“Somebody I know,” Vanessa said, her mouth curling into a sly smile.
“From Boston?” Deenie asked wide-eyed.
“Oh yes, he’s from Boston all right.”
“Oh no!” Deenie cried out and turned her back to the bar.
“Don’t be silly. If there’s one person in Boston I’d prefer to be seen by, it’s him. C’mon.”
She grabbed Deenie’s hand and dragged her through the crowd, ignoring the looks and the comments. She stood ten feet behind Keegan, waiting for the song to end.
“Which one is he?” Deenie whispered.
“Shhh.”
* * *
The second song was a German tune Keegan was not familiar with. Then she sang “Someone to Watch Over Me” and every syllable was plaintive, every word a plea to be loved, every note a heartbreaker.
There was a smattering of applause, again except for Keegan. He looked around the room, wondering if all these people were crazy. Didn’t they know what was happening up on stage?
The set was over. He had barely been aware that she’d sung several more songs. Her voice had mesmerized him, hypnotized him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so thrilled.
She left the stage rather meekly and, to Keegan, the rest of the room came back into focus. He caught Herman’s eye and urgently waved him over.
“She’s wonderful!” he told the damp little manager. He realized he sounded too excited but he didn’t care. “She’s absolutely—”
Herman rolled his eyes. “Unfortunately you are the only one who seems to think so.” Then, looking over Keegan’s shoulder, he saw the two American girls coming toward them.
As they walked down the length of the bar, Vanessa was aware that the little sweaty man in the soggy tuxedo was talking about them, his eyes darting toward them, then away. And she was also aware that the tall man with his back to them was staring at her in the deco mirror behind the bar. She led Deenie right up to him, standing behind him, less than a foot away, staring up at the back of his neck. He finally turned around and looked down at her.
Deenie caught her breath. Her impression was immediate:
he’s rich. That was always number one on Deenie’s checklist. The man was rich, fashionable, handsome and self-confident. With his shock of black hair and gray eyes and persistent, arrogant smile, he epitomized what, in her mind, was the classic continental playboy. Definitely dangerous, she thought.
“Something?” He asked it pleasantly, but he was annoyed. He wanted to rush backstage, to meet the singer.
“You don’t remember me, do you?”
All he could remember was that voice, the sunken eyes.
The girl reached up and pulled lightly on his lapel, interrupting his reverie, and when he leaned toward her, she whispered a name in his ear. His reaction was immediate and startled, although he quickly recovered his composure. He stared back at her, his gray eyes intent and inquiring.
It had been three years since anyone had called him that and this woman was perhaps nineteen, twenty at best. He made a quick study. She was tallish, maybe five-seven, slender and busty with turquoise eyes and jet black hair. Her face was angular, her features perfect. Her full mouth curved down at the corners except when she smiled and she wore very little makeup. The diamond choker around her long, slender neck was the real thing. A well- groomed, self-confident snob with money, he decided, and her long a’s pegged her from Boston. Who the hell was she? And how did she know that name?
And then she repeated it aloud.
“Frankie Kee.”
“My God,” he said finally, “you’re not Vannie Bromley!”
“That makes us even. Nobody’s called me Frankie for a couple of years, either. Where did you hear that name, anyway?”
“Daddy,” she said. “I was eavesdropping after a party once and he was telling mother all about you. I gathered it was kind of his personal secret. He swore her to silence.”
“And you?”
“Never told a soul. Too good to share.”
“How are old David and Linda?”
“The same. Stuffy but nice.”
“What
“Oh, I’m sorry. This is Deenie Brokestone. Remember her?”
“Your father’s Earl, right? Merrill, Lynch?”
