Grim Shadows (Roaring Twenties) (2 page)

“Fine, see if I care if you get yourself killed. You’re already dressed for an open-casket memorial service.”

“And you’re dressed like a Barbary Coast drunkard!”

“Is that so? Well, I’ll have you know, I’m—”

Startled cries bounced around the platform. Right in front of them, exiting a door marked
EMPLOYEES ONLY
, was the second thug—the one who’d disappeared behind the ticket windows. He barreled onto the platform with a polished revolver leveled at Lowe’s chest.

LOWE SHOVED MISS BACALL
to the side. Her suitcase skittered across the platform as he reached inside his coat, drew the curved
janbiya
dagger, and swung it through the air. Not his best aim. But he felt fleshy resistance when it sliced through the thug’s shoulder.

At the exact moment the man pulled the trigger.

The rumble of two train engines absorbed the
crack!
of the gun. Where the shot landed, Lowe didn’t know—it just missed his ear, he knew that much. And he damn well wasn’t about to find out where the next might land.

The thug growled, gritting his teeth as he cradled his injured arm. The bright, coppery scent of blood wafted from Lowe’s blade. He readied himself to swing the dagger again, but thought better of it when he glimpsed Miss Bacall rising to her feet beside him. No, he decided, it really wasn’t a smart idea to engage in a knife fight in the middle of a train station. Especially when the curator connected to his big payout stood unprotected and the injured thug’s much bigger buddy was heading toward them with another gun.

Two guns, one knife . . . absolutely shit odds. No choice but to escape. So Lowe grabbed Miss Bacall around the waist and urged her into a run.

Screams from the lobby echoed off two idling locomotives. Fencing hemmed the station’s platform. Nowhere to run but into the arms of the train he’d just been so desperate to leave.

She tripped on the metal steps leading into the first open car. Like a domino, he stumbled behind and nearly crushed her, but managed to save them both from landing on their faces at the last moment. Also managed not to stab her with his bloody dagger. Barely.

Brilliant, Magnusson.

“My luggage!” she shouted as he scooped her up and pushed her inside, wiping the blade on his pants.

“Forget it. Go!”

He sheathed the dagger as they raced through the deserted dining car, darting past compact tables draped in white linen. Heavy footfalls thundered behind them. The bigger thug had followed and was taking aim. Lowe covered Miss Bacall’s body with his, bracing for the worst—

Goddammit, he really didn’t want to get shot.

But instead of another revolver blast, he heard something different: a broader,
sharper
explosion, and then a surprised shout as the train carriage shuddered. A backward look revealed the thug sprawled in the floor, covered in broken glass. The train windows at the front of the dining car had . . . shattered?

Four windows, all blown out, as if a bomb had gone off. Cold night air whistled as it whipped past the jagged teeth of the smashed glass.

How in the living hell was that possible?

Did he care? No, he damn well didn’t. Maybe his good luck was returning.

He thrust Miss Bacall farther down the aisle. Without a word, they dashed through the last quarter of the dining room and passed through the open door back onto the platform.

Just in time to see the injured thug warily inspecting the broken train windows as he clutched his wounded shoulder. He hadn’t noticed them yet. Small miracle.

“Go, go, go,” he said in Miss Bacall’s ear. He grabbed her hand and raced down the platform, away from the lobby, away from the guns. And they followed the length of the idling train until they came to the last car.

The second train, the one he wanted to be on, sat alongside the 127. A whistle blew. Steam puffed from the engine. It was leaving the station. And the stairway that crossed the tracks to the opposite platform might as well have been in another city.

“Down!” he told Miss Bacall. She didn’t seem to understand his plan, and he didn’t have time to explain, so he jumped off the platform onto gravel-packed steel rails before helping her down into the darkness.

“Come on!” he yelled, pulling Miss Bacall alongside him to race behind the departing train as it chugged away from the station. They’d catch up easy as pie if they didn’t hesitate. Thank God for her long legs; she’d make an excellent Olympic sprinter.

