Chapter 1

Shannon took copious notes, swearing at the inefficiency of a penlight for writing in the middle of a pitch-dark theater. She swore again at the narrow arms on the seats, which were no good at all for holding a notepad. Especially when the jerks on either side of her seemed to think they owned exclusive rights to them. She growled a sigh, shoved the meaty arm to her left out of the way and whispered loudly, "Hey, do you mind? I'm trying to work here."

Anger was good. Anger would keep her mind away from the images burned into it. Tawny, with hair and eyes that matched her name, and a porcelain-doll face, and a smile that lit up a room. Her dreams of becoming a star, her overly dramatic way of expressing herself. Her fearlessness. Her stubbornness. Shannon wanted to remember the vibrant upstart actress by day, call girl by night, best friend forever. Not the pale, naked body sprawled on the rumpled sheets, with its vacant-eyed stare. Not the twin gossamer strands of scarlet meandering over her paper-white neck. God, not that.

The guy in the next seat grumbled and shifted as far away from her as possible. Shannon wrote, only vaguely aware of the spreading applause. The gradual quieting. The sense of expectation in the crowd. The deep, melodic voice of the man at center stage announcing that he would need a volunteer from the audience. A sudden burst of movement and loudly voiced offers from the female spectators distracted her only for a moment before she adjusted the dim penlight and continued writing.

"The women here are practically drooling. It would be easy for him to lure one anywhere he wanted. Still no one who can tell me where he was last Wednesday night between…"

Her pen stopped on the pad and a cloud of frigid air seemed to envelop her. She glanced up, toward the aisle three seats away. He stood there, a tall, shadowy form draped in black satin. An instant later the spotlight caught up with him, illuminating his hair, until it gleamed blue, and making his ivory skin seem even paler. His arm was outstretched, his hand reaching toward her. And his eyes, huge and round like an owl's, seemingly holding the wisdom of the gods and the pain of a thousand hells, focused on her, keeping her prisoner.

"You, miss."

She wished her heart would stop racing. There was still no shred of evidence that the man was a twisted murderer. Only a matter of circumstance and her own suspicions. "Me, what?"

His lips curved upward. His gaze fell to the notepad, the penlight and the pen she'd been juggling all evening, then jumped back to hers again. "What's your name?"

"Sh-Shannon…but, I—"

"A round of applause for the lovely Shannon, our courageous volunteer."

He said it loudly, waving toward her with a flourish and a ripple of that shimmering cloak. The spotlight obeyed him, instantly dousing her in a pool of hot white brilliance that did nothing to chase away her ominous chill. She squinted as the applause swelled. His hand closed on hers, big, warm, hard. He pulled, none too gently. The notepad, penlight, purse, everything, avalanched to the floor as she was jerked to her feet.

She gave her hand a tug, but his grip was as good as any pair of handcuffs ever invented. He pulled her along at his side. Her protests went unheard beneath the noise of the crowd and the accompanying music. He dragged her up the steps far to the right and onto the stage. She could either fight him and look like an idiot, or accept this fiasco with a modicum of grace. She decided on the latter, though she thought the vain bastard could use a good kick in his oversize ego.

He looked into her eyes, and again, his lips curved. It didn't go far enough to qualify as a smile. More like an "I know what you're thinking and find it amusing" kind of a look.

She glared at him, her mind exchanging his black eyes for Tawny's light brown ones—wide open, glazed, forever blind.

His grip on her wrist eased. He frowned down at her and his hand slid down to clasp hers. They stopped center stage. Behind them, a red velvet curtain rose as silently as a ghost. Shannon glanced over her shoulder, saw a clear pane of glass balanced across the backs of two chairs.

"The lovely Shhannnon—" he drew the consonants in her name out until it sounded like an incantation "—is about to assist me in defying the very laws of nature…of Mother Earth…"

She told herself not to lose her anger to the ever-growing tide of uneasiness that could easily become fear. Killer or not, he couldn't very well hurt her right in front of thousands of onlookers. She stiffened her spine. "If you think I'm letting you saw me in half, forget it," she rasped, teeth grated, mouth barely moving. She glanced sideways at him, saw the twitch in his lips, felt his hand tighten on hers.

"Of gravity itself," he went on.

He had a way of speaking that was utterly mesmerizing, each word enunciated slowly, his mouth seeming to caress every syllable before releasing it. It made you focus on his lips as he spoke, against your own will.

"This way, Shannon." Mist shot up from the floor, encircling their legs to twist and writhe in time with the erotic music, if music could be that. Slow, sexy, with an urgent beat. He led her to the makeshift table, waved an arm over it, then took her hand and guided her up a pair of wooden steps as the silken music swelled, his every movement in perfect synchronization with the beat. "Lie down, Shannon. And prepare to be swept away."

Copyright © 1994 by Margaret Benson.