by Sharon Ihle
Libby glanced down at herself. "I thought this dress made me look businesslike, but maybe it is a little severe. I also brought the red and white gown I wore to supper in Laramie. Would that be better?"
"I'm afraid not." Picturing the outfit and the way Libby had carried herself while wearing it, Donovan cringed. "Please don't take offense, dear, but that one makes you look like you're wearing someone else's dress."
So he'd known all along that she'd been wearing a borrowed gown. Her cheeks burned with humiliation, but Libby was determined enough to impress the publishing magnate, to encourage Donovan's suggestions. "I'm afraid those are the only clothes I brought with me. As I said before, most of my work requires comfort, not style, so I have a very limited wardrobe. Is there a way I can fix them up a little?"
He shook his head. "You don't have to apologize about your clothes, and I don't mean to criticize them either, but I do think we need to get you into something else before you go to see Savage."
"I appreciate your advice, but I'm afraid that it's been quite a struggle for Jeremy and me since pa died. We're just now getting some of the bills caught up." Libby glanced over to where her boot had landed, regretting the two dollars she'd wasted on it. "I'm afraid I simply don't have the extra money to go out and buy new clothes."
"I wasn't suggesting that you should. After what I put you through, I feel that I owe you something more than an apology and a place to stay. Why don't you let me make it up to you by taking you shopping? I'll outfit you from head to toe, and by the time you meet Savage, you'll knock him dead."
Still staring at the uncomfortable boot, again she found herself considering one of Donovan's inappropriate offers. It wouldn't be the right or proper thing to do, accepting clothes from a strange man—one who'd tricked her, at that. It wouldn't be right at all. But right wasn't going to do much to help persuade Savage Publishing to see things her way. And if Donovan had a point about the importance of her appearance—and she suspected that he did have—she really couldn't chance wearing anything she owned.
Lifting her gaze to meet his, Libby gave him a wan smile. "I guess a new dress would go a long way toward making me forget what you did to me in Laramie." But to make sure he wouldn't think of her as beholden to him in anyway, she added, "Since you're willing to do all that for me, I'm willing to call it even between us."
"Done," he said magnanimously, sensing that he'd finally gotten the upper hand with the sassy little ink-slinger.
* * *
As promised, Donovan had taken Libby shopping for clothes, and had even spent a whole afternoon showing her the sights of San Francisco—most notably, a lovely carriage ride through heavily wooded and thoroughly charming Golden Gate Park. Having lived in Laramie all her life, Libby had never seen anything like it or the San Francisco Bay, with its throngs of sea gulls and fishing boats. He'd even treated her to restaurant suppers twice now: once at Sam's Grill, where she'd tried green turtle soup; then again last night, when he'd taken her down to the wharf, to a place called the Cobweb Palace, for clam chowder and cracked crab. "A prelude," he'd said then, "to the victory supper of lobster we will soon share at Delmonico's."
Libby didn't have a reason in the world or the right to complain about a thing. Donovan went off to the "theatre" each and every night, leaving her to manage on her own. He slept most of the day, and then disappeared into the night again. His long absences did not bother her, as he did have a business to run, no matter how morally questionable this "theatre" of his might be. Besides, what woman in her right mind groused because a man treated her like a lady?
Left alone much of the time, she'd filled her time by writing editorials and letters home to Jeremy, as well as making a few journeys around the city on her own. Her only source of irritation was Gerda, who'd come by the house another four times since Libby's arrival from Laramie, and still treated Libby as if she were one of the painted ladies from Lucky Lil's. The fact that the Frau steadfastly refused to set foot in her room didn't bother Libby much since she was unused to having anyone do her chores for her. But she was tired of feeling like an outcast, especially now that Black Monday—as she'd begun to view it—was here.
