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“I thought you wanted to work in the city room, covering the big stories?”
“I won’t get there if I don’t take a few chances.”
Mitch’s mouth set in a mulish look that was all too familiar. “There are some things a woman just shouldn’t do.”
Gwen controlled her urge to shoot up out of her chair and answered with deliberate calm. “Is that really what you think, Mitch?”
“You know I’d support anything you chose to do.”
“Within limits.”
“Yes.” He met her gaze. “I want to take care of you, Gwen. Even if it means protecting you from yourself.”
“But that’s exactly the trouble. I don’t want—”
The waiter reappeared, his face molded into a professionally bland smile. “Are monsieur and madame ready to order?” he inquired with a bow.
“Two filets mignon, rare,” Mitch said, before Gwen had a chance to express a preference. She pressed her lips together and stared down at the table. The band struck up a slow, sensuous jazz melody, and Mitch rose from his chair.
“Shall we dance?” he asked, offering his hand.
The last thing Gwen wanted was a scene. She took his hand and stepped with him onto the dance floor. He pulled her close.
“I’ve been waiting for this all night,” he said, his breath tickling her ear. “We’ve hardly seen each other the past few weeks.”
“That isn’t exactly my fault,” she said.
His voice took on a real note of apology. “I didn’t mean to neglect you. This story is taking all my time and attention. But you haven’t exactly been around when I’m free, Gwen.”
“Am I supposed to wait until you find it convenient to bestow your attention?”
He pulled back a little, frowning. “You sound peevish, Gwen. It isn’t attractive in you.”
“I wonder why you put up with me at all.”
Suddenly he stopped. He cupped her face in his hands and looked into her eyes.
“I put up with you because you’re the brightest and most interesting woman I know, not to mention gorgeous.”
Gwen said nothing. Mitch really believed that he would support her in any career she chose—as long as he got to decide how much time and effort she spent at it. As long as he got to make the rules.
Mitch began dancing again, his lips against her hair. “Ah, Guinevere,” he said. “When are we going to end this game?”
This was it. The conversation she’d been dreading. The one they’d had a dozen times before. Only this time she wasn’t sure she could worm her way out.
“You know what I want,” he whispered. “We were meant to be together, Gwen. You know it as well as I do.”
“Mitch…”
“You’re fighting it just because you think you want independence. You don’t. No woman really does.”
It was all Gwen could do not to jerk out of his arms. “It must have been a dangerous journey,” she said with forced lightness.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Your voyage into the darkest recesses of a woman’s mind.”
He laughed and ran his hands along the russet silk draped over her hip. “It’s not as difficult as all that, Gwen. Some men think women are mysterious. I know better. In many ways, they’re far simpler than men.”
“Thanks,” Gwen murmured.
“That’s not meant as an insult.” He nuzzled her cheek. “Let’s put this indecision behind us and set a date.”
Tension made a fist in Gwen’s chest. “I’d like a little more wine first, if you don’t mind.”
“By all means, if it’ll make you more cooperative.” He ushered her back to the table and held the chair out for her. Gwen tried not to gulp her drink and sought desperately for a way to distract Mitch.
You won’t be able to do it forever, she told herself. You’re so proud of your honesty. You’ll have to be honest with him.
And what exactly did that mean? She was very fond of Mitch. Most of the time he was reasonable. He was usually an ally at the Sentinel. She found him attractive, often witty, generally decent…though he could show a surprisingly ruthless side when he was pursuing a story.
For all that, she was never quite sure she really knew him. Most women would have given their eyeteeth just to have him look at them, but Gwen couldn’t escape the feeling that rushing into marriage with Mitch Hogan would be the worst mistake of her life.
If I loved him, I wouldn’t have so much doubt. But she’d never quite been able to bring herself to say the words, even in her own heart.
Maybe I can’t love anyone. Maybe it’s just not in me.
Unwillingly, she found her thoughts flashing back to the warehouse and to a cool, unreadable face that had none of Mitch’s charm. Dorian and Mitch couldn’t be more different. Mitch was serious now, but he was capable of playfulness when he was in the right mood. Dorian was about as lighthearted as an undertaker.
