be an ass,” he muttered to himself. She had said quite plainly that what she sought was a story. Nothing more.
He tried to make himself focus on the movement of the ship through the water, contemplating its propulsion mechanisms and forming in his mind a better means of water displacement. No use. His thoughts scattered like dropped pins when flaming hair flashed in his peripheral vision.
Bracing his arms on the rail, Catullus decided to be bold. He turned his head and looked directly at her.
She stood not two yards away—closer than she had been since the night in his cabin. That night, they had stood close enough for him to see all the delicious freckles that scattered over her satiny skin, close enough to see those freckles disappear beneath the collar of her prim dress, close enough to wonder if those freckles went all the way down her body.
God, don’t think of that.
Like him, she now had her forearms resting upon the rail, her ungloved hands clasped, and her face turned into the wind, little caring, as other women might, about the unladylike color in her cheeks called forth by the wind. She stared out to sea, watching the waves and the seabirds drafting beside the ship, a little smile playing upon her soft, pink mouth. Something secret amused her.
Him? He told himself he didn’t care if she found him amusing, terrifying, or wonderful. The division between them was clear. He was a Blade of the Rose on the most important mission ever undertaken. The fate of the world’s magic, and freedom, lay in the balance. Pretty redheaded reporters with dazzling blue eyes and luscious figures were entirely, absolutely irrelevant. Dangerous, even.
But he watched her now, just the same. She wore the same sensible traveling dress, a plain gray cotton that had seen several years of service. So thoroughly was it worn that the fabric, as it blew against her legs, revealed that Gemma Murphy had on a very light petticoat and was most likely not wearing a bustle.
He found himself struggling for breath.
Keep moving upward, he told his eyes. And they obeyed him, moving up to see that the truly magnificent bosom of Miss Murphy was, at present, marginally hidden by a short blue jacket of threadbare appearance. The elbows were faded. She must move her arms quite a bit to get that kind of wear. An active woman.
What he wouldn’t do to get that delectable figure and coloring into some decent clothing! Silk, naturally. Greens would flatter her best, but there were also deep, rich blues, luxuriant golds, or even chocolate browns. And he knew just the dressmaker, too, a Frenchwoman who kept a shop off Oxford Street. Madame Celine would be beside herself for the chance to dress a pre-Raphaelite vision such as Miss Murphy. And if he could see Gemma Murphy slipping off one of those exquisite gowns, revealing her slender arms, her corset and chemise … or perhaps underneath the gown, she would wear nothing at all….
Catullus shook himself. What the bloody hell did he think he was doing, mentally dressing and undressing a woman he barely knew? A woman who made no secret of her ambition to expose the world of magic that Catullus, his family, and the Blades had fought so hard to keep hidden.
But instead of marching back to his cabin, as he planned, he simply remained on the prow, close, but not too close, to Miss Murphy.
He glanced over at her sharply, realizing something. Then swore under his breath.
Gemma Murphy blinked in astonishment when Catullus strode over to her. Clearly, she hadn’t anticipated him approaching. He said nothing as he pulled off his plush, warm coat and then draped it over her shoulders. The overcoat was far too big for her, naturally, its hem now grazing the deck.
She also did not speak, but stared up at him. Her slim, pale hands held the lapels close. Catullus cursed himself again when he saw that she was shivering slightly.
“Don’t you have a decent coat to wear?” he demanded, gruff.
“It got lost somewhere between Winnipeg and New York.” Her voice, even out here in the hard wind, resounded low and warm, like American bourbon.
“Then get another.”
Again, that little smile. “Lately, I haven’t had the funds or time to see a dressmaker.”
He had the funds, thanks to the Graves family’s profitable side work providing manufacturers with the latest in production technology. And, even though time was in short supply, Catullus had managed to squeeze in an hour with one of Manhattan’s best tailors, where he’d purchased this Ulster and three waistcoats. He usually avoided ready-made garments, but an exception had been made in these unusual circumstances, and the coat had been modified to his specifications. Catullus didn’t patronize bigots, either, but if the color of his skin had bothered the tailor, the color of Catullus’s money won out.
“Then perhaps you oughtn’t stand out on the coldest part of the ship,” he suggested dryly.
Looking up at him with her bright azure eyes, she said, “But I like the view.”
Did she mean the sea or him? Damn it, he never could tell when a woman was saying something flirtatious or innocuous. Catullus didn’t have his friend Bennett Day’s skill with women—nobody did, except Bennett, and now Bennett was happily married and miles away. So all Catullus could do was blush and clear his throat, wondering how to answer.
Flirting was a skill he never mastered, so he plowed onward. “Why do you keep following me?” he asked.
“That’s cocky,” she answered. “Maybe you keep following me. This isn’t such a large ship.”
“I’ve been followed enough to know when it happens.” And he’d had just as many bids on his life. Though he doubted Miss Murphy would try to stick a knife into his throat, which happened far too regularly.
Her eyes did gleam, though. “Have you been followed before? How many times? By whom? How did you elude them?”
“No one ever forgets you’re a reporter, do they?”
Her laugh was even more low and seductive than her voice. “I never do. Why should anyone else?”
True enough. “As I said before,” he pressed, “you will get no more from me, nor from Astrid or Lesperance. There is no story.”
“There most definitely is a story, Mr. Graves,” she corrected smartly. “And either you tell it to me, or I’ll conduct the investigation on my own. But I will get everything. I’m quite tenacious.”
“So I’ve observed.” In truth, tenacity was a quality he had long prized in others and tried to cultivate in himself. Most inventions took persistence to perfect. Almost nothing came together with merely a whim. If a mechanism wasn’t working precisely right, he kept at it, refining, reassessing, until he created exactly what he intended.
In the case of stubborn American reporters, he could do with a little less tenacity.
This American reporter suddenly sank her hands into the front pockets of the overcoat and sighed with appreciation. “What a lovely coat! I’ve never felt anything so soft. What’s it made of?”
“Persian cashmere.”
“Bless me, how wonderful.” She rubbed one creamy cheek against the velvet collar. “And so many pockets.” She examined the inside of the coat and found that, indeed, it was lined with a multitude of pockets, and all of them holding something.
“I requested them added when I purchased the coat,” Catullus said, watching her slim fingers trail over the pockets in a quick cataloguing.
“It’s so nice and warm—though,” she added with a sparkle in her eyes, followed by a lowering of reddish gold lashes, “you did me a favor by warming it for me.”
With the heat of his body. Now sinking into hers. The idea dried his mouth as a bolt of desire ran straight to his groin.
Catullus clenched his jaw in consternation. Either the woman was an extremely