Bitter Spirits (6 page)

While he spoke in a hushed voice on the phone, she strolled past the windows and looked around, glancing at the book spines on a bay of shelves, mostly commerce and fishing titles. Her gaze fell upon a couple of long books sitting on a nearby lamp table. Scrapbooks? Photos?

Leather cracked when she opened the top book. Not photographs, but postcards attached to black pages with adhesive mounting corners. Postcards from Cairo. Postcards from France. The Eiffel Tower. The Arc de Triomphe. The Louvre. Two French maids wearing nothing but aprons. A girl falling off a bike, her skirt lifted, wearing only rolled-down stockings underneath. A woman sitting on a sofa reading a French copy of
Ulysses
with her legs spread—

Dear Lord.

Erotic postcards. Dozens and dozens. She glanced in Winter's direction. He was quiet, listening to the earpiece receiver while pacing around the fireplace, toting the candlestick base as a black telephone cord snaked around the floor, trailing his footsteps.

She hurriedly leafed through the pages, which seemed to get progressively worse—or better, depending on your view. A fully dressed man kissing a nude woman on his lap. A man fondling a woman beneath her chemise.

Flipping toward the back of the book, Aida stopped on a page with only one postcard affixed to the center—not a photograph, but a colored illustration. It featured a naked woman with bobbed hair. She sat upon the lap of a naked man, who was propped up against a pile of cushions. His cock was drawn to fantastical proportions, and the artist had managed to include an impressive amount of detail in rendering every vein, ridge, and hair as it slid into the woman's exposed sex. She rode him, mouth open, with a look of ecstasy on her face.

And she was freckled.

Aida's pulse pounded. She stared at the shocking postcard, transfixed. It was surely only a coincidence the illustrated woman looked like her—artists often added freckles to make females look younger, after all, and—

“Find something interesting?” Winter's low voice rumbled near her ear.

She jumped in surprise and attempted to shut the book, but his palm slapped down on the pages. When she tried to step away, another hand planted on the other side of the book, pinning her inside his arms. His chest against her back was warm and solid.

Her breathing faltered. Embarrassment created a fog that rolled over her brain. “They were sitting out,” she argued dumbly.

“My study. My books. I can leave them where I like.”

Her heart pattered like a frightened animal. “You should take more care when you invite guests over.”

“I didn't know my guest would be so curious.”

“And I didn't know I'd be visiting a deviant!”

“One man's deviance is another man's lunch break.”

“Pervert.”

His mouth was against her ear, his words spoken through her hair. “Are you referring to me or yourself? You've been staring at that for quite a long time.”

Her face flamed. She
never
blushed. Never! “It's . . . depraved.”

“How so?” His thumb ran along the edge of the postcard. “Is the artist depraved for rendering a fantasy, or is the woman in the painting depraved for enjoying it?”

“
You're
the one who's depraved for owning it.” She shoved her shoulders back against him, grunting. “Let go.”

He didn't grip her tighter, nor impede her from ducking out of his hold, but instead distracted her with words. “Look closer,” he said, pointing to the woman in the illustration. “There's a trust between them. She enjoys him watching her. Oh, and would you look at that? She's got freckles just like you. How interesting.”

Aida's eyes flicked to the bulky arms flanking her shoulders. She twisted inside his trap, defiantly faced him, and shoved at his chest. A useless act against someone built like a mountain; he didn't budge.

She drew back. He leaned forward, erasing the distance. Their combined weight pressing against the lamp table caused it to slide a few centimeters. A frightening, almost unbearable intensity darkened his eyes. She could no longer tell which pupil was bigger, because both were enlarged beneath languid, drooping eyelids.

“Do you like people watching you onstage, Aida?”

The question was, at best, rude, and paired with the postcard, the insinuation behind it was downright vulgar. But it was her name on his lips that unexpectedly triggered lust to uncoil low in her belly. It sounded so startlingly intimate, and he was so close. So close, so big . . . so intimidating. She was overawed and overexcited, all at once.

