His broad shoulders solidly filled the seat opposite her. He was far too real, his presence too strong. There was nothing dreamlike about the man. Even his bruises, his torn collar, became him in an odd sort of way, more so than any silk ruffled shirt would have.
She thought she would be reliving the fight scene for weeks in her nightmares, that horrible moment when it had appeared as though Zeke were about to have his throat slit. All dressed in his elegant clothes, he must have seemed an easy victim to those two thieves.
What a surprise Zeke must have given them! She started to smile only to end with a perplexed frown. The more she thought about the fight and O'Connell's sudden arrival, the more some elusive memory niggled at her, a memory of something that seemed not quite right.
Perhaps it was nothing more than that Zeke had fought with such unexpected ferocity. She could not help recalling what Tony had hinted earlier, that Zeke's origins were no mystery and that he hailed from the East Side, ‘the old neighborhood.’ By that, Rory knew Tony meant that part of New York his family had inhabited before the Bertellis had moved on the block adjacent to hers. The old neighborhood was that colorful noisy tenement district known as Little Italy.
Not as dangerous a place as the notorious Five Points, but a man still had to be tough to survive there. Rory had no doubt Zeke possessed such toughness. He had fought off those two street thugs with all the ruthless savvy of any dockworker. A man didn't get muscular forearms like Zeke's from a lifetime spent in playing croquet on the front lawn.
Of course, such impressions weren't facts. She could not say for sure that Tony was right. But instinct told her that whatever Zeke's past life, it hadn't been an easy one. Her curiosity was roused, yet she hesitated to ask Zeke questions.
Even now she could sense him squirming under her scrutiny. He closed his eyes. Whether he was only feigning sleep, she couldn't tell. She only knew he didn't look quite so formidable with his dark lashes resting against his cheeks, that rock-hard jaw for once relaxed. It roused strange feelings in Rory, the urge to stroke back his hair, tuck a quilt beneath his chin.
She almost hated to disturb him, but the train was rapidly approaching her stop. It took no more than a touch to urge him to his feet. By the time he followed her down from the platform to the street below, he appeared to have forgotten his injuries and had taken to scolding her.
"I hope you don't make a habit of walking the streets after dark. The Lord knows, you certainly can't rely on the coppers hereabouts for protection."
"The police in our precinct are much better than Sergeant O'Connell," she assured him. The mention of the policeman's name struck off a sudden realization. She recalled that elusive something that had been troubling her earlier about the fight. It had nothing at all to do with Zeke's prowess in fending off the thugs, but rather with what had transpired after the arrival of the police.
"Zeke! O'Connell knew you."
"What?"
"He did. He called you by name. I remember clearly now." Rory halted in the flickering shadow of a gaslight. Troubled, she stared up at Zeke, remembering Tony's insinuations, that to become so wealthy, Zeke must have done something shady. He might be on most intimate terms with the police for the wrong reasons.
Although Zeke looked startled by her words, he said, "I can assure you I never set eyes on O'Connell before tonight."
Rory could not say why, but she believed him.
"Maybe he saw my picture in the papers." Zeke suggested.
Rory shook her head. O'Connell wasn't the sort to delve into the society columns. Besides, in his battered state, no one would have recognized Zeke as J. E. Morrison Esquire of Millionaire's Row, not even his dear friend Mrs. Van Hallsburg.
"Then O'Connell must have heard you say my name." Zeke gave an impatient shrug. Taking her gently by the elbow, he urged her into movement once more.
"I suppose that must have been the case," Rory agreed, but she didn't feel quite satisfied with that explanation either. The more she considered the matter, the more she thought that O'Connell could have done more to apprehend Zeke's assailants if he had chosen. She had seen the policeman bring down a malefactor with one expert flick of his nightstick tossed between running legs.
And when O'Connell had tried to send Rory on her way, offering to guide Zeke to a doctor himself, she had been beset by a vague feeling of alarm.
It was almost as if-. Rory drew herself up short. It was almost as if Rory Kavanaugh was letting her imagination run wild again. She tried to put a shivery feeling of foreboding behind her as she directed Zeke's steps toward her own block.
