Henry pulled his lips off hers, which were as soft and sweet as he’d remembered and took a step back. Telling himself not to look at her. Not to meet the gaze of those dark blue eyes again because that had been his first downfall tonight. He’d thought his eyes were playing tricks on him when he’d first noticed her. Thought it couldn’t be her. But it was.
The investigator in him rose up. She’d been in Seattle, and now she was here?
That couldn’t be a coincidence.
He glanced around the room, beyond the crowd that was encircling them. Congratulating them.
His attention snagged on a man, one who he’d leaped over on the dance floor a short time ago. A wave of dread washed over him and kicked his senses back where they belonged. At least his common sense.
Lane Cox. If anyone would recognize him, it would be Lane. Cox was not only the owner of the local newspaper, he was the best reporter in the state. If not the nation.
Although his instincts were to stay at her side, find out who she knew and why she was here, Henry knew what he had to do, and took a step back. Then another.
He bumped into someone, and shifting aside, to see who it was, he nodded at the piano player.
The guy nodded toward the other side of the crowd. “They are bringing your trophies. Two mugs of beer, one for you and one for your partner.”
Henry shook his head and stepped behind the man. “Accept it for me, will you, pal?” As deeper regret filled him, he added, “And tell my partner...” Tell her what?
He needed information from her. Find out why she was here and why she had been in Seattle three years ago. So had the mole. She could know the mole, could confirm he was right about which agent had been defying the oath he’d taken.
The piano man was looking at him like he’d just lost his mind. Maybe he had, but Henry couldn’t do anything about it right now. He couldn’t take the chance of his cover being blown by Lane Cox.
A cigarette girl was making her way through the crowd, carrying two mugs of beer over her head. Trophies for the winners of the dance-off.
Him and Lacy, or whatever her name was. He’d have to find that out, too.
She was twisting left and right, looking around. For him no doubt. A hint of remorse struck.
“Tell her what?” the piano man asked.
“That I’ll see her tomorrow night,” Henry said, slipping into the crowd behind him. As he neared the wall behind the piano, he took a final glance around to make sure no one was looking at him, and then ducked behind the curtain that hung along the wall. He would come back tomorrow night. Find out everything Lacy knew.
He opened the door that the curtain kept hidden and hurried through the long and narrow storeroom that was lined with shelves and crates full of various types of alcohol. If he was a prohibition agent instead of an investigation agent, the owner of the Rooster’s Nest would already be in jail and the contents of this room confiscated and destroyed.
Some of it destroyed. Some of it would be shipped elsewhere, where it would be consumed during secretive parties that the American people would be shocked to learn about.
Actually, not that many people would be shocked. In a lot of ways, prohibition had created more drinking than it had reduced. People seemed to love the idea of sneaking around, of drinking behind closed doors. It had become one of the most popular things to do. Throw in music and a dance floor, and joints across the nation were packed full every night.
Prohibition wasn’t a part of his job, and he was glad of that. That was a fine line the government was walking right now. He couldn’t see it lasting much longer. The Volstead Act hadn’t brought about the end results the followers imagined, and other than a select few, the number of people still supporting the act had dwindled over the years.
At the corner of the end wall, he found the little catch on the side of the shelf and swung it away from the wall. Opening the secret door the shelf kept hidden in the wall, he crossed over the threshold and pulled the shelf back in place. Then as he stepped onto the first step of the stairway that led down to the tunnel, he pulled the door shut behind him.
He stood there for a moment, on that first step, shaking his head. He’d never expected to see her again.
Never.
The odds of that had to be one in a million, which meant it wasn’t a coincidence.
Their past encounter had only lasted minutes, yet it had stuck with him.
Three years ago, he’d been in Seattle, undercover, which had grown into his specialty, and he’d just made a major break in the counterfeiting case by having gained access into a beach cottage where the perpetrators had been printing bills, when he’d seen her walking along the sand in the secluded bay.
She’d been wearing a pair of dark knickers and a white blouse and carrying her shoes in one hand and a bucket and clam-digging shovel in the other. Her long blond hair had been blowing in the wind as she’d walked, swinging her arms as if she hadn’t had a care in the world.
The tide had already been rolling in, and at the time, he remembered hoping she knew what she was doing. High tide in that small bay quickly flooded the entire area.
He hadn’t wasted any more time contemplating if she did or didn’t, because he’d known he’d only had minutes to complete his survey
