.
“No,” he said. “Capone needs men with guns to make people listen.” He gestured subtly for them to move, eyes already scanning the street. “Elliott doesn’t. He can be ruthless, but he’d never harm an innocent person.”
“Tell me about yourself, Clay. You play the guitar, but what else?” Marcelle said.
“Clay won’t brag about himself, so I’ll spill the beans. He’s a prize-winning investigative journalist for The New York Times.”
“That’s impressive,” Marcelle exclaimed.
Remy spotted a taxi at the corner, but his instincts screamed danger.
He scanned both sides of the street. The car that might or might not have been Capone’s was gone, but that didn’t stop the warning signals blaring up and down his spine, an internal alarm he’d honed to perfection in Afghanistan.
He ignored it at his peril and pulled Skye tight against him.
“There’s a taxi. Why don’t we take that one?” Skye said.
“Just because I’m paranoid doesn’t mean someone’s not out to get us. Let’s walk and find another one. I doan want anyone to know where we’re staying or where you live. Capone might want to know, and he might’ve paid that driver to take us home and report back to him.”
“Why would he do that?” Marcelle asked.
“Fuck, why? He’s a gangster.”
She huffed. “I’m surprised you haven’t cleaned up your language by now.”
Remy cocked his head. “Me? What about your brother?”
“He doesn’t throw as many F-bombs, but it’s still bad.”
“Why expect me to clean up mine?” he asked, adopting a teasing tone.
“I thought working for the MacKlennas might have tamed your tongue. From what I’ve read in magazines about the horse farm and winery, they don’t seem like the type to use four-letter words.”
Remy barked out a laugh. “Elliott Fraser’s a Scotsman. What do you expect?”
Marcelle crossed her arms and glared. “Don’t snap at me.”
Skye stepped between Marcelle and Remy. “My father once told me that Scotsmen have quick tempers and colorful vocabularies.”
“Did your parents immigrate from Scotland?” Remy asked.
“No, and my parents didn’t have any family. They only talked about the life they built here in Chicago.”
“When’d they die?” Remy asked.
“Last year.”
“Were they musicians?” Remy asked.
“No, but they supported my musical career, and my father loved hearing me sing. He always wanted to see my setlist for the evening. He’d review it and give me recommendations. I always included them.”
“Did he fight in the Great War?” Clay asked.
“He taught at the United States Naval Auxiliary Reserve School at Municipal Pier and never left Chicago. After the war, he returned to his position at the First National Bank of Chicago. He was vice president when he died last year in a car crash.”
“What about your mother?”
“She worked at a factory during the war and died of cancer the week before my father.”
“It must have been hard on you with no family.”
“It was. After losing my parents, I couldn’t sing for several months. My piano player, Earl, convinced me to reunite the band. It was exactly what I needed.”
“That explains why you’re so loyal to them,” Marcelle said.
“We should take this discussion elsewhere,” Clay said. “Where do you live, Skye?”
“North State Parkway, and you’re staying at The Drake. That’s a short walk from the hotel to my house.”
“Good. We’re going in the right direction.” Remy scanned the street, but his focus kept returning to the way Skye looked at him. Her expression held an intensity that drew his attention more than any potential threat. The distracting, almost mesmerizing quality of her mouth pulled his gaze.
A risky thought surfaced: Would she be open to having sex?
He immediately rejected it. No, Remy, don’t even consider it.
He lived in an era where casual sex held fewer complications.
Still, life in 1928 forced him to confront a difficult situation he desperately sought to avoid.
The terrifying prospect of fathering a child and abandoning them in a different century instilled a deep fear, a consequence he refused to face.
They reached Michigan Avenue and turned north. “Let’s get a cab now. Surely, we’re safe, and I’m tired,” Marcelle said.
“Let’s keep walking until we find one,” Remy said. Five minutes later, a taxi drove down the street. He whistled, and the driver pulled over.
“We’ll drop you two at the hotel and take the car to my place,” Skye said.
“No can do,” Remy said. “Marcelle’s brother would have my head if I let her drive off, especially now that she’s associated with Capone.”
“Then we’ll go to my house first,” Skye said.
“Remy, Bastien would understand,” Marcelle said.
