Bitter Spirits (16 page)

“Careful, cheetah. And I haven't slept with any of the younger ones.”

“Hallelujah.”

A slow grin spread over his face, plumping up high Scandinavian cheekbones. He held out his arm. “Shall we dine, Miss Palmer?”

They headed out of the lobby and walked into the Palm Court, a large, bustling room that was partitioned into a lounge with a piano at the front, and a restaurant at the back. The host at the podium took one look at Winter and snapped his finger at a waiter several steps before they arrived. “Mr. Magnusson, always a pleasure. We have your table ready.”

Well-dressed patrons lounged and dined around clusters of lazy palms under a domed iridescent glass ceiling. Aida watched diners' reactions as she and Winter wended their way through the tables: first Winter's size caught their eyes, then they recognized him, and finally they looked at her in curiosity. Table by table, this was how it went, until they were seated off to one side beneath a balcony, where potted palms and a marble column gave them some privacy from the rest of the floor.

“Is this always how it is for you?” she asked after the waiter brought menus, stripping off her long gloves and tucking them in the handle of her handbag. He watched her actions over the top of his menu, staring at her hands with great interest. What on earth was so interesting? She looked down, wondering if her fingers were covered in ink from a leaky pen. They weren't. His mind seemed to be elsewhere. She dipped her head to catch his eye. “Does everyone recognize you, I meant.”

He blinked and shook away his daze. “Depending on where I go, yes. It will stop in a minute, once they realize I'm not doing anything interesting. Surely you must be used to some of this yourself.”

“I never stay anywhere long enough to garner a following. People recognize me now and then at the Automat across the street from Gris-Gris. I can barely read this menu, it's so dark back here. Tell me what's good.”

With a hand under her seat, he scooted her closer, chair and all, oblivious to the whispering at neighboring tables. Now that their arms were practically touching, he browsed the entrées with her, talking up the merits of his beloved chop, which sounded as if he liked it so much, they should probably consider adding his name next to it on the menu. She ended up ordering what the waiter recommended, including a French wine that Winter cockily assured her was some of the best in the city; the very best, he hoarded in his own cellar.

Winter was served the thickest chop she'd ever seen in her life—certainly not the size that was listed on the menu—while she had prime rib and salad with dressing the Palace had made famous, or so they claimed: something called green goddess. They talked as they ate. Conversation was so effortless and easy, it was almost as if the visit to Ju's had never happened. She watched him in surreptitious snatches while he chatted: his animated mouth with its deep indentations at the corners, made deeper by the flickering candle at their table; the sleek wave of his brilliantined hair, so dark it was almost black; and those bewitching mismatched eyes, which now looked so merry.

He used to be happy and fun to be around
, Aida thought, remembering Astrid's words. This was what she meant. This was the real Winter. She understood Astrid mourning him, if this was something she didn't see much anymore, because Aida could think of no recent company she'd enjoyed half as much.

The only pause in their conversation came after the waiter cleared their plates away and promised to return with something for dessert. After a few moments of silence, Winter surprised her by saying, “I didn't love her.”

She glanced up at his face. “Sook-Yin?”

“No, my wife.”

“Oh.”

“You told me I shouldn't feel guilty about the accident, and I try not to. But that's what still bothers me. I didn't love Paulina when I married her, and she definitely didn't love me.”

Was he really talking about this? She couldn't believe it. She was scared to say anything for fear he'd stop, but he seemed to need some encouragement, so she gave in. “Why did you marry her, then?”

“I married her to please my mother, and I suppose I thought my feelings would deepen after the wedding. But we couldn't even manage small talk, much less love. The more we grew apart, the more I helped my father out with the bootlegging, which only made things worse. She detested the bootlegging. Her family is Pentecostal—are you familiar?”

“The religious people who speak in tongues.”

“Holy Rollers,” he confirmed. “Paulina wasn't active in the church when we met, but I suppose that I was so inherently evil, I made her long for fellowship. She tolerated my father's bootlegging, but knowing I was out making deals after dark became a sin too big for her to ignore. She once told me she didn't know which was worse—staying awake at night worrying I'd be killed, or finding out that I hadn't been.”

“What an awful thing to say.”

“It made me never want to come home. I stayed out just to avoid her. She accused me of being unfaithful, which I never was, Aida—not once.”