Her nerves feeling taut as she sat in one of the lavish waiting rooms at Savage Publishing, Libby made a fast study of her appearance—again. She was wearing the smashing new outfit Donovan had bought for her—the tight-fitting jacket made of terra-cotta sateen set off by olive trim, the draped skirt checkered in strawberry red and white. He'd even insisted on buying her a saucy little English straw bonnet trimmed with pink roses and an ecru ostrich plume, a hat she could wear with everything she owned. She'd never possessed anything quite so cosmopolitan as her new outfit, or so comfortable as the soft kid leather shoes beneath it, but still, she couldn't lose the feeling that something wasn't quite right.
Turning to Donovan for reassurance, Libby held her gloved hand out to him and said, "Look at me—I'm shaking so badly, I can't even hold my fingers steady."
He reached for her hand just as an attractive young woman approached. "Mr. Savage will see you now, Mr. Donovan."
Giving Libby's fingers a quick squeeze, he whispered, "Wish me luck." Then he lifted himself and Andrew's satchel up from the plush leather couch, and disappeared with the secretary through a pair of wide double doors at the end of the hall.
Donovan walked into the publishing scion's office, sniffing the air. As he'd expected, it was permeated with the heady aroma of money and all the trappings such a vast fortune could buy. The scent of fine leather and premium burled walnut drifted past his nose along with a whiff of rich pipe tobacco. Blindfolded, Donovan would have known in an instant that he'd stepped into the domain of an extremely wealthy man.
Not that another's prosperity made him feel humble or inferior in any way. In fact, ostentatious displays had always annoyed his sense of fair play, or something close to it. Answering what he viewed as a challenge, Donovan displayed the only riches he'd ever possessed—grit enough to choke a full-grown horse—and strode right up to the magnate's expansive desk without waiting for a proper introduction.
"It's, ah, Mr. William Donovan to see you, sir," the secretary said, stumbling over the words.
While his sharp-eyed gaze never left Donovan's face, Savage waved the young woman away. "Thanks, Grace." Then he reached out and shook Donovan's hand, scrutinizing him as he waited for the secretary to close the door behind her. Once she was gone, he finally addressed Donovan.
"Please," he said, his voice pleasant but firm, as he lowered himself onto his plush, barrel-shaped chair. "Have a seat."
"Don't mind if I do."
Donovan chose one of the three walnut and black leather chairs across from the man's desk, set the satchel on the floor beside him, then took another really good look at the man. Savage wasn't at all the way he'd pictured him; in fact, he was quite the opposite. Judging from Andrew's age, his father had to be close to fifty, but the publisher didn't look one hell of a lot older than Donovan. What Donovan could see of Savage's physique appeared to be trim and fit, and he still had a full head of coal-black hair, which was merely sprayed at the temples with gray, rather than streaked clear through. Even his eyes, clear blue in color, were as keen as any young sharper's Donovan had come across.
R. T. smiled as Donovan perused him, and said, "I wasn't sure when I saw the name if it'd really be you, but from what I can see, I'd have to say that it is. What made you come looking for me?"
This odd remark startled Donovan, making him feel like he was playing a game of draw poker, blindfolded. Savage almost sounded as if he'd already received information about his dead son. Before Donovan could draw any conclusions, R. T. asked yet another bizarre question, adding to Donovan's general confusion.
"Did your mother have a hand in this, or does she even know you've come to see me?"
What the hell did his mother have to do with this? Was the man baiting him for some reason, trying to make him feel like a kid in need of parental permission? Donovan tried
to draw on his anger, but the hairs at his neck grew stiff with foreboding. "My mother doesn't have a damn thing to do with our business. I've come to see you about one of your sons."
"I guessed as much—or haven't you figured that out." Savage sighed as he reached for a solid gold nail file lying beside his thick felt ink pad. "May I call you William, or are you still known as Willy?"
Still known as Willy? Along with that peculiar statement, something in the man's voice tickled Donovan's memory. Had they met before? Fighting the anger along with his confusion now, he muttered, "I never go by'William or Willy. I'm just plain Donovan."
"I'll remember that." Savage smiled at him again, the expression warmer, more familiar than ever. His eyes twinkling as he drove the file under the already immaculately groomed nail of his left index finger, R. T. went on with his strange conversation. "Why have you come to me after all these years? Do you need money or a job?"
