Perfect Timing. Джулия Кеннер

Make any adjustments that might be needed. That kind of thing.”

      “Oh. Right.” She frowned, not really in the mood to talk to strangers, no matter how kindly. “I’ll just go catch up with my friend.”

      “Of course, miss.” He stuck his hand in his pocket, pulled out a quarter, and started twirling it between his fingers. She watched, fascinated by the agility with which the coin danced over his hand, weaving in and out, over and under and then—snap!—falling to the ground and rolling under the easel with the Fairbanks movie poster.

      “Oh! And you were doing so well, too.”

      He nodded toward the easel. “I don’t suppose you could snatch that thing back for me? These old knees don’t get down on the ground like they used to.”

      She hesitated, not entirely sure why, then realized she was being ridiculous. “Sure. No problem.” She edged toward the poster, keeping her eye to the ground as she looked for the coin. “There you are,” she whispered, bending down. As her fingers closed around it, she felt something shove her from behind. She toppled forward, slamming against the poster and then actually tumbling through it.

      But that couldn’t be right. Just her mind playing tricks as a wave of dizziness crashed over her. Her knees went weak and she sagged to the floor.

      And the last thing Sylvia remembered thinking was that if she was going to faint, that guard had damn well better say “thank you” when she gave him back his coin.

      CHAPTER TWO

      TUCKER LEANED AGAINST the railing and watched the swirling, whirling melee below him. His sister, intent on garnering a reputation for throwing the best parties in Beverly Hills, had gone all out with this one. Everyone who was anyone had been invited, and even more had breached the door without invitations. The masquerade theme was fitting, allowing the guests to quaff the illicit alcohol with less fear of recognition. And, surely, the family’s social position assured that they would not be troubled.

      Mostly, though, Tucker knew that the guests had come to slide into the oblivion of amusement and temporarily forget the undertone of fear that so recently colored the neighborhood. Fear of a killer who had attacked the community’s women. The Ragtime Strangler they were calling the beast, and the very thought made Tucker’s blood boil, his hatred of anyone who would so intentionally cause pain to a woman cutting at him like the blade of the knife the killer had wielded.

      With effort, he forced himself not to think of that, turning his thoughts back to the party and his sister. He looked down, surveying the scene. Women in white with gossamer wings. Men with harlequin collars, their faces painted with black and white greasepaint. And everyone dancing, flirting, laughing. And, of course, drinking.

      Honestly, he should be down there with them, but somehow he couldn’t quite work up the energy. He didn’t begrudge his sister her need for entertainment, but he didn’t feel lighthearted enough to join in the fun. The horrors he had seen during the Great War had robbed him of a certain ability to escape into mindless fun. And the specter of the Strangler made him wary, unlike his peers who danced and drank to forget.

      Mostly, though, Tucker was occupied with his own worries. Specifically, his mind was whirring, busy plotting ways to kill off Detective Spencer Goodnight, Los Angeles Police Department.

      He needed something spectacular, of course. Something that did justice to Spencer’s illustrative career. Something that pitted Spencer against a formidable enemy, like Holmes against Moriarty.

      Too bad Tucker had never created a Moriarty-like character within the Goodnight: Los Angeles cast. An astonishing lack of foresight on his part, but he’d certainly never planned on ending the show. Why would he? Of all the radio shows broadcasting from Los Angeles, his was one of the most popular. Families tuned in each week for Spencer Goodnight’s next adventure. Certainly Tucker would never get another job in radio after pulling the plug on such a popular—and profitable—enterprise.

      That sad fact weighed on him, but bearing down equally hard was the fact that he had no choice. His father had spoken. And in the Greene household, the Colonel’s word was law.

      Some things, it seemed, were simply too good to be true. And some dreams were destined to die.

      As, apparently, was Spencer Goodnight.

      Perhaps an ocean liner. Something along the lines of Titanic. Goodnight could be on a pleasure voyage. A deb murdered in a grisly fashion. Goodnight finds her killer. But the victory is bittersweet when the ship hits an iceberg and—

      “Desperately dull, isn’t it, love?”

      Tucker jumped, yanked from his fantasy by his sister Blythe. She took a long drag on a cigarette, precariously settled at the end of a silver holder. She tapped the holder against the railing, releasing a flurry of ashes to the crowd below as she watched him, her expression filled with ennui.

      “My dearest Blythe, if the hostess is bored, whatever does that say about the quality of the entertainment?” He knew, of course, that his sister was far from bored. With their parents in London for the summer, Blythe had made sure that the Greene family’s Beverly Hills estate was the after hours destination for anyone who was anyone.

      “The entertainment is just fine,” she said, with a twinkle in her eye.

      Two flappers ran behind them, giggling as two fellas chased them, champagne sloshing from crystal flutes as they ran.

      “Must be me then,” Tucker said, turning away from his sister to watch the crowd below him.

      “Darling, it’s always you.” She leaned over and pecked him on the cheek. “You’re supposed to be mingling, you know. Playing the host.”

      “And steal your spotlight? I wouldn’t dream of it.”

      She laughed, then snagged the sleeve of a passing woman. “Lizzy, be a love and find me a drink. I’m positively parched.”

      Blythe’s former school chum winked at Tucker, then disappeared into the crowd, returning momentarily with two flutes of champagne. “The best the host has to offer,” she said.

      “And the hostess has very good taste,” Blythe said, lifting her flute.

      “I have good taste, too,” Lizzy said, sliding an arm around Tucker’s waist. She batted her lashes, then pressed her hip flirtatiously against his crotch. Lizzie had suffered under an infatuation with him since she’d been in diapers and Tucker in short pants. Never once during those years had he returned her admiration. Even so, since Tucker was neither dead nor a saint, he found himself immediately standing at attention, his body suddenly interested in the young woman who’d never before captured his eye.

      Lizzy noticed, of course, and cupped his crotch. Then she giggled, and he had to wonder just how much naughty salt had tickled her nose. Not that the effect would lessen her appeal in bed. Quite the opposite, actually. A happy side effect of the powder was a certain exuberance among the women in his bed.

      Blythe took a sip of her champagne, arched an eyebrow and made a graceful exit, leaving Tucker and Lizzy alone.

      He pulled her close, then crushed his mouth over hers, the beads of her dress making a satisfying shooshing sound as it scraped against his suit. He grabbed her, his hands tight on her soft rear as he pushed her toward him, their bodies grinding together. So easy, he thought. So easy to lose himself in her. A little sex, a little dance, a little drink. And maybe he could forget his problems. At least until the sun came up.

      “Why, Tucker,” she said, when they came up for air, “I didn’t know you cared.”

      She was teasing, of course, but the words struck him in the gut, knocking him off-kilter. Because he didn’t care. Not about the business he was being forced to inherit from his father. Not about the parties his sister lived for. Not about this girl.

      He cupped her face in his hands, then pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Go find Roger, Liz,” he