Grim Shadows (Roaring Twenties) Read Free Page B

it up in a gilded frame at the forefront of her thoughts.
    “Fine. Shall I unlatch the door?” he said. “You can jump out and hobble back to the station on a broken leg. And after those thugs hold you hostage, you can sign over Daddy’s check to pay the ransom and pat yourself on the back.”
    The edges of her vision darkened before she had a chance to dampen her mounting anger. Murky and foul, her specters emerged from the walls like shadows come to life. Though fully visible to her, they were—usually—imperceptible to anyone unlucky enough to be in their path when she couldn’t send them back to whatever hellish place from which they came.
    Or when she
wouldn’t
send them back.
    Caught in their grip, a row of leather suitcases slid from the rack above Mr. Magnusson and toppled. He lurched out of the way and nearly knocked her over in an attempt to save his own head.
    Served him right.
    She backed farther into the car as the next rack of baggage avalanched.
    That
was for lustily shoving himself against her undergarments and making her want something she couldn’t have.
    He shouted incoherently, ducking the falling bags. He moved with surprising grace for someone so tall. Still, better put a stop to this now before he was knocked unconscious or killed.
    Or before he put two and two together and figured out it was her specters that had broken the windows in the first train.
    One, two, three, four . . .
    Anger blinded and stripped away her control. And when she was out of control, the specters would attack the object of her anger with deadly force, so she had to reel these dangerous emotions in. Must. Her father was relying on her to haggle with this man. The
djed
amulet meant something more to her father than an academic study or a bragging right, especially if he was willing to part with so much money to snag it before the museum or other collectors had a chance to bid.
Possessing this is the most important mission in my life,
he’d said.
    Five, six, seven, eight . . . She counted until the specters faded back into the walls and Mr. Magnusson stopped shouting obscenities. She thought they were obscenities, anyway; he was speaking in Swedish now, so it was hard to be sure.
    “What in the living hell?” he shouted, switching back to English. He stood at the ready, scanning the piles of baggage as he shoved disheveled locks of wavy blond hair out of his eyes. And what eyes they were, sharp and cunning—the bright, cool blue of the faience-ware lotus vase in case fourteen of the museum’s Late New Kingdom exhibit. Those eyes were a distraction, as were the hollow cheeks and regal Scandinavian cheekbones, high and arching like the bow of a Viking longboat. And those lips . . . studded with dimpled corners and so full, they’d be the envy of any woman.
    His only flaw was a broken nose that hadn’t set correctly. It was just crooked enough below a bump in the middle to draw attention, but still not altogether unattractive. Ridiculously unfair that an opportunistic loot-hound could be so blindingly, roguishly handsome.
    She’d seen his photograph—half the world had—but it didn’t do him justice. Something about the way he carried his towering frame smacked of confidence and reprobation. And the unshaven jaw and scuffed shoes only made him look like a fairy-tale king dressed as a beggar. As if she could be fooled into thinking he needed her compassion. His brother was one of the richest bootleggers in town. She wouldn’t be surprised if the Magnusson family’s illegal gains exceeded what was left of her mother’s fortune.
    “Did you see that?” he said, holding his arms out as if he’d lost his balance.
    “I saw it.”
    “Is the train rocking? What just happened?”
    “It’s over,” she said, trying her best to play dumb. “So, what’s your plan now, Mr. Magnusson? Do we hole up in here for the next, what, eighteen hours, until we make it to San Francisco? Or do we jump off at the next