“I’m Sylvia Fong,” she said brightly.

Bo winced.

Blond eyebrows shot up sharply. “Sylvia?” Astrid said in disbelief. “Sylvia?”

The already-stifling air in the small room seemed to congeal like gelatin and wobble with tension. Well, he’d wanted to make Astrid jealous, hadn’t he?

Wish granted.

NINE

Astrid was the very picture of restraint and good manners. She’d ignored the beautiful Miss Fong while Velma mixed up a batch of herbs. She’d smiled pleasantly while Bo helped both women into their coats and led them outside Gris-Gris just before midnight. He informed Astrid that he’d not driven “Sylvia” (the Buick) tonight but had instead ironically brought Sylvia (the Glamorous Woman) here by taxi—which meant now they’d all three be sharing a cab home, what marvelous fun! Astrid had refrained from demanding which of the two women would be dropped off first. Because that would sound jealous and petty, and Astrid was neither.

She merely wanted to club him to death with her umbrella.

Bo sat in front with the taxi driver, leaving her to cozy up to Miss Fong in the back. He rattled off an address that sounded an awful lot like his Chinatown apartment building. Was he taking Sylvia there with him? Surely not. And if so, he would die where he stood when Astrid got her hands on him. But she didn’t say this, of course. She only sat stiffly, pretending to stare out the window through the rain.

“I like your shoes,” she told Sylvia in a calm voice after they’d ridden in silence for a time.

Sylvia turned one shapely ankle and peered down at her pump. “Thank you,” she said politely, and then, “Your gown is beautiful.”

“Thank you. I think I lost a few beads on the dance floor,” Astrid responded lightly, toying with the fringe of her beaded hem.

They continued this too-polite small talk on a too-long ride, which was, in reality, only eight blocks. The conversation went like this: How long have you known Bo? Oh, you live in the same building, do you? Switchboard operator, eh? No, I’m not really sure what field I want to study at college. Yes, Los Angeles is certainly sunny this time of year.

And so forth.

Once they got to Chinatown, Bo escorted Sylvia beneath their shared apartment building’s entrance, speaking to her briefly while Astrid waited in the idling taxi. Astrid was in turns relieved (Bo was coming back to Pacific Heights, not staying here) and filled with hurt (he was hugging Sylvia good-bye?), but she waited silently. Remained silent, in fact, when Bo got back in the front seat of the taxi.

Remained silent the rest of the way home.

Bo paid the driver. They entered the Queen Anne together. It was quiet inside, mostly dark. He locked the door behind them as she removed her coat and hat.

“Twice a day?” he asked in a low voice—his first words to her since the club.

She glanced down at the brown paper bag that Velma had given her. So that’s what he wanted to talk about? All right.

“Twice a day,” she repeated.

He began shrugging out of his coat. She didn’t wait for him, just went straight to the kitchen and flipped on two pendant lights, which hung over a long butcher-block prep table sitting in the middle of the room. She set down Velma’s bag of herbs.

“Need help?” his low voice said over her shoulder. She hadn’t even heard him following.

“Think I can manage to boil water on my own.”

She strode across the black-and-white checkered floor and looked at the pale green enameled oven. Where was the kettle? Didn’t people normally leave those out? She heard a shifting noise and saw it sliding in her direction across a small counter, prodded by Bo’s hand.

“Thank you,” she said, not looking at his face, and added water to the kettle. Now. The stove. She’d seen this done a hundred times. How hard could it be? The matches were in a ceramic box on the counter. She lit one and stared at the range’s cast-iron coiled burner. Right. This didn’t look like the stove Lena had taught her to how to light. The pilot light should be . . .

Bo leaned near and blew out the match. “Move.”

“I can—”

He turned the handle and a coil magically glowed orange. “The old range needed to be replaced, and Winter insisted the new one be electric,” he said, putting the kettle atop a burner. “Lena hates it, for the record. The teacups are in the butler’s pantry with the rest of the china.”

“I know that,” she said, trying to sound insulted and not embarrassed. But when she stood in the wide hallway between the kitchen and dining room, staring too long at the drawers and cabinets that lined the walls, Bo’s silhouette blocked the light from the kitchen.

“Middle cabinet.”

Right. She turned around and opened it. Bowls. Gravy boat . . .

Warmth covered her back. Bo reached over her shoulder to a higher shelf. “Here,” he said. One word, spoken low and deep, just above her ear, and for a moment she forgot all about being angry with him.

His bright scent surrounded her. His suit jacket brushed the back of her gown, and beneath it a thousand chills rippled over her skin. She was taken aback by the force of it and nearly leaned . . .

If she would just—

If he would only—

The sound of china clinking against the marble counter pulled her back from the deep. He’d set the cup down and was now reaching for a saucer. She spun in place to face him.

He flinched and pulled back an inch or two. Far enough to put some space between them. His arm hovered in the air and then fell by his side as he stared down at her.