Grave Phantoms (15 page)

Le-Ann invited them into a bright kitchen, where they sat at a table and she served up Dr. Moon's amber-colored soup in beautiful lotus bowls with stout porcelain spoons. Rice noodles and bits of beef gleamed beneath the surface. Astrid thought she was too keyed up to eat—she kept watching Bo's bandage for more blood to appear—but when the steaming perfumed broth was set down in front her, and Le-Ann disappeared, leaving them alone at the table, she changed her mind.

“Tonight we dine like royalty,” Bo said from her side. “This is liquid gold, by the way. Been cooked all day by Le-Ann and her father. He lives upstairs.”

“Are you all right?” Astrid whispered.

“I'm starving, so that's a good sign, don't you think?” Bo said with a small smile.

She did, and upon tasting the soup, found that it
was
liquid gold, and that she was famished. She wolfed it down.

While they ate, Astrid struggled with chaotic emotions. She longed to stare at his skin, and was unnerved by her body's curiosity and complete disregard for his injured state. She wanted to memorize the chiseled lines of his muscles and add it to pictures of him she had in her head. She wanted to touch him. To measure his warmth with her fingertips. To assure herself that he was okay. To cover him up so that Le-Ann couldn't see his beauty.

Want. Want. Want.

Her attention fell to his bandage, and it made her stomach clench so hard, she had to put her spoon down. He caught her looking and met her gaze.

I'm so worried about you
, she told him with her eyes.

You don't need to be, but I'm glad you are
, he seemed to reply. And that made her feel a little better.

Le-Ann hurried back and forth behind them, washing
out Bo's clothes—quite effectively removing most of the blood—and pressing all but his wool coat dry with an iron.

“Is this the ‘good Chinese girl' you were hoping for when you said that earlier?” Astrid asked in a low voice. She thought of her own poor housekeeping skills and wondered if Bo thought her spoiled. “Someone to clean your clothes and feed you? Because after that soup, I'm thinking I might want to marry her myself.”

“Did you hear that, Le-Ann?” Bo called over his shoulder. “She's ready to fight Dr. Doom for you.”

“I heard her,” Le-Ann said.

In perfect English.

Astrid's head shot up.

Le-Ann smiled and shrugged. “Sometimes you don't need to know the same language to communicate. But your Cantonese pronunciation was very good. Keep practicing and I might show you how to make the soup one day.”

“Oh,” Astrid said weakly, remembering everything she'd confessed to the woman earlier.

“By the way,” Le-Ann said, shaking out Bo's pressed shirt after he excused himself from the table to use the telephone. “The answer to your question is yes. If Dr. Moon were French, it would not matter.”

—

Astrid glanced at her silver watch when they finally left the Moons' apartment and found it was already almost midnight. Bo had spoken to Greta and asked her to inform Winter that they were both fine, but she didn't relish going home to face her brother. She didn't relish going home at all, actually, because that would mean the end to their evening. And as much as she wished to erase the bloody part of it, she was grateful to have spent it with Bo.

The street was dark and quiet; the rain had slowed to a misting drizzle. Bo had watched from the balcony for a long time before they left, scanning the shadows to ensure they hadn't been followed. He continued to do that now,
hand on his gun as he hurried her into the nook between the buildings where his car was parked. Nothing stirred. No one jumped out at them wielding a knife. The only potentially dangerous thing they encountered was Bo's own impending anger when he inspected his dented fender.

“I'm really sorry,” Astrid said, peering into the dark space between the car and the fence she'd rammed. “Lucky for you, my family's loaded. Sylvia will be repaired good as new.”

“Lucky for you, that morphine pill the doc gave me has not worn off, because I don't much care at the moment.”

She laughed nervously. “Well, I'll try not to do any more damage on the way home. Let me help you get inside the car.” She knew he'd walked down the stairs without aid. She only wanted an excuse to touch him again. But when she opened the door, he tossed his bloodied coat into the back and climbed into the passenger seat without her help.

Mildly disappointed, she shuffled to the driver's side and slid behind the wheel.

