Some Kind of Magic by Theresa Weir Page A

He turned her rejection into an open assault, one that demanded his retaliation. Claire knew she should try to placate him, knew she should back off and say the things he wanted to hear, but she had too much self-respect for that. And absolutely no respect left for him.
    “Get your hands off me,” she said through gritted teeth. “You son of a bitch.” There was no fear in her, only anger.
    What remained of his mask crumbled completely. There wasn’t a remnant of the person Claire had once known.
    He took her by surprise, shoving her down to the floor, falling on top of her, holding her with his weight while he struggled with one hand to undo her jeans.
    He never could chew gum and walk at the same time. The distraction allowed Claire to bring a hand to his face. She tried to scratch him, but she had no nails. Her pathetic attack only made him madder. He grabbed her hand. Without thought, she bit his arm. He screamed and let go, but before she could put any distance between them, he grabbed her again.
    Together, they fell backward, the French easel that had been a gift from her father, slid across the floor, shattering when it hit the wall. Claire reached behind her, her hand coming in contact with the other easel. She pulled it down on top of Anton. He tossed it aside, her pictures flying, tearing. She saw his moving toward her, saw his hand. She ducked, blocking his blow with her forearm.
    For a moment, she felt a sense of power. In the middle of the battle, it occurred to her that they were fairly evenly matched. She'd chopped a lot of wood in her day, and he'd spent a lot of time putting his wood to people.
    She was actually thinking she had the upper hand when he tackled her, knocking the air from her lungs. With his added weight as momentum, they slid across the floor. She slammed into the wall, banging her head against the windowsill.
    “No,” he said, gasping for breath. “I never knew you liked it so wild.”
    She opened her eyes to see him kneeling over her, fiddling with his pants. Next to her was the dresser where she'd hidden the gun. She rolled to the side, tugged open the bottom drawer and grabbed the gun, shaking it free of the T-shirt. Without hesitation, she pointed the weapon directly at Anton's shocked face.
    “You have no idea how wild,” she said calmly. It took supreme effort to keep her voice smooth. Her side hurt, her head hurt, her whole body hurt, but she didn't want Anton to know it.
    He scrambled backward, both hands in the air. “Whoa. Where'd you get that?”
    “Out of a box of cereal. Now get the hell out of here. I never want to see your face again.”
    “Is that thing loaded?”
    “Wanna find out?”
    “I don't know why you're so pissed off. It's not like we’ve never done it before. What difference would one more time make?”
    “The difference is that this time I don’t want to do it. Now go back to your Sugar Mama.”
    He got to his feet and began backing toward the ladder. “You were never anything special, anyway,” he said. “Look at you. You look like a damn bag lady.”
    That was uncalled for.
    He glanced around the room. “Living here in this place like some nutty hermit. Thinking you could paint. Let me clue you in. You can’t paint, Claire. Nobody wants to buy your crappy little paintings of crappy little grasshoppers and frogs.” He pointed to himself. “I’ve been there. I’ve seen what people like. I’ve seen what they want.” He pointed around the room, from one picture to another. “And nobody wants shit like this hanging on their walls.” He swung around on his black shiny boots. He took a step toward the ladder. On the way, he swept up one of her pictures that had been knocked down in the fracas. He grabbed the ladder, swinging himself onto the rungs, her picture mashed between his palm and the side rail. He climbed down partway, then stopped.
    “You wanna know something else?” he said, his head sticking out of the opening. “ You were never