Bitter Spirits by Jenn Bennett Page A

the baby grand, a gentleman nearby took notice of her. “Why, hello there. I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Robert Morran, Florie’s cousin.” He offered her a dazzling smile. By the glazed look in his eye, he was at least one or two sheets to the wind—and by the way he jostled the glass in his hand, clinking the ice against the sides in a futile attempt to get a servant’s attention, he was trying for three.
    â€œAida Palmer.”
    â€œAn unusual name for an unusually pretty woman.” He gave up flagging the servant and fiddled with a light brown pencil-thin mustache. “How do you know Florie, my dear?”
    â€œI don’t. I’m the medium.”
    â€œOh! How exciting.” He clinked his ice again while perusing her figure. “Tell me, Miss Palmolive—”
    â€œPalmer,” she said crisply, adjusting her handbag’s position around her wrist.
    â€œMiss Palmer.” He chuckled and ran his tongue over his top teeth. “Yes. So very unusual. I’m a great admirer of unusual beauty. Tell me, dear, what am I thinking right now?”
    It took everything she had not to roll her eyes. “I’m a spirit medium, not a telepath.”
    â€œOh, that’s no fun. Come now. I’m sure you have more than one talent. Maybe some fortune-telling.”
    Entertain me! Frighten me! Make the table lift from the floor! She could see how this séance would turn out. Why had she agreed to do this again? Oh, that’s right: the small fortune being dangled in front of her face . . . and the foolish hope that she’d get a chance to study Winter’s backside again. She’d called him depraved, but clearly she was the one who couldn’t control her own animal urges.
    â€œMaybe you’d like to read my palm?” her companion suggested.
    â€œSorry, no.”
    He took a step closer, undeterred.
Clink-clink
. “Tarot cards, then. What would the cards say about my future chances with you after this party, hmm?”
    He reached out and ran a hand down her arm.
    As she pulled away from him, a voice rumbled over her shoulder. “I can predict your chances for losing that hand. Or you can touch her again and find out for yourself.”
    She turned to find Winter Magnusson’s tank of a body filling the doorway as he glared at her companion. A fevered skirmish broke out inside her stomach.
    He was dressed in a midnight blue tuxedo jacket with peaked black lapels and matching silk bow tie. His white shirt cuffs were perfectly starched and cuff-linked in gold, his shoes shiny enough to reflect heaven.
    Dashing. Dark. More than a little devilish. With his smoldering good looks and his high cheekbones, he looked like a brawnier, crueler version of Valentino, rest his soul. To be honest, he looked as if he could squash Valentino like a bug.
    Or, perhaps, Mr. Morran.
    â€œSee here, now. I was just speaking to the medium. No need to get testy.” Mr. Morran turned to Aida for support. “Right, dear?”
    The drunken man was a fly buzzing in her ear. She wished she could swat him and his clinking glass of ice away.
    The bright light of the room had caused Winter’s good pupil to constrict to a tiny black dot, while the injured pupil remained wide, framed by the curving scar. He was only a couple of inches taller than the other man, but he was just
so much bigger
. And with the aggressive energy fuming and sizzling from him, he looked as if he were ready to tear Morran’s hand right off his arm.
    A thrill bolted through her.
    Something else was bolting through Morran, and it caused
his
eyes to widen as he backed up a step. People were beginning to notice something was awry; the outer edges of the crowd around the piano glanced in their direction as the chorus to “Shine On, Harvest Moon” was being sung out of key by several swaying partygoers in the background.
    Winter’s mouth lifted in something