A few more beats passed as they continued to circle the floor. The music, a waltz, was winding its way toward its finish.
“So you were on a slumming tour,” she stated matter-of-factly, before casting a look of disgust his way. “How dare you make me believe I was in actual danger!”
Anger, hot and fierce, slammed into him. “What?” For decades, it had been possible for the wealthy to take “slumming tours” of the city’s poverty-stricken neighborhoods, paying to observe the less fortunate as if they were animals in Central Park’s zoo.
“Did you have all the details worked out beforehand? Were those men paid extra for pretending to accost me so that you could play the hero?”
Daniel had to take a deep breath to calm the rage coursing through his body. There was no way she could know how offensive this accusation was to him. “Believe me, Miss Stewart, you were in just as much danger as you thought. Paddy and Billy are not men to be trifled with.” His jaw was clenched so tight he could barely get the words out.
“That’s the only possible explanation,” she shot back. “How else would a man like you know men like Paddy and Billy? If those are even their real names.” She looked at him accusingly. “Though how anyone could take part in such unfeeling and barbaric activities is beyond me, acting as though human beings were specimens under a jar.”
“Which is why I would never do such a thing,” he ground out.
“Then what were you doing there?”
Damn, damn, damn. So much for appeasing her curiosity, though he grudgingly admitted to himself it was likely an impossible task. Thankfully, the music was reaching its final crescendo, and Daniel swirled his dance partner through the last steps of their waltz.
They paused at the end of the dance, staring each other down in the middle of the ballroom floor, panting as if they’d run a race. Other couples ebbed and flowed around them, chatting easily. He caught her eyes with his and fixed her with an unwavering stare.
“I was not on a slumming tour,” he breathed, surprised by the low ferocity of his own voice. “That is all I can tell you, Miss Stewart.”
She stared at him intently, indecision clearly written on her face. For reasons he wasn’t prepared to explore, Daniel needed her to know this. He could abide many, many misconceptions she might have about him, but not that he would pay to gawk at the impoverished.
“I. Was. Not.” He waited, breath almost held, as the ballroom floor began to refill with a new set of dancers, many glancing at them quizzically.
Genevieve nodded almost imperceptibly, acknowledging his claim, and he felt his shoulders soften.
It was past time to leave. He escorted Genevieve to the periphery of the dance floor, murmured a polite good-night, and turned to go.
“Wait,” she whispered urgently.
He faced her, rearranging his features into a look of bland politeness. Her mouth twisted slightly, and he could tell questions were tangling up inside her, fighting to get out.
“Who are you, really?”
What she finally asked was so unexpected, and so refreshingly honest, that a burst of laughter escaped before he could stop it.
At the sound of his laugh, she folded her hands in front of her and glanced away, seeming embarrassed.
“I know you won’t answer,” she muttered.
“Honestly, Miss Stewart, I’m not even sure I know how to answer,” Daniel replied, growing serious. “I do thank you for asking it, however. From the day Jacob Van Joost made me his heir at the age of seventeen, I know it’s foremost on every person’s mind when they meet me. You are the first person to ever simply ask me outright. Again, I thank you.”
“I doubt you’ll be thanking me for long, Mr. McCaffrey.” She extended her hand for a final shake.
“I would expect nothing less,” he politely, but honestly, replied.
Despite his often nomadic ways, there were a few constants in his life he’d learned he could count on: the unquestioning loyalty of choice friends such as Rupert; the unwavering undercurrent of guilt he carried over his inherited wealth; and the relief he felt every time he disembarked at New York harbor, when the miasma of sea air and garbage combined with the bustle of commerce and the tangle of multiple languages being spoken on the docks all hit him squarely in the chest with a singular, blessed sensation: I’m home.
He had the sinking feeling now that, whether welcome or not, Miss Stewart was about to become another constant.
CHAPTER 4
Genevieve stood before her editor’s desk, fuming. Arthur Horace looked back at her in exasperation. She could tell he was thinking what he often said aloud: Genevieve Stewart would be the death of him.
“Look, Genevieve,” said Arthur, mopping his brow with a handkerchief, “I’ve already sent Clive to cover the latest Robin Hood burglary. He’s at the Huffingtons’ now. And I can’t send two reporters; the police are reluctant enough to allow one on the scene.”
“But Mr. Horace, why didn’t you send me?” Genevieve began to pace the chief editor’s small office in frustration. “I was at the ball on Saturday and Clive was not. I can provide all kinds of insight into Sarah Huffington’s state of mind, the quality of the diamonds that were taken, and a detailed account of the refreshment table. Why on earth won’t you give me this story?” She stopped pacing and glared at him, her hands on her hips.
Arthur sighed and wearily regarded his sole female reporter. “As I said, I’ve already given the story to Clive. I can’t reassign it now.” He cut off her protest with a raise of his hand. “I won’t reassign it now. Clive is more suited to dealing with these types of situations, talking to the police and all that. I’m sorry, but the authorities simply won’t give the same details to a woman.” He frowned at Genevieve a final time, then hid his shiny, bespectacled face behind an open morning
