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“Thank you so much, Mr. Romano. I mean Vinnie. I really don’t know how to repay you for this.”
     
    Harmony rose. Romano looked up at her curiously. A tense silence enveloped and sealed the room.
     
    “ When Willie comes home I’m sure he can clear it all up.” Harmony flashed him her prettiest smile. Her gaze switched to the exit once more.
     
    Romano chuckled. His expression stilled and grew serious. “If he’s stealing from Mickey, you’ll have to. But I think it best you stay until we bring him in, don’t you?”
     
    It was his turn to rise and she couldn’t help but admire how nicely he filled a suit. The man was tall. Why he never appeared as tall from across the dining room before confounded her. He had Lewis beat by an inch or two. Harmony squeezed the cool glass until spasmodic tremors cramped her hand. She stepped back. Romano closed the distance between them. She was forced to maintain his stare. Her breath solidified in her throat. “I don’t know it’s kinda late. I can give you my address. You could send word, maybe?”
     
    “ I prefer something less formal.”
     
    “ Like?”
     
    “ Sing for me. Here. Now.”
     
    “ Suga this ain’t The Cotton, and I don’t see Fletch Henderson’s orchestra.” Could he be serious? His eyes were a tawny shade of brown. Now she knew the color and couldn't remember why she wanted to in the first place. The man made her anxious to leave, to stay, to explain herself to the maid who was somewhere in this house judging her. She felt anxious all over. He was closer now, closer than any man besides Lewis had ever been. And with him standing so close she was forced to tilt her head and lift her chin a bit to maintain his stare. She had been right. There was an unspoken connection between them. A deep soul stirring familiarity would eventually lead them toward the forbidden. Secretly she had wanted a bit of forbidden.
     
    It had been months ago when she first saw him. The nights he came, her eyes always drifted to him, drinking and smoking a cigar or a pipe in his private booth. He had such a magnetic pull on her she questioned her sanity at times when she performed and found herself disappointed he hadn’t come. Now here he was, and that strange feeling coursing through her veins wasn’t just anxiety, a bit of excitement stirred her heart to fluttering too.
     
    His gaze lowered to her bosom and lingered there. Romano was so close, his touch was certain to come next. She knew it. She braced for it. Because his hands on her she wouldn’t allow. No matter what the circumstance, no man touched her unless she said so.
     
    A thick membrane of tension swelled between him. Would he touch her, would he ask to, or would he walk away? Harmony held her breath prepared to deal with either outcome. Romano smirked then walked around her and away. “Saw Bessie Smith a few weeks ago,” he said, stopping in front of a shiny copper, mahogany and gold phonograph. “Next to you she’s my favorite singer.”
     
    “ You like jazz?” Harmony asked, realizing immediately how stupid the question was.
     
    “ Surprised? I love jazz, thanks to you.”
     
    “ Me?”
     
    “ Do you know her?”
     
    “ No.” Did he think all Negroes knew each other? “I’ve met her, saw her perform that is, and met her twice after but I don’t know her.” She quickly answered. Harmony watched him wind the handle of the crank on the side of the player, then drop the needle down on the record. So he owned race music? Why was she surprised? If he didn’t have an affinity for her talents or her music she would’ve never gotten through the door. Turning, Romano removed his suit jacket and tossed it to the chair without a thought. She figured money and nice things came easy to him. She figured a woman like her came easy as well.
     
    “ My song?” he spoke, the huskiness lingered in his tone. One of Bessie’s recent recordings filled the room. But Romano wanted his own rendition.