She blew out a breath. Curling her legs, she shifted so she could fix her gaze on his face. “All right. Perhaps I can imagine it. You were wild as a youth, and-”
“Not just wild. Reckless.” He paused, his eyes steady on hers; after a moment, he asked, “Isn’t that what it takes?”
She didn’t reply.
A pregnant moment ticked by, then he faced forward, settling his shoulders against the sofa’s back, stretching out his legs, crossing his ankles, sliding his hands into his trouser pockets. He looked across the smooth surface of the lake to the distant glimmer that was the house; his lips curved, not cynically but in self-deprecation.
“Wild, reckless, and game for any lark.” His tone suggested he viewed his younger self from a considerable distance, a separation in time and place. “Hedonistic, conceited, and selfish, and, naturally, immature. I had everything-name, money, every comfort. But I wanted more. No-I craved more. I needed excitement and thrills. My father tried, as fathers do, to rein me in, but in those days neither of us understood what drove the other.” He paused, then baldly stated, “I became involved in betting on cockfights, got deeply in debt, which then left me-as the only son of the wealthy Keeper of the Stud Book, a revered member of the Jockey Club-open to blackmail.”
He paused, gazing unseeing down the lake, then went on, his voice even but with darker currents rippling beneath. “They wanted me to act as a runner, organizing jockeys to hold back their mounts-a common enough scam in those days. I was just…cowardly enough to convince myself that falling in with their plan was my only choice.”
This time, his pause lasted longer, the emotions ran deeper; Pris could find no adequate words to break it, so she waited.
Eventually, he stirred and glanced briefly at her. “Flick stood by me. She got Demon to help, and together they pulled me free of it. They exposed the race-fixing racket and the gentleman behind it-and forced me to, gave me the opportunity to, grow up.”
“What happened to the cowardly streak?” When he glanced at her, she pointed out, “You wouldn’t have mentioned it if you weren’t sure you’d grown out of it.”
His teeth flashed in a brief, cynically acknowledging smile before he looked back at the lake. “The coward in me died the instant the blackguard behind the scheme pointed a pistol at Flick.” His gaze shifted over the silent water. A moment passed before he said, “It was strange-a moment when my life truly changed, when I suddenly saw what was important and what wasn’t. To have someone I loved suffer because of something I’d foolishly done…I couldn’t-absolutely and beyond question could not-face that.”
“What happened? Was she shot?”
He shook his head. “No.”
He said nothing more. She frowned, analyzing, then it came to her, like a premonition, only more certain. “You got shot instead.”
Without looking at her, he shrugged. “Only reasonable in the circumstances. I survived.”
A penance, a payment he didn’t want to discuss. She had a good idea why he’d told her what he had, and where he was steering their conversation-in a direction she didn’t want it to go. “The wild and reckless.”
She waited until he looked at her, met her eyes. “Being wild and reckless is part of your soul.” She knew that as well as she knew her own. “You can’t lose characteristics like that, so where are they now? What do you do to satisfy the craving for excitement and thrills?”
She was curious; his eyes traveled her face, and she suspected he understood. That he saw that that was a question to which she’d yet to find an answer herself.
The smile that curled the ends of his lips suggested a certain sympathy. “Back then, I wondered-feared-that I’d become addicted to gambling, but to my relief, I found that wasn’t so. I am”-he tilted his head her way in wry acknowledgment-“addicted, but to the rush of excitement, the thrill that comes with…success, I suppose. In winning, in succeeding, in beating the odds.” He glanced briefly at her. “Luckily, my addiction didn’t care in which endeavor I succeeded-it was the achievement that counted.”
“So which endeavors have you been succeeding in?” She opened her eyes wide. “I can’t imagine tending the Breeding Register for the Jockey Club qualifies.”
Dillon grinned. “Not on its best day. My position there is more a long-term interest, almost a hereditary one. No, through Demon and the rest of his family, the Cynsters, I became involved in investing.”
“Not the Funds, I take it?”
The dryness of her comment made him smile. “Having been educated by the best in the field, some of my wealth is of course deposited in the Funds, but you’re right-the excitement and thrills come from the rest. The ferreting out of new opportunities, the evaluating, the projections, the possibilities-it’s a wager of sorts, but on a much grander scale, with many more factors to take into account, but if you learn the right skills and use them well, the chances of success are immeasurably greater than in gaming-and the thrills and excitement commensurately more intense.”
She looked at the lake and sighed. “And therefore more satisfying.”
He eyed her profile. He wasn’t entirely certain why he’d told her so much, but the telling had only reinforced his sense of obligation. He owed so much to so many-to Flick most of all, but also to Demon and the Cynsters in general. When he’d been in trouble, they’d freely and openly given him the aid he’d needed to reclaim his life. Through them, he’d made friends, acquaintances, and connections that he valued immensely, that were fundamentally important to who he now was.
Others had given him a great deal when he’d been in need.
Now Pris Dalling, and whoever she was protecting, needed help; he couldn’t walk away, couldn’t not offer his aid in turn.
“I told you about my past so you’d understand that, if you or whoever you’re protecting has become embroiled in any illicit scheme and are finding it difficult to break free, then I, of all people, will understand.” He waited until she turned her head and faced him, he sensed reluctantly. “If they’re in trouble and need help, I’m prepared to give it, but in order to do so, you’ll have to tell me who they are and what’s going on.”
Holding his gaze, Pris found herself facing the crux of her problem. She knew in her heart Rus would never willingly have become embroiled in any illicit scheme, but why hadn’t he come forward and reported what ever it was he’d learned? Why was he hiding?
She didn’t know; until she did…grimacing, she looked back at the lake. “I can’t tell you.”
Despite her best efforts, the words rang with real reluctance; despite her loyalty to Rus, the urge to grasp the hand Dillon held out was surprisingly strong-especially after that incident with Harkness, compounded by Cromarty’s appearance that evening.
Since sighting Rus on the night he’d tried to break into the Jockey Club, she’d learned nothing more of his whereabouts. And with Harkness stalking the Heath and Cromarty swaggering about the ballrooms, her ability to search was becoming restricted.
She needed help, but…
Dillon moved, drawing his hands from his pockets and shifting to face her.
He was regrouping to press her further; she struck before he could, offense being infinitely preferable to defense, especially where he was concerned. She looked at him, let their gazes clash and lock-suddenly very aware of him, large, dark and dangerous, one muscled arm draped along the sofa’s back. “I need to know the implications of what I’m telling you before I do. If you’ll tell me what’s in the register…?”
He held her gaze for a heartbeat, then inflexibly replied, “I can’t.”
Where the compulsion came from she didn’t know-part aggression, part rising fear, and partly that wild and reckless craving for excitement and thrills that was as intrinsic a part of her as it was of him.