Chapter 17 Chicago, 1928—Remy #2
He envisioned a bleak future haunted by memories of Skye’s voice, her eyes, and her full, dark cherry lips.
He knew then that he could never let her go.
His heart squeezed tightly and ceased to beat for a three-count until a desperate hunger for her presence filled him, threatening to stop his world on its axis.
He needed a distraction from Skye’s crossed legs and sultry voice.
And that distraction commanded the room an hour into their rehearsal.
Violet’s silk dress hissed with each gliding step, and she looked perfectly put-together and well-rested. The lines around her mouth and at the corners of her eyes had vanished. She must have rummaged through Skye’s bevy of lotions and potions to be camera ready.
Archibald lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it. “Ye look gorgeous. The long sleep invigorated ye as usual.”
Remy watched with bated breath. For Violet, emerging from her great escape looking fantastic must be common, not an anomaly. Ultimately, Violet’s entire essence defied Remy’s understanding. Nothing about her added up.
“I feel rejuvenated after a long sleep and a delicious breakfast. But tell me about yer plan for tonight without Marcelle and Clay. I’ve been listening to a romantic setlist. Are those the songs ye plan to sing? If so, ye won’t disappoint the audience.”
“It’s not so much the audience we don’t want to disappoint. It’s Capone,” Archibald said.
“How could he complain?”
“He believes he paid for a band with a trumpet player of Louis Armstrong’s caliber and has probably told the entire South Side about her. Her absence will humiliate him, and he’ll take his anger out on someone.”
“I’ll handle Capone,” Violet said, with an air of refined calm that left no one doubting her ability to do just that.
Instead of Violet’s voice, Remy heard the chorus of Kenzie McBain and every other fierce woman in the family.
He could almost believe Violet had single-handedly forged every female warrior in the clan.
But that didn’t align with what Erik and Violet said in the cave.
To Remy, the discrepancy solidified the cave scene as a manufactured illusion designed to deceive them. But how could he prove it?
Skye sipped from her glass. “I don’t know how you’ll handle Capone, but I trust you will. The only thing left for me is to get a milk jug to hold tips instead of my little mason jar.”
“A milk jug woan be big enough,” Remy said, meeting her gaze with a grin. “You’ll rock the house tonight.”
She returned his grin. “If that means we’ll excite the audience, then let’s rock the house. I can’t do this by myself.”
“We’re in this together, but to make the magic happen, you need an evening dress with lots of glitz and glam. Do you have anything in your closet that will work? If not, I’ll take you shopping,” Remy said.
“I have plenty of clothes and an evening gown that will look gorgeous on you, Violet, unless you plan to go shopping,” Skye said.
“If ye don’t mind, I’ll take ye up on yer offer. That way, we can go for a long walk in Lincoln Park,” Violet said, sounding oddly excited.
“How about a carriage ride instead? Skye needs to protect her voice from the chill, and”—Remy wiggled his fingers—“I need to protect my hands.”
Violet gave them a flippant wave, jingling a pearl-and-diamond bracelet. “Wear gloves, a hat, and throw a scarf around yer neck. Ye’ll be fine.”
Skye took a long drink from her lemonade glass and smacked her lips. “Tart!”
Remy trailed the others toward the front of the house, his mind churning, analyzing Violet’s motives.
He didn’t trust her and would remain hyper-vigilant until he uncovered her game.
If Elliott were here, he’d tell Remy to demand answers to as many questions as possible.
But honestly, she was unlikely to divulge even one, but he’d try.
Skye was about to bolt outside without a hat or scarf. “Wait a minute.” He snatched a cashmere scarf from the hall tree and wound it around her coat collar, his fingertips grazing her neck. With his heart in his throat, he gazed at her. “Stay warm.”
She gazed back, her lips parting slightly. “Maybe you can help me warm up if I get chilled.”
The muscles in his stomach clenched, and he could barely breathe. He was in the company of two women who were as different as the North and South Poles, and he was smack in the middle. He needed to ditch Archibald and Violet and steal a few uninterrupted hours with Skye.
A black Cadillac limousine was waiting for them out front, and the chauffeur was standing on the sidewalk. Remy stopped, gawked, and whistled. “She’s a beauty. Where’d she come from?”
“I had her in storage,” Violet said.
Violet’s idea of storage and Remy’s probably weren’t the same. “The chauffeur, too?”
There was a spark in her eyes. Or was that a dagger? “I hired him to pick up the car and drive it here.”
