another
kiss. But once she’d promised, he moved toward the door with swift
efficiency and left her standing alone in the moonlight, her wrists
chafed and her heart pounding in her brain.
She didn’t see him again that night. But
occasionally her fingers wandered to her lips, where his kisses
still burned like a brand.
CHAPTER 5
Saranda was accompanying Winston as he gave
Bat a tour of the Globe-Journal . Already, they’d viewed the
composing room, the pressroom, the city room. It was intended as a
perfunctory jaunt, but Bat surprised Winston by showing interest in
every aspect of the paper. He’d had little formal education, having
left his parents’ Illinois farm at an early age to follow a life of
adventure, but he’d read widely on a diverse range of subjects.
Writing, it turned out, was a particular fascination of his, as was
the power of the press. He’d witnessed this power firsthand during
his visit. After just one article in the Globe-Journal , he’d
found himself lionized as a folk hero.
Because of his interest, and the questions he
asked, their circuit of the paper was taking longer than expected.
Bat stopped to chat with everyone from reporters and editors to the
printers and engravers in the back shop. No one escaped his
inquiries or his easy grin. Everyone, having read the report of his
skill with a smoking sixgun, stared at him with an awe that he
found at once flattering and discomfiting.
They’d been touring the executive offices
when they came at last to a door with a stenciled sign that
read:
M. ARCHER
EDITOR IN CHIEF
Saranda had known they’d pay him a visit
sooner or later and had spent the time preparing herself. What had
happened the night before now seemed like a dream. She couldn’t
believe she’d behaved in such a ridiculous manner just because a
man had kissed her. Well, not just any man; Mace Blackwood, her
sworn enemy. She’d never reacted to anyone in such a breathless
manner before. It embarrassed her, making her question her sanity. What had she been thinking? The trouble was, she hadn’t been
thinking at all. In his arms, she’d been reduced to a rush of
sensation such as she’d never experienced before. By the sight of
his wolf’s mouth lowering itself to hers. By the sound of his voice
rasping in her ears. By the feel of his arms as he demanded from
her a response no man ever had. It unsettled her. She’d always
known he was a formidable foe, known he had the ability to fool
anyone alive. The humiliating realization hit her that, for that
brief moment in the moonlight, he’d duped her as well. His golden
tongue had lulled her into a senseless state of surrender that was
unlike anything she’d come up against in all her years on the
con.
But it wasn’t going to happen again.
Winston opened the door without knocking.
They caught a quick impression of a massive office dominated by a
cluttered desk and lined with wooden file cabinets on three sides.
The corner office looked down over Park Row, where the other New
York papers made their homes. But it was the atmosphere that
captured their attention. Blackwood was standing behind his desk,
glaring at the man seated opposite him. It was the same man Saranda
remembered complaining about the absence of Madame Zorina. She knew
he was Sander McLeod, whose wealth and influence rivaled Jackson’s.
She knew, too, that Blackwood, in his guise as Archer, had been
systematically exposing the underhanded tactics of McLeod’s
powerful business friends.
“I can recall a time,” McLeod was saying
heatedly, “when the Globe-Journal stood up for the rights of
the underdog without libelous attacks on the fine and decent men
that have made this city—hell, this country—great.” He was clearly
agitated, gesturing with a fist that looked like a blacksmith’s
hammer pounding away at an anvil.
“By decent men, you wouldn’t be referring to
men like your friend Grant?” Blackwood demanded.
“The General is
kiss. But once she’d promised, he moved toward the door with swift
efficiency and left her standing alone in the moonlight, her wrists
chafed and her heart pounding in her brain.
She didn’t see him again that night. But
occasionally her fingers wandered to her lips, where his kisses
still burned like a brand.
CHAPTER 5
Saranda was accompanying Winston as he gave
Bat a tour of the Globe-Journal . Already, they’d viewed the
composing room, the pressroom, the city room. It was intended as a
perfunctory jaunt, but Bat surprised Winston by showing interest in
every aspect of the paper. He’d had little formal education, having
left his parents’ Illinois farm at an early age to follow a life of
adventure, but he’d read widely on a diverse range of subjects.
Writing, it turned out, was a particular fascination of his, as was
the power of the press. He’d witnessed this power firsthand during
his visit. After just one article in the Globe-Journal , he’d
found himself lionized as a folk hero.
Because of his interest, and the questions he
asked, their circuit of the paper was taking longer than expected.
Bat stopped to chat with everyone from reporters and editors to the
printers and engravers in the back shop. No one escaped his
inquiries or his easy grin. Everyone, having read the report of his
skill with a smoking sixgun, stared at him with an awe that he
found at once flattering and discomfiting.
They’d been touring the executive offices
when they came at last to a door with a stenciled sign that
read:
M. ARCHER
EDITOR IN CHIEF
Saranda had known they’d pay him a visit
sooner or later and had spent the time preparing herself. What had
happened the night before now seemed like a dream. She couldn’t
believe she’d behaved in such a ridiculous manner just because a
man had kissed her. Well, not just any man; Mace Blackwood, her
sworn enemy. She’d never reacted to anyone in such a breathless
manner before. It embarrassed her, making her question her sanity. What had she been thinking? The trouble was, she hadn’t been
thinking at all. In his arms, she’d been reduced to a rush of
sensation such as she’d never experienced before. By the sight of
his wolf’s mouth lowering itself to hers. By the sound of his voice
rasping in her ears. By the feel of his arms as he demanded from
her a response no man ever had. It unsettled her. She’d always
known he was a formidable foe, known he had the ability to fool
anyone alive. The humiliating realization hit her that, for that
brief moment in the moonlight, he’d duped her as well. His golden
tongue had lulled her into a senseless state of surrender that was
unlike anything she’d come up against in all her years on the
con.
But it wasn’t going to happen again.
Winston opened the door without knocking.
They caught a quick impression of a massive office dominated by a
cluttered desk and lined with wooden file cabinets on three sides.
The corner office looked down over Park Row, where the other New
York papers made their homes. But it was the atmosphere that
captured their attention. Blackwood was standing behind his desk,
glaring at the man seated opposite him. It was the same man Saranda
remembered complaining about the absence of Madame Zorina. She knew
he was Sander McLeod, whose wealth and influence rivaled Jackson’s.
She knew, too, that Blackwood, in his guise as Archer, had been
systematically exposing the underhanded tactics of McLeod’s
powerful business friends.
“I can recall a time,” McLeod was saying
heatedly, “when the Globe-Journal stood up for the rights of
the underdog without libelous attacks on the fine and decent men
that have made this city—hell, this country—great.” He was clearly
agitated, gesturing with a fist that looked like a blacksmith’s
hammer pounding away at an anvil.
“By decent men, you wouldn’t be referring to
men like your friend Grant?” Blackwood demanded.
“The General is
Similar Books
