SpeakeasySweetheart

Clare
Murray

Her boyfriend dumped her, she’s being evicted and she has no
job prospects—Sasha Kelly doesn’t have much to look forward to. Until she stumbles
through a mysterious door at her college graduation after-party and lands in a
New York City speakeasy in the Roaring Twenties. Before she even figures out
what’s going on, she’s in the lap of Blaze O’Rourke as they escape both a police
raid and the dangerous criminal who is Blaze’s archenemy.

Blaze can’t resist the beautiful woman in his lap, but he’s
determined to find out why she was singing in Vincent Cornell’s club. If that
means kidnapping and seducing her, so be it. Cornell killed his brother and
Blaze has been seeking revenge for two years. But Sasha’s presence re-awakes
Blaze’s hunger for someone to love and he’s truly enjoying life—and sex—for the
first time in years.

Then Cornell kidnaps Sasha, forcing Blaze to choose between
revenge and love.

A
Romantica®
time-travel erotic romance
from Ellora’s Cave

If life as she knew it was going to end tomorrow, she might
as well enjoy herself tonight.

Sasha Kelly stepped onto the makeshift stage as the karaoke
machine blared out the beginning to a popular Jazz Age song. By the time Sasha
got to
I ain’t got nobody, and nobody cares for me,
she had the entire
room’s attention.

Although her voice wobbled a little near the end, nobody
noticed. Least of all her former boyfriend, who stood at the bar with his
latest flame hanging off his arm. Not that she could entirely blame her ex for
the impending eviction, but his recent betrayal still stung.

He’d taken her virginity and scant weeks later moved out of
their apartment, leaving her with his share of the rent to pay. Sasha narrowed
her eyes as she caught him staring at her, his gaze wandering hungrily up and
down her body even as his hand rested upon his new girl’s waist.

Forcing herself to concentrate, Sasha finished the song. She
didn’t miss
him
, but she sure missed the sex.

“Congratulations, dear.” The elderly professor running the
end-of-the-year party approached Sasha as she stepped off the stage to a
smattering of applause. “I never knew you had such a beautiful contralto
voice.”

“It comes in handy during all the parties I go to with
Roaring Twenties themes.” The professor hovered uncertainly and Sasha forced a
quick smile, already regretting her snippy reply. “Thank you for organizing
things, Mr. Brown.”

“A pleasure. Good luck after graduation, dear.” He paused,
seeming to become more focused upon her. “Got a job lined up?”

Yeah, cleaning my dad’s floors after he comes home drunk
out of his skull. And stocking shelves at the local supermarket.

“I thought I’d travel back in time and get a job as a
singer.”

Mr. Brown blinked rapidly and she saved him the trouble of
thinking up an answer by handing him the microphone. Yet he recovered more
quickly than she thought possible as she began walking away.

“Sasha.”

He knew her name? She turned, juggling coat and keys. “Yes?”

“Maybe you will.”

He was humoring her. Wasn’t he supposed to be the most
eccentric professor on campus? She shrugged. “And pigs might fly.”

Mr. Brown shuffled closer as the karaoke machine started up
again, this time blasting something with a loud bass beat.

“Haven’t you heard that this building takes on a little
magic during end-of-year parties?” he asked.

Sasha gave the multipurpose room a cursory glance. “Here?”

The professor waved his hands vaguely. “Opportunities are
everywhere if you walk through the right door.”

Sasha paused, biting back her initial flippant reply. The
elderly man seemed convinced by his own words. She decided to humor him. “Okay.
I’ll keep an eye out for promising doors.”

“You do that,” Mr. Brown said brightly. “Good luck, dear.
Oh—you’ll want to go out that way. Turn right when you leave the room.”

With a muttered thanks, Sasha navigated through the thin
crowd. She’d already said her farewells to the people who mattered. The rest of
them—well, she hardly knew anyone else. Working a part-time job instead of
socializing had alienated Sasha from most of her classmates.

Hell, she didn’t even know the way out of this stupid
building. Sasha rounded a corner and frowned. Mr. Brown had told her to turn
right, but this area was filled with storage boxes. Over the hum of a generator
she could hear voices—were they coming from the other side of the wall?

There was a door as well, but it didn’t look like a way out.
It was easily the strangest door she’d ever seen. Its threshold was raised
while the clearance was low, forcing one to step high while stooping at the
same time.

Opportunities are everywhere if you walk through the
right door.

