Читать книгу Dark of the Moon - Susan Krinard - Страница 11

DORIAN FELT HER EVEN before he moved to the door of the warehouse.

Gwen Murphy strode across the boardwalk, late afternoon sunlight striking sparks off her curly red hair. Over one arm she carried a basket overflowing with white linen. Her fair face was set with determination, as if she was preparing herself for a cool reception.

If Dorian had possessed any sense at all, he would have found a way to disappear. But dusk was several hours away, and he was not in the habit of retreating in the face of the enemy.

For she was the enemy, and he dared not let himself forget it.

He stepped back into the darkness to wait.

“Mr. Black?” Gwen’s heels tapped on the warehouse floor as she made her way toward Dorian’s corner. “Are you there?”

“Miss Murphy,” he said.

She jumped a little, startled by his sudden appearance. “Mr. Black. Dorian.” Her gaze met his, curious and briefly wary. Dorian observed that her lashes were a shade darker than her hair, perfectly framing her green eyes.

The treachery of his thoughts nearly undid him. He looked away from her, counting off all the arguments he had mustered yesterday morning.

They were nearly useless. Today he found himself entranced all over again, struggling against an overwhelming desire to touch her. To stroke her fiery hair. To feel the warmth of her full, expressive lips…

“I’ve brought a picnic,” Gwen said, shattering the spell. “It’s a little late for lunch, but—”

“You shouldn’t have come.”

“Why am I not surprised to hear you say that?” She smiled, the uneasy curve of her mouth betraying what he already realized was uncharacteristic self-consciousness. “Still, I’m here. And I’m not leaving until you eat some of this food.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“That I don’t believe. Walter says you hardly eat enough to keep a bird alive.”

“Yet here I am.”

She set down the basket and folded her arms across her chest. “Oh, how I adore a man of few words.” She held his stare. “You tried to scare me off yesterday, and it didn’t work. Nothing’s changed.”

He hardened his expression, beginning to feel the tightening in his body that warned of the madness to come. “You aren’t welcome here, Miss Murphy.”

“That’s never stopped me.” She hesitated, perhaps remembering how he had turned on her the day before, and then squared her shoulders. “You don’t want charity. I understand that. But it’s not just disinterested kindness on my part. I still have a hunch that you know more about those murders than you let on.”

“You’re mistaken.”

“Maybe. Let’s discuss it over a nice bottle of wine.” She bent over the basket and withdrew a bottle the color of blood, displaying it for his inspection. “I’m sure we can find a patch of ground outside to lay out our feast.”

Dorian withdrew a step, his gaze moving to the open warehouse door. “I prefer to remain here.”

She released an explosive breath. “No wonder you’re so pale, hiding here in the dark. Sunlight will do you good.” She reached for his arm. “Come on.”

Her fingers grazed his sleeve. He raised his hand to strike out. The brave expression in her eyes stopped him cold.

It would be so easy to hurt her. So easy to sink his teeth into the soft flesh of her neck, taste the sweetness of her blood.

He staggered, his feet slipping out from underneath him. Gwen seized his arm and held on.

“That’s it,” she snapped. “If you won’t come outside, we’ll eat right here.” With surprising strength, she turned him about and half dragged him behind the crates that formed the walls of his room. Once he was safely seated on the floor, she went back for the basket. She set it down in front of him and sat beside him.

The smell of fresh bread, pungent cheese and savory meat rose from the basket as Gwen spread the white linen cloth on the floor and laid out the meal. Dorian’s stomach churned, rebelling against its enforced deprivation. No vampire could survive long without blood, no matter what other forms of nourishment he might take. But since the blood enabled strigoi to digest human food, most ate on a regular basis.

“Walter,” he said hoarsely. “He needs this more than I do.”

“There’s plenty for both of you.” She sliced off a generous chunk of the bread, constructed a sandwich out of roast beef and thinly sliced cheese, and thrust it at Dorian. “Eat.”

Their fingers touched as he accepted the sandwich. He almost dropped it. Gwen pressed it into his hand. Once again their eyes met, and Dorian saw the sympathy and compassion she tried to conceal.

“It’s all right,” she said.

There was no more fighting the demands of his body. He took a bite, closing his eyes as the bread melted on his tongue. In seconds the sandwich was gone and Gwen was making another. While he ate, she used a corkscrew to open the wine and filled the two glasses that had been tucked in the bottom of the basket.

“It’s not the best,” she said, “but I hope you won’t find it too disappointing.”

Dorian took a glass, careful this time not to touch her, and stared into the dark red liquid. “What makes you think I would know the difference between good wine and poor?”