His hand reached out before she could start the engine. “I'm sorry this was a terrible date,” he said, curling his hand around hers. His fingers were cool and strong, and she relaxed in his grip, letting him pull her around in the seat to face him.

“It wasn't a date,” she insisted. “Dates don't include stabbings. Of that, I'm almost certain.”

One corner of his mouth tipped up. “Makes things more exciting, though. Don't you think?”

“No, I do not! It was very upsetting. Are you sure you're all right?”

“I can't even feel it right now, I promise. It's not the first time I've had stitches and won't be the last.” His palm glided over the sleeve of her coat and rubbed her upper arm, up and down, while he watched her face. She had trouble looking at him when he was this close. She worried he'd be able to read her thoughts through her eyes, and right now those thoughts were dangerously jumbled.

“If this really was our second date, do you think you'd never want to see me again?” he asked. “Would you be sorry you saw me in the speakeasy that night and wish for a man who was less trouble?”

Were they pretending again? Just the thought of it made her pulse galloop. His hand molded the curve of her shoulder and stole beneath the fur collar of her coat. Currents of energy zipped over her skin as he stroked the tiny hairs at the nape of her neck.

“There's one thing you should understand about me, Mr. Yeung. I am a Magnusson,” she said, trying not to melt into his touch. “We are not easily frightened. In fact, we're rather stupidly brave.”

He chuckled. His fingers sneaked under the bottom of her bob and traced up the back of her head. She shivered.

“Now that you mention it, I think I've heard that about your family.” His words were low and spoken near her cheek. “I'm a bootlegger, too, you know.”

“Is that so?”

His hand ghosted down her back and urged her closer. “We travel in the same circles. God, you smell nice. You always smell so good. I used to think it was that fancy French soap you use, but now I'm sure it's just the scent of your skin. It's intoxicating.”

“How do you know what soap I use? I only met you last week, remember?”

“Oh, that's right. I haven't been shopping with you about a thousand times, and I don't remember every brand, color, size, and store you like, do I? So I'll just assume it's some bewitching perfume. Let's pretend you're wearing some.”

Let's pretend.

Her heart exploded like a spinning Catherine wheel, shooting off sparks.

“All right,” she whispered. She wanted to touch him. Badly. His shirt collar, too thick for the iron to dry, was still damp. It lay open and partially unbuttoned to expose the cords of his neck, and she could see that he hadn't put
his undershirt back on, nor had he tucked the tails of his shirt into his pants. He looked wild and unkempt. A dangerous rogue. And she couldn't stop herself from tracing the dip in the center of his clavicle with one thumb.

His nose grazed her ear. The sensations this stirred in her traveled down both arms and through her chest. Her stomach. And lower. She sucked in a fast breath and pressed her thighs together in a poor attempt to stanch the sudden heat gathering between her legs, but that only made things worse.

“Has anyone ever kissed you here?” Bo said, voice barely above a whisper.

Where did he mean? Before she could ask, his lips parted over her ear. He began kissing her there—short, heavy, lingering kisses that rocketed though her body. They were so intense, she wasn't certain if she could stand it, and her shoulder automatically rose to either push him away or trap him inside the crook of her neck. Undeterred, he sucked her earlobe into his mouth and did something wildly immoral with his tongue.

Stars!
Where had he learned to do that? She'd never felt anything so pleasurable. She sucked in a sharp breath and pressed her thighs together again in an attempt to stanch her body's overexcited response. Terrible idea. That only made things worse.

“Should I try the other side?” he asked in a teasing voice. He didn't wait for an answer, just trailed openmouthed kisses along her jaw, down the front of her throat where Max had nicked her with the knife hours before, and around to the other ear. She shamelessly bared her neck to give him better access, and he repeated the same slow, erotic maneuver on her other ear, ending with a leisurely lick around the outer shell.

“Good . . . God,” she said between breaths. Was she panting? That might be the cause of her light-headedness. She was only vaguely aware she had balled up the front of his shirt in her fist and couldn't quite make her fingers
release it. One more kiss and she'd slide off the seat, right into the floorboard.

