Page 8 of Passion's Wicked Torment

Hunter was appalled. “Fun? You think it can be fun?”

“Leave her alone, Dallas. I’m beginning to like this little lady.”

“I just want to make sure your men will back me up once you put me into this man Rooney’s warehouse, whatever that is,” Kristin ventured. “I mean, if I’m going to be part of your . . . gang, then I’ll do my share. But not if I’m just going to be an outsider, left there dangling.”

“No dangling for you, honey,” declared Ironman happily, slapping Kristin on the back. “Dallas, where’d you get this girl, anyway?”

“The insane asylum. Look, babe, I don’t want you getting involved in—”

Ironman held up a warning hand. “Whoa. Slow down here, boy. This little lady is offering to do us a big favor, and I’d hate to think you’re getting sentimental on me about it. I want to take her up on her offer.” His expression was still friendly, but his eyes had grown cold and scrutinizing. This was a test for Hunter. Ironman wanted to know if he had a right-hand man he could trust, or if he had a schoolboy who would crumple with sentimentality over a pretty girl.

Hunter saw that he was being tested. After a minute, he shrugged. “It’s a good plan. I admit it. Who am I to stand in the way of genius?”

Ironman slapped him on the back and laughed approvingly. “That’s my boy, that’s my boy. All right. Let’s talk business.”

The plan they developed called for Kristin to get in a position where she would be in Rooney’s warehouse at a certain time, where she was not under observation. She would unlock the doors, which were well secured from within, thus allowing Ironman’s men in. They would then destroy the bootleg whiskey being held in the warehouse before it could be sent by convoy to the speakeasies that bought from Rooney.

Once Rooney’s supplies were destroyed, the speakeasies would be forced to buy exclusively from Ironman. It would take at least a month for Rooney to arrange for a large enough shipment to come in from Canada to fill his orders. By that time, Ironman planned to have the trade cornered.

The plan Ironman detailed had a surprise twist ending, which neither Hunter nor Kristin had been privy to. Ironman took delight in springing it on them. “The reason I’m so hepped up on the idea of using your girl friend here, Dallas, is because she can do something for us that no outside man from Philly could ever do.” He looked mysterious. “Did you know Rooney is about to turn thirty-five? His birthday is three weeks off.”

Hunter shrugged. “So now he can run for president. He should be a regular shoo-in.”

“Yeah, well the point is, my friend, that he’s having a big wingding on the thirtieth. And I have inside information from a personal contact that a special cake is being prepared in his honor. My contact is the baker. And the cake happens to be hollow.”

Hunter nodded, understanding. “Let me guess what flavor it is.”

“Girl-flavored,” said Ironman. “If you catch my meaning.”

His eyes came to rest on Kristin. She looked stunned. This was something she had not counted on. She thought they wanted her to act in some sort of clerical position inside the warehouse. Now the full implication became clear. Her expression must have shown her consternation, for Ironman said, “You want to change your mind, doll?”

“I . . . well, I don’t know. You want me to jump out of a cake, in a swimsuit or something, and yell happy birthday?”

Ironman winked at her. “Someone’s got to do it. It ain’t going to be me, I’ll tell you that.”

Ironman turned to Hunter. “My friend the baker will put in whoever I tell him to. So we show up with your girlfriend here, see, and after she jumps out and everybody has a good laugh, he’ll tell her to go wait for him in his car so’s he can take her back with him to his hotel. The car is downstairs in the warehouse garage. She can open the gates from there.”

Hunter looked at Kristin. She could tell he was still against her taking part in the plan, but he held his silence. He had already risked antagonizing Ironman once and was not prepared to do it again. He glared at her. His expression seemed to say: If you’re crazy enough to do this, you deserve what you get.

Ironman did not ask Kristin if she wanted to back out, now that he had detailed exactly what her role would be. He picked up his derby and cane. Then he turned to her and said, “Good. Doll, you are going to earn my undying gratitude. I got big things in store for you. What’s your name, anyways?”

“Kristin . . . Seagrave.” It was her mother’s maiden name. She did not dare give her real last name. If they knew she was Chad’s sister, not only would her chances of getting information about Chad’s whereabouts be ruined, but her life expectancy would become zero.

Ironman was on his way across the restaurant now, toward the door, which his lackey was holding open for him. His bull-like, gruff voice cut across the restaurant. “Dallas, you take good care of this little lady here. This operation is your responsibility now, and she’s going to be an indispensable part. For the next three weeks you stick to her like flypaper.”

Then he was gone, and the black limousine disappeared from the window. Hunter stood up from the table disgustedly and threw his cloth napkin down. “Just what the hell are you trying to prove?”

“Nothing,” she said.

“That you can travel with fast company? Is that it?” “I’m not trying to prove anything. I told you why I want to stay with you. I just want a different life. I want excitement and adventure and a rich, pampered way of life.”

He grabbed her and pulled her up from the table.

“You’re hurting my arm,” she said.

“Do you know what you’re letting yourself in for, you stupid kid? This isn’t any damn game. People get killed in this racket! There’s a lot of pain and a lot of danger, and if you think you can play in that league, you’re wrong.”

She stared at him, amazed once again that he was trying to talk her out of entering a life in the underworld. Why should he care? Just what the heck kind of gangster was he, anyway, Kristin wondered, trying to save a girl from leading a corrupt life?

“You’re no hard-boiled lady. You’re fooling yourself if you think you can turn into one. You’re a little girl. A damn fool little girl who never even went to bed with a man before last night. Why don’t you go home and forget about this kind of life?”

Her expression turned sharp. She was challenged, and she had to respond in a way that would get her what she wanted. She appreciated his concern for her— even though it surprised her—but she could not let it stand in the way of getting what she wanted. She let her voice become hard.

“Why don’t you become a nursemaid, Mr. Hunter? You tell me I’m not the kind of girl who’s cut out for this. Well, what kind of gangster are you? Why don’t you go preach on a soapbox if you’re so concerned about a lady’s morals?”

Hunter looked at her murderously for a minute, but then slowly, a tight grin began to break over his lips. It seemed false. “That’s right, babe. I guess that’s the situation we’re stuck with. I can go preach on a soapbox, and you can go run home to your mama. Or we can both play out the hand we’ve been dealt.”

“Meaning?”

His grin became broader. “As long as you’re going to be with me, I might as well take full advantage of it.” His arm went around her waist, and he pulled her against him. He stared into her eyes. “Come on, back to my room. I want you.”

As they were leaving the restaurant, Kristin thought she detected in his actions a hint of deception—as if her accusation that he was a pretty strange kind of gangster, worrying about a girl’s morals, had prompted him to take this action now, to allay any doubts about whether he was or was not a tough gangster. It was as if he had a strong stake in protecting his reputation.

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