Chasing Midnight

Chapter One

New York City, 1926

GRIFFIN DURANT STEPPED out of the elevator, strode across the polished lobby floor and slipped through the revolving doors, fortifying himself for the assault of smell and sound that crouched on Broad Street like an attentive predator awaiting its next victim. He pushed his hat lower on his head, wrinkling his nose against the acrid blend of gasoline, fermenting refuse and human sweat. His ears buzzed with the grinding of engines and the wildly varying pitch of human voices…but, as always, it was only a matter of moments before he was able to bring his senses under control and face the world with reasonable calm.

“Mr. Durant?”

A hand tugged at his coat, and he looked down at the smudged, familiar face of the corner newsboy.

“Paper, Mr. Durant?”

Griffin reached inside his pocket and pulled out a coin. “Here you are, Bobby,” he said, tucking the paper under his arm.

Bobby stared at the coin and gave a joyful whoop. “Gee, thanks, Mr. Durant!”

Griffin sighed. It took so little to make a difference in this boy’s life, yet he was only one of millions who called this city their home…teeming multitudes cast up on the shores of the biggest city in America. A metropolis that was rapidly becoming a place of corruption, violence and sudden death.

You could have chosen another city, he thought.

A city without such a thriving bootleg trade, for instance-though one couldn’t escape the traffic in illicit drink anywhere in the United States. New York’s business was simply bigger and more notorious than in any other municipality except Chicago.

You could have stayed in England. But then Gemma might never have come to know her native country. And he would never have escaped the reminders of the Great War that haunted him every time he read the latest news from Europe.

Griffin shook off the crawling sensation that raised the hairs on the back of his neck, took a firm grip on his briefcase and flagged down a taxi to take him to East Forty-second Street near Grand Central Station. The cabbie let him off a few blocks from the dressmaker’s shop. As he walked, Griffin dispassionately examined the women with whom he shared the sidewalk: soberly dressed dowagers with small dogs clutched in their arms; working girls in conservative suits; tycoons’ daughters in afternoon frocks from Worth or Chanel…and the flappers in their brazenly short dresses, daring anything male to gawk at their rolled stockings and rouged lips.

Frowning in disapproval, Griffin averted his gaze. Thank God Gemma had only left her English boarding school a few months ago and hadn’t yet been exposed to what passed for fashion among the fast set. The gown he’d ordered for her birthday was elegant, expensive and eminently tasteful. He had meant to commission a frock from Molyneux, but there simply hadn’t been time to have anything made overseas. With any luck, Gemma wouldn’t notice the difference.

A short walk brought him to the couturière’s. He summoned up a smile for the salesgirl who hurried to meet him.

“Mr. Durant,” she said, “you’ve come for the gown?”

“I have, Miss Jones. Is Madame Aimery available?”

“Of course, Mr. Durant. If you will excuse me…” She vanished through the back door, leaving Griffin alone with the shop’s other customer.

The young woman was slim and pretty, her warm brown skin a pleasant contrast to the pale green of her frock. Griffin tipped his hat to her, and she smiled in return.

“A very pleasant day, Mr. Durant,” she said. Griffin started. “I beg your pardon…have we met before?”

She laughed, a soft, rich chuckle. “I heard Miss Jones speak your name…and who hasn’t heard of Mr. Griffin Durant?”

“Am I as notorious as all that, Miss…”

“Moreau. Louise Moreau.” She offered her hand, and he took it. Her grip was firm. “Your notoriety is of the salutary variety, Mr. Durant. I-”

She broke off as Madame Aimery emerged from the back room with Miss Jones and another assistant, both assistants laden with ribbon-tied boxes.

“I beg your pardon for the wait, Monsieur Durant,” Madame Aimery said in her light French accent.

“No trouble at all,” Griffin said. He glanced at Miss Moreau. “Please attend to this young lady first. I’m in no hurry.”

Madame Aimery gestured to her assistant, who approached Miss Moreau with three wide boxes. “Good afternoon, Miss Moreau,” she said briskly. “Would you care to examine the dresses?”

Miss Moreau smiled slightly, matching Madame Aimery’s almost imperceptible coolness. “That will not be necessary. I’m certain that Miss Chase will find the dresses very much to her liking.”

“Mademoiselle Chase must not hesitate to call if we may be of further service.”

“I shall so inform her.” Miss Moreau took the boxes and tucked them under her arms. “Thank you for your time, Madame Aimery.”

The couturière nodded and signaled Miss Jones to fetch the remaining box. “Monsieur Durant-”

“A moment, if you would. Miss Moreau…” The young woman paused at the door. “Mr. Durant?”

“May I call a taxi for you?”

She smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “Thanks so much, Mr. Durant, but I’m to meet my employer at a café down the street. The boxes aren’t heavy.”

He moved to open the door for her. “If you’re quite certain…”

“I’m stronger than I look.” She winked at him and swept through the door.

Madame Aimery gave a discreet cough. “Monsieur Durant, if you are ready…”

Griffin accepted Gemma’s gown, paid in full and escaped into the cool breeze of twilight. Tall buildings cast long shadows that darkened the streets well before the sun went down, but for Griffin it was still as bright as noon. He considered hailing a taxi to take him to Penn Station, but he found that he, like Miss Moreau, preferred to walk.

With the coming of dusk, the dark-loving creatures crawled out of the woodwork: bootleggers and racketeers strutting out on the town with their painted floozies; truck drivers whose innocuous-looking vehicles contained a wealth of contraband cargo; laughing young men and their short-skirted dates seeking the latest hot spot to indulge in their passion for illegal booze; crooked policemen patrolling their beats, ready to lend their protection to the “businesses” that so generously augmented their meager salaries.

Griffin remained relaxed but alert, sifting the air for the scents of those denizens of night he preferred to avoid. He almost missed the faint cry from the alley as he passed. The smell of fear stopped him in his tracks; he tossed Gemma’s box among a heap of empty crates at the alley’s mouth and plunged into the dim canyon, unbuttoning his coat as he ran.

Two men in dirty clothing were circling a slight figure crouched between a pair of overflowing garbage cans, knives clenched in their fists. One of them looked up as Griffin approached. He grabbed his companion by the sleeve. “Joe,” he hissed, “we got company.”

Griffin slowed to a walk, keeping on eye on the muggers as he edged toward the garbage cans. “Are you all right?” he called.

“Yes,” came the muffled female voice.

Joe’s friend glared at Griffin, passing his knife from hand to hand. “What we got here, Joe? Some cake-eater who’s lost his way to the Cotton Club?”

“Sure looks that way, Fritz,” Joe said. He rubbed his thumb along the ugly scar that ran from the corner of his eye to his chin. “Listen, chump, and take some friendly advice. Get outta here and mind your own business.”