McCreedy Street was as quiet as ever, the gaslit lamps like a row of miniature beacons heralding the way to the snug row of brownstones. Front parlors glowed with that after-Sunday-supper contentment, families settling down to make an early night before the next work week began.
Mrs. Flanagan had even taken in Finn for the evening, although as Rory led Zeke up her front steps, she noticed the spinster's lace curtain stir. By this time tomorrow, it would be all over the neighborhood that Rory Kavanaugh had brought a man home with her.
"It's only the devil, Miss Flanagan," Rory muttered under her breath so that not even Zeke could hear. She felt a quiver of unexpected nervousness run through her.
Outside the corridor to her flat, she fumbled with the keys until Zeke removed them from her grasp and unlocked the door himself. His muscular frame seemed to dwarf the narrow hallway, casting a looming shadow on the opposite wall.
What was she doing, bringing Zeke Morrison up to her flat? By now she knew danged well he was faking much of his misery. Whatever the extent of his hurts, they didn't prevent him from regarding her with that wicked gleam in his eyes.
Still, the bruise swelling his jaw did need attention. She couldn't have just left him that way. All her life she had gathered in strays—abandoned baby birds, wounded kittens, lost puppies. But she knew Zeke was far more dangerous.
The wolf was back at her door, but instead of barring the way, she preceded him, lighting the gas jets so he could see his way to come inside. With the soft glow of the lamps, her parlor seemed to surround her, as it always did, like a pair of loving arms. Little had changed about the place since the days when her mother had kept it all so neat and tidy. The rose print wallpaper had faded a little, but the overstuffed sofa and chair stood in their customary places next to the dark oak of the parlor table. Velour curtains fringed with tassels shut out the night, while the wobbly corner shelf all but collapsed under the weight of bric-a-brac, wax flowers under glass domes, Da's stuffed owl, Mama's precious collection of teacups and saucers, Rory's own wooden music box.
She turned to invite Zeke to enter, but he already had.
"Do come in and make yourself at home, Mr. Morrison," she murmured wryly as Zeke strode about the room, inspecting everything with an approving eye.
"This is real nice. You live here all alone?"
Zeke could make the most innocent questions sound fraught with seduction.
"Yes, but I have neighbors just across the hall," she said quickly. "Aren't you still feeling dizzy? Perhaps I should fetch my smelling salts."
Her sharp reminder caused him to waver, to recollect that he was supposed to be on the verge of collapse.
"I am still feeling pretty groggy." He made a great show of rubbing the back of his head. "If I could just rest here for a while."
With a soft groan, he sagged down into the depths of the armchair. Rory pulled a face at this bit of melodrama, but all she said was "I'll go get you a compress for that jaw."
Retreating to her tiny kitchen, she chipped some ice out of the icebox and wrapped it in clean linen. Searching through the pantry, she found what remained of her Da's store of Irish whiskey and poured some into a tumbler.
By the time she returned to the parlor she was a little dismayed to see Zeke had already removed his coat and the collar of his shirt. It was a natural enough gesture, considering both garments were stained with dirt
and blood, but it left Zeke's shirt open at the neckline. Rory's gaze was drawn by the intriguing dusting of dark hair, a glimpse of deeply tanned chest.
Her cheeks firing, she nearly thrust the icepack and whiskey at him. "H-here," she said somewhat unsteadily.
As Zeke held the ice to his jaw, she perched primly on the sofa opposite him. He seemed grateful for the compress, even more grateful for the whiskey. It seemed so strange and somehow so natural to see Zeke sprawled in the old armchair, as though he had been there every night of her life.
As he sipped the amber liquid, he stared at her over the rim of the glass. A silence settled over the room, weighted by the memory of that passionate kiss they had shared barely twelve hours ago. Rory thought she could count every beat of her own heart.
Seconds ticked by without Zeke making a move or saying a word. Why had he taken such pains to find her again? She didn't think it was merely to sit and stare at her. She could sense a tension in him as sharp as the crack of a whip. When he finally did clear his throat to speak, she caught herself holding her breath.
