Bitter Spirits (Roaring Twenties #1)(47)

“No ghost, and I’m not asking for business reasons. I’m asking if you—the person, not the spirit medium—would join me, the person, for dinner tomorrow. Just the two of us. No prostitutes or armed guards.”

“Oh. Well. I, uh . . . I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”

“Why? You just said I was handsome.”

“Too handsome.”

“Let’s not get carried away. A few days ago you were yelling at me like you wanted me dead.”

“A few days ago, I did.”

“And you’ve forgiven me?”

“‘Forgiven’ seems too strong a word, especially when I’ve been so unhappy since you dumped me here five days ago and seemed to forget I existed.”

“You stormed off—I didn’t dump anything. And I tried to forget your existence, believe me. I tried very hard. I made it my top priority. All I could think about was how I was trying not to think about you.”

“That sounds taxing.”

“It was. And we can argue about who stormed off and who dumped whom over dinner. I know you’re off tomorrow night, because I called Velma and she told me your schedule. So you can’t use that excuse.”

“That’s—”

“And you have a new coat. And a new gown, though you don’t have to wear it if it reminds you of that afternoon. It was a lousy afternoon.”

“Yes, it was.”

“And I’ve missed you ever since.”

She stilled; her heart was beating far too fast. “You have?”

“I’m not sure why. Last time I saw you, you made it clear that you hated my guts.”

“I don’t hate you.”

“You certain about that?”

“Fairly certain.”

He nearly smiled again. “I’ll take what I can get. Eight tomorrow night, right here. I’ll pick you up. I’ll even promise to keep my hands aboveboard if you do the same.”

A short laugh escaped her lips. She glanced to the side and spied Bo, Astrid, and Benita watching them with undisguised interest. “They are awfully nosy,” she murmured to Winter.

“Worse than the gossip rags,” he agreed. “Aida?”

“Yes?”

“Please go to dinner with me.”

She touched the locket beneath her dress; Sam would be furious with her for caving in too easily, but for once in her life, her whispering heart drowned out his persistent voice.

“Okay,” she told Winter. “But no Chinese food.”

He closed his eyes for a moment and blew out a long breath.

• • •

The following night, she stood in the same exact spot, while the Magnusson family’s driver, Jonte, greeted her as he opened the limousine door. Winter waited in the backseat, dressed in a tuxedo. Her gaze flitted over the white of his shirt and the luxurious heft of a long blue black coat; his gaze flitted over the fur-collared coat and headed down her pale silk stockings.

“You look . . .” he started. “Oh, hell. You look breathtaking, Aida.”

“I don’t believe anyone’s ever called me that.” She couldn’t hold his gaze. “Please stop looking at me. It’s making me anxious.”

“Is it? I can’t tell.”

“I’m good at hiding it. A stage trick.”

“Maybe you should sit closer. I think that might help.”

“Last time I did, I ended up attacking you.”

“Yes, well, hope springs eternal, but I’m sure that would never happen again. And I have promised to keep my hands aboveboard. Come here.” He shifted to make room for her, and she scooted into the crook of his arm, tightly clutching her handbag against her lap with both hands. The side of his body warmed hers within seconds, and she found herself relaxing, just a little. She didn’t dare look up at his face. Lord knew that was her downfall the last time she did this.

“See, it’s fine,” he said in his deep-velvet voice. “Anyone who saw us would think we’re old friends. No one would imagine that we were crazy about each other before I went and screwed everything up.”

“Who knows. Maybe we still are crazy about each other, despite your best efforts.”

“That would be something, wouldn’t it?”

She leaned her head against his fine coat and breathed him in, grateful and content.

He made a strange noise, then she felt the hesitant weight of his arm wrapping around her shoulders. “Let’s look out the window. I’ll give you a quick tour of the city along our route. Point out things that have changed since you were a child.”

Ten minutes later, she was soft as butter, lounging against him, listening to his voice as it vibrated inside his big chest, pointing out which blocks were destroyed in the Great Fire, telling her about Lotta’s Fountain, where a crowd of people were gathered to listen to someone playing a violin as the sun set behind the downtown buildings.

“And here we are.”

She perked up. “Where? Which building?”

“The big one there. The Palace Hotel,” he said as the car inched its way in the direction Winter pointed, an eight-story concrete building with curved corners that sat squat on New Montgomery Street, the top floors obscured by evening fog. Dozens of cabs and limousines lined the curb in front of the hotel, competing with three rows of streetcars and cable cars as they whipped in and out of traffic.