“Are you insane?” she shouted as they raced together.

A legitimate question, but he didn’t answer. Nor did he consider leaving Miss Bacall behind. If the thugs were willing to shoot at him while she was standing at his side, God only knew what they’d do if he left her at the station, especially if they found out how rich her father was.

A small, railed platform cradled the back of the train, lit from above by a single light. A moving target, but a steady one. Like catching a cable car. Sort of.

Good sense be damned. He pumped his legs, grabbed the railing, and yelled, “Jump!”

Their combined landing wasn’t as smooth as it could’ve been. His balance faltered. He heard a ripping sound, and for a moment he felt her falling. An image of her body being dragged behind the car flashed in his mind, but a quick shift in his weight brought her into his arms. And after some awkward flailing with her carried coat—how on earth had she managed to hang on to that thing?—they stood on the back platform, chests heaving with labored breaths.

They’d done it! He couldn’t stop himself from hoo-ha-ing a little shout of triumph into the wind as they passed the engine of the idle 127. He caught a glimpse of a panicked crowd under the golden lights of the platform before their train chugged away into darkness.

He grinned down at Miss Bacall, thoroughly pleased with himself. Almost too pleased. The excited blood surging through his energized body was headed south, making him half-hard with the thrill of victory.

I am man! Hear me roar!

God, he almost wanted to kiss her. Probably all the surging blood between his legs was to blame, but still. A little kiss might make—

“What now?” she said, and not very happily.

His chaotic victory plans fizzled. He hadn’t thought that far ahead.

Unaware of the inane thoughts running rampant in his head, Miss Bacall threw up a frustrated hand and turned away from him to tackle the door handle. With their luck it would be locked, and—

Dear God.

Unbeknownst to Miss Bacall, a ragged section of the back of her dress was missing—that would’ve been the ripping noise he’d heard when he pulled her onto the platform. The torn piece of cloth hung from a railing bolt, fluttering in the breeze like a flag. But his gaze narrowed on what that missing piece of dress exposed.

Miles and miles of leg covered in black stockings. A tease of pink skin above the garters. And lingerie the color of a ripe honeydew melon, trimmed with a border of embroidered peacock feathers.

His heart stopped.

Imagine that. All her dour, black clothes were a false front, like a Wild West building in a Hollywood film! And underneath was all this . . .
color
.

Color and more.

So much more.

Because filling out the melon-green step-in chemise was the roundest, most voluptuous ass he’d ever laid eyes on—hands down, no exaggeration. How could someone this skinny and long have a backside the size of a basketball?

It was the single greatest thing he’d ever seen in all his twenty-five years.

She grunted, completely oblivious to her situation. “The door’s not locked, but the latch is stuck. Help me.”

Should he tell her? He had to tell her, didn’t he? How could she not feel cool air back there? Dammit, he had to tell her. And he would . . . but my
God
, that thing was round. If he was at half-mast before, she certainly had his full attention now.

“Mr. Magnusson?”

“What? Oh, yes. Let me . . . just shift over this way so I can reach. Never mind, I’ll just do it this way. Stand still.” Wind whipped across the back of his neck. He reached around her shoulders, and there was no getting around this part, because they really had no room on the platform, and the train was picking up speed. So he was forced—forced!—to flatten himself against her back to reach the latch. Gods above. It was like sinking into a warm pillow: not too soft, not too firm. Just right. And because she was tall, he didn’t have to bend down too much for his victory-happy cock to nestle in the valley right between those plump, cushiony—

“Oh . . . God,” she whispered.

Indeed. Guess he wouldn’t have to break the bad news about the rip in her dress after all.

 • • • 

When the latch dropped, Hadley slid open the door and dashed inside the train car. Compartments stacked with baggage lined both sides of the otherwise deserted space.

Had that really just happened? Because “that” felt an awful lot like an overexcited male. Cool air tickled the backs of her legs. She twisted to get a better look at her dress.

“You ripped it during the jump.” He latched the outer door, halting the whistling wind and clack of the speeding train.