“That’s right,” Joe said with a grin, “or me ‘n’ Fritz’ll carve you up real nice.”

“It seems we’re at an impasse,” Griffin said. “But I’ll give you one chance to avoid possible serious injury. Leave now.”

Joe and Fritz exchanged incredulous glances. Fritz dropped his shoulders and hung his head as if in defeat. Joe lowered his knife. They held their submissive poses for all of five seconds before Fritz attacked.

Griffin closed his eyes. It would have been so easy then to become the wolf, and take these hoodlums down with teeth and claws and sheer lupine strength. So easy to lapse into the killer’s mind that had so often consumed him during the War, when he had taken revenge on those who’d slain his men in battle.

But he wouldn’t give in. Not this time. Not while he had the safety of the civilized world around him.

Griffin caught Fritz’s arm on its downward swing, applied a little pressure and neatly snapped the hoodlum’s wrist. Fritz’s shriek filled the alley like a siren. Griffin kicked his knife away and gently sidestepped Joe’s charge. He slipped up behind Joe before the mugger could catch his balance, seized his waist-band and collar and tossed him into a thick heap of refuse piled in the corner.

“I’ll kill her!”

Griffin looked up. Fritz was standing with one arm hanging limp at his side and the other wrapped around the young woman’s throat, the edge of a switchblade pressed against her delicate skin.

The victim was none other than Miss Louise Moreau. She met Griffin’s gaze, her eyes brave and calm in spite of her precarious situation. Griffin nodded slightly and returned his attention to Fritz. “Let her go,” he said softly, “and I may let you live.” Fritz tried to laugh and only managed a squeak.

“Make one move,” he growled, “and I’ll slit her throat.”

“You’ll do nothing of the kind,” Griffin said. “You see, you’re much too slow to stop me, Fritz. I’ll reach you before you can so much as twitch your little finger.”

“You’re crazy.” Fritz licked his lips. “I’ve got-” He never finished his sentence. Griffin crossed the space between them in one leap, wrenched the switchblade from Fritz’s hand and flung him against the brick wall. Fritz slumped to the ground. Griffin grabbed Miss Moreau just as she began to fall and guided her to one of the empty crates.

“Sit down, Miss Moreau,” he said. “I’ll make sure these men are incapable of any further mischief.”

Miss Moreau took a deep breath. “Thank you so much, Mr. Durant.”

He squeezed her arm and walked back into the shadows, his legs shaking with reaction from the fight and the memories it had evoked. Joe still lay unconscious in the refuse heap; Griffin found a bit of rope and tied his hands behind his back. A moaning Fritz lay where he’d fallen, nursing his wrist. He wouldn’t be molesting anyone soon.

Just as he finished tying Fritz’s ankles together, Griffin sensed a sudden, unexpected motion behind him. He jumped to his feet and found himself staring into the concealed face of a woman, her head and body swathed in dark veils and a black velvet coat that fell to her ankles. Her tantalizing scent seeped into Griffin’s skin and raced through his blood like a dangerous drug.

“Lou,” the woman said, crouching to take Miss Moreau’s hands, “are you all right?”

Miss Moreau passed a shaking hand over her hair. “I’m fine, Allie. Thanks to this gentleman.”

The woman-Allie-scrutinized Miss Moreau’s face and touched the narrow line of blood at the base of her neck. “They hurt you.”

“It’s nothing. I’d just like to go home.”

“Of course. Just give me a minute.” Allie rose, glanced toward the hobbled men and then fixed her attention on Griffin. “I owe you one, mister,” she said in a voice half silk and half steel, “but I can handle it from here.”

Griffin shook himself-hard. “I beg your pardon, Miss-”

“You don’t have to beg anything. Just leave the rest to me.”

His equilibrium somewhat restored, Griffin turned back to Miss Moreau. “Is this the employer of whom you spoke?”

“Yes.” She began to rise. “Mr. Durant, may I present Miss Allegra Chase. Allegra—”

“Sit down, Lou, before you fall down,” Miss Allegra Chase said sharply. She faced Griffin again. “What’s your name?”

He tipped his hat, not without a touch of irony. “Griffin Durant.”

“Oh, yes…the morally upright multimillionaire.” Her mockery belied her terse thanks. “Well, Mr. Du-rant, if you’d like to keep playing the gentleman, you could do me a favor and escort Lou out to the street until I’ve finished here.”

Griffin’s bemusement turned to foreboding. “Finished with what, Miss Chase?”

“Merely what you started. Making sure these hoodlums don’t try this kind of thing again.”

Griffin stood very still, studying Miss Chase with astonishment. Such a casual reference to confronting a pair of street toughs would ordinarily have seemed absurd coming from a female swathed in a trailing black coat and tottering on high-heeled pumps. She was petite, her head hardly reaching his shoulder, yet the swiftness of her appearance and the way she’d taken him by surprise spoke volumes; he’d been caught off guard that way only a few times in his life, and never by an ordinary woman.

Nevertheless… “I would prefer not to leave you alone, Miss Chase,” he said firmly.

The blue-green eyes behind her veil glinted red. “Are your kind always so protective of people they’ve never met?”

Your kind. So she knew, as she must realize that he recognized her inhuman nature.

“I don’t regard a situation like this as a matter of species,” he said. “I wouldn’t leave any woman with men such as these…not even one of your kind.”

Miss Chase feigned surprise. “My kind, huh? What do you suppose he means by that, Lou?” She took Griffin’s elbow, sending an almost electric current through his arm, and drew him aside.

“Come on, Mr. Durant,” she said, purring his name.

“Do you really think I can’t put a scare into a couple of humans?”

Griffin shivered as he felt the stirrings of physical sensations he usually kept under strict control. He remembered when his father had told him how leeches attracted their prey: something in their smell had an overwhelmingly erotic effect on humans, enticing them as certain carnivorous plants lured hapless insects into their gullets. Griffin had never had occasion to witness the phenomenon himself, but now it was all too evident that what worked on humans could also affect loups-garous.

His mind, however, was still clear enough to recognize that Miss Chase’s seductiveness was a pretense. She couldn’t help herself, any more than she could help preying on hapless humans. As little as Griffin knew about the female of the vampire species, he presumed they were driven by the same instincts as their male counterparts.

Oh, this one could definitely put a scare into Joe and his companion. But she might not stop at that. Miss Chase undoubtedly possessed ten times the strength of the strongest human, quite possibly greater than Griffin’s own. And she was surely more than capable of the casual violence that lurked beneath the handsome appearance and elegant demeanor with which so many of her breed deceived the world.

Unless, of course, she was discouraged from proceeding any further.

Griffin carefully freed his arm. “Better leave justice to the authorities, Miss Chase.”

