“How do you live like that, moving around all the time? Do you travel with someone?”

“Just me and myself.”

Two deep lines etched his brow. “Doesn’t seem safe for a single woman to be running around the country.”

If she had a penny for every time she’d heard that . . . “I’ve managed just fine.”

“Sounds lonely.”

It was lonely at times—terribly lonely. But she did what she had to in order to survive, and she wasn’t embarrassed about it. A certain pride came with the kind of independence she had. If you didn’t rely on anyone but yourself, you had fewer chances of being disappointed—that’s what Sam always told her. Out of habit, her fingers reached for the locket hanging near her heart.

“I live for the moment, not the past or future,” she said. Another Sam mantra. “But if you must know, I do prefer private séances to work onstage. They pay better for less work. Building up a client list takes more time than—”

A loud brring-brring startled her out of her memories.

“Hold that thought.” Winter excused himself and strode across the room to answer the telephone. She was a little relieved to drop the subject of her career choice. It was none of his business, really. And she’d already said more than she probably should. A bad habit of hers, not controlling the things that exited her mouth.

While he spoke in a hushed voice on the phone, she strolled past the windows and looked around, glancing at the book spines on a bay of shelves, mostly commerce and fishing titles. Her gaze fell upon a couple of long books sitting on a nearby lamp table. Scrapbooks? Photos?

Leather cracked when she opened the top book. Not photographs, but postcards attached to black pages with adhesive mounting corners. Postcards from Cairo. Postcards from France. The Eiffel Tower. The Arc de Triomphe. The Louvre. Two French maids wearing nothing but aprons. A girl falling off a bike, her skirt lifted, wearing only rolled-down stockings underneath. A woman sitting on a sofa reading a French copy of Ulysses with her legs spread—

Dear Lord.

Erotic postcards. Dozens and dozens. She glanced in Winter’s direction. He was quiet, listening to the earpiece receiver while pacing around the fireplace, toting the candlestick base as a black telephone cord snaked around the floor, trailing his footsteps.

She hurriedly leafed through the pages, which seemed to get progressively worse—or better, depending on your view. A fully dressed man kissing a nude woman on his lap. A man fondling a woman beneath her chemise.

Flipping toward the back of the book, Aida stopped on a page with only one postcard affixed to the center—not a photograph, but a colored illustration. It featured a naked woman with bobbed hair. She sat upon the lap of a naked man, who was propped up against a pile of cushions. His cock was drawn to fantastical proportions, and the artist had managed to include an impressive amount of detail in rendering every vein, ridge, and hair as it slid into the woman’s exposed sex. She rode him, mouth open, with a look of ecstasy on her face.

And she was freckled.

Aida’s pulse pounded. She stared at the shocking postcard, transfixed. It was surely only a coincidence the illustrated woman looked like her—artists often added freckles to make females look younger, after all, and—

“Find something interesting?” Winter’s low voice rumbled near her ear.

She jumped in surprise and attempted to shut the book, but his palm slapped down on the pages. When she tried to step away, another hand planted on the other side of the book, pinning her inside his arms. His chest against her back was warm and solid.

Her breathing faltered. Embarrassment created a fog that rolled over her brain. “They were sitting out,” she argued dumbly.

“My study. My books. I can leave them where I like.”

Her heart pattered like a frightened animal. “You should take more care when you invite guests over.”

“I didn’t know my guest would be so curious.”

“And I didn’t know I’d be visiting a deviant!”

“One man’s deviance is another man’s lunch break.”

“Pervert.”

His mouth was against her ear, his words spoken through her hair. “Are you referring to me or yourself? You’ve been staring at that for quite a long time.”

Her face flamed. She never blushed. Never! “It’s . . . depraved.”

“How so?” His thumb ran along the edge of the postcard. “Is the artist depraved for rendering a fantasy, or is the woman in the painting depraved for enjoying it?”

“You’re the one who’s depraved for owning it.” She shoved her shoulders back against him, grunting. “Let go.”

He didn’t grip her tighter, nor impede her from ducking out of his hold, but instead distracted her with words. “Look closer,” he said, pointing to the woman in the illustration. “There’s a trust between them. She enjoys him watching her. Oh, and would you look at that? She’s got freckles just like you. How interesting.”

Aida’s eyes flicked to the bulky arms flanking her shoulders. She twisted inside his trap, defiantly faced him, and shoved at his chest. A useless act against someone built like a mountain; he didn’t budge.

She drew back. He leaned forward, erasing the distance. Their combined weight pressing against the lamp table caused it to slide a few centimeters. A frightening, almost unbearable intensity darkened his eyes. She could no longer tell which pupil was bigger, because both were enlarged beneath languid, drooping eyelids.