Bitter Spirits (Roaring Twenties #1)(65)

But her future caught up to her as she approached her dressing room door. The club manager, Daniels, was waiting there for her with a tall, slender man dressed in a cream-colored suit. His skin was darkly tanned, as if he spent every daylight hour in the sun, and the sides of his dark blond hair were streaked with silver.

“Miss Palmer, I have someone here to see you,” Daniels said formally. “Mr. Bradley Bix from New Orleans. Mr. Bix, this is Miss Palmer.”

The speakeasy owner. Of course. He said he’d be here visiting his cousin, but she’d put him out of her mind. Still, it was surprising to see him standing before her now. She shook away a sense of foreboding and picked her manners off the floor. “Mr. Bix, how do you do,” she said, extending her arm. “I thought you were coming in another week. I hope your travel was pleasant.”

“Three days of jostled sleep, but I made it in one piece,” he said with a kind smile, his hand warm and leathery on hers. “I’ve had some changes to my summer bookings so I thought I’d come see you earlier. I hope you don’t mind.” He smiled, flashing her a smile. “Your show was spectacular. Just astounding. I’d heard things from people who’d seen you perform on the East Coast, but to watch it in person was a treat.”

“Thank you,” she said.

“I’d like to offer you an official invitation to perform at the Limbo Room,” Mr. Bix said. “We’ll buy your train ticket, of course, and my business partner owns a hotel next to the club, so we can also provide a temporary apartment for the duration of your stay in our city.”

No one had ever offered her as much. She was immediately wary that the hotel he spoke of was a brothel of some sort. Velma had friends in New Orleans; perhaps she could check on it.

“Is there somewhere we could speak about salary and other details?” Mr. Bix asked.

“Daniels, if you wouldn’t mind, please show the gentleman to the bar.” He nodded a curt response. “Mr. Bix, it will only take me a few minutes to get ready. I’ll meet you out there when I’m done.”

Mr. Bix canted his head politely before setting a pale straw Panama hat on his head. “I should mention that I’d like to have your decision rather quickly. I’d need your debut performance to coincide with a spiritualism convention in the French Quarter.”

“And when would that be?”

“July 15.”

She’d have to be on a train the day after her last night at Gris-Gris if Mr. Bix wanted her onstage that soon.

She should be elated. None of her previous bookings had dovetailed so nicely to provide her with a steady income, so hard to come by in this business. But as Daniels escorted the man back out to the club floor, it was all Aida could do to fight images of Winter’s big hand curving around her naked breast, and the lazy satisfaction she’d felt dozing in his arms.

She’d known it wasn’t permanent, but now they had less time than she thought.

TWENTY-TWO

WINTER TOOK A TAXI TO THE FAIRMONT THE NEXT DAY. WHEN HE left Aida the night before, he’d asked her to meet him there at the same time today, but he half expected her to change her mind—maybe she’d have regrets about the things they did with each other. It seemed too good to be true.

A rap on the hotel door made his pulse jump. He rushed to answer it too quickly, but when he threw open the door, it was only an attendant from the kitchen with a cart. The boy cowered under Winter’s glare and waved a gloved hand at the pitcher of orange juice and coffee service. “Your order, sir?”

Winter exhaled heavily and signaled the attendant inside the room. After he wheeled the cart into the sitting area, he asked if Winter required anything else, then acted like he was going to bolt for the door; Winter stopped him.

“You know who I am?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Anyone asks, you don’t.” Winter pulled out a stack of bills and removed a gold money clip, then peeled off what was likely a month’s worth of the attendant’s wages. “Make sure my men outside get coffee and food at lunch. If I’m back tomorrow, I’ll give you the same.”

The attendant brightened considerably. “Yes, sir. You can count on me.”

As Winter handed over the tip, a figure appeared in the doorway. Winter’s chest squeezed.

“This is a private room, miss,” the attendant said quickly, pocketing the money as he strode to block her entrance.

“Yes,” Aida said, tapping her handbag against her leg. “I’m . . . Mrs. Magnusson.” She arched one brow Winter’s way: teasing, playful, attractively arrogant. Only a day ago—no virgin—she’d been nervous about her sexuality, and now she was brimming with confidence. It gave him a deep-seated satisfaction to know he was responsible for that change.

“Mrs. Magnusson?” The attendant gave her a pointed look of disbelief.

“Ah yes,” Winter said. “Please don’t disturb my . . . wife and I again until I call, unless it’s an urgent matter with my men.”

The attendant cleared his throat and nodded before exiting.

Aida locked the door, then dropped her handbag and dashed to Winter in a delirious rush. With her arms around his neck, he lifted her off the floor and kissed her like she really was his wife and he hadn’t seen her in months. She smelled so good, felt so warm and soft, that if relief and gratitude hadn’t weighted him down, he might’ve floated away in happiness.