Free Ghosts of Winter by Rebecca S. Buck Page A

because she’d unlocked the door. She brushed a strand of hair back behind her ear and looked pleased with herself, though not quite smug. “It’s your house, you should open the door.” She took a step back and gestured with an outstretched hand.
    “Very gallant of you.” I put my hand on the cold metal of the handle and turned, pushing the door at the same time. Though the handle seemed to work, the door didn’t budge, it simply creaked at me.
    “It can’t still be locked,” I said, puzzled. “Maybe it really is a secret chamber and we need a password or something.”
    Anna rolled her eyes, but looked mildly amused this time. “You can try open sesame if you want. But be quick, before the wicked count comes and discovers us trying to access the room where he’s disposed of his wife’s corpse.”
    Her mouth twitched. I stared at her briefly, astonished by her words, and couldn’t help but laugh. Her smile flickered and grew until it made her eyes dance. Such a compelling smile. “Or maybe the wood is warped and it’s just stuck against the frame,” she said practically. Her smile faded as she focused on the door again, eyes scanning the frame. I was surprised by her insistence when she took my arm and physically moved me out of the way. Again, the moment of contact with her, entirely functional and meaningless as it was, had a far more powerful effect on me than it warranted. I balled my sticky hands into fists and moved to the side without a word of protest, my throat too tight to speak.
    “I think if we apply enough force, it’ll give,” she said, trying the handle and pushing slightly, seeming to confirm her assessment. If she’d noticed the effect she was creating in me she showed no sign of it. Could she really be that unobservant? Or was she choosing to ignore it? I made an effort to compose myself.
    “Shall we push together then?” I asked.
    “Just let me have a go first.” Her expression said she wasn’t a woman who would let a challenge defeat her, however insignificant.
    To my astonishment, Anna stepped back from the door and unfastened the buttons of her suit jacket. She shrugged her way out of it and handed it to me. I took it dumbly and stared quizzically at her.
    “The door’s dusty and the jacket is more expensive to launder than the shirt,” she explained.
    “Of course,” I replied, looking at the jacket as if I’d never seen one before. The garment was warm from the heat of her body as I gripped it. I tried not to dwell on that warmth, but my palms and fingertips tingled. The grey woollen material was clearly incredibly fine quality. I caught the smell of Tabac Blond again: that masculine undertone of leather, the sensuality of creamy vanilla, and the dangerously forbidden hint of smoky tobacco. I barely ever wore perfumes myself, partly in an attempt to set myself apart from the artificial potions of my beautician mother, but mostly because I never felt comfortable with a complex scent on my skin. When I suspected a perfume had been chosen specifically by its wearer, however, I loved what it told you about that person. Anna smelled of the best of the scents I’d discovered amongst the many glass bottles on my mother’s dressing table as a child. And the most expensive. I had to fight not to raise her jacket to my face and inhale deeply. The perfume combined perfectly with the lingering essence of Anna herself in the fabric.
    “You wear Tabac Blond,” I said, unable to resist remarking on my recognition of the fragrance.
    Anna turned to look at me, and I enjoyed her surprised expression. “You can name a perfume from one sniff?” She raised a questioning eyebrow.
    “It’s one of my hidden talents.”
    “I look forward to discovering some of the others.”
    I froze with a stupid fixed smile at her words. Had this stunning and outwardly glacial woman just hinted that she would like to know more about me? And in tones so smooth the words virtually trickled from her