I Wanna Be Loved by You

Book 2: Grand Russe Hotel

by Heather Hiestand

Genres: Historical Fiction; International Crime & Mystery; 20th Century Romance

Synopsis

For a young woman swept into international adventure, romance can’t be far behind… The 1920s are in full swing when Sadie Loudon leaves her grandfather’s stodgy vicarage, and she dreams of the glamour and excitement she’s seen on the silver screen. But before she even begins work at the storied Grand Russe Hotel, she is ushered into London’s glittering nightlife by a handsome young businessman intent on introducing her to the pleasures available to a Bright Young Thing. Is it a fleeting romance…or something even more intriguing? Les Drake is on the lookout for Bolsheviks when he encounters sweet, sexy Sadie. A British Secret Intelligence agent, Les has more experience with the seedy underside of the city than with innocent chambermaids, but he can’t deny that Sadie tempts him. Using her as part of his cover seems like a brilliant plan until the danger of his assignment threatens what has suddenly become a love he can’t bear to lose… Praise for Heather Hiestand’s novels “You’ve got to admire Hiestand’s moxie for setting her latest romance in an era rarely portrayed in today’s historical romances.” – RT Book Reviews “ One Taste of Scandal is a delicious, multi-layered Victorian treat." —Gina Robinson, author of The Last Honest Seamstress and the Agent Ex series “A fast read with a different view point than many novels in the genre.”  — Library Journal on His Wicked Smile “This is definitely one for the keeper shelf.” —Historical Romance Lover on His Wicked Smile “A delightful, sexy glimpse into Victorian life and loving with two wonderfully non-traditional lovers.” —Jessa Slade, author of Dark Prince's Desire, on His Wicked Smile

Release date: February 14, 2017

Publisher: Lyrical Press

Print pages: 268

Sample

Outside London, afternoon, January 9, 1925

Sadie Loudon pressed her hands down the sides of her slightly too-short uniform skirt when she saw Mrs. Curtis. She’d shortened the hem to make it saucier, but the above-calf length created problems when she bent over. January was no time to have a breeze snaking up her bare thighs. However, the increased tips in this seedy inn where she was a new chambermaid more than made up for the discomfort.

“Clean up that mess in the lobby, ducks,” the housekeeper said, brushing frizzy locks of graying hair behind her ears. “We’ll run off our customers.”

Sadie clucked her tongue when she saw the pile of paper in the middle of the small hotel lobby. “Who dumped that rubbish there?”

“No idea,” Mrs. Curtis sighed. “We’re too close to the Richmond train station for comfort.”

Sadie set her mop and bucket in the corner and went to pick up the papers. Her shoes crunched on a broken tile in the checkerboard pattern as she walked across the floor. She looked back to see Mrs. Curtis wincing at the noise.

As she picked up the first piece of cheap paper, the headline, in large, heavy type, stood out: UNITE THE WORKERS! She scanned the text, which said, “Not a penny off the workers’ wages, not a penny tax on food!”

The words meant little to her. She had only started her first proper, paying job on Monday. No paycheck had been issued to her yet. As far as she was concerned, these labor unions trying to create unrest were merely creating more work for her.

“I’ll be sorting out the Reading Room,” Mrs. Curtis called. “Have a tidy in room 301 when you’re done in here. They just went to tea.”

Sadie made a face at the floor. Dreadful 301 and their nasty poodles. Cleaning the foul-smelling room took four times longer than any of the others. She clenched her fist, ruffling the leaflets, then stooped to gather the rest.

A slam sounded behind her, as if a guest had opened the upstairs door in a rush. Someone hurtled down the steps. She glanced up to see a bearded man in gray trousers, a baggy black coat, and a Russian budenovka hat barreling toward her. Dropping the leaflets, she attempted to stand.

The running man crashed into her. She fell backward, her arms going wide. Her back hit the tile, legs going up in the air. Pain radiated through her skull and shoulders. She panted, too startled to do anything else.