“That’s the thing, Marcelle. I doan think he would.” High-wire tension strained Remy’s voice. He grappled with how assertive to be. Marcelle could decide what she wanted to do. Yet Bastien would expect Remy to be responsible for her.
“Okay. Here’s what we’ll do,” Skye said. “I have a large home, plus a lovely staff, and my cook is amazing. There’s plenty of room for everyone. We’ll go to the hotel, and you can get your bags. Then we’ll go to my house.”
“Are you sure?” Marcelle asked.
“I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t want you there. My father was a banker and a heavy investor in the stock market. He surprised my mother with a new house a few years ago, and she loved it. It has several bedrooms and is more house than I need, but I’ll never sell it.”
Remy recognized unease in Clay’s gaze. He didn’t have to ask what was wrong. Remy already knew. Before returning home, they had to prepare Skye for the 1929 stock market crash.
“We don’t want to impose,” Clay said. “And we want to be respectful of your reputation.”
“If I were worried about my reputation, I would have been home several hours ago and not out drinking champagne with Al Capone.”
Remy grinned. “Drinking with Capone and inviting two men to stay at your house. I’m not sure what to think.”
“I often invite musicians to stay at my home while they’re getting established, and I have a music room so we can rehearse. My staff is discreet.” Skye linked her arm with Marcelle’s. “Are these guys always so difficult?”
“I don’t know about Clay, but since Remy is my brother’s best friend, I’d say yes.”
Clay crossed the sidewalk and opened the cab’s back door. “Come, ladies.” They piled into the back seat. “We’re going to The Drake Hotel.”
They all crowded in together, but no one seemed to mind, especially Remy, who had Skye tucked into his side. He tried not to let his mind wander, but it did anyway. He inhaled her scent—jasmine, roses, vanilla, and sandalwood, but without a dominant note.
“What’s the name of the perfume you’re wearing?”
“Chanel No. 5.”
“Really? Hmm. It smells… chic. I like it.”
“You should, Remy,” Marcelle said, chuckling. “Wasn’t it your mother’s favorite scent?”
Remy slapped his hands over his heart. “Marcelle, you know how to hurt a guy. Trust me, Skye. You doan smell like my mother.”
“It would be okay if I did. As respectful as you are, your mother must have strongly influenced your life.”
Clay reached his arm along the back of the car’s seat and flicked his finger against the side of Remy’s head.
Remy rubbed the spot. “What the hell was that for?”
“So you’d remember how respectful you are.”
“I’m sure if I forget, you’ll remind me.” He knew Clay was referring to Remy’s reaction to Rachel and didn’t want him to mess with Skye the same way.
The taxi pulled up in front of The Drake Hotel, and Remy jumped out.
“Give me fifteen minutes.” He hurried to his room, gathered his belongings and Clay’s, then walked through the suite three times to be sure he had everything.
Satisfied, he returned to the front desk and used the rest of his money to check out.
When the cab driver saw him with the duffel bags, he got out of the taxi and opened the trunk. “Is that all the luggage?”
“That’s it.” Remy returned to the back seat next to Skye. “You’re still sure about this.”
“Of course.”
Less than ten minutes later, the taxi pulled up to the curb in front of a stunning five-story home.
It was an elegant house built in the Beaux-Arts style with a limestone facade.
He knew that because Connor had taken him through New York City and taught him about early nineteenth-century real estate.
“This is your home?” Marcelle asked. “I’ve been here before. It’s exquisite.”
Remy cleared his throat. “You must be mistaken, Marcelle.”
“I’m not.” Clay opened the door, and she climbed out. “I recognize this one-of-a-kind iron front door. It’s the same house. I even attended a cocktail party here for the Chicago Symphony.”
“My father was a major donor. I’ve never missed a performance or fundraising event, but we’ve never hosted a party here. Are you sure you’re talking about the Chicago Symphony?” Skye asked.
“Yes, of course. And I remember that inside the front door, there’s a formal gallery surrounded by custom paneling. It sets the tone for the rest of the majestic home.” Marcelle hurried to the sidewalk, stopped, and looked around. “What happened to the wrought-iron fence and the trees?”
Skye laughed. “Now I know you’re mistaken. There’s never been a fence, and the gardener is planting trees later this month.”
“I’m not mistaken.” Marcelle glanced up and pointed. “I recognize that second-floor balcony.”