The Rebel Daughter

Shine your shoes, slip on your flapper dress and prepare for the ride of your life in Lauri Robinson’s rip-roaring new mini-series

DAUGHTERS OF THE ROARING TWENTIES

Their hair is short and their skirts are even shorter!

Prohibition has made Roger Nightingale a wealthy man. With his bootlegging business in full swing, and his swanky hotel the most popular joint in town, his greatest challenge is keeping his four wilful daughters in check!

Join

Ginger, Norma Rose, Twyla and Josie as they foxtrot their way into four gorgeous men’s hearts!

First travel with Ginger to Chicago in

The Runaway Daughter Already available as a Mills & Boon® Historical Undone! eBook

Then see Norma Rose go head-to-head with Ty Bradshaw in

The Bootlegger’s Daughter Already available

Can Forrest Reynolds tame mischievous Twyla?

Find out in

The Rebel Daughter Available now

And, last but not least, discover Josie’s secret in

The Forgotten Daughter Available October 2015

AUTHOR NOTE

Welcome to the Roaring Twenties! A time in America when almost every citizen broke the law and new freedoms were discovered.

The Twenties were a period of change. Cars became more affordable to all classes of life, motorcycles grew increasingly popular, and flyboys—those who had learned to fly during the war—brought that skill home. All of this, along with electricity, telephones and Hollywood, created new lifestyles and attitudes.

Welcome to the third book in my Daughters of the Roaring Twenties mini-series! The Rebel Daughter is Twyla’s story. She embraces all changes to society wholeheartedly; however, being the daughter of a well-known bootlegger restricts her freedom.

A rebel at heart, Twyla has grown tired of living in the state’s largest speakeasy and not being allowed to attend the lavish parties. When the opportunity to step out of the shadows arrives she takes it—but discovers going up against mobsters might be more than she can handle.

Good thing Forrest Reynolds has returned home. Twyla needs someone to catch her when she falls.

I hope you enjoy Twyla and Forrest. They are two of a kind.

Happy reading!

The Rebel

Daughter

Lauri Robinson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

A lover of fairytales and cowboy boots, LAURI ROBINSON can’t imagine a better profession than penning happily-ever-after stories about men (and women) who pull on a pair of boots before riding off into the sunset—or kick them off for other reasons. Lauri and her husband raised three sons in their rural Minnesota home, and are now getting their just rewards by spoiling their grandchildren.

Visit: laurirobinson.blogspot.com, facebook.com/lauri.robinson1, twitter.com/LauriR

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To Sara at the White Bear Lake Historical Society.

The information you shared was invaluable!

Contents

Cover

More from the Author

AUTHOR NOTE

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

White Bear Lake, Minnesota, 1925

Twyla Nightingale swore she’d been reborn. Released. Free. Like a bird that had just learned to fly, or a dog that had finally chewed through the rope tying it to the porch. Excitement hummed through her veins. The smile living on her lips was there when she woke up and still there when she went to bed. It was real, too. As genuine as a new bill. At times her cheeks hurt from grinning.

And she loved it.

L-O-V-E-D. It.

Rightfully so.

Just a few weeks ago she’d have been watching out the bedroom window or crouched down peering through the spindles of the staircase that led from the ballroom to the second floor of the resort. But now she was front and center, wearing that cheek-aching grin while greeting guests, as men in neatly pressed three-piece suits and dapper hats escorted their ladies through the double front doors of the resort. The latest fashions these women wore were as elegant as the men escorting them. Floppy hats and feathered headbands matched their fringe-covered flapper dresses and two-piece skirt outfits in the most popular colors. Teal, burgundy, gold and green.

Green.

Now that was a color. Twyla’s favorite. The color of money. Lettuce, kale, clams, jack—whatever you wanted to call it, it was all money. Even before tonight she’d loved how money had changed her life. She gave her father the credit for that. A few years ago he’d been a brewery worker, bringing home barely enough money to keep his family clothed and put food on the table. Now she and her sisters were dressed in the height of fashion and Nightingale’s resort served finer food than some of the most famous hotels in the world.

Life was so good she wanted to skip instead of walk. Just standing here her feet itched with excitement. She’d imagined, but still couldn’t believe how wonderful things had become since she’d stopped living on the sidelines.

In many ways she had her sister to thank for the life-changing transformation. If Norma Rose asked, Twyla would get down and kiss her sister’s toes. That’s how appreciative she was, and she would do anything and everything to keep things going just as they were this very minute. One of the largest parties of the year was taking place at the resort tonight, and she was the hostess. Well, one of them. Norma Rose and another sister, Josie, were here, too, but in many ways that only made things better.

Smiling brightly, and elegantly waving a hand with brightly painted nails, Twyla greeted another couple and directed them toward the elaborately carved wooden front desk, where Josie would write them a meal receipt. They would then be directed to the ballroom and adjoining dining room, where the celebration of Palooka George’s fiftieth birthday would soon begin.

