Ah, no mother, then. Maybe she died in the accident, too. No wonder he didn’t like talking about it.

Bo led her down a narrow sidewalk in front of the house, up a short flight of steps to a covered portico that harbored a wide green door. As he reached for the handle, the door swung inward to a tall, pale, silver-haired woman. She wore an apron tied around her middle and a look of aloofness that was only slightly warmed by the pink of her cheeks. She studied Aida critically from head to foot for a moment too long while Bo removed his cap.

“Greta, this is Miss Aida Palmer.”

The woman gave her a funny smile that Aida couldn’t make heads or tails of. “Miss Palmer,” she said in a birdlike voice with a heavy Scandinavian lilt. “Mr. Magnusson is waiting for you in his study. Come. I will take you.”

Aida stepped into a spacious entry, bigger than her entire apartment, with a high ceiling that opened up to the second floor and dark wood floors below her feet. A labyrinth of rooms sprouted in every direction.

“I’ll be eating lunch down here in the kitchen,” Bo said. “When you’re ready to go, Winter will call me and I’ll drive you back home. I’ve got business in Chinatown later.”

She thanked him before he headed down a hallway and disappeared.

Aida followed Greta’s impressively fast strides through the entry. At first she thought they were headed up the massive staircase, but Greta veered to the side and stopped in front of a black elevator, a small rectangular contraption that looked like an Art Nouveau metal birdcage, with scrolling whiplash curves.

“I’ve never seen an elevator inside a private home,” Aida remarked upon entering.

Greta shut the scissor gate, then the cage door, and operated a lever. “The Magnussons are fond of wasting monies.”

Well. Aida didn’t know what to say to that. The rickety elevator groaned and whined as it made a shaky ascent to a highly polished dark hallway on the fourth floor.

Greta led her to a set of carved doors, guarded by a man sitting in a chair, playing solitaire on a folding wooden tray table; he doffed his cap when they passed by. A wide room lay beyond, filled with standing bookshelves, a large desk, and a billiards table. Several windows on the far wall offered an expansive view of the city and the foggy bay.

A cozy sitting area surrounded an oversized fireplace. The fire was lit, and sitting on a brown leather couch reading the San Francisco Chronicle was Winter Magnusson.

Surely he heard the elevator or their steps echoing down the hallway, but he remained engrossed in his reading, legs crossed, lounging in his shirtsleeves. His suit jacket lay folded on the back of the couch.

“Winter.” Greta’s singsong accent made his name sound more like “Veen-ter.”

He glanced up from the paper and looked straight at Aida. His eyes narrowed slowly, like someone playing blackjack who’d just been dealt a ten and an ace.

And Aida felt like she’d just lost all her chips along with the shirt off her back.

“You came,” he said in his low cello-note voice.

“I hope you won’t find a way to make me regret that.”

He looked amused but didn’t smile. “I’ll try to keep my clothes on this time.”

If he was trying to embarrass her in front of his housekeeper, he’d have to try harder. “I’m only here because you’re paying me an exorbitant fee for a house call.”

“Worth every cent.” He folded up his newspaper. “Hungry?”

“Not sure,” she replied honestly. She had been, but now her brain was sending some confused signal to her body, preparing her to either become sick or run for her life. Why was her heart beating so fast? She could feel her blood pulsing at her temples.

“Greta, leave us. I’ll call when we’re ready for a tray,” Winter said, prompting the housekeeper to exit the room as he tossed the folded newspaper aside and stood.

Aida suddenly remembered just how big he was, and took him in from head to foot as he approached: crisp white linen shirt, black necktie with horizontal bands of silver, pin-striped gray vest anchored by the gold chain of his pocket watch, black wing tips. His flat-front charcoal trousers were so accurately tailored, they hugged the muscle of his thighs in an almost obscene manner. She liked this.

“You’re looking . . .” Enormous. Handsome. Intimidating. “Recovered,” she said.

“I’m feeling a hell of a lot better. Are you planning on dashing right back out? Or did you not trust Greta with your coat?”

“She didn’t offer to take it.”

“Since she’s failed at her duties, allow me.” He said this as if it were some great chore and made an impatient gesture for her to comply, but she caught a curious gaze flicking toward her under the false front of seemingly bored, hooded eyes.

She set down her handbag on a small table by the door and unbuttoned her coat. As she was shrugging it off her shoulders, Mr. Magnusson stepped closer. Several things cluttered her mind at once: That he smelled of laundry starch. That the gold bar connecting his collar points beneath the striped knot of his necktie was engraved with tiny nautical compasses. And that she was almost positive he was looking down her dress.

That realization did something strange to her stomach. She knew she wasn’t unattractive—at least, she didn’t think so. Not anymore. When she was a child, she was teased about her heavily freckled skin. Even now, most men only looked at her with mild interest before setting their sights on other women with flawless complexions. But every once in a while she ran across a man who actually liked freckles.