“You speak like an educated man.”

“That hardly proves anything.”

She looked at him over the rim of her glass. “Where did you attend school?”

The wine turned sour in his mouth. He swallowed it with difficulty.

“My past isn’t worthy of your interest, Miss Murphy.”

“Let me be the judge of that.” She wrapped up the remaining cheese and meat, tucking it back in the basket. “You attended college. You worked in a position that required both skill and intelligence.”

A sense of fatalism washed over Dorian. Gwen Murphy wouldn’t give up. He couldn’t force her to leave without resorting to violence, and he was already too close to losing all control.

“I didn’t attend college,” he said, setting down his glass. “I was born in Hell’s Kitchen. I went to public school until I was ten. Then I went to work in a factory. There wasn’t any time or money for higher education.”

Gwen gazed at him, a sandwich halfway to her mouth. “Well,” she said at last, “that’s definitely one of the longest speeches you’ve made since we met.”

“I trust it assuages your curiosity.”

“Not really. It doesn’t explain why a kid from Hell’s Kitchen uses words like ‘assuage’ in casual conversation.”

Dorian found himself studying the delicate arch of her brows and the curve of her forehead. “It is possible to learn without formal instruction. There are such things as public libraries, Miss Murphy.”

“Is that how you did it? You’re self-taught?”

He shrugged, carefully looking away from her face. She finished her sandwich, brushed off her skirt and rose. “Are those books I see there?” Without waiting for his answer, she stepped over him and bent to pick up one of the volumes he’d arranged on a plank against the wall.

“Frankenstein,” she said, cradling the battered volume. “You enjoy the classics, Mr. Black?”

“Occasionally.”

“It’s a sad story. Both the creator and the created are ultimately destroyed.”

“Is that so surprising, Miss Murphy, when the creator chose to set himself up as a god?”

She smiled at him. “So you’re a philosopher as well as an autodidact.”

“You seem to share my predilection for long words, Miss Murphy.”

“Writing for a newspaper doesn’t allow me to use them very often. I used to read the dictionary when I was a kid.”

Dorian felt a jolt of surprise, remembering the discarded dictionary, its pages moldy and torn, that he’d found left in a rubbish heap outside his family’s tenement. He’d made himself learn at least two new words every day, practicing their pronunciation with care. His father had laughed at him.

Won’t do you no good, boy. You’ll never amount to anything. Not as long as you live…

Dorian’s father had had no idea just how long that would be.

“What else do we have here?” Gwen said, sliding the book back in place and picking up another. “Dante’s Inferno. You don’t go in for light reading, do you?”

“I’m devastated that you disapprove.”

“No. It’s not that.” She tapped the book’s spine against her chin. “Do you believe in eternal punishment, Mr. Black?”

“Do you, Miss Murphy?”

She touched the cross hanging from a silver chain around her neck. “I believe in the possibility of redemption.”

The tightness Dorian had felt earlier returned, squeezing his heart beneath his ribs. “Some souls cannot be redeemed.”

“Are you speaking of yourself?” Her eyes were penetrating, ruthless in their understanding. “What happened, Dorian? Why do you think you deserve to suffer?”

He got to his feet, his mouth almost too dry for speech. “You assume too much.”

“I can see that you’re punishing yourself by living in this place, refusing human company, hardly eating. Is caring for Walter the only thing that keeps you alive?”

Dorian closed his eyes. He could feel it coming. Total darkness, a time when most strigoi walked freely and celebrated their power.

For him, it was a kind of death. A temporary death that never quite took him but let him survive to despise himself yet another day.

Oh, yes. He believed in hell.

“It can’t be as bad as you think,” she said.

Suddenly she was beside him, her warmth caressing his cold skin, her breath soft in his ears. “You found your way out of Hell’s Kitchen. You made something of yourself, didn’t you? But you took a wrong turn somewhere. And now you don’t think you can get back again.”

It took all his self-discipline to keep from responding to the thrum of the blood in her veins, the fragrance of her body that told him she was ripe for the taking.

“Did it never occur to you,” he said softly, “that I am not quite sane?”

“You mean because of what happened yesterday?”

He leaned away from her. “Yes.”

“If you’d really wanted to hurt me, you’ve had plenty of chances to do it.” Her implacable voice battered him like a hail of bullets. “Whatever you may have done, whatever you experienced, you want to make it right. But first you have to go back out into the world and face both it and yourself.”

The muscles in Dorian’s body slackened. Somehow he kept his feet. “Where did you acquire such faith in your fellow man?” he whispered.