Up until two weeks ago, Josie, younger than Twyla by two years, and Ginger, younger by five years, had also been living on the sidelines. Norma Rose, the oldest at twenty-five, had been the only one permitted downstairs during parties. Mainly because until recently she’d run Nightingale’s all by herself, ever since it had been transformed from a dance pavilion to an expansive resort catering to those with wads of cash to spend. Their father, Roger Nightingale, claimed he ran it, but everyone knew that Norma Rose did, while Roger oversaw his bootlegging business. Her father’s profession didn’t bother Twyla in the least. Without bootlegging, she’d still be wearing Norma Rose’s hand-me-downs, which had been someone else’s hand-me-downs before Norma Rose had acquired them.

Folks could hate Prohibition all they wanted; Twyla loved it.

She loved the glitzy and glamorous parties, the racy freedom and even the wild and wicked underground world that flourished more every day. No one could have guessed her life could change so fast. Especially not Twyla. It had all happened when Ginger had run away with Brock Ness, and Ty Bradshaw had shown up searching for some gangster. Although everyone thought Ty was a lawyer, Twyla now knew differently, but her lips were sealed and would remain so. He’d caught the hoodlum he was after out in Wisconsin, or so Twyla had heard, but that wasn’t what had changed things. Norma Rose had. Shortly after Ty arrived, Norma Rose turned a proverbial corner. Love, that’s what had done it. Ever since falling for Ty, Norma Rose wasn’t focused on running the resort by herself.

Finally, thank heaven above, she’d asked her sisters to help run the place.

Twyla had jumped at the chance to step up, and so had Josie. Ginger was still in Chicago and Twyla didn’t expect her to return home anytime soon, but that opinion she kept mostly to herself—except when she was with Josie, who felt the same way. The two of them had discussed that Ginger had been in love with Brock for some time. Neither Twyla nor Josie were looking for love. They had other seeds to sow.

Josie was the quietest of the sisters and rarely complained, but Twyla knew she had been as tired of Norma Rose ruling them as Twyla had. Before Ty appeared on the scene, Norma Rose had staunchly refused anyone’s help—other than to make beds and scrub floors. Those chores she’d passed out like candy at a parade.

There was more to it than the chores. For the past few years, along with their father, Norma Rose had treated them as if they were still the young girls who’d all shared a bedroom in their old farmhouse, where the flu had swooped down one winter as dark and pitiless as any plague. That had been devastating to all of them. Within weeks of each other, their mother, brother, grandparents and several other community members had died.

The epidemic had taken more than lives. It had taken hopes and dreams and promises never meant to be broken. Those were the things Twyla remembered slipping away that cold, dark winter. Those were also the things she was determined to get back.

The deaths of so many in their family had left holes. Big holes right in the very center of her heart. It had been a painful time to live through, but she had. And so had her father and three sisters. Norma Rose had appointed herself to take on the role left vacant by their mother’s death, and life had marched forward much as it had before. It hadn’t been until a couple of years later, when another blow shook their family, that things changed immensely. It was also when Norma Rose had taken it upon herself to see that none of the Nightingale sisters became doxies—her words, not Twyla’s.

Twyla wasn’t overly concerned about being labeled a doxy—people could think what they wanted, she knew the truth—but she was interested in having fun and adventures. That was the part of her life that had completely disappeared. There were no adventures for a girl locked in her bedroom. If you asked her, none of them were likely to become doxies—not with their father. Very few people chose to anger Roger Nightingale, who was known as The Night in some close-knit circles. Even fewer were brave enough to actually show interest in one of his daughters. Not that kind of interest.

That, too, played in Twyla’s favor. Now that she had her father’s blessing—for he had been very happy she and Josie were helping Norma Rose—she was going to live it up. She was going to dance until the sun came up with as many men as she liked. Have herself some good old-fashioned adventures.

She’d be careful, though; men were a slippery slope. On that particular subject, she was more wise than people realized. Take Norma Rose, for instance. As smart as her sister thought she was, it hadn’t taken long for Ty to make Norma Rose turn over a new leaf.

Twyla saw why. The way Ty looked at Norma Rose made her sister melt in her shoes. No one had ever done that to Norma Rose before. Not even...

Twyla stopped her train of thought, or at least rerouted it. Nothing lasted forever. Life had taught her that years ago. Besides, right now she had a lot of living to do, a lot of making up to do. She would admit watching Ty and Norma Rose made her smile. It was time Norma Rose found someone else, something else, other than the resort. Her sister had gone through a bad time a while back, and Twyla was happy to know Norma Rose had finally gotten over it.

