in on her last name, “perhaps you need to heal yourself.”
“I’m a PhD doctor, not a medical doctor.”
“Well, that explains it,” he said, throwing up his hands as he moved another step closer.
She gulped as her back hit the door. “See. You must be Steve because you called me Ginny, even though my name is Harriet. And everyone knows that Steve and Ginny were legendary lovers in that book—”
He spit out an extremely foul word, grabbed her by the shoulders, and flung her down on one of the bench seats. The fingers of both hands circled her neck, pressing hard. “The truth,” he demanded, relaxing his fingers only when he realized she couldn’t speak.
Tears welled in her eyes, but she raised her chin with defiance. “You brute! I should have known that Steve Morgan would revert to savagery.”
“I am not Steve Morgan,” he said evenly. “Who sent you?”
His body lay heavily on top of hers, pinning her to the seat. And Steve, or whatever alias he used now, was back to strangling her again. Plus, a sharp object prodded herleft thigh. Feeling blindly, she recognized the shape of one of the guns she’d placed there earlier. Grabbing it, she pressed the tip of the barrel between them, against his genitals. “Move it, buster,” she ordered in a squeaky, choked voice, “or I’m gonna fill your crown jewels with lead.”
Steve’s blue eyes went wide and his fingers lessened their grasp on her throat. “Take it easy,” he warned, easing himself off her and standing, then backing up slightly toward the window. “Don’t do anything hasty.” His eyes were cautious but admiring of her expertise in having outwitted him.
Harriet licked her dry lips, taking huge drafts of air into her burning lungs.
Meanwhile, Steve’s eyes darted about the room, probably seeking an escape for himself, and halted at the pile of clothing she’d laid out on one seat. Picking up one of her Ferragamo pumps, he eyed it curiously. At first, she thought he was contemplating its possibilities as a weapon, but instead, he tossed it out the open window.
“Hey!” she screeched. “Those shoes cost me a hundred and fifty dollars.”
“Oh, really?” He didn’t look at all apologetic. In fact, his flushed face and tight jaw bespoke a boiling rage. “Well, here goes another seventy-five dollars, darlin’.” And he lobbed the other shoe over his shoulder and out the window. Michael Jordan couldn’t have done it better.
“You jerk!” she said, seething, and aimed the gun straighter, this time at his heart.
“What’s this?” he asked with seeming unconcern, holding up her short red Dior skirt and jacket.
“A business suit. And it cost me eight hundred dollars; so don’t you dare—”
Her favorite power suit joined her shoes on a stretch of countryside somewhere outside Memphis, Tennessee.
Now he’d gone too far. Forceful seduction. Violence. Harassment. Lack of proper respect for designer clothing.It wouldn’t really be murder if she killed a creep in her sleep, would it?
Steve was handling her black lace demibra now, inspecting it with infuriating detail. He glanced at the wispy half cups, then at her breasts, arching a brow with sudden understanding. Then he laughed mirthlessly as he discarded it, too, along with her second-best silk blouse.
“Why are you doing this?” she cried.
“Because you’re holding a gun on me. Because you broke into my compartment and knocked me out cold. Because you expect me to surrender to you willingly. Because I am not ever going back to prison.” He picked up her silk panty hose, held them out in front of his face, and shook his head in amazement.
But Harriet focused on one word. “Prison? Are you a murderer or something?”
“No, but I’m gonna be.”
“Hold it. Now I remember about the prison. Steve Morgan concocted a scheme in Sweet Savage Love where he pretended—Ooomph!”
Steve had lurched forward, knocking the gun from her hand and slamming her back