the area. Not so much as a star existed to light her way. Even the eyeless moon hid from her now. Did she see the faint glow of his cigarette?
Or was it imagination?
Her breath shortened; her steps quickened. The clicking was faster, its rhythm broken, but, now, she heard it clearly.
Someone was following her. The footfalls grew louder.
Gasping for breath and control, she stopped, and looked around.
The clicking stopped.
Murphy's Pub loomed two blocks away. There was only one thing she could do. Run for it--right down the middle of the street. But how far she would get before she passed out? She stood frozen, waiting, considering.
The steps began again. This time without her. He was coming.
No way would she let him take her without a fight. She'd go down swinging. Inertia surged into action. Her lungs burned. She forced the night's humidity into their drowning sacs and jumped into the street running toward Murphy's.
Instinctively, she clawed at her neck. Now, the burning was in her brain. How long could she last without oxygen?
As she crossed the street in front of the pub, a car stopped directly in her path, blocking her escape. Her gaze darted back and forth, searching for an alternate route.
Back?
No. He was back there!
The door swung open.
A scream bubbled in the back of her throat, but her encroaching asthma attack kept it to a keening wail.
Chapter VIII
. . . ACCORDING TO THE LAW OF MEDICINE, BUT TO NO OTHERS. . . .
The car door blocked her escape. Andrea's labored heart stopped. Krastowitcz got out, tossed her purse at her, and grabbed her arm. "Get in."
Terror turned to initial relief. Then embarrassment. After her tough little restaurant speech, she'd panicked, and had to be rescued by the big cop.
She rifled through her purse, found her inhaler, and immediately took two puffs. One of these times it wouldn't be there and she'd be history. Anger kindled inside, first at herself. The responsible physician acting like a stupid school girl. Secondary flames singed Krastowitcz for having this effect on her.
When she finally got her breath, she turned to him. "Just what do you think you're--?"
Krastowitcz shoved her into the passenger seat. "I said, get in! The streets are dangerous at night, doc. What're you trying to prove? That you can be mugged or raped as easily as the next person?"
His words sapped her fury, mostly because he was right.
"I'm sorry, Gary," she said breathlessly, staring sheepishly at her inhaler. "Maybe I over-reacted at the restaurant, but I get so damned sick and tired of the way men talk about women."
"Look Andrea, I don't want your back up again, but I was just telling you the way cops feel. I wasn't saying anything against women or their minds, just their physical strength. It's not their fault, it's just the way God made them."
"Okay, okay, you've made your point, so drop it." Her breathing slowly returned to normal. She stared out the car window, searching the shadows. "I think I was followed back there. I heard steps, but I didn't see anything. The steps kept getting louder, closer--" She shivered at the memory and the fear.
Krastowitcz slowed the car and slid his arm around her. His heat made her shiver more.
"Probably followed. There are a lot of transients around the Old Market area. The sight of a pretty woman alone on the streets at night probably made more than a few of them take their faces off the bottle."
"I'm sorry. I--"
"Look, I don't want to lecture, but you just can't go around thinking nothing's going to happen. Once you let your guard down, it does." His voice rasped with a sour edge. "I guess I've seen too much," he continued. "But what happens to women who ignore danger makes me puke. It's such a waste. Especially when a few precautions can
Or was it imagination?
Her breath shortened; her steps quickened. The clicking was faster, its rhythm broken, but, now, she heard it clearly.
Someone was following her. The footfalls grew louder.
Gasping for breath and control, she stopped, and looked around.
The clicking stopped.
Murphy's Pub loomed two blocks away. There was only one thing she could do. Run for it--right down the middle of the street. But how far she would get before she passed out? She stood frozen, waiting, considering.
The steps began again. This time without her. He was coming.
No way would she let him take her without a fight. She'd go down swinging. Inertia surged into action. Her lungs burned. She forced the night's humidity into their drowning sacs and jumped into the street running toward Murphy's.
Instinctively, she clawed at her neck. Now, the burning was in her brain. How long could she last without oxygen?
As she crossed the street in front of the pub, a car stopped directly in her path, blocking her escape. Her gaze darted back and forth, searching for an alternate route.
Back?
No. He was back there!
The door swung open.
A scream bubbled in the back of her throat, but her encroaching asthma attack kept it to a keening wail.
Chapter VIII
. . . ACCORDING TO THE LAW OF MEDICINE, BUT TO NO OTHERS. . . .
The car door blocked her escape. Andrea's labored heart stopped. Krastowitcz got out, tossed her purse at her, and grabbed her arm. "Get in."
Terror turned to initial relief. Then embarrassment. After her tough little restaurant speech, she'd panicked, and had to be rescued by the big cop.
She rifled through her purse, found her inhaler, and immediately took two puffs. One of these times it wouldn't be there and she'd be history. Anger kindled inside, first at herself. The responsible physician acting like a stupid school girl. Secondary flames singed Krastowitcz for having this effect on her.
When she finally got her breath, she turned to him. "Just what do you think you're--?"
Krastowitcz shoved her into the passenger seat. "I said, get in! The streets are dangerous at night, doc. What're you trying to prove? That you can be mugged or raped as easily as the next person?"
His words sapped her fury, mostly because he was right.
"I'm sorry, Gary," she said breathlessly, staring sheepishly at her inhaler. "Maybe I over-reacted at the restaurant, but I get so damned sick and tired of the way men talk about women."
"Look Andrea, I don't want your back up again, but I was just telling you the way cops feel. I wasn't saying anything against women or their minds, just their physical strength. It's not their fault, it's just the way God made them."
"Okay, okay, you've made your point, so drop it." Her breathing slowly returned to normal. She stared out the car window, searching the shadows. "I think I was followed back there. I heard steps, but I didn't see anything. The steps kept getting louder, closer--" She shivered at the memory and the fear.
Krastowitcz slowed the car and slid his arm around her. His heat made her shiver more.
"Probably followed. There are a lot of transients around the Old Market area. The sight of a pretty woman alone on the streets at night probably made more than a few of them take their faces off the bottle."
"I'm sorry. I--"
"Look, I don't want to lecture, but you just can't go around thinking nothing's going to happen. Once you let your guard down, it does." His voice rasped with a sour edge. "I guess I've seen too much," he continued. "But what happens to women who ignore danger makes me puke. It's such a waste. Especially when a few precautions can
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