“That wasn’t necessary,” Skye said. “We can all ride in my car.”
“Ye have a nice vehicle for two people, but we can all ride comfortably in the Cadillac.”
Skye’s gaze flickered to Remy. “What’s with her?”
Remy flashed Skye a lopsided grin. “She’s used to getting what she wants.” He steered Skye toward the limousine, a hand resting on her back.
The chauffeur opened the car door. “Where would you like to go, ma’am?” he asked Violet.
“Take us to Lincoln Park, Gustav, and wait while we stroll down the Lakeshore Drive boardwalk.” Violet sat down on the forward-facing leather bench seat, and Archibald immediately joined her there.
What the hell? Didn’t Remy explicitly tell Violet that Skye needed to protect her voice and should stay inside, away from the cool, damp weather? He’d wait until they arrived and forcefully restate his point then. He slid into the limo after Skye, settling onto the rear-facing seat.
Skye excitedly skimmed her fingers over the smooth brown leather, a flush rising on her cheeks. “I’ve never been in a limo before.”
Violet patted Skye’s knee. “As beautiful and talented as ye are, ye should always ride first class.”
“My father believed paying for a limo was a frivolous expense.”
“Then sit back and enjoy being frivolous. Ye work hard and should enjoy the finest things in life.”
“For special occasions, I might agree.”
Violet recrossed her legs and flicked her hair. “Where are Clay and Marcelle staying in New York? There are some excellent hotels. If they need a recommendation, I’d gladly give them several.”
Remy looked pointedly at her. “They’re staying at the MacKlenna residence on Fifth Avenue, built in 1896. Are you familiar with it?”
In a throaty voice, she said, “I was there during construction.”
“In 1896?” Skye asked. “You must have been a baby thirty-two years ago. How could you remember?”
“I remember a lot from childhood, and I’m older than I look. I hope Sean and Eleanor are in residence. They’ll enjoy a visit with Clay and Marcelle.”
“You know them?” Remy asked, then regretted it. He knew Violet would be a bitch about it.
“I’ve been to the farm several times over the years. Their Thoroughbreds have won the Kentucky Derby more than any other farm, and their roster of graded stake winners and top thirty sires in North America surpasses all other breeders.”
Remy hit a wall. He needed to verify Violet’s claims with Sean MacKlenna, a futile wish given the circumstances. Then the story of Robert’s horses surfaced in his memory. “You surprise me, Violet,” he stated, a sharp edge to his voice. “Clay said you despise Thoroughbred racing.”
“I pretended to dislike racing, hoping it would discourage my nephew from investing in racehorses. It’s such a risky business.”
“How’d that work out for you?” Remy’s smile moved the remark from sarcastic to testy, but his temperature was on the rise, filling him with a surge of heat as if he’d swallowed fire. How in the hell did anybody put up with her?
Violet shrugged. “I gave in because I didn’t want to alienate Robert.”
“I’m sure the lad is fine now,” Archibald said.
“He’s building a stable with graded stakes winners and will eventually have his own Derby winner,” Remy said.
With a sickly sweet smile, Violet instructed the driver to stop immediately. “Remy and Skye are getting out to walk.” She dismissed them with a cool glance and a quick sweep of her hand.
Remy stared at Violet and wondered if he could get away with murdering her. Then he remembered Elliott’s warning never to antagonize a person with more power unless you had backup. He linked his fingers with Skye’s. “Let’s go.”
They stood on the sidewalk, breathing in the exhaust fumes as the limousine hurtled away, the car’s tires shredding the gravel.
“Okay, what’s going on between you and Violet? If you’d had guns, your seconds would have negotiated the terms of a duel.”
Obviously, Skye viewed the unfolding situation not just as a conflict but as a definitive showdown. He wished he could share the truth with her. Without crucial information, she’d never grasp the depth of his hatred for that woman.
“Violet is a chameleon. I never know which version will show up. The harm she’s done to members of my family is unforgivable. I’ll never trust her.”
“But she didn’t hurt you,” Skye whispered.
“In the MacKlenna Clan, one member’s well-being is connected to the well-being of everyone.”
“Like the Three Musketeers?”
He nodded. “Exactly like that.”
“Is there hope that things can change? She’s important to Archibald. Doesn’t that matter?” She gazed at him, her eyes silently pleading for a meaningful response.
He could only offer a hollow, inadequate reply. “Since Violet has secrets to protect, there’s no hope.”