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An Excerpt From: TAKEN BY THE WIND
Copyright © CHARLOTTE BOYETT-COMPO, 2006.
All Rights Reserved, Ellora's Cave Publishing,
Inc.
Bursting through the fourth floor fire
door, she rushed toward the closed doors of the service elevator at the far
end. She reached the elevator, jammed the single “down” button and almost
whooped for joy when the door opened immediately. She hurried inside, hit
the sublevel two button.
Off to her right, she
heard the fire door crash open and had to choke off a shriek of surprise.
How had he found her so quickly?
There was nowhere to go.
She knew he could see the open freight elevator door. Brenna leaned against
the door’s close button, putting all her weight into it, and felt a
momentary flood of relief as the doors began to close. But just as the
panels were about to meet, a hand clutching a gun wedged between the
closing panels and the doors began to open once again.
“No!” Brenna bellowed.
She lashed out, stabbing violently at the killer, raking the back of his
hand with her car keys. Her action so stunned—and hurt—him, he dropped his
weapon. The gun hit the carpet with a dull thud.
Brenna stared at the
blood already beginning to seep down the man’s fingers as he cradled it
like a claw in his other hand. She had raked him so brutally scores of deep
cuts showed on his darkly tanned flesh.
“That was good,” she
heard him say in between heavy intakes of breath.
Against her will, she
slowly raised her eyes to meet his and whimpered as she got a good look at
him.
“I wasn’t expecting
that,” he said softly.
She whimpered again and
he began to smile in an eerie, challenging way that showed straight white
teeth. His grin grew predatory and he widened his eyes with mock surprise.
“Now what are you going to do, sweeting?”
The killer’s foot was
across the threshold, blocking the doors from closing. She wanted to lunge
for the pistol at his feet, pump the entire clip into his chest and tear
him to bits with it even though she didn’t have a clue how to shoot a gun.
Her attention slid recklessly toward the weapon and she saw him cast a slow
look that way as well.
“Go ahead, baby,” he
whispered, drawing her eyes immediately back to his. His nose crinkled with
amusement as he said, “Do it.”
She saw absolute evil in
the killer’s face. Although he was smiling warmly at her, the smile didn’t
reach his chocolate-brown eyes. Those amber-shot dark orbs were as cold as
the farthest reaches of the galaxy. The power staring out at her from a
face that was movie-star handsome made the situation even more eerie.
Killers, she thought, should not look like they belonged on the cover of a
fan magazine.
She tore her gaze from
his and looked at the gun again.
“Go for it. Let’s see how
fast you can move,” he taunted, and Brenna’s heart skipped a beat.
She couldn’t get past
him. She knew that. He could easily reach out and grab her if she tried and
throw her back into the cage. If she were to try for his weapon, she knew
who’d gain it first. He’d pick it up and shoot her or hit her with it then…
She shook her head,
refusing to think what he might do to her before he killed her.
“What are you waiting
for?” His voice was deep, low and soft as a lover’s caress, and all the
more lethal for its quietness.
In her nightmares she
would see herself standing there confronting him, being made to endure that
evil, knowing smile, hear that deadly challenge. In actuality, it was only
a matter of seconds—though long enough to blur her sanity and put a tear in
the fabric of her self-control—before she rushed over the edge of safety
and into the maelstrom of rashness.
“Go to hell, you
bastard!” she shrieked, striking out with her foot and catching him
hard on the shin, eliciting another grunt of surprised pain.
Her attack made him yank
back his leg and, as he did, Brenna jammed the close button on the freight
elevator doors. As he straightened up and the doors began to close, he
locked his gaze on her, his eyes hardening, gleaming with pure wickedness.
“That’s the second time
you’ve hurt me, baby,” he growled, and his uninjured hand caught the left
elevator door panel and kept it from closing.
Brenna tried to rake that
hand with her keys too, but he had no doubt been anticipating her move, for
he brought up his bleeding fist and batted away her hand so hard she felt
the shock all the way to her elbow. The keys went spinning out of her
fingers and onto the carpet behind her.
“Mean little bitch,
aren’t you?” he asked, one thick, dark brow lifted in query. He snaked his
foot forward to kick the gun out into the hallway behind him.
She expected him to leap
toward her, thought he would grab her and strangle her. The look in his eyes
told her he wanted to. But he just stood there, his cold smile having
returned. When she thought she would go insane waiting for him to act, he
released the door.
“Sleep well, milady,” he
told her then winked. “Look for me in your dreams.” The doors shushed
closed as his smile gave way to laughter.
The laughter made the
hairs stand up on Brenna’s arms—it was bizarre, chilling, so totally out of
place in the situation. As the elevator sped downward, she could still hear
it echoing through her mind, washing over her with a vileness that set her
to trembling all over again. When the car came to rest at the sublevel two
parking garage, she barely gave the doors a chance to open before she was
sprinting down the parking ramp and out into the night. She tripped,
slamming her shoulder hard into a tall concrete buttress—she didn’t even
notice. Nor did she really feel the pain of the collision. Her main concern
was on reaching the street.
* * * * *
From the wide sweep of
windows on the fourth floor, he watched her run onto Dodge Street, waving
her arms for help. He tensed as he saw a car coming at her, and then
relaxed as it slowed, nodded as the brake lights came on and she scrambled
inside. He watched until the taillights were only a flicker and then turned
away from the window.
A rare, genuine smile
touched his full lips and he laughed with wry amusement. If that was a
pervert into whose car she’d leapt, he pitied the poor fool—she’d make
mincemeat of him.
He found he wasn’t
concerned for her safety. She’d proven she could handle herself
well-enough.
Even with a man like
himself.
“Not bad,” he whispered.
“Not bad at all.”
He pushed away from the
window and headed for the stairwell.
“But next time,” he said
aloud as he pushed open the stairwell door, “you won’t get away so easily.”
The killer sighed deeply.
He never took chances, never left witnesses. He could not afford to leave
behind anyone who could later describe him, point him out in a lineup.
Not until tonight.
He looked down at his
bloody knuckles and grunted. He wondered why he had let her live, but there
had been something in her eyes…
He brought his knuckles
to his lips and licked away the oozing fluid, savoring the salty taste.
He narrowed his gaze.
He would find out who she
was, learn everything he could about her then go after her.
When he had time to play.
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