His gaze dropped. Hers followed, only to find the hands that had shoved at his chest were now grasping his necktie, either in an attempt to choke him or pull him closer.

Maybe both.

“Christ alive,” he whispered thickly.

Her thoughts exactly—what on earth did she think she was doing? Rattled by her own lack of restraint, she released the necktie and ducked under his arm, then took several quick steps to put some distance between them.

“Sorry,” she mumbled with her back to him. “I'm not sure what came over me.”

He didn't answer. God, she'd rattled him. Probably a first. And now that her foggy brain was clearing, she was uncertain about his intentions.
Do you like people watching you onstage, Aida?
Maybe she'd misread this completely. Perhaps he'd only been trying to intimidate her after she'd rudely plowed through his personal things, and she'd only been
hoping
he didn't mind the freckles. Maybe she'd just been fooling herself because she wanted him to want her as much as she wanted him.

But wants and needs aren't interchangeable, and what she
needed
right now was to cool down and gather her wits. She exhaled heavily, and the breath that rushed out of her mouth was a chilly white cloud.

IT TOOK SEVERAL MOMENTS FOR WINTER TO COMPOSE HIMSELF
enough to turn around. He was uncomfortably hard, aching and straining against the front of his pants. The fact that she provoked such an immediate response in him wasn't a surprise—he had, after all, spent the last few nights conjuring images of her while he stroked himself to sleep. Thank God she hadn't flipped one more page in his postcard collection, or she'd have seen the program he'd taken from Gris-Gris, folded inside out with her photograph bared.

But really, could he be blamed for that? She was beautiful, vivacious, and carefree. Of course he wanted her. It was
her response
that had him thrown for a loop. Because unless the blood now pulsing inside his cock had emptied his brain and made him daft, he suspected she wanted him, too. How was that possible?

The only women who showed him any interest these days were gold diggers who lusted after his money and the perceived excitement it could provide, or fallen socialites who'd become accustomed to a lifestyle that was slipping from their grasp. Women who once knew him before the accident now looked at him with pity. Strangers acted uncomfortable when they saw his scars.

So why was Aida flirting with him?

And the more he thought about it, the more he was certain she really
was
flirting, despite it having been years since anyone had shown interest in him without an agenda. She had no reason to need anything from him. She was independent, earning her own money, and successful enough at it. Hundreds of people lined up every night to see her show. She seemed comfortable with her life. Satisfied. Self-confident. She didn't have the stench of desperation that he could usually spot miles away.

But she did have every reason to hold up two crossed fingers or throw holy water on him. At Velma's he'd collapsed like an injured horse, sick and naked and half mad with the poison polluting his veins. She should've been fainting in horror at the sight of him, running for the hills.

Yet here she was.

And now he'd forever have an image stamped in his depraved mind of the moment her lovely face tilted up to his . . . her eyes big and brown beneath the slender brim of her hat, lips parted, freckles peeking through faded oxblood red lipstick. One particular freckle near the right corner of her mouth was larger than the others, straddling the blush of her lip and the lighter skin of her face. Dear God, how he desperately wanted to swipe his tongue across that freckle.

And maybe suckle one or two of the fingers that had been wrapped around his necktie.

“Mr. Magnusson?”

“Winter,” he corrected, turning around. A white cloud billowed from her mouth, and standing between them was the
thing
. “Was this what you wanted me to see?”

It looked the same way it had every day that week: a man with dark hair and a beard, wearing an old-fashioned suit. Usually at this point, Winter would be intently studying the ghost, but right now all he could do was stare at Aida and the breath wreathing her face.

This was the third time he'd seen the ghost, but it was still startling.

“At least you know Velma's antidote worked, because your ghost couldn't be less interested in either one of us.” She studied the ghostly man as he went through the same motions he did every day—talking to himself without uttering a sound, putting his hand over his heart. A few moments more and he'd be heading toward the windows.

“I can see through his feet, so he's definitely an old ghost—they usually fade after time. Rare that one sticks around for more than a decade or two. Oh, look, he's got a wooden hand.”

