Bitter Spirits Part 16

"Mr. Magnusson," she said, stopping in front of him.

"Miss Palmer."

d.a.m.n him, he looked unfairly handsome. And he was giving her the frostiest look, slanting it down at her while his head remained still. He was intimidating, and she knew she should still be angry with him, but his clean scent wafted toward her with the breeze, and that lulled her into a softer mood.

All she could manage to feel at that moment was a tremendous amount of comfort and relief. Like when she'd tried to stop drinking coffee and went without for several days, until she walked into a diner and smelled it being brewed-then she forgot why she'd been trying so hard to avoid it, so she gave in and had a cup. That first sip was pure joy and warm pleasure.

That's how she felt, standing there in front of him, only a few inches away.

And it was a feeling that didn't pair well with the words she'd been repeating inside her head the entire trek down from her apartment, but she said them anyway: "I cannot accept this coat."

"Why not?" he said in his seductive, low baritone. "Do you hate the design?"

"It's gorgeous."

"The color?"

"I love the color."

"It doesn't fit?" He turned his head to the side and called out to Astrid. "Can it be altered?"

"Sure, but she hasn't tried it on," Astrid called back. She was standing on the sidewalk with Benita and Bo, several yards away, as if Winter were contagious and they didn't want to get too close. She probably should've kept her distance as well; one minute in his company and she already wanted to sway closer. It was pathetic, truly.

Winter glanced down at her. "How can you say it doesn't fit if you don't try it on?"

"I never said that. I-"

"Here, let me help." He pulled the coat out of her arms and shook it. "Looks real enough. It's not shedding, so hopefully it's not made of rat hair."

"I heard that," Astrid shouted.

"Can we speak alone, please?" Aida said to him under her breath.

"Are you going to tell me why you can't take this coat?"

"Maybe."

"Then no, we can't be alone. Hold out your arm."

She scowled at him, or tried to, at least, and held out an arm. He slipped the coat onto one arm, over her shoulders, then the other arm. He was very close, and he was touching her again, and that was only making her Comfort and Relief feelings grow stronger. He tugged the coat closed. "There. Looks as if it fits just fine to me."

She glanced at the length of the arms, the hem, hoping to find something to latch onto for argument fodder, but no. It fit. It fit well.

"Told you," Astrid called out.

"She's very irritating," Aida complained in a low voice.

"You have no idea," Winter answered with a merry twinkle in his eye, keeping his voice quiet to match hers. "You look lovely. That coat couldn't possibly be any better. It suits you perfectly." He ran his fingers along the side of her bobbed hair and smoothed down flyaway strands, causing a flurry of goose b.u.mps to spread across her scalp. "Tell me why you can't accept it."

"I have a very good reason."

"You always do. I'm listening."

"Give me a second. You're distracting me with your handsome looks and sensible arguments."

She shouldn't have said that. He puffed up like a balloon, seemingly growing several inches in height. He almost started smiling. Almost. He leaned closer. "You may not want to keep it, but I have a good reason why you should. You'll need it tomorrow night."

"Why?"

"I'd like you to come to dinner with me."

She gave him a suspicious look. "Is this like the last meal you invited me to? Or have you seen another ghost? Wait, don't answer that. I'm not working for you anymore, and that's final."

"No ghost, and I'm not asking for business reasons. I'm asking if you-the person, not the spirit medium-would join me, the person, for dinner tomorrow. Just the two of us. No prost.i.tutes or armed guards."

"Oh. Well. I, uh . . . I don't know if that's such a good idea."

"Why? You just said I was handsome."

"Too handsome."

"Let's not get carried away. A few days ago you were yelling at me like you wanted me dead."

"A few days ago, I did."

"And you've forgiven me?"

"'Forgiven' seems too strong a word, especially when I've been so unhappy since you dumped me here five days ago and seemed to forget I existed."

"You stormed off-I didn't dump anything. And I tried to forget your existence, believe me. I tried very hard. I made it my top priority. All I could think about was how I was trying not to think about you."

"That sounds taxing."

"It was. And we can argue about who stormed off and who dumped whom over dinner. I know you're off tomorrow night, because I called Velma and she told me your schedule. So you can't use that excuse."

"That's-"

"And you have a new coat. And a new gown, though you don't have to wear it if it reminds you of that afternoon. It was a lousy afternoon."

"Yes, it was."

"And I've missed you ever since."

She stilled; her heart was beating far too fast. "You have?"

"I'm not sure why. Last time I saw you, you made it clear that you hated my guts."

"I don't hate you."

"You certain about that?"

"Fairly certain."

He nearly smiled again. "I'll take what I can get. Eight tomorrow night, right here. I'll pick you up. I'll even promise to keep my hands aboveboard if you do the same."

A short laugh escaped her lips. She glanced to the side and spied Bo, Astrid, and Benita watching them with undisguised interest. "They are awfully nosy," she murmured to Winter.

"Worse than the gossip rags," he agreed. "Aida?"

"Yes?"

"Please go to dinner with me."

She touched the locket beneath her dress; Sam would be furious with her for caving in too easily, but for once in her life, her whispering heart drowned out his persistent voice.