“You don't have to convince me.”

He scratched his neck and remained silent for a time, staring at the flickering candlelight on the table. “It's not just that we made each other miserable, because we did. The worst part was that we wasted each other's time. Several months of courting and a wedding that cost my family enough to shame William Randolph Hearst, only to find that we were complete opposites. She didn't like rich food, sex, foul language, drinking . . . or jokes. I swear to God, I never once heard her laugh. Not once. I don't think she even knew how.”

“She sounds delightful, Winter.”

“I—” He looked down at her in wonder, then laughed. “Yes, I suppose so. Those were all my favorite things, so she pretty much ripped the joy out of my life. Especially when she made the decision to go back to her church and started attending services every weekend. I thought it would make her happier, but the congregation just encouraged her to divorce me, because I was a known criminal.”

She waved around the luxurious dining room. “All of us are criminals. There's not a dry table here. You're Robin Hood, taking back what the government took away—not Jack the Ripper.”

He crossed his arms and rested them on the edge of the table. “Regardless, I should've just let her go. I'm not sure why I didn't. I think maybe I saw it as a failure, and that was unacceptable. So we had a bad fight, and I told her divorce was impossible, that I'd never let it happen.”

“What did she do?”

“Nothing. That was two weeks before the accident.”

“Oh.”

“If I would've just let her leave, she wouldn't have been invited to her aunt's dinner, and her family wouldn't have tried to tell us that we were going to hell, which was the thing that spurred my father's last fit. So that's why I feel guilty—because even though I didn't love her, I refused to let her go. If I had, everyone would still be alive.”

The waiter returned with some sort of sponge cake and more wine. She waited until the man left, then said, “I can understand why you'd feel that way. I probably would, too, if I were in your shoes. But you can't continue to pummel yourself. You can't let one moment in time define you for the rest of your life.”

“Easy to say, harder to do.”

“Paulina made the decision to marry you. You didn't hold a gun to her head.”

Winter toyed with the stem of his wineglass. “No, but I might as well have done that when I didn't let her leave.”

“She had two feet and a mind of her own. If she wanted to leave, she could've walked out the door.”

“Not every woman thinks like you.”

“Which is a damn shame, to be sure, but you can't be held responsible for her character defects. Nor can you spend the rest of your life allowing human mistakes to mold your future.”

“Yes, well—”

“Nothing is more important than right now. This moment.” She tapped the table with her fingernail. “Not what happened yesterday. Not what will happen tomorrow. You once asked me how I could be happy moving from place to place, and that is the answer. I live for the moment. I enjoy what I have, not what I've lost. Not what I don't have yet.”

Upon finishing her passionate speech, she found him staring at her intently with the strangest look on his face. Something about that look made her chest warm.

“Let's have an affair.”

“What?”

“An affair,” he repeated. “A temporary relationship. Companionship. Sex.”

The heat in Aida's chest climbed to her cheeks. “Ah . . .”

“We like each other,” he said in a very businesslike manner. “Might even be crazy about each other, like you said. We're both single. I passed your kissing test.”

She snorted. “Confident about that, are you?”

One brow lifted.

“
You
invented the kissing test,” Aida argued. “All I said was that my previous lovers were terrible kissers.”

“Which brings me to my next point. Wouldn't you like to be with someone who knows what he's doing in bed? I'm
very
good.”

“Gee, don't sell yourself short or anything,” she said, looking around to make sure no one nearby was listening as her cheeks flamed higher.

“Just being honest.”

“I don't think this sort of thing is something people plan and negotiate.”

He ran his hand over the back of his neck. “Maybe they should. You're only in town for how much longer? A month?”

“About that, yes.”

“Not much time, but you've made it clear you're not interested in long-term relationships because of your traveling, and God knows I'll never be interested in anything permanent again after my failed experiment with marriage.”

A cynical voice whispered inside her head. “You want me to be your new Sook-Yin.”

“That's the last thing I want. That was a pretend relationship.” He sipped wine. “Though, I'm not really sure what I had with Paulina was much different. She wanted my money, too.”

“Money is nice. I'm not above its allure. I love that you brought me here,” she said, looking up at the dazzling chandeliers. “I love that damn coat.”