"Is that your father?"
"What?" The question was so far from anything she had expected, she could make no sense of it.
"In that photograph over there." Zeke indicated a small oval-shaped portrait resting upon the parlor table. From within the frame, Seamus Kavanaugh peered proudly out at the world, a mere stripling in an overlarge blue jacket, the uniform of the Union Army. "Is that your Da?"
Rory had a feeling that that was not what Zeke had originally intended to say, but she nodded.
Zeke scooped up the photograph, examining it closer. "You favor him a little. You both have those laughing Irish eyes. He looks damn young to have been a soldier."
"My father got recruited practically the moment he stepped off the boat from Ireland, He told me once that he hadn't even known what the Civil War was about, but if there was any fighting going on, he wanted to be part of it."
"How thoroughly Irish," Zeke drawled.
Rory shot a glance at the bruises darkening Zeke's jaw. He need not have looked so smug. She couldn't imagine him hanging back either when any kind of a battle was waging.
"Anyway," Rory said as Zeke replaced the photograph on the table. "The enlistment turned out to be a fortunate thing for Da. He was assigned to the army's balloon corps for a while. That's where he got his first experience at flying, and he never got it out of his heart again."
"So that explains it. I wondered what would cause a man to do something so farfetched as founding a balloon company in the middle of New York."
"And haven't you ever had notions that everyone else thought were a little crazy? Haven't you ever chased after a dream?" "No, the only thing I've ever pursued is money." His smile was hard, even bitter.
But Rory looked deep into his eyes and saw past the self-mockery, once again glimpsing the wistfulness, the pain.
"I don't believe you," she said. "You must have some other purpose in life."
"Oh, I guess I dabble in politics a little. I've been backing Stanley Addison in his bid to be mayor."
"Is that the man you were shouting at on the telephone yesterday?"
"That's the one. Now there's a dream chaser for you. The idealistic Mr. Addison believes he can rid our fair city of all its misery, the sweatshops, the slums, even unhelpful policemen like your good Sergeant O'Connell."
"You must believe it too," Rory challenged. "Or else why are you helping Mr. Addison?"
"I have to spend my money on something." Zeke stirred restlessly. If he did have any dreams, any ideals, he appeared too embarrassed to admit to them, perhaps even to himself.
He lapsed into silence again, and Rory wondered what topic he would seek to introduce next. He seemed to be avoiding the real purpose of his visit, but all of a sudden he shot to his feet. Steeling his jaw as though he had come to some resolution, he closed the distance between them in one long stride.
Perching on the sofa beside her, he captured both her hands. The assault came too swift, too unexpected for her to resist. The mere touch of his hand sent a warm current rushing through her.
"It's no good, Rory," he said, his eyes more serious than she had ever seen them before. "Ever since I walked into this parlor I've been searching for the right words to say to you and I can't seem to find them. I guess I'll just have to blunder along like I always do."
"Good heavens. I can't imagine anything you have to tell me would be that difficult." She wanted to pull her hands away. Then maybe this mad thundering of her pulses would stop. But she felt powerless to move.
"It's always hard when a man has to admit to a woman that he lied."
"Lied? About what?'
"When I said that I possibly wanted you more than any woman I had ever known."
"Well, I never supposed you did mean such nonsense—"
"There was no possibly about it," Zeke cut in. "I have never desired any woman before like I do you. I thought I was angry when I chased you through the street, but in truth, I was almost desperate. I just can't get you out of my mind."
Rory had always thought she would feel something of a fool if a man made such passionate declarations to her. Her cheeks did fire, but not with embarrassment. Zeke's words sent a thrill through her.
"I haven't been able to stop thinking of you either."
It was a foolish admission, perhaps even a dangerous one, causing Zeke to steal his arm about her waist. But it was no more imprudent than what she did next, tipping back her head with Zeke's face hovering so near to her own, his mouth a breath away.
