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 said, referring to the boyfriend she’d tossed aside a mere two days ago. “Tell him you want to dance.”
“I—” Her wide eyes, painted with blue and gold, blinked at him, full of hurt.
Tucker couldn’t help himself. He 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
