‘I’m asking you to be what you are—a reporter and a looker, too.’ He gave her a quick, hard smile. ‘Unless you’d rather I handed this over to somebody else.’
Dorian had stared at her boss, hating him for putting her in this spot, hating herself for not being able to tell him what he could do with his assignment, almost hating herself for being a woman.
It had been as if Hemple had been able to read her mind. His smile had broadened until it threatened to dislodge the cigar, and that had been when he’d uttered the words that almost mirrored the ones the taxi driver had used.
‘Why fight reality, babe? After all, it’s not my fault you’re a good-looking broad, is it?’
Dorian sighed as she remembered the smirk on his face as he’d spoken. Hemple was a pig, she thought as the taxi exited the Queens Midtown Tunnel and started along the highway, but he was the man in charge.
She took the file folder from her bag and opened it. The bottom line was that he’d given her an assignment, and she would fulfil it to the best of her ability.
She would certainly not use sex to accomplish it; she’d made that clear enough to him before she’d left his office. Hemple had only smiled. Dorian had known what he was thinking: that if Alexander had a choice between talking to her and to a male reporter he’d talk to her.
She sighed again as she began leafing through the papers inside the folder. Even if he did, it wouldn’t be because she’d gone out of her way to set things up. Certainly, she’d done nothing to glamourise herself.
She’d taken money from Accounting and dashed to a little shop on the corner where she’d bought a large carrying bag and only the basics: comb, toothbrush, underwear, a pair of jeans and a couple of T-shirts in addition to the khaki trouser suit she was wearing. Nothing feminine, nothing—
There was a sudden bang and the taxi lurched sharply to the right. Dorian cried out as the papers in her lap went flying. The driver cursed, this time loudly and fluently in Anglo-Saxon English, and pulled the vehicle off the road and on to the grassy verge.
Dorian leaned forward and hammered on the partition. ‘What happened?’ she demanded. ‘Why are we stopping?’
The man turned and slid the glass aside. ‘We have flat tyre, miss. I must change.’
She stared at him. ‘How long will that take?’
He shrugged. ‘Ten minute. Maybe fifteen. It is raining. Not so easy to do.’
‘Well, then—can you call for another taxi to come and pick me up?’
He shrugged again. ‘Sure. Can do. But other car may not come any faster than I change tyre.’
Dorian glanced at her watch. ‘Do it anyway, please,’ she said. ‘I’m really desperate.’
He did as she’d asked, then set to work. It had gone from afternoon to night now, and the rain had turned into a steady downpour. Time passed, but no new taxi appeared.
Dorian flung open the door and stepped out into the darkness. Wind buffeted her; she felt the rain drive straight through her thin cotton jacket and trousers, felt it plaster her hair to her skull. Spray from a passing car slapped against her face.
‘Miss.’ She turned. The driver had risen to his feet and was standing beside her, looking at her as if she were crazy. ‘I cannot fix. The jack no work. Please, we sit in taxi and wait.’
Dorian shook her head. ‘I can’t wait,’ she said. ‘My plane will be leaving.’ She peered ahead into the night. ‘We’re almost at the airport, aren’t we?’
‘Yes, but—’
‘That’s what I thought.’ She reached inside the taxi and grabbed her holdall. The contents of the file she’d yet to look at—clippings, photos—all of it lay scattered on the floor. But it was too late now. ‘I’ll start walking,’ Dorian said. ‘If another taxi shows up, send the driver looking for me, will you?’
‘Miss, please, you cannot.’
‘Here.’ She dug into her bag for some bills and tucked them into the bewildered driver’s hand. ‘Maybe I’ll be lucky and someone will stop and give me a lift.’
‘In New York?’ The driver’s voice carried after her as she began marching towards the distant airport. ‘It will not happen, miss, and even if it should you cannot trust. Not in this city. Please. You must wait.’
But she couldn’t, not if she was going to make that plane. Dorian’s footsteps quickened. The driver was right, of course. No car would stop for her. This was New York, where only the fittest survived. You could fall to the pavement in the middle of Fifth Avenue and no one would acknowledge it. And he was right about the rest, too. In this city, you couldn’t trust anyone, especially someone crazy enough to stop to pick up a stranger.
