to have it all out in the open. Good and almost virtuous. "I'm a gambler by trade and, like I told you, a partner in Lucky Lil's. Savage didn't make it to Laramie to see you because during that card game, one of the other poker players shot him."
Libby gasped. "Shot him? You mean he's dead?"
"As in staring up at the sky, but seeing nothing." He paused to give Libby a moment to digest the significance of that before going on. "Savage left his satchel behind, so I took it, intending to return it to his family—which I'm still trying to do. Does that clear everything up for you?"
Save for the twitching of a muscle near the corner of her left eye, Libby didn't respond right away, or even change her stunned expression. But she did begin to move, her gait rigid and determined, and slowly circled him as if he were some kind of prey.
"Libby?" Following her movements, Donovan spun around on one heel. "Aren't you going to say anything?"
But she just kept circling, glaring now, looking like a beady-eyed vulture just hours from starvation.
"I know when you get to thinking about this, you'll see the humor in the situation." He laughed, surprised to hear a nervous chortle in his voice, then cleared his throat and adopted a sterner manner. Hell, it wasn't like he'd cheated her out of anything. "You'd do well to remember where we are," he warned. "Think of the folks peeking out the windows of Savage Publishing. They can see us down here, you know."
This threat seemed to have some impact on her. Libby abruptly stopped pacing, coming to a halt just inches from him, and at last, she began to talk. And talk. And talk.
"I have a few questions," she began, her adorable features contorted with rage. "Let's start with your real name, you low-down, dirty, egg-sucking varmit."
Damn, but she was pissed—glowing with anger. "It's Donovan, like I said."
"Donovan what, you chicken-thieving, mangy dog."
He tugged at his suddenly too-tight collar, wondering how he could have misread her so. Libby had bitten those words off hard enough to break her teeth—which, he couldn't help but notice, were bared as she waited for his answer. "Donovan is my last name. I never use my given name."
"What is it?" she demanded, tracing his steps as he backed away from her. "Judas? Benedict? Or maybe it's Brutus—yes, that's probably it. Brutus, right?"
His full name, something he never told anyone, was as private to him as his deepest thoughts, but for a crazy moment, Donovan actually thought that if he were to share that information with Libby, if he were to give her that small piece of himself, maybe it would somehow help to right the wrong she thought he'd done her.
"It's William," he admitted, spitting the name out like a stream of tobacco juice, "but I never—"
"William, huh?"
Donovan had always hated the name, and with damn good reason. Throughout his life, his mother had called all her paramours "William," no matter what their true identities might have been. She'd claimed she'd done so because the name was her favorite, but Donovan had always known she'd done it because her love life was less confusing that way. He hated the name "William," all right, along with the memories of the men in his mother's life. And hearing the word spewing from Libby's snarling lips made it sound worse than it ever had before, almost like a vile oath.
No longer feigning a firm stand or the sudden harshness in his voice, Donovan muttered, "I'd really appreciate it if you wouldn't call me 'William.'"
"That's fine with me," she snapped, apparently unimpressed by his candor. "You remind me more of a 'Billy-boy' anyway, or maybe even, 'Willy the weasel'."
"Don't call me 'Billy.'" Those were the nicknames assigned to Donovan whenever his mother had a new "William" around. "And don't ever call me 'Willy.'"
"That's fine with me, too, because you're nothing but a no-good bastard who doesn't deserve to have a name at all."
She struck pay dirt there, calling him by the only
Libby gasped. "Shot him? You mean he's dead?"
"As in staring up at the sky, but seeing nothing." He paused to give Libby a moment to digest the significance of that before going on. "Savage left his satchel behind, so I took it, intending to return it to his family—which I'm still trying to do. Does that clear everything up for you?"
Save for the twitching of a muscle near the corner of her left eye, Libby didn't respond right away, or even change her stunned expression. But she did begin to move, her gait rigid and determined, and slowly circled him as if he were some kind of prey.
"Libby?" Following her movements, Donovan spun around on one heel. "Aren't you going to say anything?"
But she just kept circling, glaring now, looking like a beady-eyed vulture just hours from starvation.
"I know when you get to thinking about this, you'll see the humor in the situation." He laughed, surprised to hear a nervous chortle in his voice, then cleared his throat and adopted a sterner manner. Hell, it wasn't like he'd cheated her out of anything. "You'd do well to remember where we are," he warned. "Think of the folks peeking out the windows of Savage Publishing. They can see us down here, you know."
This threat seemed to have some impact on her. Libby abruptly stopped pacing, coming to a halt just inches from him, and at last, she began to talk. And talk. And talk.
"I have a few questions," she began, her adorable features contorted with rage. "Let's start with your real name, you low-down, dirty, egg-sucking varmit."
Damn, but she was pissed—glowing with anger. "It's Donovan, like I said."
"Donovan what, you chicken-thieving, mangy dog."
He tugged at his suddenly too-tight collar, wondering how he could have misread her so. Libby had bitten those words off hard enough to break her teeth—which, he couldn't help but notice, were bared as she waited for his answer. "Donovan is my last name. I never use my given name."
"What is it?" she demanded, tracing his steps as he backed away from her. "Judas? Benedict? Or maybe it's Brutus—yes, that's probably it. Brutus, right?"
His full name, something he never told anyone, was as private to him as his deepest thoughts, but for a crazy moment, Donovan actually thought that if he were to share that information with Libby, if he were to give her that small piece of himself, maybe it would somehow help to right the wrong she thought he'd done her.
"It's William," he admitted, spitting the name out like a stream of tobacco juice, "but I never—"
"William, huh?"
Donovan had always hated the name, and with damn good reason. Throughout his life, his mother had called all her paramours "William," no matter what their true identities might have been. She'd claimed she'd done so because the name was her favorite, but Donovan had always known she'd done it because her love life was less confusing that way. He hated the name "William," all right, along with the memories of the men in his mother's life. And hearing the word spewing from Libby's snarling lips made it sound worse than it ever had before, almost like a vile oath.
No longer feigning a firm stand or the sudden harshness in his voice, Donovan muttered, "I'd really appreciate it if you wouldn't call me 'William.'"
"That's fine with me," she snapped, apparently unimpressed by his candor. "You remind me more of a 'Billy-boy' anyway, or maybe even, 'Willy the weasel'."
"Don't call me 'Billy.'" Those were the nicknames assigned to Donovan whenever his mother had a new "William" around. "And don't ever call me 'Willy.'"
"That's fine with me, too, because you're nothing but a no-good bastard who doesn't deserve to have a name at all."
She struck pay dirt there, calling him by the only
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