the someones I was trying to avoid.”
“And who would they be, Miss Murphy?”
Sudden nausea gripped Gwen’s stomach. “That’s confidential,” she said. Her ankles wobbled as she struggled to stand. “I think I’d…better call a taxi.”
Black jumped to his feet with an athlete’s grace and caught her arm as she tottered and nearly fell. “You’re in no condition to walk alone, Miss Murphy. I will escort you to the nearest telephone.”
“Really, I’ll be fine.”
Without answering, he pulled her closer to the dry heat of his body and led her a few halting steps. The nausea increased, creeping up into her throat. It had to be a combination of things: the filthy water she’d ingested, the head injury, the shock of nearly dying. She should be able to overcome it. She was Eamon Murphy’s daughter, for God’s sake…
Black stopped. “You won’t make it,” he said bluntly.
“Yes, I will. I just need a little more time.”
Her savior looked pointedly toward the east, where the sun was rising over Queens. “No time,” he muttered, and then raised his voice. “You will come with me.”
Gwen passed her hand over her face, fighting a nasty headache. “Come with you where?”
“To a place where you can rest.”
Her skin prickled with warning. “I’m grateful. I really am, Mr. Black. I’d certainly—” Bile pushed into her throat. “I’d like to return the favor, but I have to get back. If you’ll just…”
A flood of sickness overwhelmed her. She jerked away from Black, emptying her stomach. The humiliation was excruciating. She wasn’t some damned cub reporter who couldn’t deal with a little adversity.
A steadying hand touched her elbow. She pushed it away.
“I’m fine,” she said.
“You’re coming with me, Miss Murphy.”
She shook her head, and suddenly she was seeing stars. Her lungs seemed filled with concrete. She couldn’t catch her breath. It was the darkness all over again, dragging her down like the treacherous river currents.
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
