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 s.e.xuality, and now she was br.i.m.m.i.n.g 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 grat.i.tude 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 G.o.d," 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 d.a.m.n 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 Sat.u.r.days, when the tourists come. We've got three hours before his shift finishes, so we need to leave now."

"I'll be ready in fifteen minutes."

"A couple more things. Ju says the guy isn't affiliated with any tongs. He's probably just a hired gun."

"Then we'll just convince him to tell us who's paying him. What's the other thing?"

"Anthony Parducci turned himself in early this morning."

Winter froze. "What?"

"Showed up at Central Station, spooked as h.e.l.l, saying the voice of G.o.d had spoken to him and told him to turn himself in. They thought he was doped at first, but now they're saying he just went crazy. Police chief tried to talk some sense in him and get him to calm down, but two Feds had stopped by the station and heard what was going on, so they arrested him. Parducci gave up the locations of all his warehouses, suppliers-everything."

"Holy s.h.i.t."

"Whoever's conducting all this is starting to land some blows."

"I don't want to be the next one. Pick me up out back," Winter said before hanging up.

Aida started dressing before he could even finish telling her. "I'm going with you. If there's any ghost business, you're safer with me along. Especially after the business with this other bootlegger turning himself in. Let's hope this Black Star is your guy."

He watched her rolling the welt of her stocking over a pink garter that sat snugly on her lower thigh, just above her knee. "I might have to threaten him. I don't want you to see that."

"You mean that you don't want me to be repulsed by it," she clarified.

"Yes."

"Well, I won't be. And I trust you will protect me if something goes wrong."

He watched her pull on the second stocking, amazed by her nonchalance. By now he shouldn't be surprised. "All right."

Both stockings were in place now. She stood up, wearing nothing else. Absolutely gorgeous. But something was changed about her today, even before Bo called, and Winter could see it in the line etched between her brows. He captured her wrist.

"What?" she asked.

"You seem different."

"Do I?"

"Something wrong?"

"Not at all."

"Are you sure?"

Her chin dropped. "No."

"Tell me."

"It's silly. I just got something delivered to me at Golden Lotus this morning that made me sad." She gently tugged her arm away and picked up a sh.e.l.l pink chemise. "I met with my future employer a week ago. He came to the club and offered me a gig in New Orleans. A new jazz hall called the Limbo Room."

The unexpected news unstrung his nerves. "You've already got another job?"

She stepped inside her chemise and shimmied it over her hips. "They're offering me room and board at a hotel next door to the club. Will pay me double what Velma's paying. The most money I've ever been offered in my life." She slipped silky straps over freckled shoulders. "It'll keep me employed through October. The owner bought my train ticket. That's what was dropped off at Golden Lotus this morning."

"Do you know anything about this man?"

"He's middle-aged. Owns another speakeasy in Baton Rouge. Seems nice enough."

"And you're just going to run off to a strange city halfway across the country to work for a complete stranger?"

"It's what I did when I came here."

A rising panic tightened his chest. "You won't have anyone there to look after you."

Slender fingers tucked the front locks of her bob behind her ears as she bent to pick up her skirt. "I've made it this far on my own."

G.o.d only knew how-a miracle she hadn't been raped or robbed or killed in some dark alley after leaving one of her shows in the middle of the d.a.m.n night. The only unescorted women roaming the street that late were . . . Christ, he didn't know if there were any. Even prost.i.tutes had sense enough to stay behind closed doors. It panicked him to think about her off somewhere, out of his reach, where he couldn't be there in minutes. "New Orleans is a vice-ridden port city, cheetah."

"San Francisco is a vice-ridden port city, Mr. Bootlegger."

Swearing in Swedish under his breath, he hunted down his clothes, trying to hide the unsettling mix of anger and hurt churning inside. This was preposterous, her traipsing off. He knew she had to leave-of course he knew. But in the back of his mind, he'd pictured her in Seattle or Portland, maybe Los Angeles. Somewhere on the West Coast, where he could take an afternoon train and be there in time to catch her show. And where the h.e.l.l were his socks? He didn't for the life of him remember taking them off.

"Here." She handed him two limp black dress socks.

"When do you leave?"

She stilled and bit the center of her upper lip.

"When?" he insisted.

"About a week."

His throat felt as if he'd swallowed wet cement. "One week?"

She nodded. "Now you know why I'm sad."

That was nothing-no time at all. "What if Gris-Gris offered you a longer contract?"

"Velma already has a telepath booked, and don't you dare storm into her office and force her to keep me. I can already see the wheels turning. I won't take something I haven't earned honestly, and I can't stand being in debt to someone else. I'm not sure if you understand that, but it's important to me."

