The gun was pressing at her temple. She gulped, then gently hung up the phone.
“I heard what the guy said. You’re lucky you didn’t blow it, little girl. Now.”
He pulled some slender nylon rope from his pocket. “Put those arms up over your head.”
He was going to tie her down. Then he could do anything he wanted to with her.
Slowly, slowly, she raised her arms. Why had she wanted a brass bed with a slatted brass headboard? He was coming over to her; soon now, soon, and she would have a chance.
He leaned down, the rope in one hand, the gun in the other. He seemed uncertain what to do with the gun. Put it down, she said in her mind, over and over, as she looked up at him. Put it down. I’m skinny. You can take me. Don’t be afraid.
He made up his mind. He backed off. “Turn on your stomach.”
She stared at him.
“Do it now or I’ll make you really sorry.”
She couldn’t do it. She just couldn’t. Without thought, without hesitation, she lurched up and rammed her head into his belly. At the same time, she flung out both fists against his forearms. She heard him cursing, heard the pain in his voice, and kept hitting him. Quickly she threw herself to the floor, rolling onto her back. He was heaving hard, over her now, the gun up, and she kicked with all her strength, her foot hitting his hand.
The gun went flying.
He threw himself down on her. His fist landed hard against her jaw, then he raised her head, grabbed fistfuls of damp hair, and slammed her head against the floor once, twice, three times. She heard a yell and a moan. The sounds were from her. She tried to bring her legs up to kick him but couldn’t manage it. She felt numbness, then knifing pain shot through her head. She vaguely heard his curses from above her, and they grew more distant. She thought she heard the phone ring again. She thought she heard him breathing hard over her. Then she didn’t know about anything. She fell into blackness.
He was scared spitless. The front door stood wide open. Savich forced himself to be careful, to go slowly, but what he wanted to do was roar in there. God, what had happened?
He drew his gun and eased inside the town house. Slowly, he reached for the light switch and flipped it on. He was in a crouch in the next instant, sweeping his SIG-Sauer around him in a wide arc.
No one.
“Sherlock?”
Nothing.
He didn’t even pause now. He ran into the living room, switching on lights as he went. She wasn’t there. Nor was she in the kitchen.
He was in the hallway when he heard a moan.
She was lying on the floor next to the bed, naked. Blood streaked down the side of her face.
He was on his knees beside her, his fingers pressed against the pulse in her neck. Slow and steady. He turned her over.
“Sherlock! Wake up!”
She moaned again, low and deep in her throat. She tried to bring up her hand to her head, but couldn’t do it. Her hand fell. He caught it before it hit the floor. He laid her hand over her belly.
He leaned close over her, an inch from her face. “Sherlock, wake the hell up. You’re scaring the bejesus out of me. Wake up!”
She heard his voice. He sounded incredibly angry-no, not angry, but really worried. She had to open her eyes, but she knew any movement at all would hurt really badly.
“Talk to me. Come on, you can do it. Talk to me.”
She managed to open her eyes. He was blurry, but his voice was low and deep and eminently sane. She was so grateful, so relieved. She whispered over the pain, “You came. I knew the multiple sirs would get to you.”
“They did. The first time you said it, I wanted to trim your sails but good, but then you said it again. I knew something was wrong. Where’d he hit you?”