It wasn’t Watson.
“Miss DeMure,” Jack said, surprised to see her standing in his doorway. She was wearing a silk gown of the deepest emerald green, which contrasted with the red of her hair and lips.
She’d come with Sam before, to the first interview he’d had with the reporter. From the looks she’d given Jack during that interview, she’d been interested in Jack—more than interested. He’d hoped to see her again, but he hadn’t expected her to arrive at his town house, unannounced and alone.
He looked past her, for some sign that Sam Watson was with her.
“Sam couldn’t come,” she said, stepping past him. “Regrettably, he was detained by something at the office. I thought you might enjoy my company instead.” She tossed a smile over her shoulder, and Jack, who was not one to overlook a gift like this, shut the door behind her.
“Your company?” he asked expectantly, turning back to her.
She was running her gloved fingertips over the smooth, dark wood of the entry table. “Was I wrong?”
“No,” he said, feeling a flush of warmth and satisfaction. “Not at all. Please, come in. Something to drink?”
The went into the parlor, and he poured them both glasses of sherry. She took the offered drink with a coy smile, but then she turned from him to examine one of the figurines on the sideboard.
He understood immediately the dance that she’d just started, and his gut went tight at the thought of what was to come—the give and take as they circled each other. The tease and the promise of it. And the moment he would triumph.
After a moment Evelyn turned to him, her eyes glittering in the soft light. “I knew Harte Darrigan, you know. . . .”
“Darrigan?” Irritation coursed through Jack as his mood went icy. The last thing he wanted to think about when he was entertaining a willing woman was that damned magician.
Evelyn nodded. “Some might say that I knew him intimately.”
“Did you?” he asked, not bothering to hide the disgust in his voice.
“Oh, don’t be jealous, Jack,” she said, and then she laughed, deep and throaty.
Despite his irritation, the sound tugged at his gut again, but the morphine was still in his blood, making his mind clear and his thoughts direct. She was toying with him.
But he was no mouse.
He stalked over to her slowly, so she wouldn’t be afraid. So she wouldn’t realize that it wasn’t he who was the prey. “I wouldn’t waste my time being jealous of trash like Darrigan,” he told her.
Her red mouth drew up into a smile. “I didn’t think you would. I knew from the moment I heard you speak to Sam the other day that you were too smart, too shrewd for an emotion as petty as jealousy. Which is why I thought you might be interested in information I have about him.”
He took another step closer, until he could smell the cloying perfume that hung around her like a cloud, brash and loud—just like she was. “What information?”
“I was there that night, you know,” she told him, sipping her sherry and never once breaking eye contact. A challenge if ever there was one. “I was at Khafre Hall the night everything happened. I know the Order is trying to cover the truth, that they’re using you to distract the public from what actually happened. If you say Darrigan was on the train, I believe you.”
“You do?” Jack asked, coming closer yet and placing his glass on the sideboard.
“Of course, Jack. I knew Darrigan, and I knew that bitch of an assistant he found. She’s the one to blame for all of this, you know.”
He took her by the arm and was gratified to see the flash of fear in her eyes. “I’m not interested in games. If you know where Darrigan or the girl are, you will tell me.”
“I don’t know where he is. I don’t know if he even made it off the train—” He tightened his grip on her arm, and her eyes went wide. “But I do know that he might have left something behind . . . something that might interest you.”
“Did he?” Jack asked, releasing his hold on her a little and then releasing her completely. The morphine had finally bloomed in his veins, softening everything and making him feel very present, like he was everywhere in the room at once. “What did he leave behind?”
“Information like that I could only share with my friends. My very close friends,” she purred. “Are we friends, Jack?”
“Of course,” he murmured.
His mouth curved up of its own accord as she stepped toward him, her eyes lighting with victory, clearly believing that she had won.
But oh, how very, very wrong she was.
THE EXPOSITION
1904—St. Louis
Harte waited with Esta at the corner of Lindell and Plaza, across from one of the main entrances to the world’s fair. She hadn’t spoken to him all morning, but it wasn’t as though he had been willing to bring up what had happened between them the night before. They were both cowards, it seemed, but Harte didn’t miss the way she had been careful not to touch him, not even allowing her arm to brush against his as the streetcar carried them through the town.
Standing outside the gates and watching the steady stream of visitors, Harte began to realize just how large the world’s fair actually was. Lafayette Park, where the Exposition was being housed, stretched for miles in each direction. The scope of the event was astounding. In the distance, he could hear the roar of the crowds and the din of music coming from inside the gates, and every so often, the boom of a cannon or the sharp report of a gun echoed through the air.
“You need to relax,” Esta said, her voice finally breaking through his thoughts. “Looking like that, you’re going to draw attention.”
“Like what?” he asked, risking a glance at her. It was, of course, a mistake. Her eyes were alert and her cheeks pink with the excitement of the day—or maybe it was just the heat—and at the sight of her, something clenched inside of him, something that had nothing to do with the power that had been rumbling ever since he’d kissed her the night before.
“Like you’re about to attack someone,” she said, cutting him an unreadable look out of the corner of her eye.
“I do not look like—” But he saw a familiar face approaching. “He’s coming.”
Despite being more than twenty minutes late, Julien strutted over to them as though nothing were amiss. “You’re late,” Harte told Julien, reaching out to shake hands in greeting.
“Unavoidable,” Julien said with an affable shrug. But the expression in his eyes didn’t match the ease of his words.
When Julien took Harte’s hand in greeting, Harte thought briefly about using his affinity, just to be sure. But across the street, a troop of what was clearly the Jefferson Guard stood at attention near the gates. If Julien was right about them being able to sense magic, it wasn’t worth the risk.
Esta held out her hand as well. “Good to see you again, Jules,” she said, her voice pitched lower than usual.
“Well, well,” Julien said, taking the greeting in stride.
Harte let out a muttered curse. “This is madness,” he said. “There’s no way someone isn’t going to notice what she actually is.”