Dark of the Moon

The water closed over her head, and this time there was no reaching the surface.

VOICES WOKE HER. The first thing Gwen noticed was that she was lying on something reasonably soft. She listened for a moment before opening her eyes, recognizing the newly familiar intonation of the enigmatic stranger who called himself Dorian Black. The other voice was older and less steady, slurred with drink and amiably loquacious. The conversation was too soft to be intelligible, and when Gwen opened her eyes she saw only her darkhaired savior, crouching in the light of an old-fashioned gas lamp.

His eyes were gray. They’d seemed colorless in the night, yet she’d thought of steel. She’d guessed correctly. That granite stare gave no quarter and asked for none.

Gwen tried to sit up. Black pushed her back down, his hand spread on her chest with no apparent regard for her anatomy. The feel of his palm on her breasts, her flesh and his separated by only the thin georgette of her blouse, startled her into stillness.

Apparently he’d judged that she would be more comfortable without her jacket or his, but at least he hadn’t relieved her of anything else but her shoes. Her skirt, hose and blouse were nearly dry, hinting at the length of time she’d been under Black’s care.

She hated the very idea that she’d been so helpless.

“Where am I?” she demanded.

He held her gaze with unnerving steadiness. “In a safe place.”

Some answer, Gwen thought, turning her head to examine the space around her. To the left was a solid, windowless wooden wall. To the right Black loomed over her, blocking her view. She couldn’t have seen much beyond the reach of the lamp in any case, but she sensed an open area partitioned off by the stacked crates that created a sort of room just large enough to accommodate her makeshift bed, a stool with one wobbly leg, and a smaller crate spread with a few items, including a mug, a basin and sundry objects she couldn’t quite make out. Hanging from nails hammered into the stacked crates were a pair of stained and threadbare shirts, a patched jacket, and a folded set of frayed trousers. It was evident that Black had made a home for himself in a place most people would consign to spiders and rats.

She’d seen men living under worse conditions, but not often.

“Are we still on the docks?” she asked.

He nodded, apparently considering a verbal reply unnecessary. Gwen pushed herself halfway up on her elbows.

“I guess I fainted,” she said, swallowing her pride.

“You fell unconscious,” Black said.

“You aren’t responsible for me just because you saved my life.”

He arched a brow at her sharp tone, and for a fleeting moment she thought she saw a sort of smile on his lips. “Having saved your life,” he said, “I would not like to see my efforts go to waste.”

“It must be daylight by now. Someone else would have found me.”

He shifted his weight, letting his long, elegant hands fall between his spread knees. “You do not strike me as the sort of woman who would want to be discovered sprawled on the boardwalk in a pool of her own vomit.”

His bluntness took her aback, but she couldn’t fault him for it. She preferred straight talk herself…a characteristic that often flabbergasted her male associates at the Sentinel.

“Well,” she said, “when you put it that way…” She licked her lips. “You wouldn’t happen to have some water, would you?”

He turned away, lifted a cracked pitcher from the table crate and poured a measure of water into the mug. Gwen took it hesitantly, gave a surreptitious sniff and put her lips to the rim. The water was surprisingly fresh.

“Thanks,” she said, handing the mug back to him. She opened her mouth to begin another argument about why he should let her go, but the words died in her throat. She found herself staring at him instead…staring like a girl suddenly confronted in the flesh with her favorite matinee idol. It was the most ridiculous thing in the world. And she couldn’t help herself.

“Who are you?” she said. “I mean, what is this place, and what are you doing here?”

He regarded her for a moment, as if he were considering whether or not it was worth his while to answer. At last he settled back against the crates behind him, stretching his legs across the space between them.

“I’ve told you my name,” he said. “I and a few others live in this abandoned warehouse. We trouble no one.”

She wondered why he’d included that last statement. Did he suspect that she’d detected something dangerous in his eyes?

“Most people wouldn’t live this way by choice,” she said.

His eyes took on a bleakness that hinted of some past tragedy, which came as no surprise to Gwen. “I don’t see what business that is of yours,” he said.

Pride. Even men without homes had it, sometimes more than those who had everything. Gwen knew she should just shut up and leave well enough alone. After all, once she walked out of this place, she would probably never see Dorian Black again.

But she’d spent a lot of time on the streets talking to people who didn’t know what it was like to make a fortune on Wall Street or drive the latest model sedan…who didn’t even know where their next meal was coming from. Telling the stories of the forgotten men and women of New York had been her personal crusade. Until Dad had died, and left her with his own private obsession.

There was something about Dorian Black that just wouldn’t let her leave it alone, something that told her he wasn’t the average unemployed guy with a chip on his shoulder. She would almost have guessed he’d come from a criminal background.

But your typical petty criminal didn’t usually let himself sink into dire poverty. He was either in jail or setting up another job, selecting another mark, planning a new scam. He was by no means the kind who would save someone from drowning. And guys involved with the mobs didn’t generally find themselves on the street. They were either working for a gang or, if for some reason they lost their usefulness, they were disposed of. It was just too dangerous for any mob boss to let one of his former subordinates run loose.

So what in hell was he?

She girded her loins and shaped her voice to a careful neutrality. “You’ve fallen on hard times,” she said.

He shrugged.

“You haven’t been able to find a job,” she persisted.

Something large rustled among the crates, and Gwen thought she glimpsed a long, naked tail. She shuddered. Black ignored the noise and leaned his head back against the crates.

“Why should you think I want employment?” he asked.

Deliberately testing him, she sat up. “You’re young and healthy,” she said. “Obviously intelligent. Educated.”

“So?”

That voice could have stopped a train in its tracks. Gwen held his gaze. “Let’s just say that I’d like to know a little more about the kind of man who’d rescue a total stranger.”

“You doubt the natural gallantry of the stronger sex?”

She stifled a snort. “I’m not a romantic, Mr. Black.”

“Neither am I.”

“Nevertheless, I’d really like to hear how you came to be living here. Are you alone in the city?”

His face was expressionless. “Would you perhaps be planning to write a special-interest story for your paper, Miss Murphy? An essay on the plight of unemployed men who live on the docks?”

Weary cynicism laced his words. She almost felt guilty. “If I did write such a piece, Mr. Black, I wouldn’t use your name. But that isn’t my intention.” She scooted around to lean with her back against the wall, drawing her knees up and pulling her coat over them to preserve her modesty. “Were you in the War, Mr. Black?”

“No.”

If there was one thing Gwen was good at, it was telling when someone was lying. She saw the true answer in Black’s eyes even before he opened his mouth to speak. They clouded over, losing their sharpness. As if he were remembering. As if he feared that another word might send him tumbling back in time to a world he had never quite left.

She swallowed, dodging memories of her own. Black had saved her life, but she didn’t think he would want her hanging around dredging up memories of the past, and there was another subject she wanted to cover before he tossed her out on her ear.