New York City, 1920s
Bootleggers are breathing down hotelier Harry McMahon’s neck. So when a beautiful, young, and very wealthy widow from Paris turns up at the Cotton Club, Henry sees it as the perfect opportunity to combine business and pleasure. First he will take her body, then her heart, and finally, her money...
Elise Rousseau may not be the mousey innocent she once was, but she can’t believe Harry doesn’t recognize her—and she intends to punish him in the most wicked way. She will make him want her body, make him give her his heart. And then she will break it, just as he broke hers four years ago...
A Dance with Indecency
Linda Skye
MILLS & BOON
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Contents
Chapter 1
The air was thick with the smell of sweat, smoke and sweet wine. A four-piece band belted out jazz tunes, and a crowd of drunken revelers danced to the beat. The gyrating bodies were slick with drink and arousal, and a heavy cloud of cigarette smoke hung over the acrid scent of intoxication. The infamous Cotton Club was in already full swing.
Harry McMahon lounged on one of the leather sofas that circled the dance floor, drink in hand. He lifted the glass, letting the ice cubes clink together and surveying the room through the pale amber of his cheap whiskey.
He was still waiting.
“You seem bored, old chap,” his friend, Lucas Thorne, commented from an adjacent chair.
Harry glanced at him from the corner of his eye. One of the club’s dancers was poised upon Lucas’s knee, wiggling her tail-feathered bottom. Lucas chuckled, his hand sliding up her long legs. Harry brought his glass to his lips, his eyes sliding back to the club.
“Not at all, Lucas,” he said, sipping slowly at the harsh liquor.
Lucas grunted and leaned back as the dancer dipped lower, her hips pulsing against his in time to the music.
“Then why are you staring at the door instead of enjoying yourself as you usually do?”
His friend beckoned to another dancer, who seemed all too eager to entertain—until Harry waved her off dismissively.
“You see,” Lucas said accusingly. “You’re not here to have a good time.”
“I’m mixing business with pleasure,” Harry countered, setting down his empty glass and leaning forward to light a cigar. “Not all of us can float through life as you do, my good man.”
“So says the heir of a hotel tycoon.” Lucas guffawed, giving his dancer’s bottom a playful slap.
Harry sighed and puffed at his cigar. It was true; he did stand to inherit his father’s hotel empire—but it was a crumbling, fading empire. Since prohibition, most of the hotel business in the city had floundered and entrepreneurs—such as himself—had to turn to other, less legal means of doing business.
“Oh, will you stop sighing?” Lucas interrupted his thoughts. “Everyone loves your hotel.”
“Only because I’m in debt to bootleggers,” Harry muttered.
“Well, you have to get the good stuff from someone,” Lucas said with an indifferent shrug. “Bootleggers are great business partners—until you can’t pay up of course.”
“Of course,” Harry repeated quietly.
Indeed, he thought grimly, the stories had been so grisly that they had even climbed into the rumor mill of the upper classes. And therein was his dilemma. He was in debt to the worst sort of people, and he couldn’t pay up—not since his family had drained their old money coffers by buying expensive cars and throwing lavish parties. But he’d never let on, not with his reputation as one of the city’s richest bachelors at stake. And certainly not when he needed to maintain the glamorous image of his prized hotel, the Hotel Pierre.
But he had a plan...and so he was still waiting with his eye on the door.
“Goodness, man!” Lucas exclaimed, his voice only slightly muffled by his dancer’s chest, “Why are you slouching around like a sack of old potatoes?”
“I don’t slouch,” Harry corrected smartly. “And I’ll have you know that I am waiting...for a future business partner to arrive.”
“Oh? And who might this mystery guest be?”
“Our newest arrival to the New York party scene, of course,” Harry said with a debonair wink. “The Parisian Widow.”
Lucas nudged the woman on his lap to the side so that he could lean in excitedly. The so-called Parisian Widow, Elise Rousseau, had arrived in New York only a week ago—and she had already caused quite the buzz. Depending on the source, she was rumored to be a decrepit old shrew or a dazzlingly gorgeous young woman. But most importantly—at
