Czytaj książkę: «Come the Night»
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®
MILLS & BOON
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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.”