More noise on the stairs. More crunching on the tiles. The front door banged open. Steps slowed. Another man, this one in a slim, hand-tailored, pinstriped suit, looked down at her. His bowed lips curled when he saw her silver knickers, exposed by the skirt hovering somewhere around her waist. He was clean-shaven and rather young, with gray-blue eyes that regarded her dispassionately, despite the smile.

Sadie pulled her knees together and dropped her feet to the ground. “Help me up!” she begged, cautiously pulling her arms to her sides.

The man narrowed his eyes at her, then glanced toward the door. “My apologies, darling,” he said in a lazy but polished accent that somehow hid a hint of a wink. Without looking back, he ran after the first man, his highly polished oxfords gleaming from her floor-level vantage point. He pushed through the door, coat-less, running into the cold after his quarry.

Slowly, she put her hands to the tiles and pushed herself up. Her back ached and her head spun. “Well, I like that,” she muttered. “Such cheek.” She pushed her skirt down and stared uneasily at the leaflets.

Bolsheviks were labor agitators, weren’t they? That first man was a Bolshevik, judging from the hat. As much as he had frightened her, the complete calm in the second man’s eyes bothered her the most. She had a sense that nothing could break through his defenses. Goodness, though, he’d been a handsome one.

Shivering, she rose shakily to her feet and staggered to the battered reception desk. Old Ben, the hall porter, appeared as if from nowhere.

“Sadie, love, what’s happened to you?” Old Ben stepped up to the other side of the desk.

“I was knocked down.”

“By a guest?” Old Ben stared uneasily at the small lobby.

“They came from upstairs.” She described both men, lavishing most of the details on the second man, with his broad shoulders, long legs, and memorable face.

“I don’t recall either of them,” he said. “I’ll have to investigate. Why don’t you ask Mrs. Curtis for a headache powder and have a lie-down in your room?”

Sadie wanted to say yes, but she wasn’t a well-trained vicar’s granddaughter for nothing. “I still have work to do. After I clean room 301, perhaps.”

“No, love, have a lie-down first. Half an hour.”

“I will then. I do ache dreadfully.” She smiled and hobbled toward the stairs. When she saw one of the leaflets, curled up in the corner of the lobby, she picked it up and tucked it into her pocket. She had a vague sense that she needed to be better informed about labor issues.

The thin winter sunlight faded over the rooftops as night came on. Les Valentin Drake handed a copy of Motion Picture Magazine to Yuri Gadisov, the owner of the newsstand a block away from the Richmond Inn. “This isn’t my bestseller, that’s Photoplay, but it’s an excellent publication.”

Gadisov, a corpulent ex-lorry driver who’d immigrated to England five years before, made a congested noise and took the magazine. “I think they would sell better around the Green. Girls on this street don’t have the money for American imports.”

“Girls are obsessed with American stars,” Les said, not bothering to push. He didn’t have orders to sell to Gadisov. His objective was to receive an invitation to Gadisov’s father-in-law’s birthday party the next night.

Gadisov lifted his shoulders. “Maybe I should take one copy of each to see what sells. You never know, eh?”

“You never know,” Les agreed, thickening his faint Russian accent. He’d developed it based on his grandmother’s accent, remembered from childhood.

Gadisov glanced at the beautiful redhead on the cover. “I still don’t like short hair on women, Valentin.”

“Of course not,” Les agreed. “A woman’s crowning glory.”

“Yes,” Gadisov sniffed. “A man like you must be looking for a wife, eh?”

“Do you have someone in mind?” Les asked, pulling out an order pad and filling out Gadisov’s purchases.

“Would you like a nice Russian girl?” Gadisov asked. “Or do you want an English girl?”

“Russian, naturally,” Les said. “A girl who knows how to brew a proper cup of tea.”

“Nothing but the samovar,” Gadisov agreed. “You should come to a party with me tomorrow night. My wife is from a large family. Lots of pretty girls will be there.”

“I’d like that,” Les said with a cheerful wink. Got him. Gadisov’s father-in-law was reputed to be involved in a local Bolshevik cell and Secret Intelligence had been looking for an in for months. He handed Gadisov his order form and the man counted out a few coins in payment.