He kissed her, his lips gentle, tentative, giving her every chance to retreat if she wanted to. But she didn't. She had to know if she would find the same magic in his arms as she had known before. Maybe it had only been the champagne. But as the kiss deepened, she knew it hadn't been. Zeke's mouth, whiskey-warm, grew more insistent, more demanding. Her lips parted in a soft, shuddering sigh as his tongue invaded her mouth. She gasped at the sensation, strange, erotic, seeming to steal her breath away and to gift her with fire.
When Zeke's hand moved upward to cup her breast, her protest came so weakly she could hardly hear it herself. Beneath his caress, she could feel her nipple grow taut, straining against the fabric of her gown.
Desire stirred inside her and she returned Zeke's fevered kisses, hardly knowing what she did. Her fingers slipped inside his shirt, his flesh hot to the touch, his heart seeming to thunder beneath her palm.
With a low groan, Zeke pressed her back upon the sofa, pinning her under the hard length of him, the strength of his desire evident even through the layers of their clothing. The force of his passion should have frightened her, but it didn't.
The taste, the scent, the feel of him near drove her wild with longings she barely understood. Longings to touch and be touched by him, to sweep all barriers aside, to draw him as close as possible, then closer still, feel him bury himself inside of her.
His mouth hot upon hers, Zeke only drew breath to murmur her name. "Aurora. Aurora Rose."
Never had she known anything could sound so sweet. All reason slipped away from her as she arched against him, baring the pulse at her throat to his questing lips. When his mouth found that sensitive hollow, she closed her eyes, emitting a long, sigh.
A thundering sounded in her ears. Lost in Zeke's caress, it took her a moment to realize the hammering did not issue from her own racing heart. The sound echoed from the door of the flat. Someone was knocking. No, more like pounding, startling even Zeke into awareness.
"What the—" His head jerked up, his weight shifting so suddenly he tumbled off the sofa, dragging Rory with him. She fell squarely on top of him and felt the laughter rumble deep in his chest.
His eyes dark with desire, he tightened his arms about her, murmuring, "Let them go to hell. We're not at home."
As his mouth captured hers again, warm, teasing, slowly rebuilding the fire, Rory would happily have agreed with him. But the knocking sounded again
. Even in the midst of her desire, she could not help wondering who could be so persistent.
Her friend Gia? Miss Flanagan or the Lord forbid- what if it was her parish priest? Father Grogan had said last Sunday that he would be calling upon parishioners to enlist aid for the upcoming charity bazaar.
It was the thought of the priest that did it, cooled Rory's passion as effectively as being doused with holy water. When the rapping came again, this time rattling her door with the force of a sledgehammer, she wrenched herself out of Zeke's arms.
"I think I'd better answer it."
He cursed softly, but made no move to stop her. Rory struggled to her feet. Flushed and somewhat unsteady, she patted at her hair, attempting to set her gown to rights.
"Just a minute," Rory called, fearing that in another moment the person on the other side of the door would put a fist through it.
Zeke collapsed back onto the sofa with a frustrated sigh. Fortifying herself with a deep breath, Rory crossed the room with all the primness she could muster.
Throwing back the bolt, she inched the door open a crack. Peering into the corridor beyond, she stifled a groan. A thousand times worse than Father Grogan! It was Tony. At this moment, the flush of passion barely fading from her cheeks, she thought it would have been easier to face the Pope himself rather than her friend's suspicious and belligerent stare.
"About time," Tony growled. "I saw the light coming up and knew you had to be in here. What took you so long to answer?"
"I was already getting undressed for bed. What do you want, Tony?"
A smile tightened his lips, not like Tony's usual generous grin, but thin-lipped with a harsh kind of triumph. "Let me in, Rory. I have to talk to you."
She kept herself firmly wedged in the doorway, shielding the flat's interior and Zeke from Tony's view. "I am too tired. Can't it wait until morning?"
"No, I told you I wasn't going to rest until I found out about that Morrison feller. I've done better than that. I brought someone to see you who can tell you everything about him."
Rory cast a half-nervous glance over her shoulder, wondering if Zeke was hearing all this. "This is ridiculous, Tony. I told you I didn't want you to—"
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