Seized by the same devil-may-care attitude that had carried
her onto the karaoke stage, Sasha opened the door. On this, her last night of
freedom, she wasn't minded to be careful.

Faint cigarette smoke filled her nostrils as she stepped
through, pushing the door shut behind her. She was standing in…a dressing room?
Sasha jumped as the scariest-looking man she’d ever seen burst in.

“You’re on stage in five minutes. Hurry it up.”

Stage?
“I’m not—”

“In this club, you follow Cornell’s rules,” he said in the
strongest New York accent she'd ever heard in Maine. “Or you can forget about
the deal you made with the boss and—” He pursed his lips and made a slicing
motion across his throat.

Sasha knew her mouth was agape but she was too stunned to do
anything but stare as Mr. Asshole carried on up the corridor, banging on each
door. Then she realized there was a small knot of women staring at her and
whispering.

“Cornell’s latest girl?”

“What's eatin’ her, I wonder?”

Sasha looked at them wide-eyed. She was in some sort of
club, apparently. But these girls didn’t look like illegal ravers. They looked
like…well, a better-dressed set of college students. Maybe this was a theater
club of some sort. Either way, they had the wrong girl.

“You the new singer?” one asked.

Sasha shook her head. “Actually, I was just leaving.”

She turned, searching for the door she’d come through. But
two of the women took her arms, leading her firmly into the hallway. “Look,
you’d better get out there and sing,” one of them said, not unkindly. “Cornell
gets vicious when things don’t go his way.”

“And lucky you, you've got Blaze O'Rourke in the audience
tonight.” A short-haired blonde smiled at her.

“Blaze?” Sasha repeated.

“His parents ran out of Irish names after eight boys so his
given name is Octavian. Everyone calls him Blaze—”

“’Cause he’s bound to go out in a blaze of glory. Word is
he's gunning for Cornell. Vigilante justice.” The speaker, a brunette, lowered
her voice.

“Here, give me your coat,” said the blonde. “You should get
on stage. I'm Louella, by the way.”

“Sasha.” Numbly she handed her coat to Louella. She couldn’t
afford to stop and think, otherwise she was going to go crazy. Maybe her ex had
spiked her drink.

But the audience in front of her was real enough. Their
attention to detail was breathtaking—each man wore a suit jacket and a hat, and
several women smoked using long, slim cigarette holders.

Her eye was immediately drawn to a man in the middle of the
room. Was that the man they’d been talking about? God, he was gorgeous, a real
beefcake. Wavy dark hair framed an uncompromisingly handsome face. His dark-blue
eyes locked onto her the instant she stepped into view.

The first jolt of nerves hit Sasha right about then.
Whatever secret party she’d just stumbled into, this scenario was grittily
realistic, right down to the costumes of the people present. There was no
karaoke machine on stage. Instead there were actual people with instruments—a
saxophone, trumpet and clarinet, to be exact.

Holy crap.

“Your name?” hissed the gentleman hovering to her side. He’d
been hissing at her for some time now. Belatedly, she complied with his
request.

“Ladies and gentlemen, Sasha Kelly is the club’s newest
singer. Please give her a warm welcome.” The man stepped back, giving her the
stage.

Handsome’s eyes flickered as he registered her name. Before
she could read too much into it, the band began to play the first strains of a
blues song she knew like the back of her hand.

But the edge of her tipsiness was fading and—oh God, how
long had it been since she’d taken vocal lessons? Five years? Six?

There was no going back now. Sasha opened her mouth and
sang.

Blaze O’Rourke sat back in pleasure as the pretty young
woman on stage sang the blues. Finally Vincent Cornell had found a singer who
could actually perform. So where had he been hiding this girl?

Probably in his bed, with the rest of them
, his inner
cynic answered. Blaze leaned forward, studying her. She didn’t look like the
type Cornell would fuck; the man preferred skinny, short little things. Sasha
Kelly was tall and curvy, just the sort who turned Blaze on.

Shame he had to kidnap her.

Getting dirt on Cornell was more important than anything
else. The man had gotten away with what he’d done for too long. Hell, he
probably didn’t even remember killing Blaze’s older brother.

But an O’Rourke never forgot. It was up to Blaze to avenge
Sean. Given the fate of Cornell’s last two singers, he’d be doing this one a
favor by getting her out of here.

Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was
something different about this young lady…something that set her apart from
Cornell’s other singers. Although she had an unusual first name, her surname
marked her as Irish, as did that luxurious auburn hair. He wanted to wrap it
around his hands, pull her down to him and kiss her as her eyes closed in
bliss.

He shook himself mentally, reminding himself to focus on the
task at hand. Cornell’s singers were often granted unprecedented access to the
man’s private life. What did Sasha know? More to the point, what would she tell
him?

Maybe he could seduce the information out of her.

The thought made him smile. He had to get her out of the
club first, and if she was loyal to Cornell, she wouldn’t be very happy with
him.

A commotion at the door interrupted his thought process.
Blaze raised his eyebrows as the front door banged open. Men in blue uniforms
began shoving their way in.

A police raid.
Perfect
. Blaze ran for the stage.

One minute she was singing, the next she was over Handsome
Beefcake’s shoulder as he ran toward the exit. Her breath, so carefully hoarded
for the last lingering note of the song, left her in a whoosh.

The whole place was in turmoil. The saxophonist was right on
their heels, lugging his instrument. On the other side of the club there were
three policemen all dressed up in old-fashioned uniforms making a huge
commotion as they raided the bar, throwing bottles of alcohol around.

What was next? Was this even real? This was one
strange
theater club. There was probably a camera person somewhere, recording all this.
No matter—soon she would be driving back to her apartment and packing the last
of her stuff. Just as soon as she explained why she didn’t belong here, that
they had mistaken her for some other singer.

Sasha tried to remember where she was parked. She was
rapidly losing all sense of direction. The venue was large, but she was certain
she could find the parking garage—once this Adonis finally set her down, of
course.

She wriggled a little as they stepped through a back door.
The chill in the air immediately penetrated her stockings and she wriggled
harder.

“Put me down!” she demanded.

Beefcake didn’t bother to answer her verbally. Instead one
of his huge hands came down on her buttocks, spanking her lightly but firmly.
She tensed and gasped at his audacity. One part of her hoped her ex happened to
be watching them from a window. The other part was hollering at her to get the
hell out of this situation, no matter how muscular and attractive this guy
happened to be.

“I’ll scream,” she threatened.

“Scream,” he invited, and bundled her into the front seat of
an old-style Cadillac. He slid in next to her, starting the engine with a roar.

Fuck screaming. She was out of here. If someone was filming,
they could cut this scene as far as she was concerned.

As soon as she slid to the other side of the car and fumbled
at the door handle, he pulled her back. “For that, you can sit on my lap while
I drive.”

Sasha gasped in outrage as he settled her atop him. A deeper
and far more primal part of her stretched in anticipation. He was erect, his
cock jutting against her thigh. She was tempted to wiggle her backside and inflame
him further.

“Why are you kidnapping me?” Maybe if she talked to him, her
traitorous body would back down and see sense.

“Was this your first time singing in Vincent Cornell’s
club?” he countered.

“Look, I’m not who you think I am. I really should get back
inside.”

“Not gonna happen, baby. You’re in danger if you go back
there.” His deep voice was sympathetic but he clearly meant business. At the
same time, his gaze admired her frankly. Sasha knew she was probably staring at
him the same way. She couldn’t help it.

“And I’m not in danger with you?” she asked.

“Not the same kind, no.”

“Well, what kind of trouble am I—
oh
.” Her lips parted
on the small cry of pleasure. His free hand found its way up her skirt,
caressing her through silk. When his thumb found her clit she arched her back
in pure pleasure. It had been far too long since she’d been touched like this.

The car moved forward and he took a moment to steady her,
broad hand splaying for a moment against her inner thigh. She reached out
blindly, nearly grabbing the steering wheel but settling instead for bracing
herself on the dashboard as the speedometer inched its way up the dial.

His expert fingers explored further, teasing her underwear
aside. Was he going to…? She barely stifled a tiny whimper as he slid one, then
two fingers inside her. The car rattled over a series of small bumps and
Sasha’s loins tightened almost to the point of pain.

She was going to come on his hand at this rate. The world
outside was no longer important—all that mattered was contained inside this
smooth Cadillac. The feeling of his hard thigh and cock against her buttocks,
the movement of his hand—both were driving her crazy.

Sasha hoped someone wasn’t actually filming this, but she
was too far gone to ask him to stop. Was he keeping her on the edge
deliberately? The word
please
formed on her lips, but she was too proud
to utter it. Instead she rocked forward, finding her own rhythm. She was so
close…