The two of them—Ty and Norma Rose—hadn’t announced wedding plans or anything, yet Twyla knew that would happen soon. At least she hoped beyond all hope on this green earth that was what would happen, because she had plans. Big plans. All those people who’d teased her about being the little sister who couldn’t come out and play would soon be eating their words. By the end of the summer, Nightingale’s resort would be known as her playground, and it would be the place everyone wanted to play.

“Good evening, Twyla.”

Twyla’s thoughts were shattered and her spine quivered as if a hairy spider had just zipped up her back. She turned, ever so slowly, to face the one man she’d just refused to think about. The one man who could very well throw a wrench into everything, into all her dreams of stepping into Norma Rose’s shoes and running the resort.

That could not happen. Would not happen. She pulled up every evil thought she’d ever had against him, in the hope it would help. “Good evening, Forrest,” she said calmly, coldly. “Glad you could make it.”

“I’m sure you are,” he said dryly.

With immense effort, Twyla held a smile on her face and continued to greet and direct the couples still streaming through the open double doors, as she told Forrest, “Josie will write you a receipt.”

“I’ll wait for you,” he said, smiling and nodding at guests as if he had every right to do so while standing next to her. “Considering neither of us has a date.”

He was a smooth one, Forrest Reynolds, always had been. A real charmer, even as a kid, teasing all the girls and pretending to be a hero. In truth, leastwise in Twyla’s eyes, Forrest was the reason Norma Rose had become a tyrant over the past few years. Norma Rose had always been bossy, but after Forrest had left, she’d turned gnarly. She’d worn nothing but black and acted like a spinster twice her age. At one time Norma Rose had been in love with Forrest, but then he and his father, Galen Reynolds—an evil man if ever there was one—had broken her heart. Nope, Twyla would not let Forrest spoil her sister’s happiness, or ruin the life she was finally getting a chance to live.

“I don’t need a date,” Twyla muttered out the corner of her mouth. The evil thoughts she’d poured forward were slipping, perhaps because there weren’t too many. At one time she’d considered Forrest a friend. Her best friend. She reminded herself she’d been about ten years old back then. That allowed the reason he was standing beside her now to pop forward. “You’re only here because with Brock in Chicago, we needed a musician.” It was the truth. Brock going to Chicago to play on the radio had left the resort without a top-notch performer, which the guests of Palooka George’s party expected. “Norma Rose only agreed to let you come because you wouldn’t loan us Slim Johnson if she didn’t.”

“She didn’t put up much of a fight,” Forrest said. “Far less than I expected.”

Twyla spun to shoot a glare directly into his chocolate-colored eyes. They were such a contrast to his blond hair that she had to suck in a quick breath before she could spout, “You leave my sister alone.”

“Norma Rose and I are old friends,” Forrest said, curling his lips into a sly smile. “Just like you and I. And I look forward to getting reacquainted with all of you.”

She wasn’t fool enough to believe that. If he’d wanted to get reacquainted with any of them he could have made an effort months ago, when he’d first returned to town with his convertible roadster and airplane. Her hopes, if she’d had any, of reigniting their friendship had died long ago. “My father put yours in prison,” Twyla reminded him. “I don’t believe that would lay ground for any of us to be friends. I for one have no desire to get reacquainted with you, and I know Norma Rose feels the same.”

“Same old Twyla,” he drawled.

She’d give about anything to be able to kick him in the shin.

Glancing around, he added, “I’ll let Norma Rose decide that.”

Kicking him might be impossible, but she wouldn’t allow him to ruin things. Not again. “Stay away from her, Forrest,” Twyla warned. “Test me on this, and I guarantee you won’t like the outcome.”

He had the gall to laugh right in her face. Then again, he’d always had the gall to laugh at her. Usually she’d laughed with him. Not anymore. She let her glare tell him that.

“Everything’s still a challenge to you, isn’t it?” He flicked the end of her nose. “When are you going to learn you are no match for me, Twyla, and no match for your sister, either?”

That invisible creepy spider moved from her spine to her chest, where it wrapped all eight hairy legs around her heart and squeezed tightly. She was a match for Forrest and would prove it. No one would get in her way. Especially not some flyboy who thought himself a hero because he’d returned home in the nick of time to save his family business, the Plantation nightclub.

“I hope you’re hungry,” she said, in between greeting guests and wearing the smile that moments ago had started to slip but now returned, rejuvenated. The Plantation would never rival the resort, no matter who ran it. “Because you’re about to eat your words.”

The glimmer in his eyes was full of challenge. To say Forrest Reynolds was handsome would be an understatement. He’d always been more on the gorgeous side. Besides his contrasting brown eyes and blond hair, he was tall and lean, the type of man who looked good in everything he wore. His navy blue suit was fitted—wide across the shoulders, slender at the hips. He looked ravishing in it, and although she’d never told anyone nor ever would, no one looked as dashing as Forrest when he was wearing his flyboy getup. With brown boots that came up to his knees, his bulky leather jacket and that hat with its floppy ear flaps and round goggles, no man came close to his handsomeness. Her heart fluttered just thinking about it.