“Here is the address.” Gadisov wrote it across the form.

“Very good. I’ll see you and your lovely family tomorrow. Spasibo.” Les shook hands with the man and walked a block south.

Five minutes later, he stared out through the window panes of the telephone booth across the street from the Richmond Inn. His eyes felt gritty from a day mostly spent outside in the winter wind, most of it without his coat. He’d had to retrieve his coat from the café where he’d left it when the labor provocateur he was following moved more quickly than he expected. He’d chased him through the inn right after that but he had vanished hours ago. He’d stayed behind the man as far as the Thames but his quarry had disappeared into the brush along the river banks, which was inhabited by tramps of the dangerously unstable Great War–veteran type.

The Bolshie hadn’t been worth pursuing. His section head had agreed with him when they met early that afternoon at a safe house in Chiswick, but Les had been sent back to Richmond to collect a copy of the flyer for the file. Also, he had the never-ending task of developing his cover persona as a commercial traveler dealing in American magazines.

He’d meant to go newsstand to newsstand in Richmond, selling copies of Photoplay today. Some of them were owned by Russians and he was always looking to build relations there. The Secret Intelligence Service had set him up in business, partly with the intent of using his magazines to pass messages coded in invisible ink to undercover agents. At the end of the day, he had to leave a copy of the December 1924 Photoplay on a bench in Waterloo Station. Cover model Lois Wilson’s beautiful chin was marred with a small inkblot, the clue to the other agent that this magazine contained orders inside.

Les wished he knew what the orders were for. Presumably something more glamorous than magazine sales. He set down the telephone receiver and checked his case, making sure a clean copy of the January issue was on top, then opened the door. Dodging cars, he strode across the street and entered the Richmond Inn for the second time that day.

“It’s you!” gasped a young woman at the reception desk. A middle-aged couple turned away as she spoke, the wife staring hard at Les, her tongue in the corner of her mouth, before her husband tugged her toward the staircase.

Les recognized the hotel employee from earlier, though his main recollection was of a pair of silver knickers and a set of deliciously rounded thighs above gartered stockings. But his photographic memory had catalogued all of her. Not Yuri Gadisov’s feminine ideal. A real looker, her thick dark blond hair was cropped into a fashionable bob, tucked under at the ends. She wore a black chambermaid uniform, although the skirt was a bit skimpy. He grinned when he remembered the undergarments again. If he’d run past at just a slightly different angle, he might have been able to see right up the loose fabric to the feminine treasures hidden beneath.

When he refocused on her, he saw her cheeks were flushed scarlet. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t aid you earlier today,” he said, taking her plump, unresisting hand in his. He noted that her skin seemed much too soft for a chambermaid, and catalogued a mole at the base of her middle finger on the back on her right hand.

Her voice came out breathless. “Who was that man you were chasing?”

“A very bad man,” Les said, careful not to let his assumed Russian accent creep in. “Obviously, since he hurt you, darling. Is your head aching?”

She wrinkled her nose. “It hurt dreadfully at first, but I rested. They are very nice here, kinder than some of the guests.”

“I’m sure.” He rubbed his thumb across her throbbing pulse. “Do you happen to have any of those flyers? I wanted to take one to the police.”

“Are you going to have them make a sketch of his face?” she asked eagerly. “Do you need me to go to the police with you?”

He smiled tenderly. He doubted she would remember anything but the man’s Russian hat and his beard. He, on the other hand, had caught the precise details of the man’s eyes, nose shape, and distinctive ripped earlobe, since the earflaps of his hat had been buttoned up. “I wouldn’t want to waste any more of your valuable time.”

“I did keep a copy of the flyer,” she said, surprising him.

He’d been afraid he’d have to go through the bins. “Very intelligent of you.”

Her cheeks pinked again. She had a pointed chin that spoke of mischief in the making, but her eyes were a transparent green blue that, along with her dimples, encouraged trust.

“How old are you, darling?” he asked.

