Jenn Bennett - Bitter Spirits

“Maybe you’re right.” She gave him a thoughtful look. “The hotel we’re in now wasn’t raided. Were they one of St. Laurent’s customers?”

“They were raided.”

“Why aren’t they shut down like the Palace?”

“Prohis didn’t find any booze. I talked to the manager this morning. Apparently St. Laurent was behind on shipments. Regardless, they are now without a supplier, and in light of everything I just told you, I think it’s possible whoever ratted out St. Laurent did so because they either wanted him out of business, or they want his business.”

Intelligent eyes squinted up at him; he liked the way her nostrils flared when she did that. “Is that why you got this room? You waiting to see if anyone shows up to offer the hotel booze?”

“Believe me, I was thinking about you when I checked in.”

She hooked her leg around his while her fingers toyed with the line of hair that bisected his stomach. Christ, she was just as bad as he was—they couldn’t stop touching each other. “But . . .” she prompted.

“But I might’ve taken last night’s events into consideration when I choose the Fairmont specifically. So I’m going to be nice to the hotel manager, and wait and see what transpires.”

Her fingers walked up his breastbone. “And if you can discover who ratted out St. Laurent while helping out the Fairmont with deliveries in their time of need, all the better, yes?”

“Just being a good neighbor.”

She laughed, and the sound made his balls tighten. “Winter Magnusson: friendliest man in the city.”

“You should’ve seen the concierge. Nearly pissed his pants when I walked up. I’m nothing if not recognizable,” he said, winking his bad eye.

She craned her neck and kissed him there—right on his eyelid—and trailed two more kisses over his scar, then fell back against the pillow, grinning at him prettily. Jesus. Did she know what that did to him? It felt as if she’d poked a hole inside his chest. If she didn’t stop, he’d be telling her how he rode around last night in a daze, thinking of the way she trembled beneath his tongue. How much he’d hated leaving her, and how he had to stop himself from calling her at three in the morning when he’d finished his work.

How he couldn’t get enough of her, even now. Even after he’d just had her twice, he was getting hard. And not because she was trying to seduce him. Not because she’d been trained for pleasure, like Sook-Yin, and knew exactly what to do to turn him on. But because she was so easy to talk to. Because she laughed and smiled at him without wanting anything in return. Because she made the past disappear.

And because she accepted him freely, scars and all.

“Only one left, huh?” she said, running tiny fingers up the ridge of his cock. “And, let’s see . . . four hours before I have to leave. This is very unfair. If you’re going to insist on using those things, you better bring more next time.”

He laughed and pulled her close, until he felt the peaks of her nipples against his chest. “Let’s be creative and see what we can do without using the last one just yet.”

“Creative.” She stroked him leisurely, up and down. “Like this?”

He groaned in pleasure. “Exactly like that.”

“What about this?” Her fingers strayed lower to his balls, sending soothing shivers through his groin.

“Christ alive, cheetah. That feels nice.”

“It does?” She cupped him. “Like this?”

“God, yes. Be gentle, though. Whatever you do, for the love of God, don’t squeeze.”

“How do you walk around with all this?”

“The same way you walk around with these,” he said, massaging one breast.

She made a little moan, then whispered dreamily, “I’m so glad we’re having an affair.”

“Best idea I ever had,” he agreed, and inhaled the scent of violets in her hair.

Aida’s performance at Gris-Gris later that night was one of her finest—dramatic, emotional, and enthusiastically applauded. When she left the stage, she wondered if her confidence had been increased since her afternoon with Winter. The sinful burn of well-used flesh lingered as she strolled to her dressing room, and this gave her a puzzling sort of satisfaction.

What was even more puzzling was how happy it made her. Not just the sex, but the experience of being so close to him when his guard was down. What would it be like to have a man like that all the time? Someone to confide in? It seemed like an impossible luxury, to know someone for more than a handful of months. Best to be sensible about things and just enjoy what she had in the moment, not worry about things she couldn’t control.

But her future caught up to her as she approached her dressing room door. The club manager, Daniels, was waiting there for her with a tall, slender man dressed in a cream-colored suit. His skin was darkly tanned, as if he spent every daylight hour in the sun, and the sides of his dark blond hair were streaked with silver.

