“You okay?” Spencer asked after a few minutes. “You got quiet.”
I nodded. “I’m just thinking.” I finally noticed our surroundings and forced myself to focus. “Are we going to Santa Monica?”
“You guessed it.”
“Dancing?”
The La Monica Ballroom had recently opened on the SantaMonica Pier and claimed to be the largest ballroom on the West Coast, accommodating up to five thousand dancers. The pier also had a roller coaster, among other thrill rides, and a carousel I’d ridden many times as a child, but I didn’t think Spencer would ask me to dress up for an amusement park.
“We might end up dancing,” he said evasively.
“So, we’re not going to the pier?”
“We’re going to the pier.”
“Herbert Spencer Leeds!” I put my hand on his forearm. “Tell me what we’re doing.”
“We’re going to have fun, Ally.” He put his hand over mine. “That’s all that matters. Trust me.”
When we approached the pier, it was an impressive sight, lit up with hundreds of lights. The roller coaster dipped and rose against the starry night sky, and the flags on the Spanish-influenced towers of the La Monica Ballroom waved in the breeze.
“What else can we do on the pier besides dance?” I asked as he drove down the length of it and parked at the end.
“You’ll see.” He turned off the car and got out, coming around to open the passenger door for me. “Take your wrap. It might get chilly.”
I had brought a silk wrap with a thick fur collar and pulled it on a little tighter as I frowned. “It’s pretty warm.”
“It won’t be on the water.”
“The water?”
He closed the car door and took my hand, wrapping his fingers around mine as he tugged me to follow him. There was a large redXpainted on the side of a building with a single light flickering overhead. Several people had already gathered there. They were dressed in tuxedos and evening gowns, laughing and chatting as they waited.
“What’s happening?” I pulled him to a stop, all teasing gone. “I’m serious. Where are we going?”
He grinned and stepped closer, his eyes filled with pleasure. “We’re going to the S.S.Tango. It’s anchored offshore a bit.”
He was so close, I could smell the cologne he wore and feel the heat from his body. It made my pulse thrum.
I needed to stay focused and not let my attraction to him get the best of me. “What kind of ship is the S.S.Tango, and why is it anchored offshore?”
“It’s a gambling ship, if you must know.” He moved aside a tendril of hair that blew across my face, his finger brushing my cheek and leaving a trail of fire behind. “It’s anchored about three miles offshore because it’s out of Los Angeles’s jurisdiction there. It’s a respectable establishment.” He tilted his head toward the crowd, his fingers tightening around mine. “You probably know a lot of those people over there.”
“I don’t want to go to a gambling ship. I have no desire to gamble.”
“We’re not going to gamble.” He put his free hand on my arm, grasping it gently.
“What are we going for?” It was hard to talk with him standing so close, touching my hand and arm.
“We’re going to socialize.” His hand moved up my arm to my shoulder. “And be seen by the right people, so they start to believe the rumors. But”—his hand lifted to my cheek, and I met his gaze—“more than that, we’re going out there to get away from everything for a couple hours and spend time together.”
My breath stilled at the feel of his hand on my face again. “Couldn’t we do that somewhere legal?”
He smiled. “The gambling boats aren’t illegal in international waters.”
“That’s a technicality.”
“Technicalities are all that matter. Is something wrong just because someone in power says it’s so? Who gets to decide if something is right or wrong?”
