Chapter 1

Nightclub

April 18, 1969

8:00 p.m.

“Romeo, phone.”

Roman took the receiver and waited until Madge had walked away to answer, “Hello.”

“He’s dead,” a disembodied voice reported.

Damn!

“When?”

“Found last week.”

“And?”

“She’s already there.”

“We’re on in five,” Jimmie tapped him on the shoulder before he could say any more.

The line went dead, and Roman fought to maintain his neutral expression. “Thank you, Madge.” He gently placed the receiver back in the cradle.

“Anytime, Romeo,” she quipped. “Let me know what else you need.”

“You know I will.”

Roman stepped away from the desk, not really surprised by the news. Somehow, he’d anticipated what he’d heard. Which was why he’d already begun working to ferret out who she was.

On his way toward the small stage, his gaze drifted from one female to another. There were several he felt comfortable in ruling out. Once he knew who she was, though, what was he supposed to do with her?

“Hi, Roman.” A busty blonde cocktail waitress stepped in front of him.

“Darla.”

She didn’t have enough upstairs, so he immediately dismissed her as his mark. Which had proved to be the case with most of the females employed at the lodge. The younger Desmond brother had a reputation for hiring women who filled out the uniform, whether they could do the job or not. Did that make his task easier? Or more difficult?

Roman glanced around the nightclub one last time, looking for something – anything out of place. His gaze landed on the pretty brunette behind the hat-check counter, and not for the first time, he caught her staring. Just as she had before, she quickly averted her eyes.

He waited until she’d turned back his direction and tossed her a wink. A gentle blush crawled across her face, and she ducked her head, making him take a second look. Her reactions threw him and kicked his heart rate up a notch. So much so, that when he stepped up on the stage, it took him several minutes to remember what he was supposed to be doing.

Jimmie, the bass player, Sticks, the drummer, and Don, the guitarist, were already tuning their instruments.

“Which set tonight?” asked Jimmie.

“Two.”

“Two?” Both Jimmie’s brows shot up, and then a knowing smile crossed his face, “Lucy?”

“Lucy?” Roman frowned. “Who’s Lucy?”

“The brunette behind the hat-check desk,” Jimmie offered. “She’s a looker, isn’t she?”

“Don’t let Madge hear you say that,” laughed Roman. “I’ve heard she has a temper to match her hair.”

“That she does,” Jimmie grinned. “However, she knows there’s nothing for her to fret over.”

“As long as she doesn’t catch you looking,” muttered Don.

“True,” Jimmie replied with a grin. “But making up can be quite enjoyable. If you know what I mean.”

Roman ignored the typical before-set razing and tried to focus on what he needed to do. When the curtain was lifted, and he was introduced, the new girl once again captured his attention.

Lucy.

Their eyes met, and the song he was singing took on a new meaning. It had him thinking of holding hands and walking in the moonlight. Except he couldn’t afford diversions. One life had already been lost; he’d be damned if there were more.

***

Nightclub

April 18, 1969

8:30 p.m.

Lucy had been in the quaint, small town of Swan Harbor, Maine, for three days. There was a feeling in the air she’d never experienced. It gave her hope that she hadn’t made a mistake. That she hadn’t jumped into a situation she couldn’t handle. Yet, it didn’t quite dispel the nerves jumping around inside.

The music helped. As long as she focused on just the music – and not the man. She didn’t have time for male distractions – no matter how tempting they were.  

Yet, each time she saw him, she found it more difficult to keep her eyes off of him. She hated that Roman Dankin, with his brown hair, blue eyes, and soft baritone, took her breath.

“Keep your mouth closed, Honey,” Madge whispered. “You don’t want to be caught drooling.”

“I’m not drooling,” Lucy hastily denied while surreptitiously checking her chin. “I was just listening.”

“Uh-huh.” Madge gave her a knowing look.

Lucy didn’t like the extra attention and searched for a way to side-track. “How did Jimmie get involved in music, anyway?”

Madge studied her so carefully, Lucy found herself holding her breath and fighting to maintain eye contact. Several long grueling moments later, the other woman took the bait and went on to talk about her husband.

“I’m outta here,” she suddenly muttered mid-explanation.

“Wait, Madge …” Lucy began. However, her words faded when a cloud of aftershave surrounded her.

“Lucy.”

The low bass voice sent a chill zipping up her spine. Slowly, she turned away from the stage and met Rick Desmond’s dark eyes.

To be continued …