Bitter Spirits (20 page)

Her fingers walked up his breastbone. “And if you can discover who ratted out St. Laurent while helping out the Fairmont with deliveries in their time of need, all the better, yes?”

“Just being a good neighbor.”

She laughed, and the sound made his balls tighten. “Winter Magnusson: friendliest man in the city.”

“You should've seen the concierge. Nearly pissed his pants when I walked up. I'm nothing if not recognizable,” he said, winking his bad eye.

She craned her neck and kissed him there—right on his eyelid—and trailed two more kisses over his scar, then fell back against the pillow, grinning at him prettily. Jesus. Did she know what that did to him? It felt as if she'd poked a hole inside his chest. If she didn't stop, he'd be telling her how he rode around last night in a daze, thinking of the way she trembled beneath his tongue. How much he'd hated leaving her, and how he had to stop himself from calling her at three in the morning when he'd finished his work.

How he couldn't get enough of her, even now. Even after he'd just had her twice, he was getting hard. And not because she was trying to seduce him. Not because she'd been trained for pleasure, like Sook-Yin, and knew exactly what to do to turn him on. But because she was so easy to talk to. Because she laughed and smiled at him without wanting anything in return. Because she made the past disappear.

And because she accepted him freely, scars and all.

“Only one left, huh?” she said, running tiny fingers up the ridge of his cock. “And, let's see . . . four hours before I have to leave. This is very unfair. If you're going to insist on using those things, you better bring more next time.”

He laughed and pulled her close, until he felt the peaks of her nipples against his chest. “Let's be creative and see what we can do without using the last one just yet.”

“Creative.” She stroked him leisurely, up and down. “Like this?”

He groaned in pleasure. “Exactly like that.”

“What about this?” Her fingers strayed lower to his balls, sending soothing shivers through his groin.

“Christ alive, cheetah. That feels nice.”

“It does?” She cupped him. “Like this?”

“God, yes. Be gentle, though. Whatever you do, for the love of God, don't squeeze.”

“How do you walk around with all this?”

“The same way you walk around with these,” he said, massaging one breast.

She made a little moan, then whispered dreamily, “I'm so glad we're having an affair.”

“Best idea I ever had,” he agreed, and inhaled the scent of violets in her hair.

 • • • 

Aida's performance at Gris-Gris later that night was one of her finest—dramatic, emotional, and enthusiastically applauded. When she left the stage, she wondered if her confidence had been increased since her afternoon with Winter. The sinful burn of well-used flesh lingered as she strolled to her dressing room, and this gave her a puzzling sort of satisfaction.

What was even more puzzling was how happy it made her. Not just the sex, but the experience of being so close to him when his guard was down. What would it be like to have a man like that all the time? Someone to confide in? It seemed like an impossible luxury, to know someone for more than a handful of months. Best to be sensible about things and just enjoy what she had in the moment, not worry about things she couldn't control.

But her future caught up to her as she approached her dressing room door. The club manager, Daniels, was waiting there for her with a tall, slender man dressed in a cream-colored suit. His skin was darkly tanned, as if he spent every daylight hour in the sun, and the sides of his dark blond hair were streaked with silver.

“Miss Palmer, I have someone here to see you,” Daniels said formally. “Mr. Bradley Bix from New Orleans. Mr. Bix, this is Miss Palmer.”

The speakeasy owner. Of course. He said he'd be here visiting his cousin, but she'd put him out of her mind. Still, it was surprising to see him standing before her now. She shook away a sense of foreboding and picked her manners off the floor. “Mr. Bix, how do you do,” she said, extending her arm. “I thought you were coming in another week. I hope your travel was pleasant.”

“Three days of jostled sleep, but I made it in one piece,” he said with a kind smile, his hand warm and leathery on hers. “I've had some changes to my summer bookings so I thought I'd come see you earlier. I hope you don't mind.” He smiled, flashing her a smile. “Your show was spectacular. Just astounding. I'd heard things from people who'd seen you perform on the East Coast, but to watch it in person was a treat.”

“Thank you,” she said.

