Unfortunately, she could say the same.
"So, you write cookbooks."
She looked up and blinked. "Um, yeah—"
"You ever write anything else?"
"Nothing special." She pushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear, her trembling hand barely cooperating.
One eyebrow rose. "Really?"
She remembered the paperback gripped in her fist. She fanned the corner of it and swallowed. The last thing she wanted was Gabriel lurking on her blog. It was probably too late, now that he knew her pen name, but she wasn't about to direct him to it. "I've written a few articles here and there."
"You write any other books?"
"Nope." She met his eyes. "Just cookbooks."
He leaned forward, grabbed her knees, and squeezed. His hands were hot, confining. She clutched the arms of the chair and shifted further back until she felt her tailbone push into the cushion.
"What about your memoir?" he asked.
"I . . . What?" How did he know? "I don't know what you mean."
His hands slid up her slacks, his gaze locked onto hers. "You have a compelling story to tell, don't you?"
She was trapped, a mouse in an eagle's talons. His giant hands squeezed tighter.
"Stop it. Take your hands off me."
"Don't do it." In his most soothing, trust-me voice, he added, "Remember your promise, Amanda."
Her gaze darted around the lobby. An Asian couple stood at the end of the line for the front desk, but they were too far away.
A woman and three small children headed toward the elevators on her left. What could they do to help?
Amanda turned in the other direction. A woman from the conference, someone she'd met earlier that day, rounded the corner near the coffee shop, walking beside a man. They headed across the lobby.
"Brenda!"
Both Brenda and the man stopped and looked around.
Amanda lifted her hand to get Brenda's attention, slipping further under Gabriel's touch. "Over here!"
Brenda's gaze followed the sound of her voice, and she turned to face them, taking a few steps in their direction. "Hey." She stared at Gabriel for a brief moment before turning to her.
Gabriel slid his hands off Amanda's thighs and sat back, twisting to face Brenda and her companion.
Brenda wrote children's books and spoke with a gentle lilt that probably melted the hearts of the toughest kids. Gabriel would send her away smiling.
Amanda looked at the man who stood beside her. She realized now who it was, Alan Morass, an editor whose picture she'd seen before on her publisher's website. The jacket of his business suit almost hid the slight paunch hanging over his pants. He'd brushed graying light brown hair to one side over nondescript eyes. He was no match for Gabriel, but he was all she had.
"You going to the thing?" She squeaked the words. She couldn't remember if there was a conference thing at that hour. She hoped they saw the pleading in her expression.
Brenda tilted her head to the side. "What?"
"Of course." Alan walked to the end of the coffee table, his gaze darting back and forth between Gabriel and her. "Why don't you walk with us?"
"I'd love to." Finding her courage, she turned toward Gabriel. "Will you excuse me?"
He wore a polite mask as he stood and side-stepped to the opposite end of the coffee table. "Certainly."
She jumped up and practically lunged toward Brenda and Alan, catching her heel on the leg of the chair. Alan grabbed her upper arm to keep her from falling. "You okay?"
She nodded and began walking.
Gabriel's deep voice called after her. "Amanda."
She wanted to bolt, but Alan and Brenda stopped. She froze, trapped, and slowly turned.
"You forgot your things." He stood beside the chair. Her leather laptop case dangled from his right hand, the novel she'd dropped he held in his left.
Fear paralyzed her.
Gabriel closed the space and held out the items.
She grabbed them with shaking fingers, stuffed the novel in the bag, and slid the leather strap over her shoulder, trying not to think about what would have happened if he'd kept it. Inside were her laptop, her hotel key, and her wallet. He'd have had access to everything.
"Thanks."
Alan, still holding her upper arm, led her and Brenda away. They'd gone only a few yards when he tried to steer her toward the elevators. She couldn't bear to stand there and wait for the infernally slow doors to open.
"Escalator, please," she whispered.
Halfway there, Brenda turned to Amanda. "You okay, sweetie? You look terrible."
Amanda couldn't answer.
