Saffron smoothed her dress, blew herself a kiss and felt a shiver of anticipation as she thought of what the night might bring. She picked up her coat and her evening bag and headed for the door.

  Stackpole was leaning against the bar as Saffron walked in. She could feel his eyes on her as she made her way between the tables, enjoying the electric charge of knowing that a handsome man in a smart uniform was captivated by her.

  He stood up with a broad grin. ‘If I ever saw a more beautiful sight, I sure as hell don’t remember. I ordered you champagne. I hope Krug is all right.’

  He led her to a stool at the bar, then sat down beside her.

  She nodded, took a sip of champagne, then made a little show of looking him up and down and said, ‘You look quite spiffy yourself. I mean, I’ve seen worse.’

  They both burst out laughing

  ‘Here’s to you,’ he said, gently bumping his chunky bourbon glass against her delicate champagne flute. Saffron told him about Stephenson’s invitation.

  ‘So, are you bringing me along?’

  ‘If you don’t mind it being a foursome.’

  ‘There could be twenty people round that table, you’d still be the only one for me.’

  Stackpole took a swig of Old Forester, savouring the warmth of it on his tongue, then looked at the wall behind the bar. It was covered by Maxfield Parrish’s thirty-foot mural of the real estate magnate and hotelier John Jacob Astor IV, sitting on a throne in the role of Old King Cole, attended to his right by three fiddlers and to his left by two servants bringing his pipe and bowl, as in the nursery rhyme.

  ‘Now that sure is some fancy wallpaper,’ he said, playing the cowboy again.

  Saffron looked wide-eyed. ‘They don’t have murals like that in bars in Texas?’

  ‘Oh, sure we do,’ Stackpole said, smiling. ‘I just meant it was a little on the small side.’

  ‘Hmm . . .’ Saffron looked at him. ‘Maybe you can impress some girls with all that “everything’s bigger in Texas” talk. But I come from Africa. I grew up with elephants wandering around in the garden.’

  Stackpole grinned. ‘Are you kidding me?’

  ‘No, I’m serious. We have herds of elephant on our land, along with lions, rhinos, giraffes, zebras . . . It’s Africa. There’s nowhere on earth to compare.’

  ‘Maybe when all this nonsense is over, you could take me there, give me the tour,’ Stackpole said.

  Saffron weighed him up. Behind his Texan bluster, she sensed a well of genuine feeling. ‘So, do you have a sweetheart waiting for you back in Texas?’

  Stackpole looked at her for a moment. He’s deciding whether to be completely honest or not, Saffron thought, and when he nodded, ‘Uh-huh,’ the sting of disappointment was softened by her relief in knowing that he was a man who told the truth, even when he didn’t have to.

  ‘You?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, there’s a man,’ she said. ‘A fighter pilot. He’s overseas. I don’t know if we’ll ever see each other again. He could die, or I could . . . or both of us, come to that. It’s something that my girlfriends and I talk about a lot. You know, what we should do . . .’

  ‘And what do they say?’

  ‘That rather depends on the girl. But what a lot of us think is that you take your love, and you wrap it up and put it in a special, safe place in your heart, where nothing can happen to it. Then you close the door on that safe place, and you go and make the best of every minute of every day, because you never know if you’ll still be here tomorrow.’

  Stackpole nodded. ‘I guess it’s different for you in London, what with the bombing raids, and all. No one’s going to drop any bombs on Galveston any time soon.’

  ‘Or New York . . . and yet here you are,’ Saffron said.

  Stackpole smiled, but it was a wry, almost guilty shadow of his usual grin. ‘Yeah, here I am.’

  ‘Are you sure that’s a good thing?’

  ‘Tonight, right now? Hell, yeah.’ Just as the grin had gone from Stackpole’s face, so the usual light-hearted tone of his voice had given way to a new intensity. ‘Everything about you is special, Saffron Courtney. Once a guy meets you, it kind of makes other girls look boring . . . like plain beef stew when you just ate chilli con carne.’

  ‘I’ve never eaten that, but I’m guessing it’s spicy.’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘I’ll take that as a compliment. But there’s one thing you’re not taking into account.’

  ‘What’s that.’