He chuckled, then gestured with his glass. “But pride is more important to you, and that's the difference.”

“Perhaps.”

“I don't want to talk about the past anymore. You just told me to live in the present.”

“You're right. I did.”

“And what I want right now, in the present, is you in my bed. Do you want me?”

She licked dry lips. No one had ever spoken to her like this. She wasn't sure if it was crude or refreshingly honest.

Winter looked down at the table and brushed his thumb along the curve of her wrist. “I lay awake at night thinking of you. I have since we met. Do you ever think of me?”

Her heart flamed up like a pyre. And he was looking at her with such intensity, it made lights twinkle in her brain. If he didn't stop telling her all these things, it would get so bright up there, she'd go blind and start shouting
Yes!
at the top of her lungs.

As it was, she managed to say it in a normal voice, after downing the remainder of her wine in two gulps. “Yes.”

“You don't have to answer now. You can—” His hand stilled on hers. “Did you mean ‘yes' you think of me, or ‘yes,' you want to have an affair?”

“Yes to all your questions.”

He smiled oh-so-slowly, like a dockyard cat eyeing a fish flailing on dry ground, and she knew right then she was a goner.

THEY LEFT THE PALM COURT WITHOUT EATING DESSERT. WINTER'S
body was flying, but his brain was stuttering along, half a step behind, still in disbelief. They stopped in the main hall that led to the lobby, allowing a bellboy to pass with two luggage carts.

“How do we do this?” Aida said, almost whispering. “We can't go to my place. Mrs. Lin doesn't allow men in the apartments.”

Winter pulled her off to the side. “We could go to mine, but it's still early. Might have to sneak you past Greta and Astrid, otherwise I'll never hear the end of it. Everyone's still ribbing me about you calling on me in my study that afternoon.”

“Your car?”

He stared down at her. No way in hell was he taking her in the car. “Jonte would certainly get a thrill straining his gnarled old ears trying to hear us, but no.”

Aida glanced around. “Well, we
are
in a hotel.”

No need to tell him twice. “Stay here. Do not move. Do not talk to anyone. I'll be right back.”

He rushed off to the registration desk, rushed back with a golden key to a suite and their coats. Part of him expected her to be gone when he got back, but she was still there, looking like an exotic goddess, freckled and golden and sparkling. Not a dream. Not a figment of his overactive imagination. Not a ghost. He touched her bare shoulder, just to make sure, and the heat from her soft skin nearly made him drop to his knees in prayer.

“Elevators are this way,” he said, gripping her hand as if she might blow away.

As they ascended to the top floor, he watched her laugh at the elevator operator's jokes. On the surface, she was open and carefree, as she often was. But the way she clutched her handbag made him realize how anxious she was. He was anxious, too.

The room was on the top floor, at the end of the hall. No one occupied the neighboring suite. His hand shook as he unlocked the door.

“Oh, good,” she said, noticing. “It's not just me.”

Once he got his hands on her, he'd calm down. He was too keyed up. He felt like a boy, overexcited and bouncing with energy. Practically ramming the door open, he hurried her inside, hung the
DO NOT DISTURB
sign, and locked the door behind him.

She switched on a lamp and set her handbag and coat down. He watched her inspect their surroundings. The suite was big. Clean, but not properly prepared for guests: no fresh flowers, no turned-down linens. He was in too much of a hurry to wait for niceties.

Strolling to the window, she looked out over downtown. Hazy fog clung to the rooftop. “I'll never get over the views here,” she said. “Everywhere you go, there's something to see. I think some of these views must be stuck inside my head from childhood, because nothing out East compares. Everything seems so flat and claustrophobic out there.”

She turned to face him. He saw her throat working as she swallowed hard. Noticed the way she tightly held one arm beneath her breasts, gripping her opposite elbow, as if she was trying to shield herself. He hated that. She glanced at the bed. “Oh, Winter, I'm so nervous.”

Her voice was small.
She
was small. How had he not noticed how small and fragile she was? That blustery attitude of hers was deceptive. And now that it was gone, and she was unable to meet his eyes, he was reminded of Paulina, timid and guarded—worse, he was reminded of how he used to feel around her. Like a monster and a bully. Like the bad guy.

Her fingers touched her breastbone as if she were searching for something, and then glanced down in panic when she didn't find it. She snatched her hand away and exhaled heavily.

