A woman sits alone at the bar. She slowly runs her the tip of her finger around the edge of her martini glass, painted scarlet fingernail making the glass ring subtly. She brings it to her full, cherry lips. Her dark thick lashes brush her ivory cheeks as her eyes close in pleasure at the taste. She inhales slowly to savor the scent of the bar: cigarette and cigar smoke, rum, whiskey, cologne, mint...
A jazz band plays something slow and sweet on the small stage in the corner of the dusky room. The sound wraps her up and she hums along, her toe tapping lightly against the leg of the bar stool. She feels the gaze of some unnamed, unseen man travel from the shining toe of her high-heeled shoe to her slender ankle and graceful calf, then over the curve of her satin clad thigh.
She finishes her martini and smiles at the barman, offering him a quarter for the martini. He shakes his head and gives her a wink. The woman's lips curl into a sweet smile as she slides off the bar stool - more gracefully than should be possible - and slips on her back gloves. The barman helpfully retrieves her trench coat from a stand in the corner and holds it for her as she dons it.
She opens the door, aware of the eyes still following her, and steps out of the nightclub, leaving only a faint whiff of her expensive perfume.
Will he follow? She doesn't know for sure. She never knows if they will. She knows only that the desire for him to do so fills her with excitement. She knows only that she has never failed to lure in her prey on these cool, foggy nights. Her heart races as she begins her dance down the rain slicked sidewalk. Her hips sway sensually. Her dark shining locks, tamed into an elegant chignon, bare the nape of her fair neck. The small portion of vulnerable flesh acts an invitation just as her hips say "come hither." As her scent says "I want the touch of a man." As her sultry lips whisper, "...You. I want you."
The year is 1941. The place is Chicago. And she is the most spoken of woman in the state of Illinois. If it weren't for Mrs. Roosevelt, she would be the most spoken of woman in the country.
You... you are her latest prey. Or so she thinks. Until now, she's had twelve victims. At first they thought the Mob was responsible for these men - left naked (or mostly naked) in hotel rooms or in the beds of their apartments, hearts cut out and belts undone. It wasn't until she began leaving a signature kiss behind that they thought otherwise.
Will you take her on? Can you tame Chicago's Queen of Hearts?
I'm thinking Post-by-Post. Plot decided in advance here, then playing to begin in the appropriate forum.