The Dark Highlander
Page 37

“Yes. I’m Giles Jones,” he said. “Is he in?”
“Not at the moment, but I’ll be happy to tell him you stopped by.” She peered at him, curiosity never dormant. Here was one of Dageus’s friends. What might he tell her about him? “Are you a close friend of his?” she fished.
“Yes.” He smiled. “And who might you be? I can’t believe he’s not mentioned such a lovely woman to me.”
“Chloe Zanders.”
“Ah, he has exquisite taste,” Giles said softly.
She blushed. “Thank you.”
“Where did he go? Will he be returning soon? Might I wait?”
“It’ll probably be an hour or so. Can I give him a message for you?”
“An hour?” he echoed. “Are you certain? Perhaps I could wait; he might be back sooner.” He glanced questioningly at her.
Chloe shook her head. “I’m afraid not, Mr. Jones. He went to get some things for me; we’re leaving for Scotland later and—”
She broke off as the man’s demeanor changed abruptly.
Gone was the disarming smile. Gone was the appreciative gaze.
Replaced by a cold, calculating expression. And—her brain seemed to resist processing this fact—there was suddenly, bewilderingly, a knife in his hand.
She shook her head sharply, unable to absorb the bizarre turn of events.
With a menacing smile, he moved toward her.
Still trying to get some dim grasp on the situation, she said stupidly. “You’re n-not his f-friend.” Oh, gee, did the knife give it away, Zanders? she snapped at herself silently. Get a grip. Find a blasted weapon. She inched slowly backward, into the kitchen, afraid to make a sudden move.
“Not yet,” was the man’s bizarre reply as he paced her.
“What do you want? If it’s money, he has lots of money. Tons of money. And he’ll happily give it to you. And there are artifacts,” she babbled. She was almost there. Surely there was a knife lying on the counter somewhere. “Worth a fortune. I’ll help you pack them up. There are oodles of things here you can take. I won’t get in your way a bit. I promise, I’ll just—”
“It’s not money I’m after.”
Oh, God. A dozen horrid scenarios, each worse than the last, flashed through her mind. He’d duped her into freely admitting that she was alone for an hour by pretending to know Dageus. How gullible she’d been! You can take the girl out of Kansas, but you can’t take Kansas out of the girl, she thought, hysteria bubbling inside her.
“Oh, would you look at that! I’ve mistaken the time! He’s due back any minute—”
A sharp bark of laughter. “Nice try.”
When he lunged for her, she scrambled backward, adrenaline flooding her. Frantically, with hands made clumsy by fear, she snatched things off the counter and flung them at him. The thermal coffeepot bounced off his shoulder, spewing coffee everywhere; the butcher block hit him squarely in the chest. Flailing behind her, she grabbed one Baccarat goblet after another from the sink and flung them at his head. He ducked and dodged, and glass after glass exploded against the wall behind him, raining down on the floor.
He hissed with fury and kept coming.
Gasping for breath, dangerously close to hyperventilating, Chloe groped for more arsenal. A pot, a colander, some keys, a timer, a skillet, spice jars, more glasses. She needed a freaking weapon! In the midst of this damned museum, surely she could get her hands on one blasted knife! But her bare feet kept slipping in coffee as she tried to avoid both her assailant and the broken glass.
Afraid to take her eyes off him, she fumbled for a drawer behind her and felt frantically about: towels.
The next drawer: trash bags and Reynolds Wrap. She flung both boxes at him.
Glass crunching beneath his shoes, he advanced, backing her against the counter.
Wine bottle. Full. Thank you, God. She kept it behind her back and went motionless.
He did exactly what she’d hoped. Gave her the bum’s rush, and she smashed the bottle down on his head with all her might, drenching them both with glass-spiked wine.
He grabbed her around the waist as he went down, taking her with him. She was no match for the wiry strength of the man as he wrestled her onto her back beneath him.
She caught a flash of silver perilously close to her face. She went limp for a moment, just long enough to make him wonder, then twisted and went for his groin with her knee and his eyes with her thumbs, whispering a silent thank-you to Jon Stanton in Kansas, who’d taught her “ten dirty tricks” when they’d dated in high school.