“Twenty.” She paused. Her fingers spasmed in his hand. “Well, I’m twenty tomorrow, it’s my birthday.”

So honest, this adorable little flapper. “What are you doing to celebrate?”

“Nothing. I only moved here on Monday.” Her tongue darted out and touched her lower lip for an instant. “From Bagshot. I don’t know anyone.”

His decision was made in an instant. Despite his claim to be looking for a wife, a date would protect him from having to flirt unwisely in the Russian community. Also, he couldn’t resist this intelligent, dramatic, extremely attractive girl. “Then you must come with me. I was invited to a birthday party here tomorrow.”

“At the hotel?” She made a face, demonstrating her opinion of any party that might be held here.

“No, darling, in Richmond. In a private home.”

Her fingers curled in his palm. “Oh, I don’t know.”

“Very respectable,” he assured her. “A matron’s party. The mother-in-law of a local businessman.”

She tilted her head. He could see she was considering, hovering toward going. “Oh. What do you do?”

“I sell American movie magazines.”

Her eyes lit. “I love movie magazines. What do you have?”

He squeezed her hand gently, then released it. Then, he opened his case and pulled out the January Photoplay. “Have a sample copy.”

“Oh, I never. Thank you.” She stroked the cover.

He went into his patter. “Do you think the hotel might want to subscribe? I have other magazines too, but this is the most popular.”

“I couldn’t say.” She took the magazine from him and set it on the counter, then opened the cover. “My stars, look at that silver fox coat.”

He leaned in to look. Really, he should read the blasted things. “You’d look lovely in it.”

She laughed. “Listen to us. A traveling salesman and a chambermaid wasting time over a photograph of a fur coat. As if either of us will ever see such a thing.”

“You never know. You’re much prettier than the model.”

“I am?” She dimpled.

“Of course. I’ve always preferred blondes to brunettes anyway.”

“Many men do,” she agreed, bending over the desk a couple of inches. She turned the page of the magazine.

“The model has no chin,” Les added, wondering if she was trying to show him her breasts. Her uniform didn’t really allow for it, though. “I bet you have a marvelous profile.”

She tilted her head so he could see her profile. Eating out of his hand now. He had no idea what use to make of the little chambermaid, though. It didn’t seem likely anyone important would ever stay at this inn. On the other hand, there was a thriving Russian community around here and wherever there were Russians, there were Bolsheviks in the crowd. So, he’d develop her as a source in case he found a use for her later.

“See, a perfect profile,” he said jovially. “Lovely straight nose, chin and jawline perfect for your face, and the most kissable lips.”

Her lips parted in surprise. “Mr. err—”

He had to think quickly. The Russians knew him as Valentin Dragunov. Valentin was indeed his real name. Dragunov was up the family tree somewhere, although his true full name was Leslie Valentin Drake. He’d best use his working name with this girl. “Rake, darling. Haven’t I mentioned that? Lester V. Rake.”

“What does the V stand for?”

“Never you mind,” he said with a comical wince. “What is your name?”

“Sadie Loudon.”

In his mind, he linked the picture of this pretty girl to South London, which included Richmond, where she lived. That way he’d remember her name, since “South London” was close to “Sadie Loudon.” “A very pretty name.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Commonplace. I sound like a chambermaid, don’t I?”

“Not with that accent,” he assured her. “No, you’ll move on to better things, find a husband if you like.”

Flipping past a page of upcoming American movie releases, she pretended to ignore his suggestion. “I only took this job after a fight with my grandfather. I was doing secretarial work for him before.”

Now a secretary was a valuable asset indeed. They had access to everything their guv touched, while being such a low-level employee that they were rarely suspected. And, often women, they were easily swayed with romance. If he could lead this girl into the right sort of job, he could make his career. “Are you hoping to return to secretarial work?”

“No. I like working with my hands, I think. But not cleaning.” She made a disgusted face. “You wouldn’t believe what some of our guests do to their rooms.”