A pang of worry went through him. This was not at all how he'd imagined this going, and he'd imagined it plenty of times, plenty of ways. It definitely wasn't what he had in mind when he proposed this harebrained idea in the restaurant. Maybe she'd been right. This wasn't how it was supposed to be done. He should've been patient and let things happen naturally.

But
God
, how he wanted her.

It's just that he wanted free-spirited Aida, not this tense, nervous rabbit version.

He approached her and held out a hand. “Let's just sit here on the sofa.” It faced the window. Maybe the view would be soothing. He removed his tuxedo jacket and laid it on the back of the sofa, unstrapped his leather shoulder holster and gun, then sat down next to her. “Deep breath, cheetah. It's just me.”

She exhaled and anxiously laughed at herself, smoothing her dress down her legs.

He made a quick decision.

“I changed my mind. We're not going to have sex tonight.”

She looked up, eyes big and brown. “Why?”

Because you are scared of me
. “Because we need to get used to each other.”

“Maybe that's wise,” she said. “I mean, if you think so.”

Enough of this awkwardness. “Come here. I want to hold you.” He pulled her sideways onto his lap and wrapped his arms around her, then spoke to her in a hushed voice. “Hello.”

“Hello.”

So warm. He stroked a palm across her back and felt tense muscles relax against his thighs. “This is better.”

“Yes. Much better.” Her fingers fluttered over his bow tie. She fiddled with the knot, then glanced up at his face and smiled. All her lipstick was gone, wiped away on her napkin at dinner. Now he could see every freckle on her lips, including the one near the right corner of her mouth that he liked so well.

He spoke without thinking, his voice sounding rough to his own ears. “I swear on my life, you are the loveliest thing I've ever seen.”

She softened in his arms. He held her closer, running a hand down her bare arm, feeling chills race down his own arm in response. His mouth brushed her face. He kept himself in check, slowly relaxing, enjoying the weight of her body. Grateful for it.

“Please kiss me, Winter,” she said against his cheek. “Or I'll be forced to attack you again.”

There she was. His Aida.

He complied, trying to go gentle, but her mouth was so hot and eager, and her hands were slipping over his shoulders. His cock stirred, pulsing to life against her leg. She twisted in his arms and pressed closer.

He forgot all about the tense start. “C'mere,” he murmured against her lips. “Like this.” He prodded one of her legs across his until she was straddling his lap. “Oh yes. That's better.” He slouched lower and gathered her closer, until her gown hiked up. Soft breasts pressed against his chest as her mouth returned to his. His hands slid up the back of her thighs. He stuck his index fingers beneath the tops of her stockings, under her garters. Two fingers. Three. He wanted to rip them off. And he almost did when her hips shifted and her soft heat covered his cock.

“Oh,” she said in a high voice. He extracted his roaming fingers from her stockings and pulled her down more firmly, fitting himself along her sex, nothing but a few thin layers of fabric between them.
“O-oh,”
she said louder.

His thoughts exactly.

He gathered her closer, thrusting up against her heat. She rocked in reply, rubbing herself against him. Christ, he was hard as iron. He thrust harder against her, drunk with pleasure, craving more . . . wanting to be inside her. She flinched. “Oww.”

He pulled away.

“I'm sensitive, sorry.” She let out a little breathy laugh, then settled back down and rubbed against him again, softer, studying his face.

He pushed her bangs away from her forehead and kissed the exposed skin there. “Never apologize.” He was the one who couldn't control himself. If he didn't get her off his lap, he'd be inside her in another minute. “Hold on to me.” He secured her against him with an arm around the small of her back, then pushed off the sofa, taking her with him. Her weight felt good in his arms. He walked her across the suite and climbed onto the bed with her clinging to him. She made a noise when he set her down on the mattress.

Anxiety reappeared in her eyes.

“I'm just going to touch you a little,” he reassured her, kissing her softly. “Yes?”

She nodded and kissed him again. Her hands slid up his chest. “Can we take this off?” she said, tugging a button on his vest.

He blinked at her in surprise. “Yes.”

“It will make me feel more comfortable,” she said defensively, as if he was going to protest, then, in a softer voice, “I want to see you. Again,” she added with a coy smile.

