Bitter Spirits Read Free

that?”
    â€œYour eyes.”
    Strangers never had the nerve to comment on his maimed eye or the hooked scar that extended from brow to cheekbone. Either they’d already heard the story behind it, or they were too intimidated to inquire. He wasn’t used to explaining, and even considered ignoring the medium’s questioning tone altogether, but her curious face swayed him.
    Or maybe it was the freckled ankles . . . and what he’d like to do with those ankles, which started with licking and ended with them propped on his shoulders.
    He cleared his throat. “One pupil is permanently dilated.”
    â€œOh?” She stepped closer and craned her neck to inspect his eyes. The sweet scent of violet wafted from her hair, disorienting him far more than the foul drink and the damned ghost already had. “I see,” she murmured. “They’re both blue. The big pupil makes the left eye look darker. Is that genetic?”
    â€œAn injury,” he said. “I was in an auto accident a couple of years ago.”
    God, how he detested the disfigurement. Every time he looked in the mirror, there they were, wounded eye and scar, reminding him of the one night he wanted more than anything to forget: when his family was brutally snatched away from him, crushed by the oncoming streetcar. Dumb luck that he survived, but some days he truly believed his continued existence was really a curse in disguise.
    The medium made no comment about the scar; though, to her credit, she didn’t appear to be revolted or frightened by its presence, nor did she politely pretend it wasn’t there. “Can you see out of the wounded eye, or does the dilation affect your vision?”
    He smelled violets again. Christ alive. She was intoxicating, standing so close. A pleasurable heat gathered in his groin. Any more pleasurable and he’d be forced to hide a rampant erection. He pulled his coat closed, just in case.
    â€œMy vision is perfect,” he answered gruffly. “Right now, for instance, I see a tiny freckled woman in front of me, asking a lot of questions.”
    She laughed, and the sound did something funny to Winter’s chest. Maybe he was getting ill. Having a heart attack at the age of thirty. He hoped to hell not. He’d rather be burned alive than tolerate another wretched doctor’s so-called assistance. Between the parade of psychiatrists who treated his father’s illness before the accident and the overpriced surgeons who sewed up his own eye after it, he’d seen enough doctors to last a lifetime, no matter how short.
    When the medium finally turned away, he let out a long breath and watched the spellbinding sway of her ass with great interest as she strolled toward Velma’s desk to set down her handbag and the cloche she’d been gripping in her hand. The view only got better when she shucked off her coat: freckles covered every inch of her slender arms.
    He might pass out from excitement. His legs were definitely feeling unsteady. Wobbly, even. He felt high as a kite. Feverish. But when the room started to spin, he had the sinking feeling Miss Palmer’s freckles weren’t the cause.
    Â â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢Â 
    After Aida set her things down, the bootlegger silently stared at her for several beats, an unnerving intimidation that chilled the sweat prickling the back of her neck. And because she was clearly depraved, a thrill shot through her.
    God above, he was well built. Like an enormous bull. Just how tall was he, exactly? Her gaze stuttered over the solid bulk of his upper arms, which stretched the wool of his expensive coat, then ran down the rather distracting length of his meaty legs.
    This was a body built for conquering. For smiting enemies. Ransacking villages.
    Ravaging innocent women.
    Maybe even some not-so-innocent women.
    He wasn’t pretty or conventionally good-looking. More savagely handsome, she decided. Rough-hewn and