work area, in a corner between two oversize windows. She trailed her hand along the edge of her drafting table set at an angle to the large desk beneath one window. Glancing aside, she stared into the black screen of her computer, on which she created graphic designs for certain assignments.
But Megan was not using the computer for her current assignment. She was working in the medium of her first love, illustrative painting, with real paints and real brushes and the very real odors that went with it.
Megan respected the computer, and its mind-boggling capabilities, and so she gave it a quick nod of recognition. It was then that she noticed the tiny red light on the answering machine next to the telephone on the corner of the desk. She rewound the tape and pressed the play button. The first message was from the friend she had dined with Friday night.
“Hi, Meg, it's Julie, as if you didn't know.” Julie's tinkling laughter brought a sad smile to Megan's lips. “It's Saturday morning, 10:35,” she went on, “and I suppose you're off shopping or something.”
Or something, Megan thought, suppressing a shudder spawned by the memory of her emotional display while relating the events of her ordeal to Royce in the hospital Saturday morning.
“...wonderful seeing you again...” Julie was going on, recapturing Megan's attention. “Cliff and I have really missed your company and smiling face since you moved back here, but we do understand how you might feel safer here than living alone in New York.”
Safer! Megan groaned. The machine beeped and Julie's voice was cut off. Seconds later, the beep sounded again, and Julie was back, laughter in her voice.
“It's me again. Meg, I'm gonna have to run. Clifford is bugging me to get moving. We're off on a hike into the hills— How lucky can one woman get? If I don't get a chance to talk to you before we leave tomorrow, I'll give you a buzz one day next week. See ya.”
“See ya,” Megan murmured, envisioning her friend's dear pixie face, her smiling eyes. “And please be careful, both of you. There's danger in those hills,” she went on in a choked whisper, as a hulking form intruded on her vision.
Caught up once again in the memory of that violent man, that terrifying experience, Megan began to shiver. Tears welled up to sting her eyes and clog her throat. A moan of protest was torn from the depths of her chest, and she shook her head to dispel the vision, the memory.
“Royce.” Megan was unaware of whimpering his name aloud, of crying out for his stabilizing presence, the physical strength of his hand, the psychological strength of his being.
He was not there to rescue her. The answering machine responded in his stead. It beeped, then played another message, this one from her current employer—and onetime would-be lover—Jefferson Clarke, Jr. Though Megan had never been able to respond on an emotional level to Jeff, he had continued to utilize her professional talents, and they had developed an abiding friendship.
Jefferson held the title of associate publisher with Clarke and Clarke, Inc., father-and-son publishers of a quarterly magazine with a chic and savvy format, geared for the young—and not-so-young—up-and-coming executive.
“Megan, I'm waiting for the illustrations that were supposed to be on my desk last week,” he said, not unkindly. “Can I look for them anytime soon?”
The sound of Jeff's chiding voice broke through the haze of remembered fear gripping Megan. She smiled faintly and sniffed as the machine issued a double beep, indicating the end of her messages. Raising her hand, she swiped the film of tears from her eyes before erasing the tape and resetting the machine.
Should she give Jeff a call, explain the situation, and the subsequent psychological and emotional effects? Megan mused, drawing in deep, shuddering breaths. Knowing Jeff, she felt certain that he would react to her ordeal with both compassion and understanding, and very
But Megan was not using the computer for her current assignment. She was working in the medium of her first love, illustrative painting, with real paints and real brushes and the very real odors that went with it.
Megan respected the computer, and its mind-boggling capabilities, and so she gave it a quick nod of recognition. It was then that she noticed the tiny red light on the answering machine next to the telephone on the corner of the desk. She rewound the tape and pressed the play button. The first message was from the friend she had dined with Friday night.
“Hi, Meg, it's Julie, as if you didn't know.” Julie's tinkling laughter brought a sad smile to Megan's lips. “It's Saturday morning, 10:35,” she went on, “and I suppose you're off shopping or something.”
Or something, Megan thought, suppressing a shudder spawned by the memory of her emotional display while relating the events of her ordeal to Royce in the hospital Saturday morning.
“...wonderful seeing you again...” Julie was going on, recapturing Megan's attention. “Cliff and I have really missed your company and smiling face since you moved back here, but we do understand how you might feel safer here than living alone in New York.”
Safer! Megan groaned. The machine beeped and Julie's voice was cut off. Seconds later, the beep sounded again, and Julie was back, laughter in her voice.
“It's me again. Meg, I'm gonna have to run. Clifford is bugging me to get moving. We're off on a hike into the hills— How lucky can one woman get? If I don't get a chance to talk to you before we leave tomorrow, I'll give you a buzz one day next week. See ya.”
“See ya,” Megan murmured, envisioning her friend's dear pixie face, her smiling eyes. “And please be careful, both of you. There's danger in those hills,” she went on in a choked whisper, as a hulking form intruded on her vision.
Caught up once again in the memory of that violent man, that terrifying experience, Megan began to shiver. Tears welled up to sting her eyes and clog her throat. A moan of protest was torn from the depths of her chest, and she shook her head to dispel the vision, the memory.
“Royce.” Megan was unaware of whimpering his name aloud, of crying out for his stabilizing presence, the physical strength of his hand, the psychological strength of his being.
He was not there to rescue her. The answering machine responded in his stead. It beeped, then played another message, this one from her current employer—and onetime would-be lover—Jefferson Clarke, Jr. Though Megan had never been able to respond on an emotional level to Jeff, he had continued to utilize her professional talents, and they had developed an abiding friendship.
Jefferson held the title of associate publisher with Clarke and Clarke, Inc., father-and-son publishers of a quarterly magazine with a chic and savvy format, geared for the young—and not-so-young—up-and-coming executive.
“Megan, I'm waiting for the illustrations that were supposed to be on my desk last week,” he said, not unkindly. “Can I look for them anytime soon?”
The sound of Jeff's chiding voice broke through the haze of remembered fear gripping Megan. She smiled faintly and sniffed as the machine issued a double beep, indicating the end of her messages. Raising her hand, she swiped the film of tears from her eyes before erasing the tape and resetting the machine.
Should she give Jeff a call, explain the situation, and the subsequent psychological and emotional effects? Megan mused, drawing in deep, shuddering breaths. Knowing Jeff, she felt certain that he would react to her ordeal with both compassion and understanding, and very
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