Excerpt Monday

Once a month, a bunch of authors get together and post excerpts from published books, contracted work or works in progress, and link to each other. You don’t have to be published to participate–just an writer with an excerpt you’d like to share. For more info on how to participate, head over to the Excerpt Monday site! or click on the banner above.

This is my first time participating and my excerpt is from a story called "The Lady In The Red Dress." It involves art theft, kittens and the kind of love that defies death.

It's not finished yet, and I figured I would ask you to help me with it. See, the heroine is being a little secretive. She refuses to tell me her name. I've tried several, but I never seem to come up with the right one. So I thought - how about you read this excerpt and then tell me in the comments what you think I should call her?

________

Museum of National Heritage, London, England
3 am

I reached out and someone grabbed me from behind.

To say I almost peed my pants would be the understatement of the year. The only reason I didn’t scream my lungs out was the hand clamped straight across my mouth.

Unfortunately, the hand also managed to squash my nose, making it impossible to breathe. I fidgeted and fought, but whoever had grabbed me had gotten a good grip with one arm around my waist, pinning my arms to my sides. As I felt my lungs contract with want of air, I started to panic. Thankfully, God must have been watching, because my assailant suddenly let go of my nose, and I inhaled so deeply my nostrils flared.

Even before I heard him whisper ‘sorry’, I knew it was a man. I knew, because I even shaky from oxygen deprivation and dizzy from fear, I recognized him the second I caught his scent.

“Don’t fight,” he whispered.

Silently seething, I nodded; then shook my head. Darn, how to explain I wasn’t about to? Obviously, he got the message, because he relaxed his grip a bit.

“We’re going to take a little walk,” he said in a hushed voice, and we began inching back towards the hall. Walking with my back pressed to his chest was hard, but we did pretty good. Right leg, left leg, right leg. Moving in time came naturally.

Just like last time.

Thinking about last time made me uncomfortably aware of how closely pressed to me he was. I could feel his hard body against my back and his arm around my waist and it wasn’t a bad feeling. I almost groaned. What kind of person is dumb enough to contemplate desire for a man burgling her museum and dragging her off to an unsure and possibly hazardous future in... In…

Where were we?

I glanced about. We were standing by the elevator, right by the service facilities. I was caught by a sudden premonition and started fidgeting. God, don’t let me die in the men’s room. In the Austen Room, if I have to die, or – as a last resort – even the restroom for the disabled, but not the men’s room, please.

“Stop,” my kidnapper ordered me. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

I quieted down, but remained on my guard.

“I’m going to let go of your mouth,” he continued, his mouth close to my ear. “But don’t make any noise or you’ll just draw the others, and you don’t want that. Agreed?”

I nodded. If they were more than one, I certainly wouldn’t stand a chance. Possibly I didn’t have much of a chance just with him. He was at least a head taller than me and considerably heavier and stronger. But I felt some, although possibly misplaced, trust for him.

He carefully eased his hand away, and I obediently remained silent.

“Good,” he whispered and opened the door to the men’s room. I tried to object, but he pushed me inside, following closely behind.

After the dimness of the hall, the stark light bathroom light was almost blinding. He turned me towards him, twisting my arms behind my back. He was dressed all in black, a balaclava over his face, but what good was that? I’d know those eyes anywhere. Those eyes reminded me of good things; my grandmother’s brownies, freshly-ground coffee, Mississippi
Mud Cake. Too bad they were fitted to such an asshole.

Holding my hands behind my back with one hand, he suddenly yanked at my shirt, ripping it open. I yelped, and he pushed me against the wall, covering my mouth with his hand.

“Shhh.” His mouth was close enough for his breath to tickle my ear. “I’m not going to hurt you. Don’t worry. But scream and I don’t know what will happen. You understand?”

I nodded, feeling utterly vulnerable as he continued to tear my shirt up.

Guiding me towards the sink, he grabbed my arms and pushed me to the floor and with practiced ease, he tied my hands to the piping with the tatters of my shirt.

“There,” he said with obvious satisfaction. “That should hold you for a while. Long enough, anyway.”

I yanked at my fetters. It was obvious I wasn’t going anywhere. I cursed, using every four letter word I could think of.

He made a sound of disappointment and crouched down in front of me. “Such a foul mouth on such a pretty girl.”

“You’ll never get away with this,” I wheezed. God, how original! I sounded like Nancy Drew, girl detective.

My kidnapper obviously thought so too, because he made a coughing noise. It rankled me so bad I couldn’t help myself.

“I know who you are.”

Facial expressions are kind of hard to read when the face is covered by a mask, but I was ready to bet my last dollar (which I keep in a cookie-jar in the kitchen for sentimental reasons) that he was lifting his eyebrows.

“Really?” His dark eyes contemplated me under the thick fringe of his lashes.

I nodded. “You may not remember me, but I remember you, Ryan.”

“I hate to rain on your parade, babe, but telling me you know me isn’t all that smart. I guess I should just smother you in the sink so you can’t tell on me.”

“You wouldn’t,” I said sternly, trying to conceal that I wasn’t really too sure about that.

His eyes crinkled and he patted my head.

“Of course I wouldn’t, Birthday Girl,” he said, letting his gaze slide over me, making me very aware that I was wearing nothing but a lacy bra and skirt that had hiked up almost to my hips. “Wouldn’t that be a terrible waste?”

I felt a shiver run up my spine and it wasn't just that it was cold in here. “So you do remember.”

He ran his fingers through my hair; just firmly enough to angle my head back so I had to look up at him. I felt my breath catch in my throat at the thought of what he must remember. Even now, sitting half-naked in the men’s room in the Museum of National Heritage at three o’clock in the morning, I felt something heavy and dark pool in the pit of my stomach just thinking about it. I could recall with perfect clarity the way he’d tasted, the way he’d felt. As if that moment of bliss hadn’t been years away but just seconds away. As if time wasn’t linear but circular and we'd suddenly ended up back at that very same place where we left off last time.

“I knew the minute I saw you,” he said.

“You did?” I croaked.

“Oh, yes,” he murmured. “Some things you don’t forget.”

His hands skimmed through my hair in a soft caress and I felt my cheeks flush and my lips part while my pulses slammed in helpless desire. He leaned closer and tilted my chin up with a single finger.

“Much as I’d love to reminiscence about old times,” he whispered, “I really got to go.”

He got up, and I tried to kick him. He jumped aside and chuckled.

“Go to hell,” I snarled. “You were a bastard then and you’re still a bastard.”

__________
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