sought, sweat rolled between her shoulder blades. Once she crossed the threshold, crisp air ferreted away the humidity, cooling her skin. One button later, Mags lounged against the elevator, enjoying the climate-controlled environment. She rallied when the car stopped and she exited left toward Mrs. F’s office.
Head down, she smacked into a wall of a fellow.
“Sorry.” She winced and grabbed the skin just below her hairline.
“Steady there,” the voice, the one who’d called to reschedule the meeting, said. His hands wrapped around her shoulders, steadying her. But after completing the task they didn’t move. Each digit compressed, molding into her skin.
Mags looked up into dark eyes. The man’s bald head gleamed in the fluorescent light. His thick shoulders resembled boulders stacked largest to smallest down his arm. Definitely not what she pictured from talking to him on the phone. Definitely not who she wanted to meet in a dark alley—or a deserted corridor for that matter.
The hair along her forearms stood at attention and Mags took a step back. Reluctantly, his grasp left her. The guy smiled, but no pleasant fuzzies pacified her wariness. In fact, the expression gained a malevolent quality the longer it stayed frozen on his face.
Run!
Her body screamed the demand, but she shook it off. They were in a public place and her professor was just three doors down on the right. If she took off running in the opposite direction, she’d miss her appointment, again, and look like a lunatic.
“Please excuse me,” she begged. The step she took around him pushed her short legs to their span limit. If it seemed rude, she didn’t much care. The guy gave her the jeebs.
“Ms. Wells?” He repeated the phrase he’d used on the phone.
Her stomach lurched at the dead tone that hadn’t come through on the line. Mags took two more steps before peering over her shoulder. “Yes?”
“Mrs. Fry isn’t in right now.”
“Oh?” Mags hated the fear laced in her breathless question. Disliked the shiver rolling through her body even more.
He smiled again. “Yeah. She’s at home with her family. You have family, don’t you, Ms. Wells?”
Magdalena's mouth opened, but no sound escaped. Breaths came fast. In. Out. Her chest rose and fell. Again her mind yelled. Run! But her legs seemed crafted of lead.
“Father, Easton Wells. Your poor dad’s a widower. It’d be a shame if something bad happened to him. And Baine McCord. I can’t quite figure your relation, but give me time. I will.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“Doing what?” Fat hands spread wide in a gesture of confusion. “We’re just talking, right now.”
“And later?” Her backbone revived from its noodle state and it showed in her voice. The strength she’d lost returned with her rage. How dare this bastard threaten her family.
“Depends on what we work out now. Ha,” he laughed. “You’re spunky. I think I could have some fun with you.”
Magdalena didn’t possess the skills to fight a man his size, but she could run, stubby legs or not. Anger spurred her enough that she finally listened when her body screamed once more. She turned and bolted down the hallway toward the emergency stairwell. No use in heading for locked offices.
Her arms pistoned at her sides. The damn tote flapped back and forth, creating a drag that seemed to slow her pace to a cartoon-like jog. Unwilling to drop the key to every detail of her life, Mags gripped the handbag with the crook of her arm and kept moving. She stretched and pulled her legs faster and faster. Her heels slipped on the carpet and fear, pure and terrifying, clawed its way up her throat in a window-rattling scream.
“Help! Somebody help me!”
The noise only reverberated in her ears amidst the roaring of her pulse, ten times louder than Law’s damn motorcycle. No caped crusader appeared from the shadows to smite her pursuer, whose heavy footfalls pounded closer. She dared not look back,
Head down, she smacked into a wall of a fellow.
“Sorry.” She winced and grabbed the skin just below her hairline.
“Steady there,” the voice, the one who’d called to reschedule the meeting, said. His hands wrapped around her shoulders, steadying her. But after completing the task they didn’t move. Each digit compressed, molding into her skin.
Mags looked up into dark eyes. The man’s bald head gleamed in the fluorescent light. His thick shoulders resembled boulders stacked largest to smallest down his arm. Definitely not what she pictured from talking to him on the phone. Definitely not who she wanted to meet in a dark alley—or a deserted corridor for that matter.
The hair along her forearms stood at attention and Mags took a step back. Reluctantly, his grasp left her. The guy smiled, but no pleasant fuzzies pacified her wariness. In fact, the expression gained a malevolent quality the longer it stayed frozen on his face.
Run!
Her body screamed the demand, but she shook it off. They were in a public place and her professor was just three doors down on the right. If she took off running in the opposite direction, she’d miss her appointment, again, and look like a lunatic.
“Please excuse me,” she begged. The step she took around him pushed her short legs to their span limit. If it seemed rude, she didn’t much care. The guy gave her the jeebs.
“Ms. Wells?” He repeated the phrase he’d used on the phone.
Her stomach lurched at the dead tone that hadn’t come through on the line. Mags took two more steps before peering over her shoulder. “Yes?”
“Mrs. Fry isn’t in right now.”
“Oh?” Mags hated the fear laced in her breathless question. Disliked the shiver rolling through her body even more.
He smiled again. “Yeah. She’s at home with her family. You have family, don’t you, Ms. Wells?”
Magdalena's mouth opened, but no sound escaped. Breaths came fast. In. Out. Her chest rose and fell. Again her mind yelled. Run! But her legs seemed crafted of lead.
“Father, Easton Wells. Your poor dad’s a widower. It’d be a shame if something bad happened to him. And Baine McCord. I can’t quite figure your relation, but give me time. I will.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“Doing what?” Fat hands spread wide in a gesture of confusion. “We’re just talking, right now.”
“And later?” Her backbone revived from its noodle state and it showed in her voice. The strength she’d lost returned with her rage. How dare this bastard threaten her family.
“Depends on what we work out now. Ha,” he laughed. “You’re spunky. I think I could have some fun with you.”
Magdalena didn’t possess the skills to fight a man his size, but she could run, stubby legs or not. Anger spurred her enough that she finally listened when her body screamed once more. She turned and bolted down the hallway toward the emergency stairwell. No use in heading for locked offices.
Her arms pistoned at her sides. The damn tote flapped back and forth, creating a drag that seemed to slow her pace to a cartoon-like jog. Unwilling to drop the key to every detail of her life, Mags gripped the handbag with the crook of her arm and kept moving. She stretched and pulled her legs faster and faster. Her heels slipped on the carpet and fear, pure and terrifying, clawed its way up her throat in a window-rattling scream.
“Help! Somebody help me!”
The noise only reverberated in her ears amidst the roaring of her pulse, ten times louder than Law’s damn motorcycle. No caped crusader appeared from the shadows to smite her pursuer, whose heavy footfalls pounded closer. She dared not look back,
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