Grim Shadows (Roaring Twenties #2)(32)

“We work as partners,” she said after a long moment. “I help you, you help me. We keep everything honest between us. No lying to me about the hunt. No working behind each other’s backs. You get the money, I get the job. And all of this is contingent on whether I’m right about the map’s hiding place.”

“Agreed.”

“Do you want to start right now?” she asked.

“It just so happens that a falling chandelier has cleared my schedule.”

She looked up. A copper and stained-glass Craftsman pendant hung from the ceiling. “The night’s young,” she said, giving Lowe a small smile.

He leaned in to murmur near her ear. “I really do like the way you flirt, Miss Bacall.”

Before she could protest, he called out to the kitchen, informing them that he’d be home later. Then he shucked off his tuxedo jacket and exchanged it for a leather jacket snagged from a coat rack. “This way.” He steered her into a hall that led to a covered side porch. On the other side of the railing stretched a driveway packed with cars. But Lowe was striding toward the red motorcycle. “Where are we headed?”

“What are you doing?”

“Dusting off the passenger seat,” he said, brushing a small plank of wood that floated above the back tire. The rickety thing looked to be held in place by a few spindly scraps of metal and a couple of nuts and bolts.

“I’m not riding on that. Are you crazy?”

“Don’t call her a ‘that.’ This is Lulu, and she’s a custom-made Indian motorcycle. Goes ninety miles an hour on a straightaway. But no need to worry—I don’t push her like that in the city. Astrid rides with me all the time on the second seat.”

Lulu? How ridiculous. “My dress—”

“Will be protected by that million-dollar fur of yours. Just pull it tight around your legs so it doesn’t get caught up in the wheel.”

“There are several respectable cars here. Surely we can take one of them.”

“Thought you wanted to be treated like a man, not a princess.”

She stared at him for a long moment. Her emotions hovered between frustration and fear.

“Come on. It’s perfectly safe.”

She highly doubted that.

A dangerous smile tugged at his mouth. “I’ll go slow.” He held out his hand and nodded toward the motorcycle.

She reluctantly accepted. While he steadied the bike, she followed his instructions, stepping up on a small footrest jutting out from the wheel before throwing her leg over to straddle the seat. A metal handle shaped like a croquet wicket arched between her seat and his. She grabbed it for balance. “This won’t work. My dress is too tight.”

“Ruck it up under your coat. No one can see anything,” he said as he mounted the driver’s seat and fiddled with a couple of mechanical switches. “Not even me, unfortunately.”

Using the heel of his shoe, Lowe roughly bore down on the starter lever near her right leg. The bike angrily rumbled to life like a bear awakened in the middle of a long winter nap, vibrating every bone in her body. No choice in the matter now. She quickly adjusted her dress and pulled her coat tight, tucking it around her thighs.

“Got everything out of harm’s way?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder.

“This will never work,” she repeated as she gripped the handle harder. “You’ll kill me.”

“Then we’ll be even. Where to?”

She exhaled a long breath. “The museum.”

He nodded, showing no surprise for their destination—just popped the kickstand and glided the bike down the driveway. Not so bad. Until he headed onto the street. The pavement seemed to peel away when the motorcycle sped into the night. Cool air rustled the hairs of the mink as they raced past the mansions on Broadway.

When he turned down a road that sloped toward the Bay, she lost faith in the handle and threw her arms around Lowe’s torso, holding on for dear life. Her stomach dropped. Her heart drummed against her ribs. She pressed her cheek against his back and held on more tightly, wanting to scream for help or maybe even joy—joy? How was that possible?

But it was. An exhilarating sort of joy that bordered on madness. And even through the cantankerous roar of the engine, she could hear laughter rumbling inside his chest. He was deliciously warm and solid beneath her arms—so much so, she didn’t care about the rickety wicket of a handle uncomfortably jabbing her stomach, or the sharp scent of gasoline and motor oil wafting past her face, or her no-touching rule. Nothing mattered but the shape of him—a living, breathing anchor. And while city lights blurred along the foggy roads they traveled, she did her best to memorize how it felt to hold on to something so reassuringly sturdy.

It didn’t last long enough, because she soon recognized the familiar lawns of Golden Gate Park. And when he parked by the administrative offices, she nearly fell off the motorcycle trying to disentangle herself from him while quickly shifting her dress into place.

“Mind the engine,” he said, helping to steady her while she stood on wobbly legs. “Burns like hell if you touch it. Believe me, I know from experience.”

“I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

If he said even a single word about her clinging to him, she would wither from humiliation. But when he didn’t, she eventually answered, “It wasn’t so bad.”