Her easy manner vanished. “Sure,” she snapped. “That will work. Because if these guys work for a boss, they’ll get off in no time.”

“I have a contact in the police department. He can see to it that they don’t escape so easily.”

“A cop who isn’t corrupt? That I’ve gotta see.”

He held her gaze through the netting of the veil. “You’re too young for cynicism, Miss Chase. Your soul won’t profit by it.”

“How do you know how young I am? And what makes you think I have a soul?”

“A hunch, Miss Chase.”

“And how did you come to be so wise?”

“When you’ve lived a few more years—”

“Until I become a doddering old graybeard, like you?”

“I trust you’ll never grow a beard, Miss Chase. It would not be an improvement.” He tested the steadiness of his hand and extended it to her. “Come along….”

She slapped his hand aside. Her coat flew open to reveal long legs in flesh-colored silk stockings, exposed from ankle to knee by her short dress. He was momentarily distracted by the brazenness of her garments and the flash of bare skin at her upper thigh.

“Enjoying the view?” she taunted. “Want a better look?”

With one slender hand she lifted the veil from her face, and he finally saw the mysteries he had only guessed at before.

She was beautiful. Fair skin, so pale that it rivaled the moon at its whitest. Full lips enhanced with dark lip-rouge, contrasting vividly with the rest of her face. Aqua eyes, large and expressive, rimmed with kohl. Dark brows beneath the bangs of sleek black hair cut in a Louise Brooks bob just at the level of her stubborn, dimpled chin.

Griffin’s breath stopped. He knew the leeches tended to be handsome creatures, their appearances enhanced by transformation and the power of their natural magnetism. But in his rare dealings with them, he’d never met one quite so magnificent.

“Seen enough?” Allegra Chase demanded.

“More than enough.” He turned and offered his hand to Miss Moreau, helping her to her feet. “You and your mistress are leaving now.”

Allegra detached Miss Moreau from Griffin’s light hold and put her arm possessively around the other woman’s shoulders. “This isn’t over, Durant.”

“It is for you, Miss Chase.”

“You…you son of a—”

“You may regale me with every curse in your vocabulary, but it won’t do you any good. Even if you believe yourself capable of harming these men, which I seriously doubt, I won’t permit you to follow your less admirable proclivities.”

“Permit?” She laughed again. “You think I want your permission, much less admiration?”

“No. Nor do I require yours.” He caught her eyes. “Trust me. I’ll see that these men are sent to jail.”

“Ha.” She brooded for a moment, and then her posture loosened like that of a cat pretending disinterest in a careless bird. “Isn’t it a shame, Lou, that the world won’t know of our savior’s admirable chivalry?”

Miss Moreau glanced from Allegra to Griffin, frowning. “I doubt that Mr. Durant requires the world’s approbation.”

“True,” Allie purred. “He’s known as a recluse, isn’t he? Not the sort to seek publicity.” She leaned close to Griffin. “The gossip columns love to speculate as to who you really are under that straitlaced reputation. Wouldn’t they just love to know what you are?”

Griffin clung to his patience. “They’d be highly unlikely to believe such a story, Miss Chase.”

“Bet it would cut down on the list of scheming gold diggers hot on your trail.”

“I haven’t met these gold diggers. They must be chasing another man.”

“No fiancée? No lover?”

“That’s really none of your concern.”

Her expression softened. “You’re truly alone, aren’t you?”

“Miss Chase, this is hardly—”

“Is that why you spend your time rescuing damsels in distress?”

Griffin looked pointedly toward the street. “I suggest that you see a doctor at once, Miss Moreau,” he said. “If you and Miss Chase will—”

“Your hands are shaking,” Allegra interrupted. “Are you sure you’re not hurt?”

Cold sweat trickled under Griffin’s collar. “I’m perfectly well.”

“Could have fooled me. Still, it doesn’t seem—”

The sound of an engine drowned out her words. Griffin glanced up to see a battered delivery truck backing into the alley. Instinctively he placed himself between the ladies and the vehicle.

“What is it?” Miss Moreau asked.

“Bootleggers,” he said. “No doubt here to make a delivery.”

Allegra Chase moved up to stand beside him, her body tense and alert. “What perfect timing,” she murmured.

No sooner had she finished speaking than a pair of hatchet men jumped from the back of the truck, took up positions facing the street and stood watch while several other men began to unload crates into the alley. A door near the mouth of the alley opened to receive the shipment.

The last of the crates had just been passed into the building when another man, dressed from head to toe in black wool and leather, emerged from the truck and spoke to someone inside the door. After a moment the door shut, and the man turned to look at Griffin. His upper face was completely covered by his black fedora and sunglasses.

Griffin advanced a dozen paces, his hands loose at his sides, and stopped a few yards from the man in black. He felt the leech’s eyes on him, eyes as keen in the dark as his own.

The leech’s lips curled. He signaled to a pair of henchmen armed with tommy guns.

“You shouldn’t be here, dog,” he said.

“It wasn’t intentional, I assure you.” Griffin spread his hands. “We have no interest in your business.”

“You are pack—”

“My name is Griffin Durant. I don’t belong to the pack.”

The leech made a sound of disbelief and glanced toward Miss Chase. He hissed through his teeth.

“Allegra.”

The lady in question strolled past Griffin and assumed an insolent pose, pushing her coat away from her dress to expose her shapely legs, one hip thrust out, her hand perched at the curve of her waist.

“Bendik. How nice to see you.”

Griffin stepped in front of her again. “A friend of yours, Miss Chase?”

“A friend? That’s a laugh.” She returned her attention to her fellow vampire. “Quit your glaring, Bendik. No one here’s going to cause any trouble, so why don’t you just wander on home?”

The leech looked Miss Chase up and down with scarcely less hostility than he’d shown Griffin. “What are you doing with a dog?”

“He’s woman’s best friend. Or hadn’t you heard?”

“Raoul…”

“Worried he might not approve? Too bad he can’t decide who I spend my time with.”

“You’ll go too far, Allegra. I look forward to the day Raoul puts you in your place.”

She yawned, stretching her body sensuously. “I’ll see you at the funeral, Bendik. Send him my best wishes.”

Bendik lingered a moment longer, looking as if he would have dearly loved to spray the alley with bullets, then retreated with an audible snarl. His henchmen jumped back into the truck, and the vehicle pulled out of the alley.

Griffin faced Allegra, his palms slick with perspiration. “That was very foolish, Miss Chase,” he said.

“Why? Did you think I was in danger?”

Anger choked him. “That…man was clearly not well disposed toward you.”

“He’s one of Raoul’s lieutenants, and Raoul isn’t happy with me these days.”

Griffin had heard the name Raoul more than once. The leech ruled the city’s vampire clan, but the authorities naturally assumed him to be human.

