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Authors: Susan Grant
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drive a black Porsche. Neither did any of the other men she'd dated recently… that she knew of. She had no idea who this dude was, only that his unwavering attention was doing a bang-up job of giving her the creeps.
She shoved her hair out of her eyes. Great, just great. A stalker would be the perfect ending to a perfect day.
Keeping an eye on the Porsche, Ilana slipped her hand into her purse and closed her fingers over a cold, metallic tube. With the can of pepper spray armed and ready, she opened the car door and stepped out.
The stranger's car door opened, too.
Shit. He was dressed from head to toe in black. The self-important way he carried himself spoke volumes about his confidence in his strength and purpose. And he was tall and solid enough to assure her that he could kick some butt if he wanted to.
Stop it. She was letting her thoughts run away from her. She did that when she was nervous. Nervous, yes. Not scared. She wasn't scared.
She slammed her car door behind her, locked it, and strode toward her front door as if she meant business. A salty sea breeze caught her hair and blew it around her face.
Her condo was two flights up. She reached the alcove where the stairs began, paused to see if the man had followed her.
He had.
Her heart lurched, dumping a bucketful of adrenaline into her bloodstream. Yet her mounting fear didn't come close to what she'd experienced in Flying Without Fear for Dummies. While flying was a no-go, stalkers she could handle.
Yes, she acknowledged silently— stalker. As far as she was concerned, this guy was a threat. Anyone who dressed in black and followed women in the middle of the night qualified.
Adding to her heebie-jeebies were the sunglasses she could now see that he wore.
Shades? At night? Worse, they were mirrored wraparounds. But he hadn't tripped over the trashcan; nor had he stepped on any of the dog mines littering the wide swath of grass that separated the sidewalk from the building. He was obviously able to see.
Smooth. He was definitely smooth. He reminded her of a highly paid hit man— not that she'd ever seen one, but she had a good imagination. Too good, and it was freaking the daylights out of her. Not that anyone she knew could afford a professional— they'd have hired some guy named Eddie, a down-on-his-luck ex-con with a potbelly and type-H diabetes.
But what if someone she didn't know wished her harm?
Her thoughts sped off in a new direction. She was an heiress now. If the reporter saw her that way, others did, too. Heiresses got kidnapped and held for ransom. Her address was private, but it wouldn't be too hard to figure out.
Enough! She dropped a roadblock in front of her racing thoughts and hurried up the stairs. Halfway to the landing she whirled around, dismayed to find that in only a few, long, determined strides the man had reached the bottom of the staircase and was now half-hidden in the shadow of her building.
Her grip on the can of pepper spray didn't relax.
"Ilana Hamilton," the stranger called.
His voice was accented, almost monotone. It was Arnold Schwarzenegger in The Terminator, to a tee. A robotic assassin from the future, the Terminator had hunted down all the Sarah Connors in the Los Angeles phone book, each time asking, "Sarah Connor?" as confirmation before he blew their brains out. In Ilana's opinion, the similarities to this situation were not funny.
"This is a joke, isn't it?" she replied.
The stranger looked confused. Ah, he was good, really good— probably an actor, making some weekend money while he looked for work.
"Come on," she guessed. This is Flash's idea, right?" Her friend had a habit of practical jokes, most that only he thought were funny. The year she moved in, he'd paid a Mexican trio from a local restaurant to sing cheesy love songs— she wasn't fluent in Spanish and took his word regarding the lyrics— under her balcony. One birthday, he'd sent a male stripper who'd peeled off his clothes right down
She shoved her hair out of her eyes. Great, just great. A stalker would be the perfect ending to a perfect day.
Keeping an eye on the Porsche, Ilana slipped her hand into her purse and closed her fingers over a cold, metallic tube. With the can of pepper spray armed and ready, she opened the car door and stepped out.
The stranger's car door opened, too.
Shit. He was dressed from head to toe in black. The self-important way he carried himself spoke volumes about his confidence in his strength and purpose. And he was tall and solid enough to assure her that he could kick some butt if he wanted to.
Stop it. She was letting her thoughts run away from her. She did that when she was nervous. Nervous, yes. Not scared. She wasn't scared.
She slammed her car door behind her, locked it, and strode toward her front door as if she meant business. A salty sea breeze caught her hair and blew it around her face.
Her condo was two flights up. She reached the alcove where the stairs began, paused to see if the man had followed her.
He had.
Her heart lurched, dumping a bucketful of adrenaline into her bloodstream. Yet her mounting fear didn't come close to what she'd experienced in Flying Without Fear for Dummies. While flying was a no-go, stalkers she could handle.
Yes, she acknowledged silently— stalker. As far as she was concerned, this guy was a threat. Anyone who dressed in black and followed women in the middle of the night qualified.
Adding to her heebie-jeebies were the sunglasses she could now see that he wore.
Shades? At night? Worse, they were mirrored wraparounds. But he hadn't tripped over the trashcan; nor had he stepped on any of the dog mines littering the wide swath of grass that separated the sidewalk from the building. He was obviously able to see.
Smooth. He was definitely smooth. He reminded her of a highly paid hit man— not that she'd ever seen one, but she had a good imagination. Too good, and it was freaking the daylights out of her. Not that anyone she knew could afford a professional— they'd have hired some guy named Eddie, a down-on-his-luck ex-con with a potbelly and type-H diabetes.
But what if someone she didn't know wished her harm?
Her thoughts sped off in a new direction. She was an heiress now. If the reporter saw her that way, others did, too. Heiresses got kidnapped and held for ransom. Her address was private, but it wouldn't be too hard to figure out.
Enough! She dropped a roadblock in front of her racing thoughts and hurried up the stairs. Halfway to the landing she whirled around, dismayed to find that in only a few, long, determined strides the man had reached the bottom of the staircase and was now half-hidden in the shadow of her building.
Her grip on the can of pepper spray didn't relax.
"Ilana Hamilton," the stranger called.
His voice was accented, almost monotone. It was Arnold Schwarzenegger in The Terminator, to a tee. A robotic assassin from the future, the Terminator had hunted down all the Sarah Connors in the Los Angeles phone book, each time asking, "Sarah Connor?" as confirmation before he blew their brains out. In Ilana's opinion, the similarities to this situation were not funny.
"This is a joke, isn't it?" she replied.
The stranger looked confused. Ah, he was good, really good— probably an actor, making some weekend money while he looked for work.
"Come on," she guessed. This is Flash's idea, right?" Her friend had a habit of practical jokes, most that only he thought were funny. The year she moved in, he'd paid a Mexican trio from a local restaurant to sing cheesy love songs— she wasn't fluent in Spanish and took his word regarding the lyrics— under her balcony. One birthday, he'd sent a male stripper who'd peeled off his clothes right down
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