But something strange had happened when she’d taken Dorian’s hand just before she’d left the warehouse. The literary cliché was very apt: a bolt of electricity had shot right through her, and she’d known that Dorian Black was far more dangerous than she’d let herself believe. Oh, not because he would hurt her. What she’d glimpsed behind his eyes had heated her like three gins drunk straight.
And she couldn’t seem to forget the feeling of his hand on hers.
“Thinking about that date?” Mitch said.
She smiled, covering her confusion. “I promise I’ll consider it.”
“Not too long.” He reached across the table to take her hand. “I want you, Gwen. In every way.”
His hand was warm and firm, but his touch had almost no effect on her. Maybe it would have been enough if she’d felt a spark of desire when he held her. It just wasn’t there.
“Let’s dance,” she said.
They did. Mitch almost crushed her in his embrace, as if he had begun to sense the depth of her doubts. His arms felt like a cage. She pretended not to care.
And did her best not to think of Dorian Black.
SOMETHING WAS WRONG.
Mitch knew Gwen…her walk, her speech, every expression and every mood. She was as easy to read as a headline and an utter failure at deception. He knew by the ever-so-slight stiffness in her body that she was not entirely there with him on the dance floor.
Someone else was present. And he had no idea who that someone could be.
When dinner ended, he was the one to suggest that they both needed a good night’s sleep. Gwen didn’t argue. She looked positively relieved, and her slender body relaxed as if a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders.
Mitch walked her to the curb, tipped the valet, and drove Gwen home. She hardly spoke. Her mind was on that other presence, and Mitch could barely control his anger. If he challenged her now, she would only retreat with a quip and an even deeper silence. She was more forthright than most women, but she was fully capable of fighting dirty.
Gwen thanked him and gave him a peck on the cheek when he dropped her at her apartment building. He grabbed her and kissed her before she could escape. It took several seconds before her lips softened under his, and even then he could feel her resistance. Most men would hardly have noticed. Mitch had his worst assumptions confirmed.
He watched her cross the sidewalk and slip through the door into the lobby. The seductive sway of her hips was entirely unconscious, but it only aroused his anger the more. Any man could enjoy her figure, poured into that scarlet satin gown like a glass of wine waiting to be sipped. Any man could imagine himself in her bed, savoring that lovely body.
So far no one, not even Mitch, had made it that far. Mitch wasn’t about to let another fellow poach on his territory. He’d been more than patient with Gwen’s starts and peculiar theories. She needed discipline and guidance from a man who cared about her…a man who wouldn’t be moved by her foolish ideas.
Once she was his wife, she wouldn’t need to rely on her career for fulfillment.
You don’t know what’s good for you, Guinevere, he thought. But I’ll teach you. And you’ll learn to enjoy the lesson.
CHAPTER FOUR
BY THREE O’CLOCK in the afternoon, Dorian knew Walter couldn’t wait any longer. His body was wracked with fever, and his pulse beat frantically beneath his nearly translucent skin. He would no longer drink the water Dorian offered; his lips were like parchment.
Only a human physician could care for him now.
Dorian threw on his long coat, put on his hat and wrapped a scarf around his neck and lower face, grateful that the cooler weather made the garments less conspicuous. He bundled Walter up in his cleanest blankets and lifted the old man in his arms. Walter was all bone and sinew; he weighed little more than a child.
The nearest hospital was a dozen blocks away. Dorian didn’t have enough money for a taxi, but he could move very fast when it became necessary.
Longshoremen and laborers turned to stare as he ran past. He dodged from the path of a cumbersome platform truck, whose driver cursed him roundly. He might never have noticed Gwen if not for the sudden, powerful awareness that sliced through his preoccupation.
“Dorian!”
He slowed, debating whether or not to ignore her. Gwen was carrying bundles stacked up to her chin, her face a pale blur above them. She was a distraction he could ill afford, and the dark of the moon was only hours away. But she had money that could pay for a taxi, and there was no doubt in Dorian’s mind that she would want to help Walter as much as he did.