“Raoul is your patron,” he said.

“No!” Allie’s vehemence made it evident that she was telling the truth. “My patron…he’s nothing like Raoul.”

Griffin almost asked her to explain but stopped himself. He had no desire to become involved in vampire politics.

“A pity your patron isn’t here to caution you against your habit of imprudence,” he said.

“Ha. You don’t know anything about my habits. I—” She paused, regarding him through narrowed eyes. “Hey. You’re as white as a sheet.” She lay a hand against Griffin’s cheek. “Your heart’s beating like a jackhammer.”

Her touch wasn’t cold, as he’d expected a vampire’s would be. He moved away. “I didn’t savor the prospect of further violence, Miss Chase.”

“Don’t tell me you were scared. Bendik and his men would as soon have shot you as looked at you, but you were ready to take them on single-handedly.”

He stepped away. “Only if every other method failed.”

She shook her hair beneath the veil. Silky skeins settled about her face like black feathers. “So modest, isn’t he?” she said to Miss Moreau. “A paragon of virtue.”

Refusing to dignify Allegra’s provocation with a reply, Griffin gathered up his and Miss Moreau’s packages and asked the ladies to wait while he hunted down a policeman. Much to his surprise, Allegra and Miss Moreau were still in the alley when he returned with an officer of the law.

After the patrolman had briefly questioned Miss Moreau and taken the hoodlums into custody, Griffin flagged down a taxi and handed the ladies into the backseat. Allegra gave the cabbie an address that made Griffin raise his brows. It was one of the finest apartment buildings on Fifth Avenue, directly across from Central Park.

Miss Chase leaned out of the cab, her eyes unreadable behind the veil. “Thank you, Mr. Durant,” she said coolly, “for Lou’s sake.”

“You’re welcome, Miss Chase.” She began to close the door, but he locked his fingers around the handle, holding it open.

She lifted the veil and gazed up at him, dark brows high. “Well?”

“May I telephone you? At your convenience, of course.”

She grasped the card he offered between two slender, red-nailed fingers. “Why?”

“To inquire after Miss Moreau’s recovery.”

“Ah. Of course.” She smiled slyly. “Do you like me, Mr. Durant?”

Her blunt question left him mute. There was no sensible answer, no response that was more than witless babble. They’d only just met. They were of different breeds, races that had been enemies far more often than not. All the prejudices of his species should make Griffin regard her with suspicion and loathing.

But Allegra Chase had a subtle charisma that was something more than the glamour others of her kind possessed…something complex and passionate beneath the brash, seemingly careless exterior. She was fiercely protective of her employee, a quality that must be rare among creatures who viewed humans as servile inferiors. She was brave…and dangerously reckless.

The fact that she belonged—quite literally—to another man had oddly little impact on Griffin’s heart. He hadn’t felt such an instinctive attraction to any woman in nine long years. It was utterly mad. And undeniable.

“It isn’t real, you know,” Allegra said softly. “It’s just what we do.” Abruptly her features changed, taunting him with an air of casual indifference. “It’s a good thing for you that I have obligations that can’t be broken. You don’t want to know me, Griffin Durant.” She let his card fall into the gutter. “You must have a nice, quiet life. Don’t let anyone complicate it for you.”

He backed away from the cab, his throat tight under the knot of his tie. “I should certainly not wish to interfere with yours.”

“You already have. I hope you’re far away next time I want to have a little fun.”

She closed the cab door, and he caught only a brief glimpse of her face before the automobile drove away.

Deeply shaken by the fight and what had come after, Griffin walked aimlessly until well past sunset. Only then did he remember that Gemma would be wondering where he was. He stared at the slightly dented box in his hands and thought of the sweet, pristine dress inside it.

Gemma would never know a woman like Allegra Chase. And that was just the way Griffin wanted it. Miss Chase had done him a tremendous favor by reminding him just how untouchable she truly was.

Chapter Two

THE CEREMONY wasn’t anything a human would have recognized as a funeral. There were no clergymen, no pallbearers, no weeping relations. There would be no eulogies, no flowers thrown on the grave. The members of the clan stood in silent rows, sinister in their stillness, and draped in dark clothing that made them indistinguishable from the night sky and the black silhouettes of oak and chestnut trees.

Allie wore red. Cato would have appreciated her choice. She stood apart from the others, as befitted the one who’d been closest to the old scientist; she would scatter the ashes and speak the final words. And when it was over, not a single strigoi in the city could tell her what to do or how to do it.

She let her gaze wander away from her fellow mourners and drift to the buildings with their hundreds of windows glittering like stars. If any of the people in those buildings should wander into Central Park tonight, they would be in for a bit of a shock. Not that they would be killed; there were less drastic ways of dealing with inquisitive or thoughtless humans. Of course, Boucher didn’t have to conduct his cremation ceremonies in Central Park; he did it because it was his way of claiming his part of the city. At night, the park belonged to the clan.

A cool breeze ruffled the fringed hem of Allie’s dress. Her skin prickled, and she looked up to meet Raoul’s stare. He held the vessel out to her. She took it, careful not to touch his skin, and hugged it to her chest.

So this is all that’s left of a lifetime, Cato. How many hundreds of years, reduced to ashes.

How did you die, my friend? Raoul says it was the weakness left by the influenza that killed so many of us after the War. I don’t believe it. You would never tell me what you were working on, that secret research for Raoul. But you gave me a great gift, and I still wonder if that had anything to do with your passing….

She remembered the moment when she’d felt his death…the terrible, devastating shock that had washed through her like molten lava, a monster that ripped her heart from her chest with jagged steel claws. The blood-bond had been severed, yet the ghost of it had lingered, leaving her helpless while her world shattered and slowly reassembled itself again.

Cato is dead.

Grief made a hard knot in her chest, but she didn’t weep. She’d learned not long after her rebirth that vampires didn’t—couldn’t—cry, another one of those “anatomical changes” Cato had warned her about. But that was all right. The last thing she wanted was for Raoul to see her weak.

She nodded to the Master, reached into the vessel and gathered a handful of ashes. They felt dry and cool in her palm. She withdrew her hand, spread her fingers and scattered the ashes on the breeze, letting them fall where they might. No one made a sound. The others were here because Raoul demanded it, not because they cared that Cato was gone. They didn’t like being reminded that even strigoi could die.

Allie emptied the vessel quickly and let it fall. She faced the clan members with a raw-edged smile.

“Cato was my patron,” she said. “But he was also my friend. I know that doesn’t mean much to most of you. The funny thing about Cato was that he hadn’t forgotten that there are a few good parts about being human.”

Someone hissed, a sound of derision and contempt. Raoul’s head snapped around, seeking the source of the comment. The ensuing silence was deafening.

