A Fine Passion (Bastion Club 4)

Leaving her staring across a bare expanse of ten yards, directly at her quarry.

His small eyes opened wide. Then with a muffled curse she heard, he whirled and plunged down the path behind him.

Clarice picked up her skirts and hurried after him.

The path was a major one, well lit by lanterns strung between the trees. There were couples and groups strolling along, enough to reassure Clarice but not enough to hide her.

Or the man. He darted along, not quite running, trying, still, not to attract too much attention, glancing behind him every now and then. The idea of screeching “Thief!” and pointing at him flared in Clarice’s mind, just as he ducked down an intersecting path.

She swore, and rushed on. The distance between them had lengthened. She was almost running as she rounded the corner and started along the next path.

A minor path. An unlighted one.

Chapter 21

Clarice halted. She’d traveled less than ten yards along the path, but already she stood in dense shadow. The bustle of the crowd around the rotunda suddenly seemed far away, screened by thick bushes.

And she could no longer see her quarry.

“Damn!” She stood a moment more, debating, then did the sensible thing, turned on her heel and marched back to safety.

“Damn, damn, da—” She sucked in a breath and whirled as the man rushed toward her. He’d been hiding in the bushes a few paces farther on.

Lips pulled back in a snarl, he was on her. Before she could release the scream rising up her throat, he slapped a huge hand over her lips, trapped her against him, then started to drag her back down the path. Away from the lighted path with its occasional strollers, away from anyone who might glimpse her silvery gown.

Clarice struggled frantically. This was much worse than the previous night; this man had killed, and would cold-bloodedly kill again.

She kicked and fought, and managed to slow him, but she couldn’t break free. He was not only stronger than the man last night, he was also more intent, more set on his aim, more experienced. His hand was clamped so hard over her lips, she couldn’t move her jaw enough to bite.

Desperate, she used her weight, sagged in his hold, then kicked and wrestled when he swore and tried to juggle her.

She forced him to stop again, but they were too far from the other path; she wasn’t making enough noise to attract anyon

e’s attention.

The heavy arm around her middle tightened, compressing her lungs. Then the hand over her mouth shifted; he pinched her nostrils closed, simultaneously pressing hard against her mouth, sealing off all air.

Clarice stopped struggling; she went totally still. Before she could think what to do, how to pretend she’d fainted, a roaring filled her ears.

Her vision started closing in, narrowing to a central core of light…

Jack appeared within that halo.

She assumed she was dying, that his was the final image she would see, her biggest regret that she would take to her grave—

Her captor swore. He released her mouth, reached beneath his coat.

Clarice sucked in a huge breath. Blinking back to life, she realized Jack was truly there, rushing down the path toward them, her warrior-lord come to save her.

Simultaneously she realized her captor had drawn a wicked-looking knife from his pocket, that he was holding it down where in the deep shadows Jack wouldn’t see it.

She wrenched sideways, trying to force the man to raise the knife.

The man didn’t move, didn’t take his eyes from Jack, closing rapidly.

Clarice remembered she could speak. “He has a knife!”

Neither Jack nor the man seemed to hear.