"Why the hell would you think a thing like that?"
"I didn't mean to offend you." R. T. made a fast examination of Donovan's suit. "You look as if you're doing all right. If not for money or a job, are you thinking of staking your claim to the Savage family name?"
Donovan leaped out of his chair. "My claim to the... family name? What the hell are you talking about?"
"I thought..." Savage cocked his head, losing just a little of his cool confidence. "Just exactly what is it you want from me... Son?"
Chapter 5
In far less time than she would have expected, Libby heard the wide double doors at the end of the hall crash open against the walls. Reaching into the cute little lace-edged bag Donovan had insisted on buying for her, she grabbed her spectacles and brought them to her nose in time to see him barreling down the hallway toward her. His expression was frozen, so icy she could have skated across it. What had happened in there?
"Come on. We're leaving," he muttered tightly.
"But what about me? Don't I get to—"
"This isn't a good time for it." Tugging her to her feet, Donovan half-dragged Libby alongside him. "I know you have a lot of questions right now—and believe me, I'll answer them all—but you'll have to wait a while. I can't deal with your questions until I get a few answers of my own."
Another protest was on the tip of her tongue, but something in Donovan's tone told Libby to keep her comments to herself. Never, even in the heat of their name-calling argument, had she seen him without at least a glimmer of amusement in his eyes, or a slight curl at the corner of his mouth. She couldn't begin to fathom what had happened in R. T.'s office, but she was reasonably certain it had nothing to do with her or the Tribune—and that it would probably be best if she were to keep quiet for the time being.
Sticking to that plan, Libby allowed Donovan to drag her down the four flights of stairs, then into a hired carriage which took them a few blocks northwest to Stockton Street, an area which seemed to be the less-respectable part of town. Although Donovan assured her they were only at the fringes of the notorious Barbary Coast section of San Francisco, she kept a lookout for criminal types as he escorted her through one of the three high-arched doorways leading into Lucky Lil's Theatre and Gaming Saloon.
Libby, who'd never even peeked inside such an establishment, donned her glasses in full view of Donovan in order to take her first glimpse at the sordid side of life. Though it was not quite noon, the saloon was better than half-full of customers, men from every kind of business, as far as she could tell by their dress. The rest of the crowd seemed to be female dancers—or actresses, depending on their duties of the moment—all of whom dressed in a manner which showed a good bit of leg and even more cleavage.
As Donovan, who was still standing beside her, scanned the room for his partner, Libby turned her gaze toward the stage, which covered the entire wall at the opposite end of the long room. The performing platform, lighted by gas jets, rose some five or six feet above the main floor and was draped with blood-red curtains of velvet which were tied back. On this stage, five half-naked "actresses" were saucily singing, as a short bald man pounded out a tune on the piano nearby. Although she couldn't quite make out the words, after watching and listening to the reactions of the male customers, Libby had an idea the song was rather ribald.
Most of those patrons clustered around the tables peppered throughout this central area, while others sat in balconies above each side of the stage. Under the fancy balconies on the left were several gaming tables in front of a long bar. On the right, more gaming tables lined a wall that also contained a row of doors to what Libby assumed were offices.
Donovan started to lead her deeper into the saloon, still scanning the crowd for his partner. Her passage was noted by several appreciative "hoots" from the customers, and she was almost relieved when he brought her right up to the bar and called to the woman at the other end.
"Goldy? Come here a minute."
The scantily clad blonde who was tending a customer at the other end of the cherry-wood bar whirled around at the sound of Donovan's voice, then quickly made her way down the narrow plank which served as an elongated foot board to accommodate her diminutive size.
"Hiya, honey," she greeted, all sooty lashes and pouty red lips. "What are you doing here at this time of day?"
"I had a little unexpected business come up. Is Lil in her office?"
"She sure is, honey." With a long, heavy-lidded look in Libby's direction, Goldy asked him, "Is this cute little thing the business that came up?"
