soberly. “Yeah. Like a date.” He stepped forward and lifted her chin with his finger until she was looking into his eyes. “I haven’t met anyone like you in a long time. I don’t want to just walk away.”
She couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, could only stare into those dark eyes, desperately wanting to believe his words, desperately wanting what she knew she couldn’t have. His thumb brushed her lower lip, sending shivers down her spine. “What do you say?” he murmured, his voice smooth and soothing. “I could follow you home, make sure you get home all right. Pick up a pizza on the way. We can talk some more.”
He moved a hair closer and she knew she was about to be kissed. She knew it would probably be one of the most earth-shattering moments of her existence. “So how about it?” he whispered and she could feel the warmth of him on her skin.
Yes, yes.
The words were on the tip of her tongue. Then her brain finally kicked in, replaying Alan Brewster’s voice saying almost the exact same words. Sanity returned like a hammer to her head and she took a lurching step back just as he angled his face to kiss her. “
No.
” Breathing hard, she backed up until the back of her legs touched her bike. She climbed on, furious, but whether she was more furious with him for trying it or for herself for nearly becoming yet another notch in another man’s bedpost she couldn’t say. “No thank you. Now if you’ll excuse me . . .”
He stepped aside without another word and she stomped on the starter, revving the bike’s hundred and ten horses to life. Before turning into the street she glanced at her side mirror and saw he hadn’t moved. He stood statue still, watching her go.
Chapter Five
Sunday, January 14, 11:55 P.M.
T he ringing of his cell woke him from a sound sleep. With a growl he grabbed it and squinted at the caller ID. Harrington. Self-righteous little has-been prick. “What?”
“It’s Harrington.”
He sat up. “I
know.
Why the hell are you calling me in the middle of the night?”
“It’s not even midnight. You usually work all night, Lewis.”
That was normally true, but he wasn’t about to let Harrington have the point. He had nothing but contempt for the man and his rainbow-and-Ziggy view of the world. He wanted to strangle the sonofabitch, just like he’d strangled Claire Reynolds. He still did, every time he heard Harrington’s whiny voice.
Harrington had tried to block his art every step of the way, starting with his animation of
Claire Dies,
a year ago. Too dark, too violent.
Too real.
But Van Zandt understood business and what sells. The strangulation of “Clothilde” stayed in
Behind Enemy Lines
even though Harrington bitched and moaned about it. But Harrington wouldn’t bitch and moan much longer.
Van Zandt was systematically shoving Harrington out the door and the idiot didn’t even have a clue. “Goddamn it, Harrington, I was dreaming.” Of Gregory Sanders. His next victim. “Just tell me what’s so important so I can get back to it.”
There was a long pause.
“Hel
lo
. You there, man? I swear to God, if you woke me up for nothing—”
“I’m here,” Harrington said. “Jager wants you to speed delivery on the fight scenes.”
So Van Zandt had finally told Harrington he was out.
It was about time.
“He wants them by Tuesday,” Harrington added. “Nine A.M. ”
The sweet pleasure vanished like mist. “
Tuesday?
What the fuck’s he smoking?”
“Jager’s very serious.” And so was Harrington. It sounded like every word was being dragged from his mouth. “He says you’re a month late.”
“You can’t rush genius.”
There was another pause, and he thought he could hear Harrington’s teeth grind. It was always such fun to yank the man’s chain. “He wants a fight scene and a cut scene from
Inquisitor
to show at Pinnacle.” Another, harder pause. “We have a booth.”
“Pinnacle?” A booth at Pinnacle meant prestige among
She couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, could only stare into those dark eyes, desperately wanting to believe his words, desperately wanting what she knew she couldn’t have. His thumb brushed her lower lip, sending shivers down her spine. “What do you say?” he murmured, his voice smooth and soothing. “I could follow you home, make sure you get home all right. Pick up a pizza on the way. We can talk some more.”
He moved a hair closer and she knew she was about to be kissed. She knew it would probably be one of the most earth-shattering moments of her existence. “So how about it?” he whispered and she could feel the warmth of him on her skin.
Yes, yes.
The words were on the tip of her tongue. Then her brain finally kicked in, replaying Alan Brewster’s voice saying almost the exact same words. Sanity returned like a hammer to her head and she took a lurching step back just as he angled his face to kiss her. “
No.
” Breathing hard, she backed up until the back of her legs touched her bike. She climbed on, furious, but whether she was more furious with him for trying it or for herself for nearly becoming yet another notch in another man’s bedpost she couldn’t say. “No thank you. Now if you’ll excuse me . . .”
He stepped aside without another word and she stomped on the starter, revving the bike’s hundred and ten horses to life. Before turning into the street she glanced at her side mirror and saw he hadn’t moved. He stood statue still, watching her go.
Chapter Five
Sunday, January 14, 11:55 P.M.
T he ringing of his cell woke him from a sound sleep. With a growl he grabbed it and squinted at the caller ID. Harrington. Self-righteous little has-been prick. “What?”
“It’s Harrington.”
He sat up. “I
know.
Why the hell are you calling me in the middle of the night?”
“It’s not even midnight. You usually work all night, Lewis.”
That was normally true, but he wasn’t about to let Harrington have the point. He had nothing but contempt for the man and his rainbow-and-Ziggy view of the world. He wanted to strangle the sonofabitch, just like he’d strangled Claire Reynolds. He still did, every time he heard Harrington’s whiny voice.
Harrington had tried to block his art every step of the way, starting with his animation of
Claire Dies,
a year ago. Too dark, too violent.
Too real.
But Van Zandt understood business and what sells. The strangulation of “Clothilde” stayed in
Behind Enemy Lines
even though Harrington bitched and moaned about it. But Harrington wouldn’t bitch and moan much longer.
Van Zandt was systematically shoving Harrington out the door and the idiot didn’t even have a clue. “Goddamn it, Harrington, I was dreaming.” Of Gregory Sanders. His next victim. “Just tell me what’s so important so I can get back to it.”
There was a long pause.
“Hel
lo
. You there, man? I swear to God, if you woke me up for nothing—”
“I’m here,” Harrington said. “Jager wants you to speed delivery on the fight scenes.”
So Van Zandt had finally told Harrington he was out.
It was about time.
“He wants them by Tuesday,” Harrington added. “Nine A.M. ”
The sweet pleasure vanished like mist. “
Tuesday?
What the fuck’s he smoking?”
“Jager’s very serious.” And so was Harrington. It sounded like every word was being dragged from his mouth. “He says you’re a month late.”
“You can’t rush genius.”
There was another pause, and he thought he could hear Harrington’s teeth grind. It was always such fun to yank the man’s chain. “He wants a fight scene and a cut scene from
Inquisitor
to show at Pinnacle.” Another, harder pause. “We have a booth.”
“Pinnacle?” A booth at Pinnacle meant prestige among
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