Bitter Spirits by Jenn Bennett Page B

that could’ve technically been called a smile, but it had the effect of an angry wolf baring his teeth. In a deceptively calm bass-heavy voice, he told the man, “I’ll give you ten seconds to make it to the other side of the room.”
    It only took the man five.
    Once Morran had disappeared into the crowd around the piano, Winter looked down at her. His anger drained away. “Hello, cheetah.”
    It was all she could do not to smile up at him like a child being handed freshly spun cotton candy. Good grief. She had to calm down. “I could’ve taken care of him myself, you know.”
    â€œAny woman who traipses around the country working night shifts at speakeasies surely can, but that idiot is an aggressive skirt chaser. You don’t want to let him get you alone.”
    â€œGood to know. Thank you for your concern.”
    Now his mouth wasn’t smiling, but his eyes certainly were. He stuffed his hands into his pockets as he lowered his head and spoke to her conspiratorially in a teasing voice. “Let’s just pretend that you needed my help. It will make me feel useful.”
    A thrill flowed through her like an electrical current. “Would you have actually hurt him?”
    â€œIn a heartbeat.”
    â€œHow foolish of me to find that exciting.”
    His mouth parted and he grinned, big and genuine. She couldn’t stop herself from grinning in return.
    â€œI suppose it wouldn’t be a party without the threat of violence,” an approaching feminine voice called out.
    Aida turned to see a beautiful blonde slinking toward them in a long gold gown with a silk cape that draped over her shoulders and flowed behind her like a flag. Several strands of gold beads dripped from her neck, clinking against her stomach as she walked. She was grinning at Winter but turned her attention toward Aida.
    â€œDarling!” Her arms extended to her sides in a dramatic welcoming gesture, a long, silver cigarette holder poised between gloved fingers. “I’m Florie Beecham. Welcome to my home.”
    Aida smiled tightly as the woman embraced her shoulders and kissed her cheeks, engulfing her in brandy and perfume. “Thank you for having me.”
    â€œNonsense. You’re the talk of the party,” Mrs. Beecham said with a laugh, waving her cigarette holder, scattering ashes around. Goodness, the woman was drunk. She was also Aida’s age, if not younger—certainly not the doddering, lonely widow Aida had expected.
    â€œYour home is lovely, Mrs. Beecham,” she said as the piano player finished and the party began shuffling past them into another room.
    â€œCall me Florie. Everyone does. And isn’t it marvelous?” Not one single strand of her slicked platinum bob shifted out of place when she tilted her head back to admire her own decor. “I moved in three weeks ago. This is my first party.”
    â€œHow nice.”
    â€œI see you’ve found Win. Don’t mind his brutish manner; that’s just a facade. He gave me the idea to hire you. He said, ‘Florie, old gal, there’s this spiritualist down at one of the black-and-tans who’d make your party more interesting.’ And it was a brilliant idea, as usual. All his ideas are brilliant.”
    Aida flicked a questioning glance at Winter. His look was something between sheepish and apologetic.
    Mrs. Beecham teetered past Aida to sling both her arms around one of Winter’s, hanging on to it like the remaining mast on the
Titanic
. He extracted her cigarette holder half a second before it burned a hole in his tuxedo sleeve and set it on a nearby hall table.
    â€œWin and I went to Berkeley together. Before he got the boot.” Mrs. Beecham kicked a leg out and nearly tripped over her gown.
    Winter pulled the woman to the side and steadied her as guests filed past them into the parlor. “I think you better slow down on those sidecars.”
    â€œSays the big