Huh. Damned if she wasn't right. Now that she'd pointed it out, Winter could see wood grain beneath paint.

“How long does he stick around?” she asked.

“Another half a minute or so, then he jumps.”

“Jumps?” She glanced at the window. “Suicide?”

“Would seem so.”

“Did a man kill himself in this house?”

“No idea. A San Francisco judge built the house after the earthquake. My parents bought it a few years ago.”

“Interesting. Would you like me to get rid of it?”

“That's why I called you out here.”

Not
because he craved an excuse to see her again.

“Your wish, my command, Mr. Bootlegger.” She smiled so beautifully, he nearly forgot all about the ghost standing between them. As whorls of white puffed from her mouth, she reached out with splayed fingers and touched the man. He crackled, then simply . . . disappeared.

Gone.

Along with her snowy breath, which petered out after a couple of exhalations.

Winter stared at her, unable to speak. “Well done,” he finally managed to say.

Aida folded her arms under her breasts and looked him straight in the eye, one side of her bewitching mouth cocked in a self-assured smile. “That'll be fifty dollars.”

 • • • 

Two nights later, standing behind a folding screen in her dressing room at Gris-Gris, Aida was
still
giddy about that fifty dollars. Well, not so much the money as the wicked postcard collection. And not so much the postcards as the way she'd felt when Winter towered over her like some erotic heathen god. For the umpteenth time, she reminded herself how reserved he'd been after she'd banished the ghost in his study. He barely said another word, just handed her some bills from his pocket—who carries around that much cash?—then clammed up when his housekeeper came in the room.

“You haven't heard from him since,” she murmured to herself as she tugged a beaded green gown over her head. It was a straight-cut gown with a dropped waist, a nice fit, but it had a line of buttons in the back that she couldn't reach. Should've thought of that before she put it on. Maybe one of the chorus girls would help her. A knock sounded on the door. She peered around the side of the screen to see Velma's head poking into the room.

“Oh, good. You're dressed,” the club owner said.

“Actually, I'm glad you're here, because I need help reaching—”

Velma didn't wait for the end of her sentence, just swung the door open while speaking to someone in the hallway. “She's all yours, but don't hold her up. She's due onstage in fifteen minutes.”

Aida slipped back behind the screen and stood on stockinged tiptoes to see over the top.

It was him.

Damn.

“Velma!” she called out.

Her boss just shrugged and shut the door, leaving her alone with Winter Magnusson, who was looking warm and handsome in a smoky brown suit and chocolate coat.

“Hello, Miss Palmer.”

She tried to prop her arm on the screen in an attempt to look casual and slipped. As if her heart wasn't already beating fast enough to make its way into a Poe story. “Err, hello.”

“You are dressed behind there, aren't you?”

“Just putting on . . . shoes.” Shoes? She winced. “What brings you by? Another ghost?”

He squinted at her for a moment, probably wondering why she wasn't coming out from the screen, which would be the normal thing to do if she
were
dressed, then held up a dark bottle. “Krug. Champagne. From France.”

What were they celebrating? Her discovery of his erotic postcard collection?

“Just a token of thanks for getting rid of my ghosts, since I didn't pay you for the prostitute.”

“The what?”

He stilled. “The first ghost. The night we met.”

Oh. “How did you know she was a prostitute?”

He tapped the bottom of the bottle against his gloved hand, then walked to the dressing table and set it down. “Hope you like it.”

“I adore champagne, and if it's the same stuff you sell to Velma, it's terrific.”

“Better. But don't tell her. It's personal stock.”

“Ah, well. I'm . . . honored. Thanks. You didn't have to.”

“My pleasure.”

“She wasn't yours, was she?”

“What?”

“The Chinese prostitute. Had you seen her before she was a ghost? As a paying client, I mean.”

She hadn't realized he'd been tense until his face relaxed into a smile. “No, Miss Palmer.” He removed his hat and ran a palm over his hair. “Not that night or any other.”

