Bitter Spirits (11 page)

THE STICKS JAMMED INTO FLESH. HER CAPTOR'S SCREAM PIERCED
her ear.

She fell forward, stumbling away from him.

Distracted by his friend's screaming, the cauliflower-eared man let his guard down for one heartbeat too long. Winter flew off the bench. In two beautiful movements, he snatched the gun from the man's hand as he jabbed an angry fist square in the middle of his face. It was brute strength, skillfully wielded—she'd never seen such a violent motion delivered so precisely. The punch made a sickening
crack!
like a bat hitting a ball. The man's body flew backward and collapsed on the floor.

His muffled cries were pained and feral as the copper-bright scent of blood wafted in the air. He was not going to get up again. Aida's attention flew to her captor. Both hands covered his cheek. She'd missed his eye by centimeters. A shame.

“Get down!” Winter bellowed at the man, loud enough to rattle Aida's nerves. He was savage—the devil himself. And Aida was, all at once, frightened and strangely thrilled.

Winter stepped between her and her captor and motioned with the gun. The man dropped to his knees.

Lying on his side, the cauliflower-eared man loosely held his hands over his nose and took desperate gasps of air through his open mouth. Blood seeped between his fingers.

“No shame in crying.” Winter told him in a calmer voice. “That nose is broken and probably hurts like hell. You might want to have someone set it, or it's going to look ugly when it heals.”

The man twisted in place to shoot Winter a hateful look.

Winter clucked his tongue. “You've got nerve, coming in here today to question me without Ju's permission. I can only imagine what you were thinking. But let's get some things straight. I'm not interested in Ju's territory, or any of the other tongs'. We do not have overlapping interests. Never will. Secondly, this cul-de-sac is not technically Ju's. It's free territory.”

The man shuddered, rolled onto his shoulder, and spat blood out of his mouth.

“And if Ju has a problem with Bo ‘sniffing around,' as you put it, then he will come talk to me directly. I don't do business with peons.”

Her captor was saying something in Cantonese. His partner didn't answer.

“But let me make one thing clear. If either of you lay a finger on Bo, I will hunt you down and break every bone in your body. And if you or any other man so much as even stands too close to
her
ever again, I will blame
you
personally”—he tapped the man's elbow with his shoe—“and I will put a bullet in both your brains. Do you understand?”

The cauliflower-eared man made a short grunting noise in confirmation.

“I'm going to send word to Ju that the two of you assaulted us without provocation. I'll let him dole out your punishment. Now get the hell out of here before I change my mind and take you out into the alley.”

 • • • 

Fifteen minutes later—after Winter had made promises to Doctor Yip about ensuring his protection—Aida scooted across the backseat of a taxi to make room for his big body. She decided it was better to drop her off at Gris-Gris, as there wasn't time for her to return to her apartment. He instructed the driver, and soon they were pulling out onto a rain-slicked street, away from tong territory.

“That was a stupid thing to do, burning that man in the face,” Winter said staring out the window. “He could've hurt you.”

“But he didn't.”

He turned and looked at her. “Did you think I wouldn't protect you?” His tone was intimidating, his mouth stern. Was he angry, or was his male pride wounded?

“I wasn't thinking about anything at all,” she protested. “I just acted on instinct.” When she got no response to that, she asked, “Would you have done worse to them if I wasn't there?”

“I don't go around killing everyone who threatens me. I'm not a thug.”

“That's not what I asked.”

He didn't answer, which hurt her feelings.

Fine. He could be mad at her and brood in the corner all he wanted. Only, there wasn't a corner in the taxi, and he filled up every inch of the space with his enormous body, the scent of his clothes, and the dark cloud of emotions radiating from him. She squirmed, trying to cram herself against the door.

He noticed her moving away. “You afraid of me now?”

“No, I just . . .” What? What did she want from him? One moment she was bragging that she could handle herself, then the next, she was upset that he was short with her. If she was being honest with herself, she wanted him closer, not farther away. She wasn't frail and timid; she didn't need to be comforted. And she knew exactly what he was, what he did. Saw proof of it last night in the ghost of the man he'd killed.

The violence didn't surprise or offend her. It was unsettling how little it offended her, to be honest. She just didn't like the cold-shoulder treatment. Maybe after spending so much time in nightclubs, she'd come to admire the bruisers who guarded the doors and kept the drunks out of her dressing room. They were tough on the outside, but polite as could be backstage. The big guys were always the kindest to her.

And Winter was the biggest man she'd ever known.

A strong wind blew rain against the window as the taxi's engine noisily rumbled around a curve and up a steep incline. She allowed gravity to pull her back against the seat and glanced down at Winter's hand. Knuckles were reddened from the punch, the skin bleeding around one.

Gingerly, she reached out across his lap and touched her bare fingers to his, inspecting the wound. Her own hand was half the size of his. “Does it hurt?”

He shifted the arm between them and laid it across the back of the seat, behind her shoulders. This both relaxed and electrified her. She could smell the rain on his coat, the pomade in his hair. “Yes. But it will hurt more tomorrow. Always does.”

“You need to get some ice on it.”

“Probably.”

“That punch was impressive.”

“Mmm.”

“But I'm not afraid of you.”

“You sure about that?” he said softly near her ear.

His bass-heavy voice resounded through her body, unexpectedly kindling warmth between her legs. She shifted in her seat, but the warmth changed to heat. So she tried clamping her thighs together, which only made things worse.

Maybe she shouldn't be leaning into him, tracing the red pattern around the edge of his injured knuckles. But her poor reasoning skills were at war with her body, which liked his body quite a bit.