Allie laughed. “I always did enjoy a good argument.” She grabbed her wrap from the tree branch where she’d hung it and threw it over her shoulders. “Rest in peace, Cato Petrovic.”

She’d walked halfway to Fifth Avenue when a man stepped out from among the trees along the path and gestured to her frantically. She paused as she recognized his face, pursed her lips and went to join him.

“Elisha Hatch,” she said. “I didn’t think you’d be here.”

The human looked right and left, his nervousness palpable. “I watched,” he said. “Cato was my friend, too.”

Friend? Perhaps, Allie reflected. But Elisha had primarily been Cato’s laboratory assistant, the one human her mentor had trusted to help him in his mysterious work. He reminded Allie too much of a mouse…or more likely a rat, with his beady eyes and furtive movements. Not every human could live comfortably among vampires.

“What is it?” she asked, eager to be gone.

He rubbed his arms repeatedly, though the night was warm. The tattoos on the back of his right hand jumped and quivered. “Did Cato…did he give you anything before he died?”

The question caught her unawares. “What do you mean?”

“There was something…something he was supposed to leave to me if anything happened to him. It’s missing. I thought you might have it.”

Allie narrowed her eyes. “If something happened to him?”

Elisha risked a glance at her face. “The old weakness, you know.”

Just as Raoul had claimed, but Allie was far from satisfied. “Was he in some kind of danger?”

“No, no. Nothing like that.”

“And what was he supposed to give you?”

Once again Elisha looked carefully about them. “Papers,” he said. “Notes from his research. He didn’t want them to be misplaced if he…if he couldn’t work on them anymore. He knew I was the only one who could understand them.”

Allie weighed his answer. It seemed reasonable enough. “Why do you think he would have given them to me?”

Elisha shifted from foot to foot. “Maybe he thought they’d be safe with you.”

“Safe from what?”

But Elisha had scarcely begun a hesitant reply when he saw something that shut him up fast. He melted back into the trees, leaving Allie to wait alone for Raoul.

The Master glanced toward the trees as Allie returned to the path. “Talking to someone?” he asked.

“I thought I saw an intruder hanging around.”

“And did you?”

“I must have imagined it.”

Raoul regarded her with a half smile. “Your imagination is as troublesome as your impertinence, Allegra.”

“Impertinence? Is that what they call it?” She began to walk, and Raoul fell into step beside her, his shoes soundless on the path.

“Impertinence,” he said. “Rashness. Foolhardy defiance.”

Allie yawned behind her hand. “Glad I made an impression.”

“Oh, you most certainly did.” He moved almost imperceptibly, and suddenly he was in front of her, walking backward with casual ease. “I had hoped you would stay for a little chat.”

“I don’t think there’s anything to talk about, Raoul. Not anything we haven’t discussed before.”

Raoul’s handsome, ageless face altered before Allie’s eyes, becoming more animal than human. “I’m not satisfied with the outcome of our discussion.”

“I guess even the great Master will have to get used to the occasional disappointment.”

With a flash of white teeth, Raoul came to a stop. Allie caught herself in midstride. They stood face-to-face, inches apart, gazes locked.

“I think not,” Raoul said. “I’ve ruled the clan for thirty years. I have no intention of allowing a rogue protégée to foster anarchy and disrupt the organization I’ve built here.”

“I’m not a protégée any longer, Raoul.”

He leaned closer, bathing her face with his breath. “You will submit. There is no other way for you.”

“I know the law as well as you. No one, not even the Master, can compel me to accept a new patron once I’m free.”

“Free to spend your nights among humans.”

“With anyone who doesn’t think that the last good hooch was distilled during the Roman Empire.”

“Does that include dogs?”

She remembered Bendik and his threats. “So what if it does?”

For a moment his eyes glinted red, and his body seemed to lift off the ground. Then he relaxed, the muscles under his perfectly fitted suit smoothing out with supple grace.

“You’re afraid, Allie,” he said. “There is no need for fear. If you give yourself to me, I will care for you. You’ll want for nothing. You will belong.”

Allie gazed into his eyes, feeling his power like hot, fresh blood flowing over her tongue. It would be so easy to agree. One bite, and she would be bound to Raoul as she had been to Cato…his offspring, his student, his property. She would be part of the strigoi hierarchy in which every member knew his or her place, virtually incapable of challenging the Master’s control. No need to make decisions or worry about spending the long centuries alone. No need for anything but obedience….

She shook her head, casting off Raoul’s subtle influence. “Nice try,” she said. “But I’m not likely to want for anything with the money Cato left me. And by clan law you can’t touch it, as long as I pay the settlement.”

“You think that’s enough?” He grabbed her arm and tightened his grip until she felt her pulse pound beneath her skin. “You’ll never leave this city or rise from your lowly rank. You won’t ever be permitted to create your own protégés, Allegra…not if you live a thousand years.”

Allie pulled his hand away. “You think that’s the ultimate ambition of everyone like us? To make more? It may be the only way to gain status in the clan, but I don’t care. Get it? I don’t care.”

She pushed past him and continued toward Fifth Avenue, bracing herself for another assault. But Raoul didn’t follow. That didn’t mean he’d given up, not by a long shot. She would have to keep fending him off until he got the message, even if it took the rest of the century to do it. Of course, there was always the possibility that he would resort to illegal force, but that was a chance she was willing to take.

And how far are you willing to go, Allie? She slowed her angry stride, her thoughts returning to the strange encounter earlier that evening. Funny that she was still thinking of Griffin Durant. She should have been able to put him out of her mind easily enough; she’d spoken no less than the truth when she’d told him that he wouldn’t want to know her. She’d done the right thing by implying that she was still blood-bound. One look at Griffin Durant and anyone would realize he was the old-fashioned type, still clinging to his Victorian morals, chivalrous to the core.

The problem was that she’d taken more than one look, and he had somehow become imprinted on her mind. There was no doubt he was handsome, and not in the pretty-boy way of so many among the pampered rich set. His slightly wavy dark brown hair tumbled over his forehead as if he hadn’t the patience to slick it down into the usual style. He had a small scar on his chin. His wolf-yellow eyes had been haunted with some past suffering.

He was the right age to have served in the War, and that would explain a great deal. Allie couldn’t imagine that many werewolves had volunteered to fight. Certainly no vampire would have done so. But Griffin Durant wasn’t a member of the pack, and that in itself was highly unusual. The pack could be every bit as jealous as the clan. The fact that he’d kept his independence hinted at a powerful will and considerable courage.

Allie frowned as she stepped into the street and crossed to her building. Griffin Durant was a bit of a paradox. But then, so was she. Someone who didn’t know better might have thought they were much alike, but they were worlds apart.

