Harry looked up at the clack of her heels, and pushed away from the vehicle. He tipped his hat in greeting.
“Well, that didn’t take you as long as I thought it would,” he said with a sly smile and an appreciative nod.
“Well,” Elise said with a sniff, “if you’re in no hurry, I can always go back upstairs and—”
“Now, now,” Harry quickly interjected, reaching for her hand. “Let’s not jump to conclusions. There’s no need to beautify any more than you already have, my darling.”
He planted a playful kiss on her bare knuckles.
“Let’s have a look at you then,” he prompted.
Inclining her head with a wink, Elise obliged him by turning in a slow circle.
“Simply gorgeous,” he said—and he meant it.
It seemed that Elise had taken his last-minute message to heart. She wore a sleeveless, low-waisted dress with a hem that barely skimmed her bottom and a sparkling fringe that hung to her knees. The golden, metallic sheen of the dress’s fabric lent a lovely golden color to her fair skin. She wore a cloche hat over her carefully coiffed bob, and her large blue eyes were framed by heavy, dark lashes. She had casually draped a fur stole over her arms; it wasn’t cold, but the fur certainly did look glamorous.
“Your chariot awaits, my lady,” Harry said with an exaggerated bow.
He opened the door to the car and gallantly ushered her into the leather passenger seat, helping her to climb in while helping himself to the view of her legs as she sat. Then, with the roar of a powerful engine, they were racing down New York’s streets and avenues with Harry in the driver’s seat. Elise instinctively reached for her hat—with the car’s top down, the wind whipped her short curls into a frenzy.
“Must you drive so fast?” she asked peevishly.
“Everything is better fast,” Harry responded, gracing her with a suggestive wink.
Even so, he slowed slightly as he took the next corner.
“And what kind of establishment are you taking me to, Mr. McMahon?” Elise asked, her tone teasingly haughty. “Nothing too dreary, I hope.”
“Of course not, Madame Rousseau,” Harry replied in the same tone. “I am taking you to my very own hotel.”
“Which is?” Elise pressed, feigning ignorance.
“The Hotel Pierre,” Harry said, shifting gears deftly and not quite concealing his pride.
The Hotel Pierre on 5th Avenue was one of the most luxurious and notorious hotels in New York—even before Prohibition days. From the grand marble foyer to the lush suites, it had been —and still was—the place to see and be seen.
Still, Elise needed to maintain her duplicitous facade of ignorance.
“A hotel,” she sniffed disdainfully. “Are you sure? Surely there’s nothing especially jazzy about going for dinner at a hotel.”
“My dear girl,” Harry said, tossing her a cavalier smirk. “I’m surprised Paris hasn’t caught up with this particular brand of hotel entertainment.”
Elise arched a delicate brow, and Harry continued.
“My hotel’s got the best liquor to be had, better than any speakeasy.”
“But prohibition—”
“Now, now,” Harry said with a shrug. “Not even our valiant law enforcement agents are above a little...liquid persuasion, shall we say.”
“How devious!” Elise exclaimed, sidling closer to him. “But still—dinner with a drink? Surely that’s not all you have planned for this evening?”
“Well, my darling,” Harry said, reaching over to place his large hand on her knee. “Have you ever been to a petting party?”
“A what?”
Harry clucked his tongue and gave her knee a squeeze before returning his hand to the steering wheel.
“I suppose,” he said with a grin, “you’ll just have to wait and see.”
Elise pursed her lips and held her tongue, not wanting to seem too waspish. And within minutes, Harry had pulled up in front of a towering hotel. Tossing the keys to a valet, he stepped out of the driver’s seat and walked around to help Elise out of the car. He linked her arm in his and walked her up the steps and into the lush lobby of the Hotel Pierre.
Meanwhile, Elise tried not to gasp at the sheer luxury on display: black-and-white marble floors, rich mahogany reception desks and ornately carved pillars that stretched up to the golden ceiling high above.
“So,” she asked as he guided her into an elevator. “What is a petting party?”
As the elevator started to rise with a jolt, Harry turned to her with a devilish grin.
“You’re about the find out, my dear madame.”
The heavy steel doors slid open. They walked across a marble foyer and through a set of elegant French doors. This time, Elise could not contain her gasp of delight. The ballroom was huge, edged with wall-to-wall windows that were draped in silver fabric. The high ceiling was painted in silver and gold, and it reflected the light of rows upon rows of heavy, crystal chandeliers.
And then she saw the guests. A petting party, it seemed, was exactly as the name implied.
Men and women lounged on widely scattered sofas and divans. Grouped in twos or threes, they were draped over each other in various states of necking. A few were simply sitting very close, others were kissing, and some were passionately twined together with hands disappearing between folds of clothing. Laughter and the sound of jazz filled the hall.
“Petting parties started in colleges,” Harry said pleasantly as he took her elbow. “And now they’re some of our most attended weekly events.”
“Positively scandalous!” Elise whispered with a cheeky grin.
“Now, now,” Harry said with a wink. “How else are young, virile men to meet beautiful girls?”
Placing his hand over hers, he led them across the ballroom, stopping occasionally to greet some of the guests and ignoring those who were overly...preoccupied. They had made it all the way to the end of the ballroom before Harry stopped. He gestured to a solitary sofa that was half-hidden by layers of gauzy curtains—a sofa just big enough for two.
“Please,” Harry invited with a charming smile.
Elise arched a brow.
“And what if I don’t want to sit with you?” she asked, her tone lightly teasing.
Harry spread an arm out, gesturing to the crowd.
“Then, you’re most welcome to find another...conversation partner, Madame Rousseau.”
Elise appraised his easygoing, confident smile. Surely he wouldn’t want to watch her waltz off with another man if he were truly interested in her. But then, if she did walk away, would he simply find another girl with whom to pass the evening? Not that she cared whom he touched, she told herself sternly, but she needed to have his full attention if she was to seduce him. So, if she called his bluff, would he get jealous or would he lose interest? She decided to gamble.
“Well,” she said with a shrug of her slim shoulders, “the night is young after all. Maybe I’ll find you later?”
With that, she turned on one heel and began to march away—only to be