  ‘I’m dangerous. People tend to get hurt around me.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure that’s not true.’

  Saffron almost didn’t answer. She couldn’t quite work out why the conversation had suddenly taken such a serious turn. But she wanted to keep talking – not so much to tell Stackpole anything, as to work things out for herself.

  ‘I’m afraid it is true,’ she said. ‘You know that head doctor I was talking about, that afternoon on the games deck?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘He told me there’s a saying in his business – there’s no such thing as an accident. If people are happy and their lives are going well, it’s not a matter of luck. It’s because they act in a way that makes good things happen. They make positive, healthy choices. And if there’s endless trouble . . . Well, that’s because, subconsciously, they seek out . . . I don’t know . . . lovers who will hurt them, or situations where they will fail.’

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ Stackpole said. ‘Sometimes folks just get lucky, and sometimes things go wrong, no matter what you do.’

  ‘That’s true. But the positive person, faced with hard times, finds a way to make them better. And a negative person, given good luck, finds a way to waste it.’

  ‘Well, one thing you ain’t is a negative person.’

  ‘No, I’m not. But I am a person who finds herself in a lot of trouble on a regular basis. And that’s not a coincidence, or a run of bad luck. It’s because, deep down, I seek trouble out. I put myself in harm’s way. And when it comes, I don’t do the sensible thing and get away as fast as possible. Instead, I dive right in.’

  ‘Are you doing that now?’

  ‘I’m under strict orders from my CO to stay out of trouble. Go to America, have a nice time, be charming to powerful men, and come home.’

  ‘And that doesn’t appeal?’

  ‘For a bit, yes. Look, I’m a girl, and I like girl things. You should have seen me in Saks today with Mary Stephenson. I bought an entire suitcaseful of new clothes. But here I am now, a few hours later, and I can just feel the other side of my nature screaming for attention.’ Saffron sighed. ‘Things are already getting . . . complicated. I’m going to get into trouble, I know I am. And, what’s more, I’ll have asked for it.’

  She was waiting for Stackpole’s answer, but instead he quickly looked at his watch.

  ‘Well, I can tell you one way you’re going to find trouble, and fast,’ he said. ‘It’s damn near eight o’clock. The Copa’s on East 60th Street, five blocks from here. I’m guessing your Mr Stephenson is not a man who stands for tardiness?’

  ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘Then we’d better move on out, right now.’

  They made it in good time, but not before Saffron had slowed down a couple of times to check that they weren’t being followed. ‘Are you okay?’ Stackpole asked. ‘You seem kinda jumpy.’

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing really.’ She forced a smile.

  Stackpole gave her a look that was more that of doctor to patient than a regular guy to his date. ‘Okay, I believe you,’ he said. But his tone made Saffron think, No, you really don’t.

  The Copacabana was located in the basement of a hotel, and was elaborately decorated in a tropical, Latin American style. A waiter led Saffron and Stackpole between thick white columns, designed to resemble palm trees, with spotlights in place of coconuts and leaves that spread like umbrellas over the patrons beneath. The waiter pointed to a table at the edge of the dance floor. ‘Mr Stephenson is right over there.’ Then he grinned and added, ‘And it looks like he’s got company.’

  Sure enough, Saffron could see Stephenson talking to a middle-aged man, whose head seemed to be constantly turning away to glance around the room. His sharp eyes briefly met Saffron’s as she walked towards him, then he tapped Stephenson on the arm and nodded in her direction.

  Stephenson smiled at his guests and said, ‘Ah, Winchell, may I introduce Lieutenant and Doctor Clayton Stackpole, and . . .’ Stephenson paused for barely a second, considering his options, then continued, ‘Miss Jane Smith. You must excuse Miss Smith, Winchell, if your name means nothing to her. She comes from Africa.’

  Walter Winchell looked up at Saffron – for, in her heels, she towered over both him and Stephenson – and then, in an urgent, almost hectoring, voice said, ‘Jane from Africa, huh? How does Tarzan feel about your new boyfriend?’

  Saffron laughed. ‘Oh, I haven’t told him yet.’

