Chapter 1: Playing the Part
The air in the Back Room was thick enough to chew, a cocktail of stale whiskey, expensive perfume, and something older—something that clung to the velvet curtains like dust on a coffin lid. Emily thought she might choke on it.
She pressed her spine against the wall, the flocked wallpaper scratching through her thin cardigan, and tried to make herself small. The jazz trio tucked in the corner played something mournful and slow, saxophone curling through the smoke like a question nobody wanted to answer. She'd come here with Sarah, who had abandoned her within the first twenty minutes for a guy with a jawline and a trust fund, and now Emily was alone with a drink she didn't want and a man who wouldn't stop looking at her like she was a piece of meat he intended to carve.
Simon Reed. He'd introduced himself twice, as if repetition would make her want him. His thinning brown hair was slicked with sweat, and his ruddy face had that particular flush of a man who'd decided that alcohol was a personality. He'd been circling her for the better part of an hour, orbiting with the kind of persistence that had nothing to do with charm and everything to do with entitlement.
"You're a history girl, right?" He leaned in, his breath a sour fog of bourbon and bad decisions. "I love history. Tell me something interesting."
Emily forced a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "The guillotine was originally developed as a more humane method of execution. Doesn't mean I want to spend my evening with one."
Simon blinked, processing the insult about four seconds too late. A slow, ugly grin spread across his face. "Oh, she's a smart one. I like smart girls. They're more fun to—"
"To what?" Emily's voice was sharp, but her heart had started hammering against her ribs. She'd seen the way his eyes tracked her when she moved. The way his hand kept finding excuses to brush against her arm, her hip, the small of her back. "Simon, I'm not interested. I've said that three times."
"Come on, don't be like that." He stepped closer, and suddenly the wall was at her back and he was exactly where the air used to be. His hand landed on her waist, thick fingers digging into the fabric of her dress, and she felt the heat of his palm through the thin cotton. "I bought you a drink. Least you can do is be friendly."
"You bought me a drink I didn't ask for. That's not a transaction. That's a hostage negotiation."
His grip tightened. "You're a feisty one. I like that."
"Get your hand off me."
It wasn't a request. She twisted free—hard, using the kind of momentum she'd learned in a self-defense class she'd taken after a bad incident in a parking garage two years ago—and she was moving before he could grab her again. Through the crowd, past the booth where a couple was making out like the world was ending, around the edge of the bar where a man in a dark coat was nursing something amber and glowing in the candlelight.
She crashed into him.
Her shoulder slammed against his arm, and she stumbled, her hand flying out to catch herself. Her fingers closed around his forearm—muscle beneath wool, solid as stone, warm in a way that made her recoil. She looked up to apologize, to free herself from this next potential disaster—
But the eyes she met weren't Simon's.
They were blue. Pale, precise, the color of winter sky over a frozen ocean. They were also ancient in a way that made her breath catch somewhere in her throat, because she'd studied the past long enough to recognize a relic when she saw one. This man was something that should have been behind glass in a museum, not leaning against a bar in a Bourbon Street speakeasy.
His face was sharp and beautiful and completely unreadable. Dirty blonde hair swept back from his forehead, a dark suit cut to fit him like it had been sewn onto his skin, and the kind of stillness about him that suggested he'd been here for hours, or years, or longer. He watched her with quiet amusement, one eyebrow arching just slightly, as if she were a puzzle he'd been waiting to solve.
Behind her, she heard Simon's voice. Loud. Angry. Getting closer.
"There you are, baby." Emily's voice came out breathless and desperate, and she gripped the stranger's arm like it was a rope and she was drowning. "You're late."
She didn't have a plan beyond survival. She just needed Simon to believe there was someone attached to her. Someone bigger. Someone who would make him back off. And this man—this carved-from-stone, eyes-of-winter man—was certainly something.
The stranger's gaze flicked past her shoulder, assessing the threat with a speed that suggested practice. His lips curved into a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"Forgive me, love," he said, and his voice was like whiskey over gravel. "I was held up by lesser men."
His hand found the small of her back and pulled her into him. She gasped at the sudden heat of contact, at the way his body seemed to create its own gravity. She was pressed against the hard plane of his chest, the wool of his coat rough against her cheek, and she could smell him—sandalwood and something darker, something that smelled like rain on old stone.
Simon appeared at her elbow, swaying slightly, his face mottled with indignation. "Who the hell are you?”