“You might’ve told me!”

“I didn’t notice until you turned around. I was busy trying to save us from being shot.”

“Save
us
?” She gathered the tattered edges of her dress together in an attempt to hide the tear. “You were the one being fired at, not me. And you were the one brandishing a—it looked like a ceremonial dagger.”

“The ceremonial ones aren’t sharp. Mine is.” His deep voice carried a bit of an accent—not immediately perceptible, but the cadence of his words had an almost songlike quality. A Scandinavian lilt. Oh, that’s right—the Magnussons were Swedish immigrants. “And you should damn well be glad it is sharp,” he continued. “Or that bullet might’ve re-killed the fox that gave up its short life for your coat collar.”

“It’s mink, and I don’t remember asking to be saved.”

“Oh,
w-e-ell
, pardon me for being a gentleman.”

“Gentleman.” She snorted a bitter laugh. What he’d thrust against her certainly wasn’t gentlemanly. And despite her best efforts, her wanton mind now pounced upon the novelty of the feel of him, hanging it up in a gilded frame at the forefront of her thoughts.

“Fine. Shall I unlatch the door?” he said. “You can jump out and hobble back to the station on a broken leg. And after those thugs hold you hostage, you can sign over Daddy’s check to pay the ransom and pat yourself on the back.”

The edges of her vision darkened before she had a chance to dampen her mounting anger. Murky and foul, her specters emerged from the walls like shadows come to life. Though fully visible to her, they were—usually—imperceptible to anyone unlucky enough to be in their path when she couldn’t send them back to whatever hellish place from which they came.

Or when she
wouldn’t
send them back.

Caught in their grip, a row of leather suitcases slid from the rack above Mr. Magnusson and toppled. He lurched out of the way and nearly knocked her over in an attempt to save his own head.

Served him right.

She backed farther into the car as the next rack of baggage avalanched.

That
was for lustily shoving himself against her undergarments and making her want something she couldn’t have.

He shouted incoherently, ducking the falling bags. He moved with surprising grace for someone so tall. Still, better put a stop to this now before he was knocked unconscious or killed.

Or before he put two and two together and figured out it was her specters that had broken the windows in the first train.

One, two, three, four . . .

Anger blinded and stripped away her control. And when she was out of control, the specters would attack the object of her anger with deadly force, so she had to reel these dangerous emotions in. Must. Her father was relying on her to haggle with this man. The
djed
amulet meant something more to her father than an academic study or a bragging right, especially if he was willing to part with so much money to snag it before the museum or other collectors had a chance to bid.
Possessing this is the most important mission in my life,
he’d said.

Five, six, seven, eight . . . She counted until the specters faded back into the walls and Mr. Magnusson stopped shouting obscenities. She thought they were obscenities, anyway; he was speaking in Swedish now, so it was hard to be sure.

“What in the living hell?” he shouted, switching back to English. He stood at the ready, scanning the piles of baggage as he shoved disheveled locks of wavy blond hair out of his eyes. And what eyes they were, sharp and cunning—the bright, cool blue of the faience-ware lotus vase in case fourteen of the museum’s Late New Kingdom exhibit. Those eyes were a distraction, as were the hollow cheeks and regal Scandinavian cheekbones, high and arching like the bow of a Viking longboat. And those lips . . . studded with dimpled corners and so full, they’d be the envy of any woman.

His only flaw was a broken nose that hadn’t set correctly. It was just crooked enough below a bump in the middle to draw attention, but still not altogether unattractive. Ridiculously unfair that an opportunistic loot-hound could be so blindingly, roguishly handsome.

She’d seen his photograph—half the world had—but it didn’t do him justice. Something about the way he carried his towering frame smacked of confidence and reprobation. And the unshaven jaw and scuffed shoes only made him look like a fairy-tale king dressed as a beggar. As if she could be fooled into thinking he needed her compassion. His brother was one of the richest bootleggers in town. She wouldn’t be surprised if the Magnusson family’s illegal gains exceeded what was left of her mother’s fortune.