Grim Shadows (Roaring Twenties) Read Free Page A

his head, Miss Bacall threw up a frustrated hand and turned away from him to tackle the door handle. With their luck it would be locked, and—
    Dear God.
    Unbeknownst to Miss Bacall, a ragged section of the back of her dress was missing—that would’ve been the ripping noise he’d heard when he pulled her onto the platform. The torn piece of cloth hung from a railing bolt, fluttering in the breeze like a flag. But his gaze narrowed on what that missing piece of dress exposed.
    Miles and miles of leg covered in black stockings. A tease of pink skin above the garters. And lingerie the color of a ripe honeydew melon, trimmed with a border of embroidered peacock feathers.
    His heart stopped.
    Imagine that. All her dour, black clothes were a false front, like a Wild West building in a Hollywood film! And underneath was all this . . .
color
.
    Color and more.
    So much more.
    Because filling out the melon-green step-in chemise was the roundest, most voluptuous ass he’d ever laid eyes on—hands down, no exaggeration. How could someone this skinny and long have a backside the size of a basketball?
    It was the single greatest thing he’d ever seen in all his twenty-five years.
    She grunted, completely oblivious to her situation. “The door’s not locked, but the latch is stuck. Help me.”
    Should he tell her? He had to tell her, didn’t he? How could she not feel cool air back there? Dammit, he had to tell her. And he would . . . but my
God
, that thing was round. If he was at half-mast before, she certainly had his full attention now.
    “Mr. Magnusson?”
    “What? Oh, yes. Let me . . . just shift over this way so I can reach. Never mind, I’ll just do it this way. Stand still.” Wind whipped across the back of his neck. He reached around her shoulders, and there was no getting around this part, because they really had no room on the platform, and the train was picking up speed. So he was forced—forced!—to flatten himself against her back to reach the latch. Gods above. It was like sinking into a warm pillow: not too soft, not too firm. Just right. And because she was tall, he didn’t have to bend down too much for his victory-happy cock to nestle in the valley right between those plump, cushiony—
    “Oh . . . God,” she whispered.
    Indeed. Guess he wouldn’t have to break the bad news about the rip in her dress after all.
     • • • 
    When the latch dropped, Hadley slid open the door and dashed inside the train car. Compartments stacked with baggage lined both sides of the otherwise deserted space.
    Had that really just happened? Because “that” felt an awful lot like an overexcited male. Cool air tickled the backs of her legs. She twisted to get a better look at her dress.
    “You ripped it during the jump.” He latched the outer door, halting the whistling wind and clack of the speeding train.
    “You might’ve told me!”
    “I didn’t notice until you turned around. I was busy trying to save us from being shot.”
    “Save
us
?” She gathered the tattered edges of her dress together in an attempt to hide the tear. “You were the one being fired at, not me. And you were the one brandishing a—it looked like a ceremonial dagger.”
    “The ceremonial ones aren’t sharp. Mine is.” His deep voice carried a bit of an accent—not immediately perceptible, but the cadence of his words had an almost songlike quality. A Scandinavian lilt. Oh, that’s right—the Magnussons were Swedish immigrants. “And you should damn well be glad it is sharp,” he continued. “Or that bullet might’ve re-killed the fox that gave up its short life for your coat collar.”
    “It’s mink, and I don’t remember asking to be saved.”
    “Oh,
w-e-ell
, pardon me for being a gentleman.”
    “Gentleman.” She snorted a bitter laugh. What he’d thrust against her certainly wasn’t gentlemanly. And despite her best efforts, her wanton mind now pounced upon the novelty of the feel of him, hanging