I nearly push it aside, though the sweetness of anise drifts up like licorice candy. I taste it carefully. The syrup and herbs dance across my tongue, and a slow heat blooms in my chest.
“It is…rather pleasant,” I admit.
I cannot say if it is the bone of my corset binding too tightly or the way the allure of his darkness holds me from across the table, but I can hardly take a full breath.
“I knew you’d clean up nice in that gown,” he says. “But God a’mighty, you knock the air out of me.”
I smile despite myself. “It is a gorgeous gown. You have impeccable taste.”
“Funny you say that. It was your taste that gave me the notion. Told the lady at the shop my woman’s gown ought to be pink as a spring rose.”
The words lance through me and the cafe vanishes. For a heartbeat, I see him, hand fisted tight around himself, jaw clenched as he groaned those very words. The chandelier’s sparkle above me is sunlight flashing off the water. The wet clinkof bar glass is the sound of his slick hand stroking as he ordered me to watch.
Wicked heat floods me, and I shift in my chair, cheeks burning, body aching, the frappe turning to fire in my chest. How can he sit there so calm, sipping whiskey like a gentleman, while I drown all over again?
“Kodiak—”
He wags a finger at me. “No, no. Not tonight. Tonight, I’m William Archer.”
There’s something about this man. The way he carries himself makes a longing grow in my chest. I lower my chin, peering up at him through my lashes. “And who am I?”
“Suppose that makes you Mrs. Archer.”
“Does Mrs. Archer have a given name?”
He lifts his glass, takes a slow pull of whiskey, unblinking. “Depends what I’m callin’ her for.” His stare is dangerous and unyielding, singing through me.
I clear my throat to release the scandalous pit lodged there.
“I should hope Mrs. Archer has no need of a man’s definition at all.”
Leaning back in his chair, as if settling into a debate, he replies. “Ain’t about definin’ nothin’. Folks put too much stock in names. Say your momma had christened you Hester or Gertrude. Wouldn’t make you any less of a fine temptation sittin’ here before me. And my own ma, she might’ve called me Pope Gregory or Saint Moses for all I care. I’d be the same mean son of a bitch, my likeness nailed on walls in every town from here to California, reward stamped bold ’cross the top.”
His words settle between us like the smoke drifting in the restaurant. I know it’s true. He’d squeezed the last breath from Joseph’s throat and then emptied his pockets without a second thought.
But he’s also the man who helped me escape. Who’s given me more pleasure than I’ve ever known, then wrapped me in a blanket and brushed the leaves and grass from my wet legs before holding me in his arms under the stars.
“And yet you’ve spared me your cruelty,” I say, fussing with an imagined wrinkle in my lap before folding my hands neatly there, teasing. “Perhaps your reputation has been exaggerated.”
He narrows his eyes at me. “Reckon I like you sweeter than I like most. Don’t mean I ain’t mean, just means I ain’t turned it your way.”
The waiter reappears, setting down a silver tray of oysters, their shells piled on ice, and another green drink waits at my elbow.
I recoil at the oysters. “They’re alive.”
Kodiak chuckles. “Near enough.” He pushes the tray toward me. “Go on. Ain’t gonna kill you.”
I shake my head, queasy. “I knew of a man once who died after eating one.”
He snorts. “Oysters don’t travel well by wagon. These, though? Harvested ’em this mornin’, most like. Don’t get no fresher.”
As he inches it closer, every instinct tells me no, but my curiosity gets the better of me and I lift the shell. I tip it back against my lip, the sharp tang of brine flooding my mouth.
His eyes darken. “Good girl. Swallowed it down just fine. Now, finish your drink.”
Heat blooms through me, shame and want testing together as my fingers close around the cold glass. Fragrant anise slides cool over my tongue and burns me through until the crystal overhead blurs like stars.
By the time the cafe stirs and patrons drift toward the opera house, I’m unsteady, Kodiak’s hand guiding me through. Inside, the house shines in marble and gold. Painted posters boast theircolors in gilded frames, then drip like crushed berries staining linen.