"No, she's not, and watch how you talk around her. I've got to see Lil privately for a while, and I want you to keep an eye on Miss Justice. Understand?"
Again the barmaid glanced at Libby, this time tossing her a little wink. "Got it, honey. Do you want me to give her the good stuff, too?"
Donovan's gaze quickly skimmed Libby, lingering over her eyeglasses a moment longer than she would have liked. "Give her whatever she wants. Just keep a damn good eye on her, and don't let any of the customers bother her."
With that final order, he turned to Libby and said, "I'll try not to be too long. Make yourself comfortable, but don't leave this stool." Without any warning, Donovan then fit his hands to her waist and lifted her up onto the little round tufted seat.
"But I don't want you to leave me here alone. Can't I go to the office with you?"
"No. You'll be all right where you are." Donovan pinched her cheek. "Just keep your glasses on so you can see what's coming your way."
Before Libby could make a retort, Goldy said, "If you want to catch Lil, Donovan, you'd best go stop her. Looks to me like she's heading for the bank."
With a quick glance toward the center of the room, Donovan spotted the woman Goldy referred to and took off in her direction, leaving a completely bewildered Libby to fend for herself. So much for gallantry, she thought sourly. But she did strain to see past the gamblers who were standing around a craps table, for a glimpse of this "partner" of his.
Finally getting the right angle, Libby spotted the red-haired woman Donovan had stopped as she walked toward the doors. She was dressed in a striking gown of royal-blue velvet, one which covered her breasts decently enough, though its low dip in the front brought far too much attention to her impressive bosom.
"What's it gonna be, honey?" asked Goldy, interfering with Libby's fierce study of the woman.
"Huh?"
"What can I get you to drink, sugar?" There was unmistakable laughter in the barmaid's voice. "A beer, some whiskey, a little cognac?"
"Oh, ah... nothing, thank you."
Alcohol—at just past noon? Libby was scandalized by the idea. She wasn't one to indulge in libations very often, unless you counted the sip or two of cherry brandy she once enjoyed with her father at the end of a long day behind the press. Squaring her back and carefully folding her hands in her lap in a more ladylike way, she let Goldy know in no uncertain terms that she was not that kind of female. Then she went back to studying Donovan and the flame-haired hussy.
Someth
ing bad had happened in the few moments she'd turned her gaze from them. Donovan appeared to be very angry now, his features set and stony, and it was also painfully clear that he and his partner had much more between them than mere business. Her gaze locked intimately with Donovan's, the hussy raised one of her hands to caress his cheek. It wasn't a moment later that, arm in arm, the pair turned toward the bank of doors and disappeared into one of the offices she'd noticed earlier.
Of course, whatever the two were up to in there was no business of Libby's. They could be longtime lovers, for all she cared. Engaged, even. Her only concerns in this town had to do with Savage Publishing and her little newspaper. So why, she had to wonder, did her heart feel as if it were lodged in her throat, while her stomach felt as if it had plummeted to somewhere south of her navel?
Uncomfortable with the wealth of conflicting emotions running amok inside her, Libby turned to Goldy and said, "You wouldn't happen to have any cherry brandy back there, would you?"
* * *
"For heaven's sake, what in bloody blue hell were you doing at Savage Publishing?" Lil demanded, with a scowl creasing the fine lines on her face.
The office, small, square, with only a tiny window, didn't give Donovan much room to maneuver, but he tried to diffuse his anger a little by keeping on the move. "Don't try to turn this around for your sake, Lil. I had legitimate business with the man, which, by the way, had nothing to do with you or me."
"But how did all this happen? You looked at him and said, 'By the way, are you my father?'"
"Not exactly." Donovan stopped pacing and fixed her with a malignant gaze. "He practically told me that I was his son. I want it straight out: Is Randolph Thaddeous Savage my natural father?"
"That's a hell of a thing." In much the same manner as Donovan had, Lil now strolled back and forth along the well-worn carpet near the door. "How can you even ask me a question like that?"
"Easy. A simple yes or no will be fine by way of an answer. Is he or isn't he?"
