Aladdin (New Modern Wicked Fairy Tales) Read online

  “I’d be delighted.” He wasn’t lying, even though he realized that opportunity had come knocking, as Eddie would say. Sometimes you had to make your own opportunities, but sometimes opportunity didn’t just knock, it broke down the door and wandered right into your parlor.

  Libby told him to follow her Rolls in the Duesenberg. Bart did his best. The woman was a speed demon! They ended up at a lovely little spot overlooking a valley and a lake that Bart hadn’t even known existed. They had to take two very narrow two-track roads to get there. Bart almost lost sight of her twice but by the time he caught up, Libby had the car trunk open and she was spreading out a red and white checkered blanket under a giant weeping willow tree.

  Bart helped her unload basket after basket of food and drink, all packed in ice, out of the trunk of the Rolls.

  “You prepared all of this for one person?” Bart blinked in surprise as Libby pulled out another basket. It was like a never-ending magician’s trick.

  “My grandmother.” Libby closed the trunk. “Well, not her personally, of course. But she directed the servants to pack the baskets when I told her I wanted a picnic.”

  “Did she think you were feeding all of the servants?’ Bart laughed, taking a seat on the checkered blanket and taking the last basket from Libby as she sat beside him.

  “She always overpacks.” Libby laughed with him. “When we go to Europe, she has to take ten full steamer trunks. And one of them is just for the silver!”

  “Good God.” Bart gaped at her.

  “Salmon steak?” Libby’s nose wrinkled with distaste a she unloaded a basket. “She knows I don’t like salmon.”

  “I love it.”

  “How fortuitous!” Libby smiled and handed it over.

  They unpacked everything—the bounty seemed endless—and laid it all out on the blanket in front of them. Along with the salmon, there was fried chicken, fresh cured ham, and caviar. There was also an abundance of grapes and salad, fresh bread, and two or three kinds of wine.

  And more than one wine glass.

  “Oh, I almost forgot!” Libby jumped up and rooted through the dashboard of the Rolls, returning with a little flask.

  “Whiskey. Just in case the wine isn’t strong enough.” She gave him a wink. “I always have this. Grandmother disapproves of hard liquor for ladies.”

  “This is quite a spread.” Bart stared at the blanket, lost under the weight of food and wine. For a moment, he’d almost forgotten his persona of a habitually rich man who would never be surprised by even the most excessive abundance.

  “Well, grandmother insisted at least one servant come with me,” Libby confessed, her cheeks just slightly pink. “And she wanted me to have a driver. Silly.”

  “You clearly like driving yourself,” Bart remarked, gnawing on a chicken leg. It was delicious. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was. “But I just can’t get over how much food they packed—just for you.”

  “Oh, all right, Bart Burnett, you win.”

  Bart blinked, cocking his head at her. “Do I?”

  “I was supposed to meet a friend.”

  “A friend?” Bart echoed, mouth full of chicken.

  “A man.” Now her cheeks were fully pink. “A friend who happens to be a man.”

  “I see.” Bart nodded, using one of the cloth napkins to wipe chicken grease from his face. “Did your car trouble delay your date?”

  Now he wondered why she’d invited him to picnic instead. A strange flash of emotion passed through him and it took a moment to realize that it was jealousy. Who was this mystery man she was supposed to meet for a tryst?

  “No.” Libby popped a grape into her mouth and chewed thoughtfully. “He canceled at the last minute. Phoned to say he couldn’t get away.”

  “I’m sorry, Libby.”

  “I’m not.” Her eyes hardened. “He couldn’t get away because his wife had come back from Madrid unexpectedly early.”

  “I see.” Bart’s eyes widened. “Did you know—”

  “That he was married?” Libby nibbled on one of the tea sandwiches. “I did not. Until I heard her in the background asking who he was phoning.”

  “You didn’t deserve to be treated that way, Libby.”

  “I decided to have my picnic anyway,” she went on, tearing off the edge of a fluffy roll. “And the stupid car broke down. But then you came along and saved the day! So all’s well that ends well, as my grandmother—and Shakespeare—would say.”

