The Christie Caper - Carolyn Hart [13]
His lips snapped shut. The dot of blood on his cheek trickled toward his chin. His ebony eyes were suddenly opaque.
Both hands—big, brutal hands with spatulate thumbs and hairy knuckles—closed on the window rim by Emma.
Annie was instantly as aware of him as she’d ever been of any man in her life. Not in a nice way. She knew immediately, viscerally, that here was a man who lived his life to suit his own lusts, with no thought or care for those he used. It was apparent in the sensuous droop of his mouth, the jaded disdain of his eyes, the powerful grip of those large hands. She could see it, feel it, and she was horrified to realize he attracted her. A modern Captain Blackbeard, he would attract most women, she knew. He had about him an air of compelling, unbridled, overweening maleness.
Emma tilted her head to look up. “Sorry ’bout that, Neil,” she drawled. Her voice held no hint of tension or apology.
His black eyes glittered. “You always live on the edge, don’t you, Emma? One of these days you’ll go over—and you know what happened to Humpty Dumpty.”
“What a tellingly literate allusion, my dear,” she replied bitingly. “Just like your reviews.”
A muscle flickered once in his jaw. But it was the tightening of his hands on the window rim that revealed just how deep the barb stung.
His lips drew back, exposing blunt tobacco-yellowed teeth, in a savage smile.
“I reviewed a book in the last issue that reminded me of you, Emma. A serial killer, a killer of shrews and bitches. He liked to cut them into little pieces while they were still alive. He even recorded their screams. But the most fun—”
The car jolted to life.
Neil Bledsoe leapt back just in time as the Jaguar squealed into reverse.
Annie was flung forward then back against the seat, as Emma shifted to low. As the car bolted past the Lincoln, Annie caught a single glimpse of the woman in the backseat. White hair, frightened blue eyes, a wrinkled hand pressed to her lips. The powerful sports car leapt past the parked cars, erupted out of the turnaround, and thundered into the parking lot, white dust boiling in its wake. The Jaguar bucked to a stop behind a loblolly pine.
In the silence after Emma turned off the motor, Annie said grimly, “Next time you plan Death by Car you might inform your passenger.” She tried to still her trembling hands.
Emma ignored Annie. With her usual economy of movement, despite her bulk, she unclipped her seat belt, slammed out of the car, and headed briskly for the hotel.
Annie fumbled with her belt, then the latch, flung herself out of the car, and broke into a trot By the time she caught up with Emma, she felt like a caramel on August asphalt.
“Emma, wait a minute. You can’t try to run a man down—oh, all right, you didn’t intend to kill him—but you can’t race a Jaguar at someone in an obvious attempt to scare the pants off him and not even give any explanation. What are you doing? What are you going to do? Emma, what the hell are you up to?”
“Don’t be tiresome, Annie.” Emma yanked open one of the side doors of the hotel, and they plunged into the dim hall. “I got Neil’s attention—and I enjoyed it. God, I didn’t want to brake. I didn’t want to.”
It was cool in the shadowy hall, but not cool enough for the chill that spread over Annie. Emma almost hadn’t braked the Jaguar, Annie felt certain of it.
If she hadn’t—Annie fought away a wave of nausea.
She reached out, grabbed the older woman’s arm. “Emma, for God’s sake, you’ve got to get control of yourself.”
Emma didn’t even break stride. She shrugged away Annie’s grasp. “It may not be too late to stop Fleur.”
“Stop her!” Annie picked up speed, her summer flats slapping against the pink-speckled marble floor.
“If she hasn’t arrived,” Emma said crisply, “maybe there’ll still be time to call and tell her not to come.” She sailed ahead of Annie into the wide, palm-potted lobby, heading for the registration desk.
Annie had had enough. She put on a burst of