Diva (The Flappers) - By Jillian Larkin Page 0,3

But then both men grabbed him and heaved, and then Jerome was airborne.

He was aware of the door slamming behind him, aware of tires squealing and of the bright full moon above him, bathing the grubby marshland alongside the road like a spotlight … and then he hit the ground. Hard.

He didn’t even have time to summon one last memory of Gloria before darkness engulfed him like a black velvet curtain rushing across a stage.

GLORIA

Cushy leather chairs didn’t belong in federal prison. But then, neither did Gloria.

Surprisingly, her cell was a lot better than where she’d been living in Harlem. Her new desk was made of varnished wood rather than steel, she actually had a mattress with springs, and the three meals they brought her each day weren’t half bad. Before her mother went home to Chicago, Beatrice managed to use her connections to have Gloria moved from the county jail to a holding cell in the FBI headquarters. Thanks to her, being incarcerated was a lot less miserable than it might have been.

Now Gloria sat at a long cherrywood table in an empty bureau conference room. The smell of burnt coffee hung in the air. She wasn’t sure why Hank had called this meeting.

Special Agent in Charge Hank Phillips walked through the door carrying his briefcase and a cardboard box. He wore his usual crisp black suit, white collared shirt, thin black tie, and smart pair of oxfords. His dark hair, light brown eyes, tanned skin, and muscled build made it easy to understand how her ex–best friend, Lorraine, had fallen for him.

Of course, Lorraine had thought Hank was a bartender—not an undercover FBI agent. That’s how stupid Lorraine was. She’d probably thought Hank stayed in such fantastic shape by bench-pressing bottles of hooch instead of barbells.

Without even a hello, Hank set the box down and then laid its contents out on the table. There was a black garment bag and a velvet jewelry box. A pair of long white gloves and a pair of silver T-bar heels. When Hank pulled out a beaded lime-green clutch, Gloria finally spoke up. “That would really bring out the green in your eyes, Hanky.”

“My eyes are brown!” Hank glared. “If you call me that again, I may just have to bring one of the other jailbirds to this party.”

“There are parties in jail? I wish I’d known. I would’ve worn my best dress. You know—the one with only three holes in it.”

He snapped open the clutch to reveal something a much more interesting shade of green: a wad of cash, more twenty-dollar bills than Gloria could count. “Now, is the comedy act over? ”

Gloria gave a silent nod, her eyes wide. Hank opened the garment bag as well. Gloria could see a sparkling bodice that matched the clutch perfectly. After a month and a half of wearing gray prison rags, the bright dress almost hurt her eyes.

“You’re going to the Hamptons to help us figure out the story on a business mogul called Forrest Hamilton,” Hank said.

He opened his briefcase and handed Gloria a photograph. It was a candid photo taken at a party. A man puffed on a cigar while watching an exquisitely beautiful blonde spread her hands, probably in the midst of telling some wild story. His suit was classy in the way only simple but extremely expensive material could be. The man was very handsome, with dark hair slicked away from his face and even darker glittering eyes. He had a sharp, straight nose and a square jaw and could easily have been in motion pictures if he wanted to.

“Business mogul?” Gloria said doubtfully. “He looks awfully young.”

Hank nodded. “He’s a Broadway producer, and he can’t be older than twenty-five. The guy just turned up one day, saying he’s from the Midwest, and went from penniless nobody to moneybags somebody in three shakes of a lamb’s tail. He’s got a servant who looks like he hurts people for fun, and a big swanky house he’s renting. We don’t know his game—he’s produced nothing but flops and yet he keeps raking in the dough. Until we find out where that cash is coming from, he’s just a person of interest.”

“But what does any of that have to do with me?”

“Our boy Forrest loves singers and celebrities, and these days”—Hank slapped down a copy of the Manhattanite, the glossy tabloid her cousin, Clara, had used to make Gloria an icon of flapperdom—“you’re both. He’ll be drawn to you like a fly