The memory of a blood-spattered guest room in Lambeth, where a couple of Russian gangsters had fought to the death, flashed into his thoughts. But this young girl had seen nothing of the potential ugliness of life, the world he was immersed in. And he needed to keep her ignorant of it.

“I can well imagine,” he agreed. “Listen, darling, I need to toddle off and sell magazines now, but I’ll pick you up around seven tomorrow night. Good?”

“Yes,” she agreed. She was quiet for a moment, then smiled brilliantly. “Thank you for the invitation, Mr. Rake.”

“Les,” he said, all but bowled over by the force of that smile. Sadie Loudon had charisma in spades. “I hope you shall call me Les.”

“That’s awfully forward,” she said seriously. “I was raised by a vicar, you see. I’m not as modern of a girl as you might think.”

“Your grandfather is a vicar?”

She nodded.

She’d be a patriot, then. He’d have to investigate her family. It wouldn’t be difficult, as her surname wasn’t a terribly common one. “I bet he is loads more conservative than you.”

She tucked her chin into her hand and stared at a magazine photo of actress Bessie Love in a very low-cut dress. “I could have married his curate and just settled for life there.”

“Any man would be lucky to marry a girl as pretty as you,” Les said, knowing it was the expected phrase.

Her very white teeth flashed. He noted her lips were full and not at all chapped by the January weather. She took care of herself. Vain.

“I flirted with the idea, but I wanted to see more of the world. My older sister left home last month. I didn’t realize how unbearable life would be without her.”

“Where did she go?”

“Up to London proper. She planned the thing better than me.”

“You can go there too. Stick with me. I’m in and out of all kinds of establishments. I’ll keep an ear to the ground for a position for you.”

“That’s just the berries,” she exclaimed. “Thank you so much.”

He smiled. “I’ll see you tomorrow then, Miss Sadie Loudon.” He slid one finger along the smooth curve of her cheek and felt her shudder under his touch. Oh, she was delicious.

Sadie smiled happily at herself in the mirror in an empty bedroom in the inn. Luckily, she was a much better seamstress than her sister, Alecia. She didn’t have a mirror in her own postage stamp of a room. Unlike Alecia, she refused to sew baggy, practical dresses. Her dance frock was her best approximation of a Lanvin dress she’d seen in a magazine, with black-and-white triangles on top of sleekly shaped silver fabric. The result was attractive, well-fitted, and modern, though demure. It wasn’t low-cut like Bessie Love’s dress in the American magazine, but she was no old-fashioned and sweet little Mary Pickford either.

In fact, her sister believed that she’d stolen their grandfather’s curate’s affection away from her, but Sadie didn’t see it that way. In a post-war world where men were still scarce, a girl had to accentuate her best assets, and if Albert Warren had preferred a fun-loving girl who liked to spend time doting on him, to quiet, busy-with-parish-business Alecia, that wasn’t her fault. She’d simply played the game of love better. There had been no declarations between Albert and her sister. Even now, when she realized the curate had been better suited to her sister, she had no regrets.

She took one last look at her teeth, to make sure none of her red lipstick had rubbed off on them, then ran downstairs as fast as she could in her two-inch heeled shoes.

“Happy Birthday, Sadie!” Old Ben called from his post next to the reception desk as she trotted across the checkerboard floor.

“Thank you!” She waved at him then went through the door, still tying the sash around her coat.

Les Rake stood next to a beautiful two-seater sports car. He wore evening dress underneath a long gray wool driving coat and a matching cap and looked like he belonged on the cover of a movie magazine himself. She knew right then and there that she’d landed a date with money. The car, sparkling new, was made for speed.

“What is that?” she asked, making her voice breathless and admiring, which was not difficult.

“A Bentley 3-Litre. Just a Blue Label, I’m afraid, but she goes up to eighty miles per hour like a dream, and I’ve had her to eighty-five.”

She put her hand to her cheek. “Goodness. Hard to keep your hat on.”

He grinned, exposing a good ten upper teeth. An automobile aficionado to be certain.