Alan held her arm tighter and looked at Brenda. "Why don't you go ahead to your meeting? I'll see you tomorrow."
Brenda looked at Amanda. "I'm sorry, but I do have to run. I have a meeting with my agent. Do you need me to stay with you?"
Amanda managed to shake her head, and Brenda peeled off toward the restaurant.
Alan led her to the base of the escalator. They were just stepping on the moving staircase when she heard Sheppard's deep voice.
"See you soon."
Three
Amanda gripped the handrail as if it were her only link to safety. Halfway up the long escalator, she whispered, "Is he still watching us?"
Alan glanced behind them. "Uh-huh."
The last session of the day must've let out, because writers milled about on the second floor, sipping drinks and chatting in clusters along the wide corridor as if the world hadn't just stopped spinning. Alan must have felt her tense, because he maneuvered her onto the escalator going to the third floor. His eyes were trained behind them. "He's out of sight now."
"Thank God." She felt as if her whole body were trembling. "Thank you. I'm sure you don't even know who I am. I've seen your picture, but we've never met."
"Nice to meet you."
She heard a smile in his voice, but her gaze was locked on the moving staircase beneath her. "I'm sorry. I know this is weird, but I didn't know what else to do." She glanced at Alan. "I haven't seen him in years, and I couldn't get away. And he was sitting so close, and I didn't want to scream and cause a scene but he wouldn't move and I was trapped, and then I saw Brenda, and . . ." She gasped. "Oh, my God, he found me."
She couldn't get air. Squeezing the handrail tighter, she sucked in another breath, and another. She was suffocating. Her lungs burned, her vision darkened around the edges. Her knees weakened. If she passed out, she'd tumble backwards, down the long escalator to her death.
Alan wrapped his arm around her back and held her until they reached the third floor, where he eased her toward a sofa in front of the windows.
"Exhale," he commanded, lowering her to the seat. He kneeled in front of her and grabbed both her shoulders. "You're safe now. Exhale."
She blew out a breath and sucked in another.
"Again. Exhale. You have kids?"
She tried to nod. She couldn't get enough air.
"Pretend you're blowing up a balloon for your kids. Come on. Blow out."
She blew again, and sucked in a breath.
"Do it again."
She obeyed, staring at her knees and blowing up imaginary balloons. In and out, in and out. How could a person forget how to breathe?
Finally, her breathing steadied.
Feeling almost normal, she looked at Alan. Eyes wide, sweat beading on his forehead, he didn't even blink.
She eased her lips into a slight smile. "I'm okay."
"You sure?"
"Yes. Thank you."
He sat back on his heels and wiped his brow with his jacket sleeve. "You scared me."
"Sorry. I don't know what happened."
"You were hyperventilating."
"Oh. That's a first."
He rocked to his feet and looked toward the escalator. She followed his gaze. No Gabriel. Turning back toward her, he smiled. "You're safe now."
"Thanks to you. I can't tell you how much I ap
preciate this."
She saw his smile up close for the first time. Two dimples stood out on his cheeks, making him look innocent, almost childlike.
"Don't thank me. How often does a guy like me get to play the hero?" He took a seat on the chair adjacent to the sofa.
This floor was almost a carbon-copy of the one below, where the conference was taking place. Tall windows lined one side of the wide corridor. On the opposite side, doors led to conference rooms. The occasional seating area interrupted the industrial carpet with its multi-colored, geometric pattern. She could just make out the tune of the elevator music playing over the speakers. The area was deserted.
She looked back to Alan. "Don't you have to get to the thing?"
"I don't think there actually is a thing."
She shrugged. "You were headed somewhere."
A tinny alarm sounded, and Alan fumbled with his watch to silence it. He pulled a small pill bottle from his coat pocket, shook a yellow pill onto his hand, and popped it in his mouth. After he swallowed, he smiled. "Don't worry. It's not contagious." He slipped the bottle back into his pocket. "I wasn't headed anywhere, actually. Brenda and I met to go over some quick edits, but we'd finished. I was walking her to her meeting with her agent. So, what was that about?"
