Praise for SUSAN KRINARD

“A master of atmosphere and description.”

—Library Journal

“Susan Krinard was born to write romance.”

—Bestselling author Amanda Quick

Come The Night

By

Susan Krinard

MILLS & BOON®

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Dear Reader,

One of my favourite types of heroes is the hard-boiled detective…oh, not too hard-boiled, but the kind of rough-and-tumble guy who can dish it out and take it, who’s world-weary and cynical but just ready to fall for the right woman.

Ross Kavanagh is just that sort of guy. First introduced in Chasing Midnight, he’s an ex-cop who was thrown off the force for a crime he didn’t commit. Being a cop was his whole life, and now he’s rudderless, waiting for a chance to prove his innocence…when he is reunited with his former love, proper Englishwoman (and werewolf) Gillian Maitland.

For Gillian, seeing Ross again is painful but necessary—her son, Toby, has run away to America to find his father…none other than Ross himself. Ross didn’t know that his brief affair with Gillian had produced a child, and now he’s determined to claim his fatherly rights. The problem is that he’s only a quarter werewolf, unable to Change, and thus—by the laws of Gillian’s traditionalist werewolf clan—an unfit mate.

Now Ross has two things to prove: that he’s worthy of Gillian, and that he’s innocent of the crime that changed his life forever. But first he has to acknowledge his love for the woman who left him so many years ago, and she must defy her father and risk abandoning the life she’s known—by recognising that her love for Ross outweighs even the dangers of defying her clan and provoking its jealous enemies.

I hope you’ll enjoy reading Come the Night as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Susan Krinard

This above all: to thine own self be true,

And it must follow, as the night the day,

Thou canst not then be false to any man.

—William Shakespeare

PROLOGUE

Cumbria, England, 1910

“CHANGE, DAMN YOU!”

Her father’s voice was little more than a hoarse whisper, but to Gillian it sounded like a shout. She curled into a tighter ball and concentrated as hard as she could.

Change. Oh, please Change.

It seemed as if her body was doing everything possible to resist, everything possible to make Papa angrier with her. He’d already chastised her numerous times for lagging so far behind most loup-garou children.

“You aren’t trying hard enough,” he’d accused. “You wish to shirk your responsibilities. Well, I won’t have it. You’ll do as I tell you, even if I have to beat it into you.”

Gillian had believed him. He’d resorted to the belt more times than she could remember, and for far less terrible infractions than this. But oh, if she could only please him. The sun would come out in his eyes then, and the beatings would be forgotten.

She wanted so badly to please him.

Change.

She squeezed her eyes shut with such force that little white lights danced behind her eyelids. Her muscles twitched and protested. She imagined what it would be like when she became a wolf…how different the world would seem, how beautiful, how perfect.

You’ll be like the others. You’ll belong.

Without understanding why she did so, she let her mind go blank and her body relax. Her arms and legs went limp. She could still hear Papa’s voice, but it seemed very far away. A softness flowed through her like liquid sunlight.

And then something shifted, as if invisible gears had clicked into place. She had expected it to hurt—surely something so difficult would have to hurt—but it didn’t. There was nothing strange about it at all. One moment she was a fourteen-year-old girl—neither particularly pretty nor unusually bright, as her father so often reminded her. The next she was crouched on four large paws, and the universe was exploding with sounds and smells she had never known in all her life as a human.

She straightened and shook out her golden fur. There was nothing awkward about her now, nothing to make Papa ashamed. She looked up at him, daring to allow herself a shining moment of hope.

Papa was smiling. The warmth of his approval spilled over Gillian, bathing her in relief and joy. She jumped up high, twisted in midair, landed again as lightly as a feather. Every muscle and tendon obeyed her to perfection. She turned toward the wood behind the house, longing to escape into the fells, to feel the power of her new shape in all its glory.

But it was not to be. “Enough,” Papa said. “I have business to attend to.”

He had already turned away by the time she Changed back. The crisp morning air brought goose pimples to Gillian’s naked skin. She pulled on the dress she had left lying over a bench, skinny and plain and awkward once more, and berated herself for her foolish expectations. Why should there be a celebration just because she could finally do what any werewolf was supposed to do? Why should this day be any different?

She slipped her shoes and trudged through the kitchen garden to the servants’ entrance, praying that no one would see her. Not even Cook’s sympathy would make her feel better now. Cook was only human and couldn’t possibly understand.

No one stopped her as she climbed the stairs to the nursery. She was briefly cheered by the thought that Papa would no longer force her to remain in the room she’d occupied since infancy; she’d proven herself a woman today.

A woman whose future was already decided.

Gillian slumped onto her narrow bed and covered her face with her hands. She barely felt it when someone touched her drawn-up knee.

“Gilly? Are you all right?”

She opened her eyes. Hugh was standing beside the bed, his normally cheerful face overcast with worry.

Gillian straightened and found a smile. “Of course I’m all right,” she said. “I Changed today.”

Hugh’s mouth formed an O of surprise. “Cor blimey!”

“You ought not to curse, Hugh.”

“Did you really Change, Gilly? What was it like?”

“Wonderful,” she lied, remembering how Papa had destroyed her brief pleasure with his casual dismissal.

Hugh shuffled his feet. “Now that you’re grown up, you won’t play with me anymore.”

“Nonsense.” She slid off the bed and wrapped her arms around Hugh’s thin shoulders. “I’ll still be close by. Nothing will really be different.”

Hugh allowed her to hold him for a few seconds and then stiffened to indicate that he’d had enough coddling. He’s growing up, too, Gillian thought. But it would be easier for him when it was his time. He’d always been Papa’s favorite. That was a fact Gillian had accepted long ago.

Just as she had accepted that he must never know how badly their father made her feel.

She pushed Hugh’s brown hair away from his forehead. “It’s almost time for lessons,” she said. “Would you like to go outside and throw the ball for a little while?”

Hugh’s grin was answer enough. He ran to fetch the ball and raced ahead of her down the stairs, his small feet thudding loudly in the stillness. Papa might take him to task for his noise—if Papa were paying any attention. If Sir Averil Maitland was involved in his “business,” nothing else would matter.

Gillian descended the stairs and joined Hugh on the lawn, catching the ball and throwing it back with just enough force to satisfy a rapidly growing boy. She’d almost forgotten that she was to meet Ethan by the beck this evening after supper, when Papa was in the library with his books. Ethan was human; there were a lot of things he couldn’t understand. But she’d told him about loups-garous years ago, and he wasn’t afraid. He would listen patiently, the way he always did, and in the end she would feel just a little bit better.

Mrs. Beattie rang the nursery bell, and Hugh heaved a great sigh. It was time for lessons, and there would be no more play for the rest of the day. Nothing had really changed. Except that now Papa would begin thinking about a suitable mate for Gillian, a man of pure werewolf blood who would be the father of her pure werewolf children.

Gillian looked one last time toward the woods and reminded herself all over again that there was no such thing as freedom.

CHAPTER ONE

New York City, July, 1927

ROSS KAVANAGH contemplated the half-empty bottle of whiskey and wondered how much more it would take to get him stinking drunk.

It wasn’t the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last. He’d never been a drinker before they threw him off the force. There hadn’t seemed to be much point; even a man only one-quarter werewolf had a hard time becoming inebriated. And he’d been content with the world.

Content. Until everything had been taken away from him, he hadn’t really thought about what the word meant. He’d given up on anything beyond that a long time ago. It was enough to have the work, the company of the guys in the homicide squad, the knowledge that he’d kept a few criminals off the streets for one more day.

Now that was gone. And it wasn’t coming back.

He lifted the bottle and took another swig. The whiskey was bitter on his tongue. He finished the rest of the bottle without taking a breath and set it with exaggerated care down on the scarred coffee table.

Maybe he should put on a clean shirt and find himself another couple of bottles. Ed Bower kept every kind of liquor hidden behind his counter, available for anyone who knew what to ask for. Sure, Ed Bower was breaking the law. But what did the law matter now?

What did anything matter?

Ross scraped his hand across his unshaven face and got up from the sofa. He walked all too steadily into the bathroom and stared into the spotted mirror. His face looked ten years older than it had two weeks ago. Deep hollows crouched beneath his eyes, and his hair had gone gray at the temples. He wondered if Ma and Pa would even recognize him if he went home to Arizona.

But he wasn’t going home. That would mean he was licked, and he wasn’t that far gone.

Maybe tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow he would sober up and start looking for the guy who’d made a mockery of his life. The bum who had gotten away with murder.

Ross sagged over the sink, studying the brown stains in the cracked bowl. Clean up. Get dressed. Think about living again, even though no cop in the city would give him the time of day and the mobsters he’d fought for twelve years would laugh in his face.

Someone knocked on the door, pulling Ross out of his dark thoughts. Who the hell can that be? he thought. It wasn’t like he had a lot of civilian friends. As far as he knew, Griffin and Allie were still in Europe. They were the only ones he could imagine showing up at his apartment in the middle of the day.

Maybe it’s the chief coming to give me my job back. Maybe they found the guy.

He laughed at his own delusions. The person at the door knocked again. Kavanagh swallowed a stubborn surge of hope, threw on his shirt and went to the door.

The man on the landing was a stranger, his precisely cut suit perfectly pressed and his shoes polished to a high sheen. His face was chiseled and handsome; his hands were manicured and free of calluses. Ross sized him up in a second.

Money, Ross thought. Education. Maybe one of Griffin’s friends, though there was something about the guy’s face that set off alarm bells in Ross’s mind.

“Mr. Kavanagh?” the man said in a very proper upper-class English accent.

Ross met the man’s cool gaze. “That’s me,” he said.

“My name is Ethan Warbrick.” He didn’t offer his hand but looked over Ross’s shoulder as if he expected to be invited in. “I have a matter of some importance to discuss with you, Mr. Kavanagh.”

“What is it?”

“Something I would prefer not to discuss in the doorway.”

Ross stepped back, letting Warbrick into the apartment. The Englishman glanced around, his upper lip twitching. Ross didn’t offer him a seat.

“Okay,” Ross said, leaning casually against the nearest wall as if he didn’t give a damn. “What’s this about?”

Warbrick gave the room another once-over and seemed to decide he would rather continue standing. “I will come right to the point, Mr. Kavanagh. I’ve come to see you on behalf of a certain party in England with whom you were briefly acquainted during the War. She has asked me to locate you and warn you about a visit you may presently be receiving.”

The Englishman’s statement took a moment to penetrate, but when it did, Ross couldn’t believe it meant what he thought it did.

She. England. The War. Put those words together and they meant only one thing: Gillian Maitland. The girl he’d believed himself in love with twelve years ago. The one who’d left him standing on a London kerb feeling as if somebody had shot him through the heart.

“Sorry,” Ross said, returning to the door. “Not interested.”

“Perhaps you ought to hear what I have to say, Mr. Kavanagh.”

“Make it fast.”

“To put it simply, Mrs. Delvaux, whom you once knew as Gillian Maitland, expects her son to be arriving in New York at any moment.”

Ross turned his back on the Englishman. He’d been right.

Gillian.

“What does her son have to do with me?” he asked.

“He believes you to be his father.”

The floor dropped out from under Ross’s feet. “What did you say?”

“Young Tobias is under the mistaken impression that you are his father. He stowed away on a ship bound for America, and every indication suggests that he is on his way to you.”

It took a good minute, but the world finally stopped spinning. Ross made his way to the sofa and sat down, resenting the empty bottle on the table before him. “How old is he?” he asked hoarsely.

“Eleven years. Mrs. Delvaux has asked me to intercept him and send him home.”

Ross jumped up again, unable to banish the pain in his chest. “Is he my son?”

Warbrick hesitated just an instant too long. “Mrs. Delvaux married a Belgian gentleman shortly after her return from her volunteer work in London. Tobias was born nine months later.”

Gillian, married. To “a Belgian gentleman”—gentleman being the key word. And Ross was willing to bet he was a full-blooded werewolf. Just like Gillian.

Warbrick wasn’t a werewolf. Not that Ross could always be sure the way some shifters could, but he had a pretty good knack for figuring out what made people tick.

Even so, if Gillian knew the guy well enough to send him after her son, odds were that he knew about the existence of loups-garous and knew that Gillian was one of them. He wouldn’t be the first human to be privy to that information. Not by a long shot.

And if he knew about werewolves, he ought to know how dangerous it was to tangle with one. Even a part-blood like Ross.

“How do you know Jill?” he said, deliberately using the nickname he’d given her in London.

“Not that it is any of your business, Mr. Kavanagh, but Mrs. Delvaux and I are neighbors and old friends.”

“Where is Mr. Delvaux?” Ross asked abruptly.

“He died in the War, shortly after their marriage.”

Ross released his breath. Gillian was a widow. She’d never remarried. He didn’t know what that meant. He shouldn’t care. He didn’t.

But there was one thing he did care about. He spun on his foot and strode toward Warbrick, stopping only when he had a fistful of the Englishman’s lapel in his grip.

“He is my son, isn’t he?”

To his credit, Warbrick didn’t flinch. His face remained deceptively calm, but Ross wasn’t fooled. This guy was no fighter.

“I’ll find out one way or another,” Ross said. “So you might as well tell me now and save us both a lot of trouble.”

Ross could see Warbrick weighing the chances of his getting out of the apartment with his pretty face intact. He made the right decision.

“Yes,” he said. “Kindly release me.”

Ross let him go. Warbrick smoothed his jacket.

“The fact that Tobias is your son is of no consequence,” he said. “He doesn’t know you. He wasn’t even aware of your existence until a fortnight ago.”

“How did he find out?”

“It was entirely an accident, I assure you.”

“And he decided to come to New York all by himself?”

“He is a precocious child, but he is still a child. You can have no possible interest in a boy you have never seen.”

Ross stepped back, cursing the booze for muddling his thoughts. Warbrick was right, wasn’t he? Maybe the kid was bright, but he was Ross’s son in name only.

Gillian had made sure of that. She could have written, sent a telegram. She hadn’t bothered. Instead, she’d married this Delvaux guy and passed the boy off as his.

Ross knew how easy it would be to let his anger get out of control. “Let me get this straight,” he said. “Mrs. Delvaux asked you to run me down and make sure I hand over the kid as soon as he turns up.”

“That is correct.”

“How is he supposed to find me?”

“The same way I located you. He knows that you worked for the New York City police.”

Worked. Past tense. “He learned all this by accident?”

“It hardly matters, Mr. Kavanagh. You will be doing Mrs. Delvaux a great service, and she is sensible of that. We are prepared to offer you a substantial sum of money for your cooperation.”

Sure. Buy the dumb American off. Neat, convenient, painless.

“Why didn’t she come herself?” he asked. “If she’s so worried about the kid…”

“Since she knows that I have been resident in New York for nearly a year,” Warbrick said, “it was hardly necessary for her to come in person.” He withdrew a piece of paper from his jacket pocket. “I have been authorized to present you with this check for one thousand dollars as soon as the child is safely in my custody. Even if I am able to locate him first, you will receive it as consideration for your—”

“Get out.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me.” He grabbed the Englishman’s shoulder and propelled him toward the door. “You can tell Mrs. Delvaux that I don’t need her money.”

The heels of Warbrick’s shoes scraped on the landing. “You are making a serious mistake,” he said, anger rising in his voice. “If necessary, I will enlist the police to—”

“You do that.” Ross pushed Warbrick toward the stairs. “Don’t trip on your way down.”

He listened until he heard the door in the lobby snap shut. His hands had begun to shake. He went back into his apartment, closed the door and leaned against it, waiting for the fury to pass.

For eleven years he’d had a son he didn’t know about. For eleven years Gillian hadn’t bothered to contact him—until she needed something from the American chump who’d been stupid enough to fall for a lady of wealth and privilege and pure werewolf blood.

He was still a chump, letting her get to him this way. He had to start thinking rationally again. Think about what he would do if the boy did show up. It wasn’t as if he had anything to say to the kid.

Maybe Warbrick would find him before he got this far. That would solve everybody’s problems.

Then you can go back to drinking again. Forget about the kid, forget about Mrs. Delvaux, forget about the job.

There were just too damned many things to forget.

He went into the bathroom, turned on the faucet in the bathtub and stuck his head under the stream of cold water. When his mind was clear, he shed his clothes and scrubbed himself from head to foot. He got out his razor and shaved the stubble from his chin. He was just taking his last clean shirt and trousers from the closet when the telephone rang. He let it ring a dozen times before he picked up the receiver.

“Kavanagh?”

Ross knew the voice well. Art Bowen had been one of the last of his fellow cops to stand by him when everyone else had left him hanging in the wind. But finally even Bowen had decided that it wasn’t worth jeopardizing his career to associate with a suspected murderer.

“Hello, Art,” Ross said. “How are you?”

There was a beat of uncomfortable silence. “Listen, Ross. You need to get down to the station right away.”

Ross’s fingers went numb. They found the real killer. They know I’m innocent. It’s over.

“There’s someone here looking for you,” Art continued. “He claims he’s from England.”

The floor began to heave again. “Who?” he croaked.

“His name is Tobias Delvaux. He says he’s your son.”

ETHAN HAILED A TAXI and gave terse instructions to the cabbie, promising a generous tip for a quick ride back to his hotel.

As unbelievable as it seemed, Kavanagh had gotten the better of him. Considering the ex-policeman’s circumstances, Ethan hadn’t been prepared for his hostility, let alone his refusal of the check. The man had lost everything, including his means of support, and he was clearly not in a position to refuse financial assistance.

But he had—and far worse, he’d presumed to treat Ethan as if he were a commoner.

Of course, he had made a mistake in allowing Kavanagh to know that Toby was his son. He had been too eager to observe the American’s expression when he realized that Gillian had concealed the boy’s presence all these years, that she hadn’t had the slightest desire to renew their relationship.

He had received some satisfaction in that, at least. Kavanagh’s pretense at indifference had been spoiled by the anger he had unsuccessfully attempted to conceal.

But was the anger merely at Gillian’s deception? Or was there something more behind it? Something that would make Kavanagh far more of a problem than Ethan had anticipated?

He had no intention of taking a chance. When the cab pulled up in front of his hotel, he already knew what he must do.

Bianchi’s secretary was polite and apologetic when she informed Ethan that the boss was on holiday. When Ethan pressed, she provided him with the mobster’s location, though she carefully reminded him that the boss didn’t like to be disturbed when he was fishing in the Catskills.

Ethan dismissed her warnings. He’d become quite wealthy as a result of skilled investments in American industry and less “legitimate” pursuits, and he’d contributed generously to Bianchi’s defense the last time the boss had been under investigation.

Bianchi owed him, and what he wanted wasn’t much of an inconvenience for a man of the boss’s power and influence. Ethan knew that there was some risk in leaving town at this juncture, but he had a number of hired men watching for Toby, including several in the police department.

And if something were to happen to the boy…why, even that tragedy could be turned to his advantage.

Ethan rang the concierge to arrange for a car and began to pack.

WALKING INTO THE precinct was like walking into the kind of nightmare where everything starts out perfectly normal before going all to hell. Ross stepped through the doors the way he had thousands of times before. He passed a couple of uniforms loitering near the entrance. They started when they saw him; then their faces went hard and blank.

It was the same with every cop he met on the way to the reception desk. Guys who’d been closer to him than brothers turned their backs as he went by. He heard more than one curse crackling in the air behind him. The young officer at the desk gave him a cold stare and suddenly became absorbed in his paperwork.

“I’m here to see Art Bowen,” Ross said.

The officer pretended not to hear him. Ross leaned over the desk, forcing the uniform to lean back.

“He’s expecting me,” Ross said. “Why don’t you be a good kid and let him know I’m here?”

The young cop obviously wanted to go on ignoring Ross. Nevertheless, he picked up the telephone and did as Ross asked, resentment in every line of his body.

