The cauliflower-eared man made a short grunting noise in confirmation.

“I’m going to send word to Ju that the two of you assaulted us without provocation. I’ll let him dole out your punishment. Now get the hell out of here before I change my mind and take you out into the alley.”

• • •

Fifteen minutes later—after Winter had made promises to Doctor Yip about ensuring his protection—Aida scooted across the backseat of a taxi to make room for his big body. She decided it was better to drop her off at Gris-Gris, as there wasn’t time for her to return to her apartment. He instructed the driver, and soon they were pulling out onto a rain-slicked street, away from tong territory.

“That was a stupid thing to do, burning that man in the face,” Winter said staring out the window. “He could’ve hurt you.”

“But he didn’t.”

He turned and looked at her. “Did you think I wouldn’t protect you?” His tone was intimidating, his mouth stern. Was he angry, or was his male pride wounded?

“I wasn’t thinking about anything at all,” she protested. “I just acted on instinct.” When she got no response to that, she asked, “Would you have done worse to them if I wasn’t there?”

“I don’t go around killing everyone who threatens me. I’m not a thug.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

He didn’t answer, which hurt her feelings.

Fine. He could be mad at her and brood in the corner all he wanted. Only, there wasn’t a corner in the taxi, and he filled up every inch of the space with his enormous body, the scent of his clothes, and the dark cloud of emotions radiating from him. She squirmed, trying to cram herself against the door.

He noticed her moving away. “You afraid of me now?”

“No, I just . . .” What? What did she want from him? One moment she was bragging that she could handle herself, then the next, she was upset that he was short with her. If she was being honest with herself, she wanted him closer, not farther away. She wasn’t frail and timid; she didn’t need to be comforted. And she knew exactly what he was, what he did. Saw proof of it last night in the ghost of the man he’d killed.

The violence didn’t surprise or offend her. It was unsettling how little it offended her, to be honest. She just didn’t like the cold-shoulder treatment. Maybe after spending so much time in nightclubs, she’d come to admire the bruisers who guarded the doors and kept the drunks out of her dressing room. They were tough on the outside, but polite as could be backstage. The big guys were always the kindest to her.

And Winter was the biggest man she’d ever known.

A strong wind blew rain against the window as the taxi’s engine noisily rumbled around a curve and up a steep incline. She allowed gravity to pull her back against the seat and glanced down at Winter’s hand. Knuckles were reddened from the punch, the skin bleeding around one.

Gingerly, she reached out across his lap and touched her bare fingers to his, inspecting the wound. Her own hand was half the size of his. “Does it hurt?”

He shifted the arm between them and laid it across the back of the seat, behind her shoulders. This both relaxed and electrified her. She could smell the rain on his coat, the pomade in his hair. “Yes. But it will hurt more tomorrow. Always does.”

“You need to get some ice on it.”

“Probably.”

“That punch was impressive.”

“Mmm.”

“But I’m not afraid of you.”

“You sure about that?” he said softly near her ear.

His bass-heavy voice resounded through her body, unexpectedly kindling warmth between her legs. She shifted in her seat, but the warmth changed to heat. So she tried clamping her thighs together, which only made things worse.

Maybe she shouldn’t be leaning into him, tracing the red pattern around the edge of his injured knuckles. But her poor reasoning skills were at war with her body, which liked his body quite a bit.

“I’m sure,” she told him.

The arm resting behind her shoulders shifted until she felt its weight against her neck.

This was not business anymore.

Her hand stilled on his. She turned her head, slowly, and glanced up at his face. Lazily blinking eyes looked down at hers. His nostrils were flared. She wanted to say something, but she wasn’t sure what, exactly.

Maybe that’s why when she opened her mouth to speak, she ended up pressing it against his. He stilled. His lips didn’t move. Had she shocked him? She’d shocked herself. She didn’t go around kissing men, especially not men who punched people in the face. Certainly not men she worked for. She should definitely stop this foolishness right this second and beg his forgiveness.

And she would have, maybe, had he not kissed her back.

His mouth opened to hers. The little noise of triumph she made in response was embarrassing, but not enough to stop. The arm circling her shoulders pulled her closer. His lips were soft and wet and sent legions of tingles down her arms and back. And that was before his clever tongue slipped between her lips and danced with hers.

She lost all thought and kissed him back savagely. She was desperate and wanting, and his big arms were wrapped around her and it was . . . bliss. Their first kiss was unforgettable, but this was a new level of thrill, to be touched, to touch him back. Her hand slid up either side of his chevroned necktie and strayed around his neck, seeking contact with his skin. She pushed her fingers into the back of his dark hair, fingernails lightly grazing his scalp, and he made a pleasurable sound of approval.