Genevieve nodded and opened her mouth to speak, but the stranger interjected. “What have you got her mixed up in?” the man growled.
“I got myself mixed up in it, Luther,” Genevieve said. Daniel’s rage went up a notch as he heard the harsh rasp of her voice and noticed the soft woolen scarf around her neck that she had failed to relinquish to Otto. “Mr. McCaffrey is helping me, and bears no responsibility for what happened tonight.” Even as she said the words, she slanted Daniel a look with slightly narrowed eyes, as if she were still trying to decide if what she said was true.
If anything, the man’s gaze hardened. “I thought that might be you, McCaffrey.”
“Then you have the advantage of me,” Daniel replied icily. He was in no mood for games.
“This is Luther Franklin, a colleague at the paper,” Genevieve said. “He covers homicide, and is a friend.” Something in the other man’s demeanor shifted at this label, his gaze softening in obvious affection and gratitude, but his shoulders also falling slightly in defeat.
Luther tried to assert himself again, though. “I can’t allow you to continue whatever put you in such danger tonight, Genevieve.”
She looked incredulous. “It’s not your place to allow or disallow me anything, Luther,” she snapped in her new husky voice.
A look of genuine hurt crossed the man’s face, and Genevieve instantly seemed sorry. She placed a hand on his arm.
“Thank you for your help,” she said simply. “It meant the world, and possibly my life.”
Her life? Alarm flared in Daniel, and he struggled to keep his face impassive. They were in public, after all, and with his and Luther’s obvious standoff, they were already getting curious looks from the other diners.
“I’ll be careful, I promise,” Genevieve added. “But I can’t tell you anything further, at least not now.”
“But—” Luther started.
“I’m asking you to leave,” she said gently. “I need to discuss matters with Mr. McCaffrey. I will see you tomorrow and tell you what I can. And please remember what I said: I tripped down the stairs. And no police.”
Daniel watched the reporter wrestle with being dismissed, until he seemed to realize he had no choice in the matter.
“Fine,” Luther relented. He shot one final, hard look at Daniel. “But know that I am here for you. And if anything further happens, I may have no choice but to speak to Arthur. And the police.”
Genevieve did not respond to the threat but patted his hand gently. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she repeated.
Luther looked on the verge of continuing, but instead nodded to both of them and took his leave. Genevieve heaved a weary sigh and picked up her wineglass again.
“Do sit down, people are staring.”
Daniel did as he was told, barely able to keep his anger in check. He had nowhere to put it, and it clawed at his insides furiously, desperate to be unleashed. But upon whom? Not this Luther fellow, who really had no part in this, and certainly not Genevieve. It would have to wait until he learned who had caused that bruise; that person would feel the full force of his temper.
Of course, he could always turn it on himself. Whatever had happened to Genevieve, ultimately he was to blame.
The waiter reappeared, ready to take their orders, and Daniel winced internally as Genevieve requested only a bowl of turtle soup while briefly touching her scarf-covered throat. Once they were alone again, she favored him with a peevish look.
“Why is it all the gentlemen of my acquaintance continually try to tell me what I can and cannot do?”
“I believe they are trying to protect you.” He sympathized mightily with the other men in her life—her father, whom he knew only by reputation, and her brothers, whom he’d met socially on and off throughout the years. This woman took risks with herself, and undoubtedly had been doing so since she could walk.
She blew out a raspy, exasperated sigh. “I neither need nor want anyone’s protection.”
“Apparently it was in order tonight,” Daniel managed to say through clenched teeth. If within the next sixty seconds he didn’t hear the particulars of what had happened, he might in fact lose the temper he was holding so closely in check.
Genevieve flushed slightly. “As would be the case with anyone, were someone trying to kill them. Male or female.”
Daniel gripped the edge of the table. “Genevieve. For the love of Christ. Tell me what happened.”
Thick, leathery wings of dread engulfed him as Genevieve quietly relayed her story, keeping her voice low to avoid being overheard. She paused once as the waiter returned with their food, resuming her tale once they were alone again. The schnitzel in front of him looked as perfectly prepared as usual, but Daniel’s desire for food had fled. The telling of the story, however, seemed to strengthen both Genevieve’s resolve and her appetite, as she dug into her soup heartily and then requested an ice cream parfait.
“My throat is already feeling better. This is helping,” she said, gesturing with her spoon toward her now-empty bowl.
Daniel felt completely wrung out after hearing the particulars of the attack. There was no doubt that someone had attempted to murder Genevieve, and to do so at her place of work suggested three things to him, none of them reassuring: First, that whoever was trying to protect this information was getting desperate. Second, that he and Genevieve were getting closer to the truth. And third, most disturbingly, that somebody, or multiple somebodies, was watching them.
Or at least, they were watching Genevieve. Any of her interactions with him thus far could be written off as either social encounters or the routine work of a journalist intent upon a story. He may have escaped the unknown person’s scrutiny thus far.
He glanced around the restaurant with new eyes. The room, which moments ago had seemed friendly and comforting, was suddenly full of unseen menace.
Daniel took another deep