“From my dad. He saw a lot of horrible things in his days as a newsman, but he never lost his belief in the essential goodness of humanity.”

Humanity. But I am not human. I can never be again.

With exaggerated gentleness, he took the book from Gwen’s hands. “Do you make a habit of attempting to save every vagrant you meet?”

“I’m not that good.” She picked up the basket. “Shall we take this to Walter?”

Dorian was greatly relieved by the change of subject. “He wasn’t feeling well earlier this afternoon. If you would leave the basket with me…”

“Of course. Is there anything I can do?”

“No. An old man is prone to ailments. He will recover.”

The warmth in her eyes increased. “Do you make a habit of attempting to save every vagrant you meet? Most people wouldn’t bother with a homeless old man.”

“Why do you bother with me?”

His question caught her at a rare loss for words. She tugged at the hem of her jacket. “Is it too shocking to say that I like you?”

“You have no reason to like me.”

“Do I have to have one?”

“I fear for your judgment, Miss Murphy.”

“Let me worry about that.” She pushed russet curls away from her forehead. “I’d like to stay, but I have an appointment this evening. I’ll be back tomorrow afternoon with some clothes and a few other things you might be able to use.”

All the cold-bloodedness that had served Dorian so well in his work for Raoul, all the dispassion he had deliberately fostered within himself, none of it was of any use now. He might as well have returned to his childhood, weeping in a corner because his mother was dead and his father couldn’t be bothered to comfort his own children.

He had never felt so unutterably weary.

“I ask you once more to stay away,” he said.

“I never give up on something once I’ve started,” she said, “and I still haven’t cut your hair. Unless you’re afraid you’ll lose all your strength, like Samson in the old story?”

He almost smiled. “I’m in no danger of such a fate, Miss Murphy.”

“It’s about time you called me Gwen, don’t you think?” She held out her hand. When he didn’t take it, she grabbed his and squeezed it firmly. “Gwen.”

The feel of her skin had an instant effect on his body. He grew hard, and it seemed as if all the blood in his veins rushed to his cock.

She released him, taking a step back as she did so. A slight shiver ran through her.

“Good,” she said, a little too sharply. “It’s a date, then.” She turned away, half tripping in her haste. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Dorian let her go. When she had left the warehouse and he could no longer hear the clack of her heels outside, he sat down heavily and dropped his head between his shoulders.

Yesterday his mind had been full of the resolve to ignore his attraction to Gwen Murphy. Of course he’d made the mistake of allowing himself to hope she wouldn’t return and force him to take decisive action. But she had come, and he had failed miserably at keeping her at a safe distance. He admired—yes, liked her—more than ever before.

Far worse, he’d only sunk more deeply into the maelstrom of his own hunger. And the irony of it was that he had never developed a resistance to such weakness, because he had never before suffered the particular illness that caused it.

One of the first things any newly Converted strigoi learned was that most vampires were unrepentant sensualists, reborn to the lust for pleasure no matter what they had been in human life. Raoul had certainly been a prime example of the principle, with his love of luxury, his grandiose manner and his extensive harem of protégés, both male and female.

Dorian had been different. When he’d first been Converted, he’d had no choice but to focus on duty, since he’d virtually become Raoul’s property. Yet even when he had proved his value and loyalty many times over, earning privileges generally granted only to trusted lieutenants and vassals, he had preferred work to pleasure. His needs were few, his desires nearly non-existent. That hadn’t been altered even when he’d recognized his genuine admiration for Allegra Chase and accepted the consequences.

To say he was no longer the man he had been was a gross understatement. His new need for physical closeness, for the intimate touch of flesh on flesh, for a woman’s body, seemed the least significant change of all. But it was enough. Enough to ruin the very person who had changed that part of him irrevocably.

Perhaps Gwen might have escaped the perils of his interest if she were the type of modern young woman who saw no shame in lying with a man simply because she desired it. The fact that she’d retreated so hastily after she’d taken his hand told him that she’d finally seen him as a man, not merely an object of charity or a lunatic deserving of her pity. And he had no doubt that she was fully capable of surrendering to the instincts that brought male and female together, regardless of species.

If Gwen could simply acknowledge such instincts and give them full control, she might disarm his need with a single act of sex. But Gwen, for all her brash confidence, would never agree to a casual liaison with him or any other male. There was a hidden core of conventionality in her that he could sense as strongly as he sensed the rhythm of her pulse and the beat of her heart. She might be unstinting in her willingness to help those less fortunate, but there was a part of herself that she would always hold back. Especially in matters of romantic intimacy.