  “I’m sure I’m a poor substitute.”

  “Oh, to the contrary. You’ve been delightful company. You’re not married are you, Bart Burnett?”

  Bart laughed. “No, Miss Bancroft. I’ve never been married and likely never will be.”

  “A confirmed bachelor then? A carefree playboy?”

  “Mostly.”

  “Maybe you’ve just never met the right woman.”

  “Perhaps.” He shrugged.

  “More salmon?”

  “Don’t mind if I do.” He couldn’t get enough of the stuff. “You should have brought the servants just to help us eat all of this.”

  Libby laughed. “I have a hearty appetite. Grandmother says I should eat like a bird when I’m with a man, but I’ve never seen the point. Eventually he’s going to find out that I eat steak and drink wine on a regular basis.”

  “I like a girl with an appetite. It means she knows how to enjoy herself.”

  “That’s true. I do.”

  “So what do you do with yourself, Ms. Bancroft—besides race Bugattis?”

  “I want to learn how to fly next.” She licked her fingers while eating one of the chicken legs, eschewing the cloth napkins. God, he liked this girl. “Cousin Emma has a Tiger Moth up in Connecticut. Although Grandmother gets the vapors every time the idea is mentioned.”

  “So what will you do?”

  “Not mention it.” Libby winked. “That doesn’t mean I won’t do it though. Have you ever been in an airplane?”

  “A few times. Didn’t fly it though. This Cabernet is exquisite.”

  Bart had to remind himself to eat slowly. He didn’t want to look like what he was—a man whose last meal had been two days ago in a greasy spoon. He and Eddie were behind on the rent and that’s where the money had gone. Eddie would probably want to sell the Duesenberg, but Bart would fight him on that. Keeping up appearances was important. A good suit, a fine car. Those two things alone had provided caviar and fine wine with a beautiful, rich woman this afternoon.

  So he didn’t let on that just the sight of all of this food had activated his salivary glands. He felt like he was in danger of actually drooling at any moment. He put down the chicken leg he’d been eating and took a deep breath, trying to give his body time to send a signal to his brain that there was plenty of food and he didn’t have to wolf it all down at once. He closed his eyes and felt the breeze on his face, then opened them to look down the hill, a beautiful stretch of grass that led to a forest below. The hill was peppered with wildflowers, growing tall and undisturbed. It was the perfect picnic spot.

  He felt Libby’s gaze on him and met her eyes. He fought the instinct to look away, to hide. He wasn’t sure how to look at her, how to react. The scheming con man in him tripped over himself, suddenly clumsy and unsure. That never happened to him. He was always in character, a persona at the ready, whichever one he needed in the moment. But looking at her then, he felt too transparent, too open. Too vulnerable.

  He had to look away. But he sensed Libby watching him, smiling.

  He knew he had to make a choice. Like he had with Clay. He could have chosen the man as a mark, but instead, he had befriended him. And in the end, he’d been rewarded with the Duesenberg. Eddie would have called it a long con, but for Bart, it hadn’t been a con at all. He’d genuinely liked Clay and had enjoyed the time they spent gambling and drinking together.

  He had to make a choice, but he didn’t want to.

  “I can’t wait to fly an airplane,” Libby confessed, ta
king a swig from the flask. She blanched and shuddered just slightly at the taste. “But do you know what I’d really love to drive?”

  “A tank,” he guessed.

  “How did you know?”

  Bart laughed. “I drove a tank in the war.”

  “Did you really?” Her dark eyes glittered with interest.

  Actually, he had.

  He could hear Eddie in his head—always keep an anchor of truth in your lies just to keep things from unraveling.

  He regretted telling her, though. The war wasn’t anything to bring up if he was going to play the role of suave seducer. Their first world war had been too grim and ghastly to lie about, and the truth was impossible to tell. Even to Eddie.

  “So, tell me about your grandmother.” Bart quickly changed the subject. “She sounds like a character.”