Art came into the room five minutes later. He didn’t offer his hand.

“Hello, Ross,” he said.

“Art.” Ross looked past his shoulder. “You said you have my—”

Art made a cautionary gesture and glanced at the uniform behind the desk. “Let’s go someplace where we can talk.”

Ross nodded and dropped into step behind Art. He’d endured another half-dozen cold shoulders by the time they reached one of the interrogations rooms. Art waved Ross in ahead of him and locked the door.

Sitting behind the table was a smallish kid who could have been anywhere between nine and twelve years old. He jumped up as soon as he saw Ross, and they stared at each other in mutual fascination.

The first thing Ross noticed was that Tobias looked exactly like his mother. Oh, not feminine in any way, but fine-boned and intelligent, a little wary, with even and unremarkable features, light brown hair and Gillian’s hazel eyes. His smell was distinctly his own, but it held traces of something half-familiar. Something that reminded Ross as much of himself as Gillian.

“Is this your son, Ross?” Art asked behind him.

Ross looked for any sign of himself in the kid. Maybe there was something in the chin, the line of the mouth, the straight and serious brows. Or maybe that was just an illusion.

The boy stepped forward. “How do you do, sir,” he said. His voice, like Warbrick’s, was that of a cultured resident of England, high with eleven-year-old nervousness, but clear and strong. The kid wasn’t afraid. Of that much Ross was certain.

“Hello, Tobias,” he said, his own voice less than steady.

“Toby, sir. If you don’t mind.”

Art cleared his throat. “I guess you aren’t surprised to see him,” he said. “I didn’t know you had any children.”

Ross couldn’t think of a single good way to answer that question. “How much has he told you?”

“Just that he’s come all the way from England to see you. Looks like he came alone.”

“I did,” Toby said, lifting his chin. He eyed Art warily. “Am I under arrest?”

Laughter caught in Ross’s throat. “What have you been telling him, Art?”

“Nothing.” He gave Ross a direct look that suggested he had more to say on that subject. “I made a few calls. No record of a kid by his name on any ship’s manifest.”

Warbrick had said he’d stowed away. Suddenly feeling far older than his thirty-one years, Ross crouched to the boy’s level.

My son.

He took himself firmly in hand. The only way he was going to be able to deal with this mess was by treating it like any other case. Leave everything personal out of it.

“Tobias—” he began.

“Toby,” the boy said, meeting his gaze.

“Toby. I’m going to ask you some questions, and I expect you to answer them honestly.”

“Of course, Father.”

Funny how much of a punch such a common word could pack.

“Did you really travel on a ship from England by yourself?” he asked.

“I wasn’t any trouble. No one knew I was there.”

“But you didn’t tell anyone you’d left home.”

Toby gazed down at his badly scuffed shoes. “No,” he said quietly.

“How long have you been in New York?”

Toby brushed at his soiled short pants, which Ross guessed he’d been wearing for several days, if not longer. “Just a few days,” he said. He mover closer to Ross and lowered his voice. “I think someone was after me,” he said, “so I hid until they went away.”

“Who was after you?”

“I thought they might be gangsters, but I don’t really have anything worth stealing.”

Ross glanced at the battered suitcase standing beside the table. It might have held a couple of changes of clothing and a few other necessities, but not much else. “I don’t think it was gangsters, Toby. But if you thought you were in danger, you should have come straight to the police.”

“Maybe it was the police,” Toby whispered, rolling his eyes in Art’s direction. “I had to come here because it was the only way I knew how to find you.” Unexpectedly, he grinned, the expression transforming his features the same way Gillian’s smiles had always done. “I knew you’d come for me.”

Ross straightened, reminding himself not to swear in front of a kid. “Okay,” he said. “I need to talk to Art for a few minutes. Can you wait here a little longer?”

“Of course, Father.”

With a wince, Ross turned for the door. Art went with him.

“You didn’t know about him, did you?” Art said as soon as they were in the corridor.

There wasn’t any way to avoid answering, and Ross didn’t see the point in lying. “Not until this morning,” he admitted.

Art nodded sympathetically. “The War?”

“Something like that.”

Mercifully, Art didn’t pursue that line of questioning. “Did Warbrick come to see you?” he asked.

“You talked to him?”

“Yeah. He came in first thing this morning, asking to speak to the Chief. I got stuck with him.” Art’s lip curled in contempt. “He demanded that we inform him if a certain kid turned up. Said the boy had run away and might come to the station.”

“Did he tell you why?”

“It came out after he asked where you lived. Except he claimed the kid mistakenly thought you were his father, and made noises about going higher up if we didn’t do exactly as he said.” Art snorted. “Damned Limey, thinks he can lord it over us.”

“He showed up at my place with the same story,” Ross said. “I threw him out.”

Speculation brimmed in Art’s eyes. He controlled it. “I wasn’t much in the mood to kowtow to Warbrick, so when the kid turned up, I called you instead of him.”

“Thanks, Art. I owe you one.”

Art shrugged. “I can always play dumb if the higher-ups come after me,” he said. “Only a couple of uniforms know he’s here, so you can…” He hesitated. “You are going to take him, aren’t you?”

Ross saw the chasm opening up before him. He knew he could walk away, find out where Ethan Warbrick was staying and send Tobias to him, just as Mrs. Delvaux wanted.

But it wasn’t that easy. Ross couldn’t look away from the cold hard evidence of the boy’s parentage. Gillian’s son.

His son.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’ll take him.”

Art’s relief was obvious. “Right. It might be a good idea to go out the back door.”

Ross nodded, and then an unpleasant thought occurred to him. “He doesn’t know…you didn’t tell him…”

“No. As far as he knows, you still work here.”

“That’s another one I owe you.”

Art shifted his weight. “Do you, uh…if you need a little cash, I’d be glad to—”

“Thanks, but I’m fine,” Ross said, more sharply than he’d intended. “The kid won’t starve before he gets back to England.”

Their eyes met, and Ross realized what he’d just said. He’d already assumed he was sending Toby back to his mother.

And what else are you supposed to do with him?

“I gotta get back to work,” Art said. “Take care, Ross.”

They shook hands. Art strode away, his thoughts probably on whatever case he was working on now. The way Ross’s would have been not so long ago.

Hell.

Ross blew out his breath and opened the interrogation room door. Toby sprang back as the door swung in, guilt flashing across his face.

What did you expect? Ross thought. He walked past Toby and picked up the suitcase.

“Come with me,” he said.

“Are we going home?” Toby asked, hurrying to join him.

Home? “To my place, yes,” he said. Where else was there to go?

He led Toby down the corridor and around several corners until they reached one of the back doors, encountering only a couple of detectives along the way. If Toby noticed their stares, he didn’t let on. The door opened up onto an alley, where several patrol cars were parked. Ross continued on to West Fifty-fourth Street and kept walking, one eye on Toby, until they’d left the station some distance behind. Only then did he stop, pull Toby out of the crowd of busy pedestrians and ask the rest of his questions.

“How did you find out I’m your father?” he asked.

Toby’s body began to vibrate, as if he could barely contain his emotions. “Mother wrote it all down. She didn’t think I’d ever find out, but I…” The spate of words trickled to a stop. “You are my father.”

It was as much question as statement, the one crack of uncertainty in the boy’s otherwise confident facade.

“I know you didn’t expect me,” Toby said, slipping into a surprisingly engaging diffidence. “Mother never told you about me. She was never going to tell me, either. That was wrong, wasn’t it?”

If it hadn’t been for the boy’s age, Ross might have suspected he was being played. But Toby was as sincere as any eleven-year-old kid could be.

“You said she wrote it all down,” Ross said. “Did she say…why she didn’t want to tell us?”

“Yes.” Tobias frowned, a swift debate going on behind his eyes. “But it doesn’t matter to me, Father. I don’t care if you’re only part werewolf and can’t Change.”

Ross was careful not to let his face reveal his emotions. He’d known, of course. Lovesick fool that he’d been, even at nineteen he’d been able to guess the reason why she’d left him.

“You aren’t angry, are you?” Toby said into the silence. “You won’t send me back? I promise I won’t be any trouble.”

Ross stifled a laugh. Trouble? Hell, none of this was the kid’s fault. Ross knew who to blame. And she didn’t even have the courage to face the situation she’d created.

With a little bit of help from you, Ross, me boyo…

Toby continued to gaze up at him, committed to the belief that had carried him across the Atlantic. If there was the slightest trace of doubt in his eyes, it was buried by stubborn determination. And blind, foolish, unshakable faith. Just like the kind Ross had had, once upon a time.

A small, firm hand worked its way into his.

“Are you all right?” Toby asked, his eyes as worried as they had been resolute a moment before.

The feel of that trusting hand was unlike anything Ross could remember. He felt strangely humbled and deeply inadequate. Nothing and no one had made him feel that way in a very long time.

“I’m all right, kid,” he said. “It’s just that I’m not exactly used to this sort of thing.”

“Neither am I.”

Ross bit back another laugh. Toby only reached halfway up to his chest, but he was every bit as precocious as Warbrick had said. Maybe that would make it easier.

Easier to do what? To convince him he has to go back to his mother? That whatever he thinks he’s looking for, I’m not it?

“I gotta warn you, Toby,” he said, “The way you’re used to living…well, I’m pretty sure it’s a lot different from my place.”

Toby gave a little bounce of excitement, as if something tightly wound inside him was beginning to give way. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ve read Dashiell Hammett. I know all about American detectives.”

Ross rolled his eyes. How did a kid his age get hold of Hammett’s books, especially in England? That was rough stuff for an eleven-year-old boy. And it had probably given him ideas no real cop or detective could live up to. Especially not Ross Kavanagh.

To think that just a few hours ago he’d thought his problems couldn’t get any worse.

Start simple, he told himself. “You hungry?” he asked.

Toby turned on that high-voltage grin. “Oh, yes! May we have frankfurters, please?”

“You’ve never had a hot dog?”

“I’ve only read about them. They must be the cat’s pajamas.”

The American slang sounded funny coming out of this kid’s mouth. “Yeah. The height of gourmet dining.” Ross spotted a vendor down the street, a guy he’d known almost as long as he’d been on the job.

“Mr. Kavanagh!” Petrocelli said cheerfully. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

You had to give it to Petrocelli. He’d never indicated that he knew anything about Ross’s disgrace, even though it had been in all the papers. “Two dogs, Luigi. Easy on the sauerkraut.”

“You bet.” The man began slathering two buns with mustard, ketchup and sauerkraut. Toby stood on his toes and watched, politely restrained, but clearly ravenous. He thanked the vendor very graciously, glanced at Ross for permission, then bit into his hot dog with every indication of pure bliss, just like any redblooded American boy.

“Relative of yours?” Petrocelli asked. “There’s something familiar about him.”

The vendor’s casual words hit Ross like a line drive. He grabbed Toby and pulled him away before he was tempted to make up some pathetic story about a long-lost nephew.

At least the long-lost part is accurate.

Oblivious to Ross’s turmoil, Toby drifted along the sidewalk, hot dog in hand, turning in slow circles as he took in the towering buildings on every side. Ross plucked him from the edge of the kerb when he would have walked right into the street.

“Listen, kid,” he said, planting Toby in front of him. “This is New York. Haven’t you ever been in a big city before?”

Toby gazed at him with the slightly blank expression of a rube just off the train from Podunk. “Grandfather, Mother and I went to London once, when I was very small. I don’t really remember.”

Ross was momentarily distracted by thoughts of Gillian and grimly forced his attention back to the matter at hand. “London ain’t New York,” he said. “You can get yourself hurt a hundred different ways here if you’re not careful.”

“Oh! You don’t have to worry. I can take care of myself.”

Ross tried to imagine what it must have been like for a little boy to cross the ocean alone and make his way from the docks to Midtown without adult assistance. The kid had guts, no doubt of that. “Do you have any money?” he asked.

Toby plunged his hand into his trousers and removed a wad of badly crinkled bills. “I have pound notes and a few American dollars,” he said. “Do you need them, Father?”

Damn. “You hold on to them for now.” He frowned at Toby’s gray tweed suit with its perfectly cut jacket and short trousers, now disheveled and stained. “That the only outfit you’ve got?”

“Oh, no. I have another suit in my bag. I’m sorry I didn’t have time to change.”

His expression was suddenly anxious, as if he expected Ross to blame him for the state of his clothes. Ross reached out and put his hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“Listen,” he said. “I’m down to my last clean shirt myself. Guys in my line of work—” my former line of work “—don’t always have time to look pretty.”

Toby relaxed for about ten seconds before his facile mind latched on to a new subject. “Have you arrested lots of criminals, Father?”

Ross wondered why he was so bent on making the kid think well of him. “I’ve taken a few bad guys off the streets in my day.”

“Capital!” Toby’s eyes swept the streets as if he expected a mobster to appear right in front of them. “Do you think we’ll meet any bootleggers?” he asked eagerly.

“We aren’t going to see any bootleggers, mobsters or criminals of any kind.”

Toby’s face fell. “You said New York was dangerous.”

“It’s not like there’s a gunfight every few minutes. You just have to be careful.” He resisted the urge to take out his handkerchief and wipe a bit of mustard from Toby’s upper lip. “You wouldn’t have made it this far if you weren’t pretty good at that.”

Another lightning-quick change of mood and Toby was grinning again. “Will you show me all around New York? Will we see the Woolworth Building and Coney Island?”

Ross cleared his throat. He still wasn’t prepared to lie to the kid, but he didn’t have to tell the whole truth, either. “I’ll see what I can do,” he said. “You need a wash-up, first. And a nap.”

“Oh, I don’t take naps anymore.”

“You will today.”

Toby groaned. “You sound just like Mother.”

Ross grabbed Toby’s hand and flagged down a taxi. “How is she?” he asked.

The question was out before he could stop it. Don’t kid yourself. You’d have asked it sooner or later.

“Oh, she’s all right.”

Ross said nothing until a cab pulled up, and he and Toby were in the backseat. “Does she live alone?” he asked. “I mean…” Idiot. He shut up before he dug the hole any deeper.

But Toby was too bright to have missed his intent. “I haven’t got another father,” he said. “I always knew my real father wasn’t dead.”

“Mr. Delvaux…”

“Mother never talked about him. I’m not even sure he’s real.”

“You mean your mother wasn’t really married?”

Now you’ve done it, he thought. But Toby didn’t seem to be offended.

“I don’t know,” the boy said. “Some of the pages in her diary were missing, but there was enough in it to help me find you.”

Gillian had kept a diary. About him. And she’d somehow known that he’d gone into the force when he returned to America. He hadn’t even thought about it himself until he was standing on the East River docks, trying to think of the best way to forget Gillian Maitland.

Why hadn’t she forgotten him?

“Didn’t you think how upset your mother would be when you ran away?” he asked, resolutely focusing on the present.

Toby hunched his shoulders. “She has enough things to worry about.”

Ross swallowed the questions that immediately popped into his head. “Your mother has done a lot more than just worry.”

A speculative look came into Toby’s hazel eyes. “How do you know that, Father?”

“She sent someone to look for you. A man called Ethan Warbrick.”

“Uncle Ethan?” Toby’s forehead creased with concern. “Don’t tell him I’m here.” He tugged at Ross’s sleeve. “Please, Father.”

“Don’t you like him?”

“He’s all right, but…” He lowered his voice. “I think he wants to marry my mother.”

“War—Uncle Ethan isn’t a werewolf, is he?”

Toby looked up at him curiously. “No,” he said. “Did you think he was?”

“He knows all about werewolves.”

“Mother and Uncle Ethan were secret friends when they were children.”

“Does she want to marry Uncle Ethan?” he asked, cursing himself for his weakness.

“I don’t know,” Toby said slowly, as if he’d given the matter some thought. “You wouldn’t let him, would you?”

Ross didn’t get a chance to come up with an answer, because the cab had arrived at his building and someone was standing by the door. Someone Ross recognized the moment she turned her head and looked straight into his eyes.

Gillian Maitland.

CHAPTER TWO

SHE’D CHANGED.

Oh, not so much in outward appearance; she’d always thought of herself as plain, but to Ross, she’d been beautiful from the first moment he’d laid eyes on her in the hospital. She still was. Her features were a little stronger now, a little more fully formed with experience and maturity; the faintest of lines radiated out from the outer corners of her eyes; and her golden hair had grown long, gathered in an old-fashioned chignon at the base of her slender neck.

No, it wasn’t so much her appearance that had altered, or the cut of her clothing. Her suit was conservative, the skirt reaching below her knees, the long jacket and high-necked blouse sober and without embellishments of any kind. Ross remembered when he’d first seen her out of uniform; she’d been very proper even then, as far from being a “modern girl” as he could have imagined. Nor had her scent changed, that intriguing combination of natural femininity and lavender soap.

But her eyes…oh, that was where Ross saw the difference. They were cool and distant, even as her expression registered the natural shock of seeing him again after so many years. The hazel depths he’d always admired were barred like a prison, holding the world at bay. Behind those bars crouched emotions Ross couldn’t read, experiences he hadn’t been permitted to share. And a heart as frigid as an ice storm in January.

She looked from his face to Toby’s, and her straight, slender body unbent with relief. He’d been wrong. Her heart wasn’t cold. Not where her son was concerned.

“Toby,” she said. “Thank God.”

Toby stood very still, his face ashen. He began to walk toward his mother, not unlike a prisoner going to his well-earned punishment. Gillian knelt on the rough pavement and smiled, her eyes coming to life.

“Mother,” Toby said, his voice catching, and walked into her arms.

Gillian closed her eyes, kissed Toby’s flushed cheek and held him tight for a dozen heartbeats. Then she let him go and stood up, keeping her hand on her son’s shoulder.

“Thank you,” she said to Ross, sincere and utterly formal. “Thank you for finding him.”

Ross opened his mouth to answer and found his tongue as thick and unwieldy as a block of concrete. “I didn’t find him,” he managed to say at last. “He found me.”

“At the police station,” Toby offered, his brief moment of repentance already vanished. He looked from Ross to his mother, wide-eyed innocence concealing something uncomfortably like calculation. “You needn’t have worried, Mother. I was never in any danger.”

Gillian tightened her fingers on his shoulder, her gaze steady on Ross’s. “I’m sorry that you were put to so much trouble,” she said. “I didn’t know he had left England until the ship had already departed.”

“Yeah.” Ross locked his hands behind his back. “Your friend Ethan Warbrick told me the story. He implied that you weren’t coming.”

The barest hint of color touched Gillian’s smooth cheeks. “Perhaps Lord Warbrick misunderstood.” She glanced away. “Again, I apologize, Mr. Kavanagh. If you’ve incurred any expenses…”

“I bought him a hot dog,” Ross said, a wave of heat rising under his collar. “It didn’t exactly break the bank.” He smiled the kind of smile he reserved for suspects in the interrogation room. “As I told Warbrick, I don’t need any ‘consideration,’ either.”

“I don’t understand.”

That little hint of vulnerability was a nice touch, Ross thought. “Tell Warbrick he can tear up the check.”

“The—” Her eyes widened. “Oh, no. You mustn’t think such a thing, Ross. You—” She caught herself, donning the mantle of aristocratic dignity again. “We shan’t trouble you any longer, Mr. Kavanagh.”

She turned to go, taking Toby with her. He dug in his heels and wouldn’t budge. Ross pushed past the burning wall of his anger and crossed the space between them until he was blocking her path of escape.

“Is that it?” he asked softly. “Nothing else to say…Mrs. Delvaux?”

Most people would have shrunk away from the finely tuned menace in Ross’s voice. Gillian wasn’t most people.

“I had not thought,” she said, “that you would wish to prolong the conversation.”

“I didn’t know we were having one,” he said. “Not the kind you’d expect between old friends.”

