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Now it was her turn to swallow, and she did so with great difficulty. She willed her heart to settle down and stop drumming against her ribs with mounting anxiety. Her palms were perspiring. She pressed them together beneath the table. “How did you know my name?”
“Your mail.”
“You went through my mail?”
“You sound alarmed. Do you have something to hide, Miss Andrews?” She refused to be baited and kept her lips firmly closed over the vituperative rejoinder that pressed against them from the inside. “You got a telephone bill today.”
His sly grin set off her temper again. “They’ll catch you and send you back.”
“Yes, I know.”
His calm response rendered her mute and made the threatening, argumentative speech she was about to voice unnecessary. Instead she watched him raise the carton of milk to his mouth, tilt his head back and drink thirstily.
His neck was deeply tanned. The sliding action of his Adam’s apple intrigued her as a hypnotist’s pendulum would. He drank until there was no more, then set the empty carton down and wiped his mouth with the back of the hand that still held the knife.
“If you know they’ll catch you, why make it harder on yourself?” She asked out of a sincere curiosity to know. “Why not just turn yourself in?”
“Because there is something I have to do first,” he said grimly. “Before it’s too late.”
She didn’t pursue her question further, because she thought it might jeopardize her well-being to know what criminal acts he was contemplating. However, if she could get him to talk, maybe he would relax his guard and she could make a dash for the back door. Then once in the garage, she would hit the button that raised the automatic door and...
“How did you get in?” she asked abruptly, realizing for the first time that there had been no visible signs of forced entry.
“Through a bedroom window.”
“And how did you escape from the prison camp?”
“I deceived someone who trusted me.” His hard mouth curled derisively. “Of course he was a fool to trust an Indian. Everybody knows Indians are untrustworthy. Right, Miss Andrews?”
“I don’t know any Indians,” she answered softly, not wanting to provoke him. She disliked the way his taut body seemed about to snap with tension.
But by trying not to aggravate him, she only seemed to have aroused his temper. His eyes pored over her slowly, spilling heat on everything they touched. She was made painfully aware of her blondness, her blue eyes and fair skin. His sneer deepened into a scowl. “No, I don’t suppose you do.” Faster than her eyes could monitor the motion, he crammed the knife into his waistband and reached for her. “Get up.”
“Why?” She gasped with fright as he roughly pulled her to her feet. Holding her back against his chest, with his hands on her shoulders, he propelled her out of the kitchen. On their way through the door, he switched off the light. The hallway was dark. She stumbled ahead of him. He was going toward the bedroom and her mouth went dry with fear. “You got what you came for.”
“Not all of it.”
“You said you wanted food,” she countered frantically, digging her heels into the carpet. “If you leave now, I promise not to call the police.”
“Now why don’t I believe you, Miss Andrews?” he asked in a voice as smooth as melting ice cream.
“I swear it!” she cried, despising her weakness and the panicked sound of her voice.
“Promises have been made to me before by white men...and white women. I’ve learned to be skeptical.”
“But I had nothing to do with that. I—oh, God, what are you going to do?”
He shoved her into the bedroom. As soon as he had cleared the door, he closed it behind them. “Take a wild guess, Miss Andrews.” He spun her around and pinned her between the door and his unyielding body. He closed his hand around her throat just under her chin and bent his head down low over hers. “What do you think I’m going to do?”
“I...I...don’t know.”
“You’re not one of these sexually repressed ladies who entertain rape fantasies, are you? Hmm?”
“No!” she gasped.
“You’ve never fantasized about being taken by a savage?”
“Let me go, please.”