"Okay," she told Winter. "But no Chinese food."

He closed his eyes for a moment and blew out a long breath.

The following night, she stood in the same exact spot, while the Magnusson family's driver, Jonte, greeted her as he opened the limousine door. Winter waited in the backseat, dressed in a tuxedo. Her gaze flitted over the white of his s.h.i.+rt and the luxurious heft of a long blue black coat; his gaze flitted over the fur-collared coat and headed down her pale silk stockings.

"You look . . ." he started. "Oh, h.e.l.l. You look breathtaking, Aida."

"I don't believe anyone's ever called me that." She couldn't hold his gaze. "Please stop looking at me. It's making me anxious."

"Is it? I can't tell."

"I'm good at hiding it. A stage trick."

"Maybe you should sit closer. I think that might help."

"Last time I did, I ended up attacking you."

"Yes, well, hope springs eternal, but I'm sure that would never happen again. And I have promised to keep my hands aboveboard. Come here." He s.h.i.+fted to make room for her, and she scooted into the crook of his arm, tightly clutching her handbag against her lap with both hands. The side of his body warmed hers within seconds, and she found herself relaxing, just a little. She didn't dare look up at his face. Lord knew that was her downfall the last time she did this.

"See, it's fine," he said in his deep-velvet voice. "Anyone who saw us would think we're old friends. No one would imagine that we were crazy about each other before I went and screwed everything up."

"Who knows. Maybe we still are crazy about each other, despite your best efforts."

"That would be something, wouldn't it?"

She leaned her head against his fine coat and breathed him in, grateful and content.

He made a strange noise, then she felt the hesitant weight of his arm wrapping around her shoulders. "Let's look out the window. I'll give you a quick tour of the city along our route. Point out things that have changed since you were a child."

Ten minutes later, she was soft as b.u.t.ter, lounging against him, listening to his voice as it vibrated inside his big chest, pointing out which blocks were destroyed in the Great Fire, telling her about Lotta's Fountain, where a crowd of people were gathered to listen to someone playing a violin as the sun set behind the downtown buildings.

"And here we are."

She perked up. "Where? Which building?"

"The big one there. The Palace Hotel," he said as the car inched its way in the direction Winter pointed, an eight-story concrete building with curved corners that sat squat on New Montgomery Street, the top floors obscured by evening fog. Dozens of cabs and limousines lined the curb in front of the hotel, competing with three rows of streetcars and cable cars as they whipped in and out of traffic.

"John D. Rockefeller and Oscar Wilde have stayed here," Winter said. "Hollywood actors and famous opera singers, too. And it just so happens that I supply their booze."

Even a deaf person could hear the note of pride in his voice. She grinned up at him. "You're their hero, I suppose."

"It's a tough job, being a hero to rich drunkards and party girls."

"Yes, I can imagine. Is that why we're here? So you can show off?"

"Only a little. We're mainly here because they have a chef who cooks a beautiful chop," he said, offering his arm.

Beaded gowns and tuxedos draped the haut monde that paraded through the illuminated entrance alongside them. Once inside, Aida's gaze tried to take everything in: polished floors, staggering floral displays, beveled gla.s.s, and gleaming bra.s.s. She wondered what it would be like to stay in a room here. Like royalty, she supposed.

In the main lobby, they stopped at a concierge coat check to exchange their outer garments for a numbered ticket. She hated to give up the new coat but reluctantly opened the large square b.u.t.ton over her hip and s.h.i.+mmied out of it. Winter turned to take it from her. Reaching hands stopped midair as his eyes wandered over the peac.o.c.k-embroidered chiton gown, over her elbow-length white gloves, over bare shoulders . . . until his gaze finally lit on her b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

"Christ alive," he mumbled. "That dress is sheer."

Warmth rose to her cheeks. "No sheerer than half the gowns here."

He made a garbled, low sound of doubt. "I can see everything."

She looked down. "You cannot!" She'd checked in the mirror before coming-twice. The golden beads on the torso covered most of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. It wasn't obscene, for Pete's sake. A little daring, maybe, and she couldn't wear a chemise or bra.s.siere beneath, or it would show through. But it was still sophisticated. She wore dresses onstage that were comparable in style, if not in quality.

"I can count the freckles over your nipples."

Her face twisted as she darted a wary glance at the coat check girl. "Keep your voice down," she complained. "And you can't see my nipples."

"We-e-ell, maybe my recent supernatural woes have fortified me with more than just ghost-sight, because I can make out the exact size of-"

She smacked his arm. "The girl is waiting for my ridiculously expensive fur coat."

His eyes danced merrily as he draped the fox over his own coat and handed both to the girl, then pocketed the coat check ticket inside his tuxedo jacket. "I really do owe Ju a big thank-you."

"I hope it wasn't Sook-Yin who made it."

"She can't sew, so I think you're safe."

"It was made by one of the younger prost.i.tutes, then? Hopefully one you haven't slept with."

"Careful, cheetah. And I haven't slept with any of the younger ones."

"Hallelujah."

A slow grin spread over his face, plumping up high Scandinavian cheekbones. He held out his arm. "Shall we dine, Miss Palmer?"