Gillian understood him. She understood him very well, but she wasn’t about to crack. “This is neither the time nor the place,” she said, holding on to Toby as if she expected him to bolt.

Ross showed his teeth. “As it so happens,” he said, “my schedule is pretty open at the moment. You pick the time and place. I’ll be there.”

She looked down at Toby. He was listening intently to every word, his head slightly cocked.

“We will not be staying in America long,” she said. “The ship—”

“Mother!” Toby cried. “We’ve only just arrived.” He turned pleading eyes on Ross. “Father promised he’d take me to Coney Island.”

Ross had promised nothing of the kind, but under the circumstances, he wasn’t prepared to dispute Toby’s claim. He was certain he’d seen Gillian flinch when Toby said “Father.” Did she really believe he would have accepted Warbrick’s lie about the kid being some other guy’s son?

“I’m surprised that Mr. Kavanagh has had time to make such promises,” she said, her voice chilly.

“Toby knows what he wants,” Ross said. “I like that in a man.”

“He’s hardly a—” She clamped her mouth shut. “If you have no objection, I’ll take Toby back to our hotel. My brother is also stopping there. He can watch Toby while you and I—”

“Uncle Hugh came, too?” Toby interrupted.

“Yes. And you will remain with him while I make arrangements for our return to England.”

“But Mother—”

“Do as your mother says,” Ross said. “I’ll come along with you.”

“And we’ll go to Coney Island before I leave?”

“Maybe.” He stared at Gillian until she met his gaze. “You don’t mind if I accompany you to your hotel?”

She stiffened. “That is hardly necessary, Mr. Kavanagh.”

“New York is a complicated city, Mrs. Delvaux. I’ll feel better knowing you aren’t traveling alone.”

Gillian had never been anything but bright. She knew she was licked, at least for the moment. She inclined her head with all the condescension of a queen.

“As you wish,” she said. She gave the address of her hotel—one of the fancy kind an ordinary homicide detective seldom had occasion to set foot in—and Ross escorted her and Toby back to Tenth Avenue, where he flagged down a taxi.

The ride to Midtown was about as pleasant as a Manhattan heat wave. Toby sat between Ross and Gillian, darting glances from one to the other, but remaining uncharacteristically silent. If Gillian felt any shame about the situation, her forbidding demeanor concealed it perfectly. Ross’s temper continued to simmer, held in check by the thought that he would soon have Gillian alone.

And when he did…by God, when he did…

“Roosevelt Hotel,” the cabbie announced as he pulled his vehicle up to the kerb. Ross stepped out first, circled the cab and opened the door for Gillian, extending his hand to help her up.

She hesitated for just a moment, then put her gloved hand in his.

Ross knew he shouldn’t have felt anything. Not a damned thing. He couldn’t even feel her skin through the kid gloves, and she let go as soon as her feet were firmly planted on the sidewalk.

But there was something he couldn’t deny, a spark of awareness, a memory of flesh on flesh in a far more intimate setting. Unwillingly, he glanced at Gillian to see if she’d felt it, too, but her attention was fixed on her pocketbook as she counted out the fare. Ross was just a few seconds too late to stop her. She took Toby’s hand as he bounced up beside her and marched across the sidewalk without a word to Ross; the doorman hurried to open the door and tipped his hat as she swept into the lobby.

“Nice family you got there, mister,” the cabbie said as Ross stared after her.

There was genuine admiration in the guy’s voice. Ross pressed another buck into the guy’s hand and started after Gillian, walking in a way that advised anyone in his path to step aside.

His skin began to prickle as soon as he entered the lobby. He’d spent his childhood up to his knees in manure and mud or coated with dust and sweat, working his parents’ ranch alongside the hired hands. There hadn’t been much extra money in those days, though the Kavanaghs always managed to keep their heads above water. Ross had received most of his education in a one-room schoolhouse, and the folks with whom his family associated had all been simple, hardworking ranchers, not much different from Chantal and Sim Kavanagh except in their unadulterated humanity.

The Roosevelt Hotel had never been intended for the common man. It was only a few years old, its carpets and fancy upholstery pristine, every metal surface sparkling, porters and spotlessly uniformed bellhops poised to fulfill every guest’s slightest wish. One of the bellhops rushed forward to take Toby’s suitcase; Ross gave the kid a hard look and lifted the bag out of Gillian’s hand.

Gillian continued to the elevators without stopping; though no one would take her for a glamour girl, her inborn werewolf grace naturally attracted attention. Ross bristled at the expensively suited swells who watched her progress across the lobby with appreciative stares; Gillian simply ignored them. Rich or not, they were only human.

The boy in the elevator seemed very aware of Ross’s mood. He stood quietly in his corner until the elevator settled to a stop and Gillian got out.

The corridor smelled of perfume and fresh flowers from the vases set on marble stands between the widely spaced doors. Gillian paused before one of the doors, produced a key and entered.

The door led to a luxurious suite, complete with an obviously well-stocked and illegal bar. A handsome young man sprawled on the brocade sofa, drink in hand, his wayward hair several shades darker than Gillian’s gold. The young man sprang to his feet when he saw Gillian and Toby.

“Gilly!” he exclaimed. “You found him!”

Toby hung back, waiting for Ross to enter the suite. The young man’s gaze fixed on Ross in surprise.

Gillian’s posture was as rigid as it could be without losing any of its grace. “Hugh,” she said, “may I present Mr. Ross Kavanagh. Mr. Kavanagh, my brother, Hugh Maitland.”

IF A BOMBSHELL had gone off in the room, the shock couldn’t have been more palpable. Hugh’s nostrils flared, taking in Ross’s scent as Gillian’s words began to penetrate.

“Ross Kavanagh?” he said. “The Ross Kavanagh?”

Gillian had no intention of belaboring the point. The day had already proven to be an unmitigated disaster, and Hugh’s involvement was only likely to make matters worse. Her hopes of keeping the truth from Ross had been naive from the start.

So had her conviction that seeing him again would have no effect on her heart.

If it hadn’t been for Toby, she might not have been able to maintain her composure, but he kept her focused. She would deal with Ross—and her own unacceptable weakness—once her son was safely out of danger.

She took Toby’s hand firmly in hers. “You’ll excuse me,” she said, “but Toby must have a bath and then a nap. Hugh, I’m sure you will provide Mr. Kavanagh with appropriate refreshments.”

Hugh gazed at her with lingering astonishment. “Yes. Yes, of course.”

“I’m not at all tired, Mother,” Toby said, his jaw setting in that stubborn expression that so perfectly mirrored Ross Kavanagh’s. “Mayn’t I—”

Gillian stared into Toby’s eyes. She seldom felt the need to bring the full weight of her authority to bear, but she was desperate…to get him away from Ross’s influence. Toby shrank ever so slightly under her gaze, acknowledging the wolf he had yet to become. He was very subdued as he accompanied her into the ornate water closet.

There were no further arguments from him as she ran a bath and left him to soak in the hot water. She retreated to her bedroom and went to the window, staring out at this cold, modern city of steel canyons and seething humanity.

She’d thought herself prepared. She’d thought that she could face Ross in the same way she’d dealt with New York itself: by keeping a firm grip on who she was, where she had come from and why she was here. By reminding herself that what she and Ross had shared had been no more than a few weeks’ passion, that they’d never had anything in common save for their youth and reckless disregard for propriety.

All her careful preparations had disappeared when Ross had arrived at the apartment building with Toby beside him. The image she’d held had been that of a boy only slightly older than she’d been twelve years ago: a handsome young man with striking light brown eyes and hair a few shades darker, unpolished yet undeniably compelling. A young man who’d claimed to love her…just before he admitted that he was only one-quarter werewolf and unable to Change.

That boy was gone. The man who’d stared at her with such accusation might have been another person entirely. He was no longer young; the lines in his forehead and around his eyes testified to a life of conflict, a career spent enforcing the law for the humans whose blood he shared. He was still handsome, but it was a grim sort of attractiveness, touched with bitterness that Gillian dared not examine too closely.

But it was what lay beneath the surface that had startled her most. At the hospital in London he had seemed so completely human that she’d never questioned her initial assumption; even after he’d told her the truth, she’d hardly been able to recognize the wolf within him.

No longer. The life he’d lived since the War had chiseled away at his humanity, revealing the core of his werewolf nature. It gleamed yellow under the brown of his eyes, sculpted the bone and muscle of his face, stalked in his every movement.

Those changes alone would have been enough to shake her equilibrium. But it was something within herself that had stripped her of her defenses, something she couldn’t possibly have anticipated that struck at her with all the force of a hurricane.

Gillian pressed her forehead to the cool window glass. Years had passed—years of dedication to duty, to her father, to her son. It should not even be possible for her to still desire a man she had known for only a handful of weeks amid the chaos of war, a man who could never become her mate. She had almost forgotten what it was to feel that kind of excitement, that kind of pleasure. Such things had no place in the life of a sequestered widow, and she had accepted that they would have no part in her forthcoming marriage.

Why, then, had this happened now? Was it her punishment for refusing to recognize Toby’s incipient rebellion, for neglecting to meet needs she hadn’t understood? Or was it a gift in disguise, a reminder that she must never let down her guard, never for a moment surrender to her own natural weakness?

She had felt weak in Ross’s presence. Weak and vulnerable. But he would never know it. She would make certain of that. She would take Toby home as quickly as possible. And then…

“Gilly?”

Hugh’s voice held a note of concern that reminded her how long she’d been gone. She answered her brother’s tap on the bedroom door with a calm that was almost sincere.

“I’m sorry, Hugh,” she said. “Give me a few more moments to put Toby to bed, then I’ll join you.”

“You’d better,” Hugh said. “Kavanagh isn’t much for small talk, and I don’t want to be the one giving all the explanations.”

Explanations. Was that what Ross wanted of her? The strength of his anger had been almost overwhelming, all the more effective for its quietness; she could well envision criminals quailing before him, begging to confess rather than face that simmering stare.

She returned to the bathroom to find Toby dozing in the cooling water. She woke him, left him to towel himself dry and then steered him into his room.

“Is Father still here?” he asked sleepily, hovering near the door.

“Mr. Kavanagh is with Hugh at the moment. But you are to sleep now, young man. You’ve had quite enough adventure for one day. We shall have a good long talk about this later.”

Ordinarily Toby might have been concerned about his inevitable punishment, but his mind was on other subjects. “I’ll see Father tomorrow, won’t I?”

Toby had been this way since he could talk: direct, fearless and frightfully stubborn. Gillian had simply failed to realize—had not let herself realize—how much he would be like the man who had sired him.

She had only lied to him once, and the unfortunate results of that deception were plain to see.

“I don’t know,” she said. “Mr. Kavanagh and I have not spoken in many years.”

“Because you didn’t tell him about me.”

“I shall make my decisions based upon your welfare and nothing else.”

Toby glared at her, jaw set. That expression had been all too common of late; he was poised on that terrible brink between boy and man, cub and wolf. Gillian could feel him beginning to slip out of her grasp, and she wasn’t ready to let him go.

There is no need to rush. He will Change when the time is right. He will Change…

She shook off her pointless worries and herded him toward the bed. “Go to sleep, Toby,” she said. “I will inform you of my decision in the morning.”

“But if you—”

“Sleep.”

He crawled into bed, defying her with every movement of his rapidly growing body. She waited until he’d tucked himself in and then switched off the bedroom light.

There was no delaying the inevitable. She smoothed her skirt, made sure that her chignon was still in place and walked back to the sitting room.

Hugh was standing by the mantelpiece, a drink in his hand and his shoulders hunched. Ross hovered a few feet away, arms held loosely at his sides, as if he might spring into action at any moment. His head swung toward Gillian as she entered the room; the impact of his stare almost broke the measured rhythm of her stride.

She didn’t stop until she had reached the sofa. “Won’t you be seated, Mr. Kavanagh?” she asked.

“I prefer to stand, Mrs. Delvaux.”

“As you wish.” She glanced at Hugh. He looked deeply uncomfortable, and she had no desire to inflict the coming unpleasantness on someone who’d had no part in creating it.

“The evening is very mild, Hugh,” she said. “We’ve had little opportunity to see the city. Perhaps you’d enjoy a walk.”

Hugh shifted from foot to foot and looked from her to Ross. “I’d rather stay, if you don’t mind,” he said.

Gillian’s heart turned over. She’d always understood that Hugh needed protecting, even though he was Father’s favorite. He was good-natured to a fault, but foolish and feckless; the more formidable wolf characteristics Sir Averil had done so much to encourage were almost never in evidence behind that ready grin. But now he was prepared to give up his own comfort in defense of his sister, and Gillian loved him the more for it.

“You’d better beat it, kid,” Ross growled. “This is between me and the lady.”

The way he said “lady” was clearly not meant as a compliment. Hugh’s head sank a little lower between his shoulders.

“Since the subject under discussion involves my nephew,” he said, “it also concerns me.”

Ross gave Hugh a long, appraising look. He made a rumbling sound deep in his throat; his lips stretched to show the tips of his upper teeth. Quarter werewolf or not, he dominated Hugh as easily as a collie does a sheep.

“I’m sure your sister will fill you in,” he said. “Make yourself scarce, and we won’t have any arguments.”

Hugh’s face revealed the progress of his thoughts. He passed quickly from anger and indignation to uncertainty and, finally, resignation.

“All right,” he said, making an attempt at severity, “but if you need me, Gilly, I won’t be far.”

He gave a little jerk to his tie, spun around and walked through the door, trailing a wake of wounded dignity behind him.

“Hugh doesn’t deserve your scorn,” Gillian said once Hugh had closed the door. “He was a child when you and I knew each other.”

Ross shrugged. “I have nothing against him.” He glanced toward the hall. “Is the boy asleep?”

“He will be presently.”

“Then we can speak freely.”

She held his gaze, struggling to disregard the half-familiar scent of his body beneath the inexpensive suit. Surely that warm, masculine fragrance hadn’t been quite so potent in London. Surely his shoulders hadn’t been so broad, his movements so steeped with barely leashed power. Surely she hadn’t forgotten so much…

“I always knew you came from money,” Ross said, leaving his post by the door to wander around the sitting room. “I just didn’t realize how much until now.”

It wasn’t the way Gillian had expected the conversation to begin. Accusation had seethed in his voice when they’d spoken outside his apartment building, and Gillian could still feel a suggestion of violence beneath his deceptive calm. But he was attempting to approach their differences in a relatively civilized manner, and for that she should be grateful.

“I guess that’s why Warbrick offered to buy me off,” Ross said, picking up a fragile vase of intricately engraved crystal. “You’d hardly notice losing a thousand bucks.”

Gillian turned to face him, the solidity of the sofa at her back. “I must apologize,” she said, “for any insult Mr. Warbrick may have unintentionally given you. He and I had not discussed—”

“Unintentionally?” Ross laughed. “Where is your friend, by the way? He seemed pretty anxious to spare you any inconvenience.”

“I don’t know where he is at the moment,” Gillian said. That was the truth; she’d tried calling Ethan’s hotel when she and Hugh had arrived, but he hadn’t been in. “I assure you that he meant no harm. He—”

“Tried to make me believe that Toby wasn’t my son.” Ross set down the vase. “Was that your idea or his?”

Gillian revised her hopes for a civilized discussion. “I didn’t authorize him to deceive you,” she said.

“Even though that’s what you’ve been doing for the past twelve years?”

There was no sense in denying obvious fact, no point in stammering excuses that would only ring hollow. “I’m sorry that it has come to this, Ross,” she said, pushing past the barrier of his name. “It was never my intention to cause you pain.”

She expected another harsh retort, but Ross surprised her. His face emptied of all emotion. “I don’t remember saying anything about pain,” he said.

That was when Gillian realized he wasn’t going to speak of what he’d felt on the day she’d left him. She had assumed that a large part of his anger was directed at her—not because of Toby, but because she’d cut off all contact with him the day after he’d made his declaration. She couldn’t blame him; she had endured months of confusion, unhappiness and self-reproach before she’d come to terms with her decision and recognized its inevitability.

She had gradually erased all speculation about Ross’s feelings. Even if part of her had wished he would search her out and sweep her away, she had known such an act would be a terrible mistake. And when he hadn’t come for her, she’d assumed that his love had been like hers, built on a transient passion that would never have endured.

Apparently Ross had come to the same conclusion. If he was bitter, it wasn’t because he still loved her. If he was angry, it was because his pride had been damaged, not his heart.

Strange how little relief she felt.

Gillian released her breath. “I assume,” she said slowly, “that you have questions about Toby.”

Ross walked to the window and pushed back the silk drapes. “When did you marry Delvaux?”

Again he’d caught her off guard. She briefly considered telling him the real story, which Toby would have discovered for himself if her diary had been intact.

No. She would tell Ross exactly what she’d told Toby when he was old enough to understand.

“Jacques Delvaux,” she said, “was the man I was engaged to marry before I went to London.”

Ross stiffened, every muscle frozen, and then gradually relaxed.

“You were engaged?” he asked.

“Yes. My work as a nurse only postponed our wedding.”

“Let me guess. He was pure loup-garou.”

There. He had reached the obvious conclusion, as she’d known he would. The unpalatable truth lay between them, stinking of shattered dreams.

“Yes,” she said.

He could have berated her then, could have brought it all out in the open, painting her as the unredeemed villainess. But Ross said nothing about her lack of honesty. He laid no blame, offered no reproach. He simply waited, calm and remote, as if he were a priest awaiting a supplicant’s confession.

“Jacques and I were married a month after I returned to Snowfell,” she said. “Only a few days before he left to join his regiment on the front lines. He died within the week.”

Ross gazed at the wall behind her. “You knew Toby wasn’t his,” he said.

Of course she’d known. How could she not have recognized the changes in her own body? A werewolf female knew instinctively when she was with child. It ran in the blood as surely as the Change.

“I knew,” she admitted.

“Did you tell him?”

Gillian took a deep breath. What would she have done, if events had occurred just as she’d claimed? What if Sir Averil had been able to keep her pregnancy a secret and her arranged marriage—the real marriage—had happened exactly as Sir Averil had so carefully planned?

Let Ross think the very worst of her. It didn’t matter now.

“No,” she said. “There was no time.”

“But no one questioned that Toby was Delvaux’s,” Ross said. “You were together long enough to give your son a legitimate, acceptable father.”

The bitterness was gone. She’d done nothing to soothe his pride; she’d only given him more reason to despise her. But Ross’s words were rational, almost detached. It was as if he had become a different person than the one she’d been speaking to only an hour ago.

An hour. Had it really been such a short time? Could they have passed so easily through the turmoil of their reunion and emerged relatively unscathed?

“The world hasn’t changed so very much,” she said. “Toby would have been subject to harsh judgment if anyone knew that he was illegitimate.”

“But you weren’t really worried about what regular people might think. All those other loups-garous with their plans for the werewolf race wouldn’t have been too happy with you, either.”

Oh, yes. He clearly remembered her attempts to explain what had seemed so important for him to understand in those days, even before she’d known he was a little more than human.

“I was concerned with Toby’s future, yes,” she said.

“What about your family? You never talked about them. How were they involved in all this?”

Now he was striking much too close to the truth. “They approved of my marriage to Jacques, of course. Our families had been connected in the past.”

“So you couldn’t tell them about me, either.”

“They would not have understood. They trusted me…my honor. I could not have disappointed them.”

He cocked his head, as if he sensed how much she was omitting, but couldn’t frame the right questions.

“You did what you had to do to protect Toby,” he said evenly. “Where did you go after Delvaux died?”

“To Snowfell, the estate where I grew up. My family welcomed me.”

“Are your parents still living?”

She wondered why he would ask. Or care. “My mother died long ago. My father…has become rather eccentric in his old age, and seldom leaves Snowfell. I do what I can for him.”

“So you’ve never left.”

“Toby and I have everything we need there.”