“I'd like to offer you an official invitation to perform at the Limbo Room,” Mr. Bix said. “We'll buy your train ticket, of course, and my business partner owns a hotel next to the club, so we can also provide a temporary apartment for the duration of your stay in our city.”

No one had ever offered her as much. She was immediately wary that the hotel he spoke of was a brothel of some sort. Velma had friends in New Orleans; perhaps she could check on it.

“Is there somewhere we could speak about salary and other details?” Mr. Bix asked.

“Daniels, if you wouldn't mind, please show the gentleman to the bar.” He nodded a curt response. “Mr. Bix, it will only take me a few minutes to get ready. I'll meet you out there when I'm done.”

Mr. Bix canted his head politely before setting a pale straw Panama hat on his head. “I should mention that I'd like to have your decision rather quickly. I'd need your debut performance to coincide with a spiritualism convention in the French Quarter.”

“And when would that be?”

“July 15.”

She'd have to be on a train the day after her last night at Gris-Gris if Mr. Bix wanted her onstage that soon.

She should be elated. None of her previous bookings had dovetailed so nicely to provide her with a steady income, so hard to come by in this business. But as Daniels escorted the man back out to the club floor, it was all Aida could do to fight images of Winter's big hand curving around her naked breast, and the lazy satisfaction she'd felt dozing in his arms.

She'd known it wasn't permanent, but now they had less time than she thought.

WINTER TOOK A TAXI TO THE FAIRMONT THE NEXT DAY. WHEN HE
left Aida the night before, he'd asked her to meet him there at the same time today, but he half expected her to change her mind—maybe she'd have regrets about the things they did with each other. It seemed too good to be true.

A rap on the hotel door made his pulse jump. He rushed to answer it too quickly, but when he threw open the door, it was only an attendant from the kitchen with a cart. The boy cowered under Winter's glare and waved a gloved hand at the pitcher of orange juice and coffee service. “Your order, sir?”

Winter exhaled heavily and signaled the attendant inside the room. After he wheeled the cart into the sitting area, he asked if Winter required anything else, then acted like he was going to bolt for the door; Winter stopped him.

“You know who I am?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Anyone asks, you don't.” Winter pulled out a stack of bills and removed a gold money clip, then peeled off what was likely a month's worth of the attendant's wages. “Make sure my men outside get coffee and food at lunch. If I'm back tomorrow, I'll give you the same.”

The attendant brightened considerably. “Yes, sir. You can count on me.”

As Winter handed over the tip, a figure appeared in the doorway. Winter's chest squeezed.

“This is a private room, miss,” the attendant said quickly, pocketing the money as he strode to block her entrance.

“Yes,” Aida said, tapping her handbag against her leg. “I'm . . . Mrs. Magnusson.” She arched one brow Winter's way: teasing, playful, attractively arrogant. Only a day ago—no virgin—she'd been nervous about her sexuality, and now she was brimming with confidence. It gave him a deep-seated satisfaction to know he was responsible for that change.

“
Mrs.
Magnusson?” The attendant gave her a pointed look of disbelief.

“Ah yes,” Winter said. “Please don't disturb my . . . wife and I again until I call, unless it's an urgent matter with my men.”

The attendant cleared his throat and nodded before exiting.

Aida locked the door, then dropped her handbag and dashed to Winter in a delirious rush. With her arms around his neck, he lifted her off the floor and kissed her like she really
was
his wife and he hadn't seen her in months. She smelled so good, felt so warm and soft, that if relief and gratitude hadn't weighted him down, he might've floated away in happiness.

“What have you done to me?” she said breathlessly when they broke for air. “You've turned me into a fiend, Winter Magnusson.”

“There
is
a God,” he mumbled against her neck as he pressed kisses on her rapid pulse.

“I went to sleep thinking of you,” she whispered, “and woke up wanting you.”

A big, bright happiness flooded his senses.
Thank you, thank you, thank you.

She gave a little squeal of delight as he pushed her back against the wall. “Please tell me you brought more Merry Widows this time.”

“I cleaned out the druggist,” he said, grinning down at her. “At the rate we're going, I should own stock in the damn company.”

