Perfect Timing. Джулия Кеннер

smiled. “Darling Liz,” he said. “It’s not me you want. It’s this.” He took her hand and pressed it against his crotch. Then he swept his arm to encompass the room. “And there’s a lot of that out there.”

      He held his breath, afraid he’d pushed her too far, expecting the sting of her palm against his cheek. It didn’t come. Instead, the corner of her mouth lifted, and then she laughed.

      “Tucker, darling, you are a wonder.” She pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, then left in a shimmy of beads and feathers, leaving Tucker not sure whether he should be relieved that she left so easily or insulted that she didn’t get into a snit.

      He decided to go with relief. Much easier, especially since it was true. Honestly, it wasn’t Blythe’s party that bored him so much as it was the guest list. Particularly the guests of the female persuasion.

      Although they put up a good show—as did he, of course—he had yet to find a woman who was truly interested in him. His money, yes. Or the bit of celebrity that came from writing the Spencer Goodnight broadcasts.

      Mostly, though, the girls were interested only in getting in his bed. As if he were there to be conquered.

      To a certain extent, he supposed that was true. For that matter, he wasn’t entirely sure why he minded. The good Lord knows he’d conquered his share of females. Lately, though, he’d found himself restless. And the idea of bedding another flighty female simply held no appeal.

      “Tucker, old man. There you are. Why the devil are you hiding out up here?”

      Tucker turned to see Jonathan Straithorn coming toward him, his arms out wide. Jonathan’s family lived a few doors down, and he tended to appear whenever Blythe threw one of her parties. A nice enough fella, though Tucker couldn’t say he knew the man well.

      “So many lovely women for the pickings. Or men, if that’s your particular poison.” Jonathan cocked his head, indicating the far side of the gallery and the two Ethels, heads so close together Tucker could practically see the heat rise between the two men, so obviously infatuated with each other.

      “It’s not,” he said succinctly.

      “Nor mine,” Jonathan agreed. “If those two aren’t careful, they’ll end up in the papers. Rumor is that the Tattletale is here. Along with a crasher toting a camera.”

      “Bloody hell,” Tucker said, irritated that the infamous gossip columnist had crashed the party. He leaned over the rail, scouring the crowd for an unfamiliar face or anyone carrying a camera or a flash pad. The exercise was futile, of course. No one looked familiar. And considering the density of the crowd, he probably wouldn’t notice a photographer until the flash powder ignited.

      “Bloody hell,” he repeated. “You would think with the Strangler still roaming the city the news hounds would have better things to do than chase gossip.”

      “Ah, but the Ragtime Strangler’s a mystery,” Jonathan said. “Nothing but questions. Who is he? When will he strike next? Who will be his next victim?” He shrugged. “Not much to report there. But the loves and affairs of the social elite? That, my friend, sells newspapers.”

      Tucker eyed him curiously. “A very passionate speech. I’d almost think that you are the mysterious Tattletale.”

      Jonathan chuckled. “I assure you, I am not. Though I will admit to having some secrets.”

      “Do you now?” Tucker asked, smiling at his neighbor. “You pique my curiosity. Be careful, or I’ll have to enlist Blythe’s aid. She could coerce a secret out of a priest.”

      “I imagine she could,” Jonathan said with a tight smile. “And I could only dream of being so lucky as to be the subject of your sister’s coercive tactics.”

      “Jonathan, I’m sorry,” Tucker said earnestly. “I didn’t mean—”

      “It’s all right,” Jonathan said, but his face was still tight and he didn’t quite look at Tucker.

      Tucker wanted to kick himself. How stupid of him to have suggested getting Jonathan and Blythe together, even in jest. The extent of Jonathan’s admiration for Blythe was no secret. Nor, unfortunately, was Blythe’s stout refusal to be wooed by the man. “He may be a neighbor,” she’d told Tucker, “but I don’t like him.” No explanation, no second chances. And that, quite simply, was that.

      Tucker cleared his throat. “Been two weeks since the Strangler last attacked,” he said in an effort to change the subject. “I expect there will be another incident soon.”

      Jonathan eyed him curiously. “Do you?”

      “Seems like a reasonable guess to me,” Tucker said. “Like you said, the bastard’s getting no press. And my guess is he craves attention. From the world, and from the women he attacks.”

      “Careful there, Greene. You’re turning into your Detective Goodnight.”

      “I think not,” Tucker said. “But the conclusions don’t seem out of sorts, do you think? All of his victims have been women with a certain breeding. More, they’ve all been the types of young women you might see described in the Tattletale’s column. Not young women studying abroad or living in a convent.”

      “Flappers,” Jonathan said agreeably. “Women who share our gin. And our beds. Loose women,” he added. “Or that’s what my father would say, anyway.”

      Tucker looked at him sharply. “And do you agree?”

      Jonathan waved the question away as if it were smoke. “That stuffed shirt? The man has ticker tape where his blood should be. But his attitude does suggest a question. What did the victims do to attract the Strangler’s attention?”

      “Figure that out, and we can bait the bastard,” Tucker said.

      “Tell me you’re not serious.”

      “I’m not,” Tucker said, though in truth he wished he did have the wherewithal to see such a plan through. That a man was so vilely and violently violating and then murdering Beverly Hills women…well, it made his blood burn.

      He’d seen horrors during the war, of course, but those horrors spoke to an ideal. Even though he had been conscripted, and would not care to repeat the experience, he understood and agreed with President Wilson’s motives for joining the Allies in the conflict. The vindication of human right, the President had said. And Tucker agreed. To now hear tales of women torn about in the manner of the men he’d crouched with in the French trenches—men less fortunate than he, who had not come home—well, the horror made him ill.

      “Speaking of loose women,” Jonathan said, unaware that Tucker’s mind had wandered. “Isn’t that Talia Calvert?” He pointed toward an older woman in orange with an overly large ostrich feather protruding from her head scarf.

      Talia Calvert—also known in the gossip magazines as the woman who shared home and hearth with motion picture director R. J. Calvert—tossed her head back in response to something her companion was saying and laughed with delight. She opened her eyes, saw Tucker and waved. Then she aimed her cigarette at him and mouthed, Don’t move.

      Ten minutes later she’d worked her way through the room and up the stairs, flirting and laughing and generally beaming at every male within a fifty-foot radius. She pressed a kiss to each of his cheeks. “Tucker, darling, I’m paralyzed with happiness to see you. And who is your absolutely delicious friend?” she asked, turning to Jonathan.

      After Tucker made the introductions, Jonathan pressed a kiss to Talia’s hand, sparking a delighted tinkle of laughter. She hooked an arm around his waist and scooted close, apparently claiming Jonathan as hers for the evening. “Have you thought any more about R.J.’s offer?” she asked, tossing her husband’s name into the mix even while her hand slid down to knead Jonathan’s ass.

      Tucker tried to keep a straight face, pointedly looking at Talia’s eyes and not the direction of travel of her nimble fingers.