“And Toby was doing all right without knowing about his real dad. The only mistake you made was to write the truth down so that he could find it.”

He was right. It had been a terrible mistake. She’d remembered having destroyed the diary a year after Toby’s birth, after she’d learned that Ross had found employment with the New York City police force. But her memory had played tricks on her…she’d only torn out certain pages, leaving a patchwork of notations that had revealed the very things she’d never wanted Toby to know.

“Why did you keep track of me?” Ross asked.

She couldn’t invent a convincing reason. “I don’t know,” she said.

He seemed to accept her answer. “What did Toby do when he found out that Delvaux wasn’t his father?”

“He was…intrigued,” Gillian said carefully. “A boy of his age is incessantly curious about everything, especially himself. It was only natural that he should wish to know more about you.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I had little chance to discuss the matter with him before he ran away.”

“And you didn’t notice he was gone until he’d gotten all the way to the ship?”

Gillian felt a prickle of heat rushing over her skin. “He’s run away before, but never went farther than the neighboring estate.”

“Sounds like he didn’t have everything he needed at Snowfell after all.”

“Boys of his age are naturally restless.”

He offered no contradiction. “You never considered letting him meet his real father, even in secret?”

Another question filled with pitfalls. “It would hardly have been fair to him—or to you,” she said. “My…writings did not continue beyond the first few years. I knew nothing of your present life. You might have had a wife, children of your own. I could not anticipate that you would wish…to be…burdened with the knowledge.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Mighty considerate of you,” he said, lapsing into that peculiar Western dialect she remembered from London. “But you were wrong on all counts, Mrs. Delvaux. No wife. No kids. Never had much use for the idea.”

“Then I see no real difficulty in our…in the situation. Toby has met you. His curiosity has been satisfied.”

“Has it?”

She remembered what Toby had said to her in the bedroom. “Toby is a boy of intelligence and ability beyond his years,” she said. “He is affectionate with those who have earned his trust. But he can also be rash and stubborn. He has done a very dangerous thing by traveling alone to America. Such behavior must not be rewarded.”

“So he should be punished for wanting to know the truth?”

Her stomach began to knot. “I have answered your questions,” she said. “What more do you want of us?”

Ross looked at her and then down at the carpet between his feet, and she recognized something she hadn’t expected to see: uncertainty. She might almost have called it vulnerability. But the moment passed quickly, and when he spoke again, it was without any trace of hesitation.

“I want to see more of my son,” he said.

CHAPTER THREE

PANIC SWELLED in Gillian’s throat, but she fought it down. She needed to use reason now, not emotion. Unless Ross had lost the basic decency that had been such a fundamental part of the boy she had known, he would listen to a sensible argument.

“Please be seated,” she asked.

He regarded her as warily as if she’d asked him to jump out the window, but he acceded to her request. He selected one of the deep armchairs, and she took a seat on the sofa, holding herself still and erect.

“I understand,” she began, “that you are curious about Toby. That’s only to be expected. I can see that you are also concerned about his welfare.” She paused, trying to collect her thoughts. “Since you lack experience with children, you may not realize…how impressionable a young boy can be.”

“Impressionable.” Ross got up abruptly, went to the illegally stocked sideboard where Hugh had left his bottle of brandy and poured himself a glass. “You mean he might be susceptible to bad influences.”

How easily he twisted her words. “He may be entering the transition at any time. Additional distractions will only serve to confuse him and make him unhappy at such a crucial juncture in his life.”

Ross emptied the glass. “You think I’ll confuse him?” he asked. “You think he’ll lose his ability to Change just by being around me?”

Gillian flinched. “I implied no such thing,” she said stiffly.

“But you’re worried about it, aren’t you? He’s my son, and that means…” He paused to pour himself another glass and inspected it critically. “What else are you worried about, Mrs. Delvaux? Afraid I’ll give Toby a yen to be a cop like his old dad?”

Gillian pushed her anger back into the little hollow deep inside her chest. “You can only hurt him if you give him reason to believe…if you allow him to form an attachment to you which cannot last.”

“Hurt him?” Ross quickly swallowed the second drink and set it down so hard that Gillian expected the glass to shatter. “Is that what you think I’m trying to do?”

“No, of course not. But Toby’s future is in England, and you surely would not wish him to be torn—”

“Between you and me?” He pushed the half-empty brandy bottle aside with a sweep of his hand. “Do you think I could take him away from you?”

Ice water rolled through Gillian’s veins. “Is that what you intend to do?”

Ross dragged his palm over his face and returned to the chair. “No.” He met her gaze with an earnestness that battered at her defenses more surely than a barrage of curses. “I don’t steal kids from their mothers. But he’s blood of my blood. You can’t make that fact disappear, no matter how much you want to.”

“I have no wish to deny it.”

He gave her cynical smile. “Yeah. I guess it’s a little too late for that.” He sobered. “All I’m asking is a few days. Just a few days, Jill.”

Gillian swallowed and looked away. “Jill” had been Ross’s pet name for her; she still remembered when he’d told her, with a teasing sort of tenderness in his eyes, that “Gillian” was too “highfalutin” for everyday use. She’d thought that it was his way of bridging the gap of wealth and class that lay between them, differences she had been just as ready to set aside.

Until he’d tried to make their affair more than it could ever be.

She rested her hands in her lap, deliberately relaxing her fingers and letting all emotion drain away. “I know you have no reason to trust me,” she said, “but I must ask you to believe that I know what is best for our…for Toby. He has romantic notions that may perhaps have led him to believe that he will find something—something mysterious and wonderful—here with you that he hasn’t found at home. He has an idealized image of the father he never knew.”

Ross dropped his hands between his knees. “I never claimed to be anyone’s ideal. I won’t lie to the kid.” His voice grew husky. “Am I asking so much, Jill? A few days out of a lifetime?”

His question hung between them, so saturated with unspoken feeling that Gillian felt worse than if he’d shouted and raged. The gentleness of his voice didn’t change the circumstances in the least, but her mouth simply refused to speak the words that necessity should have made so simple.

He was asking her to trust him. Trust him with the most important thing in her life, when he had every reason to resent her. She had known from childhood that emotions could change in an instant, that one could never rely on anyone else’s behavior, only one’s own. His motives were still a mystery to her; it wasn’t as if he knew more than a trifle about Toby or could even begin to understand him.

But what other purpose could he have? If he were planning some sort of retaliation for the assaults on his pride, surely he wouldn’t be here in her hotel room bargaining with her.

The brash young doughboy she’d known in London would never have sought revenge. Such dark emotions had been alien to him, even after he’d faced death on the battlefield. That was only one reason she’d found it so easy to believe, however briefly, that she loved him.

“I shall consider everything you’ve suggested,” she said. “Will it be acceptable if I telephone you tomorrow?”

He pushed his hands into his trouser pockets, a gesture she remembered all too well. “I guess it’ll have to be.” He glanced toward the door to the bedrooms. “Do you mind if I look in on him before I go?”

The wolf in Gillian wanted nothing more than to rush across the room and block the door with her body. The woman was nearly paralyzed and hated herself for it.

“Of course,” she said. “But please don’t wake him.”

“He won’t even know I’m there.” Ross picked up his hat and headed unerringly for the room where Toby was sleeping. He made no sound at all when he stepped into the bedroom. Gillian paused in the doorway as he went to the bed and looked down at the boy sprawled beneath the covers.

There should have been nothing remarkable in the sight of a father watching his son while he slept. It happened all over the world every day. But Gillian could hardly breathe as Ross knelt beside the bed, reached out with one big hand and touched Toby’s hair with such gentleness that Toby didn’t so much as stir the tip of one little finger.

The moment lasted for a dozen heartbeats, and then Ross withdrew. He met Gillian’s gaze, and the gentle wonder that lingered in his face warmed her like a fire in winter.

“Thanks,” he said simply, and slipped out of the room. Her skin hummed beneath the sleeve of the blouse he had brushed in passing. She compelled her feet to follow him to the outer door, astonished at how difficult it was to regain control of her own body.

Ross opened the door to the hall and turned to face her, his expression unreadable once again. “I’ll be expecting your call,” he said.

“Ross—”

“Good night, Gillian.” He placed his hat on his head, nodded briefly and walked away.

Gillian leaned heavily against the doorjamb, watching him until he reached the elevator and stepped inside. She felt nervous, a little sick to her stomach and oddly exhilarated.

The first two symptoms she understood well enough. But the third…that one made no sense at all. Physical yearning was a thing of the body alone, easily governed by the mind. It was only a ghost, a dream, a memory with no validity in the present.

She backed away from the door, closed it firmly and returned to Toby’s bedroom. He was sitting up, his chin resting on his bent knees.

“He’s gone, isn’t he?” he asked.

“Yes.” Gillian sat in the chair nearest the bed and folded her hands in her lap. “Did we wake you?”

He shook his head. “I had a dream that Father was teaching me how to fish.”

“How to fish?”

“Mmm-hmm. Except I was very small. And Father was living with us at Snowfell.”

Gillian’s nails pressed tiny crescents into her palms. “Toby…it would be wise…it would be better if you didn’t call Mr. Kavanagh ‘Father.’”

His bright, direct gaze focused on her. “Why not? He is my father.”

“In a literal sense, yes. But once we return to England, it’s likely that you’ll never see him again. You will find it easier to adjust if you—”

“If I pretend I never met him?” Toby leaned back against the pillows and folded his arms across his chest. “I can’t forget, even if you can.”

It was surprising, Gillian thought, how much a child’s thoughtless words could sting. “Tell me,” she said, “why you’re so fond of Mr. Kavanagh when you’ve spent scarcely any time with him.”

Toby considered her question with a lightning shift to that precocious maturity that still had the power to surprise her. “Isn’t one supposed to like one’s father?” he asked.

If she hadn’t known better, she might have thought he was testing her. But she’d been careful, so very careful, to keep him away from Sir Averil and his volatile moods.

“That isn’t an answer, Toby.”

“I just like him. He doesn’t treat me like a child.”

“But you are a child. There are many things you don’t understand.”

“I understand that you wrote that you didn’t think Ross was good enough to be my father because he wasn’t like you and Hugh and Grandfather.”

Gillian felt light-headed. He’d read just enough to confuse him, and now she had to set it right.

“Do you remember when we talked about how rare werewolves are in the world?” she asked.

He tangled his fingers in the sheets, his expression turning sullen. “Yes,” he muttered.

“Wise men realized that the only way to save our kind was to marry those of loup-garou blood to each other, to preserve our abilities and our way of life. That is the purpose of the Convocation. That is why we must sometimes set aside the things we…might think we want in order to help all our people.”

“And Mr. Delvaux was the right kind of werewolf.”

Oh, how she had tried to keep this from him. How she had danced around the subject, knowing that one day Toby might discover his mixed heritage and what it could mean.

How much had he read in those damning notations?

“Mr. Delvaux,” she said, “was from a family that could trace its bloodlines back to the fourteenth century and beyond. No one questioned that he had all the qualities necessary to strengthen our people.”

“You didn’t even love him.”

“You can hardly make such judgments, Toby, when he died before you were born.”

He gave her a hard, direct look. “I know you didn’t love him, but you still thought he was better than my real father.” His jaw set in a way that reminded Gillian far too much of Ross. “There isn’t anything wrong with Father, whatever you say.”

Dangerous, dangerous waters. “You’re right, Toby,” Gillian said gently. “There’s nothing wrong with Mr. Kavanagh. I’ve no doubt that he is very competent in everything he does. I’m certain he has a full life here, with his work as a police officer.”

Toby wasn’t to be distracted. “He wasn’t a police officer when you met,” Toby said. “He was a soldier, wasn’t he?”

“Yes, but—”

“Did you know, then, that he was only part werewolf?”

Dear God. “I…it isn’t always possible to tell.”

“But you liked him anyway, didn’t you?”

“Yes. I liked him, Toby.”

“I know the facts of life, Mother.” His cheeks colored, raising a spattering of freckles. “You decided to have a baby with him, didn’t you?”

The facts of life. Toby had only the weakest grasp on the nature of relationships between men and women, but he knew enough.

“Sometimes,” she said, “we don’t always expect what’s going to happen.”

“You didn’t want me to be born?”

“Oh, Toby.” She moved quickly toward the bed and sat down, her arms trembling with the need to embrace him. “You were a miracle. A wonderful gift.”

“But I’m part human.”

He knew, and there was no going back. “Yes. But your werewolf blood is of the very strongest. You don’t have anything to—”

Be afraid of. But he wasn’t afraid. Not…yet. She had almost slipped, almost revealed too much.

“Even if Father isn’t like Mr. Delvaux, he’s still a werewolf,” Toby said, speaking into her sudden silence. “I’ll bet he could thrash anyone coming to the Convocation.” He bit his lower lip. “Maybe you don’t have to Change to be a real loup-garou.”

Gillian began to shake. He was talking as much about himself as Ross. Either he’d seen through her private fears or he’d drawn the natural conclusions from what he’d read.

She couldn’t lie. But she wouldn’t tell the whole truth.

“You’re very real,” she said, cupping his face between her hands. “And there are many admirable things about humans. Think of Uncle Ethan. Haven’t we been good friends?”

“Would you marry him if he asked you?”

For a few seconds she was too stunned to answer. “Ethan? Where did you get such an idea, Toby?”

“It wouldn’t matter whom you married if you weren’t going to have any more babies, would it? You could even marry Father.”

If he really believed that, she had succeeded in one thing, at least: she had kept him busy enough at Snowfell—and isolated enough, when the occasion required it—that he hadn’t grasped how little her life was her own, or how hard she’d striven not to let him feel the weight of burdens he was too young to bear.

But he would have to be told about what awaited them both at the Convocation. And soon.

“No,” she said gently. “That is quite out of the question. Our lives have become too different. We are too different.”

He frowned at the counterpane. “What if Father wants me to stay in America?”

“He knows that is impossible, Toby. A boy belongs with his mother.”

“What if he asks you to stay, too?”

That icy river sluiced anew through Gillian’s veins. “He will not. You must put any notion of our remaining in America out of your mind.”

She could see right away how little impact that command had on Toby. She should have found a better way to control him, to raise him with enough discipline to have prevented him from considering such a mad course as running away from England. But each time she’d considered treating him more strictly, she’d thought of Sir Averil, and all such resolutions had deserted her.

There was only one way of getting through to him now. And it would mean sacrifice…and faith that her bargain would be enough.

“You would like to see your father again,” she said.

Toby sat up. “Oh, yes!”

“Then I propose a compromise.”

“He’ll come to visit England with us!”

Oh, Lord. He had no idea. None whatever.

“No,” she said. “You know the Convocation is soon to begin, and there won’t be room for more visitors. I propose that we remain in New York for a few days, and you may see Mr. Kavanagh, if he is agreeable. But at the end of that time, you must promise to return with me to the ship without protest.”

Toby cocked his head. “Two weeks.”

“A few days, no more.”

His chest rose and fell in a great sigh. “Agreed,” he said. “May I ring him now?”

“Tomorrow morning is soon enough.” She rose, letting him see nothing of her apprehension. “Back to sleep, young man.”

He plunged back under the sheets with the energy of any ordinary eleven-year-old boy. Gillian was almost out the door when his voice brought her to a halt.

“Thank you, Mother,” he said.

Unable to trust her own voice, Gillian left the room. She almost went straight to the sideboard and the half-empty bottle of brandy, but she didn’t. Alcohol was a refuge of which she had no need.

Ross had. But he wasn’t the one who’d lost the skirmish between them. An hour or two was all the time it had taken him to win Toby over. He had never held a wailing infant in his arms, changed a nappy or soothed a little boy’s hurt, but Toby was already halfway his.

Was that how it happened to me?

The front door clicked. Hugh stuck his head into the room and glanced about warily.

“Is it safe?” he asked.

“Mr. Kavanagh is gone.” Gillian pulled the pins out of her hair and let it tumble down around her shoulders. “Did you enjoy your walk?”

Hugh snorted. “Enjoy it? I was worried sick about you.”

“There was no need.” She sat on the sofa. “Mr. Kavanagh was quite civil.”

Hugh eyed the brandy as he sat in one of the armchairs. “What now? Do I buy a gun or start packing my bags?”

The idea of Hugh wielding a gun was as ludicrous as the notion of Ross among the delegates at the Convocation.

“I have decided that Toby will visit with Mr. Kavanagh over the course of the next few days,” she said.

Hugh hummed through his teeth. “That is civilized,” he said. “I have to say, I’m a little surprised you trust him so much.”

“I trust him because I will be with him and Toby every moment they are together.”

“Won’t that be a trifle…awkward?”

“I assure you that I will survive his company.”

“No doubt. It’s Kavanagh I’m worried about.”

Gillian began to be irritated. “What do you mean?”

But Hugh had fallen into a rare contemplative mood, and he rose and wandered aimlessly around the room until he reached the window. “I should be able to find something to do for a few days,” he murmured. “Yes, it ought to be rather interesting.”

Gillian didn’t ask him what he meant. She got up, went into the WC and drew herself a bath, grateful that there were no servants to deceive with a smile and a few hollow words. She sank into the hot water with a sigh. The liquid ran exploratory fingers over her thighs and arms and breasts, soothing her into a state of nearly complete relaxation…

Ross pushed her hair away from her face, letting her short curls run through his fingers.

“Are you sure?” he asked. “Is this what you want, Jill?”

She pressed her hands into his back, feeling the flex of muscle and the strong beat of his heart. “Yes,” she whispered. “I’m sure, Ross.”

“I haven’t…” He flushed beneath his tan. “I haven’t got any protection with me. If you want, I can find something to…”

“No.” She lifted her head to kiss the ridge of his collarbone. “I don’t want to wait. Nothing will happen.”

A slight frown crossed his face, but it lasted no longer than it took for her to pull him down. His hands were eager and a little rough as he touched her hips and breasts. She briefly wondered if he’d ever had a woman before. In a way, she wished he hadn’t. Then they would be the same, if only for this short while.

All thoughts fled as he began to caress that very private place between her legs. She hadn’t known there could be such a feeling in the world.

Ross was no longer awkward. He took one of her nipples into his mouth and began to suckle, while his fingers continued to work their magic below. Gillian began to get very hot and very wet, and her breath grew short.

“Now, Jill?” Ross whispered, his lips brushing her ear.

She squeezed her eyes shut. “Yes. Now, Ross. Now…”

Gillian sat bolt upright in the bathtub, splashing lukewarm water over its porcelain sides. She pressed her palms to her flushed cheeks, fighting her way out of the dream.

She was alone. No one had touched her; no one had brought her to the brink only to abandon her, gasping and unfulfilled. Her memory had turned traitor, reaching up out of the past with cruel, grasping fingers.

Gillian got out of the bathtub and found a thick towel, wrapping herself tightly in the soft white cloth. At least she was alone; no one had witnessed her lapse.

And tomorrow? Would Ross look at her and surmise what had been going through her mind?

She went to the mirror and relaxed all the muscles of her face until there was no further sign of agitation. Not even full-blooded werewolves could read thoughts. And unless she were an utter fool, she wouldn’t betray by a single word or action that she even remembered their lovemaking.

The face in the mirror gazed serenely back at her. The lines about her eyes and mouth could scarcely be detected; no one would guess that she was thirty years old. Ross would have no reason to believe that she’d enjoyed anything less than a life of perfect contentment.

And hadn’t she? Hadn’t she found her place and purpose? Hadn’t she been given the most wonderful son in the world?

And who gave you that son?

Gillian spun away from the mirror and rushed to her bedroom, where she slipped into the luxurious silk-and-velvet dressing gown provided by the hotel. It felt decadent against her skin, and she almost took it off again.

Sir Averil’s wealth had paid for this expensive suite. There had never been any fine silk dressing gowns at Snowfell, but SirAveril was a proud man. His daughter must have the best accommodations on those rare occasions when she appeared in public, even though he had heartily disapproved of her coming to America.

