Bitter Spirits (Roaring Twenties #1)(18)

“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.”