Amanda sat back on the sofa and brushed her hair back from her face, trying to push away her anxiety. "Long story."
"You said he found you. Were you hiding from him?"
"Not . . . actively."
He cocked his head and frowned. "That's cryptic."
"Sorry. We used to date, sort of, a long time ago."
He studied her for a moment, a grimace scrunching up his eyes. "Either you're older than you look or he's younger than he looks. Or . . ."
She met his eyes but added nothing.
"Ah."
She crossed her arms. "Like I said, it's a long story."
"What are you going to do now?"
Good question. "I would go home, but my agent and I have a meeting tomorrow."
Alan tented his fingers. They were trembling slightly. "Aren't you worried about that guy?"
She looked toward the escalator. Worried wasn't the right word. She didn't think a word existed to define how she felt.
Her phone rang, startling her. She reached into the pocket of her blazer and read the caller ID. It was Mark.
"I'm sorry, I have to take this," she said. "You should go. I'll be—"
"Answer your call. I'm not leaving you alone."
She nodded her thanks and answered. "Hello?"
"It's me," Mark said.
Mark's voice, in just those two words, somehow soothed her. Hadn't Mark always taken care of her, protected her? If he were here, she'd fall into his arms and . . .
No. She couldn't let herself think like that. Not anymore.
Alan must've sensed she needed privacy. He stood and walked toward the escalators.
Amanda watched his retreating back. "How are the girls?"
"They're fine. They're roller skating in the basement. How's it going there?"
"Fine. Just . . ." Her stomach knotted. "Just fine."
A short pause. "You don't sound fine. What's wrong?"
"Nothing." She could picture the frustrated look on his face. She'd seen it a lot lately. "Did you need something?"
"Yeah. Madi's inhaler is almost empty. I have an extra at my apartment, but I wondered—"
"In the cabinet, behind the basket with the medicines, there should be another one in a red-and-white box."
She waited. She could hear him searching her kitchen. He'd moved out a month earlier, and it still felt weird to think of it as her kitchen. She'd wavered over inviting him to stay at the house with the girls while she was gone, but it made more sense than having them stay at his apartment. He had beds for them in the second bedroom of his tiny place, but nothing for them to do. She'd tried to send over some toys and games. She'd even tried to give him an extra TV for the girls. He'd refused it all. He didn't need anything from her. Probably never had.
"Found it," he said, slamming the cabinet. "Now tell me what's wrong."
"Nothing. It's just . . ." She sighed. He was still her husband, and if nothing else, he would want to protect her. And after nine years of marriage, she trusted his judgment. Plus, he was tenacious enough to badger her until she fessed up.
"Just what?"
She braced herself. "I saw Gabriel Sheppard."
"What?"
His shout didn't surprise her, but she winced anyway.
"Are you okay?"
That sudden shift—from anger to concern—niggled at a raw place in her heart. She pushed the feeling away. "I'm fine."
"Did he see you?"
"I was sitting in the lobby. We talked."
"Oh, honey, you must've been terrified. Are you all right?"
Her eyes stung with tears. She squeezed them shut until they stopped burning. Why was Mark being so nice? She'd expected anger, not kindness. "I guess. He wanted to know what happened to me, and I told him . . . I wasn't sure what to say, so I told him I'd met somebody else."
"How'd he take it?"
She shrugged. "I don't know. But he saw my name tag. He—"
"Your name tag? So he knows how to find you?"
"He knows my pen name, he knows my last name is Johnson, yeah. But not your name." She turned the name tag and looked at it. "Oh, no."
"What?"
"I forgot. Everyone's name tag says where they're from."
"Just Massachusetts, or . . . ?"
"It says Norwell."
He muttered something she couldn't make out and then spoke into the phone again. "You think he'll try to find you?"
She remembered his final words as they ascended the escalator. See you soon. "Yes."
Mark must've read something in her voice. "And?"
