sobriquet which truly fit him. "That's correct, Miss Justice." He struck an injured pose and flattened his palm across his heart. "I am, through no fault of my own, of course, a bastard."
"Don't try to play on my sympathies, you lying sack of garbage." There wasn't so much as a pinch of remorse in her voice. "Especially after all the lies you told me and the promises you made as... Mother of God. You even slept in my house—in one of my beds."
"Now, Libby..." She was on the move again, the circle around him, tighter. Back on the defense, Donovan tracked her movements. "Having me stay at your home was your idea, not mine. I never asked you to put me up."
"You did so, and you did it by lying to me about who you were. Do youthinkfor one minute that I, as a lone woman," she bore down on him, her cheeks shiny with bright red splotches, "would have opened my home, much less one of my bedrooms, to a no-good, stinking polecat like you—Willy?"
"Don't call me Willy," Donovan shook his finger in her face. "And stop trying to blame me for everything. I tried to tell you that I wasn't Andrew Savage when I first walked into your newspaper office, but you wouldn't let me."
"That's it." Libby snapped her wrists at him as if throwing garbage onto the compost heap. "I've heard all the lies from you I intend to." With that, she turned and started up Sacramento Street.
Donovan watched her stiff-backed retreat, sorely tempted to just let her stumble around the hills of San Francisco until she calmed down enough to listen to reason. But something inside wouldn't let him—culpability, for one thing. Even though he thought she was overreacting in the extreme, he also felt a certain amount of sympathy, or something close to it. A tough little cookie, she reminded him a little of the sister he'd fabricated for himself as a child. Although Libby had been raised under circumstances completely different than he'd had—by a mother, with a real live father and brother, to boot—he sensed that she was a maverick, like he was. A bit of a loner.
With a heavy sigh, Donovan took off after her and continued to plead his case. "I know how this must sound to you now," he said to her still rigid back. "But once you'd gotten the wrong impression about who I was, it just seemed easier to go along with you."
Libby glanced over her shoulder to deliver her remarks, but never slowed her stride. "I'll just bet it did, you greasy-tongued jackass."
"I only meant to help you, all along. I never meant to cheat you out of anything or hurt you. I don't see why you should be so damned mad."
"Really? Then you're the one who needs glasses, not me."
Donovan threw his hands up in exasperation, but continued to follow her, defending himself and explaining why he'd done what he'd done, all the way back to his house. Surprisingly enough, Libby managed to find Jackson Street without any help from him—and on foot, no less, instead of by taking the cable railway as they had on the way to Savage Publishing. When they reached the walkway which led to his modest home, Libby was still berating him, no longer over her shoulder, but right to his face.
"...and I don't believe a word you've said, because there's no way astupid plan like that could have worked, much less helped me."
"It was working just fine," he insisted, opening the door for her. Gesturing dramatically, Donovan waved Libby inside. "And it would have kept right on working if you hadn't done something so stupid as getting on that train."
"Even if boarding that train was stupid," she muttered, marching straight through the foyer and into the parlor, where she dropped onto the first available chair, "and I'm not saying that it was, I only did it because I was trying to save my newspaper. What's your excuse for being so stupid?"
"For the last time..." He sighed heavily. "I was just trying to help you a little—still am, in fact. There's nothing more sinister than that to anything I've done."
"Even if I
"Don't try to play on my sympathies, you lying sack of garbage." There wasn't so much as a pinch of remorse in her voice. "Especially after all the lies you told me and the promises you made as... Mother of God. You even slept in my house—in one of my beds."
"Now, Libby..." She was on the move again, the circle around him, tighter. Back on the defense, Donovan tracked her movements. "Having me stay at your home was your idea, not mine. I never asked you to put me up."
"You did so, and you did it by lying to me about who you were. Do youthinkfor one minute that I, as a lone woman," she bore down on him, her cheeks shiny with bright red splotches, "would have opened my home, much less one of my bedrooms, to a no-good, stinking polecat like you—Willy?"
"Don't call me Willy," Donovan shook his finger in her face. "And stop trying to blame me for everything. I tried to tell you that I wasn't Andrew Savage when I first walked into your newspaper office, but you wouldn't let me."
"That's it." Libby snapped her wrists at him as if throwing garbage onto the compost heap. "I've heard all the lies from you I intend to." With that, she turned and started up Sacramento Street.
Donovan watched her stiff-backed retreat, sorely tempted to just let her stumble around the hills of San Francisco until she calmed down enough to listen to reason. But something inside wouldn't let him—culpability, for one thing. Even though he thought she was overreacting in the extreme, he also felt a certain amount of sympathy, or something close to it. A tough little cookie, she reminded him a little of the sister he'd fabricated for himself as a child. Although Libby had been raised under circumstances completely different than he'd had—by a mother, with a real live father and brother, to boot—he sensed that she was a maverick, like he was. A bit of a loner.
With a heavy sigh, Donovan took off after her and continued to plead his case. "I know how this must sound to you now," he said to her still rigid back. "But once you'd gotten the wrong impression about who I was, it just seemed easier to go along with you."
Libby glanced over her shoulder to deliver her remarks, but never slowed her stride. "I'll just bet it did, you greasy-tongued jackass."
"I only meant to help you, all along. I never meant to cheat you out of anything or hurt you. I don't see why you should be so damned mad."
"Really? Then you're the one who needs glasses, not me."
Donovan threw his hands up in exasperation, but continued to follow her, defending himself and explaining why he'd done what he'd done, all the way back to his house. Surprisingly enough, Libby managed to find Jackson Street without any help from him—and on foot, no less, instead of by taking the cable railway as they had on the way to Savage Publishing. When they reached the walkway which led to his modest home, Libby was still berating him, no longer over her shoulder, but right to his face.
"...and I don't believe a word you've said, because there's no way astupid plan like that could have worked, much less helped me."
"It was working just fine," he insisted, opening the door for her. Gesturing dramatically, Donovan waved Libby inside. "And it would have kept right on working if you hadn't done something so stupid as getting on that train."
"Even if boarding that train was stupid," she muttered, marching straight through the foyer and into the parlor, where she dropped onto the first available chair, "and I'm not saying that it was, I only did it because I was trying to save my newspaper. What's your excuse for being so stupid?"
"For the last time..." He sighed heavily. "I was just trying to help you a little—still am, in fact. There's nothing more sinister than that to anything I've done."
"Even if I
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