and—
A slight movement registered with her peripheral vision, the fragmentation of a silent mass that was bigger and blacker than the darkness surrounding it.
The signal was still en route to her brain—
run!—
when a pair of arms circled her from behind, capturing her, and she screamed, struggling for her life.
Chapter 6
The more Amara fought, the more trapped she became, as though the person holding her was the solid and vertical equivalent of quicksand, sticking to her and dragging her under to certain death.
She screamed. A hard hand clamped over her mouth.
She bit. Those digging fingers tightened, hurting.
She tried to free her useless arms from her sides. The living manacles embracing her in an immovable grip clenched, compressing her ribs.
She kicked out and was swung off her flailing feet.
Roaring with suppressed fear, growing desperation and a white-hot rage at being a crime victim in her own damn kitchen, she resorted to her only remaining weapon and jerked her head back—determined to knock out as many teeth as possible—and connected with someone’s nose with an audible and, she hoped, painful crunch.
“Christ.”
Ignoring the pinpoints of light blinking before her eyes and the ache that would soon be a goose egg on her scalp, she hung her head again and prepared foranother assault, but the intruder was ready for her this time and jerked away.
This led to overcompensation and a wild moment during which they staggered together, teetering between remaining upright and becoming victims of gravity.
Gravity won.
They hit the cold slate floor with a skull-jarring crash that was made worse because Amara had no hands free to catch herself and the man weighed a ton. His unforgiving body was every bit as hard as the tile beneath her belly and she gasped for breath even as she waited for her ribs to splinter.
And there was a new threat.
The unmistakable bulge of a fearsome package—flaccid now, yeah, but still fearsome—wedged against her butt, which was covered only by the insubstantial floss of a pair of thong panties and the negligible film of a cotton nightgown.
Oh, God.
Their minds seemed to be following the same path because Amara renewed her struggle, writhing and twisting, at the same time that the intruder tensed his muscles, tightening them to stone against which she had no prayer.
She screamed with frustration against his palm, the sound muffled and impotent, and then something extraordinary happened.
“Amara.” The crushing weight against her lessened and he shifted enough for her to suck in a strangled breath. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
The hoarse voice penetrated her panic and she froze with astonishment.
Wait a minute. She knew that voice.
“It’s Jack from the diner.”
“Juuck?” she asked into his hand.
“Yes.” She heard the relief in his voice. “I’m letting you go. Don’t hurt me, okay?”
She nodded.
His hand let go of her face and he braced atop her body in push-up position as though testing her newfound compliance. From there it took him an unaccountably long time to climb the rest of the way off her and she became aware, with excruciating sensitivity, of the cool air against her bare hips and butt, her spread thighs and single bent knee as she tried to get a toehold against the floor, the rasp of his pants against her legs, the flat hard lines of his belt buckle, his strength, his scent, the overpowering heat he generated.
With slow and deliberate movement, he eased down the length of her body.
And was gone.
Amara waited, trembling, not daring to breathe, this sudden respite from death too good to be true, but then her near-nudity below the waist spurred her to action. Scrambling into a squat, she skittered backward, away from him, until her back thumped the dishwasher.
Standing now, he stared down at her. She stared up at him. Then he reached out a hand for her to grab. When she hesitated, he bent at the waist, caught her under the arms,
A slight movement registered with her peripheral vision, the fragmentation of a silent mass that was bigger and blacker than the darkness surrounding it.
The signal was still en route to her brain—
run!—
when a pair of arms circled her from behind, capturing her, and she screamed, struggling for her life.
Chapter 6
The more Amara fought, the more trapped she became, as though the person holding her was the solid and vertical equivalent of quicksand, sticking to her and dragging her under to certain death.
She screamed. A hard hand clamped over her mouth.
She bit. Those digging fingers tightened, hurting.
She tried to free her useless arms from her sides. The living manacles embracing her in an immovable grip clenched, compressing her ribs.
She kicked out and was swung off her flailing feet.
Roaring with suppressed fear, growing desperation and a white-hot rage at being a crime victim in her own damn kitchen, she resorted to her only remaining weapon and jerked her head back—determined to knock out as many teeth as possible—and connected with someone’s nose with an audible and, she hoped, painful crunch.
“Christ.”
Ignoring the pinpoints of light blinking before her eyes and the ache that would soon be a goose egg on her scalp, she hung her head again and prepared foranother assault, but the intruder was ready for her this time and jerked away.
This led to overcompensation and a wild moment during which they staggered together, teetering between remaining upright and becoming victims of gravity.
Gravity won.
They hit the cold slate floor with a skull-jarring crash that was made worse because Amara had no hands free to catch herself and the man weighed a ton. His unforgiving body was every bit as hard as the tile beneath her belly and she gasped for breath even as she waited for her ribs to splinter.
And there was a new threat.
The unmistakable bulge of a fearsome package—flaccid now, yeah, but still fearsome—wedged against her butt, which was covered only by the insubstantial floss of a pair of thong panties and the negligible film of a cotton nightgown.
Oh, God.
Their minds seemed to be following the same path because Amara renewed her struggle, writhing and twisting, at the same time that the intruder tensed his muscles, tightening them to stone against which she had no prayer.
She screamed with frustration against his palm, the sound muffled and impotent, and then something extraordinary happened.
“Amara.” The crushing weight against her lessened and he shifted enough for her to suck in a strangled breath. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
The hoarse voice penetrated her panic and she froze with astonishment.
Wait a minute. She knew that voice.
“It’s Jack from the diner.”
“Juuck?” she asked into his hand.
“Yes.” She heard the relief in his voice. “I’m letting you go. Don’t hurt me, okay?”
She nodded.
His hand let go of her face and he braced atop her body in push-up position as though testing her newfound compliance. From there it took him an unaccountably long time to climb the rest of the way off her and she became aware, with excruciating sensitivity, of the cool air against her bare hips and butt, her spread thighs and single bent knee as she tried to get a toehold against the floor, the rasp of his pants against her legs, the flat hard lines of his belt buckle, his strength, his scent, the overpowering heat he generated.
With slow and deliberate movement, he eased down the length of her body.
And was gone.
Amara waited, trembling, not daring to breathe, this sudden respite from death too good to be true, but then her near-nudity below the waist spurred her to action. Scrambling into a squat, she skittered backward, away from him, until her back thumped the dishwasher.
Standing now, he stared down at her. She stared up at him. Then he reached out a hand for her to grab. When she hesitated, he bent at the waist, caught her under the arms,
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