“Miss Palmer, I have someone here to see you,” Daniels said formally. “Mr. Bradley Bix from New Orleans. Mr. Bix, this is Miss Palmer.”

The speakeasy owner. Of course. He said he’d be here visiting his cousin, but she’d put him out of her mind. Still, it was surprising to see him standing before her now. She shook away a sense of foreboding and picked her manners off the floor. “Mr. Bix, how do you do,” she said, extending her arm. “I thought you were coming in another week. I hope your travel was pleasant.”

“Three days of jostled sleep, but I made it in one piece,” he said with a kind smile, his hand warm and leathery on hers. “I’ve had some changes to my summer bookings so I thought I’d come see you earlier. I hope you don’t mind.” He smiled, flashing her a smile. “Your show was spectacular. Just astounding. I’d heard things from people who’d seen you perform on the East Coast, but to watch it in person was a treat.”

“Thank you,” she said.

“I’d like to offer you an official invitation to perform at the Limbo Room,” Mr. Bix said. “We’ll buy your train ticket, of course, and my business partner owns a hotel next to the club, so we can also provide a temporary apartment for the duration of your stay in our city.”

No one had ever offered her as much. She was immediately wary that the hotel he spoke of was a brothel of some sort. Velma had friends in New Orleans; perhaps she could check on it.

“Is there somewhere we could speak about salary and other details?” Mr. Bix asked.

“Daniels, if you wouldn’t mind, please show the gentleman to the bar.” He nodded a curt response. “Mr. Bix, it will only take me a few minutes to get ready. I’ll meet you out there when I’m done.”

Mr. Bix canted his head politely before setting a pale straw Panama hat on his head. “I should mention that I’d like to have your decision rather quickly. I’d need your debut performance to coincide with a spiritualism convention in the French Quarter.”

“And when would that be?”

“July 15.”

She’d have to be on a train the day after her last night at Gris-Gris if Mr. Bix wanted her onstage that soon.

She should be elated. None of her previous bookings had dovetailed so nicely to provide her with a steady income, so hard to come by in this business. But as Daniels escorted the man back out to the club floor, it was all Aida could do to fight images of Winter’s big hand curving around her naked breast, and the lazy satisfaction she’d felt dozing in his arms.

She’d known it wasn’t permanent, but now they had less time than she thought.

WINTER TOOK A TAXI TO THE FAIRMONT THE NEXT DAY. WHEN HE left Aida the night before, he’d asked her to meet him there at the same time today, but he half expected her to change her mind—maybe she’d have regrets about the things they did with each other. It seemed too good to be true.

A rap on the hotel door made his pulse jump. He rushed to answer it too quickly, but when he threw open the door, it was only an attendant from the kitchen with a cart. The boy cowered under Winter’s glare and waved a gloved hand at the pitcher of orange juice and coffee service. “Your order, sir?”

Winter exhaled heavily and signaled the attendant inside the room. After he wheeled the cart into the sitting area, he asked if Winter required anything else, then acted like he was going to bolt for the door; Winter stopped him.

“You know who I am?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Anyone asks, you don’t.” Winter pulled out a stack of bills and removed a gold money clip, then peeled off what was likely a month’s worth of the attendant’s wages. “Make sure my men outside get coffee and food at lunch. If I’m back tomorrow, I’ll give you the same.”

The attendant brightened considerably. “Yes, sir. You can count on me.”

As Winter handed over the tip, a figure appeared in the doorway. Winter’s chest squeezed.

“This is a private room, miss,” the attendant said quickly, pocketing the money as he strode to block her entrance.

“Yes,” Aida said, tapping her handbag against her leg. “I’m . . . Mrs. Magnusson.” She arched one brow Winter’s way: teasing, playful, attractively arrogant. Only a day ago—no virgin—she’d been nervous about her sexuality, and now she was brimming with confidence. It gave him a deep-seated satisfaction to know he was responsible for that change.

“Mrs. Magnusson?” The attendant gave her a pointed look of disbelief.

“Ah yes,” Winter said. “Please don’t disturb my . . . wife and I again until I call, unless it’s an urgent matter with my men.”

The attendant cleared his throat and nodded before exiting.