Her happy laugher followed them to the bed.

 • • • 

The Fairmont became their daily routine. Nothing in the outside world interrupted them—not ghosts nor raids nor threats of any supernatural nature. The primary anxiety that plagued Winter came in the form of regular updates from Ju about the liquor trade in Chinatown spiraling out of control. Warehouses had been burned, robbed, smashed up. Infighting broke out among friendly tongs. Everyone suspected their neighbor, but no one knew who was actually leading the shake-up.

It even made the newspapers. Headlines questioned how safe the “new tourist-friendly” Chinatown truly was. Rumors spread of the old pre-earthquake tong wars being revived. It was all anyone talked about at Golden Lotus, Aida reported, and her landlady was worried because the restaurant's business was starting to suffer.

Businesses outside Chinatown were feeling the effects of St. Laurent's raid. The Fairmont was hurting. Winter managed to sneak in a few cases of champagne and whiskey for their important guests, but the manager refused to risk anything more. Winter put more men watching the hotel, but no one had seen or heard anything.

Not until the sixth afternoon, when Winter got the call about Black Star.

Bo's voice was barely audible over the hotel's telephone wire. He had to plug his free ear with his thumb to even hear him.

“Say again, Bo.”

“Ju found the man. He's a fortune-teller at Lion Rise Temple, but only on Saturdays, when the tourists come. We've got three hours before his shift finishes, so we need to leave now.”

“I'll be ready in fifteen minutes.”

“A couple more things. Ju says the guy isn't affiliated with any tongs. He's probably just a hired gun.”

“Then we'll just convince him to tell us who's paying him. What's the other thing?”

“Anthony Parducci turned himself in early this morning.”

Winter froze. “What?”

“Showed up at Central Station, spooked as hell, saying the voice of God had spoken to him and told him to turn himself in. They thought he was doped at first, but now they're saying he just went crazy. Police chief tried to talk some sense in him and get him to calm down, but two Feds had stopped by the station and heard what was going on, so they arrested him. Parducci gave up the locations of all his warehouses, suppliers—everything.”

“Holy shit.”

“Whoever's conducting all this is starting to land some blows.”

“I don't want to be the next one. Pick me up out back,” Winter said before hanging up.

Aida started dressing before he could even finish telling her. “I'm going with you. If there's any ghost business, you're safer with me along. Especially after the business with this other bootlegger turning himself in. Let's hope this Black Star is your guy.”

He watched her rolling the welt of her stocking over a pink garter that sat snugly on her lower thigh, just above her knee. “I might have to threaten him. I don't want you to see that.”

“You mean that you don't want me to be repulsed by it,” she clarified.

“Yes.”

“Well, I won't be. And I trust you will protect me if something goes wrong.”

He watched her pull on the second stocking, amazed by her nonchalance. By now he shouldn't be surprised. “All right.”

Both stockings were in place now. She stood up, wearing nothing else. Absolutely gorgeous. But something was changed about her today, even before Bo called, and Winter could see it in the line etched between her brows. He captured her wrist.

“What?” she asked.

“You seem different.”

“Do I?”

“Something wrong?”

“Not at all.”

“Are you sure?”

Her chin dropped. “No.”

“Tell me.”

“It's silly. I just got something delivered to me at Golden Lotus this morning that made me sad.” She gently tugged her arm away and picked up a shell pink chemise. “I met with my future employer a week ago. He came to the club and offered me a gig in New Orleans. A new jazz hall called the Limbo Room.”

The unexpected news unstrung his nerves. “You've already got another job?”

She stepped inside her chemise and shimmied it over her hips. “They're offering me room and board at a hotel next door to the club. Will pay me double what Velma's paying. The most money I've ever been offered in my life.” She slipped silky straps over freckled shoulders. “It'll keep me employed through October. The owner bought my train ticket. That's what was dropped off at Golden Lotus this morning.”

“Do you know anything about this man?”

“He's middle-aged. Owns another speakeasy in Baton Rouge. Seems nice enough.”

“And you're just going to run off to a strange city halfway across the country to work for a complete stranger?”

“It's what I did when I came here.”

