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Scratch Transylvania. The invisible stranger was Italian. Emily fought back a wave of hysterical laughter. Whoa, what a relief.
“Signorina?”
“Yes,” she said in a voice that sounded like rust. “I mean, yes, I’m all right. No, I don’t need assistance. Thank you.”
“Are you alone?”
“No,” she said quickly. “I—I’m not alone. My—my—my husband went to-to get the c-car.”
Great. Chattering teeth added a lot to the illusion of toughness.
“Your husband.”
It was not a question but a statement, delivered in a flat, no-nonsense tone that suggested the man knew the lie for what it was.
“Y-yes.”
“And where is your car parked?”
“What d-does it matter?”
“I will be happy to drive you to it.”
“No!” She swallowed hard. “I m-mean, no th-thank you.”
There was a two-beat pause. “Signorina, per favore—there is no car. And no husband. You and I both know that, just as we know that you are not convinced of my good intentions.”
At least he had that right.
“I assure you, I mean you no harm.”
Should she run? The Tune-In was only five minutes away but it was probably closed by now. Besides, she had watched enough Animal Planet to know you never turned your back to a predator.
“That’s v-v-very kind of you but—”
“Cristo, why do you argue?”
The voice had turned brisk and impatient. What if he stepped out of the… Ohmygod! That was exactly what he was doing. A shiny black shoe emerged from the open door, followed by its shiny black mate. Both shoes landed in a puddle. The man muttered something as he unfolded the rest of himself from what her panicked brain now recognized as a Mercedes.
Emily’s first impression was that he was big.
No. Wrong word. Not big. Tall. Six two, six three, something like that. Long-legged. And, as she worked her way up the length of him, she saw that he was narrow-hipped, broad-shouldered—and dressed in an impeccably tailored black tux. His face was still in shadow.
Her heart was racing.
Ted Bundy, as envisioned by GQ magazine.
At least she’d meet her end at the hands of a killer who was stylishly-dressed
“Signorina,” he said, exactly the way you’d address a crazy person but, dammit, she wasn’t a crazy person: she was a resourceful woman who had watched enough reality shows to know what to do in a crisis.
“Stay back!” Quickly, she dug into her minuscule shoulder bag, closed her trembling fingers around a tube of lipstick and held it toward him vertically, one finger pressed to the top. “Stay back or I’ll use this pepper spray.”
A bark of laughter greeted her announcement. If she hadn’t been so terrified, she’d have been insulted.
“Forgive me for laughing,” the man said, “and please believe me when I tell you that I can understand your caution. It is, in fact, commendable—but misplaced.”
He took a slow step forward. Emily took one back.
