"As you wish," he said and pulled her into sitting position.
She was off the desk like a shot. She yanked her bodice up, her face so hot she was certain the skin would melt from her bones.
"I m-must go," she stammered, edging toward the door. "My companion... 'tis late..."
"About our meetings, Miss Fines."
Meetings?Her feelings were a fracas. Her body tingled in all the places he had touched her... and some where he hadn't.What has he done to me?
"Will Friday evenings work for you? I will come for you at, say, ten o'clock?"
She moved her head numbly.
"Excellent." Male satisfaction imbued that single word. Before she knew what he intended, he caught hold of her hand and kissed it. His eyes roved over her with dark possession. "I must say, I am looking forward to the next six weeks."
Not knowing how to respond, she tugged her hand free and dashed out with as much dignity as she could muster.
10
Returning to the Seven Dials,Gavin felt neither shame nor pride about his origins. The rookery had spewed him from her dirty womb and left him to survive or die. The way he saw it, he'd paid any filial dues he owed in blood, sweat, and misery. He kept his eyes moving, scanning the derelict buildings. Beside him, Stewart was doing the same.
Instinct—it never left you.
"Why do the club owners always insist on meetin' at The Blind Stag? Ihatethe Dials. Nothin' but cadgers and thieves." Stewart scowled. "An' blowsy bunters, to boot."
Following his mentor's gaze, Gavin saw a drunken strumpet in the street up ahead. With a bottle of gin in one hand and a rod in the other, she shouted obscenities at a boy, beating him as he huddled against a wall. A scene straight from Gavin's own childhood. Inside his gloves, Gavin's fists clenched... but he walked on. From his own experience, he knew that interfering would only guarantee the boy double the knocks afterward.
Motherly love,he thought with derision. Nothing hurt more.
Then his glance shifted over to Stewart, and his scar throbbed with another indelible memory. He and his mentor had never spoken of that first night in the hulks. Stewart had done what needed to be done; Gavin had never blamed him for it. After all, some things were best left unsaid, and the two of them had never had any use for sentiment. They were men of action: they worked together, fought together, and watched each other's back.
Then why did he sometimes sense that dark moment hovering between them?
"You alright, lad?"
Stewart's voice yanked him back to the present. His mentor was giving him a strange look. "I'm fine," he said. "Just, er, thinking."
"Not about that chit, I 'ope," the other man said sourly.
In truth, 'twas a fair guess seeing as how thoughts of Percy continued to plague Gavin. She mystified him. One minute, she'd showed uncommon concern for a mere street boy and the next she'd torn up at Gavin for no reason. Then she had apologized, and her sincere acknowledgement of her mistake had floored him.
He couldn't recall the last time anyone had cared to have his forgiveness (and certainly never a female). Nowadays, people feared to cross him at all—and if they did, they either hid the fact or found someone else to blame. In his mother's case, she'd found the most convenient solution of all: she'd blamedhimfor her failures.
Percy's honesty, her obvious concern that she'd misjudged him, had blown through him like a zephyr from some exotic, sun-drenched land. His chest had prickled with warmth, pins and needles awakening a dormant part of him. In that moment, it had seemed that she... cared. About him. Then came their kiss. Christ, the way she'd responded to him, her intoxicating taste and wanton passion—
"Don't like that look on your face, Hunt," Stewart said.
Feeling like an idiot, Gavin coughed in his fist. "I'm, er, reviewing strategy for the meeting. Thinking on how best to approach the other club owners."
"Shoot first and don't get shot," came the laconic reply.
They approached the center of the Dials, where the seven streets collided in a celebration of depravity. Taverns faced each other on all seven apexes, and prostitutes swarmed even at this early hour to ply their trade. Bending their heads, he and Stewart entered through the low doorway of the Blind Stag. The tavern was packed with the usual crowd of riff-raffs, the air ripe with the stench of stale ale, smoke, and unwashed bodies. Pushing their way through the rowdy main room, they went upstairs to the private meeting chambers. Gavin was not surprised to see who'd been the first to arrive.
"Good day, Mr. and Mrs. Kingsley," he said.
He bowed over the bejeweled hand the latter held out as if she were royalty. Which, in a manner, she was. Mavis Kingsley came from powerful criminal stock; her father, Bartholomew Black, was an infamous cutthroat who controlled much of the Seven Dials. Several years ago, Mavis had wed Warren Kingsley, owner of The Palace. Kingsley's club now almost rivaled the success of The Underworld, in no small part due to Mavis' connections.
Gavin exchanged bows with the richly dressed Adonis standing beside her.
