Under Surveillance. Gayle WilsonЧитать онлайн книгу.
masculine kind of way. Compelling.
Obviously, she thought, relieved when her stride carried her past the table where he was sitting. Although she continued along the predestined route all the models would take, designed to let the guests have a closer look at the garments, she had to resist the urge to turn her head and glance back at him over her shoulder.
And that was totally out of character. Especially given what had been happening in her life during the last few months.
Finally, thankfully, she reached the end of her performance. Before her were the double doors that led out of the ballroom and back to anonymity, with which she was far more comfortable.
Behind her she heard the auctioneer open the bidding on the original of the Givenchy knock-off she was wearing. The next couple of hours would be someone else’s responsibility—his and the other professionals hired from one of the top New York fashion houses. And she was more than ready to hand it over.
As she met the eyes of the security guard at the door, he nodded to her. The gesture somehow reminded her of her strange reaction to the man seated at the foot of the runway steps.
Again she had to force herself not to turn around and search the crowd for him. Of course, it wouldn’t matter if she did. All she would be able to see from here was that same sea of people she had faced before. She wouldn’t be able to pick him out. And if she encountered him again…
She wouldn’t be able to recognize him, she told herself resolutely. What had just occurred had been one of those bizarre incidents that happen to everyone at one time or another. Meeting the eyes of the handsome man in the cab next to you while you waited for a red light. Or in an elevator. Or a restaurant. It was absolutely nothing of consequence.
Which was good, she thought, as she slipped through the doors and out into the hall. She couldn’t afford any distractions. Certainly not one as time-consuming as a man like that might prove to be.
IN THE END it was after two o’clock before Kelly managed her escape, slipping out of the ballroom by a back door. Chad would have teased that that was the story of her life, she acknowledged, as she stood watching the numbers flash by on the parking-deck elevator, but she refused to feel guilty. Most of the crowd had gone. She had done her duty. Paid her dues. Made nice to anyone with a checkbook. Now she was going home.
She hadn’t bothered to change out of the copy of the Givenchy she’d modeled. She would return it later.
The elevator doors opened and she stepped out, pulling the red stole more closely around her shoulders. After the heat of the ballroom, the night air felt cool against her skin.
She was surprised to find there were only a handful of cars left on this level. Of course, it had been reserved for those who would come early and leave late. And it seemed that despite her remorse at slipping out early, she must be one of the last to depart.
She started across the concrete, the sound of her high-heeled sandals echoing off steel beams and cement pillars. She expected the security guard to step out of his booth in response to the noise. He didn’t, however, and as she came closer to the location, she could tell that the security box was empty.
She glanced at her watch, but it was too dark to see the hands. Maybe security had gone off duty. That was something she should probably mention to the board when they met to rehash tonight’s successes and failures. Their patrons had a right to protection, no matter how late they stayed.
Her car, which was actually Chad’s car, was parked halfway up the far ramp. Before she headed over to it, she bent her head a little to take another look into the security booth. Definitely empty.
She stopped at the bottom of the ramp. Putting one hand on the cold metal of its railing for balance, she bent her knee, pulling the strap of her sandal more securely onto her heel.
She resisted the temptation to slip the shoes off. Despite the fact that they consisted of only a couple of crossed pieces of leather, by now the sandals had begun to rub. She could imagine what walking barefoot over the rough concrete of the ramp would do to her feet, however.
She looked up to estimate the distance to her car and caught a glimpse of what appeared to be a shadow moving behind or under it. A rat? Or one of the city’s feral cats? There were plenty of both in D.C., but despite her attempt to find some rational, nonthreatening explanation for what she had just seen, the hair on the back of her neck began to lift, sending a shiver down her spine.
She looked again toward the security booth, an oasis of light in the dimness of the concrete structure, and then once more toward her car. The darkness increased sharply near the top of the ramp where it was parked.
Back to the elevator, she decided without any further hesitation. This time she would do what she should have done in the first place. She would get someone to walk her out here. Whatever was waiting in the shadows up there, she wasn’t about to face it on her own.
She turned, already taking the first step in retracing her journey, when her blood froze. Lined up between her and the elevator doors were three men. Or rather three teenagers, she amended, as her eyes skated back and forth between them.
Their youth wasn’t comforting. Not given their dress and demeanor. Actually, the latter was distinctly menacing.
As if in response to some unseen signal, they began to walk toward her. All the survival reflexes kicked in, sending a rush of adrenaline through her system.
Fight or flight. A hell of a choice, given that the three of them were blocking the only viable exit.
Maybe she was wrong about what she’d seen behind her car, she thought. Maybe it had been a rat. Something other than a cohort of the teens who were now advancing on her.
She slipped the strap of her evening bag off her wrist and fumbled her car keys out of it. Then she threw the purse underhanded toward the trio. It skidded to a stop about ten feet in front of them.
If their intent were to rob her, she’d make it easy for them. Maybe the purse would give them something to occupy themselves with while she made a run up the ramp to the car.
And if another one were waiting for her there, she’d deal with that when she arrived. Those odds were still better than trying to go through these three to get to the elevator.
She thought briefly again about taking off her shoes, but the boys were advancing more quickly now. The bag she’d thrown lay halfway between them and her position.
She had no idea whether they would be sufficiently distracted by it to allow her to escape. That would probably depend on what they wanted. If she tried to run before they had gotten to it, however, they might very well ignore the purse in order to come after her.
Almost before the thought had time to form, the boy in the middle reached the evening bag. He stooped to pick it up, his eyes never leaving hers.
As she watched, he took her wallet out and opened it. He made a show of running his thumb across the money in the bill compartment. She couldn’t remember how much was there. She never carried much cash, so it couldn’t be a great deal.
Please, God, let it be enough.
Then, without bothering to remove the money, he threw both the purse and billfold to the side and took another step toward her. As soon as he did, she rounded the railing, sprinting up the ramp toward her brother’s Jag.
The sound of their boots, amplified by the low overhang, pounded against the concrete behind her. She could tell that they were gaining on her. She released the stole she had unthinkingly hung on to and used both hands to pick up the long skirt of the red dress, freeing her legs from its constraints.
As she neared her car, a figure stepped from the shadows behind it. She dodged as it appeared in her peripheral vision, heading for the far side of the ramp instead of toward the car.
She was running full-out now, but still she couldn’t avoid him. He leaped across the expanse that separated them and grabbed her upper arm, long fingernails digging into her flesh.
He