Prohibited Passion: Roaring Twenties Romances, #3

By Romy Sommer

Maria, Romance Book Haven: "beautifully evocative of early 20th century New York and the jazz age - an age, I must confess, in which I had little interest, until I started reading this fascinating little gem of a novella."

 

On her way to a new life in America, a respectable English widow expects her biggest adventure to be the Transatlantic voyage. But when she finds herself stuck in an elevator with a roguishly charming Prohibition gangster - and he offers her a dare she can't refuse - she embarks on a whole new adventure.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Romy Sommer
• Release date: Apr 28, 2013
• ISBN: 9781497773707

Romy Sommer

2016 Finalist for the Romance Writers of America® RITA Award for Best Mid-Length Contemporary Romance for 'Not a Fairy Tale'. By day Romy has a not-as-glamorous-as-you-think job making television commercials, but at night she gets to escape to fantasy worlds and write Happy Ever Afters - what could be more perfect? Romy is a single mom to two little princesses, lives in sunny South Africa, and is a founder and the first Chairperson of ROSA (Romance writers Organisation of SA).

Book preview

Chapter 1

The elevator lurched and stood still. Beyond the wood-paneled compartment, the gears that operated the machinery fell ominously silent. Tom stared in disbelief at the bronze hand on the elevator display above the doors, stuck unmoving between two ornate roman numerals.

Could this day possibly get any worse?

He yanked at the elevator door, but to no avail. It was firmly shut. Which could mean only one thing. He swore.

It appears we’re stuck between floors. A cool, feminine voice broke through the mist of anger wrapped around him. He turned, daunted to find he wasn’t alone in the compartment.

You going to go screwy on me? He eyed the young woman suspiciously.

She arched an elegant eyebrow.

Are you going to have hysterics?

Do I look hysterical?

His gaze swept over her. She wore her honey-colored hair drawn back in a twist at her neck, making her look like a governess. As perhaps she was. Her drab tweed skirt and blazer screamed prim and proper. Her classic oval face was pretty, though not remarkable, their only outstanding feature a pair of dove-grey eyes that appeared to be laughing rather than distressed.

You find this situation amusing? he demanded.

No. But there really is no point getting in a fuss about something over which we have no control. We should ring the alarm bell and wait to be rescued.

Good thinking. Calm thinking. It galled him he hadn’t thought of it first. In other circumstances, without the shocking news he’d just learned, he would have.

He pressed the alarm bell on the polished bronze panel. Nothing. He pressed it again. No sound. He swore for a second time.

His companion sat on the floor of the elevator, neatly tucking her skirt around her knees. Looks like we might have to wait a while.

Do you get stuck in elevators often? That would certainly explain her composure.

This is my first time in one - and it’s taken me a full day to get up the nerve to enter.

Impressive. First time trapped in a box with a stranger and instead of screaming like a banshee or collapsing in his arms, she sat on the floor like a lady at a picnic. It was turning into quite the day for new experiences.

Are you in a hurry to get somewhere? Her voice was coolly dispassionate and very English. He was no expert in foreign accents, but he guessed she was well-born and well-educated. Everything he wasn’t. Great. Just what he needed. Why couldn’t he have been stuck in the elevator with a buxom brunette in need of comfort, preferably a pliant young maid servant, to help him forget the nightmare of the past hour?

No hurry. Other than back to New York as fast as this damned liner could sail. Not that he held out much hope of this ship setting any speed records if even the elevators didn’t work.

You’re American.

How observant. And you’re British.

English, she corrected with a nod.

He shrugged, beyond caring.

I’m Mrs. March.

She was being relentlessly good humored in the face of his irritation. He gave up trying to get the alarm bell to respond and, with a sigh, forced aside his temper and sank to the floor across from her. He held out his hand. Tom Gallagher.

It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Gallagher. Her hand was as cool as her voice, but the touch of her palm sent an unexpected and not unpleasant tingle up his arm.

Are you and your husband traveling on holiday to the States? he asked politely.

Her gaze clouded, and she shook her head. My husband was American. I’m going to visit his family.

Was. I’m sorry.

Don’t be. She managed a small smile. We were very happy while it lasted.

You’re traveling alone, then?

Hardly. It seems even in these progressive times women are not allowed to do anything on their own. There was a touch of bitterness in her voice now, at odds with the calm good humor of her expression. Interesting. I’m traveling with my sister-in-law. She has been visiting relatives in London, and I… She shrugged, as if shouldering aside an unpleasant thought. My options were limited.

He frowned. You’re not traveling out of choice?

It’s not that simple. She cleared her throat. My situation is hardly a suitable topic of conversation with a stranger.

He leaned back against the paneled wall. Who better to divulge confidences to than a complete stranger? He sent her his most winning smile. And since we appear to be going nowhere for the foreseeable future, what harm can there possibly be?

She bit her lip as she considered his words, drawing his gaze to her mouth. She wasn’t the sort of woman he normally looked twice at. The white shirt buttoned up to within an inch of her throat did not recommend her to a man who preferred his women a little less … restrained. Not that his preferences had been entirely successful of late.

But Mrs. March had a full and very kissable set of lips. And a pretty face and figure, now that he bothered to look. Mr. March must have been a lucky man. Until the death bit.

She sighed. There are only two choices available to an unmarried woman, even a widow with the means to support herself: to live with my parents or with his.

You’d prefer to live alone?

Not so much alone as I’d like to choose where I live. Robert and I were very happy in London. We have friends there and a nice home. Now, because of his death, I’m forced to give up the place where we were so happy and either return to a sleepy country village full of old people, or move to a foreign land. At least the foreign land will be a new adventure.

Perhaps you’ll like living in the States, he suggested. Then he grinned. And perhaps you might even find yourself a new husband and embrak on another new adventure. She was still young, and certainly attractive enough to turn heads, even if it was in that soft, sweet way he didn’t usually notice. It must be the after-effect of this afternoon’s shock that he was even noticing now.

Perhaps. It’s what my family would like. To see me happy and settled again.

But you don’t want to marry again?

Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. I don’t want another husband. She shook her head. I saw you on the dock at Southampton. I assume the young woman in the ostrich plumes is your wife? Mischief sparked in her eyes, transforming her serious face, but gone far too quickly. Or your lover?

The bitterness of his laugh echoed around the elevator compartment. Certainly not the latter. My wife.

And you’ve been on holiday in England?

We honeymooned in Europe.

How lovely. Did you have a pleasant time?

He pressed his lips together. It was a profitable trip.

You make it sound more like business than pleasure.

She noticed far too much. Do you have a pack of cards?

Her eyes narrowed. I don’t gamble.

Then we shall have to find some other diversion to pass the time until we’re rescued. How about charades?

She laughed, a low, melodic sound. Fine, I’ll change the subject. Tell me about America, Mr. Gallagher. What should I expect of New York City?

Noise. Filth. Excitement. Opportunity.

I hope you don’t mind that I don’t find any of those attributes particularly appealing.

He shrugged. "I expect your experience of the city will be very different from mine. We’re not the same class