  ‘Then maybe I should. Eight hundred and twenty newspapers across this country take my column, Miss Smith, and more than twenty million Americans listen to my radio show. Hmm . . . “Me Tarzan. No Jane.” That’s what I call a story.’

  ‘Winchell was just about to tell me why he’s left his regular table at the Stork Club to come here for the evening,’ Stephenson said.

  ‘Let’s just say there’s an unexpected attraction at the Copa tonight,’ Winchell said. ‘And I’m not the only guy who wants to check it out. See over there, those three Italian signors with dames who definitely ain’t their signoras? One of them owns this joint, though you won’t see his name on any piece of paper at City Hall. Think I’ll go say hello, pay my respects. Be seeing you, Stephenson.’ Winchell gave two more nods as he said, ‘Lieutenant . . . Miss Smith,’ then made a beeline for the other table.

  ‘So, who are those guys?’ Stackpole asked.

  ‘Mobsters,’ said Stephenson. ‘The one in the middle, wearing the spectacles, is Frank Costello. He’s the one who owns this place. Allegedly. Now, let’s sit down.’

  ‘Isn’t Mary coming?’ Saffron asked, noticing that only three places had been laid.

  ‘I’m afraid she’s got a migraine, but she asked me to convey her sincere apologies and to say how much she enjoyed meeting you and witnessing your blitzkrieg on Saks.’

  There was already a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket beside the table. A waiter handed out dinner menus that were several pages long. ‘The Copa boasts of having more than two hundred and fifty items on its menu,’ Stephenson said. ‘But the best thing by far here is the Chinese food. Why don’t I order us a selection for the table and you can eat whatever takes your fancy?’

  The dishes of prawns, pork and beef, in a variety of spicy and sweet-and-sour sauces, accompanied by rice, noodles and an array of exotic-looking vegetables, were as delicious as Stephenson had promised, and far better than any Chinese meal Saffron had eaten in London. When the waiter came to take their order for dessert, she opted for the hot fudge ice cream sundae.

  ‘You don’t want something Chinese?’ asked Stephenson. ‘Lychees, perhaps?’

  ‘I’m sure they would be delicious,’ Saffron said. ‘But after two years of miserable rationing in England, and even worse overseas, there are absolutely no circumstances in which I’m turning down the chance of ice cream, whipped cream, chocolate, fudge and nuts, with a cherry on top.’

  ‘Good for you.’ Stephenson laughed.

  The sundae, when it arrived, was a towering skyscraper of sweet, sticky, sickly self-indulgence.

  ‘Five bucks says you can’t finish it,’ said Stackpole.

  ‘Ha!’ Saffron scoffed, polishing it off efficiently. Then, feeling full, happy, and only slightly bothered by the fear that she might at any moment burst out of her dress, she sat back to watch the Copa’s floor show.

  High-kicking showgirls in glittering costumes that revealed endless legs, taut stomachs and barely covered bosoms strutted onto the dance floor, so close to their table that Saffron could almost reach out and touch them. They were accompanied by male dancers dressed like characters from The Arabian Nights, with baggy pants, bare chests and turbans. Their routines were a cross between ballet and circus acrobatics, and Saffron found herself clapping and cheering along with the rest of the audience, entranced by the dazzle, energy and sheer glamour of the spectacle.

  Then the dancers scampered away and a short, bespectacled, middle-aged man appeared. He picked up a microphone stand in front of the band and pulled it into the middle of the dance floor. He tapped the mic to make sure it was working and said, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, we have a very special attraction tonight . . .’

  It was all Saffron could do not to burst out laughing. The man had a broad northern English accent, the last thing she had expected to hear in this all-American setting. ‘Who is that?’ she whispered to Stephenson.

  ‘Monte Proser, he manages the place.’

  ‘Well, he sounds like George Formby.’

  ‘There’s a young man from Hoboken, New Jersey, who’s been making quite a name for himself lately . . .’ Proser continued.

  There was a buzz around the room. Saffron looked around and saw the young women in the audience – and some of the younger men – had begun to chatter excitedly, smiles breaking out on their faces, while the much larger number of older patrons looked either as baffled as she felt, or distinctly unimpressed.

