Chasing Midnight

“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 youngwoman 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 cakeeater who’s lost his way to the Cotton Club?”

“Sure looks thatway, 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 waistband 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 victimwas 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 awoman, 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. Durant, 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?”