You wanted to protect me from myself, Mr. Durant, she thought. You said I was too young, as if I couldn’t know my own mind. But you’re the one who’s naive. No one can save anyone else. All of us, breeder and dog and leech…we all go through this life alone.

With an impatient toss of her head, Allie dismissed Durant from her thoughts. She smiled at the night doorman and took the stairs all the way up to the eighth floor, relishing the exercise after the unpleasantness with Raoul. Almost the moment she touched the doorknob to her flat, the door swung open.

“Lou!” Allie said, shocked by the look on the other woman’s face. “What’s wrong?”

Lou retreated, letting Allie into the flat. “Something has happened, Allie…someone has—”

“Sit down, for God’s sake.” Allie grabbed Lou’s arm and led her to the nearest chair. “I should never have left you alone. Let me get you a drink, and then you can tell me what—”

“I’m all right.” Lou took a deep breath and clasped Allie’s hand. “Someone has been in the apartment. I lay down as you suggested, and I must have fallen asleep.”

She made a mute gesture at the room, and Allie looked. At first glance there didn’t seem to be anything wrong, but then she noticed the chair sitting off kilter, the pictures hanging crooked on the walls, the knickknacks scattered across the floor. A glass vase lay shattered beside the sofa.

“I didn’t move anything, in case you wanted to call the police,” Lou said. “I didn’t know where to find you, or I’d—”

“I know. You did the right thing, Lou.” Allie pounded her fist on her thigh. “For you to suffer two attacks in one day…”

“They weren’t after me. It’s obvious that the intruder was looking for something, something he wanted very badly.” Lou rose and took a few agitated steps toward the hall. “I think I woke up when the vase broke. I must have interrupted the thief, because he had barely started in your bedroom.”

Allie clenched her teeth. “How did he get out?”

“Your bedroom window was open. He must have climbed up somehow.”

“What did he take?”

“Only a few pieces of jewelry, as far as I can tell.” Lou turned in a slow circle, her arms folded tightly across her chest as if she were fighting the urge to clean, scour and polish until every trace of the trespasser was consigned to the dustbin. “I’m so sorry. If only I’d woke up sooner…”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Allie put her arm around Lou’s shoulders and steered her into the kitchen. “I’m glad you didn’t, or the bastard might have hurt you.”

She pushed Lou into a seat at the small dining table and searched the cupboards for the tea Lou preferred to anything stronger. Once she’d prepared a steaming cup and left Lou to enjoy it in peace and quiet, she made a thorough examination of the flat from door to bathroom.

Lou had been right; it didn’t seem that much had been taken. Allie’s jewelry box had been upended and the contents scattered over her dressing table. The closet door stood open, boxes strewn and spilling mothballed clothing and last year’s hats across the carpet.

Allie opened her window and looked out. There was just enough of a ledge for a very skilled acrobat to make his way to the fire escape.

A very skilled acrobat.

Allie sat on the edge of the mattress, working her fingers into the quilted satin bedspread. After her conversation with Elisha, she couldn’t help but suspect that the “papers” he was looking for might be of interest to Raoul, as well. Elisha had said Cato had willed these mysterious papers to him purely because he was the only one who could understand them. But in the park he’d been scared to death that someone would see him. What exactly had those notes contained?

And who had been in Allie’s apartment?

Was it you, Raoul? Do you want something else from me besides my submission?

If Raoul was behind this invasion, he’d obviously had reason to make it appear as if a common thief were responsible. Whatever it was he hoped to discover, she intended to find it first.

If you’re spoiling for a fight, Raoul Boucher, she thought, you’ll get it.

Because Griffin Durant was wrong. If it came down to choosing a soul or survival, she would pick survival every time.

 

“I CAN’T GO BACK.”

The Master heard Elisha Hatch’s puerile excuses with a calm that the human had every reason to mistrust. Hatch cringed, his defiance a matter of one fear pitted against another. The Master could spare him no sympathy.

“I must have them,” he said coldly, holding Hatch still with the power of his gaze.

The human swallowed. “I tried. I asked her. She wasn’t lying…she really doesn’t know.”

“Why should I trust your judgment?”

“I’ve known her ever since she was Converted. She’s never been like the rest.”

“Skilled at prevarication, you mean?”

The human blanched. “I don’t intend any offense.”

“Naturally not.” The Master leaned back in his chair. “Even if she knows nothing of the papers, they may still be in her possession. You must finish searching her apartment.”

“I think I was seen. They’re looking for me already. If I go back now, they’ll find me and question me, and then I won’t be of any further use to you.”

A certain slyness had entered the human’s voice, a pathetic attempt at negotiation he had no hope of carrying off. “Let me wait a couple of weeks,” he said, “so they think I’m really gone. He’ll have enough to worry about soon enough, and then I can slip in with no one the wiser.”

The Master traced his finger over his lower lip. “Perhaps you’re right,” he said. “But if he gets the papers first, I will hold you entirely responsible.”

Hatch literally shook in his shoes. “I…understand.”

Of course he did. All the Master’s human employees were well aware of the penalty for failure. They were tools to be used and discarded, their petty dreams of wealth and power destined to end along with their short and miserable lives.

“Leave me,” the Master told Hatch. “Stay out of my sight until you’re prepared to complete your task, or I may lose my patience.”

Hatch bowed. “I understand, My Liege.” He scrambled from the room. After a moment the Master rose and went to visit the laboratory, reminding himself that what he sought was almost within his grasp.

Patience, he thought. You have waited thirty years. You can wait another few weeks.

A few weeks, a taste of ambrosia, and the new age of glory would truly begin.

 

“I JUST DON’T UNDERSTAND what’s happened to her, Grif,” Malcolm Owen said, dropping his head into his hands with a sigh. “It’s been three months since I’ve spoken to her. Three months! I don’t care what De Luca says…she wouldn’t just give me the brush-off like that.”

Griffin steepled his fingers under his chin, regarding his friend with sympathy. “You’re absolutely sure her father didn’t send her away?” he asked, signaling for Starke to refresh Mal’s drink. “Just because he didn’t object before, that doesn’t mean he approved of your plans. It’s one thing for you to take his daughter out to nightclubs and speakeasies, and quite another to marry her.”

Mal laughed bitterly. “You talk as if De Luca was a real father to her instead of a mobster more interested in his profits than any genuine human emotion. He could have stepped in long ago if he’d wanted to put the kibosh on our engagement.” He leaned forward, meeting Griffin’s gaze. “Margot wanted it as much as I did, Grif. She was sick of being a bootlegger’s daughter. She was ready to throw it all away…the furs, the jewelry, the automobiles, everything.”

And live happily ever after in your humble apartment off Washington Square, scraping by on a playwright’s income, Griffin thought. If she was that much in love with you, my friend, why did she disappear?