Gillian rubbed her cheek against the velvet collar. There was no harm in the dressing gown. Just as there would be no harm in seeing Ross again. Both would soon be far out of reach.

She sat down at the dressing table and began to brush out her hair with long, rhythmic strokes. Tonight her sleep would be empty of dreams.

CHAPTER FOUR

CONEY ISLAND, Ross mused, was a place most werewolves would go out of their way to avoid, especially on a Sunday in May. And that suited him just fine.

He’d been sitting on his sofa, wide-awake after a sleepless night, when Gillian had telephoned. Her voice had startled him, even though he’d been expecting her call; he still wasn’t used to the richness of her tone, or the way it played along his nerves like the bow of a costly violin.

“Coney Island,” he’d suggested, after they’d dispensed with the exchange of meaningless courtesies and she’d made her proposal. “Toby seems to have his heart set on it.”

The sound of Gillian’s breathing had filled the silence over the line as she considered his recommendation. “Is it a suitable place for a boy of his age?”

Strange that she actually valued his opinion now that she’d decided to let Toby see him again; he’d begun to wonder if he’d judged her a little too harshly. But when she’d made it clear that she would be coming along, Ross had almost nixed the idea. He didn’t want her there. It wasn’t part of his plan.

Then he’d pictured Gillian surrounded by the hoi polloi of humanity in all its brash, loud and malodorous glory, and he’d changed his mind.

This was his world. She had stepped into it whether she’d intended to or not. All that mattered was that he had a couple of days to find a chance to talk to Toby alone. It wouldn’t take many questions to find out how Toby felt about being part-human…or if Gillian had done anything to make him feel bad about it, deliberately or otherwise.

Ross shoved his hands into his pockets and scanned the street. Automobiles and streetcars puttered up and down Surf Avenue, narrowly avoiding the hordes of pedestrians that crossed boldly in front of them. Gillian had said that she and Toby would arrive in a limousine. There weren’t too many of those on Coney Island these days; ever since the new subway extension had been put in and the beaches had opened to the public, Manhattan’s most humble citizens had become the majority of the island’s visitors.

That wouldn’t bother Toby, Ross was certain. There wasn’t a prejudiced bone in his body; he was a democrat at heart. And when he got a look at the Thunderbolt…

Ross caught himself. He’d never suspected how easy it would be to slip into that dangerous kind of thinking. There was no logical basis for it; he’d spent less than an hour with Toby yesterday, and yet he already thought he understood the kid just because he’d had something to do with bringing the boy into the world.

All he really knew was that Toby had any normal child’s appreciation for hot dogs and amusement parks. That he didn’t share all his mother’s views. And that he was brave, smart and determined to get what he thought he wanted.

Ross had believed the same things of Gillian when they’d met. Brave and smart and willing to throw caution to the winds once she’d decided that she wanted a doughboy boneheaded enough to wear his heart on his sleeve.

A young man and his girl brushed by Ross, hand in hand. Ross watched them walk through Luna Park’s garish entrance. Gillian’s qualities and his former relationship with her, good or bad, had little to do with his purpose now. The whole point of this meeting, and any others he could finagle, was to determine if Toby was safe and happy.

The first step had been convincing Gillian that there wouldn’t be any harm in letting him see his son. He’d played her the same way he played suspects, harsh at first and then gradually relenting, so that she started to think he was harmless. Reasonable. Willing to compromise.

Ross loosened his tie as the sun emerged from behind a cloud, reflecting heat up from the sidewalk under his feet. Obviously Toby hadn’t realized that he was part human until he’d found the diary. But had he sensed something amiss, something he could never quite define?

He’s eleven years old, for God’s sake. He didn’t act like a kid who’d had a difficult upbringing. But Ross couldn’t ignore the possibility that Toby was hiding his own private fears—fears he wouldn’t share with his mother. If there was any chance that Toby was going to suffer just for being Ross’s son, Ross wanted to know about it. If the kid was going to grow up feeling that something was wrong with him, Ross intended to do whatever was necessary to make sure that didn’t happen.

A few days was all Ross had to get at the truth. Gillian hadn’t given in because she had any regard for him; she’d just realized that he wasn’t going to walk away quietly, and that compromise was better than an outright battle.

Still, Ross knew she would never have let Toby anywhere near him if she’d heard about the scandal. The longer she stayed in New York, the more likely she was to run across that information. She’d said that Toby had an idealized image of the father he’d never known. And ideals…they had a way of crumbling under your feet when you least expected it.

The blare of a horn interrupted Ross’s thoughts. A black limousine pulled up at the kerb, and a uniformed chauffeur got out. Ross beat him to the back door and opened it.

Gillian looked up at him from beneath the brim of her rolled silk hat, and he caught his breath. Nothing in her appearance had changed since yesterday. That was the problem. She could still make him feel as addled as a schoolboy catching his first glimpse of a girl’s knees.

He held out his hand, and she accepted it, rising from the automobile like a swan unfurling its wings. Her georgette frock, plain enough to be almost severe, was a shade of green that brought out the same color in her eyes. She wore no rouge or lipstick. She needed none.

Damn her.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Kavanagh,” she said. She lifted her head, and her nostrils flared to take in the cacophony of smells that even the least sensitive werewolf would find overwhelming. A large, laughing family bearing baskets stuffed with bread and sausages careened by, trailing the scents of garlic, perspiration and smoke. Gillian watched them recede into the crowd, her face expressionless.

“Hallo, Father!” Toby popped up beside them, nearly bursting out of his blue serge suit. His face was scrubbed pink, his hair was neatly groomed and his shoes had been shined to a mirror finish; he looked as if he ought to have been in church instead of on the boardwalk.

“Hello, Toby,” Ross said, taken aback by the sudden tightness in his throat. “Glad you could make it.”

“So am I.” Toby’s gaze swept over the street, the vividly painted buildings and the people hurrying from one attraction to the next. “It’s even better than I imagined.”

Ross tried to remember when he’d last felt as excited as Toby was now. “Are those the clothes you usually wear when you go to an amusement park?” he asked.

Toby looked down at himself in surprise. “I’ve never been to one before. Mother always insists that I dress like a gentleman when we are away from Snowfell.” He grinned. “But I don’t see any gentlemen around here.”

Ross glanced at Gillian, who didn’t seem to be listening. “Does that bother you, Toby?” he asked. “Would you rather go someplace where your clothes won’t get dirty?”

Toby raised his fair brows in exaggerated disbelief. “You must be joking. I’d much rather wear dungarees like a cowboy, or a jumper and plus-fours like Uncle Hugh.”

“Maybe that can be arranged, once we’re back in the city.”

“Capital!” Toby tapped the leather bag dangling from a strap over his shoulder. “Mother did let me bring my bathing costume,” he said, lifting the bag for Ross’s inspection.

Ross hid his astonishment. Obviously Gillian had no conception of what the beaches would be like, swarming with uncouth human bathers competing for their small patches of sand. His treacherous thoughts shifted, constructing a detailed picture of Gillian in one of those revealing one-piece jersey swimming suits, her curves no longer hidden by a shapeless, low-waisted frock.

“Did your mother bring hers?” he blurted.

This time Gillian was paying attention. Her fair skin went pink. “I do not own a bathing costume,” she said. “We purchased Toby’s at a shop near the hotel.” She looked from side to side as if she were seeking escape. “If you will excuse me, I need to speak to the chauffeur.”

“You don’t have to keep him here,” Ross said. “I’ll make sure you get home safe and sound.”

She hesitated, probably wondering just how far she should trust him. “Yes,” she said. “Of course.” She turned to address the driver, who touched the brim of his cap and returned to the car.

Toby had spent the brief interlude bouncing in place, ready to bolt for the park entrance as soon the adults finished their boring conversation. Gillian moved to take his hand. He shook himself free as unconsciously as a dog shakes water from its back.

Gillian dropped her hands to her sides. “Where do we begin?” she asked.

Her voice was brisk, but there was uncertainty in it. She was as out of place here as Ross had been in the Roosevelt Hotel. Her wealth and perfect breeding bought her nothing in this egalitarian human world. She was lost, and that was exactly how Ross wanted her to feel.

But she hadn’t been that way in London. She’d worked among soldiers of all classes and had treated them equally, as had the other upper-class women who’d joined in the war effort. She’d never shown any outward sign of discomfort in her role as a common nurse. Even when she’d been faced with devastating injuries and suffering, she’d never faltered. And she’d given herself to a guy she’d assumed was human, a man not even from her own country.

Ross cursed under his breath. What the hell was he thinking? This was the real Gillian Maitland, the one who’d returned to her old life without a backward glance. That other Gillian had been a mask she’d temporarily worn, the way a little girl tries on her mother’s clothes and oversized shoes. And this Gillian—Mrs. Delvaux—had thrown away whatever spirit of rebellion and adventure had led her to volunteer in the first place.

Just like she’d thrown away his love.

Toby tugged at Ross’s arm. “May we go now, Father?”

“Toby!” Gillian said, inserting herself between him and Ross. “I doubt Mr. Kavanagh wishes his arm to be pulled from its socket.”

“Don’t trouble yourself on my account, Mrs. Delvaux,” Ross said. “I think I can handle my own son.”

She blanched and stepped back as if he’d struck her. Ross pretended he didn’t care. He ruffled Toby’s hair.

“What first?” he asked. “The Aerial Swing or the Dragon’s Gorge?”

“Which one is least frightening?” Toby asked in a low voice.

“Being scared is part of the fun, isn’t it?”

“Oh, I’m not worried about myself. But Mother is with us.”

“Do you think she’d be afraid?”

“I don’t know. She’s never been to a place like this before, either. I think she’s a little nervous.”

So even Toby saw it, though he wouldn’t realize that Gillian’s unease had nothing to do with the amusements themselves. He was capable of a child’s unthinking callousness, but he also wanted to protect his mother. Would he feel that way if he resented her, if he hadn’t already forgiven her those years of deception?

Ross cleared his throat. “Let’s start her off easy with the Dragon’s Gorge,” he suggested. “Mrs. Delvaux?”

“Yes, Mr. Kavanagh?”

“We’re off to see the Dragon’s Gorge,” Toby said. “You needn’t worry, Mother. You have two men to protect you.”

Gillian met Ross’s gaze. He could have sworn there was sadness in her eyes.

Because Toby wasn’t her little boy anymore. He was growing up. She was bound to lose him eventually, just like any mother. But for her, it was a hundred times worse. She might lose him to his humanity.

A sense of chivalry Ross had given up years ago compelled him to offer Gillian his arm. She ignored him and started toward the park entrance. Toby lingered to make sure Ross was following, and then he darted ahead. They waited in line to purchase their tickets and joined the stream of people sweeping into the concourse.

The Dragon’s Gorge was one of Luna Park’s primary attractions, and the crowd was considerable. Miniature railroad cars moved one by one along a winding track into the open maw of a vast cave, guarded on either side by snarling winged dragons. Toby walked at a rapid clip to the end of the line, trying to peer over the heads of the people ahead of him.

Gillian joined Toby, and Ross fell in behind them. The top of Gillian’s head was just level with Ross’s mouth; the smell of her skin and her hair, unsullied by the heavy perfumes so many women used, was far more intoxicating than the whiskey to which he’d become so attached since the hearing and its aftermath.

Both the whiskey and the woman were a kind of poison. Both confused his brain and his senses, made it all too easy to deny the hard facts of life. Ross backed away, bumping into the man behind him. He muttered an apology and deliberately closed off his senses until he, Gillian and Toby had reached the head of the line.

He wasn’t sure quite how it happened, but suddenly Toby was sprawled across the last seat of the waiting railroad car, leaving Ross and Gillian to take the first seat in the car behind it. The attendant gestured impatiently; Ross stepped into the car and helped Gillian in after him.

She sat just as stiffly as she had in her hotel room, her gloved hands tucked in her lap and her gaze fixed on the car ahead. Toby twisted in his seat and waved happily as the car lurched into motion.

“Is it quite safe for him to ride alone?” Gillian asked, speaking as if the words had been pried out of her by red-hot pokers.

“He isn’t a baby,” Ross said. “You can’t keep him in high chairs and diapers for the rest of his life.”

She glared at him, her eyes glowing as the shadows of the cave closed in around them. “You think me overprotective,” she said. “You think that Toby is as…worldly as any boy his age. He is not. He has lived all his life—”

“Around people just like him, where he’s safe from anything that could challenge what he’s been taught.”

“You know nothing of how he’s been raised.”

“I can guess.” He leaned back on the hard wooden seat, careful to keep from touching her. “The lessons don’t seem to have taken, though. He’s not a stuck-up little prig.”

Her breath came fast. “No,” she said, “he is not. But you, Mr. Kavanagh, are certainly not lacking in arrogance.”

“Because I’m honest?”

“Are you?” She searched his eyes. “Are you really?”

Ross started to answer and found he couldn’t speak. He was convinced in that moment that she could see right through him, right down to the core of the miserable failure he’d become.

He was saved as the railcar, which had been chugging its way to the top of a steep incline, suddenly plunged from darkness into a brilliant white scene of the North Pole. Ross hardly noticed. The car rolled on to the next exhibit, but he was no longer paying attention. He thought of all the places he’d read about and longed to see when he was a kid at his parents’ ranch in Cold Creek Valley, places with exotic names that seemed a million miles away: Timbuktu, Istanbul, Singapore. When he’d turned seventeen and the Great War was already raging in Europe, he’d seen joining up as a chance to escape Arizona and explore a little of the world. Ma had been against it at first, but Pa had understood Ross’s need to be part of something bigger than himself. They’d added to his own store of carefully saved money to send him on a boat to France.

There hadn’t been many American volunteers at the time; the United States was still years away from officially joining the War. But Ross had found exciting and often dangerous work as a driver for the American Volunteer Motor Ambulance Corps. He’d served for about three months when his vehicle hit a mine; somehow he’d gotten mixed in with a bunch of British wounded and been shipped off to recover in a London hospital.

That had been where he’d met Gillian. Of course he hadn’t known her name in the beginning; his injuries had been pretty severe, though not disfiguring, and at first he’d hardly been able to tell the difference between the succession of doctors, nurses and volunteers who passed by his bed.

But then he started to heal—fast, with the help of his werewolf blood—and he’d seen her visiting the men in the ward. He’d become increasingly intrigued by her poise, her grace, her untouchability. If anyone in the place represented his idea of a European aristocrat, loaded to the gills with “good breeding,” she was it.

It soon became obvious that she was very skilled at what she did; ice queen or not, she had a gentle touch and soothing voice for soldiers who needed comfort, and she was more competent than many of the professional nurses. Plenty of guys seemed to find her attractive. But she seldom smiled and never laughed, and no one seemed to be able to breach her air of cool superiority.

Ross had almost dismissed her as a just another arrogant, privileged blue blood. But then his condition had begun to improve, and he’d had set himself a challenge: to find out what made Gillian Maitland tick.

His first few attempts had failed. Maybe she was put off by his American drawl, or his easy manner and informal ways; he treated her as if she were his equal, and that didn’t sit well with her in the beginning. But eventually she began dropping by his bed more often, and he would regale her with the stories of the “Wild West” he’d learned at his father’s knee. She started to smile a little more. Warmth crept into her hazel eyes. He learned that her father was a baronet, and she came from a grand estate in the north of England. He figured that she’d never known a day of want in her life, which made her work at the hospital all the more admirable.

Little by little their relationship had evolved from a cautious friendship to a deeper bond. One night, after Ross was finally allowed to walk again, she’d let him kiss her.

A new Gillian had emerged after that brief incident, a girl of passion and hidden fire. Ross had felt like the peasant boy who’d won the heart of the king’s daughter. He and Gillian had kept their relationship carefully hidden from the hospital staff and patients. They had walked on the grounds after midnight, hand in hand, speaking little and feeling much.

One late night, on his way to meet her, Ross had seen Gillian Change from wolf to human form on the hospital lawn behind a clump of trees. He’d quickly overcome his shock, realizing that he’d already felt the difference in her without knowing it. He’d told her then, with perfect honesty, that he knew about the existence of werewolves, at least in America. She didn’t ask how or why he knew about loups-garous, and he didn’t reveal his own mixed heritage, unsure how she would feel about it.

After that, Gillian had told him all about the werewolves in Europe. They were trying to save the werewolf race from extinction, she’d explained. The number of loups-garous in the world was rapidly shrinking; they had to live secretly among humans, constantly fearing exposure. Ancient European families had been working tirelessly to preserve the pure werewolf bloodlines and unique gifts.

Ross had listened, strangely uncomfortable with the driven, almost mechanical way Gillian spoke of the Europeans’ efforts. She’d recited the information almost like a schoolgirl who’d learned her lessons by rote; the passionate, animated woman Ross had discovered beneath her aristocratic veneer seeming to vanish.

But then she’d self-consciously asked him to make love to her, and he’d forgotten the things that had troubled him. Their joining had been like a miracle, a gift Ross knew he didn’t deserve. He’d finally admitted that he was of werewolf blood. She’d laughed, her eyes filled with happiness and relief. Ross had believed that his dreams were about to come true.

Until she’d asked him to run as a wolf beside her, and he’d had to tell her that he couldn’t do it, that his mother was human and his father only half-werewolf. He hadn’t noticed then how quiet she’d become. He’d been certain, in spite of what she’d said about the European devotion to werewolf purity, that it couldn’t possibly matter. They loved each other. And he wanted her to marry him.

There had been no explanations, no warning. Gillian simply never showed up at their next planned rendezvous. She’d left her work at the hospital and disappeared without a word. And in his shock, Ross had remembered what he hadn’t wanted to acknowledge: the look in her eyes when he’d told her he couldn’t Change.

The look of a princess who’d just been told that her knight in shining armor was nothing but a crippled beggar after all.

A sharp movement jostled Ross out of the past. The car had made another turn and was descending into a new tableau, this one depicting the Grand Canyon. He looked at Gillian; she was gazing at the diorama with her lips slightly parted and an almost childlike expression of wonder on her face, as if she’d completely forgotten that Ross was there.

“Why didn’t you remarry?” he asked.

She started and clutched at the car’s railing as if she expected to be pitched out onto the ground. “I…beg your pardon?”

“Delvaux died before Toby was born. Why didn’t you find Toby another father?”

It was a stupid thing to ask. Ross knew he wasn’t thinking clearly, hadn’t been since Gillian had stepped out of the limousine.

He dug the hole a little deeper. “There must have been other acceptable candidates, even after the War,” he said. “Or did you run out of all the pure-blooded types in your part of the world?”

She turned toward him, her hair bleached white by the harsh overhead lights. “I had no desire to marry again.”

“Delvaux was that great, huh? You just couldn’t let go of his memory?”

Damn and double-damn. Now he’d given her reason to think he could be jealous, when he felt nothing of the kind. But Gillian didn’t offer the cutting reply he’d expected. She sighed and leaned back in her seat, the wonders of the Dragon’s Gorge forgotten.

“My time with Jacques was short,” she said. “He would not have wished me to grieve unduly.”

Ross’s heart lurched and slowly resumed its regular rhythm. She didn’t love him. Not any more than she loved me.

“But you still didn’t think Toby needed a man in his life,” he said.

“What makes you think he didn’t have one?”

Touché. Just because Gillian hadn’t married again didn’t mean she couldn’t have had a whole string of lovers. Her coolness hadn’t kept plenty of wounded soldiers from falling in love with her, though she’d given none of them a second glance.

They’d all been human, of course. But she’d thought Ross was human up until the time they’d made love, and that hadn’t stopped her.

“Is it Warbrick?” he asked in a bored tone.

“What?”

“Toby said Warbrick wanted to marry you. Or was it something more casual?”