When she opened her eyes and caught a fleeting look between them, she could see that she'd pulled up enough of the fabric to reveal a golden patch of his stomach above his belt, and below that, angled and askew, a substantial bulge in his pants. More than substantial.

“Astrid,” he said on a long exhale against her hair. “I've wanted to do that for a long,
long
time. Would you like to know what else I've wanted to do?”

At that point, she lost her mind a little.

She wasn't sure whose mouth found whose first. All she knew was they were kissing, and it wasn't the same as the first time. It was rough and desperate, and she wasn't nervous. She was ravenous. Aching. Feral. She couldn't get enough of him.

His tongue pushed between her lips, thick and wide, and it rolled against hers, testing. Asking. She answered the call and deepened the kiss as his hands roughly cupped the back of her head and held her in place. No one had ever kissed her like that. No one. She wasn't young and fragile. Not made of glass. Not weak. Not in need of protection. She was strong, and he wasn't afraid to push back against that strength.

That felt glorious. Dizzyingly so.

“Bo,” she said, almost a moan, when he pulled back.

“Come here,” he whispered. “I need you here.”

He needed her
. Stars, that was exciting. Before she understood what he was asking, he'd wrapped an arm around her back and was pulling her onto his lap. Her brain wasn't working. Did he want her to sit? No, he didn't. She felt his hand on the inside of her knee as he rearranged her, pulling one leg over his lap until she straddled him.

“Your stitches . . .” she whispered.

“Damn the stitches.”

“I don't want to hurt you.”

“You make the pain disappear.” He ran both hands
down her back and urged her closer. So close, her skirt hiked up above her knees. Her legs made a vee around his hips—around the tented fly of his pants that made her heart pound wildly. He was looking, too. He didn't seem to care that she was staring, but then, it was a sight he got to see all the time. For her, it was novel: he wanted her, and he didn't care that she knew.

But he wasn't the only one not caring. Her legs were wantonly exposed to his heavy gaze, and she didn't bother to pull down her skirt. His hands left her back to smooth up her thighs, fingers splayed. Slowly. Touching the silk like he was savoring the feel of it on his palms. Like he was the one receiving pleasure instead of giving it.

“Make me stop,” he murmured.

“Not on your life.” Did he really think she would? Why was he going so slow? He was killing her. Tormenting her on purpose.

God help her, but she loved it.

She couldn't believe this was happening. It was a dream, and yet it was real.

He got to the rolled band of her stockings and stopped before he touched bare flesh. A muscle jumped in her leg. He hooked his thumbs beneath her garters. Tugged them. Wound them around his thumbs until they tightened sharply. As if he were imprisoning himself. Or her. Both of them.

If he wanted to punish himself, she would help. His hands were bound, but hers weren't. She kissed him again, holding his face in her hands. Small kisses on the ever-merry indented corners of his mouth that often curled up when he was being playful. A lick across his bottom lip, which was full and swollen from kissing hers. He trapped her tongue and briefly sucked it into his mouth. As he did, her hand dropped away from his face.

She followed his shirt buttons, one by one, fingers lightly grazing over the bump of his bandage. She didn't want to hurt him. She just wanted to find skin. There. Where his shirttails split. His stomach was warm and
smooth. She traced the furrows between his muscles, the dip of his belly button. The trail of dark hair that arrowed down into his pants. And then she ran her open hand over his fly.

Beneath her fingers, he was hot, thick, and exceptionally hard. She stroked him through the fabric and was amazed. He moaned into her mouth, which made her feel powerful, so she kissed him harder and gave him another long up-and-down pet, and then pulled her hand away.

His breath came out slow and shaky against her lips.

Her stockings tightened, biting into her thighs. Then with a snap, he released them. He slung strong arms around her waist and roughly pulled her closer, until the damp center of her silk tap pants pushed against his fly. His hips thrust up; his arms pulled her down. He dragged her over the length of him—so hard, she could feel every button in his fly
pop! pop! pop!
against her most sensitive flesh.