angrily, "Where the hell have you been? Where is Mrs. Lyman? Who the hell was that man you were talking to?" With each question, the pressure on her arm increased until she almost cried out in pain.
"I'm not telling you one damn thing until you let go of my arm," she said.
He looked down at the tight fist gripping her upper arm as if realizing for the first time that he even had a hold on her. He released her immediately. "All right," he barked,
"where is Mrs. Lyman?"
"She's in a boutique buying a dress," Erin explained as she rubbed her arm in an effort to restore its circulation.
"She tried it on earlier and went back just now to pick it up. I was waiting for her out here."
"Who was the man you were having so much fun with?" His eyes were as cold as his tone of voice.
Erin's dark eyes flashed in vexation as she cried, "I don't know! He was just a man, a very friendly, nice man.
Someone you couldn't identify with," she added scathingly-
"You can cut the sarcasm, Miss O'Shea. My rudeness is a product of worry. You were gone for hours! Then when Clark called and said he'd lost you in the crowd—"
"You had us followed!?" she asked incredulously. "Of all the—"
"For Mrs. Lyman's protection only."
"Like hell." Erin saw Melanie coming toward them chatting to a man who was as nondescript as Mike. He was looking chagrined as they walked up. "I found her," he told Lance unnecessarily.
"Yeah. Thanks," Lance said dryly. Erin felt sorry for the young man when she saw the censure in Lance's eyes.
Melanie seemed oblivious to the tension as the foursome wound their way back to Erin's car. "We're parked across the street. We'll follow you home," Lance said as he held the driver's door open for her.
"Yes, sir. Anything you say, sir." She saluted him mockingly and found smug satisfaction in the tight, angry lines on his face as he slammed the car door.
She sought further revenge by asking Melanie to direct her on the longest route home. It included Lombard Street, the crookedest street in the world, having seven curves in one block. The Mercedes took them with ease.
The car Lance was riding in didn't fare as well.
WITH THE FIRST TWINGES of an upset stomach, Erin thought she must be paying for her eating binge that afternoon.
Her altercation with Lance surely hadn't done her digestion any good. She went to bed pleading fatigue and didn't mention her stomachache to Melanie.
She settled down in bed and tried to sleep, but tossed restlessly before finally dozing off. Sometime after mid-night she was awakened by severe stomach cramps. Every muscle in her body contracted against them and sweat broke out of every pore.
Her limbs felt weighted down with lead as she threw back the covers and staggered toward the bathroom. She barely had time to switch on the light and lift the cover of the commode before she was violently ill.
In her life she couldn't remember having an attack of nausea like this. She retched for what seemed like an endless amount of time. With each spasm, the cramping in her intestines took her breath away. Intense heat snaked up her spine, washed over her neck and head, penetrated her brain, and burned in her ears. Then she would shiver with cold. A clammy sweat bathed her body, making her nightgown cling to her like damp seaweed.
At last, when she felt like she had been turned inside out, she washed her face in the lavatory and, unable to stand upright, virtually crawled back to the bed. She collapsed on it, relieved that whatever had made her so sick had been expelled.
That wasn't the case, however. She was alarmed when only a few minutes later, she felt her stomach churning again. She bumped against the door in her dash to the bathroom, and it crashed into the wall. She was still in the throes of nausea when she realized that Melanie was standing there watching her, looking white-faced and terrified.
When Erin was able to look up, Melanie was gone. Once again she stumbled toward the bed and fell across
"I'm not telling you one damn thing until you let go of my arm," she said.
He looked down at the tight fist gripping her upper arm as if realizing for the first time that he even had a hold on her. He released her immediately. "All right," he barked,
"where is Mrs. Lyman?"
"She's in a boutique buying a dress," Erin explained as she rubbed her arm in an effort to restore its circulation.
"She tried it on earlier and went back just now to pick it up. I was waiting for her out here."
"Who was the man you were having so much fun with?" His eyes were as cold as his tone of voice.
Erin's dark eyes flashed in vexation as she cried, "I don't know! He was just a man, a very friendly, nice man.
Someone you couldn't identify with," she added scathingly-
"You can cut the sarcasm, Miss O'Shea. My rudeness is a product of worry. You were gone for hours! Then when Clark called and said he'd lost you in the crowd—"
"You had us followed!?" she asked incredulously. "Of all the—"
"For Mrs. Lyman's protection only."
"Like hell." Erin saw Melanie coming toward them chatting to a man who was as nondescript as Mike. He was looking chagrined as they walked up. "I found her," he told Lance unnecessarily.
"Yeah. Thanks," Lance said dryly. Erin felt sorry for the young man when she saw the censure in Lance's eyes.
Melanie seemed oblivious to the tension as the foursome wound their way back to Erin's car. "We're parked across the street. We'll follow you home," Lance said as he held the driver's door open for her.
"Yes, sir. Anything you say, sir." She saluted him mockingly and found smug satisfaction in the tight, angry lines on his face as he slammed the car door.
She sought further revenge by asking Melanie to direct her on the longest route home. It included Lombard Street, the crookedest street in the world, having seven curves in one block. The Mercedes took them with ease.
The car Lance was riding in didn't fare as well.
WITH THE FIRST TWINGES of an upset stomach, Erin thought she must be paying for her eating binge that afternoon.
Her altercation with Lance surely hadn't done her digestion any good. She went to bed pleading fatigue and didn't mention her stomachache to Melanie.
She settled down in bed and tried to sleep, but tossed restlessly before finally dozing off. Sometime after mid-night she was awakened by severe stomach cramps. Every muscle in her body contracted against them and sweat broke out of every pore.
Her limbs felt weighted down with lead as she threw back the covers and staggered toward the bathroom. She barely had time to switch on the light and lift the cover of the commode before she was violently ill.
In her life she couldn't remember having an attack of nausea like this. She retched for what seemed like an endless amount of time. With each spasm, the cramping in her intestines took her breath away. Intense heat snaked up her spine, washed over her neck and head, penetrated her brain, and burned in her ears. Then she would shiver with cold. A clammy sweat bathed her body, making her nightgown cling to her like damp seaweed.
At last, when she felt like she had been turned inside out, she washed her face in the lavatory and, unable to stand upright, virtually crawled back to the bed. She collapsed on it, relieved that whatever had made her so sick had been expelled.
That wasn't the case, however. She was alarmed when only a few minutes later, she felt her stomach churning again. She bumped against the door in her dash to the bathroom, and it crashed into the wall. She was still in the throes of nausea when she realized that Melanie was standing there watching her, looking white-faced and terrified.
When Erin was able to look up, Melanie was gone. Once again she stumbled toward the bed and fell across
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