He frowned. Mal was a passionate lover, just as he was passionate about his plays and music and art and life itself. He threw himself into every scheme with a wide-eyed enthusiasm and guilelessness that belied his experiences overseas. There had been times during the War when only his high spirits and optimism had kept Griffin sane. Mal had been sixteen then…hardly more than a boy, but as courageous as they came.

He was nothing at all like Griffin, but there wasn’t much Griffin wouldn’t do for the man who’d saved his life.

Mal snatched up his glass and downed half his brandy in one swallow. “I don’t think I can go on without her, Grif,” he said. “She’s everything to me.” He ran his hands through his fair hair. “Should I go back to De Luca and grill him again? He doesn’t scare me. I’d do it in a second if I though it would make any difference.”

“I doubt it would help,” Griffin said. “The best you can hope for is that he’ll throw you out on your ear, and the worst…” He shook his head. “No, Mal. Recklessness won’t get you anywhere.”

“Then what will?” The young man’s eyes snapped with indignation. “I’m certain something has happened to her, and I won’t sit idly by if she’s in trouble.”

Griffin got up and walked to the window, pulling the heavy drapes away from the mullioned glass. Late-morning light beat a path over the aged Persian carpet but did little to brighten the study, encumbered as it was with dark paneling and heavy oak furnishings.

“I doubt she’d be in the kind of trouble you’re envisioning,” Griffin said. “De Luca has too much power.” He debated whether or not to speak his mind and decided to err on the side of mercy. “From all you’ve said, I still think it most probable that her father sent her away. And since he isn’t likely to tell you anything more…” He turned away from the window. “Let me look into it. I have a few…connections in the city. Someone may know more than De Luca is telling.”

Mal’s eyes filled with hope. “Would you, Grif? That’s awfully good of you.”

“Don’t thank me yet. It may take me a few days to track down my sources.”

“These sources…are they—” Mal cleared his throat “—are they like you?”

“The less you know about that the better.”

“But you will tell me as soon as you hear anything?”

“Of course.”

Mal grabbed Griffin’s hand. “You’re the best pal a guy could have, Grif.”

Griffin stepped back and gently freed his hand. “Will you stay at Oakdene tonight, or should I have Fitzsimmons drive you to the station?”

“Thanks for the invite, Grif, but I have that play to finish…and I think I might actually do it now that I know you’re on the case.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” Griffin gestured to Starke. “Uncle Edward, will you please ask Fitzsimmons to—”

“Mal!”

Gemma’s voice cut across Griffin’s like sunlight through shadow. She bounded into the room, flashed Starke a smile of apology and came to a halt before Mal.

“Why didn’t you tell me Mal was coming, Grif?” she demanded. “He must think I’m terribly rude for not greeting him.”

“Nothing of the kind, Gem,” Mal said with a fond grin.

“It was just business…nothing that you would have found of interest,” Griffin said. “Are you already done with your lessons?”

Gemma took a sudden interest in the toes of her sensible shoes. “Miss Spires had a headache,” she said.

“I see. I wonder what brought that on?”

Gemma glanced up at him from under her thick brown lashes. “I’m making excellent progress.”

“I hope so. I’d hate to think that I made a mistake in extracting you from that boarding school.”

Gemma shuddered. “Mal, tell my brother how much I love America, and that I never want to go back to those horrid—” She broke off and put on a prim expression. “I’ll be forever grateful for the education I received in the convents and boarding schools, but I am nearly seventeen. Isn’t it time that I should see something of the world?”

“If that’s your aim,” Mal said helpfully, “New York is the place to do it.”

“Thank you, Mal,” Griffin said dryly. “Gemma, don’t you think you should take some tea up to Miss Spires? It might make her feel better.”

Gemma pulled a face. “Tea.” She looked toward the sideboard. “Brandy would do her more good, or maybe whiskey…”

“You know very well that Miss Spires doesn’t drink.”

“Only because she’s an old—” Gemma bit her lip. “Don’t you think I should be allowed to try it, big brother? My birthday is in less than a week.”

“Out of the question.”

“Why?”

Mal stared at the ceiling. Griffin sighed. “You’re too young, Gemma, and alcohol is illegal.”

“It’s only illegal to sell it, not drink it. And anyway, you keep it here.”

“Only for guests. You know I don’t drink.”

“You shouldn’t keep the stuff around just for my sake, Grif,” Mal said.

“Thank you, Mal. Your concern is appreciated but entirely unnecessary.” Griffin turned back to Gemma. “I’m not going to argue the merits of the Volstead Act with you, Gemma. You aren’t to drink in this house.”

Gemma glared for a moment, turning undoubtedly rebellious thoughts about in her head. It was amazing how quickly she’d gone from obedient schoolgirl to willful young woman. Griffin could still remember the day of the fire, when he’d held a wailing two-year-old in his arms and watched, helpless, as their parents and elder brother were consumed by the flames. She had been so tiny then, so desperately in need of his protection….

“You can’t keep me locked up forever,” Gemma said in a deceptively calm voice. “In a few more years I’ll be able to make my own decisions, and then…”

“Gemma, Gemma—” Griffin cupped her chin in his hand “—why are you in such a hurry to face the world? It’s not as pretty as you imagine.”

She met his gaze. “I know how hard it was for you…in the War, I mean…all the things you had to do—”

He dropped his hand as if she had burned it. “You know nothing about it, and I never want you to learn. You’ll have a good life. Nothing will ever hurt you, Gemma. That I promise.”

“A good life.” She flounced away from him, banging her heels on the carpet. “You mean, a life among the stuffy, boring, proper members of New York society. You want me to marry an ordinary man and become a good, obedient wife who gives respectable teas and occasionally plays tennis with the other young matrons.” She swung back to face him. “What if I don’t want that kind of life? What if I want jazz and dancing and fast motor cars? What if I want to be free?”

“Gemma…”

“Don’t you see? We aren’t like other people, Grif! We can’t just pretend we are. What would happen if I married some nice, upstanding young man and he found out what I really am? Or will I have to hide it for the rest of my life?”

Griffin looked away, knowing she had hit on the one point he could not refute. He thought of another woman who would probably represent Gemma’s ideal of the liberated, modern woman: a certain long-legged vamp with a black bob and aqua eyes and a throaty voice made for whispering seductive promises; a brash and brazen young woman who considered herself the equal of any male, human or otherwise—who’d made Griffin remember that he was still very much a man….

“Why can’t you just let me meet the others in New York?” Gemma demanded, cutting into his thoughts. “Why can’t we be with our own kind?”

“The pack would hardly permit you the freedom you crave,” he said.

“How do you know what they’d permit? You say you don’t trust them. I know it has something to do with what happened in San Francisco, but that was a different place. They aren’t the same!”

“They’re bootleggers,” Griffin said grimly. “They break the law every day.”

