"Greta, this is Miss Aida Palmer."

The woman gave her a funny smile that Aida couldn't make heads or tails of. "Miss Palmer," she said in a birdlike voice with a heavy Scandinavian lilt. "Mr. Magnusson is waiting for you in his study. Come. I will take you."

Aida stepped into a s.p.a.cious entry, bigger than her entire apartment, with a high ceiling that opened up to the second floor and dark wood floors below her feet. A labyrinth of rooms sprouted in every direction.

"I'll be eating lunch down here in the kitchen," Bo said. "When you're ready to go, Winter will call me and I'll drive you back home. I've got business in Chinatown later."

She thanked him before he headed down a hallway and disappeared.

Aida followed Greta's impressively fast strides through the entry. At first she thought they were headed up the ma.s.sive staircase, but Greta veered to the side and stopped in front of a black elevator, a small rectangular contraption that looked like an Art Nouveau metal birdcage, with scrolling whiplash curves.

"I've never seen an elevator inside a private home," Aida remarked upon entering.

Greta shut the scissor gate, then the cage door, and operated a lever. "The Magnussons are fond of wasting monies."

Well. Aida didn't know what to say to that. The rickety elevator groaned and whined as it made a shaky ascent to a highly polished dark hallway on the fourth floor.

Greta led her to a set of carved doors, guarded by a man sitting in a chair, playing solitaire on a folding wooden tray table; he doffed his cap when they pa.s.sed by. A wide room lay beyond, filled with standing bookshelves, a large desk, and a billiards table. Several windows on the far wall offered an expansive view of the city and the foggy bay.

A cozy sitting area surrounded an oversized fireplace. The fire was lit, and sitting on a brown leather couch reading the San Francisco Chronicle was Winter Magnusson.

Surely he heard the elevator or their steps echoing down the hallway, but he remained engrossed in his reading, legs crossed, lounging in his shirtsleeves. His suit jacket lay folded on the back of the couch.

"Winter." Greta's singsong accent made his name sound more like "Veen-ter."

He glanced up from the paper and looked straight at Aida. His eyes narrowed slowly, like someone playing blackjack who'd just been dealt a ten and an ace.

And Aida felt like she'd just lost all her chips along with the shirt off her back.

"You came," he said in his low cello-note voice.

"I hope you won't find a way to make me regret that."

He looked amused but didn't smile. "I'll try to keep my clothes on this time."

If he was trying to embarra.s.s her in front of his housekeeper, he'd have to try harder. "I'm only here because you're paying me an exorbitant fee for a house call."

"Worth every cent." He folded up his newspaper. "Hungry?"

"Not sure," she replied honestly. She had been, but now her brain was sending some confused signal to her body, preparing her to either become sick or run for her life. Why was her heart beating so fast? She could feel her blood pulsing at her temples.

"Greta, leave us. I'll call when we're ready for a tray," Winter said, prompting the housekeeper to exit the room as he tossed the folded newspaper aside and stood.

Aida suddenly remembered just how big he was, and took him in from head to foot as he approached: crisp white linen shirt, black necktie with horizontal bands of silver, pin-striped gray vest anch.o.r.ed by the gold chain of his pocket watch, black wing tips. His flat-front charcoal trousers were so accurately tailored, they hugged the muscle of his thighs in an almost obscene manner. She liked this.

"You're looking . . ." Enormous. Handsome. Intimidating. "Recovered," she said.

"I'm feeling a h.e.l.l of a lot better. Are you planning on dashing right back out? Or did you not trust Greta with your coat?"

"She didn't offer to take it."

"Since she's failed at her duties, allow me." He said this as if it were some great ch.o.r.e and made an impatient gesture for her to comply, but she caught a curious gaze flicking toward her under the false front of seemingly bored, hooded eyes.

She set down her handbag on a small table by the door and unb.u.t.toned her coat. As she was shrugging it off her shoulders, Mr. Magnusson stepped closer. Several things cluttered her mind at once: That he smelled of laundry starch. That the gold bar connecting his collar points beneath the striped knot of his necktie was engraved with tiny nautical compa.s.ses. And that she was almost positive he was looking down her dress.

That realization did something strange to her stomach. She knew she wasn't unattractive-at least, she didn't think so. Not anymore. When she was a child, she was teased about her heavily freckled skin. Even now, most men only looked at her with mild interest before setting their sights on other women with flawless complexions. But every once in a while she ran across a man who actually liked freckles.

Maybe Winter was one of them.

Did he see her as a sideshow curiosity, or something more? Perhaps he was merely a man, and b.r.e.a.s.t.s were b.r.e.a.s.t.s were b.r.e.a.s.t.s. She held up her coat between them. "How's the view from up there?"

