LITMIR.BIZ

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a bootlegger’s daughter. She was ready to throw it all away…the furs, the jewelry, the automobiles, everything.”

      And live happily ever after in your humble apartment off Washington Square, scraping by on a playwright’s income, Griffin thought. If she was that much in love with you, my friend, why did she disappear?

      He frowned. Mal was a passionate lover, just as he was passionate about his plays and music and art and life itself. He threw himself into every scheme with a wide-eyed enthusiasm and guilelessness that belied his experiences overseas. There had been times during the War when only his high spirits and optimism had kept Griffin sane. Mal had been sixteen then…hardly more than a boy, but as courageous as they came.

      He was nothing at all like Griffin, but there wasn’t much Griffin wouldn’t do for the man who’d saved his life.

      Mal snatched up his glass and downed half his brandy in one swallow. “I don’t think I can go on without her, Grif,” he said. “She’s everything to me.” He ran his hands through his fair hair. “Should I go back to De Luca and grill him again? He doesn’t scare me. I’d do it in a second if I though it would make any difference.”

      “I doubt it would help,” Griffin said. “The best you can hope for is that he’ll throw you out on your ear, and the worst…” He shook his head. “No, Mal. Recklessness won’t get you anywhere.”

      “Then what will?” The young man’s eyes snapped with indignation. “I’m certain something has happened to her, and I won’t sit idly by if she’s in trouble.”

      Griffin got up and walked to the window, pulling the heavy drapes away from the mullioned glass. Late-morning light beat a path over the aged Persian carpet but did little to brighten the study, encumbered as it was with dark paneling and heavy oak furnishings.

      “I doubt she’d be in the kind of trouble you’re envisioning,” Griffin said. “De Luca has too much power.” He debated whether or not to speak his mind and decided to err on the side of mercy. “From all you’ve said, I still think it most probable that her father sent her away. And since he isn’t likely to tell you anything more…” He turned away from the window. “Let me look into it. I have a few…connections in the city. Someone may know more than De Luca is telling.”

      Mal’s eyes filled with hope. “Would you, Grif? That’s awfully good of you.”

      “Don’t thank me yet. It may take me a few days to track down my sources.”

      “These sources…are they—” Mal cleared his throat “—are they like you?”

      “The less you know about that the better.”

      “But you will tell me as soon as you hear anything?”

      “Of course.”

      Mal grabbed Griffin’s hand. “You’re the best pal a guy could have, Grif.”

      Griffin stepped back and gently freed his hand. “Will you stay at Oakdene tonight, or should I have Fitzsimmons drive you to the station?”

      “Thanks for the invite, Grif, but I have that play to finish…and I think I might actually do it now that I know you’re on the case.”

      “I’m glad to hear it.” Griffin gestured to Starke. “Uncle Edward, will you please ask Fitzsimmons to—”

      “Mal!”

      Gemma’s voice cut across Griffin’s like sunlight through shadow. She bounded into the room, flashed Starke a smile of apology and came to a halt before Mal.

      “Why didn’t you tell me Mal was coming, Grif?” she demanded. “He must think I’m terribly rude for not greeting him.”

      “Nothing of the kind, Gem,” Mal said with a fond grin.

      “It was just business…nothing that you would have found of interest,” Griffin said. “Are you already done with your lessons?”

      Gemma took a sudden interest in the toes of her sensible shoes. “Miss Spires had a headache,” she said.

      “I see. I wonder what brought that on?”

      Gemma glanced up at him from under her thick brown lashes. “I’m making excellent progress.”

      “I hope so. I’d hate to think that I made a mistake in extracting you from that boarding school.”

      Gemma shuddered. “Mal, tell my brother how much I love America, and that I never want to go back to those horrid—” She broke off and put on a prim expression. “I’ll be forever grateful for the education I received in the convents and boarding schools, but I am nearly seventeen. Isn’t it time that I should see something of the world?”

      “If that’s your aim,” Mal said helpfully, “New York is the place to do it.”

      “Thank you, Mal,” Griffin said dryly. “Gemma, don’t you think you should take some tea up to Miss Spires? It might make her feel better.”

      Gemma pulled a face. “Tea.” She looked toward the sideboard. “Brandy would do her more good, or maybe whiskey…”

      “You know very well that Miss Spires doesn’t drink.”

      “Only because she’s an old—” Gemma bit her lip. “Don’t you think I should be allowed to try it, big brother? My birthday is in less than a week.”

      “Out of the question.”

      “Why?”

      Mal stared at the ceiling. Griffin sighed. “You’re too young, Gemma, and alcohol is illegal.”

      “It’s only illegal to sell it, not drink it. And anyway, you keep it here.”

      “Only for guests. You know I don’t drink.”

      “You shouldn’t keep the stuff around just for my sake, Grif,” Mal said.

      “Thank you, Mal. Your concern is appreciated but entirely unnecessary.” Griffin turned back to Gemma. “I’m not going to argue the merits of the Volstead Act with you, Gemma. You aren’t to drink in this house.”

      Gemma glared for a moment, turning undoubtedly rebellious thoughts about in her head. It was amazing how quickly she’d gone from obedient schoolgirl to willful young woman. Griffin could still remember the day of the fire, when he’d held a wailing two-yearold in his arms and watched, helpless, as their parents and elder brother were consumed by the flames. She had been so tiny then, so desperately in need of his protection…

      “You can’t keep me locked up forever,” Gemma said in a deceptively calm voice. “In a few more years I’ll be able to make my own decisions, and then…”

      “Gemma, Gemma—” Griffin cupped her chin in his hand “—why are you in such a hurry to face the world? It’s not as pretty as you imagine.”

      She met his gaze. “I know how hard it was for you…in the War, I mean…all the things you had to do—”

      He dropped his hand as if she had burned it. “You know nothing about it, and I never want you to learn. You’ll have a good life. Nothing will ever hurt you, Gemma. That I promise.”

      “A good life.” She flounced away from him, banging her heels on the carpet. “You mean, a life among the stuffy, boring, proper members of New York society. You want me to marry an ordinary man and become a good, obedient wife who gives respectable teas and occasionally plays tennis with the other young matrons.” She swung back to face him. “What if I don’t want that kind of life? What if I want jazz and dancing and fast motor cars? What if I want to be free?”

      “Gemma…”

      “Don’t you see? We aren’t like other people, Grif! We can’t just pretend we are. What would happen if I married some nice, upstanding young man and he found out what I really am? Or will I have

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