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“I think it’s well worth the risk.” He pulled her closer, his hand at her waist, skimming over the silky softness of her dress, and drew her toward him.
He took his time about it, because he wanted her to understand that what was between them—what had always been between them—was something rare. It wasn’t perfect, not by a long shot, but it was real and alive and maybe it was even a little dangerous as well.
Leaning toward her, Harte paused before his mouth touched hers, letting himself enjoy this stolen moment. Letting Esta want it as much as he did. He could detect the faintly floral scent of her soap. Then, with his free hand, he gently tipped her chin up, reveling in the shiver of anticipation he felt course through her, and pressed his mouth against hers.
Once again, they were on a dance floor, surrounded by music and moving bodies, but this was nothing like their first kiss. That had been a taking, and a surprise for both of them. That first kiss—and so many others, including the ones on the train—had been a battle of wills. Harte wanted this one to be different, so he started as soft as a question. He didn’t linger too long. He didn’t part her lips with his tongue or force himself upon her. He held himself back as he drank in the truth of their connection and the small moan that escaped from her lips. Then he released her.
As kisses went, it was positively chaste, and yet when he pulled back, Esta had a dazed look in her whiskey-colored eyes that he rather liked. He was fairly certain he was wearing one to match.
“That was—”
She didn’t get to finish her sentence before they were interrupted.
“Mr. Darrigan?” Two large men were suddenly beside them. Bouncers, probably. But how could they possibly know his name?
Harte turned to them and gave the two men his best confused look. “I’m sorry, but you have the wrong fellow.”
They took a step closer, and the larger of the two spoke again. “I don’t think we do, Mr. Darrigan. You can come easylike, or we can make this hard. Either way, Mr. Torrio wants a word with you.”
Harte’s stomach dropped clear to his feet. “Mr. Torrio?” It couldn’t be. It wasn’t possible.
The only Torrio Harte knew was John Torrio—Johnny the Fox—who’d worked for Paul Kelly. It couldn’t be that his past had found him, not there, in that strange future. Not when he’d been so close to everything he’d never realized he needed.
“If you don’t remember him, I’m sure we can find a way to remind you,” the smaller of the two said with a leering smirk. “If you’d come this way… Your doll should come along too.”
“Oh, she’s not mine,” Harte said, glancing at Esta. “I only took a turn with her on the dance floor. I’m sure she’ll want to get back to the good time she came for.”
“Still…” The big man inched up behind Esta, making it clear that she wasn’t getting out of this meeting. “Mr. Torrio would like to meet you both.”
THE CHICAGO OUTFIT
1920—Chicago
Esta kept her expression aloof as Harte argued with the two men who’d cornered them. He was clearly trying to give her an out, but it wasn’t working. She didn’t have any plans to go, anyway. If these two goons wanted her to play the role of some flighty arm candy, she’d give them what they expected, at least until a better opportunity presented itself.
Looping her arm through Harte’s, Esta slid closer. “I don’t mind saying a quick hello to your friend,” she said with a vacant, airy smile. “But then I want to dance again.”
The larger of the two gave her a once-over. As his cold eyes traced her body from head to toe, Esta’s skin crawled. It was possible she’d gone a little overboard on her look for the night—her bobbed hair lay in finger waves around her face, her lips had been lacquered in a deep red, and her eyes were ringed with kohl. Maybe the dress was a little much, but looking in the mirror earlier, Esta had been more than satisfied that Harte would swallow his own tongue when he saw her.
Luckily, the guy’s perusal didn’t last long, and he didn’t show any real interest. He was more concerned with taking them to Torrio—whoever he was.
Even with the two men shoving them along, Esta was having a hard time shaking the memory of Harte’s lips upon hers. For the last three days, she and Harte had existed in a kind of limbo. They’d plotted and planned and, all the while, they’d made sure to keep at least an arm’s distance between each other. They had not spoken any more about the train—not about Harte’s question about consequences or his terrible forced proposal, if you could even call it that. And they definitely didn’t talk about the fact that neither of them were willing to let the other sacrifice themselves. It seemed that they’d come to an agreement—they would do everything in their power to get the Book back from Jack, and they would hope against hope that it held some solution. And if it didn’t? Or if they couldn’t manage to retrieve it? Well, those were scenarios that they didn’t need to argue about. Not yet.
Still, hours and days of Harte being just out of reach had been the worst kind of torture. Esta might have wanted to get his attention with her outfit that night, but the kiss had still been a surprise, and the effect of it even more so. She’d seen the hunger in his expression, and so she hadn’t expected softness, but somehow, the teasing of his lips was exactly what she’d needed. It had felt like a balm against the frustration from the past couple of days. But the appearance of the two brutish-looking bouncers had quickly changed things.
It didn’t help that the men looked like every gangster from every bad mafia movie she’d ever seen. They were big, broad guys dressed in sharp suits with noses that had been broken at some point. Their dark hair was slicked back from faces too rough to ever be considered handsome, but they moved through the Green Mill like they owned it.
“Who’s Torrio?” Esta asked Harte, making sure to keep her voice too soft for the bruisers to hear her.
“He was one of Paul Kelly’s guys back in New York.”
“Paul Kelly? As in, the head of the Five Pointers?” Esta asked, frowning.
Harte nodded.
Esta hadn’t met Kelly, but she knew about him. The Five Pointers were one of the most famous gangs in the city. Once they’d even been backed by Tammany Hall. “I don’t think Kelly’s behind this,” she told him, trying to remember any other details from the history that had been drilled into her by Professor Lachlan. “Paul Kelly’s power faded when the bootleggers took over.”
“You make it sound like that’s bad news.” Harte glanced at her, a question in his eyes.
