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.

TWENTY-TWO

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.

Aida locked the door, then dropped her handbag and dashed to Winter in a delirious rush. With her arms around his neck, he lifted her off the floor and kissed her like she really was his wife and he hadn’t seen her in months. She smelled so good, felt so warm and soft, that if relief and gratitude hadn’t weighted him down, he might’ve floated away in happiness.

“What have you done to me?” she said breathlessly when they broke for air. “You’ve turned me into a fiend, Winter Magnusson.”

“There is a God,” he mumbled against her neck as he pressed kisses on her rapid pulse.

“I went to sleep thinking of you,” she whispered, “and woke up wanting you.”

A big, bright happiness flooded his senses. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

She gave a little squeal of delight as he pushed her back against the wall. “Please tell me you brought more Merry Widows this time.”

“I cleaned out the druggist,” he said, grinning down at her. “At the rate we’re going, I should own stock in the damn company.”

Her happy laugher followed them to the bed.

• • •

The Fairmont became their daily routine. Nothing in the outside world interrupted them—not ghosts nor raids nor threats of any supernatural nature. The primary anxiety that plagued Winter came in the form of regular updates from Ju about the liquor trade in Chinatown spiraling out of control. Warehouses had been burned, robbed, smashed up. Infighting broke out among friendly tongs. Everyone suspected their neighbor, but no one knew who was actually leading the shake-up.

It even made the newspapers. Headlines questioned how safe the “new tourist-friendly” Chinatown truly was. Rumors spread of the old pre-earthquake tong wars being revived. It was all anyone talked about at Golden Lotus, Aida reported, and her landlady was worried because the restaurant’s business was starting to suffer.

Businesses outside Chinatown were feeling the effects of St. Laurent’s raid. The Fairmont was hurting. Winter managed to sneak in a few cases of champagne and whiskey for their important guests, but the manager refused to risk anything more. Winter put more men watching the hotel, but no one had seen or heard anything.

Not until the sixth afternoon, when Winter got the call about Black Star.

Bo’s voice was barely audible over the hotel’s telephone wire. He had to plug his free ear with his thumb to even hear him.

“Say again, Bo.”

“Ju found the man. He’s a fortune-teller at Lion Rise Temple, but only on Saturdays, when the tourists come. We’ve got three hours before his shift finishes, so we need to leave now.”