“Good to know.” She propped her chin atop the screen and arched her back while attempting to fasten a button. If she held her breath and reached with her fingertips, she might get one or two—

“Speaking of ghosts, I was wondering if you'd be interested in doing a séance for someone. An old family friend who lives in Sea Cliff.”

“Oh?” Aida stopped struggling with the button. “Where is Sea Cliff?”

“Small neighborhood on the other side of the Presidio. Very exclusive.”

“As exclusive as Pacific Heights?”

Winter strolled to the dressing screen, reaching inside his coat for an envelope. “Sea Cliff is all new money. Big homes, right up near the bay.”

She panicked and made herself smaller. “Sounds swank.”

“Depends on your style.” He hung his hat on a corner of the screen, propped an elbow on the top edge, and handed the envelope over. “The séance would be after a dinner party this weekend. The job pays well. Read it.”

Holding her dress closed with one hand behind her back, she reached for the envelope.

He snatched it back an inch. “Sure you're fully dressed?”

“Of course I'm sure,” she lied. “Unlike someone in this room, I don't parade around naked in front of strangers.”

“I'm not a stranger.”

“And you're no gentleman, either, or you wouldn't—stop that!” She leaned back as he stuck his head over the screen and tracked her movement, his face towering inches away and closing the distance ever so slowly, his eyes never leaving hers. If she continued to retreat, she'd be falling backward.

His voice was a warm, velvety lick up her nerves. “Need help buttoning that dress, cheetah?” When she made a panicked noise, he added, “I can see you in the mirror.”

She glanced toward the side of the screen without moving her head. The dressing counter was in her sight, just past his hanging fedora, but he still couldn't . . .

“Behind you.” He tilted his eyes to a spot on the wall at her back, where a long dressing mirror stood—dammit!—then looked back down at her face and smiled. “A few advantages to this point of view.” He raised a level hand above his head.

“A few disadvantages, too—if you lean any harder on the dressing screen, it'll be reduced to matchsticks.”

“Not seeing how this is a problem.”

A host of rebuttals formed and dissolved inside her head as she took a step back. “You probably couldn't even manage the buttons with those beefy fingers of yours.”

“Oh, I don't know. I think you'd find I'm skilled at managing all kinds of buttons. Big, small, round. Pearl buttons—I like those quite a bit, and I'm
very
good at manipulating them.”

What in the world were they talking about? Alarms blared in her head. “It's not like you've caught me in a scandalous position.” Why was she talking so loud? “All you can expect to see is a bit of back. You can ogle more skin in the middle of the day on the beach.”

“‘A bit of back' is not going to drive me to depravity, Miss Palmer. I'm offering to do you a favor, not asking for one.” The calm and sensible way he said this made her feel foolish.

And really, it might be nice to feel his fingers on her skin. Just the thought of it made her nostrils widen.

“The chorus girls will be back any second, so hurry.” She turned around and bared her back. “You'll have to come around here.”

She waited, heart hammering, and listened to the floorboards creaking under his feet. Heard him stop behind her. Waited . . .

Waited some more.

What was he doing? It took every ounce of willpower she had to stop herself from spinning on her heels to face him. Then she remembered the dressing mirror and darted her eyes to the side. If she leaned forward an inch, she could see him in the mirror—not his eyes, but she could see him below the nose. He was standing behind her, looking down at her back, tugging on the tips of his gloves to remove them.

A thrill shuttled through her bones, sending an anticipatory wave of goose bumps across her bowed back. She'd called him a pervert, but sadly, she was the guilty party, because her breath was coming faster and a familiar pleasurable heat was blooming between her legs.

She watched him surveying her back in the mirror. His mouth was open, as if he were poised to say something. Maybe he was having trouble breathing, too.

Without warning, he straightened and tugged his glove on again before marching back around the screen.

“What are you doing?” she asked, standing on tiptoes to peer at him.

A big palm snatched the hat off the screen corner. He molded it atop his head at an angle that shaded his wounded eye. “You're right. It's not proper.”