Grim Shadows (Roaring Twenties #2)(82)

Any second she’d push him away and tell him to go to hell. Any second. He was sure of it. So when she extracted him from her lips, he didn’t expect the loose, tender strokes from her hand. Or the light kiss on the tip of his cock that sent frantic tremors through his legs, intense enough to make him rock forward on his toes.

And when she finally released him, and pushed herself to her feet, he definitely did not expect the playful smile. Gods above, that smile! Wicked and shy, all at once. It bowled him over. He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her head, repeating her name like a sacrament as they swayed together on unsteady legs.

“I don’t know what I was thinking. I forgot the condom,” he mumbled against the citrusy perfume of her hair. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m not.”

He lifted her face to his and said, in wonder, “You really aren’t.”

She shook her head.

He exhaled heavily, a stupid grin spreading across his face as he tucked himself into his pants and buttoned back up.

She tucked his shirt a little tighter. “And what’s more, it jostled a thought out of my brain.”

“Eh?” It jostled a lot of things in him, but thoughts weren’t one of them.

She explained. “When I was, well, bent over the glass, I kept thinking that there was something wrong with the third name.”

“And here I was, thinking I was transporting you to euphoric bliss.”

“Oh, you did. Believe me,” she said dreamily, a lusty satisfaction weighing down her eyelids. “But after, when you pulled me off the glass like some kind of violent marauder—”

He groaned.

“No need to be sorry. I rather enjoyed it. Quite a lot, actually,” she said with one brow cocked and a brief, sheepish smile. “But—”

“But?”

“I guess I had ‘clock’ on the brain, and your teasing me about my poor spelling skills, and I realized the problem with the name. Our interpretation of the pictograms wasn’t wrong. My mother misspelled the name.”

“She did?”

Hadley gripped the lapels of his jacket and spoke in an excited voice. “Lowe, I know exactly where the third canopic jar is, and it’s not anywhere near a grave.”

TWENTY-SEVEN

“IT’S NOT L-E-V-I-N-E. IT’S L-E-V-I-N. Five letters, not six.”

“Levin?” He studied her face, still a little dazed and stupid from the massive orgasm. “I don’t remember a Levin on the list.”

“That’s because there wasn’t one. But I was just reading an article in the Chronicle yesterday about all the movie theaters being built around San Francisco. Quite a few of them have been financed by the Levin brothers. Including the one in the Richmond District. The Alexandria. Pet project for Sammy Levin.”

“Why does that name ring a bell?”

“Because he shares an obsession.” She straightened the knot on his necktie. “We have one mojo bag left?”

“Yes.”

“We’ll need it. The newspaper mentioned a gala being held Sunday night. The owner’s trying to court Hollywood to film more pictures in San Francisco, and he’s putting his personal collection on display. Bet you anything we’ll find the Qebehsenuef jar there.”

Definitely worth a try.

And try, they did . . .

Early Sunday evening, Lowe held open the silver Packard’s passenger door and helped Hadley onto the curb, where other well-heeled gala attendees were gathered in front of the Alexandria Theater. Walking through lotus-topped columns, they stepped beneath the Egyptian-revival entrance and got in line near a ticket booth that was closed for the night—a tuxedoed man collected private invitations at the door. Nearby, reporters snapped photographs of a handsome couple—motion-picture stars, according to the buzzing chatter. But even the minor Hollywood dazzle couldn’t distract Lowe from the strange, prickling sensation that they were being watched. He’d used Velma’s last mojo bag, so they should be safely hidden. But he just couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.

“Everyone has invitations,” Hadley whispered.

“I’ll think of something.”

“Please do, because I think I see someone I know in a car that just pulled up.”

Lowe groaned. All they needed was someone to blow their cover. Big, public con jobs were so much more trouble than the intimate ones. He watched the line for a break, and when no one was paying attention, quickly prodded Hadley forward to skip several couples.

The doorman looked up and smiled. “Good evening.”

“It will be once we’re inside,” Lowe said, matching the man’s enthusiasm. “Damn cold night. Say, I hate to be trouble, but my assistant here accidentally left our invitation at the hotel. It’s my fault, really. We drove up from Los Angeles this afternoon, and I guess it was a longer trip than I thought, because I fell asleep in the room when I should’ve been changing clothes.”

“Well, it’s just that—”

“Then when she rang me to say that the car was ready, I had to scramble to get ready and we barely made it here on time. Anyway, if you really need the invitation, I’m sure we can telephone the Palace Hotel inside the lobby and ask one of the managers to open the room and verify it’s there.”