Gwen ran up to him as he came to a stop. “What’s wrong?” she demanded, peering into Walter’s face. “Is he sick?”
“Yes.” Dorian found himself all too inclined to gaze at Gwen like any infatuated human. It was a dangerous lapse under the circumstances. “He needs the services of a doctor. Will you summon a taxi?”
“Of course!” Abandoning her packages, she paced Dorian as he broke into a jog. “What happened?”
“I don’t know. He’s fragile, like most—” He caught himself. “Old men are prone to sickness, are they not?”
“You did say…something about that.” Her breath came in short bursts, but she didn’t falter. “Go on. I’ll follow.”
They ran between offices and warehouses until they reached South Street. No cabs appeared, so they continued west to Cherry. Gwen flagged a taxi down with a whistle of impressive volume. She scooted into the backseat and cradled Walter’s head and shoulders as Dorian gently pushed the old man in beside her.
“The hospital, as fast as you can make it,” Gwen said. The cabbie complied, peeling away from the curb on screeching tires.
Gwen settled back in the seat, careful to keep from moving Walter more than necessary. She laid her hand on his forehead.
“He’s burning up,” she said. “You should have brought him sooner.”
Dorian shuddered, struggling to ignore the allure of Gwen’s scent. “I wasn’t sure the hospital would take a charity case.”
“You could have called me at any time. I would have covered the expenses.”
“I wasn’t aware that you were wealthy, Miss Murphy.”
“Gwen, remember?” Her gaze swept from his hat to his collar. “What’s with the coat? I can hardly see your face.”
He hesitated, weighed the risk, then carefully unwound the muffler. The sunlight was filtered by the taxi’s windows, but he still felt a slight burning on his cheeks, nose and lips.
“My skin,” he said, “is somewhat sensitive to sunlight.”
“Oh? That must be very inconvenient.”
Dorian shrugged. Gwen fell silent, though a slight frown lingered between her brows. She returned her attention to Walter, dabbing the sweat from his forehead with her handkerchief.
It was no more than ten minutes before the cabbie pulled up in front of the hospital. He jumped out and opened the door for Gwen, who waited until Dorian had a good grip on Walter. She rushed ahead of Dorian and held open the doors. In a surprisingly short time Walter was in the care of white-clad nurses, while Gwen consulted with a young man Dorian presumed to be the doctor.
“They have a bed all ready for him,” she told Dorian. “I’m going to sit with him. Will you stay?”
The look in her eyes told Dorian that she fully expected him to answer in the affirmative. He didn’t dare risk it. Soon he would feel only hunger and black rage, and anyone within reach would be in terrible danger.
“No,” he said. “I trust that the doctors will be far more effective than I could ever be.”
“He relies on you—”
“I’ll return tomorrow.” He turned to go.
“Wait.” Gwen walked up behind him and placed her hand on his arm. “You don’t like doctors, do you?”
He didn’t answer, glad to let her believe that such a simple fear was the reason for his departure. “I…thank you for your offer to stay with Walter.”
“It’s no trouble at all.” She tightened her fingers. “I brought you some things, but I dropped them at the wharf. I’ll bring more tomorrow.”
“It isn’t necessary.” He swallowed, hearing the thrum of her blood, smelling her ripeness.
“Let’s not argue again. Here.” She pressed several bills into his hand. “Taxi fare, and get yourself something to eat.”
He couldn’t risk returning the money and touching her skin. “Very well. Good afternoon, Gwen.”
This time she didn’t follow. Dorian felt his way to the door. His throat swelled with the need for fresh blood. His head pounded, and his legs would barely carry him to the street.
Only desperation made him call a taxi rather than walk back to the waterfront. The sun was sinking when he reached the warehouse. His breath was harsh in his chest, and his pulse throbbed madly at his temples.
His only hope was to hide himself in the warehouse, to fight the hunger and violence. When the night was over he could seek the nourishment he needed, but not before. Not while there was any risk that he might kill.
The warehouse door was nearly broken off its hinges. He swung it closed, knowing it wouldn’t keep him in if he chose to leave. The effect was purely psychological, and he needed every advantage he could find.
