Grave Phantoms (Roaring Twenties #3)(61)

“I think there’s no way in hell I’m answering that question.”

“Boo, hiss,” she complained.

He chuckled a little and tightened his grip around her waist. “I think I’d much rather see you on that stage.”

“Much better,” she said, smiling against his ear. She thought of what he’d done to her own ear in the car that night in Chinatown, and on an impulse, took a little swipe around his earlobe.

He sucked in air.

She did it again.

The dancer removed the card over her other breast.

How in the world did she get them to stick to her skin? Maybe it was best not to know. Astrid placed several soft kisses around the edge of Bo’s ear and felt him growing hard against her thigh. She felt the corresponding pleasurable sensation burgeoning between her own legs, and when she pulled back slightly to find his eyes closed, not even watching the dancer, her corresponding sensation became a warm flood.

The arm circling her waist dropped. Bo’s hand slid beneath her dress’s tunic, fingers moving up her ribs. Slowly, his palm rounded the curve of her breast and molded it through the delicate silk of her chemise. A thumb stroked one tight nipple, causing a cascade of delightful shocks to shoot down her center. She gasped.

The dancer was right there, and Astrid didn’t know if the woman could see Bo’s roaming hand, but just wondering if she could had Astrid caught between panic and thrill. It made her face warm and her breath come faster.

Only three cards left, and as the dancer moved, they barely covered the woman’s dark curls. She made a teasing gesture to remove the cards. Once, twice. Bo was paying attention now, Astrid noticed. It was hard to blame him. Much like seeing a fistfight or an automobile accident, it was difficult to look away. And after another feint toward the cards, the dancer spun around, bent over at the waist, and smiled at them through her spread legs.

There it was, everything, right on display.

The first thing Astrid thought was: Lord, that’s an awful lot of hair. The second thing she thought was: I hope I look a lot better down there than that. I’m bending over in front of a mirror to check when I get home, just to be sure. And the third thing was: She’d better flip back over soon or all the blood’s going to rush to her head.

“Stars,” Astrid murmured, unable to stop blinking. Unable to look away. When the woman wiggled her backside, it was just too much. Astrid clamped a hand over Bo’s eyes.

Laughter rumbled through his chest and under her hand—under his hand, too, which was still holding her breast. She laughed with him, brimming with an odd medley of joy and arousal and sheepishness. Then she gave the dancer an apologetic look, hoping the woman didn’t think they were laughing at her. But the woman didn’t seem to mind, and since the blood had rushed to her head, her face was redder than Astrid’s burning cheeks when she finally stood upright, turned around, and gave a little bow.

Astrid released Bo’s eyes and applauded enthusiastically, still laughing a little. Bo’s hand slipped out from her tunic to pull out a bill from his pocket. He gave it to Astrid, who passed it up to the dancer. She accepted it with grace and blew them both a kiss before tottering backward as the curtain drew closed.

“My, that was . . . interesting,” Astrid said, still mildly embarrassed but unable to stop smiling.

“Not half as interesting as you. Aiya, Astrid. You amaze me.”

“I do?”

“Every day.” His hand ghosted over her stockinged knee and softly squeezed the inside of her thigh. Oh, that was nice. Very nice, indeed. Her blood was hot and she wanted him to squeeze a little more. Everywhere. But when she shifted in his lap to give him better access, his head tilted toward a beam of unexpected light. All his muscles stilled at once.

His hand slipped out of her dress as she turned around to see what had startled him.

“Don’t stop on my account,” a lilted voice said.

The curtain was open, and a middle-aged man in a suit the color of a fresh bruise leaned in the doorway, crossing his arms over a broad chest. If his face was a wall, his dark handlebar mustache was an overgrown hedge sitting in front of it. The growth was so thick, when he gave them a slow smile, it barely moved.

“Enjoyed Bebe’s performance, did ya?” he said. Mr. Haig told them at the radio station that the person they’d be looking for was Cornish, and from the sound of this man’s accent, he fit the bill.

“Mad Hammett?” Bo asked as he rotated Astrid along with him on the stool.

“In the flesh.” The man’s dark eyes roamed over Astrid’s legs. She pulled down her dress and started to stand up from Bo’s lap, but his arm locked around her middle like a steel bar. Whether it was due to possessiveness on his part or instinct about Hammett, Bo certainly didn’t want her to move, and that made her nervous. It only got worse when her head began to clear and realization hit: This man could be one of them. Like Max.

“We were interested in getting up to Heaven,” Bo said.

“Henry told me. And I liked your show almost as much as Bebe’s,” he said, jerking his chin upward. Astrid followed with her eyes and spotted a dark circle on the ceiling of the booth. A hole. He’d been watching them from above. Astrid didn’t like that. At all. “So I thought I’d pop down and introduce myself.”

Astrid stared at his extended hand for a beat too long and finally gave hers. “Mary, uh, Johnson,” she said.