“You’re off tonight,” Mick said.
Rafe straightened, lifted his fisted hands. He never spoke of his past, he didn’t confide, he didn’t trust anyone to look beyond their own self-interests. It was the world in which he’d grown to manhood, one in which to survive, he never looked beyond his own needs, wants, desires. Finding himself concerned about what Eve might want unsettled him. He didn’t want to keep her in a gilded cage, but taking her away from it meant moving about in circles where he was far from comfortable. “Do you ever think about how wecame to be here?”
He swung. Mick ducked and scurried back. “You’ve heard the rumors, too, then.”
“What rumors?”
Mick jabbed, Rafe blocked with his right and delivered a solid punch with his left. Mick staggered before regaining his balance and saying, “That Dimmick’s not dead.”
Dimmick, previous owner of the Rakehell Club, Rafe’s mentor as well as his tormentor. A more vile creature had yet to be born. The man had supposedly jumped from Tower Bridge a few years back, although the bloated remains that washed up along the shores of the River Thames were hardly recognizable. It was the distinctive ring that Dimmick always wore on his left hand that had been used to identify him.
Avoiding a punch to the jaw, Rafe feinted one way before dancing back to the other. “It would be like him to fake his own death, and then lay low for a while.”
“Six years?”
Dear God, had it been six years since he’d coerced Dimmick into signing the Rakehell Club over to him? He’d been fourteen when he’d begun working for Dimmick. Three years later he’d become his most trusted henchman, breaking bones without remorse, threatening without compunction. “You have the conscience of a corpse,” Dimmick had once told him. “That’s why you’re so good at what you do.” He took his orders and carried them out, because he’d learned too late that Dimmick wasn’t the sort of man to whom he should be in debt.
“Dimmick always had patience.” His mantra had been that if you’re going to destroy a man, do it so you destroy him completely.
“If he is alive, he’s going to be coming after you.” Mick jabbed Rafe’s shoulder.
“If something happens to me, go see a solicitor named Beckwith. He has my will and the papers for this place. Upon my death, the Rakehell Club goes to you.”
Mick froze, stared at him, and Rafe—from a long ingrained habit of never failing to take advantage of a weakness—rammed his fist beneath Mick’s chin and sent him spiraling backward and to the floor.
Damn. That was going to end the sparring. He knelt beside the man who had scurried around behind him when he was younger, taking whatever scraps Rafe was of a mind to toss his way. Not many, but it was enough to keep Mick loyal. When Rafe had acquired the gaming hell, he’d offered Mick a place. It didn’t make them friends. Their only association was the business. Mick managed it, and looked out for things when Rafe wasn’t here. Which until recently had been seldom.
“Not that I’m planning for anything to happen to me,” he assured Mick when the glazed look left his eyes.
“Why would you leave it to me?”
“Who else would know how to manage it?”
“I can manage it without owning it. Surely there is someone better to leave it to.”
“If there is, I’ve yet to meet him. But as I said, I plan to be around for a good long while yet. Still, send out some runners, have them ferret around, see what they can learn. If Dimmick is alive, it’s to my advantage to get to him before he gets to me.”
“Wake up, wake up,” his mind whispered, but he didn’t dare say the words aloud. He wasn’t certain he wanted her to know that he was there, leaning against the bedpost at the foot of her bed, watching her sleep again. While he was away, he’d thought of the night before he left, when he’d observed her while she lay sleeping. Every night he wanted to be back here, his gaze honed in on her face, the sweet expression of it.
All the women he’d known intimately had been coarse and hard, shaped by life into something impossible to break. She could break. In all likelihood he would eventually destroy her, unless he found the strength to let her go.
He admired her stubbornness, enjoyed sparring words with her. He would think he was winning, and then she would slip in beneath him and deliver a quick jab that left him flummoxed. Sometimes, only a few times, when he was in her company, he caught shadowy glimpses of the man he might have become had fate been kinder. A man who deserved to have her for the remainder of his life.
Her eyes fluttered open, and she smiled. “While you were away, I woke up every night expecting to see you standing there.”
He’d stayed awake every night, wanting to be here. Dangerous, so dangerous. She could become an addiction. He was well aware of what happened to men who could not get enough of gambling, liquor, or opium. He had to put a stop to his growing obsession with her, of wanting to be in her company.
“I missed you during dinner,” she said, and something in his chest clutched. Words, they were merely words. Something someone said when another person wasn’t about. She hadn’t meant that she’d trulymissedhim. She would have to care for him to yearn for his presence. She was here only because she was forced to remain. If he let her go, he’d never see her again.
That thought was intolerable.
She started shoving herself into a sitting position, stilled, and narrowed her eyes. “What happened to your face?”
He shrugged. “I was sparring.”
“You mean fighting?”
“For sport. I have a boxing room at the club.”