God only knew why, but whatever she wanted, she could have. If she asked him to sign over the Pierce-Arrow to her, he'd do it in a heartbeat. He fumbled with the top button on his vest while she started on the bottom button; they met in the middle. She pushed the vest over his shoulders, then his suspenders.

“No need to rush,” he said, untying his bow tie under the wingtip collar points of his formal shirt, which tiny fingers were already busy unbuttoning. He yanked shirttails out of his pants with one hand while she struggled with his cuff link on the other.

“How?” she asked.

He showed her the mechanism, and together they unfastened them. She kissed him as he pocketed his cuff links and shrugged out of his shirt. He tossed it behind his back. Warm hands slithered up the front of his undershirt. Shivery pleasure blanketed his skin. She lifted the cotton and peered at him. He watched her gaze follow her stroking hand down the line of dark hair bisecting his stomach, down to the intrusive bulge of his cock straining the fly of his pants.

Her mouth opened with a garbled noise.

He could only imagine what she was thinking. Jesus—it looked lewd and mammoth, even to his eyes.

“Oh my.” Her eyes tilted up to his. One corner of her mouth curled.

Well.

“Ignore that,” he said. Then added, “For now.”

“I don't think I can.”

“Sure you can—I do, every day. Especially around you.” He halted her reaching hand. “But I can't if you touch me.” Christ! Was he really stopping her? He had to, or he'd be finished before they even started, and both of them would be embarrassed. “Hold that thought, and just let me . . .” What? Possibilities crowded his mind, but he pushed them away for one specific starting place, first conjured during dinner, when it was all he could do not to take a bite out of her shoulders. Her dress was held up by golden cords tied into draping bows at the tops of her shoulders. He tugged one to loosen it. A second tug, and the entire right side of her bodice dropped to reveal one pert breast.

His mouth went dry.

Her freckles were lighter here, but they dusted every inch of her skin. They even covered her nipple, which was high and small and peach, jauntily standing at attention. He cupped the lush weight of her breast in one hand. A scant palmful—not too big, not too small. Just right. Encouraged by a moan, he stroked her nipple with his thumb and felt her shudder. It did him in. He hastily untied the cord on her other shoulder and bared her to the waist.

His brain emptied as he gazed at her, tracing the curve of her shoulder, the elegant ridge of clavicle. “Goddamn,” he murmured. “You're beautiful.” He kissed her mouth and trailed his lips across her jaw, urging her back onto the mattress. “Beautiful,” he repeated, drawn to the rise and fall of her breasts. Stretching out next to her, he captured one dusky peak with his mouth, worrying it with his lips, his tongue, his teeth.

“Oh . . . yes,” she mumbled, as the warm pressure of her hand clasping the back of his neck held him in place. She liked it. He felt like a jockey jumping a hurdle, breathless and triumphant. His cock kicked inside his pants, as if to cheer him on.

He released her flesh with a soft
pop
and licked his way to her other breast, giving it the same treatment as he rolled the now-wet abandoned nipple between his thumb and finger. She bowed her back and moaned so loudly, goose bumps rose over his arms. He plucked harder, sucked harder, savoring the taste of her skin as he pressed himself against her soft thigh like a schoolboy, desperate for any sort of relief.

His mouth returned to hers as his hand wandered lower, over her soft belly, half covered with her fallen gown. He went lower, running the heel of his palm over the hilly apex between her legs. “I just want to touch you,” he assured her in a gravelly voice.

“I . . .” she began, mumbling something incoherent.

He slipped his hand down her stocking, to the inside of her knee, then back up her inner thigh. He stilled halfway to his goal.

Just above her garter, her thigh was shockingly slick. He took a ragged breath and went higher. Slippery, everywhere. “Christ alive,” he whispered in amazement. He hadn't even touched her!

“Oh,
God
,” she said, as if she were ashamed. Her cheeks reddened beneath the freckles.

“Aida, you are . . . Jesus—you are a miracle.” He kissed her mouth to quell her unspoken protests and slid his hand to the silk between her legs. “Soaked,” he reported in amazement, as if she didn't know. He plundered beneath the thin fabric. Greedy fingers glided along one slick fold bordered in damp curls, then the other. And without any trouble at all, his thumb found her taut bud between them, sweet and ripe and stiffening beneath his touch.