She looked up when she heard the shower turn on, muted from another room, but still clear enough to identify. Another person taking a shower, and only a room or two away. It was a strange feeling. She’d been alone for so very long. She prowled his living room, then went into the kitchen. He was a gadget freak. There were appliances she recognized and some she didn’t. She looked at a shiny Belgian waffle maker, sparkling clean, open, and ready to use, and felt her mouth water. There was a can opener that was so fancy it made her feel sorry for the can. She opened his refrigerator to get a diet soda. There were lots of raw vegetables, orange juice, cans of tuna fish, many kinds of dressings, a loaf of wheat bread, non-fat butter, sugarless jams, but no diet soda. She looked longingly at a bottle of Balidonne chardon-nay and regretfully closed the refrigerator door.
She wandered back into the living room. The shower cut off, and suddenly, in that instant, she realized that he was naked and what that meant. It wasn’t just simply odd to be in the same apartment with a man, it was suddenly overwhelmingly terrifying. She wasn’t far from a man who was naked. Only two doors away or maybe just one. She looked down at the coffee table and saw a man with a naked chest, holding a rifle, a woman standing behind him, her look one of awe, of worship, her lips parted slightly, her age no more than twenty-two.
A man could hurt a woman. This man, this Taylor, could hurt her. He was big. Taylor seemed nice, but maybe it was just an act to get her over here. And here she was, having trailed after him without hesitation, happy as a pup, meek as a lamb, blabbing on and on about architects in the seventeenth century. She’d been boring, stupid, and now she was vulnerable.
He was naked. He was in his bathroom now, but what if he came out? Would he have on a dressing gown like the prince had worn, choosing to play the game a little while longer? Would she know he was naked beneath it like she’d known the prince was? No, she was certain Taylor would be naked, no Italian dressing gown for him, no fancy games for him, and all she was wearing was slacks and a simple sweater.
Oh, God. He looked like those men in those gun magazines. The self-defense she knew was laughable against a man like him. She’d heard him at the gym, speaking to Lin Ho, her instructor, heard the two of them discussing strategies when faced with more than one opponent and the opponents were both armed with knives. He’d said nothing to her about knowing martial arts, but he did, he had to. Just the way he’d stood when he was talking to Lin Ho. It was obvious. He was strong and he could fight. He was a man and he was big and she’d never have a chance against him.
Lindsay grabbed her purse, ran to the front door, wrenched it open, and was out in a second. She heard Taylor calling her name.
She ran down the five flights of stairs, afraid to wait for the elevator. He’d catch her if she waited. If it came, he’d be faster and be waiting for her at the lobby, ready to grab her and shove her back into the elevator and bring her back up here. She was winded, a stitch in her side, when she reached the lobby. She was bent over, clutching her purse to her middle. She ran to the corner and waved wildly for a taxi.
She had to get away.
Taylor heard the front door slam, and without a thought, he raced naked into the living room. She was gone. Jesus, could someone have come in and snatched her? No, not possible. He called after her, but, realizing he didn’t have a stitch of clothing on, he knew he couldn’t run after her.
Why had she run out?
He stood there dripping water, wondering what the problem was. It was weird. She was weird. He sighed, turned back into his bedroom, and quickly dressed. She was alone, no one to protect her, if the enforcers who hounded Demos wanted to go after her.
Lindsay told the taxi driver to drop her off at Gayle’s apartment over on the West Side, just opposite Lincoln Center. Gayle lived in a condo on the thirty-sixth floor. Lindsay dashed through the immense lobby to the bank of six elevators. She punched the buttons and collapsed back against the wall. She was safe. But, as it turned out, Gayle wasn’t home.
Lindsay leaned against the corridor wall next to her apartment door, her eyes closed. What to do?
She couldn’t very well stand here forever. The security was too good in this building. She’d soon be reported by a neighbor. Slowly, slinging her bag back onto her shoulder, she went back down to the lobby. She’d wait there. If she stayed out in the open, looking harmless, they wouldn’t kick her out. If Taylor came looking for her—Oh, no, no.
She was approached by a security guard two hours later. Their patience had run out.
She left, catching a taxi to return to her apartment. In the back of the taxi she remembered for the first time since her flight from Taylor’s apartment that she was under threat. She’d been running around like a fool, unthinking, dangerously unthinking. She realized, laughing a bit hysterically, that she had no place else to go, except maybe to an impersonal hotel. She had no other close friends. Even Demos and Glen she’d kept away from when it came to social get-togethers. She’d kept a whole bunch of folk at bay, all those people who’d tried to be nice to her over the years. They were acquaintances, nothing more, because she’d distrusted them, all of them, women included. All except Gayle because Gayle had known her before Paris.
Head down, she exited her elevator. She felt numb and very, very tired. She very nearly walked squarely into him.
His hands closed around her shoulders and her head jerked up. She nearly screamed but his hand was over her mouth.
“Shut up, damn you!”
She tried to jerk away from him. He was strong, she’d known he would be. He wasn’t going to let her go. He would drag her into her apartment and—
Taylor saw the terror in her eyes. Not terror of a possible enforcer, he realized with a shock, but terror of him. He said very calmly, “I have to urinate. I’ve been standing here like a fool for the past two hours waiting for you to bring your butt home. Would you please open the door?”
She stared up at him. He didn’t look at all interested in ripping off her clothes. What he looked was vastly annoyed. With her. “You have to urinate?”