Bitter Spirits (Roaring Twenties #1)(75)

“Sorry.”

He lightly squeezed her hand. “It doesn’t matter. I can’t force Aida to stay.”

Maybe not exactly force her, but he could tip the scales. Talk to Velma behind her back and get her to extend her contract. Only, he’d already promised he wouldn’t.

He could take a train to the speakeasy in New Orleans and threaten this new club owner to drop her. Tempting, but he nixed the idea almost immediately. She would see through that deception in a heartbeat.

No, he couldn’t force her.

Why couldn’t Aida just see what was right in front of her face? They were so good together. Great in bed. More than great: exceptional. Marvelous. And they got along famously. Honestly, she was one of the few women he’d enjoyed as much out of a bed as in one. Christ, he even enjoyed arguing with her.

And she loved it out West—she said as much all the time. So why shouldn’t she put down roots and start her séance business here? Not only could he help her buy a place she could work out of, like she wanted, but he could help steer rich patrons her way. She could have what she’d dreamed about. And if anything ever did tear them apart, God forbid, she’d be set up to do what she wanted, instead of injuring herself every night for a roomful of drunken idiots.

And he’d be right here to take care of her if she needed anything.

It was a simple solution. Why was he the only one seeing it? Worse, if he tried to convince her, she’d probably just stubbornly argue her way around it.

“So you’re just going to let her go?” Astrid said. “That doesn’t seem like you at all.”

He let his head drop back against the chair. “What can I do? Lock her up? Threaten her?”

“Sure, that’s what every girl dreams of, Winter.”

He gave her a cross look, then glanced out the window, watching golden light piercing through a blanket of fog. “What do you suggest, then? Since you’re such an expert in these matters, what with your many years of experience.”

“At least I’ve got sense enough not to marry someone I didn’t love.”

He couldn’t disagree with that.

She stretched her legs out, releasing his hand, and stood to leave. “Pappa once told me that everything he did in life was something to please Mamma, and that he was only happy when she was happy.”

“Yes, so?”

“So if you want her to stay, maybe you should make her happy. What does she want?”

It sounded so simple, but what if the thing Aida wanted most was to leave?

“Figure that out,” Astrid said as she padded out of the room.

He shoved the photo of Paulina inside the bottom drawer of his desk. Maybe he’d eventually put it in storage or send it to her parents. If he forgot Paulina’s face . . . well, then he just did. He’d flagellated himself for too long. It was time to let it go.

He exhaled wearily and headed back to his bedroom. Aida was lying facedown on his bed, a towel draped around her, hair wet. The contents of her handbag were strewn across the bedspread—some crumpled bills and change, a metal lipstick tin, a cheap pocket mirror, her lancet, a few opened letters.

He strode to the bed and lifted her up. “What’s wrong, cheetah?”

“My locket,” she said, voice worn. “I thought I had it, but I took it off before bed.”

“I’m sorry.” He tried to pull her into his arms, to comfort her somehow, but he struggled with something to say. “It’s just an object, not your brother himself.”

Tear-stung eyes narrowed in anger. “Just an object?”

Wrong choice of words.

“Nothing is ‘just an object,’” she said. “Possessions aren’t meaningless—everything is connected. If it weren’t for these things, I couldn’t call spirits.”

“I spoke carelessly,” he said.

But she wasn’t listening. “And now all my possessions are gone. I had so little, and now I have nothing.” She shoved at the contents of her purse. “My only photograph of Sam—the last remaining piece of my family, and I lost him.”

TWENTY-FIVE

MIDDAY SUN WARMED THE TILE BENEATH AIDA’S FEET AS SHE looked around Winter’s big bathroom, mildly anxious. Her head throbbed and the injuries to her foot ached with each step. Someone had left her a robe. Kind, but it was a little on the small side, and she needed real clothes. She also needed to find out if anything in her apartment survived the fire.

And to find out where Winter was.

She remembered nodding off in his arms. He pulled the covers over her and left, and now his bedroom was empty. No indication of where he slept—if he slept.

Bending to drink from the tap, she rinsed last night’s lingering tastes from her mouth and hunted for a comb, feeling out of sorts in the strange home. When she finally discovered Winter’s toiletries inside a frosted glass cabinet, she stood in front of the sink and realized what was odd about the bathroom: no mirror—not a proper one, anyway. Just a small shaving mirror that extended from a scissored arm attached to the wall. No dressing mirror in the bedroom, either.

No mirrors, so he didn’t have to see his scarred face every day?

“Oh, Winter,” she murmured on a sigh.

Low voices in the distance derailed her attention.

On the wall opposite the bathroom stood another door that accessed an adjoining room. Aida followed the voices here and peeked inside. A guest room, perhaps. A four-poster bed at the far end of the room was stripped of linens and pillows, in disuse, and covered with mounds of clothes.