  Libby laughed and started telling him about the old woman. He felt a little like he was playing the role of tragic war hero who couldn’t talk about his painful experiences. The truth was, he hadn’t been a hero. Just another soldier trying not to get killed.

  Libby went on about her grandmother, telling him about all the things she’d done when she was young. Spunky, just like Libby. He quickly learned that Libby had been raised mostly by her grandmother—that was why they were so close. There was very little left of their extended family. Libby’s father had been the last of their line, aside from a few cousins, and her parents had died in, of all things, a car accident.

  A thought crossed Bart’s mind, even as he kicked himself for thinking it. He couldn’t help himself. Instincts and habit were ingrained. Her lack of relatives meant, if she were to marry, her husband would inherit half the estate. And he gathered, without prying too closely, that it was quite the estate indeed.

  “So what do you do?” she asked, changing the subject again.

  Bart found himself lying quite easily, without any thought, although guilt did give him a twinge.

  “Cattle trading mostly. Some hardware too. Can you pass that caviar please? Thank you. Got hit in the crash, of course, like everyone else, but was diversified enough that it wasn’t too bad. Never did go in for the bond market much. Uncle Cecil always taught me it was fundamentally unsound.”

  Even as he said this, he was creating a history and description of “Uncle Cecil” in his head, just in case he needed him again.

  “Fascinating.”

  “Hardly.” He laughed. “I’m sure it bores you to tears.”

  “No, business is fascinating to me. Truly.” She touched his leg to assure him of the veracity of her statement. Her hand was small and warm. “Sometimes I think I was born the wrong gender. I like all sorts of things that women shouldn’t.”

  “Like fast cars.”

  “And talking about the bond market. And whiskey.” She offered him the bottle and he took it.

  “You are an unusual woman, Libby Bancroft.” He took a swig and handed it back.

  “Thank you. I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “It is. Frankly, I’m glad you were born a woman. I don’t think that means you shouldn’t be interested in fast cars. Or have a head for business. Or drink whiskey, for that matter. Why shouldn’t women pursue those things?”

  “My thoughts exactly!” She took another swig of whiskey before putting the cap back on the flask. “Why should women be confined by corsets and dresses? We should be able to wear pants and fly airplanes!”

  “I wholeheartedly agree,” Bart said. And he genuinely did. “Although I don’t have anything against dresses. I kind of like them on a woman.”

  “Oh I wouldn’t give up dressing up—for special occasions. But if I could wear pants every day—imagine the things I could accomplish!”

  “You would be a force to be reckoned with.”

  “You’re teasing me.” Libby lightly slapped his knee.

  “I’m not. Why don’t you just wear pants? You’re a rich woman, Libby. You have the privilege of doing whatever you like.”

  “You’d think that would be true, but alas... you know as well as I do, the responsibilities we have, as wealthy individuals. We have to keep up appearances. And grandmother is afraid I’m going to scare away a future husband with talk like this, let alone actually putting on a pair of pants and pursuing all those things.”

  “I’m not scared away.”

  Their eyes met. Bart flushed.

  “I’m just saying—there are plenty of men out there who aren’t afraid of a strong woman,” he said. “In fact, some of us prefer them.”

  She smiled and poured more wine.

  It was decision time and he couldn’t make the call. The wine and whiskey had dulled his senses. His defenses were down. He was truthfully enjoying his time with this woman, their private little picnic with salmon steak and caviar, but that wasn’t his reality. His life led back to Eddie and their little apartment and the late rent. Even if he was driving back to it in a Duesenberg. That was his reality.

  “I hate to say this, but I really have to get back to the city.” He made a show of glancing at his watch. It was expensive—he’d won it in a poker game—and he had resisted pawning it because it was so useful in a con.

  “What a shame.” Her face fell. “At least we finished our lunch.”

  “And a very fine lunch it was, too.” He patted his belly, which was fuller than it had been in ages. “My compliments to your grandmother and her cook.”

  “I’ll tell her.” Libby watched him pick up his suit coat, her brow knitted. “Are you sure you can’t stay any longer? The weather is so beautiful.”