Not that that would stop her. You couldn’t be a good reporter if you were afraid of—
A horn blared shrilly, making her jump. Dorian’s head lifted sharply. Go on, she thought, have fun at my expense. A truck whizzed by, closer than it had a right to be to the verge; water splashed over her, cold as ice.
She shuddered and kept walking. How long would it take to walk a mile or two under these conditions? Twenty minutes? Half an hour? Would she make it on time, or—?
A car swept past her, swung sharply to the right, and came to a stop on the verge of the road just ahead. It was a sports car, something long and lean with a throbbing engine. Dorian blinked her eyes against the rain. Could it be…? Yes. Yes! The passenger door was swinging open.
She began running, her pace awkward in the muddy grass. When she reached the car, she paused and leaned down towards it.
The interior was dimly lit and leather-scented. Warmth drifted towards her, along with the faint strains of Tchaikovsky. There was a man at the wheel, but she couldn’t see him very clearly. His face alternated between light and shadow from the headlights of oncoming cars. All she could tell was that he was tall and that his hands lay lightly—and powerfully—on the steering-wheel.
‘Thank you so much for stopping,’ she said, her voice a little breathless. ‘You just saved my life.’
He turned slowly towards her, and for some reason her heart seemed to tighten in her breast. His face still alternated between light and shadow, but she could see that he had dark hair and eyes, a straight, handsome nose above what seemed to be a full mouth, and an arrogant tilt to his chin.
‘Where are you going?’ he asked. His voice was deep and soft, almost smoky. Dorian had the sudden crazy feeling that he never had to raise that voice at all, that people would do whatever they had to do to hear his words.
‘You cannot trust,’ the taxi driver had said. ‘You cannot trust…’
Dorian touched the tip of her tongue to her lower lip. ‘To—to the airport,’ she said. ‘But if you’d just be kind enough to take me as close to it as you can—’
‘I’m going there myself. Toss your things in the back and get in.’
Dorian’s heart did a funny turn again, as if someone had reached into her chest and given it a poke. It was silly, but the open door, the drift of leather-scented warmth emanating into the chill night from the car’s interior, the smoky voice—all at once it seemed dangerous.
‘Well?’ The voice was amused now, even a little contemptuous. ‘Are you going to stand out there and drown, or am I going to drive you to the airport?’
Dorian drew in her breath. What was there to fear? Men who drove expensive cars weren’t likely to be serial killers, for heaven’s sake. What she had to do was get to the airport and write the story of the year about a man named Jack Alexander, a man who might in hours become the absolute ruler of a country lost in the past.
‘You’re going to drive me to the airport,’ she said briskly, and she tossed her bag into the rear of the car, climbed into the seat, and slammed the door after her.
CHAPTER TWO
DORIAN sighed thankfully as she sank into the leather bucket seat.
‘It’s a hell of a night for a stroll.’
She looked at the man who’d rescued her. He was smiling as he looked into his mirror and manoeuvred the
car back into traffic.
She laughed pleasantly. ‘Isn’t it ever? I can’t believe how hard the rain’s coming down.’ Her hair was dripping into her eyes; she put her hands to her face and shoved back the soaked strands. ‘I’m afraid I’m going to make a mess of your car.’
The man beside her shrugged. ‘Don’t worry about it.’ His foot settled more firmly on the accelerator. The engine growled as the car leaped ahead, the wiper clearing the windscreen in rhythmic strokes. ‘What time does your flight leave?’
‘What?’
‘Your plane. I assume it must be taking off fairly soon or you wouldn’t have risked life and limb on the road.’
‘Oh.’ She smiled. ‘You sound like my taxi driver. He thought I was crazy to leave the cab.’
‘That dead yellow beast on the verge was yours, then?’ He nodded. ‘I thought it must be.’
‘Mmm. We had a flat—it was the final touch. Traffic was impossible all the way from Manhattan.’ Dorian made an apologetic face as she looked down at herself. ‘I really am making a mess of things,’ she said. ‘I didn’t realise how soaked I was.’
Her rescuer glanced at her. ‘You must be freezing,’ he said.
She started to protest politely, but the sudden chatter of her teeth stopped her in mid-sentence.