He watched Genevieve’s face shift from satisfied to outraged in the course of his speaking. She planted her hands on her hips. “Haven’t we had this conversation? You are not in a position to make any decisions regarding my actions. Besides, I’ve already almost been killed, I’ve been followed, I’d actually feel safer … what?”
His guilt must have shown on his face. Damn, he was tired, to have allowed that kind of mistake. Typically he had more self-control.
It was time to come clean, though he knew she would be furious.
“I had you followed,” Daniel admitted.
He’d been right. Her outrage intensified.
“What?”
“The times you thought you were being followed, on Fifth Avenue, in the park … you were. But not by anyone involved with these crimes. By my associates.”
Genevieve’s face, which had paled at his first statement, was now marked by high spots of color on her cheeks. He instantly felt guilty but kept his head high and his shoulders back. Best to take the coming—and well-justified—torrent of anger like a man.
“How, how dare you,” she sputtered, so angry, it seemed, that she could barely speak. “I was terrified. I thought I was losing my mind. I have lost weeks, weeks of sleep over this. What on earth possessed you to have me followed?”
“I was trying to keep you safe.”
“By scaring me half to death?” she yelled.
“Frankly, my tactics were necessary,” he replied, his own anger at her disregard for herself beginning to replace his guilt. “As one of the few places my associates couldn’t keep an eye on you, your office, was where you were attacked.”
Her mouth opened and shut a few times, but she didn’t seem able to think of a suitable response. Daniel’s rage burned bright as he thought, as he had so often over the past weeks, of the unknown assailant’s hands closing on her vulnerable throat.
“This isn’t over yet, Genevieve,” he continued. “You are convinced of the danger Tommy Meade poses, aren’t you?” Her breath was coming in fast, angry huffs. She clenched her jaw but nodded once.
“You’ve already been targeted not once, but twice,” he reminded her. “You were physically attacked, and now someone has left that Russian box for you as a message.”
“It has to be Clive,” she muttered, letting out a deeper breath.
“My guess is Tommy has been cultivating Clive for some time,” he said. “You know we can’t go to the police, not yet. Commissioner Simons is involved, and we don’t know which officers are corrupted. I need irrefutable proof I can take directly to the mayor. With what you’ve found, we’re nearly there.”
“Exactly, with what I found. It was my research, my hard work, and frankly, my neck, that got us here.”
“I know that,” he angrily replied. “And so do they. That’s why it’s not safe for you anymore. Dammit, woman, why can’t you see that?” Daniel pushed himself away from the credenza and paced the room again, running his hands through his hair in frustration. “I thought perhaps the ruse of our courtship would be enough …” A sudden idea popped into his head. A crazy, wild idea, mostly in its unexpected, almost visceral appeal.
Before he could think too hard about it, he blurted, “Maybe we should get married.”
As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he wished he could claw the air and take them back.
Not that he didn’t want to marry Genevieve. It sounded, suddenly, like the most reasonable, tempting suggestion in the world. His brain snapped to a memory of her, languid on the love seat in a sumptuous hotel room, in a dress fit for a goddess, long tangles of honey-golden hair cascading past her bare shoulders.
But the look of complete shock on her face indicated that she felt otherwise.
Indeed, he would be hard-pressed to decide who looked more shocked, Genevieve or Rupert.
“I’ll just step in here,” Rupert murmured, giving Daniel a wide-eyed stare as he slid back toward the kitchen.
“Don’t leave this house, Rupert,” Genevieve snapped. He nodded at her wordlessly before disappearing into the darkness of the back of the house.
Genevieve crossed her arms over her chest. “You’re already trying to curtail my activities. Why would I want more of that?”
“I’m trying to keep you alive,” he said through gritted teeth.
“So your solution is to get married? To keep me under your thumb?”
“No,” he protested, groping for the right words to say. “I understand word is circulating you spent the night in my hotel room. A marriage would end the gossip.”
She waved a hand at this. “Gossip comes and goes. You’re not really suggesting we marry only to stop a few tongues wagging?”
“That’s not the only reason. Genevieve, I … I admire you,” he finally admitted. A knot of feeling was pushing at his chest, one he couldn’t quite untangle. This was either the best idea in creation, or the worst. “I find myself wanting to keep you … safe.”
Her manner seemed to soften a bit. She uncrossed her arms and folded her hands in front of her waist instead.
He allowed a few beats to pass, waiting. Half fearful, half hopeful.
“But we don’t love each other,” she finally said. “Do we?”
The question froze him. His mind struggled to wrap around the concept. Genevieve Stewart was beautiful and witty and brave. He did admire her, as he had said. But did that equal love? He was so far removed from the notion of what love was, he wasn’t sure.
In the wake of his silence, Genevieve smiled gently. He thought he caught a glint of some unnamed emotion in her amber eyes—regret? resignation?—but in the dim light of a single lamp, he couldn’t be sure.
“I appreciate the offer, Daniel.” Her voice was kind, but firm. “But I must decline.”
The inky predawn darkness swallowed Daniel and Rupert as they retreated east into the