"Not as clear as your view of me the other night."

"To be fair, I don't believe that could've been any clearer."

He plucked the coat from her fingers. "You sure didn't act like you minded."

"I didn't." She meant that to be a question, but it came out wrong. Winter seemed as surprised by it as she was, but he didn't comment. Surely he was aware how nicely his body was put together; he probably heard it all the time. He hung up her coat, then, without touching, extended his hand behind her back, urging her to accompany him farther into the study.

They skirted around a bank of standing bookshelves in the middle of the room and came face-to-face with the head of a dragon-or the neck and head of one, to be exact. Openmouthed and baring sharp teeth, the wooden carving was about her height, on display in a gla.s.s case.

"That's Drake," Winter said, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "The bow off a Viking longship from the twelfth century."

"You are Scandinavian, then?"

"Swedish. My parents immigrated here when my mother was pregnant with me."

"An arduous journey for a pregnant woman."

Something in his brow shifted. A wistfulness. Or guilt, perhaps. "She insisted on coming to give me a better life. My siblings were born here."

She walked around the dragon, peering through the gla.s.s. The carving was crude, the wood cracked and splintered. "Shouldn't this be in a museum?"

"Probably. If we ever need money, we can sell him. He's worth more than the whole d.a.m.n house. It was one of the first things my father had imported after the bootlegging money started flowing. I've got an uncle who's an archaeologist. My younger brother is on a dig with him out in Cairo right now."

"Really? How exciting. Hope he's not opening up any cursed tombs."

"My brother could fall into s.h.i.t and come out smelling of roses."

Aida laughed.

In a fluid pair of movements, Winter curved his body closer to hers while settling his forearm above his head on the top of the gla.s.s case. His fingers tapped on the gla.s.s. A big body like his possessed an unspoken dominance if the personality commanding it understood its power, and Winter did. He towered over her at an angle that forced her to tilt her face up and back to meet his gaze, and spoke in a lower, more relaxed tone, as if he were sharing a choice bit of gossip, luring her into his web. "Uncle Jakob found the dragon bow a few years ago. Found three, actually-reported one, kept one for himself, and gave my father Drake, here."

"Lawbreaking runs in the family."

He made a grunting noise. "My uncle is fond of shipping black market goods, and my father always had boats. That's why he got into bootlegging in the first place."

"Bo mentioned that your father was a fisherman."

"Crab and salmon, mainly. I've traded most of the fishing fleet for rumrunners and a couple of big, new powerboats that go to Canada. But I haven't gotten rid of the crabbers."

"You still crab?"

"It's good money and a legitimate cover for the booze."

She glanced at a long bay of windows lining the outer wall of the study and left Winter to survey the view. "Oh, look at that. Bet you can see the entire city when it's clear."

Winter's low voice was closer than she expected. He pointed over her shoulder. "You can see Fisherman's Wharf and Alcatraz Island from here. If the bay wasn't foggy, we could also see the northern point of the Presidio where they're going to build a suspension bridge across the Golden Gate strait to Marin County. Have you heard about it?"

"No."

"Will be the longest in the world, if they ever raise the funds to build the d.a.m.n thing."

"Impressive."

They gazed out over the rooftops for a moment until Winter spoke again. "Velma said you're booked at Gris-Gris through July. What do you do, just go from club to club?"

"Sometimes theaters, but speakeasies pay better. I've worked six of them over the past couple of years up and down the East Coast. This is the first time I've been out West since I was a small child. I'm originally from here-my parents were killed in the Great Fire."

"I'm sorry."

"I was only seven, so my memories are limited. Our apartment building initially survived the quake. It was one of the gas pipe explosions that brought it down. I got separated from my parents when we were trying to escape. One of the neighbors got me out, but my parents never made it. To this day, I'm a little phobic of fire."

"Understandable. I was nine when it happened, but I still dream about the city burning."

G.o.d, so did she.

"What happened to you after the fire?" Winter asked.

"I was shuffled off to a temporary camp, then an orphanage. I lived with three families before a couple, the Lanes, took me in later that year. They were moving out east, so I went with them." She glanced out the window. "I have a few memories of living here before the quake, but I definitely don't remember it looking like this. It's going to spoil me. I won't want to leave."

"How do you live like that, moving around all the time? Do you travel with someone?"

"Just me and myself."

Two deep lines etched his brow. "Doesn't seem safe for a single woman to be running around the country."

If she had a penny for every time she'd heard that . . . "I've managed just fine."

"Sounds lonely."

It was lonely at times-terribly lonely. But she did what she had to in order to survive, and she wasn't embarra.s.sed about it. A certain pride came with the kind of independence she had. If you didn't rely on anyone but yourself, you had fewer chances of being disappointed-that's what Sam always told her. Out of habit, her fingers reached for the locket hanging near her heart.

