Dark of the Moon. Susan KrinardЧитать онлайн книгу.
He relaxed a little, allowing the waiter to decant the wine. He held the glass under his nose, breathed in, and then tasted the Merlot with appreciation. After a moment he gave the waiter an approving nod, and the man filled Gwen’s glass.
The first thing Gwen thought as she drank was that the wine really didn’t taste any better than the cheap stuff she’d shared with Dorian a few hours earlier. She’d enjoyed that impromptu picnic more than she had her last few meals in Manhattan’s finest restaurants, enjoyed sparring with a man who was as unpredictable and volatile as a summer storm…
Don’t think of him. For God’s sake, keep your mind on your—
“Gwen?”
She came back to herself and smiled. “Sorry, Mitch. Woolgathering.”
“Still scheming about Hewitt’s story?”
“Hewitt’s story,” she said with a snort. “It was my dad’s long before it was his.”
“Your father, good as he was, had some crazy ideas. Spellman never would have let him pursue them even if he’d—” He broke off and coughed behind his hand.
“Even if he’d lived,” Gwen completed. “I know. But the murders mesh too well with his theories, Mitch.”
“A secret cult of blood-drinkers?” Mitch said, careful to keep the overt mockery out of his voice. “You know that’s hardly likely, Gwen, no matter how much Eamon believed.”
“You make it sound ridiculous,” she said, bristling, “but I’m not letting it go until I can prove he was wrong—or right.”
Mitch rubbed at the faint lines between his brows. “I just wish you’d consider the consequences,” he said. “Hewitt could make real trouble for you, Gwen. He’s never believed women belong on a newspaper.”
“It’s not as if it’s unknown. There are plenty of feature writers—”
“I thought you wanted to work in the city room, covering the big stories?”
“I won’t get there if I don’t take a few chances.”
Mitch’s mouth set in a mulish look that was all too familiar. “There are some things a woman just shouldn’t do.”
Gwen controlled her urge to shoot up out of her chair and answered with deliberate calm. “Is that really what you think, Mitch?”
“You know I’d support anything you chose to do.”
“Within limits.”
“Yes.” He met her gaze. “I want to take care of you, Gwen. Even if it means protecting you from yourself.”
“But that’s exactly the trouble. I don’t want—”
The waiter reappeared, his face molded into a professionally bland smile. “Are monsieur and madame ready to order?” he inquired with a bow.
“Two filets mignon, rare,” Mitch said, before Gwen had a chance to express a preference. She pressed her lips together and stared down at the table. The band struck up a slow, sensuous jazz melody, and Mitch rose from his chair.
“Shall we dance?” he asked, offering his hand.
The last thing Gwen wanted was a scene. She took his hand and stepped with him onto the dance floor. He pulled her close.
“I’ve been waiting for this all night,” he said, his breath tickling her ear. “We’ve hardly seen each other the past few weeks.”
“That isn’t exactly my fault,” she said.
His voice took on a real note of apology. “I didn’t mean to neglect you. This story is taking all my time and attention. But you haven’t exactly been around when I’m free, Gwen.”
“Am I supposed to wait until you find it convenient to bestow your attention?”
He pulled back a little, frowning. “You sound peevish, Gwen. It isn’t attractive in you.”
“I wonder why you put up with me at all.”
Suddenly he stopped. He cupped her face in his hands and looked into her eyes.
“I put up with you because you’re the brightest and most interesting woman I know, not to mention gorgeous.”
Gwen said nothing. Mitch really believed that he would support her in any career she chose—as long as he got to decide how much time and effort she spent at it. As long as he got to make the rules.
Mitch began dancing again, his lips against her hair. “Ah, Guinevere,” he said. “When are we going to end this game?”
This was it. The conversation she’d been dreading. The one they’d had a dozen times before. Only this time she wasn’t sure she could worm her way out.
“You know what I want,” he whispered. “We were meant to be together, Gwen. You know it as well as I do.”
“Mitch…”
“You’re fighting it just because you think you want independence. You don’t. No woman really does.”
It was all Gwen could do not to jerk out of his arms. “It must have been a dangerous journey,” she said with forced lightness.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Your voyage into the darkest recesses of a woman’s mind.”
He laughed and ran his hands along the russet silk draped over her hip. “It’s not as difficult as all that, Gwen. Some men think women are mysterious. I know better. In many ways, they’re far simpler than men.”
“Thanks,” Gwen murmured.
“That’s not meant as an insult.” He nuzzled her cheek. “Let’s put this indecision behind us and set a date.”
Tension made a fist in Gwen’s chest. “I’d like a little more wine first, if you don’t mind.”
“By all means, if it’ll make you more cooperative.” He ushered her back to the table and held the chair out for her. Gwen tried not to gulp her drink and sought desperately for a way to distract Mitch.
You won’t be able to do it forever, she told herself. You’re so proud of your honesty. You’ll have to be honest with him.
And what exactly did that mean? She was very fond of Mitch. Most of the time he was reasonable. He was usually an ally at the Sentinel. She found him attractive, often witty, generally decent…though he could show a surprisingly ruthless side when he was pursuing a story.
For all that, she was never quite sure she really knew him. Most women would have given their eyeteeth just to have him look at them, but Gwen couldn’t escape the feeling that rushing into marriage with Mitch Hogan would be the worst mistake of her life.
If I loved him, I wouldn’t have so much doubt. But she’d never quite been able to bring herself to say the words, even in her own heart.
Maybe I can’t love anyone. Maybe it’s just not in me.
Unwillingly, she found her thoughts flashing back to the warehouse and to a cool, unreadable face that had none of Mitch’s charm. Dorian and Mitch couldn’t be more different. Mitch was serious now, but he was capable of playfulness when he was in the right mood. Dorian was about as lighthearted as an undertaker.
But something strange had happened when she’d taken Dorian’s hand just before she’d left the warehouse. The literary cliché was very apt: a bolt of electricity had shot right through her, and she’d known that Dorian Black was far more dangerous than she’d let herself believe. Oh, not because he would hurt her. What she’d glimpsed behind his eyes had heated her like three gins drunk straight.
And