The crowd went wild. Even in the dim light, he could see the amazement on their faces as wonder replaced fear. He’d not only escaped the water—this time, he’d also defeated the utter darkness that had alarmed even the most cynical men in the audience.
He gave the house his most dazzling smile and took his bow, letting the rumble of the crowd’s approval roll over him. But their thunderous applause did nothing to alleviate the unease that clung to him, as cold and uncomfortable as his wet drawers. He gave his audience one last grateful salute before he ceded the stage to Evelyn and her so-called sisters.
As the first of the three girls sashayed into the spotlights, the crowd erupted again, this time in hoots and whistles. Apparently, a pair of legs was all it took for the audience to forget their amazement. The realization dulled the usual shot of adrenaline he got from being onstage, leaving him feeling jittery and nervous, aching to flex his affinity again.
Harte handed the unlocked chains to one of the stagehands and pulled a robe around himself as he navigated the maze of ropes and pulleys backstage and made his way back to his dressing room.
He wasn’t surprised, somehow, to see the girl waiting for him. He’d been expecting something like this for days now, ever since he’d almost ruined her chance to escape at the museum. Still, her appearance, a burst of color and fire in his drab little dressing room, made him pause.
“I’m guessing Dolph sent you,” he said, closing the door behind him.
She was dressed in a deep-plum-colored skirt and a creamy blouse that draped over her curves without hiding them. Her dark hair was pulled back from her face and gathered loosely at the nape of her neck. Delicately carved jade combs accented the burnished-chestnut curls. Dressed as she was, she could have passed for one of the ladies on Park Avenue, but the wicked spark in her eyes was at odds with the polish of her clothes.
It wasn’t that long ago that John Torrio had been sitting in that same place, and Harte had the sudden thought that he wasn’t sure which of the chair’s occupants might be more of a threat to his own well-being.
“Back to assault me again?” He tucked his hands into the pockets of the robe and wished like hell she hadn’t come.
Most of all, he wished there wasn’t a part of him that was glad to see her again, safe and whole. And in his dressing room.
“Unfortunately,” she said, leaning toward him almost conspiratorially, “I’m under strict orders not to. This time, at least.”
“How disappointing that must be for you,” he drawled, relaxing a little into her humor.
“You have no idea.” She sighed dramatically and leaned back in his dressing chair. Shadows thrown by the lamp flickered across her face, and he had the distinct feeling she was laughing at him, despite the serious expression on her face. “I did want to thank you, though,” she said, and he could tell that the words cost her.
Amused despite himself, he crossed the room to where his clothes were waiting for him on the radiator. “For?”
“For not telling anyone what you saw the other night,” she said.
He glanced back at her. “Who says I haven’t?”
She frowned, her dark brows pulling together. “Morgan looked pretty upset in that picture on the front page. I doubt I’d be here if he had any idea who was involved.”
“He was,” Harte admitted. “Very upset. I wouldn’t thank me just yet, though.”
“No?” She tilted her head slightly, an almost imperceptible shift, but enough to tell him she was worried.
Good. Let her worry. She kept him on his toes every time they met, so it was only fair he got to do the same. Never mind how much he was growing to like their games.
“You never know when I might happen to remember something.” He gave her a meaningful look. “Something that the police might find interesting.”
“Are you trying to blackmail me?” she asked.
“Not trying, no. Not yet, at least.” He smiled pleasantly, because he had the sense it would irritate her even more. “But give me time, and I might find something I want from you.”
She let out a derisive laugh. “In your dreams.”
He winked. “Every night, sweetheart.”
“Look, as much fun as this has been, I’m only here because Dolph needs a favor from you.”
“I’m well aware of what Dolph wants from me. I’m also pretty sure I’ve already made my answer clear about that particular topic.”
“I’m supposed to change your mind,” she said, fluttering her thick lashes in his direction.
Understanding the ruse for what it was, he laughed. “Seeing as there isn’t any shortage of beautiful women in my business, even a figure as fine as yours probably won’t be enough to turn my head.” He gave her a wry look as he stripped off his robe and hung it over the dressing screen. “No offense, of course,” he said as an afterthought.
“None taken.”
If he’d been hoping to make her uncomfortable, it didn’t work. She didn’t seem the least bit concerned now that he was standing in little more than a pair of sodden shorts. Or that she was in a mostly darkened room alone with him. She didn’t even look away. If anything, she seemed to be enjoying herself. Her expression was one he recognized too well—the anticipation of the game. Which only served to irritate him more.
“Considering I have information that could make Dolph’s life much more uncomfortable, it seems like I’m the one who should be asking for favors,” he said.
“What sort of favor would you like?” she asked, her gaze unwavering.
He’d just stood on a stage in front of three hundred people, but he felt suddenly, inexplicably bare. Like she’d turned his own state of undress against him.
“I’d have to put some thought into it,” he said.
“Be careful you don’t hurt yourself,” she said, her eyes wide in mock concern.
He shook his head at her cheek and stepped behind the dressing screen to shuck off his wet shorts and pull on dry ones. And to give himself some space so he could think.
It was unnerving, the way she looked at him so directly, without a blush to her cheeks or any sign of discomfort at all. But he also admired her for it . . . not that he had any plans to let her best him again.
“There’s got to be something you want,” she said. “Something Dolph can do for you to change your mind.”
“Dolph Saunders doesn’t have anything I want,” he said truthfully as he pulled on his warm pants. From the other side of the screen, he heard the sound of metal on metal, and he looked to see what she was doing. “There’s no key for those,” he warned when he saw her playing with the handcuffs that hung from his dressing table.
“Really? Then I suppose I should be extra careful.” With a flick, she locked one of the iron cuffs around her wrist. “Oops.” She brought her gloved hands to her mouth, which only drew attention to how pink her lips were. How soft they looked. How they’d felt against his.
He remembered those lips. . . . He also remembered the teeth behind them. Some things weren’t worth the trouble.