Unfortunately he did understand. Even if his work was illegal, it was hard work, and he didn't cut corners to get it done. His father had always told him there were few greater shames than debt. It was a matter of pride.

But what they had together was bigger than pride-his or hers.

"A week, a month-it makes no difference," she said. "We both knew I'd be leaving eventually. You didn't want anything permanent when you suggested we share a bed, remember?"

Yes, he remembered. He b.u.t.toned the fly of his pants and plunked back down on the bed. "I can't believe you're really going."

Her stockinged legs stepped between his. She cupped his cheeks with small, warm hands. "Only live for today-that's what Sam taught me. But if I'm being honest, I've never wanted to leave a place less . . . or a person."

If that was really true, then why was she going?

The temple was located in a narrow, nondescript three-story brick building crowded between a dozen others just like it. A steady stream of locals and western tourists paraded under strings of triangular orange flags that hung above the entrance. The main sign, from which swaying lanterns hung, was painted in Chinese characters. A secondary cloth banner below read LION RISE TEMPLE.

Winter tried to summon up the will to care that the man who poisoned him was inside, and that he might soon be where Parducci was if he didn't watch himself, but his mind was fixated on Aida's news. Every time he looked at her, she was staring out the window, lost in her own thoughts, unreadable. Meanwhile, he was slowly sinking.

Only live for today. Complete and utter bulls.h.i.t.

In a week, she'd be gone, on to some new adventure. Maybe even another lover. The thought of someone else touching her made his stomach harden into a black lump. His hands curled into fists.

She acted as though she had no qualms about walking away and never looking back. As though he was merely a choice for dinner-beef or chicken, and tomorrow she'd be dining somewhere else. G.o.dd.a.m.n casual affair. Possibly the stupidest idea he'd had in years. Casual was Sook-Yin, or Florie Beecham.

Casual was not Aida.

Had all of this meant nothing to her? The time she spent in his arms? He stole a look at her as Bo parked the car across the street from the temple. That same deep line divided her brows. She chewed on her bottom lip. Either he was a fool, falling for someone who didn't feel the same way, or she was lying through her teeth with this breezy, live-for-today act. G.o.d give him the strength to figure out which it was before it was too late.

Spice-tinged floral smoke drifted from the temple. Winter surveyed the area and found nothing out of the ordinary, so he, Aida, and Bo approached by foot. A few cars behind, four of his men shadowed them to the entrance.

An attractive pair of girls wearing embroidered red silk cheongsams collected donations from entering patrons. Winter stuffed a bill into their tin as they stepped into a wide chamber-something between a lobby and a museum. Gilded columns, elaborately carved wooden screens, and ornate statues of Chinese deities filled the low-ceilinged s.p.a.ce. Two red doors at the far end of the room opened into a courtyard, open to the sky, where a red and gold paG.o.da housed the temple's shrine bookended by a pair of iron Chinese lions.

The smoke was thicker here, nearly choking. Coils of burning incense hung from the paG.o.da's ceiling. Temple employees sold incense sticks and bundles of joss paper. Beneath the paG.o.da, visitors carried their offerings while chanting prayers.

Winter's gaze lit on a table where two women were distributing cylindrical bamboo cups. THE KAU CIM ORACLE: CHINESE FORTUNE STICKS, as the sign proclaimed. Querents knelt on their knees in front of the shrine and held the cups sideways, shaking them until a single stick fell onto well-worn cobblestones. The sticks were numbered, each one corresponding to a fortune. People carried their fallen stick to a small canvas tent in the corner of the courtyard, where a fortune-teller provided interpretation.

His fortune-teller. The G.o.dd.a.m.n p.i.s.sant who poisoned him.

"That should be our man," Bo confirmed.

Winter nodded. "Let's have our oracle read."

After a customer exited, Winter ducked into the tent's opening under a line of gold fringe and found himself inside a dim s.p.a.ce not more than six or seven feet wide. An oil-burning lantern sat on a small portable table, behind which sat a wizened man dressed in a black ceremonial robe with gaping sleeves. A long gray queue lay braided across one shoulder.

"Please, sit," the man said without looking up from writing something. He waved his hand toward two folding chairs in front of his table. A flat box containing slips of paper, numbered fortunes, sat near his elbow. A placard off to the side identified the man as Mr. Wu.

Aida took a seat while Winter unb.u.t.toned his suit jacket and sat beside her, stretching out his legs in the small s.p.a.ce as best he could. Bo untied the tent flap and closed it behind them.

"Your fortune stick, please," the man said, then glanced up at Winter and flinched.

"I'm here to get some information about my past, not my future, Mr. Wu. Or should I call you Black Star?"

A muscle in the man's eye jumped. "What do you want?"