  Bart could have stayed longer and probably gone further, in his estimation. But he was conflicted. Should he stay, he would be forced to continue the ruse. If he left, there would be no danger of that. But, then, he wouldn’t be in Libby’s company any longer. It was quite the conundrum.

  Of course, he realized, if he were to continue the con, he would be doing exactly this, telling her he had somewhere to be. It was essential to put on some show of reserve, to prevent any later suspicions that he might be exactly what he really was—an opportunist. Or, he thought, with a new feeling of shame, maybe that word was too mild. “Deceiving bastard” might be closer to the truth.

  “A beautiful day with a beautiful woman,” Bart replied with a sigh. “It’s hard to tear myself away, I admit. But I must get back and talk to Vizard, my butler. He’ll need to know if we’ll require any accommodations beyond tomorrow.”

  “Well... why don’t you fetch your man and come stay with us at the Bancroft estate? We’d love to have you. You could meet my grandmother.”

  “How very kind of you.” Bart hesitated. He could end things cleanly here if he wanted to. But did he want to? Looking into her eyes, all alight, he knew he would be taking advantage. And he didn’t want to do that to her. Not her. It was a strange, new feeling, this one. He wasn’t sure what to do about it. “I’d hate to impose…”

  “Nonsense!” She brightened, making a dismissive gesture. “It’s so dull in the summer. I’m sure your very presence will liven things up considerably.”

  “If you’re sure...?” he asked, still wondering if he should just decline altogether. It was now or never.

  “Quite!” she insisted. “And you can stay as long as you like. I know how these estate matters can drag on. It will be so comforting in a strange place not to have to worry about accommodations, won’t it?”

  “It will, indeed.” He smiled, and it was a genuine smile, full of the warmth he felt for her. “Thank you very much. I’ll tell Vizard to pack my things and we’ll come by tomorrow?”

  “Splendid!” Libby clapped her hands like a little girl, a gesture that made his smile spread even wider. “Something to look forward to.”

  Bart helped her pack what was left of the food back into the trunk of the Rolls and, before they got into their respective cars, she gave him her card with the estate address on it.

  He tucked it into his suit coat pocket and gave her a w
ave when she tore off down the road, leaving him in a cloud of dust, sitting behind the wheel of the Duesenberg and grinning like a fool.

  Chapter 2

  Bart pulled the Duesenberg up across the street from their tenement on the lower East Side, seeing Eddie set up in front of their building at a table. He was running tricks—the shell game, three-card Monte and the like—taking money from the gullible or those who just couldn’t resist a bet.

  That was the sort of game Eddie Vizard usually ran, especially when Bart wasn’t around. Bart gave Eddie a resource he didn’t have—Bart had the good looks and suavity Eddie could never quite impersonate.

  Sure, Eddie was a fast talker. But maybe a bit too fast. People got suspicious. Together, they made the perfect team. Eddie hatched the schemes and Bart’s handsome face and smooth manners pulled them off. Bart seemed to have a natural talent for acting out the ways and morays of the rich—like he had been some kind of a bigshot in an earlier life.

  Bart always said, “In order to get money, you’ve got to act like you’re already used to having it.” Eddie would always add there was no better way to get used to having money than actually having some.

  Well, old sport, what kind of small change have you pocketed from these shoeless urchins? Bart thought, smiling to himself as he pocketed his keys. Enough to buy a Duesenberg? Met any pretty young heiresses lately?

  Eddie glanced up and, when he saw Bart at the wheel of the Duesenberg, his mouth fell open, the cigarette between his lips dropping to the pavement.

  “What the—?” Eddie mouthed, suddenly sweeping the cards into a stack and pocketing them. He jogged across the street to where Bart was parked.

  “What the hell, Bart?” Eddie’s gaze swept over the car nervously, his tongue snaking out to lick his lips as Bart rolled down the window. “You know better than to bring a hot car here. Take it to Jack—quick.”

  “Car’s not hot, Eddie.” He snapped open the glove box to wave the ownership papers in his partner’s face. “Get a load of this, see? It’s legally mine.”