Holding her dress closed with one hand behind her back, she reached for the envelope.

He snatched it back an inch. “Sure you’re fully dressed?”

“Of course I’m sure,” she lied. “Unlike someone in this room, I don’t parade around naked in front of strangers.”

“I’m not a stranger.”

“And you’re no gentleman, either, or you wouldn’t—stop that!” She leaned back as he stuck his head over the screen and tracked her movement, his face towering inches away and closing the distance ever so slowly, his eyes never leaving hers. If she continued to retreat, she’d be falling backward.

His voice was a warm, velvety lick up her nerves. “Need help buttoning that dress, cheetah?” When she made a panicked noise, he added, “I can see you in the mirror.”

She glanced toward the side of the screen without moving her head. The dressing counter was in her sight, just past his hanging fedora, but he still couldn’t . . .

“Behind you.” He tilted his eyes to a spot on the wall at her back, where a long dressing mirror stood—dammit!—then looked back down at her face and smiled. “A few advantages to this point of view.” He raised a level hand above his head.

“A few disadvantages, too—if you lean any harder on the dressing screen, it’ll be reduced to matchsticks.”

“Not seeing how this is a problem.”

A host of rebuttals formed and dissolved inside her head as she took a step back. “You probably couldn’t even manage the buttons with those beefy fingers of yours.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I think you’d find I’m skilled at managing all kinds of buttons. Big, small, round. Pearl buttons—I like those quite a bit, and I’m very good at manipulating them.”

What in the world were they talking about? Alarms blared in her head. “It’s not like you’ve caught me in a scandalous position.” Why was she talking so loud? “All you can expect to see is a bit of back. You can ogle more skin in the middle of the day on the beach.”

“‘A bit of back’ is not going to drive me to depravity, Miss Palmer. I’m offering to do you a favor, not asking for one.” The calm and sensible way he said this made her feel foolish.

And really, it might be nice to feel his fingers on her skin. Just the thought of it made her nostrils widen.

“The chorus girls will be back any second, so hurry.” She turned around and bared her back. “You’ll have to come around here.”

She waited, heart hammering, and listened to the floorboards creaking under his feet. Heard him stop behind her. Waited . . .

Waited some more.

What was he doing? It took every ounce of willpower she had to stop herself from spinning on her heels to face him. Then she remembered the dressing mirror and darted her eyes to the side. If she leaned forward an inch, she could see him in the mirror—not his eyes, but she could see him below the nose. He was standing behind her, looking down at her back, tugging on the tips of his gloves to remove them.

A thrill shuttled through her bones, sending an anticipatory wave of goose bumps across her bowed back. She’d called him a pervert, but sadly, she was the guilty party, because her breath was coming faster and a familiar pleasurable heat was blooming between her legs.

She watched him surveying her back in the mirror. His mouth was open, as if he were poised to say something. Maybe he was having trouble breathing, too.

Without warning, he straightened and tugged his glove on again before marching back around the screen.

“What are you doing?” she asked, standing on tiptoes to peer at him.

A big palm snatched the hat off the screen corner. He molded it atop his head at an angle that shaded his wounded eye. “You’re right. It’s not proper.”

Not proper? She never said it wasn’t proper. And, well, it wasn’t, but when did a bootlegger care about conventions? Or maybe that was just a cover-up for something else—did he see something on her back that revolted him? Some ghastly mole? Was she too heavily freckled there for his tastes? Too skinny? Too fat? Why did he stop?

“I’ll tell Daniels to send in a girl to help you,” he said in a rushed voice. “Enjoy the champagne. Thanks again, and please consider Mrs. Beecham’s offer. She’s interested in spiritualism and will invite all her rich friends. Good potential business for you. Contact her directly if you’re interested.”

“But—”

He opened the dressing room door and exited without looking back. “Good night, Miss Palmer.”

• • •

Winter stopped outside Aida’s dressing room to compose himself. Christ, that was close. A second more, and he would’ve had his hands all over her back . . . and her back on the floor. In public, where anyone could walk in on them. It was disgraceful. She wasn’t a whore, for God’s sake. One look at her bared back and the gentle slope of her bent neck and he was hard.

And a fool.

His record with the medium wasn’t good. First he’d collapsed on the woman. Then exposed his naked body to her. Then he’d made rude insinuations while unintentionally exposing her to lewd and indecent material in his study—though, to be fair, if she hadn’t been poking around in his things, that wouldn’t have happened.

He reminded himself how fast she wriggled away when she came to her senses after the postcard incident. If she knew what was on his mind today, she’d slap him to kingdom come.