“John D. Rockefeller and Oscar Wilde have stayed here,” Winter said. “Hollywood actors and famous opera singers, too. And it just so happens that I supply their booze.”

Even a deaf person could hear the note of pride in his voice. She grinned up at him. “You’re their hero, I suppose.”

“It’s a tough job, being a hero to rich drunkards and party girls.”

“Yes, I can imagine. Is that why we’re here? So you can show off?”

“Only a little. We’re mainly here because they have a chef who cooks a beautiful chop,” he said, offering his arm.

Beaded gowns and tuxedos draped the haut monde that paraded through the illuminated entrance alongside them. Once inside, Aida’s gaze tried to take everything in: polished floors, staggering floral displays, beveled glass, and gleaming brass. She wondered what it would be like to stay in a room here. Like royalty, she supposed.

In the main lobby, they stopped at a concierge coat check to exchange their outer garments for a numbered ticket. She hated to give up the new coat but reluctantly opened the large square button over her hip and shimmied out of it. Winter turned to take it from her. Reaching hands stopped midair as his eyes wandered over the peacock-embroidered chiton gown, over her elbow-length white gloves, over bare shoulders . . . until his gaze finally lit on her breasts.

“Christ alive,” he mumbled. “That dress is sheer.”

Warmth rose to her cheeks. “No sheerer than half the gowns here.”

He made a garbled, low sound of doubt. “I can see everything.”

She looked down. “You cannot!” She’d checked in the mirror before coming—twice. The golden beads on the torso covered most of her breasts. It wasn’t obscene, for Pete’s sake. A little daring, maybe, and she couldn’t wear a chemise or brassiere beneath, or it would show through. But it was still sophisticated. She wore dresses onstage that were comparable in style, if not in quality.

“I can count the freckles over your nipples.”

Her face twisted as she darted a wary glance at the coat check girl. “Keep your voice down,” she complained. “And you can’t see my nipples.”

“We-e-ell, maybe my recent supernatural woes have fortified me with more than just ghost-sight, because I can make out the exact size of—”

She smacked his arm. “The girl is waiting for my ridiculously expensive fur coat.”

His eyes danced merrily as he draped the fox over his own coat and handed both to the girl, then pocketed the coat check ticket inside his tuxedo jacket. “I really do owe Ju a big thank-you.”

“I hope it wasn’t Sook-Yin who made it.”

“She can’t sew, so I think you’re safe.”

“It was made by one of the younger prostitutes, then? Hopefully one you haven’t slept with.”

“Careful, cheetah. And I haven’t slept with any of the younger ones.”

“Hallelujah.”

A slow grin spread over his face, plumping up high Scandinavian cheekbones. He held out his arm. “Shall we dine, Miss Palmer?”

They headed out of the lobby and walked into the Palm Court, a large, bustling room that was partitioned into a lounge with a piano at the front, and a restaurant at the back. The host at the podium took one look at Winter and snapped his finger at a waiter several steps before they arrived. “Mr. Magnusson, always a pleasure. We have your table ready.”

Well-dressed patrons lounged and dined around clusters of lazy palms under a domed iridescent glass ceiling. Aida watched diners’ reactions as she and Winter wended their way through the tables: first Winter’s size caught their eyes, then they recognized him, and finally they looked at her in curiosity. Table by table, this was how it went, until they were seated off to one side beneath a balcony, where potted palms and a marble column gave them some privacy from the rest of the floor.

“Is this always how it is for you?” she asked after the waiter brought menus, stripping off her long gloves and tucking them in the handle of her handbag. He watched her actions over the top of his menu, staring at her hands with great interest. What on earth was so interesting? She looked down, wondering if her fingers were covered in ink from a leaky pen. They weren’t. His mind seemed to be elsewhere. She dipped her head to catch his eye. “Does everyone recognize you, I meant.”

He blinked and shook away his daze. “Depending on where I go, yes. It will stop in a minute, once they realize I’m not doing anything interesting. Surely you must be used to some of this yourself.”

“I never stay anywhere long enough to garner a following. People recognize me now and then at the Automat across the street from Gris-Gris. I can barely read this menu, it’s so dark back here. Tell me what’s good.”

With a hand under her seat, he scooted her closer, chair and all, oblivious to the whispering at neighboring tables. Now that their arms were practically touching, he browsed the entrées with her, talking up the merits of his beloved chop, which sounded as if he liked it so much, they should probably consider adding his name next to it on the menu. She ended up ordering what the waiter recommended, including a French wine that Winter cockily assured her was some of the best in the city; the very best, he hoarded in his own cellar.

Winter was served the thickest chop she’d ever seen in her life—certainly not the size that was listed on the menu—while she had prime rib and salad with dressing the Palace had made famous, or so they claimed: something called green goddess. They talked as they ate. Conversation was so effortless and easy, it was almost as if the visit to Ju’s had never happened. She watched him in surreptitious snatches while he chatted: his animated mouth with its deep indentations at the corners, made deeper by the flickering candle at their table; the sleek wave of his brilliantined hair, so dark it was almost black; and those bewitching mismatched eyes, which now looked so merry.