Bitter Spirits (Roaring Twenties #1)(21)

“Aida Palmer.”

“An unusual name for an unusually pretty woman.” He gave up flagging the servant and fiddled with a light brown pencil-thin mustache. “How do you know Florie, my dear?”

“I don’t. I’m the medium.”

“Oh! How exciting.” He clinked his ice again while perusing her figure. “Tell me, Miss Palmolive—”

“Palmer,” she said crisply, adjusting her handbag’s position around her wrist.

“Miss Palmer.” He chuckled and ran his tongue over his top teeth. “Yes. So very unusual. I’m a great admirer of unusual beauty. Tell me, dear, what am I thinking right now?”

It took everything she had not to roll her eyes. “I’m a spirit medium, not a telepath.”

“Oh, that’s no fun. Come now. I’m sure you have more than one talent. Maybe some fortune-telling.”

Entertain me! Frighten me! Make the table lift from the floor! She could see how this séance would turn out. Why had she agreed to do this again? Oh, that’s right: the small fortune being dangled in front of her face . . . and the foolish hope that she’d get a chance to study Winter’s backside again. She’d called him depraved, but clearly she was the one who couldn’t control her own animal urges.

“Maybe you’d like to read my palm?” her companion suggested.

“Sorry, no.”

He took a step closer, undeterred. Clink-clink. “Tarot cards, then. What would the cards say about my future chances with you after this party, hmm?”

He reached out and ran a hand down her arm.

As she pulled away from him, a voice rumbled over her shoulder. “I can predict your chances for losing that hand. Or you can touch her again and find out for yourself.”

She turned to find Winter Magnusson’s tank of a body filling the doorway as he glared at her companion. A fevered skirmish broke out inside her stomach.

He was dressed in a midnight blue tuxedo jacket with peaked black lapels and matching silk bow tie. His white shirt cuffs were perfectly starched and cuff-linked in gold, his shoes shiny enough to reflect heaven.

Dashing. Dark. More than a little devilish. With his smoldering good looks and his high cheekbones, he looked like a brawnier, crueler version of Valentino, rest his soul. To be honest, he looked as if he could squash Valentino like a bug.

Or, perhaps, Mr. Morran.

“See here, now. I was just speaking to the medium. No need to get testy.” Mr. Morran turned to Aida for support. “Right, dear?”

The drunken man was a fly buzzing in her ear. She wished she could swat him and his clinking glass of ice away.

The bright light of the room had caused Winter’s good pupil to constrict to a tiny black dot, while the injured pupil remained wide, framed by the curving scar. He was only a couple of inches taller than the other man, but he was just so much bigger. And with the aggressive energy fuming and sizzling from him, he looked as if he were ready to tear Morran’s hand right off his arm.

A thrill bolted through her.

Something else was bolting through Morran, and it caused his eyes to widen as he backed up a step. People were beginning to notice something was awry; the outer edges of the crowd around the piano glanced in their direction as the chorus to “Shine On, Harvest Moon” was being sung out of key by several swaying partygoers in the background.

Winter’s mouth lifted in something that could’ve technically been called a smile, but it had the effect of an angry wolf baring his teeth. In a deceptively calm bass-heavy voice, he told the man, “I’ll give you ten seconds to make it to the other side of the room.”

It only took the man five.

Once Morran had disappeared into the crowd around the piano, Winter looked down at her. His anger drained away. “Hello, cheetah.”

It was all she could do not to smile up at him like a child being handed freshly spun cotton candy. Good grief. She had to calm down. “I could’ve taken care of him myself, you know.”

“Any woman who traipses around the country working night shifts at speakeasies surely can, but that idiot is an aggressive skirt chaser. You don’t want to let him get you alone.”

“Good to know. Thank you for your concern.”

Now his mouth wasn’t smiling, but his eyes certainly were. He stuffed his hands into his pockets as he lowered his head and spoke to her conspiratorially in a teasing voice. “Let’s just pretend that you needed my help. It will make me feel useful.”

A thrill flowed through her like an electrical current. “Would you have actually hurt him?”

“In a heartbeat.”

“How foolish of me to find that exciting.”

His mouth parted and he grinned, big and genuine. She couldn’t stop herself from grinning in return.

“I suppose it wouldn’t be a party without the threat of violence,” an approaching feminine voice called out.

Aida turned to see a beautiful blonde slinking toward them in a long gold gown with a silk cape that draped over her shoulders and flowed behind her like a flag. Several strands of gold beads dripped from her neck, clinking against her stomach as she walked. She was grinning at Winter but turned her attention toward Aida.

“Darling!” Her arms extended to her sides in a dramatic welcoming gesture, a long, silver cigarette holder poised between gloved fingers. “I’m Florie Beecham. Welcome to my home.”