The Raven Master. Diana Whitney

in all, it was probably fine enough. But when and if she ever settled, she wanted something simpler than turn-of-the-century American. Something modern, with lots of glass and hopefully no more worries about Frankie Maco and company.

      A cat meowed from the bushes as she disengaged the alarm.

      “I know, Podge, it’s ridiculously hot.”

      She didn’t see it coming, didn’t hear a thing. One second she was about to go inside, the next she was crashing into a bed of purple dahlias. Something scratchy whipped across her eyes. Another softer cloth—saturated with chemicals, her brain warned—descended on her face.

      Twisting sideways, she avoided it, and with her forearm knocked her attacker’s hand away. His fist rapped against his mouth, and she heard him grunt.

      Still squirming, she rammed the heel of her hand into the side of his head. She’d been aiming for his ear and from his reaction thought she might have hit it.

      When he jerked back, her instincts took over. Planting both hands on his chest, she shoved. It gave her the space she needed to work her leg out from under him.

      He felt strong, but she couldn’t see well enough to fix an age on him. Young or old, however, she knew a man’s vulnerable spots, and she aimed for the one that would cripple him the fastest.

      Did she make full contact? Her brain said no, yet a second later, he was gone, tackled sideways by something or someone else she couldn’t see.

      The wool strip that had partially covered her eyes lay on the ground beside her. The chloroformed cloth had vanished with her attacker.

      She rolled out of the flower bed and onto the grass. It took a moment to steady her breathing, another to realize that there was no one in the tiny front yard except her and Hannah’s long-haired cat.

      “What the hell was that, Podge?” she demanded, pushing to her feet. She swayed slightly, but shook herself and scrambled to locate her cell.

      She had her thumb on the key pad when a man’s hand closed over hers and a low voice came into her ear.

      “Let’s leave the police out of this, Ms. Hunt.”

      Chapter Two

      Darcy’s blood pressure spiked, then slowly settled. This man was holding her, not choking her. Relaxing her muscles, she offered a pleasant, “Let me guess. Damon Marlowe?”

      “I’m impressed.”

      “Don’t be. Word travels at warp speed in my business. Uh, do you mind?”

      For an answer, he released her and moved back half a step.

      With a smile on her lips, Darcy faced him.

      Gorgeous was her first, frankly surprised, thought. Elaine had been right. If the word sexy could take human form, Damon Marlowe would be it. She would have continued to marvel at his amazing, albeit shadowed, features, but she had a different agenda in mind.

      Keeping her smile in place, she said, “You saved my life. Thank you for that.”

      He moved a shoulder. “No—”

      The crack of her hand across his cheek cut him off.

      It had to hurt, but given his profession, maybe he was accustomed to being slapped. He absorbed the strike with nothing more than a lift of his brow. “Feel better now?”

      “No, but you deserved that and more.” Darcy’s eyes glittered. “You destroyed a cover that’s held for three years. Apparently, you also lost whoever it was you tackled, so now I get to spend a sleepless night wondering who he was, why you felt the need to rush to my rescue and what you stand to gain from it. Do you know what you’ve done, Marlowe? Do you have any idea?”

      “You want to take another swing, don’t you?” he asked without rancor.

      “Love to.” Her lips curved. “Will you stand still and let me?”

      “I might.”

      The answer was just unexpected enough to make her laugh. Then suspicion moved in and she circled him with caution. “Who hired you? Was it Vince?”

      “Umer Lugo.”

      She stopped. “Who?”

      “Not your dying, ninety-two-year-old grandfather’s lawyer, I assume.”

      “My dying…” She shook the question away as her thoughts slid in a more disturbing direction. “Where is he? The guy who jumped me?”

      “He grabbed your neighbor’s bike and took off. He was gone by the time I reached the corner.”

      Darcy released a frustrated breath. “Let me get this straight. Whether by accident or design, you sicced someone on me. Then you switched sides and ran him off. I’m an investigative reporter, Marlowe. Oh, but wait, you already know that. You also know my real name. You relayed my alias to Umer Lugo, who very likely relayed it to Frankie Maco. By rights, I should be dead, and you should be home counting your money. So tell me, Mr. New York P.I., why isn’t the story playing like that?”

      “You don’t trust me.”

      “Last I checked, I was a sane American female. What’s the deal? Why are you here?”

      “Call it a rare attack of conscience, likely spawned by the fact that I was a cop in a former life. Losing the guy who jumped you pisses me off, but nowhere near as much as letting myself be set up.”

      “Frankie Maco’s very good at setups. Do you know who Frankie is?”

      “His mug shot made the rounds before I left the force.”

      “And there it is. You didn’t do your homework. Umer came up clean, so you were good to go. Bet he paid you plenty, huh?”

      “Enough. Look, Shannon—”

      “Darcy.” A false smile. “For what it’s worth and what might be salvageable—probably not much— I’ve been Darcy Nolan for three years now. I prefer to keep as many doors closed and windows open as I can.” When something rustled the bushes near the fence, she sighed. “Much as I hate to suggest this, we should probably finish our chat inside, where no one can come crashing through a hedgerow on a stolen bike. Can you imagine the headline? My editor would have the exclusive she’s been longing for, followed by book and screenplay rights. All things good in her world.”

      Marlowe picked up her bags as she started for the stoop. “She’s not a friend?”

      “Oh, Elaine and I are friendly enough, but longings are longings, after all.”

      “You don’t sound bitter.”

      “Bitterness is a destructive emotion. I prefer being positive.”

      “And you can find a shred of that here?”

      She tossed a smile over her shoulder. “Of course I can. Three years, a name change and one late-night attack later, I’m still alive.”

      HE DIDN’T WANT TO step inside her home. Didn’t want to know her, or anything more about her than was absolutely necessary. Simpler, smarter, easier to keep her at arm’s length and think of her in two dimensions rather than three.

      Unfortunately, it was too late for that, and the anger crawling in his belly wasn’t the kind he could push away. He deposited her bags next to the door, then followed her down a wide corridor to the kitchen.

      Shadows hung everywhere in the old house. They spilled over the upstairs railing and slashed through the carved wood of the banister, lengthened on the hardwood floors and darkened cream walls.

      In the kitchen, she switched on the overhead light. “Here’s the deal. You tell me what I deserve to know, and you can have a beer.”

      Unexpected amusement rippled through him. “I’ve given