  ‘He had an engagement at the Paramount Theatre a while back that caused quite a stir, and lately he’s been entertaining America on the CBS Radio Show Your Hit Parade, presented by Lucky Strike.’

  Somewhere behind Saffron, a woman gave a stifled scream.

  ‘Well, he’s about to play a series of concerts and he wanted to give his new routine a dress rehearsal, so I said he was welcome to do it right here. And so, without further ado, I’d like to introduce . . .’ He paused to let the tension build. ‘Mr Frank Sinatra!’

  A young man wearing black tie and a dinner jacket that seemed too big for his skinny frame walked up to the microphone. He looked at the audience and gave a cheeky, boyish smile. Saffron was struck by the contrast between his dark, Italian hair and piercing blue eyes.

  Stackpole leaned across and spoke in Saffron’s ear. ‘I heard all the high school girls are crazy for this guy. They scream the place down. People call ’em bobby-soxers. Not sure the Copa crowd’s that impressed.’

  ‘Good evening,’ Sinatra said. ‘It’s great to be here . . . singing for an audience that’s old enough to drive.’

  The drummer hit a rim-shot; the audience laughed. Sinatra grinned again, knowing he’d broken the ice. He turned to the band. ‘Okay, fellers, take it away.’ The music began. And then something extraordinary happened. Sinatra looked like a skinny boy, but he sang in a rich, supremely masculine baritone that seemed as effortless and natural to him as breathing. He sang words of love and loss like a man who already knew everything about men, women, and the games they played with one another. And he didn’t follow the music so much as toy with it, bouncing the words off the beat in a way Saffron had never heard before.

  ‘Man, that cat’s got jazz!’ Stackpole exclaimed, sounding surprised and impressed, like everyone else in the audience. As the applause grew with every song, Sinatra’s playful self-assurance blossomed, and by the end, Saffron was on her feet calling for an encore with the rest of the crowd. Sinatra obliged and, after giving his final bow, went over and took a chair at Costello’s table. ‘There’s a young man with powerful friends,’ Stephenson murmured darkly.

  A moment later the band struck up a tune. It was one of the songs Sinatra had just sung: ‘All Or Nothing At All’.

  Stackpole looked at Saffron. ‘May I have the pleasure?’ He turned to Stephenson and added, ‘If you don’t mind, sir?’

  ‘By all means.’ Stephenson smiled.

  Stackpole led Saffron onto the floor.

  Saffron had not been sure what to expect from Clay Stackpole on the dance floor. Men of his height often found it hard to move their limbs with any elegance, let alone grace. She thought of all the young, gangly Englishmen with whom she’d danced before the war. They didn’t lead her, so much as grab her and drag her after them.

  Stackpole was different. He seemed at one with the rhythm of the band, just as Sinatra had been. He took charge of the dance, so that Saffron was relaxed in his arms, but he was always as conscious of her body and its movement as he was of his own, constantly adjusting his lead to her response. Saffron felt seen and appreciated, and that was as arousing as the smell of him and the strength she could feel in his arms. She felt sure that Stackpole would be equally good in bed, and the thought of what lay ahead, an hour or two from now, made her press her body even closer to his.

  Out of the corner of her eye Saffron saw a man walking across the dance floor, pushing his way between the dancers, oblivious to their objections. He was massive – at least as tall as Stackpole – but more heavily built, thick-necked with gorilla shoulders, a belly that pushed at the buttons of his shirt, and suit trousers stretched tight by his tree-trunk thighs. The lights shining on the dance floor picked out the sheen of sweat on the man’s fleshy jowls. A half-smoked cigar was clamped between his teeth, and as he bore down on them, Saffron could imagine the stench of him, all smoke, booze and stale sweat.

  She had seen men like this before, strutting down Dutch and Belgian streets, their natural arrogance and bullying nature amplified by their uniforms and jackboots. She stiffened at the memory and Stackpole felt it. He looked at her with a concerned frown and spoke over the sound of the band. ‘Are you all right?’

  Saffron was about to warn Stackpole of the man’s approach, when a meaty hand clamped itself around his arm. ‘Beat it,’ the man growled. ‘This one’s mine.’

  Stackpole wrenched his arm free, letting go of Saffron as he did so. ‘What the hell do you think you’re—’