A rising panic tightened his chest. “You won't have anyone there to look after you.”

Slender fingers tucked the front locks of her bob behind her ears as she bent to pick up her skirt. “I've made it this far on my own.”

God only knew how—a miracle she hadn't been raped or robbed or killed in some dark alley after leaving one of her shows in the middle of the damn night. The only unescorted women roaming the street that late were . . . Christ, he didn't know if there
were
any. Even prostitutes had sense enough to stay behind closed doors. It panicked him to think about her off somewhere, out of his reach, where he couldn't be there in minutes. “New Orleans is a vice-ridden port city, cheetah.”

“San Francisco is a vice-ridden port city, Mr. Bootlegger.”

Swearing in Swedish under his breath, he hunted down his clothes, trying to hide the unsettling mix of anger and hurt churning inside. This was preposterous, her traipsing off. He knew she had to leave—of course he knew. But in the back of his mind, he'd pictured her in Seattle or Portland, maybe Los Angeles. Somewhere on the West Coast, where he could take an afternoon train and be there in time to catch her show. And where the hell were his socks? He didn't for the life of him remember taking them off.

“Here.” She handed him two limp black dress socks.

“When do you leave?”

She stilled and bit the center of her upper lip.

“When?” he insisted.

“About a week.”

His throat felt as if he'd swallowed wet cement. “One week?”

She nodded. “Now you know why I'm sad.”

That was nothing—no time at all. “What if Gris-Gris offered you a longer contract?”

“Velma already has a telepath booked, and don't you dare storm into her office and force her to keep me. I can already see the wheels turning. I won't take something I haven't earned honestly, and I can't stand being in debt to someone else. I'm not sure if you understand that, but it's important to me.”

Unfortunately he did understand. Even if his work was illegal, it was hard work, and he didn't cut corners to get it done. His father had always told him there were few greater shames than debt. It was a matter of pride.

But what they had together was bigger than pride—his or hers.

“A week, a month—it makes no difference,” she said. “We both knew I'd be leaving eventually. You didn't want anything permanent when you suggested we share a bed, remember?”

Yes, he remembered. He buttoned the fly of his pants and plunked back down on the bed. “I can't believe you're really going.”

Her stockinged legs stepped between his. She cupped his cheeks with small, warm hands. “Only live for today—that's what Sam taught me. But if I'm being honest, I've never wanted to leave a place less . . . or a person.”

If that was really true, then why was she going?

 • • • 

The temple was located in a narrow, nondescript three-story brick building crowded between a dozen others just like it. A steady stream of locals and western tourists paraded under strings of triangular orange flags that hung above the entrance. The main sign, from which swaying lanterns hung, was painted in Chinese characters. A secondary cloth banner below read
LION RISE TEMPLE
.

Winter tried to summon up the will to care that the man who poisoned him was inside, and that he might soon be where Parducci was if he didn't watch himself, but his mind was fixated on Aida's news. Every time he looked at her, she was staring out the window, lost in her own thoughts, unreadable. Meanwhile, he was slowly sinking.

Only live for today
. Complete and utter bullshit.

In a week, she'd be gone, on to some new adventure. Maybe even another lover. The thought of someone else touching her made his stomach harden into a black lump. His hands curled into fists.

She acted as though she had no qualms about walking away and never looking back. As though he was merely a choice for dinner—beef or chicken, and tomorrow she'd be dining somewhere else. Goddamn casual affair. Possibly the stupidest idea he'd had in years. Casual was Sook-Yin, or Florie Beecham.

Casual was
not
Aida.

Had all of this meant nothing to her? The time she spent in his arms? He stole a look at her as Bo parked the car across the street from the temple. That same deep line divided her brows. She chewed on her bottom lip. Either he was a fool, falling for someone who didn't feel the same way, or she was lying through her teeth with this breezy, live-for-today act. God give him the strength to figure out which it was before it was too late.

Spice-tinged floral smoke drifted from the temple. Winter surveyed the area and found nothing out of the ordinary, so he, Aida, and Bo approached by foot. A few cars behind, four of his men shadowed them to the entrance.