“Silly of me to think someone who traveled a great deal for his work didn’t have a car,” she said, running a gloved finger lightly over a gleaming headlight.

“I keep her in London for the most part.”

London. What a dream. Of course he lived there. “She’s a girl?”

“A lady, to be sure.” He chuckled and bent to kiss her cheek. “Happy Birthday, Sadie.”

She took a breath of his cologne. Something expensive and peppery. “Thank you.”

He opened the door so she could slide onto the smooth khaki leather seat, then went to the other side. She smiled and leaned her head back. Albert hadn’t had a car. A week away from Bagshot and she was celebrating her birthday in style with a handsome date. Leaving home had been the right decision.

Les started the car as he explained they didn’t have far to go. The house where the party was taking place was on the west side off of Richmond Green. He parked about a block away from the party, saying he didn’t want to be fenced in by all the other partygoers, and before she knew it, they were walking down Old Palace Lane to a row of modest, two-story white terraced houses.

“Here we are,” he said. “Mind those tiny front steps.”

As soon as he said this, the steps came into view. She heard the sound of a gramophone, playing dance music. Exactly what a girl should hear on her birthday. Clutching Les’s arm tightly, hoping she looked as film star-fashionable as he did, she walked next to a damp hedge. It brushed her arm, leaving a wet stain and the scent of evergreen as they passed.

Les stopped walking and pulled out a handkerchief, brushing the damp off her sleeve. “There you go, darling.”

She smiled at him, pleased by how closely he paid attention to her. Then, he helped her up the steps into an overly warm room full of Russians.

“Vodka?” he asked. “Tea?” No one had looked at them yet.

She never drank alcohol. It made her already round face swell. “What kind of tea?”

“Russian tea. It’s smoky. Have you tried it?”

She brushed her short hair off her face and unpinned her hat. “Do you think they have lemonade?” It was too warm for tea. Not to mention smoky tea sounded disgusting.

“Probably.” He flashed that devastating grin at her. “For the children. Maybe we can find a bottle of bubbly?”

“Lemonade,” she said, firmly.

“There’s a place for coats,” he said. “I don’t see anyone wearing theirs.”

She unbuttoned her coat and began to slide it off her shoulders. Expertly, he stepped behind her to receive it, his hand on one of her arms. Such a gentleman.

A song ended and the dancers realigned. People moved in and out of the center of the room. A voice shouted over the already loud room, booming loud enough to be heard over the gramophone. “Valentin!”

Les’s hand tightened on her arm. He surprised her by pulling her coat off one arm and sliding it across the other, to hide their hands. “Here, take this.”

“What?” she asked, confused.

“It’s my ring. Put it on your wedding finger.”

“What?” she repeated.

“Do it.” He said it in such a firm voice that she complied, entirely flustered and not a little upset.

He pulled her coat the rest of the way off, but to her surprise, he took it from her with a calm smile, no sign of agitation or stress.

“Pretend to be my wife. If the subject comes up.”

Had he even moved his lips? She had heard the words well enough.

“Valentin!” came the call again.

“Yuri!” Les walked over to the great, balding bear of a man who had shouted and clasped his arms. “Dobryj vyechyer.”

Sadie blinked hard and stared down at the little gold ring on her finger. Had her date just said something in Russian? While his looks were film star handsome, she hadn’t thought him an actor. What was he playing at? The two continued to speak, complete physical opposites, one, tall, middle-aged, red-faced, enormous, exuberant, the other slim, young, pale, and comparatively reserved.

Another man joined them. He was yet another type. About thirty, older than she thought Les to be. He wore a variation of the budenovka hat the man Les had chased through the inn had worn on his head. In a minute, Les and the younger man detached from the older and they walked over to her.

“This is Semyon,” Les said. “Semyon, this is my wife, Sadie.”

She could have sworn he spoke good English but now he had a faint Russian accent. What were they doing, some kind of theatrical production? Had he brought her to a Russian home to mock the family?

Semyon didn’t seem like a fun bloke, however. He didn’t smile as he inclined his head. Nor did he speak to her, just spoke a few more. . .