“I'm sure,” she told him.

The arm resting behind her shoulders shifted until she felt its weight against her neck.

This was not business anymore.

Her hand stilled on his. She turned her head, slowly, and glanced up at his face. Lazily blinking eyes looked down at hers. His nostrils were flared. She wanted to say something, but she wasn't sure what, exactly.

Maybe that's why when she opened her mouth to speak, she ended up pressing it against his. He stilled. His lips didn't move. Had she shocked him? She'd shocked herself. She didn't go around kissing men, especially not men who punched people in the face. Certainly not men she worked for. She should definitely stop this foolishness right this second and beg his forgiveness.

And she would have, maybe, had he not kissed her back.

His mouth opened to hers. The little noise of triumph she made in response was embarrassing, but not enough to stop. The arm circling her shoulders pulled her closer. His lips were soft and wet and sent legions of tingles down her arms and back. And that was before his clever tongue slipped between her lips and danced with hers.

She lost all thought and kissed him back savagely. She was desperate and wanting, and his big arms were wrapped around her and it was . . . bliss. Their first kiss was unforgettable, but this was a new level of thrill, to be touched, to touch him back. Her hand slid up either side of his chevroned necktie and strayed around his neck, seeking contact with his skin. She pushed her fingers into the back of his dark hair, fingernails lightly grazing his scalp, and he made a pleasurable sound of approval.

Good lord, he was an expert with his mouth. She didn't know or care where he learned to kiss like this, tongue rolling as he possessively molded his lips to hers. But whatever skills he'd mastered seemed to magically transfer to her, because she was oddly confident he was enjoying what she was doing. She was certainly enjoying doing it. And that confidence changed to certainty when her left leg, which was draped over his lap—and she didn't know how in God's name this happened without her realizing it before now—strayed a little higher up his thigh. And a little higher. And just when she was nearly straddling him, like some wanton whore, her leg brushed against something hard.

Winter moaned.

She nearly fainted with excitement.

And yet, some part of her that had been taught to repress urges and feelings warned her that she was doing a Very Bad Thing, and going way too far. That part of her piped up and mumbled, “Sorry,” against Winter's lips.

Catching her breath, she rested her cheek against his and agonized over either starting up again like she wanted to or pushing away from him like she
should
do. But he solved the problem without her when his head dipped to her neck. He began trailing wet kisses across the side of her throat, soft ones . . . rougher, pulling ones. She may have possibly made a series of desperate noises. She definitely arched against him, bumping into his erection again. Well, rubbing herself against it, to be truthful.

She didn't apologize this time.

But Winter did. “I'm sorry, as well,” he said against an intensely sensitive spot on her neck, just beneath her earlobe.

She shivered in response to his voice. Then hazily said, “For what?”

“For this.”

His hand ghosted up the back of her leg, under her skirt, over her garter . . . and beneath the loose silk of her step-in chemise. He cupped one bare buttock with his palm and gently squeezed.

Desire shot through her. She cried out against his neck, something between a moan and a half-formed encouragement.

He opened his mouth against her neck and ran his teeth across her skin as his palm massaged her backside, rougher now—demanding. She went limp in his arms. She was afraid if his long fingers explored an inch farther, he'd discover how wet she was. Unbelievably wet. Her thighs were slippery with arousal from all the wanton rolling around she'd been doing on his lap.

She was half ashamed over it. Half not.

And she was half a second from telling him—no,
demanding
he take her, right there, right now. She didn't care anymore, she just wanted—

A loud, judgmental throat-clearing sounded from the front of the taxi.

The taxicab driver. The car was stopped outside Gris-Gris.

Good grief. They were inside a public taxi, with nothing but a seat between their lewd activities and a stranger's body. She'd completely forgotten—
How
could she have forgotten?
What is wrong with me? I am an immoral human being.
This seemed far more wicked,
far
more risqué than her previous two brief sexual experiences had ever been.

And she liked it.

It was at that moment she realized that she was, sadly, just as perverted as she'd accused Winter of being that afternoon she'd found the postcards in his study.

“Fifteen cents,” the taxi driver said as she shifted off Winter's lap. He resisted, holding her in place for a moment before reluctantly sliding his hand out of her underclothes.

“Hey!” Winter snapped at the driver. “I'm paying you to drive, not to ogle. Eyes off her.”

Winter instructed the man to wait. She couldn't get the door open fast enough, nearly tripping over the curb as her Mary Janes scrambled to find purchase on the wet sidewalk. Her legs were wobbly. She had trouble standing and experienced a flash of panic as she wondered if the pedestrians walking by knew exactly what she'd been up to.

“You okay?” Winter asked behind her as drizzle beaded on her coat.

She let out a breath and turned to face him. He seemed so much bigger out in the open air. And terribly good-looking. She found herself smiling dumbly at him. “Yes.”

He pulled his overcoat closed and smiled back, just as dumbly. “Good.”

“Do you do this kind of thing with all your employees, Mr. Magnusson?”

“Hardly. Then again, Bo isn't half as tempting as you.”

A prideful pleasure leapt up inside her chest. “No need to butter me up. Your hand's already been up my skirt.”

“My hand is very happy about that.” He grinned at her, big and wide, tapping the brim of his fedora against his leg.

They stood in the gray drizzle in silence for several moments, just looking at each other, as people passed by on the sidewalk. Raindrops began snaking down the collar of her coat. Her hair was sticking to her cheeks. She'd have to wash it before her show. “I'd better . . .” She pointed behind her, toward the barred entrance to the speakeasy.