Gillian might have been an excellent actress, but her discomposure seemed genuine. “There is nothing between…Children, as you know, have vivid imaginations. Ethan has been a good friend to Toby.”

“That must be why he begged me not to let Warbrick find him.”

“Toby knew that what he’d done was wrong and was hoping to avoid the consequences.”

“Was Warbrick likely to punish him? Isn’t that your job?”

Gillian didn’t seem to hear the second part of his question. “He is a good man,” she said quietly.

“Sure. But he’s got one serious flaw. He can’t Change.”

CHAPTER FIVE

ROSS KNEW HE’D gone too far, said out loud things he hadn’t meant to bring up in Gillian’s presence. But now it was done, and she had nothing to say. They rode on in silence until the car reentered the vast, openmouthed cave where the ride had begun and descended to the platform, where Toby was waiting for them.

“That was capital!” Toby exclaimed, his gaze darting from Gillian to Ross and back again. “You weren’t afraid, Mother?”

She managed a smile for him, excluding Ross. “Not in the least. I found it quite delightful.”

Toby gave Ross a pointed look, as if he were trying to convey some secret message. Ross found himself at a loss, and Toby turned away.

“May we try the Aerial Swing?” he asked.

They made their way to the Aerial Swing, which consisted of four large gondolas suspended from the ends of crossbeams projecting from a tall, narrow tower. The crossbeams rotated around the tower as they moved up and down, swinging the gondolas in a wide circle far above the earth.

This time Gillian maneuvered herself so that she and Toby shared the same seat and Ross was relegated to the one behind them, wedged in next to a portly gentleman with a very red face. The man giggled during the entire ride. Ross was deeply grateful when it was over.

Gillian was a little gray when she stepped out of the gondola, but she didn’t complain.

“I suggest we head for Steeplechase Park,” Ross said. “They opened the Thunderbolt roller coaster there two years ago. It’s the tallest one on Coney Island, famous all over the world.”

He half expected Gillian to balk, but she allowed him to usher her and Toby across the esplanade and through a knot of parkgoers clustered around the carousel. “We can grab one of the streetcars on Surf Avenue,” he said.

Gillian maintained her silence, absorbed in her own thoughts, as if she were pretending she was somewhere else. It wasn’t possible for Ross to talk to Toby privately once they were packed into the streetcar, but he kept the kid entertained by pointing out the various attractions along Surf Avenue as the vehicle carried them toward Steeplechase Park.

“You’ve been here lots of times,” Toby commented, a wistful note in his voice.

“Not when I was a kid. I lived too far away, and my family didn’t do much traveling.”

“Where did you live?”

Obviously that was something Gillian hadn’t written down in her diary. And why should she? “We had a ranch in southern Arizona, near the Castillo Mountains.”

“I know where Arizona is,” Toby said with a touch of pride. “Did you rope cattle and fight outlaws?”

“Lots of roping, but most of the outlaws and cattle rustlers were gone by the time I was born.”

“At least you had plenty of bad guys to fight in New York.” He kicked his heels against the bottom of the seat. “What made you decide to become a policeman?”

“It seemed like it might be something I’d be good at,” he said.

“Yes,” Toby said. “You could do all sorts of useful things, like smelling the criminals before they could see you coming, or just being a lot better at fighting.” He paused as if a thought had just popped into his head. “Are there lots of werewolves in New York, Father?”

It wasn’t an unexpected question, but Ross knew he had to tread carefully. “Maybe a hundred,” he said.

“Truly? We haven’t nearly so many in England. Are any of them policemen like you?”

“Not that I know of.”

“All the European werewolves Mother told me about live in big houses in the countryside, where they don’t have much to do with regular people. Is it the same in America?”

Ross realized that Toby had given him an opening to learn more about how Gillian lived. “I don’t know how it is other places in the States,” he said, “but in Manhattan, most werewolves belong to one pack.”

“A hundred in one pack?” Toby frowned. “It isn’t like that with us at all. We have families instead.”

“Are there other werewolf families living near you?”

“There are some in Northumberland, Lancashire and Yorkshire, but we don’t see them very often.”

“But there must be other houses nearby, even if they aren’t occupied by werewolves.”

“Oh, yes. Uncle Ethan lives at Highwick, which is right next door to Snowfell. And there are farmers all around the fells, and people in the village.”

“Then you have other kids to play with.”

Toby glanced at his mother, who was gazing at the passing scene. “I’m much too old to play children’s games.”

“You must have friends.”

“Of course. I—” He squirmed, scuffing his feet on the floor, and then seemed to reach a decision. “I talk to the servants all the time.”

The servants. Fuming, Ross reminded himself that he was talking to a boy, not a man. “If you don’t play with anyone,” he said, “what do you do to have fun?”

“There are lots of things to do at Snowfell. Mother and I read a great deal. She orders books from London. We play chess nearly every day. And we’ve even found some old Roman ruins, where soldiers used to guard the border against the barbarians.” He beamed. “I’ve begun a collection of ancient coins.”

“That sounds…very interesting. Do you ever take trips away from Snowfell?”

“I’ve been to Kendal, of course, and Carlisle and Penrith, and once to London.”

“What do you do there?”

“Sometimes we go to museums or visit the park. But we don’t go very often.”

“And your mother? Does she go out alone sometimes?”

“Mother? Oh, no. Only when she takes me.”

“Does anyone come to see her?”

Toby’s speculative glance was keen enough for a kid half again his age. “No one comes to Snowfell. Not even Uncle Ethan. But sometimes Mother meets him where Snowfell borders Highwick.”

Warbrick again. Ross hid his scowl, but he needn’t have bothered, because Toby’s interest had been caught by the structure towering over the streetcar as it began to slow. “Is that the Thunderbolt?”

The boy craned his neck, peering up at the steel struts and towers, the sweeping curves of the massive roller coaster that projected above the fence running alongside Surf Avenue. He might have jumped off the still-moving vehicle if Ross hadn’t grabbed his arm.

“Stay right here,” he warned Toby, and turned back to help Gillian, who had already stepped down to the street. The day was growing warmer by the minute, but somehow Ross knew that the perspiration gathering on Gillian’s forehead had nothing to do with the temperature. She gazed at the vast structure before them.

“Toby,” she said quietly.

The boy obviously heard a world of warning in those two syllables. “It’s not as dangerous as it looks,” he assured her. “I’ll ride with Father. You stay here.”

Gillian continued to stare at the roller coaster. Ross sensed that it wasn’t so much the potential danger of the ride that worried her as much as Coney Island itself, this vast and very human place. She dropped her gaze to the unruly line winding around the base of the coaster, then looked around like a wild animal surrounded by hidden hunters, seeking the source of danger in an ever-changing, faceless crowd.

Toby had said she never went out and that no one came to Snowfell. How long had it been since Gillian was engaged with the world, as she’d been in London? What kind of life had she led before he’d met her? She’d said her family had welcomed her back after Delvaux’s death, but what exactly had she gone back to?

Was it possible that he’d never really known her, that he’d been mistaking arrogance for fear all along? Had she been battling demons of her own from the very beginning?

Hell, no. Not Jill. Upset that she’d let herself fall for a guy who was mostly human, sure. And worried about betraying her high-flown principles, concerned about Toby and his attachment to Ross, less than enamored with crowds of noisy, malodorous humans. That was the sum total of it. The rest was sheer fantasy.

He emerged from his thoughts to find her staring at him, the uncertainty in her eyes vanishing behind a wall of determination.

“We must go,” she said. She grabbed Toby’s hand. “Please show us to the exit, Mr. Kavanagh.”

“But we’ve hardly done anything, Mother!” Toby protested. He looked at Ross for support. “It isn’t fair.” Before Ross could respond, Toby tried another tack. “Mother, why don’t you go back to the hotel and rest? Father and I will go on alone.”

“Certainly not,” she said. “We have done quite enough for one day. I am certain that Mr. Kavanagh will understand.”

“Mr. Kavanagh doesn’t,” Ross said. “We had a deal. I’ll take you back to the hotel, and then Toby and I—”

But Gillian was already walking away, dragging Toby behind her, body tensed as if she were about to break into an all-out run. Ross caught up with her.

“For God’s sake, Gillian.”

She spun. Her lips curled back from her teeth, wolflike. “Where?” she demanded. “Where is the way out?”

Ross was on the verge of another argument when he noticed that Gillian had suddenly gone still. He turned to follow her stare. Behind him, a crowd had gathered at the base of the platform where the coaster’s cars came to rest after each circuit.

Gillian pushed Toby toward Ross and set off for the platform at a run. By the time Ross and Toby caught up with her, she had shoved her way through the circle of gaping observers and crouched beside the boy who lay on the ground, flopping like a fish thrown onto dry land. A cut on his forehead was bleeding profusely, and Ross guessed that he had somehow fallen from the platform.

“What’s wrong?” someone asked. “What’s wrong with him?”

Gillian didn’t answer. She had rolled the boy onto his side and placed a wadded piece of cloth under his head, watching him intently as the muscles of his body contracted violently and then released. When a man from the crowd tried to help by restraining the child, she warned him off. He persisted. Ross told Toby to stay put, told the guy to back off and crouched beside Gillian.

“It’s a Grand Mal seizure,” she said, in a tone meant only for werewolf ears. “Either he’s an epileptic, or he’s dangerously ill.”

As she spoke, the boy’s convulsions grew weaker and gradually ceased. Gillian produced another strip of fabric—torn, he presumed, from some part of her clothing—and pressed it to the child’s wound. Ross glanced at Gillian’s profile. She hardly seemed to realize that she was the center of attention; the boy was all that mattered.

“Someone ring for an ambulance,” she said. “I’m only a nurse. Someone needs to find a doctor, if one is available.”

After a brief hesitation, several men huddled together and ran off in different directions. A shriek silenced the murmurs of the observers, and a woman stumbled into the center of the circle.

“Bobby!” she cried, dropping to her knees. “Bobby!”

“It will be all right,” Gillian said, nothing but compassion and understanding in her voice. “Ross, please watch Bobby and hold this cloth in place. He should regain consciousness presently. I must speak to his mother.”

Ross moved so that he was level with Bobby’s head, listening to Gillian as he waited for the boy to wake up. Gillian began to ask the sobbing mother a series of questions, each spoken so calmly that their rhythm slowly eased the woman’s hysteria. She squeezed the woman’s trembling arm gently and turned back to Ross.

“This has never happened to him before,” she said. “It’s possible for children to develop epilepsy at any time, but Bobby must have a full medical examination to rule out an infection. It’s fortunate that he wasn’t more badly injured in the fall.” She passed the back of her hand across her forehead. “We must move him to a cool, quiet place.”

Ross knew that she didn’t have to explain anything to him, but the fact that she was doing so, and asking for his help, meant a lot more to him than he was willing to admit even to himself. He lifted the boy in his arms while Gillian assisted the mother to stand and gave her an arm to lean on. Ross made sure that Toby was following and aimed for a vendor whose booth was fitted out with a wide awning.

Not long after they’d made Bobby comfortable on a blanket provided by the vendor, he began to regain consciousness. Gillian smiled at him and asked him how he was feeling. The boy, obviously confused, tried to answer, but his mother’s weeping distracted him, and Gillian left them alone.

One of the observers returned a few minutes later with a harried, bespectacled man whose day’s amusements had obviously been interrupted. He introduced himself as a doctor and spoke briefly with Gillian, examined the boy and assured himself that someone had summoned an ambulance. As soon as he’d taken charge, Gillian faded into the background.

But she was not to be allowed to resume her anonymity. Several of the men and women who’d followed them to the vendor’s booth gathered around her, exclaiming and congratulating her. She answered rigidly, all the ease she’d shown with the boy instantly gone. Ross wedged himself between her and the man closest to her.

“Give the lady a little room,” he said gruffly. The people retreated, responding to the quiet authority he’d honed to near perfection during his years on the job. Gillian seemed to breathe more easily, though she was much too pale for Ross’s liking.

“Are you all right?” he asked, taking her elbow.

She stared in the direction of the vendor’s stall. “Where is Toby?”

“Here, Mother.” Toby joined them, clutching his bag and grinning up at his mother with obvious pride. “That was smashing, wasn’t it, Father?”

“Yes.” Ross heard the wail of a distant siren. “The ambulance is coming. I think it’s time for us to leave.”

“But there’s a man who wants to talk to Mother. He says he’s a reporter for a newspaper.”

Ross’s neck prickled. “Not today, Toby.”

“But he wants to know about the lady who saved the little boy’s life!”

“I did not save him,” Gillian said faintly. “I merely made him comfortable until he emerged from the seizure.”

“But he could have hurt himself,” Toby said, pugnacious in defense of his mother’s expertise. “Isn’t that right, Father?”

That was probably true, and by the end of the day a lot of people on Coney Island would probably regard the mysterious English lady as a heroine. But one look at Gillian’s face told Ross that she didn’t want anything to do with newspapers or the notoriety they could bring.

He gazed over the heads of the people still hovering nearby. A man was striding toward them at a fast pace, his hat jammed down on his forehead and a notepad clutched in one hand.

His name was O’Grady, and he’d been a gadfly biting at Ross’s heels all during the hearings and even after Ross had been released for lack of evidence. Once he’d recognized his victim, any chance of keeping Gillian and Toby ignorant of the scandal would be over.

“No reporters,” Ross growled. “We’re leaving.”

Toby’s face fell, then brightened again.

“Will we take the subway?” he asked.

The last thing Gillian would want now was to be sandwiched into a subway car jammed with weekend revelers. “We’ll find a taxi,” he said.

But before he got Gillian and Toby moving, O’Grady had caught up with them.

“So this is your mother?” the reporter said loudly, striding alongside Toby while he simultaneously noted Ross’s presence and tipped his hat in Gillian’s direction. “Morning, ma’am. Miles O’Grady, New York Sentinel.”

“The lady’s got nothing to say to you, O’Grady,” Ross said, keeping his hand firmly on Toby’s shoulder as he hurried Gillian toward a waiting cab. “Get lost.”

O’Grady wasn’t put off. “What’s the lady to you, Kavanagh?” he asked. “Mrs. Delvaux, your boy said.”

Toby was smart enough to recognize the edge of hostility in the reporter’s tone. “She doesn’t want to talk to you,” he said belligerently. “And my—Mr. Kavanagh doesn’t want to talk to you, either.”

Ross cursed under his breath. “Toby,” he said without breaking stride, “you tell the cabbie to take you and your mother to the place where we started. Go back exactly the way we came, okay?”

In answer, Toby hurried to Gillian’s other side and took her hand. Gillian was moving like a sleepwalker, in spite of Toby’s urgent tugging. Ross came to a stop and grabbed O’Grady by the arm to keep him from following.

O’Grady grinned. “Same old Kavanagh,” he said. “Better let me go, or I’ll see you arrested for assault.”

Ross snorted with disgust and released the reporter. “You may think you have friends on the force,” he said, “but they don’t like you any better than they like me.”

“Why not? We’re all on the same side. Trying to bring a killer to justice.” He watched Gillian and Toby as they climbed into the cab. “You know, I didn’t think this would be much of a story. Now…”

“You stay away from them,” Ross snarled.

“Why? I’d be doing her a favor by sticking around. She’s pretty, slender, blond…just like the other one, but with a lot more class. You grazing in richer pastures, Kavanagh?”

Ross could have had the bastard on the ground in two seconds flat, but he knew what would happen if he so much as waved a fist in O’ Grady’s direction.

“I was cleared,” he said. “And when I find the real killer, I’ll make you choke on your newspaper.”

The reporter laughed, but he wasn’t quite as immune to Ross’s anger as he wanted to believe. “Cleared?” he repeated. “You were released for lack of evidence. Not quite the same thing, is it? But who knows? Maybe I can find something nice to say about you if you cooperate.” He slipped a thoroughly chewed pencil from behind his ear and held it poised over the notepad. “Who is she? She’s from England, right? What’s your relationship with her and the kid? Does she realize—”

He grunted in surprise as Ross tore the notepad and pencil from his hands and threw them to the ground. “If you get anywhere near her, I may have to do something stupid,” Ross said.

O’Grady stared at the notebook, its pages splayed and fluttering in the light breeze. “You already have, Kavanagh.”

Ross leaned toward the reporter, his breath stirring O’Grady’s thin reddish hair. “You’re right,” he said softly. “I’d have to have been pretty crazy to murder that girl. And if I’m crazy, why should I stop with her? Why not try something different this time?”

As if compelled by forces beyond his control, O’Grady met Ross’s gaze. He opened his mouth. No sound came out. He took a step backward. He kept up his retreat until he was well out of Ross’s reach.

“I know where you live, Kavanagh!” he said, all bluster again. “I’ll get my story.”

“Leave us alone.”

Gillian had returned. Her voice was clear, sharp and startling, ringing with such natural authority that everyone within hearing distance stopped and stared. She ignored her audience, her attention completely focused on O’Grady.

“No more questions,” she said. “I must take my son home.”

O’Grady made the mistake of thinking he’d found a new opening. “Sure, I understand. Just tell me where you can be reached, and I’ll…”

He trailed off, his bravado crushed by Gillian’s withering stare. When she moved, he jumped like a rabbit. He stayed put as she stalked away, a muscle under his eye twitching frantically.

“What the hell…?” he breathed.

Ross couldn’t have put it better himself. What had he just seen? One minute Gillian was calm and confident, the next nervous and uncertain, then aggressive and strong. How many different women lived inside that sleek, graceful body?

He fell into step beside her. “I don’t think you should go directly back to the hotel.”

She glanced at him without breaking stride, her hand still clamped around Toby’s, conflicting emotions passing behind her eyes.

“Why?” she asked. “Will that man follow us?”

“I know the guy. He’s a persistent bas—He won’t give up easily. And he knows your name.”

“I’m sorry,” Toby said, abashed. “I didn’t think there would be any harm…”

“It’s okay,” Ross said. “O’Grady could get a clam to confess. But I think it would be a good idea to throw him off the scent.”

“How do you propose to do that?” Gillian asked.

Her tone held the same conflicting emotions as her eyes, anxious and angry at the same time, but Ross had seen how much she detested the kind of attention she’d attracted as a result of her good deed. She would probably do just about anything to avoid answering the reporter’s questions, no matter how benign they might seem.

Ross certainly didn’t want to tell her that O’Grady held a grudge against him and was likely to be even more obnoxious than usual in trying to uncover the nature of their relationship.

“I’ve got a friend who lives over on Long Island,” he said. “Grif and his wife have been out of the country for months, so the place is vacant. They won’t mind if we stay there until O’Grady finds a more interesting story. Shouldn’t take more than a few days.”

“A few days? That is impossible.”

“I think you’ll find Oak Hollow comfortable, even if Grif isn’t as big on the luxuries you’re used to.”

Gillian opened her mouth, hesitated, and closed it again, clearly torn. Then she saw or smelled something that worried her, because she moved a little closer to Toby and drew herself into a defensive posture.

“How will you make certain that the reporter doesn’t follow us to Long Island?” she asked.

“I’m going to give you instructions on how to take the subway back to Penn Station, where you’ll catch the train to Long Island. While you’re doing that, I’m going to lure O’Grady in another direction. I’ll join you as soon as I can. Once we’re at Oak Hollow, you can call Hugh and arrange to have some of your things sent over.”

Gillian nodded with obvious reluctance. He could sense that she wanted to say something else, but was finding it difficult to spit out the words.

“Thank you,” she said at last. “Thank you, Ross.”

“It’s nothing,” he said curtly. “Listen carefully. This is what you do…”

He gave her the promised instructions and accompanied her to the Coney Island station, keeping an eye out for O’Grady all the while. When the reporter appeared as expected—obviously having convinced himself that he’d followed them without being detected—Ross managed to distract him while Gillian and Toby boarded their train. By the time the reporter realized he’d been had, his intended victims were long gone and he settled for his secondary target.