Romance and love were concepts as alien to Dorian as the fear of death. And though Gwen might see him as a man, “liking” was a very long way from the ominous human emotion that could bring about her downfall. Even if she allowed herself to feel more for him than she did, more than what mortals called “friendship,” she would never be able to understand what he had been, how he had lived, what he’d done. She would never know what had shaped his life, what drove him so near madness, why he couldn’t be trusted.

Even her courage wasn’t enough to face the truth.

Dorian covered his face with his hands. Tomorrow came the madness, and he couldn’t be sure that he would recover. Today he was rational enough to separate his lust for Gwen’s body from his desire for her blood. But instinct, among strigoi as among men, could be more powerful than reason. Physical wanting, unchecked by clan law or the command of a liege, could become the drive to procreate. And there was only one way that vampires could produce more of their own.

Disgusted by his weakness, Dorian coldly considered his options. If he survived tomorrow night’s ordeal, he would plan an escape. He knew of a few places in Hell’s Kitchen where he and Walter might find temporary shelter until he could think of something better. Places where Gwen wouldn’t find him.

Soon enough, she would forget him. And he would remember her as just another human who had passed in and out of his life, as insubstantial as a ghost.

Dorian picked up the basket and went to find Walter.

LORD BYRON’S, it was said, had the best steaks in Manhattan. It had always been a fashionable watering hole for the elite, overpriced and overdecorated, with crystal chandeliers and ornate mirrored walls that echoed an earlier age. Women in Chanel gowns and ropes of pearls, ferried in black limousines, arrived on the arms of men in top hats and tuxedos. A small orchestra played discreet melodies as Wall Street brokers discussed their latest stock purchases and young couples danced cheek to cheek.

To an outside observer, Lord Byron’s looked positively staid. But like any club or restaurant worth its salt, it had a private room in the back that catered to those who wanted a little alcohol and excitement with their meals. And like any good reporter, Mitch knew the right password to get in.

He spoke briefly with the maître d’ and led Gwen to a table near the band. They were playing a recently popular tune, a little ditty about someone who done somebody wrong, and several couples were on the dance floor kicking up their heels.

Gwen and Mitch had barely sat down when a waiter brought a cooler holding a bottle of wine. He displayed the label to Mitch, who nodded his approval.

“I didn’t know you could afford Chateau D’Or,” Gwen said, shaking out her napkin with a snap.

Mitch gave her an exasperated look. “Trust you to say something so damnably prosaic at a time like this,” he said.

“A time like what?” She sipped at her ice water, casting Mitch a glance of childlike innocence. “Aren’t we here to celebrate your latest triumph?”

The blare of trumpets briefly drowned out Mitch’s reply, but his handsome face was eloquent.

“…should know me better than that,” he said. “I haven’t forgotten.”

Gwen resisted the urge to put off the forthcoming conversation with more banter, but she could see that Mitch wouldn’t play along. He’d decided on formality tonight, which was a very bad sign.

“Okay,” she said with a faint sigh. “I’m sorry, Mitch. I’ll try to be good.”

He relaxed a little, allowing the waiter to decant the wine. He held the glass under his nose, breathed in, and then tasted the Merlot with appreciation. After a moment he gave the waiter an approving nod, and the man filled Gwen’s glass.

The first thing Gwen thought as she drank was that the wine really didn’t taste any better than the cheap stuff she’d shared with Dorian a few hours earlier. She’d enjoyed that impromptu picnic more than she had her last few meals in Manhattan’s finest restaurants, enjoyed sparring with a man who was as unpredictable and volatile as a summer storm…

Don’t think of him. For God’s sake, keep your mind on your—

“Gwen?”

She came back to herself and smiled. “Sorry, Mitch. Woolgathering.”

“Still scheming about Hewitt’s story?”

“Hewitt’s story,” she said with a snort. “It was my dad’s long before it was his.”

“Your father, good as he was, had some crazy ideas. Spellman never would have let him pursue them even if he’d—” He broke off and coughed behind his hand.

“Even if he’d lived,” Gwen completed. “I know. But the murders mesh too well with his theories, Mitch.”

“A secret cult of blood-drinkers?” Mitch said, careful to keep the overt mockery out of his voice. “You know that’s hardly likely, Gwen, no matter how much Eamon believed.”

“You make it sound ridiculous,” she said, bristling, “but I’m not letting it go until I can prove he was wrong—or right.”

Mitch rubbed at the faint lines between his brows. “I just wish you’d consider the consequences,” he said. “Hewitt could make real trouble for you, Gwen. He’s never believed women belong on a newspaper.”

“It’s not as if it’s unknown. There are plenty of feature writers—”

“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.