She swallowed. "He sort of asked me about the memoir—"
A flash of movement. Amanda looked up in time to see Alan dart across the small space. "He's coming."
"Who was that?" Mark asked.
Her heart pounded as Alan rushed toward her. "Up the escalator?"
"Come on." Alan grabbed her bag in one hand, her arm in the other, and pulled her across the corridor. He yanked open a door and pushed her into a small conference room. Long, thin tables were set up in rows from front to back, chairs lining the back edges of each. Alan threw her bag on a table.
"Stay here. I'll get rid of him," he said.
"What's happening?" Mark's voice was demanding and frightened.
"Gabriel's coming up the escalator, and Alan—"
"Who's Alan? What's going on?"
Her voice shook. "He helped me get away from Gabriel."
Mark must've heard her fear. He softened his tone again. "I'm sorry. I wish I were there."
She did, too. In a blink, she imagined her husband beside her, his arms wrapped around her. Mark wouldn't let Gabriel near her. In fact, Gabriel wouldn't dare approach if Mark were at her side.
"I need to speak with her for a moment." Gabriel's voice filtered through the closed door, sending a vibration of fear through her, as if he'd plucked a guitar string along the length of her spine.
She scanned the room. A door near the front warned her it was for authorized personnel only. But if she had to escape, she wouldn't hesitate. She grabbed her bag, took a couple of steps toward the door, and continued to listen.
"She doesn't want to see you," Alan said.
"Mandy?" Mark said. "Are you—?"
"Shh," she whispered. Mark quieted.
"Fine," Gabriel said. "Tell her this isn't over."
"Why don't you leave her alone?" Alan asked.
"Why don't you mind your own business?"
Amanda could feel tension rising between the two men through the closed door. A moment later, the door swung open, and Alan stepped inside. "He's gone."
She made her way back to the table and slumped into the chair, relaxing muscles she hadn't realized were cl
enched. "Thank you."
"Let me talk to him," Mark said through the telephone.
Alan was about to step out the door.
"To Alan?" she asked.
He turned, tilting his head to the side.
"Why?" she asked.
"Please? I just want to get his impression."
A conversation between Alan and Mark? For some reason, that didn't seem like a good idea. "Isn't my impression good enough?"
After a beat, Mark said gently, "Your impression is very important, but you're not impartial. I'm assuming he is, right?"
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Are you two friends or . . . something?"
Alan hovered near the door. She smiled at him. "We just met."
"Okay, then he's impartial. Can I talk to him, please?"
She covered the mouthpiece with the heel of her hand. "My husband wants to talk to you. Do you mind?"
Alan's eyebrows rose, and he glanced at her left hand. "Your husband?"
"Yes. His name is Mark."
"Sure."
He walked over, and she placed the phone in his outstretched hand. Before she let go, she said, "He's a little . . . intense."
"If you were my wife, knowing what just happened, I'd be intense, too."
She released her grip on the phone, and Alan lifted it to his ear. "Hello?"
Mark stopped mid-pace when he heard the man's voice. "Hi. I'm Amanda's husband, Mark. And you are . . . ?"
"Alan Morass."
He resumed his pacing. "How do you know my wife?"
"Uh, I don't really know her," Alan said. "She just looked like she needed help."
"What do you mean?"
"She was sitting in a chair in the lobby, sort of trapped by this giant man."
"Giant? How big is he?"
"Gosh, six-four, six-five."
Mark stopped again. "She told me he was big, but I didn't realize . . ." He let his voice trail off while a visual of the scene filled his mind. "What do you mean she was trapped?"
Mark made his way into the living room and dropped onto the sofa, imagining the situation as Alan described it. Amanda's biggest fear was that Gabriel Sheppard would find her one day. She'd always said she didn't know what she was afraid of exactly, swearing the man would never hurt her. But Mark's gut feelings had saved him often enough in Afghanistan. If her gut was telling her to be afraid, there must be a reason.
Finding Amanda Page 3