After a couple of hours of following Ross around Manhattan, O’Grady finally surrendered to the inevitable and gave up. Even so, Ross waited another hour until he was sure the reporter had called it quits before he caught the train to Long Island.

The Bridgehampton railroad station was well-lit and relatively clean, reflecting the money and taste of the local residents. Nevertheless, Ross had advised Gillian and Toby to wait for him at one of the local hotels, where he found them eating supper in the attached restaurant. He tipped the hotel’s concierge to call a taxi, which carried them the three miles to Oak Hollow.

The wrought-iron gates at the entrance to the estate were locked, but Ross knew where Griffin kept a spare key under a rock nearby. He opened the gates and waved the taxi through, following on foot. The cobbled, tree-lined road led up to a carriage circle in front of the columned entrance of a Georgianstyle manor house, where the cabbie let Gillian and Toby off.

It was obvious right away that someone had been keeping up the place in Griffin’s and Allie’s absence. The lawn was cut, the hedges neatly trimmed and the flower beds to either side of the porch filled with new plantings. Gillian stood gazing at the portico. Whatever she thought of the place didn’t show on her face, but Toby had his own opinions.

“It’s not nearly as big as Snowfell,” he pronounced, “but it looks much nicer.”

“What’s not nice about Snowfell?” Ross asked, unlocking the front door.

“Oh, I don’t know. It was built in the sixteenth century, but most of it burnt down, and then they rebuilt it, and then it burnt down again, so my great-grandfather had it rebuilt. Some of the old parts are still standing. It ended up a patchwork, not very pretty.” He sniffed. “There must be lots of servants here.”

“Only two, as far as I know.”

“Two!” Toby whistled, earning a reproving glance from Gillian. Ross ushered them ahead of him into the cool central hall. Immediately Gillian stopped, wrapping her arms around her chest.

She might have sensed it, of course. Even though she hadn’t recognized Ross as a werewolf when they’d first met, she might be able to smell a full-blooded one.

“There’s something I didn’t tell you,” Ross said, coming up beside her. “Griffin Durant is a werewolf, and he’s married to a vampire.”

Gillian stared at him. “I beg your pardon?”

“I never met a vampire in Europe, so I don’t know how you feel about them over there. But Allie’s all right. She—”

“A real vampire?” Toby interrupted, the final syllable rising into a squeak. “Are we going to meet her?”

“Like I said, they’re out of town.” He met Gillian’s gaze. “All you need to know is that you’d be welcome here.”

“I see.”

Ross was pretty sure she didn’t see at all. She was probably horrified at the idea of a vampire-werewolf marriage, but was too polite to show it. Of course, Ross had been skeptical himself until he’d seen with his own eyes just how well such an improbable union could turn out.

But Gillian wasn’t in any state to listen to him explain what she probably didn’t want to hear anyway. He started up the stairs. “I’ll show you some spare bedrooms you can use,” he said. “Once you’ve rested, we can telephone your brother.”

Gillian uncrossed her arms and seemed to relax a little. “Thank you.”

Ross was beginning to get sick of those two words. Without replying, he showed Gillian and Toby the guest bedrooms. When he and Gillian were alone in the room Gillian had chosen, he decided to say what he’d been thinking ever since they’d left Coney Island.

“You did good, Mrs. Delvaux,” he said, lingering in the doorway. “Helping that kid…it might not have seemed like much to you, but I’m sure his mother appreciated it.”

She stood beside the four-poster, as self-conscious as he’d ever seen her. “Anyone could have done it,” she said curtly.

He shook his head. “Most people would have made it worse.” He ran his fingers along the doorjamb. “I’d almost forgotten how capable you were at the hospital, how well you looked after the patients. You were the best nurse there. Better than the ones who had a lot more training than you did.”

“There was nothing exceptional about my work. Others did far more.”

“We’ll have to agree to disagree on that subject.” He laughed briefly. “Among others.”

All too aware that he was standing on the edge of a precipice, Ross retreated. He was halfway down the stairs when the front door swept open and Allegra Durant stepped into the hall.

“Ross!” she exclaimed, dropping her suitcase on the paneled wooden floor. “What are you doing here?”

As had happened more than once, Ross was momentarily at a loss for words. Allie had that effect on a lot of men, regardless of ancestry. She wore only a slightly more conservative dress than she had in her bachelor girl days, one that didn’t quite reveal her knees, and her aqua eyes sparkled.

But Ross was seeing another woman in her place, a woman with golden hair and grave hazel eyes.

“Okay,” Allie said, walking farther into the foyer. “Something’s up, I can tell. Don’t tell me someone’s been murdered on Long Island. It’s such a boring—”

She broke off, her gaze flying up the staircase. Ross turned. Gillian was poised on the landing, her features registering astonishment before she brought them under control.

“Well, well,” Allie said, grinning. “Now I’ve seen everything. How many girls have you brought out here, Kavanagh? Or is she the first?”

CHAPTER SIX

GILLIAN FROZE at the other woman’s question. She had already taken in the short dress, the bobbed hair and the bright red lipstick that identified Allie as one of the flappers who seemed so common in London. The two women stared at each other, and Gillian felt a stirring of instinctive hostility.

Ross was quick to fill the silence. “I’ve never brought anyone here before,” he said, a little stiffly. “I didn’t know you were coming back.”

“We didn’t, either.” Allie’s gaze returned to Gillian. “Any friend of yours is welcome here.” Abruptly she started for the staircase, nearly running up the steps until she was standing just below Gillian. “Sorry about the quip. I didn’t mean to be rude.” She thrust out her hand. “Allie Durant.”

Gillian’s training overcame her aversion. She took the proffered hand. “Gillian Delvaux,” she said. The sound of rapid footsteps warned her that Toby had heard the voices and come to join them. “This is my son, Tobias.”

Toby careened to a halt at Gillian’s side, remembered his manners and gave a little bow. “How do you do, Mrs. Durant?” he said. “Are you the vampire?”

Allie burst into laughter. “I see that Ross has told you all about me,” she said when she had caught her breath again. “That makes things easier.” She smiled at Toby. “Yes, I’m the vampire. You aren’t scared, are you?”

A look of faint scorn crossed Toby’s face. “Certainly not.” He glanced at Gillian. “Werewolves are just as strong as vampires, aren’t they?”

“I don’t know,” Gillian said, meeting Allie’s gaze. “I have no vampires among my acquaintance.”

Allie’s smile never wavered, but her eyes took on a sharper expression. “You’re loup-garou?” she asked. “From England, right?”

“Yes,” Gillian said. “I apologize for visiting at such an inconvenient time. We shall leave immediately.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Allie turned her head slightly as Ross came up behind her. “I have a feeling there’s a very interesting story behind all this, but I’m famished. Grif will be here any moment. Would you like something to eat?”

Gillian was at a loss, a feeling she had experienced all too frequently since she’d met Ross again. The day’s events—the pressing human crowds, the emergency with the boy, the reporter’s intrusions—had shaken her more than she liked to admit. And now she was face-to-face with a vampire for the first time in her life—a remarkably hospitable vampire, for all her forwardness.

“Thank you,” she said, “but Toby and I have recently dined.”

“Then you won’t mind if I make myself a sandwich.” Allie addressed Toby. “Did Ross tell you that vampires can eat just like normal people?”

“I didn’t get the chance,” Ross said. He gave Gillian an encouraging glance. “Mrs. Delvaux only arrived from England a short time ago, and it’s been kind of a rough day.”

“Mr. Kavanagh exaggerates,” Gillian said, wishing she could sink into the landing and disappear.

Allie seemed to notice her discomfiture. “That’s not something he usually does. I’ve been a lousy hostess. Ross, you’ve shown Mrs. Delvaux the bedrooms?”

“Yes. And she needs to rest.”

“I am quite well,” Gillian said with as much dignity as she could muster.

“In that case, why don’t you come downstairs and make yourself comfortable? I—” She stopped as a man walked through the front door. “Here’s Grif now.”

The gentleman who entered the hall was roughly Ross’s age and height, with dark hair, golden eyes and handsome features…far more classically handsome than Ross’s rugged contours. Gillian wasn’t certain that she would have recognized him as a werewolf if she hadn’t known beforehand; she had sensed something when she’d first entered the house, but aside from Ross, she’d met few strangers who had turned out to be werewolves.

Griffin Durant’s face registered surprise as he saw Ross and Gillian; he set down the suitcases he had brought inside and continued on to the staircase.

“Ross!” he said with obvious pleasure. “I didn’t expect a welcoming committee.”

“Yeah,” Ross said. “Like I told Allie, I didn’t know you were coming back today.”

“Completely understandable.” Durant’s eyes reflected the same curiosity Allie had shown, but he remained cordially reserved as he looked up at Gillian. “May I be introduced?”

“Mrs. Delvaux,” Ross said, “this is my friend Griffin Durant. Grif, this is Mrs. Gillian Delvaux.”

Griffin reached the landing. “How do you do, Mrs. Delvaux?”

This time Gillian offered her hand first. “Very well, thank you, Mr. Durant. May I present my son, Tobias?”

“Tobias. Pleased to meet you.”

Toby stared at Mr. Durant. “Do you belong to the New York pack?”

Durant glanced at Ross, who buried his hands in his trouser pockets. “As I was telling Allie,” Ross said, “Toby and Mrs. Delvaux have only been in the States a short time and aren’t familiar with the setup here. Loups-garous do things differently in England.”

“A fascinating subject, I’m sure,” Allie said, “but I’m still starving. Let’s go downstairs.”

Griffin stood aside to let the women precede him. Gillian hung back.

“If you will excuse me for a few moments…” she said, and ushered Toby into the room she’d chosen for him.

“Toby,” she said, “listen carefully. You are not to mention anything to the Durants about your relationship to Mr. Kavanagh, or about what happened at Coney Island. Nor are you to quiz Mrs. Durant about her…particular constitution.”

Toby understood her readily enough, but his jaw set in incipient rebellion. “You don’t want anyone to know that Ross is my father.”

“The matter is private and of no concern to people we have just met, even if they are Mr. Kavanagh’s friends.”

“Then what do you want me to say?”

“You know how to hold a civil conversation.” She placed her hands on his shoulders. “I trust you to use good judgment. You may answer general questions about England and what you have observed in America. Say nothing about the method by which you arrived. I am simply an acquaintance of Mr. Durant’s, and we are here on holiday.”

“What if Father tells them the truth?”

“I believe—” dear God, let it be so “—that he will also prefer to keep our private affairs confidential.”

“Your mother is right,” Ross said, walking into the room. “We won’t say anything to embarrass her, will we?”

Gillian listened for sarcasm in his voice and heard none. When he offered her his arm, she took it, well aware that he could make things very unpleasant if he chose to do so. His tacit promise to hide their secret only strengthened the emotions with which she’d struggled ever since he’d taken such trouble to protect her and Toby from the intrusive interest of the crowd.

It had taken more effort than she would have supposed to meet Ross’s mocking feints with appropriately composed answers, both in the hotel and at the amusement park. She had wavered constantly between despising him and—to her shame—wanting desperately to be near him. Only his sarcastic manner and biting questions had kept her leaning toward the former.

But his behavior had changed completely from the moment she had tried to help the boy. His support had been immediate. He had realized—all too well, as she had just discovered—how much she wanted to avoid the public notice her actions had attracted. He had been very much the gentleman then, as if he felt he owed her his protection.

Of course he didn’t, just as he didn’t owe her the compliments he’d paid her a few minutes ago.

She continued down the stairs at his side, concentrating on moving with the dignity and grace that were expected of her, letting such simple thoughts create a barrier between her keen physical awareness and the necessities of her position. She must overcome her attraction, for Toby’s sake. Dependence upon Ross’s assistance while she remained in New York would hardly persuade Toby to leave the father he had just met, and her memories…

Ah, her memories. They were the greatest obstacle of all. Vivid recollections of her affair with Ross, feeding the unwelcome reactions that overwhelmed her when she was in his presence, whenever she touched him.

Thank God Ross hadn’t sensed her emotions. He certainly didn’t share them. He’d shown no sign that his feelings for her went beyond the same natural gallantry that had been so much a part of his nature when she had met him. Still, the bitterness and wounded pride she had seen in him during their conversation at the hotel seemed to have given way to a far more sympathetic attitude.

Unless his softening was no more than a new tactic to throw her off her guard. The possibility seemed more likely as she considered it, and it was all she could do not to remove her arm from the crook of his elbow.

If he really did intend to use this new method of attack, she must under no circumstances let him think he had succeeded.

Determined not to reveal the grim nature of her thoughts, Gillian joined the Durants in a pleasant room plainly but comfortably furnished in a rustic American mode very much at odds with the Georgian style of the house itself. Allie pulled back the heavy drapes to reveal French doors that opened onto a well-kept garden, now cloaked in darkness.

“Please, sit,” she said. “I’ll be back in a few minutes. Do you want anything, Grif?”

“Not at the moment, thanks,” her husband said. He waited until Gillian and Toby had taken their seats on the sofa and went to the sideboard standing against one wall. “Would you care for a drink, Mrs. Delvaux? Ross?”

Ross shook his head. “Thank you, but no,” Gillian said.

“I don’t drink myself,” Durant said. He took one of the armchairs. “I was unaware that Ross had friends in England, Mrs. Delvaux,” he said, his posture relaxed but alert. “I hope your visit to America has been pleasant thus far.”

Gillian prepared herself to tell the necessary lies. “I find your country to be very interesting, Mr. Durant,” she said.

“We went to Coney Island today,” Toby piped in.

“Did you enjoy it?”

“Immensely. We went into the Dragon’s Gorge and then on the Aerial Swing.” He bit his lip, eyed Gillian and fell silent.

“Mrs. Delvaux volunteered as a nurse at the hospital in London where I recovered after the War,” Ross said. “We became friends. I wrote to her a few times after I returned to America. We lost touch, but she looked me up when she came to the States on holiday with her brother.”

He didn’t look at Gillian, but she understood his ploy. He was protecting her “honor” by revealing as much of the truth as possible.

“Yes,” she said lightly. “My brother, Hugh, insisted that Toby and I come along when he decided to visit the United States. I remembered that Mr. Kavanagh had joined the New York police force after his return.” She smiled at Ross. “He has been an excellent guide.”

“I told her a bit about you and Allie,” Ross said. “I thought I’d show her Oak Hollow…the other side of American life.”

“That’s a lot to do in one day,” Allie said from the doorway, balancing a plate adorned by an enormous sandwich. “And you said you just arrived, Mrs. Delvaux?”

“Yesterday,” Ross said. “I’m afraid Toby’s been running his poor mother ragged.”

“Not at all,” Gillian said quickly. “There is so much to see and do, I’m quite certain that we shall leave America with a great many interesting sights unvisited.”

“Can’t have that,” Allie said, falling into the chair nearest her husband. “I guess you haven’t had time to see Harlem or visit a speakeasy. That’s not really Ross’s type of place, though…he’s been a cop too long.”

“I don’t think Mrs. Delvaux would be interested in visiting a speakeasy,” Ross said.

“Oh, come on. The best jazz is in the speaks. You can’t come to America and not hear the jazz.” She took a bite of her sandwich and spoke again as soon as she’d swallowed. “I know the best places. I’ll be glad to show you around.”

Gillian was beginning to feel very much out of her depth. “Your offer is much appreciated, Mrs. Durant,” she said. “But as much as we have enjoyed Mr. Kavanagh’s company, Hugh—my brother—wishes to escort us during our visit.”

“Call me Allie. Mrs. Durant sounds so…stuffy.”

Griffin Durant gave his wife a teasing look. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t agree…Mrs. Durant.”

It was obvious to Gillian that the couple were engaging in a kind of banter with which both were comfortable, an indication of their affection for each other. A vampire and a werewolf, she thought, still amazed. She tried to imagine what her father would say to such a union and found even the suggestion impossible to comprehend.

Allie was watching her. “I guess things are a lot more formal in England. Grif spent a lot of time there.”

Immediately Gillian recognized the new danger. “Indeed?”

“I don’t imagine we’d have many acquaintances in common, Mrs. Delvaux,” Durant said. “I didn’t actually meet any loups-garous when I lived there.”

Gillian concealed her relief. The chances that Griffin Durant knew anything of her personal history appeared to be remote. Unless, of course, he was lying out of courtesy.

“You asked if I were a member of the New York pack,” Mr. Durant said to Toby. “I am not, for various reasons. Not all werewolves in the United States are attached to a pack.”

“Neither are we,” Toby said, apparently judging that he was on safe ground. “But sometimes lots of werewolves from all over Europe come together in a big meeting called the Convocation, where everyone—” He caught himself in midsentence. “Do you have Convocations?”

“Not that I’ve heard,” Mr. Durant said. “But I confess that I don’t monitor the doings of werewolves in other parts of the country.”

Gillian turned hastily to his wife. “Have you been married long, Mrs. Durant?”

“Allie, remember?” the vampire said. “Almost a year. Most of that time we’ve been overseas with Ross’s sister, Gemma.” She glanced at Ross. “Seems quite a bit has happened while we were gone.”

Ross stared at the darkened windows. “Yeah,” he said hoarsely. “The clan split up into two factions after Raoul died. It got pretty bad for a while. They’ve only just reunited under a new leader.”

For the first time Allie’s high spirits seemed to dim. “We should have been here,” she muttered. “We might have helped.”

“Wouldn’t have made any difference,” Ross said. “The clan is no happier about your marriage than the pack is. Not likely that they would have listened to either one of you.”

Allie noticed Gillian’s oblique glance. “The clan is the big vampire organization in New York.”

“From which Allegra fortunately escaped,” Griffin said.

“With a little help,” she said, reaching over to lay her hand on Griffin’s sleeve. “Anyway…the subject won’t interest Mrs. Delvaux. I’m the first vampire she’s met. Isn’t that right?”

“Yes,” Gillian said, prompted by the other woman’s frankness. “I’m certain they must exist in England, but loups-garous…have no dealings with them.”

“Let alone get married to them,” Allie said wryly. “The prejudice probably goes back thousands of years.”

Gillian stiffened. “I didn’t intend to cause offense.”

“None taken.” Allie squeezed Griffin’s hand. “Someday, maybe everyone will realize it’s love that matters, not that other stuff.”

Her words slashed at Gillian’s already fragile composure. She was painfully aware of Ross, knowing what he must be thinking. She could hardly bear the thoughts careening through her own head.

If Allie had been in her place, she would have stayed with Ross. She would have flung all other considerations and consequences aside.

But I am not Mrs. Durant. I could never be.

Gillian rose. “We have imposed too much upon your hospitality, Mrs. Durant,” she said. “We should return to Manhattan.”

Ross cleared his throat. “I’m sure that Griffin and Allie would be happy to put you up tonight,” he said.

Gillian knew what he was trying to say. It was still possible that O’Grady would find her and Toby. But the prospect of staying here seemed almost as bad. “I would not wish—” she began.

“Ross is right,” Allie said. “It’s getting dark, and God knows this heap has plenty of empty rooms.” She pursed her lips. “You’re a little taller than I am, but I’ll bet I could fit you out with anything you’d need.”

“Mrs. Durant, I—”

“Can’t we stay, Mother?” Toby begged. He yawned expansively behind his hand. “I am rather tired.”

In spite of Toby’s blatant manipulation, Gillian knew that a refusal now would be rude. She had begun to like Allie Chase in spite of her initial doubts, and the prospect of being close to Ross on the trip back to Manhattan was more than a little daunting.

“Very well,” she said. “If you are certain our remaining will not be an imposition.”

“Not at all,” Allie said.

“May I use your telephone? I should ring my brother and tell him where we are.”

“Of course. Come with me.”

“Perhaps I might put Toby to bed first.”