“But that isn’t—”

“Please go to your room, Gemma.”

She opened her mouth, closed it again and retreated with the air of one who had suffered only a temporary defeat. Griffin gave Mal a weary smile.

“I’m sorry about that little contretemps,” he said. “You shouldn’t be subjected to our family squabbles.”

“It’s nothing, really,” Mal said. “You should have seen me and my sisters.”

“I don’t enjoy such disagreements,” Griffin said. “She’s so much younger than I. She never knew our parents.”

“You had to raise her yourself.”

“Starke took care of us after the fire, until I was old enough to assume responsibility for the administration of our inheritance.”

“That’s why you call him Uncle Edward?”

“He was like a second father to us.” Griffin glanced away. “A few years later came the War. After that, Gemma spent more time with governesses or away at school than with me.” He walked with Mal toward the door. “It’s my own fault if she doesn’t see things as I do.”

“It’s not your fault, Grif. Change is in the air. It’s not the way it was before the War. There are so many girls just like Gemma…girls who won’t go back to the way our mothers lived.”

Griffin stopped at the foot of the staircase. “Gemma won’t be that kind of girl, not as long as I have anything to say about it.” He gripped the newel post, tightening his fingers until they ached. “My life has no purpose if I can’t protect my sister.”

No purpose? Your money does plenty of good in the world.”

“What I do is a drop in the bucket.” The newel post creaked under his hand. “Gemma has no resources to face the harsh realities of a mad and violent world. I intend to see that she reaches womanhood with her innocence unspoiled.”

Mal glanced at the floor and then back at Griffin, his expression guarded. “I hope it turns out the way you want it to, Grif, but don’t blame yourself if it doesn’t. Gemma isn’t an ordinary girl, and not even you can control everything.” He scuffed his shoe on the parquet floor. “I know it isn’t any of my business…”

“No. It isn’t.” He heard the harsh tone of his own voice and managed a smile. “Don’t worry about us, Mal. You have enough problems of your own, and I intend to help you as best I can.”

“You know I’m grateful.”

“There are no debts between us, Mal…not now and not ever.”

They continued on to the door, where Fitzsimmons could be seen waiting in the drive with the limousine. Griffin sent Mal off to Manhattan and returned to his study, his thoughts bleak and troubled.

Despite what he’d told Mal, he wasn’t at all confident that he could control Gemma. She had abilities far beyond those of a human girl her age. She was also far too inexperienced to fully grasp the consequences of employing them recklessly.

Griffin picked up the brandy snifter and swirled the liquor around and around, flaring his nostrils at the strong, sweet scent. Gemma would have been delighted to drink what Mal had left, but alcohol was the least of the dangers she faced. Maintaining Gemma’s respectability would be easy in comparison to holding her wolf nature in check. For Gemma, just like her brother, could become an animal in the blink of an eye.

And once the animal was free, there could be no certainty of restraining it.

The smell of the liquor went sour in Griffin’s nostrils. He’d been speaking no less than the truth when he’d told Mal that his life’s only remaining purpose was to protect Gemma. God knew, nothing else seemed very important. Any competent businessman could take his place administering the Durant estate, charities and commercial holdings. He had little interest in politics and even less in high society, beyond what was required to secure Gemma’s future.

And as for women…

He closed his eyes, drawn once again to the alley and his unconventional meeting with Allegra Chase. “You’re truly alone, aren’t you?” she’d said. “Is that why you spend your time rescuing damsels in distress?”

Her question had been intended as a gibe, but somehow she’d sensed that he’d cut himself off from the opposite sex, unwilling to embark on empty liaisons with the kinds of women who gave themselves freely for a handful of expensive trinkets or a few months of sexual gratification.

Allegra Chase was exactly that sort of woman, or would have been if she were human. She had her “obligations,” her powerful ties to the vampire who had Converted her, as well as to the rest of the clan—literal ties of blood even more binding than those that governed the world of the pack. Yet Griffin was still thinking about her, still remembering the fire in her eyes and the curves of her shapely legs. He’d dreamed of her last night, and awakened this morning hard and aching with need.

It was ridiculous. Allegra had been honest enough to warn him that the attraction he’d felt wasn’t real when he was too muddled to think for himself. She obviously had no more interest in him than she might have had in an African ape.

He should have been grateful. At the time, he’d thought she’d done him a favor. Allegra Chase was only a fantasy, and such visions eventually faded.

But this one hadn’t. If the attraction hadn’t been real, it surely would have died a quiet death by now.

Griffin scowled with self-disgust, nearly cracking the snifter in his hand. The only cure for these irrational thoughts and feelings would be time…time and the inevitable distance ensured by two very different lives.

Time and distance made no difference to Mal, he reflected. Once his friend had given his heart, nothing would shake him from his course. And that was why Mal deserved his happiness, he and the dreamers like him. No one—except for a few ambitious debutantes and their mothers—would notice or care if Griffin Durant cut himself off from the society that had kept him civilized.

Shaking off his grim mood, Griffin picked up the telephone receiver and gave the operator a number he hadn’t called in far too long.

“Kavanagh,” the man on the other end answered.

“Ross?”

“Griffin? Griffin Durant?”

“Hello, Ross. I know it’s been quite a while—”

“Hell, man. Far too long. How is life among the polo players and stuck-up debutantes of the North Shore?”

“The same as always. Nothing much changes here.”

“So I’ve heard. How is Gemma?”

“Her seventeenth birthday is just around the corner.”

“That old? You must be watching her like a hawk.”

“I do what I can.”

“And the pack? They aren’t giving you any more trouble?”

“No more than usual. I can handle them.”

Ross Kavanagh laughed, an edge to his voice. “Yeah. I’ll bet.”

“And you?”

“I’m dead to them. They leave me alone, and I don’t tell the other cops or my friends in the Prohibition Bureau about their little operation.”

“Good.” Griffin sat in the chair next to the telephone stand, forcing his muscles to relax. “Listen, Ross…I have a favor to ask.”

“What is it, brother?”

Succinctly Griffin recounted the situation with Margot De Luca. “Mal’s already been to see her father, and asked around every club he and Margot frequented, all with no success. If you could keep your ear to the ground, I’d appreciate it.”

“Sure. Mal’s a good kid.”

“Honest, honorable and the bravest man I’ve ever known.”

“That’s saying a lot, coming from you.” Griffin heard the sound of a pencil scratching on paper. “I’ll give you a call if I turn up anything.”

“Thanks, Ross.”

“Don’t be such a stranger, Grif.”

As he hung up and walked to the window, Griffin wondered if he would ever be anything but a stranger. He had chosen his course, and he had no one to blame but himself.

With a snap of his wrist, Griffin closed the drapes and let the darkness enfold him.