Only because she appreciated a handsome man. She always had. Forrest, handsome or not, was no contest for her. Few knew, but Twyla had long ago learned how to charm men into doing just about anything. She’d learned how to be slick, too, in order to sneak away from the resort without being seen by her father’s men, the watchmen and guards who surrounded the property twenty-four hours a day. There was, after all, only so many nights a girl could stay locked in her room. She’d met her quota some time ago.

If she was a compassionate woman—which she was not—she might feel a bit sorry for Forrest and his beliefs.

As she only came up to his shoulder, he leaned down slightly, and the warmth of his breath tickled her ear. She’d just pierced the lobes a little over a week ago and was thankful they were no longer sore and throbbing. She sincerely hoped Forrest noticed those were real diamonds dangling on the silver loops. He was not dealing with a poor little girl anymore. She was far from that. In fact, they were on even ground these days. Her family now had as much wealth as his—if not more—and she would gladly use that against him, along with everything else she could come up with.

“Don’t forget where I live, Twyla,” he said as softly as the wind blew.

Caught off guard between the scent of his cologne and the warmth of his whisper, she stuttered slightly. “Wh-what?”

“Where I live. The Plantation.”

She rolled her eyes. “Of course I know you live at your nightclub. Everyone does. So what?”

“It’s next to the amusement park.”

After greeting another guest, she said, “Everyone knows that, too.”

“Where you held your kissing booth.”

Her stomach dropped to the floor. There were a few things she wasn’t proud of, namely the childish things she’d allowed Mitsy Kemper to talk her into while rebelling against Norma Rose and her father, but she truly didn’t believe anyone would have the gall to bring them up, especially to her face. If her father ever heard about some of her antics, things could change. Swiftly.

“Aw, there’s your father,” Forrest said. “I think I’ll go say hello.”

Twyla grabbed his arm. Her father knew nothing about the kissing booth and several other things, and if he learned of them, whether she was twenty-three or eighty-three, she’d be back to watching life from the sidelines. “Don’t you dare,” she growled.

Forrest lifted a brow.

Damn. He knew he had her cornered, just like always. If they were anywhere but the front foyer of the resort, where people continued to file through the door, she’d tell him just what she thought of him. And of the way he always seemed to be one step ahead of her. She wasn’t prepared for this. She needed time to think.

That spider was now in her stomach, stinging the dickens out of her.

She bit down on her bottom lip, hard, forcing her mind to come up with something. Anything.

Hadn’t she heard something about keeping enemies close? Well, Forrest was enemy number one. Therefore, the closer she kept him, the better. Norma Rose would be furious, but it was the only option. Forcing her lips into a smile, Twyla added, “After all, you are my date.”

“Your date?”

“Yes,” she said with more confidence than she felt. “My date.”

* * *

Forrest questioned his sanity. He’d spent years distancing himself from all of the Nightingales—out of necessity—yet here he was, back at square one. What had he been thinking?

That the past wasn’t over. That was what he’d been thinking. Requesting to be allowed to attend the parties Norma Rose had asked to hire Slim for had seemed logical at the time. It would give him the chance to talk to Roger Nightingale face-to-face, but now he wondered if he should have spent more time considering the consequences.

Maybe it was just Twyla’s obvious disdain toward him that caught him off guard. He hadn’t expected that from her, although he should have expected it from her and all the Nightingales, including the new lawyer it was rumored Norma Rose was glued to. He was prepared for the lawyer and Norma Rose, just not Twyla. A million years may not have prepared him for her.

It wasn’t her attitude that surprised him. She’d been the one to call him to ask about Slim Johnson filling in for Brock and had been more than a little put out when he wouldn’t talk to her. No, it was her that surprised him. The woman she’d become.

Forrest glanced down at the redheaded sister. Seeing her from afar hadn’t done her justice. If he’d known then—when he requested attendance—what he knew now, he might have approached this situation a bit differently.

Maybe.

The bottom line was, it had to be done.

Her hair was naturally blond, like all the Nightingale girls, but being the wild one, Twyla had dyed it cherry-red. It had faded since he’d last caught a glimpse of her at the amusement park. Her hair was now more auburn, and the color looked good on her. It brought out the blue of her eyes and made her stand out in a crowd in a best-looking-gal-in-the-room sort of way.

She definitely stood out in a shimmering silver dress that barely covered her knees and a tiny pill hat swathed with silver netting. Twyla had always been the most brazen of the sisters, and Forrest hoped Roger Nightingale knew what he was doing by turning her loose in his resort. Especially tonight. He recognized faces. Lots of them. There were more gangsters filing through the door than roamed the streets of Chicago. That also made him wonder if all the tales he’d heard about Roger Nightingale and his bootlegging business were true.