Come the Night

“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.