I’m staring, furious, at what’s still clutched in Sack-Dress’s right fist. “Oh. My. God.” I put a hand to my hair, which feels all wrong. And my scalp is throbbing.
Evan winces, pries open the woman’s fingers, and removes a torn hank of my hair. “Ummm.” He extends it to me. “D’you want it back?”
I gape.
Matthis chokes.
The twice-flattened porter appears. “Are you all right?” He glances dubiously at my hair.
I do not even want to know what it looks like. . . .
“Ah. Uh,” mumbles Matthis. “I’m gonna suggest . . . maybe . . . a weave. You know, temporarily.”
This can’t be good.
I don’t have a lot of time to worry about it, though, because Evan gets off Sack-Dress and hauls her to her feet. I’m pleased to see that she doesn’t look so good, either. Her nose is broken and gushing blood. She’s got a black eye. She’s pretty banged up—and it’s not as if her hair is Oscar-worthy, either. It’s not pretty, but at least it’s not half ripped out.
Evan keeps a firm grip on her with one hand and pulls out his GI badge with the other. He shows it to the porter.
“Evan Kincaid. Junior officer with Interpol. We were simply going on holiday. This woman tried to kidnap and attack my friend here. Can you call a couple of other porters and take her into custody?”
Sack-Dress tries to break away from Evan, but he knocks her feet out from under her, gentleman that he is. At least he holds her upright—if it were up to me, I’d let her fall back onto her face.
The porter gets on his walkie-talkie thing. Within minutes, three other porters come running, and they hustle us all into a special first-class car, though they seem suspicious of Evan’s GI credentials. One of them gets a first aid kit. They clean Sack-Dress’s face and pack her nose, telling her to lean her head back. She refuses to look at me. Her hands are shaking.
I’m thinking this is weird, except I look at my own hands and they’re just as bad. I guess it’s adrenaline. Adifferent porter squats down next to me and tries to clean my face, but I tell him it’s not necessary and wave him away.
“Trust me, it’s necessary,” says Evan. He takes over. How is it that Evan has not a hair out of place and still smells like royalty? His aftershave must cost a thousand dollars an ounce.
He bites his lip as he takes my chin in his hand. I try to jerk away from him but find that I can’t. “Keep still,” he orders. Then, as if I’m three years old, he wipes my mouth. Really, the last time anyone did this, I was wearing pull-ups.
“Well,” he says, “you won’t need a collagen injection for a while.”
Huh?
He turns my head to inspect my hair and grins. “Matthis? About that weave you mentioned . . .”
“I don’t care what my hair looks like!” I say. “I only care about Charlie.”
“Okay,” Evan says, but he looks amused. “But you’ll need a hat or a wig.”
I guess I should probably look at the back of my head. “Give me a mirror, then.”
Everyone—all the porters, Matthis, and Evan—exchanges a glance.
“Right,” Evan says. “Get the girl to a mirror.”
The first porter points to a door right outside the car.
I get up and walk toward it, not without a feeling of dread. I’m no girlie girl, but everyone has a little vanity.
It’s very cramped inside the WC, and the light isn’tgreat. But there’s enough for me to see that my mouth is swollen to the size of an inner tube. There are cuts and abrasions on my face, which despite Evan’s attempts, is still not clean.
I gingerly try to angle my head so that I can see the back of it, but my brain feels like its sloshing inside my skull. Then there’s a shout and a scuffle outside. A thump. A slam. Another shout.
I throw open the door just in time to see Sack-Dress hurl herself bodily off the train. Understand that I’m no fan of hers . . . but even I wince, horrified, as she bounces down the embankment and rolls
Evan winces, pries open the woman’s fingers, and removes a torn hank of my hair. “Ummm.” He extends it to me. “D’you want it back?”
I gape.
Matthis chokes.
The twice-flattened porter appears. “Are you all right?” He glances dubiously at my hair.
I do not even want to know what it looks like. . . .
“Ah. Uh,” mumbles Matthis. “I’m gonna suggest . . . maybe . . . a weave. You know, temporarily.”
This can’t be good.
I don’t have a lot of time to worry about it, though, because Evan gets off Sack-Dress and hauls her to her feet. I’m pleased to see that she doesn’t look so good, either. Her nose is broken and gushing blood. She’s got a black eye. She’s pretty banged up—and it’s not as if her hair is Oscar-worthy, either. It’s not pretty, but at least it’s not half ripped out.
Evan keeps a firm grip on her with one hand and pulls out his GI badge with the other. He shows it to the porter.
“Evan Kincaid. Junior officer with Interpol. We were simply going on holiday. This woman tried to kidnap and attack my friend here. Can you call a couple of other porters and take her into custody?”
Sack-Dress tries to break away from Evan, but he knocks her feet out from under her, gentleman that he is. At least he holds her upright—if it were up to me, I’d let her fall back onto her face.
The porter gets on his walkie-talkie thing. Within minutes, three other porters come running, and they hustle us all into a special first-class car, though they seem suspicious of Evan’s GI credentials. One of them gets a first aid kit. They clean Sack-Dress’s face and pack her nose, telling her to lean her head back. She refuses to look at me. Her hands are shaking.
I’m thinking this is weird, except I look at my own hands and they’re just as bad. I guess it’s adrenaline. Adifferent porter squats down next to me and tries to clean my face, but I tell him it’s not necessary and wave him away.
“Trust me, it’s necessary,” says Evan. He takes over. How is it that Evan has not a hair out of place and still smells like royalty? His aftershave must cost a thousand dollars an ounce.
He bites his lip as he takes my chin in his hand. I try to jerk away from him but find that I can’t. “Keep still,” he orders. Then, as if I’m three years old, he wipes my mouth. Really, the last time anyone did this, I was wearing pull-ups.
“Well,” he says, “you won’t need a collagen injection for a while.”
Huh?
He turns my head to inspect my hair and grins. “Matthis? About that weave you mentioned . . .”
“I don’t care what my hair looks like!” I say. “I only care about Charlie.”
“Okay,” Evan says, but he looks amused. “But you’ll need a hat or a wig.”
I guess I should probably look at the back of my head. “Give me a mirror, then.”
Everyone—all the porters, Matthis, and Evan—exchanges a glance.
“Right,” Evan says. “Get the girl to a mirror.”
The first porter points to a door right outside the car.
I get up and walk toward it, not without a feeling of dread. I’m no girlie girl, but everyone has a little vanity.
It’s very cramped inside the WC, and the light isn’tgreat. But there’s enough for me to see that my mouth is swollen to the size of an inner tube. There are cuts and abrasions on my face, which despite Evan’s attempts, is still not clean.
I gingerly try to angle my head so that I can see the back of it, but my brain feels like its sloshing inside my skull. Then there’s a shout and a scuffle outside. A thump. A slam. Another shout.
I throw open the door just in time to see Sack-Dress hurl herself bodily off the train. Understand that I’m no fan of hers . . . but even I wince, horrified, as she bounces down the embankment and rolls
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