Who wore beige to the zoo on a wet day?
Of course, she’d understood the conversation he and Gabriel had in her presence. Gentle ladies were taught French, weren’t they?
Marco, realizing that Raphael’s notice had been directed elsewhere, glanced behind him to find the culprit. “What is it?”
“Nothing,” Raphael said, shifting his gaze to the side. “I saw someone I recognized.”
“Not the police, I hope. They are searching for you in every nook and shadow of the city.”
“Which is why I’m hiding in the sunlight.”
Marco chuckled and tapped his temple. “Always a step ahead, Jefe. That’s why you’re in charge.”
Raphael put a hand on Marco’s solid shoulder, only half meaning the fond gesture as he drew the gangster toward the lion’s den—in the opposite direction of the curious girl. “I’m avoiding a woman,” he explained as he ducked them behind a shed and then quickly changed their direction.
“Say no more.” Marco winked conspiratorially and kept up with nimble strides.
Raphael got to business as he led Marco toward a back gate. “I had you meet me here because Dorian Blackwell is said to be fond of taking his children to Regent’s Park in the late afternoon. Sometimes they come to the zoo, sometimes not, but I need you to find him and invite him and his most trusted men to the masquerade.”
Marco’s eyes widened. “Dorian Blackwell? The Blackheart of Ben More? He and his men ruled this city not so long ago, but everyone says he’s reformed since he married a Countess. Retired, even.”
Raphael inclined his head. “I think he would be interested in a market share of this product. He still holds enviable economic influence, from the dregs of the underworld all the way to Parliament.”
Marco’s eyes flashed with greed. It was something Raphael knew he could always rely upon...a man’s own self-interest.
“Consider it done.” Marco crushed his cigarette beneath his bootheel and strode toward the zoo’s gate, one hand on the lapel of his dandy plaid suit. He held said gate open to a fine elderly couple who thanked him with wide smiles.
They’d miss their valuables later.
Raphael doubled back toward the wolf exhibit.
Flattening his back against the reptile enclosure, he peered around the corner to find exactly what he thought he would.
Mercy Goode standing before the wolves, forehead wrinkled and plump lips tightened into a recalcitrant frown.
He’d lost her and she resented him for it.
Poor thing. He wanted to tell her it didn’t detract from her considerable detective skills. He was a professional criminal, and she little more than an inquisitive girl.
She had no chance of capturing him.
It surprised him to find that his hand had found its way inside his suit coat, to rest over his chest.
She made the muscles around his lungs squeeze at the same time his heart seemed to double in size and radiate a confounding warmth.
Kissing her in the carriage had been a mistake.
And yet, when he searched what passed for his conscience, he couldn’t find it in himself to regret it.
Since the first moment he’d laid eyes on her, he’d been transfixed.
Beguiled.
No one that bold and brash should have such innocent eyes.
She was a force of nature, like a firestorm or an earthquake. Something that left the terrain forever altered in her wake.
She was unforgettable. Indescribable. Delectable.
How could he go to war without tasting that for himself?
Especially when she’d looked at him in that way. With the heavy-lidded gaze of a woman who wanted to be kissed but was too proud to ask and too untried to take what she wanted.
Raphael bit into his fist. He couldn’t tell which was a more exquisite hell. Wanting to taste her? Or having sampled her flavor, knowing that a more sublime pleasure awaited the man who unlocked the passion roiling beneath the barely contained surface of her propriety.
Knowing, without a doubt, that he could release her like a volcano, and watch as she erupted into ecstasy.
He should go. He had so much to do, to prepare for.
He needed to be rid of her. For both of their sakes.
Visibly deflated, Mercy stowed her opera glasses in the velvet pouch hanging from her wrist and turned to contemplate the wolves.
They’d come alive at her approach, panting and pacing, some of them making wild, hungry sounds.
Raphael knew exactly how they felt.
His feet carried him toward her as if moving without his consent. There was no stopping this, he was propelled—compelled—by her mere presence. She was, indeed, like the sun, and he was merely a helpless body trapped in her orbit.
How could he leave when she appeared so glum? How could he be the cause of such a frown?
He’d done some terrible things, but her displeasure would bother him all day.
So intent was she upon her disappointment, she didn’t mark his approach until he spoke. “I always pity them, the predators,” he murmured as he drew abreast of her, standing close enough that their shoulders nearly touched.
Other than a lift of her bosom with a sharp intake of breath, she made no move to acknowledge him.
Raphael leaned against the iron bars of the enclosure, watching the alpha pace back and forth. Staring deep into eyes that seemed so ancient and feral, compared to this so-called civilized place.
His chest ached for them both. “I wonder what it would be like to be as they are. Creatures of instinct and insatiable hunger...caged but longing to roam free.”
Mercy tilted her chin to level him a sharp look, scoffing gently. “I am a woman. I don’t have to wonder such things. I already know.”
A pensive sound escaped him on a huff of breath. “It has never been a mystery why men keep women caged by so many unseen confines,” he said. “Their laws. Their clothing. Societal expectations...And through doing this, men have devised the most fiendish jailers.”
“Yes, you men have fashioned yourselves as most cunning oppressors,” she agreed with an arch bitterness in her voice. “Congratulations.”
“No,” he purred, turning toward her. Inching closer. “Women’s greatest enemy is other women. If you ever stopped competing for the favor of your oppressors and rose up against us, instead, we men wouldn’t stand a chance.”
At this, she shifted, her sharp chin dipping so she could study him from beneath the veil of her lashes. “You speak as though you’re an expert on the subject of my sex.”
“Women are too complicated and varied for one man to become an expert,” he said, rather modestly, he thought, congratulating himself.
Her eyes narrowed further, reminding him of a cat irked by the attentions of a tiresome human. “Is it women who are complicated? Or men who are just too simple or fatuous to figure out what should be painfully obvious?”
He held his hands up in a gesture of surrender. “You’re right, of course. Let us not say complicated. Let us say...intricate. Comprised of so many parts both fragile and indestructible. Mechanisms of emotion and logic, trivialities and also infinite wisdom.”
He motioned to the wolves. “We men are the beasts. Quarrelsome and querulous creatures of instinct and desire.”
“Is that why you call your gang the Fauves? The wild beasts. Because you are encouraging such animalistic behavior?”