"I live for the moment, not the past or future," she said. Another Sam mantra. "But if you must know, I do prefer private seances to work onstage. They pay better for less work. Building up a client list takes more time than-"

A loud brring-brring startled her out of her memories.

"Hold that thought." Winter excused himself and strode across the room to answer the telephone. She was a little relieved to drop the subject of her career choice. It was none of his business, really. And she'd already said more than she probably should. A bad habit of hers, not controlling the things that exited her mouth.

While he spoke in a hushed voice on the phone, she strolled past the windows and looked around, glancing at the book spines on a bay of shelves, mostly commerce and fishing t.i.tles. Her gaze fell upon a couple of long books sitting on a nearby lamp table. Sc.r.a.pbooks? Photos?

Leather cracked when she opened the top book. Not photographs, but postcards attached to black pages with adhesive mounting corners. Postcards from Cairo. Postcards from France. The Eiffel Tower. The Arc de Triomphe. The Louvre. Two French maids wearing nothing but ap.r.o.ns. A girl falling off a bike, her skirt lifted, wearing only rolled-down stockings underneath. A woman sitting on a sofa reading a French copy of Ulysses with her legs spread- Dear Lord.

Erotic postcards. Dozens and dozens. She glanced in Winter's direction. He was quiet, listening to the earpiece receiver while pacing around the fireplace, toting the candlestick base as a black telephone cord snaked around the floor, trailing his footsteps.

She hurriedly leafed through the pages, which seemed to get progressively worse-or better, depending on your view. A fully dressed man kissing a nude woman on his lap. A man fondling a woman beneath her chemise.

Flipping toward the back of the book, Aida stopped on a page with only one postcard affixed to the center-not a photograph, but a colored ill.u.s.tration. It featured a naked woman with bobbed hair. She sat upon the lap of a naked man, who was propped up against a pile of cushions. His c.o.c.k was drawn to fantastical proportions, and the artist had managed to include an impressive amount of detail in rendering every vein, ridge, and hair as it slid into the woman's exposed s.e.x. She rode him, mouth open, with a look of ecstasy on her face.

And she was freckled.

Aida's pulse pounded. She stared at the shocking postcard, transfixed. It was surely only a coincidence the ill.u.s.trated woman looked like her-artists often added freckles to make females look younger, after all, and- "Find something interesting?" Winter's low voice rumbled near her ear.

She jumped in surprise and attempted to shut the book, but his palm slapped down on the pages. When she tried to step away, another hand planted on the other side of the book, pinning her inside his arms. His chest against her back was warm and solid.

Her breathing faltered. Embarra.s.sment created a fog that rolled over her brain. "They were sitting out," she argued dumbly.

"My study. My books. I can leave them where I like."

Her heart pattered like a frightened animal. "You should take more care when you invite guests over."

"I didn't know my guest would be so curious."

"And I didn't know I'd be visiting a deviant!"

"One man's deviance is another man's lunch break."

"Pervert."

His mouth was against her ear, his words spoken through her hair. "Are you referring to me or yourself? You've been staring at that for quite a long time."

Her face flamed. She never blushed. Never! "It's . . . depraved."

"How so?" His thumb ran along the edge of the postcard. "Is the artist depraved for rendering a fantasy, or is the woman in the painting depraved for enjoying it?"

"You're the one who's depraved for owning it." She shoved her shoulders back against him, grunting. "Let go."

He didn't grip her tighter, nor impede her from ducking out of his hold, but instead distracted her with words. "Look closer," he said, pointing to the woman in the ill.u.s.tration. "There's a trust between them. She enjoys him watching her. Oh, and would you look at that? She's got freckles just like you. How interesting."

Aida's eyes flicked to the bulky arms flanking her shoulders. She twisted inside his trap, defiantly faced him, and shoved at his chest. A useless act against someone built like a mountain; he didn't budge.

She drew back. He leaned forward, erasing the distance. Their combined weight pressing against the lamp table caused it to slide a few centimeters. A frightening, almost unbearable intensity darkened his eyes. She could no longer tell which pupil was bigger, because both were enlarged beneath languid, drooping eyelids.

"Do you like people watching you onstage, Aida?"

The question was, at best, rude, and paired with the postcard, the insinuation behind it was downright vulgar. But it was her name on his lips that unexpectedly triggered l.u.s.t to uncoil low in her belly. It sounded so startlingly intimate, and he was so close. So close, so big . . . so intimidating. She was overawed and overexcited, all at once.

His gaze dropped. Hers followed, only to find the hands that had shoved at his chest were now grasping his necktie, either in an attempt to choke him or pull him closer.