Chapter One
“What’s the password?”
Are you shitting me? Saint glared at the guy who’d just opened the small, metal grill in the wooden door before him. The door itself looked like something straight out of the 1920s, but then, that was probably the point. He was standing in front of a speakeasy in Savannah, Georgia, and the jerk squinting at him from behind the small viewing area in the door wasn’t going to let him in, not unless Saint had the magic word.
“Password,” the man repeated impatiently.
Fucking annoying. Saint grabbed a fifty from his wallet and shoved it toward the man’s eyes. The eyes were all he could see beyond that grill. “I’m pretty sure it’s Grant.” The president on the bill.
The cash disappeared through a small slat. “Nope. Tonight, the password is misdirection. Remember that in case anyone else asks.” Then the big door swung open as he allowed Saint to step inside.
“Welcome to Abracadabra,” he told Saint. “Get ready for some magic.”
Saint barely contained an eye roll as he strode past the bouncer—a tall guy wearing all black—and down the dark corridor that waited for him. Gas lanterns flickered on the walls, and he realized that heavy stone rested beneath his feet. He had to give the place points for atmosphere, if one had been going for a grim and cold atmosphere. Then he rounded the corner, saw the dark, red drapes, and Saint pushed them aside…
Well, well, well.
It was truly like walking back in time. Because Saint could have sworn that he was staring straight at an old-school speakeasy. Exposed brick showed on all the walls, a long, twisting bar ran down the right side of the room, and high-back chairs and round tables were scattered along the perimeter.
A stage—with black curtains and a black floor—waited to the left. On that stage, a woman stood in a circle of light, holding tight to a microphone, and crooning for all she was worth. And the place was packed. Men and women filled the joint, but they were dressed like they were at a fancy ball. The men were in tuxes, while the women were in designer gowns. And the drinks were definitely flowing.
Okay, so Alice Shephard knows how to make a killing.
Because this was her place. He’d spent the last six days researching her. Learning every possible detail that he could about the mysterious Alice. The details had certainly made her look dangerous.
It seemed to be common knowledge that Alice was a killer. That she’d gotten away not with just one murder, but potentially three. And as he passed the packed crowd and made his way to the bar, he even caught a few excited whispers about her…
“Do you think she’ll be here tonight?”
“God, could you imagine? Sharing a drink with a real killer!”
“I want my picture taken with her.”
His brows pulled low at the comments. In his experience, people weren’t excited about the prospect of hanging out with a killer. Or, at least, they shouldn’t be excited.
Alice seemed to be eliciting an unusual response from these individuals. People he realized were packing the speakeasy just because it was her place.
When he got to the bar, he took the only open stool he saw. He reached into his wallet and pulled out another fifty. A woman with dark hair had her back to him. She was mixing a drink, humming slightly, and he cleared his throat to get her attention.
“Don’t worry, handsome,” she said without looking back, “I’ll be with you next. But I’m already guessing you’re an old-school whiskey guy. An old-fashioned? That what you’re after? Because you hardly seem the pretty-drink type to me.”
He’d been looking at the crowd, but at that low, husky voice—a voice that seemed to sink into his skin—he jerked his head back toward the bartender. He realized she was wearing a shimmering, silver dress. Very much flapper-like. It dipped low at her back, plunging in a daring V that stopped right over her perfectly rounded hips. When he leaned forward a bit, he could see beyond the bar’s edge, and he got a glimpse of her toned legs and the high heels that—
“Like what you see?”
She was still not looking at him, but she seemed absolutely certain he was looking at her. His gaze immediately whipped up, thinking there must be a mirror on the wall there so that she could peer at him, but—
No. No mirror. Just bottles and bottles of alcohol.
“I’ll take that as a yes.” A throaty, seductive laugh. “But, sorry, my dark and dangerous new friend, I am not on the menu.” Then she turned toward him.
And it was as he’d suspected.
Fucking Alice Shephard.
The heels had given her extra height. At least two inches extra. Maybe three. And her hair was different. In the picture he’d viewed of her, Alice’s hair had trailed down her back and been shot with blond highlights. Now, her hair skimmed just below her shoulders. It was much darker, but when she stepped forward and a shaft of illumination hit her, he realized there were still golden highlights in her hair.
Golden highlights. Blood-red lipstick on her full, sensual lips. Luminous eyes that had been carefully shadowed to make them appear even deeper. Even bolder. Cheekbones sharp enough to cut.
Her head tilted to the right, and her hair slid over her shoulder. “You’re not wearing the appropriate clothing for tonight’s affair.”
He was wearing jeans. A black shirt. His old jacket.
“You bribed your way inside.” A nod. “Typical. Well, I’ll let you stay, but just because I am an incredibly nice person. Next time, download our app so that you know what the theme is for the evening. The theme and the password.”
So there was a theme? That was why everyone was so fancy? Whatever. He didn’t give a shit about being fancy. He cared about her. “Are you nice?”
Someone at the end of the bar called out to her.
She ignored the person. Saint could have sworn a spark of interest lit her eyes as Alice sharpened her gaze on him. Then she was leaning toward him, sliding her upper body over the edge of the bar, and Saint found himself leaning toward her, as well. He caught her scent—light, floral, kinda reminded him of freshly cut roses he’d scented once or twice—and he drank it in.
“No,” Alice replied, her voice going low and even huskier. “I’m not nice.”
He smiled at her. “Good. Because I’m not, either.” Fair warning.
Her gaze, even more luminous in real life than it had been in the photo, dropped to his mouth. “You have one of those gorgeous, disarming smiles,” she noted, not even seeming to miss a beat. “Very dangerous. I’m sure you flash that smile and women drop their panties at your feet.”
He peered down at the ground. “Don’t see any around me at the moment.”
When he looked back up, she was pushing an old-fashioned toward him. He noted the curving shell of the orange peel in the amber liquid.
“You don’t see them because I’m not the type to drop my panties just for a grin. It takes more. A lot more than that for me.”
Saint wrapped his fingers around the drink. As he did, he brushed her fingers because she was pulling back. A hot, hard surge of lust drove through him at the contact. Yeah, I was afraid of that. He ignored the lust and the aching dick he had and tried the drink.