“I’ll take him up,” Ross offered, getting to his feet. “You do whatever you need to.”

Gillian had no desire to behave in a way that would suggest to the Durants that she didn’t entirely trust her good friend Ross Kavanagh. “Thank you.” She turned to Toby. “I shall say good-night presently.”

Toby nodded, his eyes unfocused. Gillian knew that look. It had nothing to do with boredom or weariness; he was concocting some sort of scheme or other. Reluctantly she followed Allie to a somewhat more formally decorated room that was obviously left unused the majority of the time. An ornate telephone table stood by the door.

“Here it is,” Allie said brightly. “I’ll give you a little privacy.”

But she made no move to leave the room. Instead, she wandered about, clucking her tongue as she brushed her fingertip across a tabletop and her skin came away coated with dust.

“Sorry about the mess,” she said. “I never was much of a housekeeper.”

Gillian searched her mind for something to say. “Did you enjoy your stay in Europe, Mrs. Durant?”

“If you don’t start calling me Allie, I’ll think you don’t like me.”

Gillian looked for somewhere to sit. “We have scarcely met,” she said.

“True, but if you’re Ross’s friend…” Allie trailed off and picked up a porcelain figurine from the table. “So you worked as a nurse during the War?”

There seemed no polite way of escaping Allie’s questions. “Yes.”

“And that was when you met Ross.”

“Yes.”

“Your husband must be a pretty modern guy.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The old-fashioned kind—you know, the ones who still have a foot in the last century—they probably don’t like their wives to go gallivanting around a foreign country with an unattached male friend.”

Informality was one thing, but this was another matter entirely. “I am a widow,” Gillian said coldly.

As if realizing she’d gone too far, Allie set down the figurine and met Gillian’s eyes with an uncharacteristically serious expression. “I’m sorry,” she said, the simple words covering Gillian’s loss and her own rudeness. “It really is none of my business.” She strode to the door, her short skirt swirling about her knees. “Please let me know if there’s anything you need.”

She left, closing the door gently behind her. Gillian took a moment to catch her breath. Why had Allie found it necessary to probe into her marital status? Why had she assumed that Gillian’s supposed husband would forbid her to see an old wartime friend?

Because that is exactly what would happen, Gillian thought. Of course, if she were married, Toby might never have escaped, and neither of them would have come to the United States.

Unwilling to pursue that line of thought, Gillian picked up the telephone receiver. She dialed the operator and asked for the Roosevelt Hotel. Hugh answered on the third ring.

“Gilly!” he exclaimed. “Where are you? I expected you back hours ago.”

“You needn’t have worried, Hugh. We are still with Mr. Kavanagh.”

“Well, you’d better get back here soon. Warbrick has been haunting the hotel since this morning.”

“I did attempt to ring him at his hotel.”

“He said he’s been out of town. He nearly blew his top when he heard you were with Kavanagh.”

Perhaps because he hadn’t known that Gillian was coming to America herself, let alone that she might contact Ross directly.

“I tried to explain what had happened,” Hugh continued, “but he just kept shaking his head and muttering under his breath. Wouldn’t tell me why he was so upset, just that he wasn’t going to leave until you got back.”

Gillian had already begun to think that she’d made a very poor decision in agreeing to stay at Oak Hollow. “Toby and I are stopping with friends of Mr. Kavanagh’s on Long Island. We shall not be back until tomorrow morning.”

“It sounds as if you’ve been very busy, Gilly. I can’t wait to hear the details.”

That was something Gillian did not anticipate with any degree of pleasure. “I shall see you tomorrow morning, then. Give my regards to Ethan, and assure him that Toby and I are quite well.”

“Swell.” He paused. “Be careful, Gilly. But then, you’re always careful. Or at least you used to be.”

He hung up, and Gillian was left with his unsettling words ringing in her ears. Hugh was hardly a model of discretion himself. If he thought she had been reckless in her dealings with Ross, he must really be concerned.

But he had agreed that she ought to allow Toby some contact with his father. Even if he hadn’t, she would have relied on her own judgment, not his.

Judgment she had begun to doubt more and more as the day went on.

As for Ethan…He had always been protective when they were children, angry when her father had been more critical than usual or had made it difficult for her to leave Snowfell to meet him. When they’d met again as adults, after a separation enforced by Sir Averil and facilitated by Ethan’s years away in Europe and the East, she’d told him about Toby’s real parentage, but she’d made it very clear that she had no desire to rekindle her past with her American lover. She couldn’t guess why he would be so upset about her having met with Ross.

After returning the receiver to its cradle, Gillian stepped out of the room. She was relieved to find the hall empty. Moving quickly to the stairs, she paused at the landing. She heard the low hum of Ross’s voice and the higher pitch of Toby’s light alto coming from Toby’s room.

The temptation to listen was great, but she deliberately closed her ears and continued on to her room. She would bide her time until she could speak to Toby herself, and then she would be free to spend the rest of the night alone.

Alone with the cruel little voice that kept asking her if she’d made the worst mistake of her life on that painful day twelve years ago.

GRIFFIN WAS WAITING for Ross at the bottom of the staircase.

As restrained as Grif had been compared to Allie, Ross had a feeling he wasn’t going to get away without answering a few questions. He’d noticed the way Griffin had watched first him and then Gillian, silently appraising, his golden eyes narrowing from time to time as he listened to their brief exchanges…or lack of them.

Whatever Grif was thinking, it was better that he knew at least some of the facts rather than speculate and come up with all the wrong ideas.

“How about that drink?” Ross suggested.

“Has Mrs. Delvaux retired?” Griffin asked.

“I haven’t seen her since I went up.” Ross passed Griffin and walked into the summer parlor, heading straight for the sideboard. “What she told you was the truth, you know.”

Griffin considered Ross from the doorway, one brow cocked. “Which part?” he asked.

“About our meeting while I was recuperating in a London hospital.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

Ross poured himself a brandy. “We got pretty close back then. You know how it was. People formed strong bonds during the War, and it didn’t really matter who you were or where you came from.”

“I remember.”

“Anyway, she got married, and I went on to join the force.” He paused, wondering if Grif had heard anything about the scandal while he and Allie had been away. “I didn’t hear from her until she phoned me from England a couple of weeks ago. She thought we should meet again for old times’ sake.”

“Old times,” Griffin repeated. He wandered toward the windows. “You don’t have to play these games with me. I owe you more than I can repay. I would never presume to judge you.”

Ross downed the drink and poured another before he had time to think. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“And I would accept that, Ross, if it weren’t so clear that you’re in some kind of trouble.”

He didn’t know. Ross expelled his breath. “And you think this ‘trouble’ I’m in has something to do with an old friend from the War?”

“She’s more than an old friend, isn’t she?”

The second drink disappeared in seconds. Ross set the glass down a little too forcefully.

“We were close,” he said. “Very close. But it didn’t work out.”

Griffin sat on the sofa, stretching his arm across the back. “What about the boy?”

“What about him?”

“He’s yours, isn’t he?”

Ross could have denied it. If he had, Griffin might have left it alone. Or, white knight that he was, he might have decided to interfere anyway, his usual courtesy be damned.

“How could you tell?” Ross asked.

“A hunch.”

“That’s all? A hunch?”

“And the fact that you offered to take Toby up to bed. If you’d never met the child until recently…”

“I hadn’t.” Ross forced himself to walk away from the sideboard. “Look, it’s not something I want to talk about.”

“Did Mrs. Delvaux bring Toby to the States to see you?”

“No. And please don’t mention any of this to her. She and Toby…” He swallowed. “They might not be in New York much longer.”

“I see.”

“I doubt it.” The impulse to tell Griffin everything gnawed at Ross. He wished he could take the risk of getting drunk. “What do you think of the kid?”

“He seems a fine boy,” Grif said. “He looks very much like his mother.”

“I’d noticed that.” Ross paced across the room. Though it wasn’t small, it seemed far too confining. “He’s only part werewolf,” he said suddenly.

“Is that important?”

“It is to Ji—To Mrs. Delvaux.”

Griffin considered that in silence. “You’re worried about Toby.”

“I want to make sure he has a good life in England,” Ross said. He rubbed his hand across the unshaven stubble on his chin. “Hell. I’ve only known him two days, Grif. And seeing Jill again…”

“Allie told me she’s a widow.”

Ross wondered what sort of conversation she and Gillian had had. “Yeah.”

“Do you still love her?”

CHAPTER SEVEN

THE BLUNTNESS of the question left Ross stammering. “She…I…” He gave himself a hard mental shake. “What makes you think I loved her?”

Griffin looked at him as if he’d said something stupid. Ross wished he were back in his own apartment, with a cheap bottle of whiskey and a stained wall to throw it at.

“It wouldn’t have worked,” he muttered.

“Yet she’s here.”

Too much had already been said. Ross opened one of the French doors to the garden and walked out, leaving Grif to his speculations.

The garden smelled strongly of roses, both new and fading. The moon was high and very bright. He wandered aimlessly for a while, across the rolling lawn and then down to the boathouse that stood near the dock. The scent of salt water was so strong that he almost didn’t realize that Gillian was already there.

Gillian, yes. But she waited for him on four legs instead of two, and the moonlight caressed sleek golden fur and sparkled in slanted lupine eyes.

Ross stopped, transfixed by memory and Gillian’s magnificence. She was more glorious in her maturity than she’d been that first time he’d caught her in wolf shape, but he felt that same sense of shock and realization, understanding that certain puzzles had been solved and mysteries explained. No one, not even the most superstitious human, could have looked at her now and doubted that she was beautiful.

And untouchable. Untouchable because she was what she was, and he could never Change and stand at her side as partner and true equal.

He turned to leave. A low whine brought him to a halt. He didn’t move again until he heard her return from the boathouse on two human feet.

“Ross.”

She wore a dress cut much shorter than she seemed to prefer—one of Allie’s, no doubt—and flat pumps a size too large. Her legs were bare, and her hair hung loose below her shoulders. She looked so unlike the Gillian he’d met two days ago that he could do nothing but stare.

She glanced down at herself. “I suppose I look rather a mess,” she said.

She spoke like a girl with her first beau, doubting her own ability to attract the interest of any male. Ross thought of the golden wolf and struggled not to laugh at the desperate irony of it.

“No,” he said roughly, blurting out the first words that came into his head. “You look beautiful.”

His pronouncement had an unexpected effect. Gillian’s face flushed red, and she smoothed her skirt as if she could somehow make it extend farther down her legs. “I thought I would be alone,” she said.

“I’ll leave.”

“No.” She brushed her hot cheeks with her fingertips. “That isn’t necessary. I was about to return to the house.”

“Don’t.” He realized he’d taken complete leave of his senses, and he didn’t care. “Stay.”

Gillian took an awkward step, stumbled, then caught herself just as Ross reached her. He grasped her arm and felt her muscles tense. The scent of her hair and skin swirled around his head, far sweeter than any rose.

If Gillian had behaved true to form, she would have extracted herself from his grip immediately. Instead, she laughed. The sound was almost girlish, nervous and bright.

“I’m not usually quite so clumsy,” she said.

“I know.” He glanced around and noticed a bench near the boathouse, set where the lawn gave way to the beach. He eased her down, though it was clear she didn’t need his help. She sat with her back straight and her hands folded at her knees, gazing out at the dark, choppy water.

Ross continued to stand, half-afraid he would send her running off again if he tried to share the bench with her. A little afraid of himself, too.

“Toby’s asleep?” he asked.

“He soon will be, if he isn’t already,” she said. “I didn’t realize it was possible to exhaust him.”

The ease of her speech, like her laugh, set Ross back on his heels. He’d expected her to be warier after meeting Allie and Grif; Allie could come on pretty strong, especially in comparison to someone as reserved as Gillian. Maybe he seemed less threatening in comparison.

“I guess you don’t feel very comfortable with the Durants,” Ross said. “I’m sorry it turned out this way.”

Gillian raised her hand in a brief, dismissive gesture. “Mrs. Durant is an unusual woman, but quite charming,” she said. “Mr. Durant is very pleasant company.”

“Yeah.” Ross figured that it didn’t matter if she was lying just be to be polite, as long as it helped her cope. “I guess this place has one advantage. You’re a lot safer Changing here than in the city.”

“I hadn’t thought about it.”

“But you’ve been living in the countryside. You must find Manhattan pretty confining.”

She cast him a distracted look. “We…seldom find occasion to Change at Snowfell.”

It was such a strange comment that Ross wasn’t sure how to respond. “I thought Changing was the most important thing for your people.”

“It is.” She answered so quickly that she hardly seemed to realize what she’d said until the words were spoken. “I…Of course there is a great deal more.…It is simply…” Her shoulders went up in a defensive posture, and Ross had a sudden, inexplicable flash of insight.

“You don’t really like it, do you?”

She would have bolted from the bench if Ross hadn’t stood in her way. Her scent heightened with some strong emotion.

“If I didn’t ‘like’ it,” she said tightly, “why would I do it here?”

Ross had nothing but pure conjecture on his side, yet he couldn’t let it go. “I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe being around people who’ve broken the rules means you have to remind yourself who you are and what you’re supposed to believe.”

“I know what I am.”

“But are you so sure what you believe?” He leaned over her. “What was it like when you went back to Snowfell, Gillian? What made you this way?”

Waves licked at the beach and receded again, whispering derision at Ross’s stupidity. She would never confide in him, not while he treated her like an enemy.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

Gillian met his gaze, her hazel eyes searching his as if she thought he was mocking her again. “Why, Ross?”

“Why what?”

“Why are you doing this?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

She got up, dodged him and walked to the edge of the water. “What do you really want? It isn’t money. You’re in no position to keep Toby, even if you were to steal him from me.”

He flinched. “I told you I wouldn’t take him from his mother.”

“If you truly thought it was in Toby’s best interests…” She turned to face him. “Wouldn’t you? Wouldn’t you do anything?”

“If you’re asking if I care about Toby, I do. That doesn’t mean I’m out to cause you pain.”

“Then the man I once knew isn’t entirely gone.”

“Twelve years is a long time. It changes some things, but not everything.”

“Yes. Some things never change.” She buried the toe of her pump in the damp sand. “Am I such a terrible mother?”

Seeing this side of Gillian—this doubt and fear, this vulnerability—unmanned Ross more than anything else she could have done. “Jill…”

“Do you hate me, Ross?”

He wouldn’t in his wildest dreams have expected her to ask such a question. “For God’s sake,” he said hoarsely. “I don’t hate you. I never—”

But that wasn’t true. He had hated her, no matter how much he’d tried to deny it. He just hadn’t realized how much until the hatred was gone.

For it was gone, and he didn’t know what do with the empty space it had left inside him.

Unable to find the words, he took Gillian’s shoulders, pulled her toward him and kissed her.

If she’d struggled, if she’d pulled away and slapped his face, he wouldn’t have blamed her. She did neither. She softened in his arms, as pliant and responsive as she’d been as a girl of eighteen. The distinctive scent of arousal filled his senses, threatening to overwhelm him. He retained enough self-control not to demand too much, so Gillian gave freely in return, locking her arms around his shoulders, accepting the thrust of his tongue with a soft groan of pleasure.

That was when Toby found them.

He made hardly a sound, but Ross smelled him instantly. So did Gillian. She lurched backward, uncharacteristically clumsy once again, and pressed her palm to her mouth. Ross felt as if someone had punched him in the gut.

“Mother,” Toby said, his mouth quivering as he fought to conceal an expression he didn’t want them to see. “Father.”

“What are you doing here?” Ross demanded, aware that Gillian was still struggling to regain her composure. “Why aren’t you in bed?”

“I couldn’t sleep.” He hunched a little under Ross’s glare. “I heard voices outside.”

Sure he had, the little devil. He’d probably been looking for a chance to escape his room ever since he’d heard his mother leave the house.

“You’re going back right now,” Ross said. “March.”

“I’ll take him,” Gillian said.

Her voice held no trace of the softening she’d shown since Ross had met her on the beach. Her face was strained and pale.

She’d probably like to shoot herself right about now, Ross thought. How’s she going to explain this to Toby?

And how was Ross going to explain it to himself? When he’d left the house, kissing Gillian had been the furthest thing from his mind.

“Do you still love her?” Griffin had asked. Hell, it had nothing to do with love. Ross still found Gillian attractive—more than that, he’d been forced to admit he still wanted her. And her response had told him that the attraction and the wanting were mutual.

Maybe she’d had other lovers since her husband’s death, but he was beginning to doubt it. Having made the mistake already, she wouldn’t have chosen another human, and he had a hunch that English werewolves weren’t casual in their sexual relationships, even among themselves.

Then there was the way she’d kissed him, tentatively at first, then with an intensity that hinted at passion long denied.

Even though she and Ross had made love only once in London, Gillian had been uninhibited, almost wild in her physical expressions of desire. It was the side of her that had convinced him, in his naiveté, that she might abandon her old life and return with him to America.

He wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. Most likely Gillian would never come within touching distance of him again; she wouldn’t want Toby getting any more ideas. But even if she did, it wouldn’t mean anything except that she was still capable of wanting him.

Ross walked away from the boathouse at a fast clip, hoping to get his wayward body back under control. Gillian would know if he went into the house still in a state of arousal. He just couldn’t let her have that kind of power over him. And in spite of what he’d told her, he had yet to make up his mind about Toby. How could he, when he’d barely had time to talk to the kid?

Fresh out of answers, he walked for a good two hours, following the road that ran parallel to the ocean. He passed a dozen fancy mansions, some bigger than Griffin’s. It was ironic. He remembered when Griffin had been dead set on marrying off his younger sister, Gemma, to some human guy from high society. Grif had wanted to forget the animal side of himself. Events had finally compelled him to accept his werewolf nature. Could Gillian accept her son’s human blood?

Hell, he’d been a cop. Still was, whatever anyone else said. In the end, he had to rely on facts. Maybe he’d jumped to the wrong conclusions about Gillian’s fears for Toby, seeing and hearing only what he expected instead of what really existed.

She loved Toby too much to make him suffer for being part-human.

She’d never loved Ross that much.

Another couple of days and I’ll be sure. Then I’ll know I did everything I could.

Everything but forget.

It was near dawn when Ross returned to the house. He heard Allie moving about and took the stairs quietly, wanting to dodge more probing discussions. A couple of hours’ shut-eye would wipe the last confusion out of his head.

But it wasn’t going to be quite that simple. He could smell Gillian even from several rooms away, hear the faint movements she made as she stirred in her bed. When he finally did manage to sleep, his dreams were full of her, full of the sounds of her cries as he made love to her, the feel of her nails scraping his back and the brush of her hair across his face.

The first thing he did when he woke was to take a long, cold dip in the bathtub. It didn’t do a damned bit of good. And short of hiding in his room, he couldn’t avoid Gillian any longer once it was over. He went downstairs to the modern kitchen where Gillian, Toby, Allie and Griffin were eating eggs, bacon and toast.

“Boy, I’ll be glad when Starke is back,” Allie said, polishing off her last bite.

“You don’t like my cooking?” Griffin asked, pretending offense.

“You can cook?”

Griffin showed the tips of his teeth, and Allie laughed. Gillian gazed at them with a strangely bereft look on her face.

She’s never seen this kind of thing before, Ross thought. He still knew almost nothing about her parents or her life at Snowfell, and she hadn’t had enough of a marriage to develop the kind of easy, bantering devotion that Grif and Allie shared.

He was glad of that, and he despised himself for it.

He sat down and buttered a piece of cold toast, returning Allie’s cheerful greeting. Gillian was absorbed in studying the intricate floral pattern of the tablecloth. Toby watched Ross out of the corner of his eye and pushed the remnants of his egg around on his plate with his fork.

“I want to thank you again for your hospitality,” Gillian said to Allie and Griffin. “Toby and I will be returning to Manhattan this morning.”

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