He smelled violets again. Christ alive. She was intoxicating, standing so close. A pleasurable heat gathered in his groin. Any more pleasurable and he’d be forced to hide a rampant erection. He pulled his coat closed, just in case.

“My vision is perfect,” he answered gruffly. “Right now, for instance, I see a tiny freckled woman in front of me, asking a lot of questions.”

She laughed, and the sound did something funny to Winter’s chest. Maybe he was getting ill. Having a heart attack at the age of thirty. He hoped to hell not. He’d rather be burned alive than tolerate another wretched doctor’s so-called assistance. Between the parade of psychiatrists who treated his father’s illness before the accident and the overpriced surgeons who sewed up his own eye after it, he’d seen enough doctors to last a lifetime, no matter how short.

When the medium finally turned away, he let out a long breath and watched the spellbinding sway of her ass with great interest as she strolled toward Velma’s desk to set down her handbag and the cloche she’d been gripping in her hand. The view only got better when she shucked off her coat: freckles covered every inch of her slender arms.

He might pass out from excitement. His legs were definitely feeling unsteady. Wobbly, even. He felt high as a kite. Feverish. But when the room started to spin, he had the sinking feeling Miss Palmer’s freckles weren’t the cause.

• • •

After Aida set her things down, the bootlegger silently stared at her for several beats, an unnerving intimidation that chilled the sweat prickling the back of her neck. And because she was clearly depraved, a thrill shot through her.

God above, he was well built. Like an enormous bull. Just how tall was he, exactly? Her gaze stuttered over the solid bulk of his upper arms, which stretched the wool of his expensive coat, then ran down the rather distracting length of his meaty legs.

This was a body built for conquering. For smiting enemies. Ransacking villages.

Ravaging innocent women.

Maybe even some not-so-innocent women.

He wasn’t pretty or conventionally good-looking. More savagely handsome, she decided. Rough-hewn and dark and intense. A barbarian stuffed inside a rich man’s suit. Not her usual taste in men, but for some reason, she found his big body rousing.

“So tell me,” Aida said, attempting to get her mind refocused on the reason she was called here. “How long was that ghost following you, Mr. Magnusson?” His name sounded Scandinavian. He looked it. Something about the combination of those ridiculously high, flat cheekbones and the long face . . . his reserved, intense nature. No accent, so she assumed he wasn’t fresh off the boat.

“A couple of hours.”

“Any idea why?”

He made an affirmative noise. His mouth didn’t seem to know how to smile—it just stretched into a taut line as he stared at her with those strange, otherworldly eyes. Eyes that fluttered shut momentarily. When they reopened, he looked dazed.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

“I . . .”

He never finished. One second he appeared cognizant; the next, he was swaying on his feet. Before she had time to react, he was leaning toward her like a felled giant sequoia. Instinct opened her arms—as if she could catch someone his size. But she did . . . rather, he crashed into her, a dead weight that overtook hers.

“H-help!” she cried out as his big body took hers down in a series of awkward, slow motions that had her bending backward, dropping to one knee—“Oh, God . . . dammit, Mr. Magnusson . . .”—then finally crumbling beneath him.

Her mind made great, panicked leaps between the mundane—He smells pleasantly of soap and witch hazel—and the practical: How could another human being weigh so much? Is he filled with rocks?

A thunder of footfalls shook the floorboards, and before she could fully wonder if it was possible to experience death by crushing, the impossibly titanic weight of Giant was lifted from her. Sweet relief! While two club workers lifted Mr. Magnusson, Aida’s boss helped her to her feet.

“You hurt?” Velma Toussaint’s briar rose dress had a softly sweeping neck that revealed sharp collarbones and pale nutmeg skin of indeterminable ancestry. Her shiny brown hair was sculpted into a short Eton crop, with slicked-back finger waves molded close to the head.

“Fine . . . fine,” Aida replied between breaths.

Velma was a former dancer in her mid-thirties who moved to San Francisco from Louisiana a few years back and began running the club after her wayward cheat of a husband—the original owner of Gris-Gris—died of an aneurism. Rumor had it that his untimely death came after Velma used a pair of scissors to cut his photo in half during some midnight ritual. Aida didn’t know if this was true, but if it was, no doubt the man deserved what he got.

“The poison’s settling in,” Velma said.

“You poisoned him?”

Velma made an impatient face. “He came here poisoned. Hexed. Someone sneaked poison in his drink and left a written spell on the table. Appears to be some sort of Chinese magic that acts like a supernatural magnet. Draws ghosts.”

“Like the one that was in here.”

“So you got rid of it? Thank you,” Velma said. “I’ve got a friend in Louisiana who might know an antidote. Called the operator to set up a long-distance call a quarter hour ago. Should be coming through the line any minute now, but he’s getting worse.”

Everyone gathered around the downed bootlegger. With disheveled hair falling across his forehead, Mr. Magnusson lay on the floor with his eyes shut, groaning. Looking down at him, Aida thought he really did look like a giant, and that she wouldn’t be surprised to see an army of tiny men scurry over him to tie him down with ropes.