"Mary Janice Davidson - Wyndham Werewolves 01 - Love's Prisoner" - читать интересную книгу автора (Davidson Mary Janice)

Chapter Two



Of course, there were questions. There were always questions. And when she stopped crying, Jeannie
tried to answer them. No, she didn't know the elevator passenger's name. No, she didn't know how he'd
managed to break the hatch lock and lift her several feet to safety. No, she didn't know how he'd
over-ridden the safety locks on the doors, forcing them open. No, she didn't need to see a doctor. No,
she couldn't identify the body—when they found it—because she had never seen his face. No and no
and no.

She supposed she could sympathize with the building's management. A half-naked, hysterical woman
cheated death on their property and now only wanted to go home . . . of course they were loathe to let
her go.

She had her chance to tell them what he had done to her, how he had forced her—there was even a
lawyer in the room to take her statement (the building management's corporate counsel, doubtless
prepared to beg her not to sue)—but she couldn't do it. As much as he had scared her, used her, she
couldn't bring herself to lay charges against him. If the price for her life was forced sex and mind-numbing
pleasure, she was going to count herself very lucky indeed.

She saw a doctor at their insistence, a doctor who raised his eyebrows at the shredded ruin of her
clothes but said nothing, a doctor who could tell she had recently had sex but, after her rude replies to his
carefully phrased questions, said nothing to the others. Probably assumed it's my nature to seek out
quickies in elevators, she thought darkly, and at the thought of her "quickie" partner, crushed and dead,
she nearly started crying again.

The doctor had tried to insist on an overnight hospital stay; she had been firm. Like mountains were firm.
She would not stay, she would spend the night in her own bed, thank you, will someone call me a cab?

They gave her a cab voucher—her purse was at the bottom of the elevator shaft, along with her wallet,
ATM card, credit cards . . . and her rapist/savior. The cab came. She got in. The cab dropped her at
home. She got out. Went inside. Threw her clothes away. Showered for a long time. Wept for a longer
time.

***

Three weeks later, about the time she noticed her period was late, her martyred rapist/savior showed up
on her doorstep.



Chapter Three



Michael Wyndham III stepped from the car, nervous as a bridegroom. Which, he supposed, he was. It
had taken him nearly three weeks to track Jeannie down, weeks of frustration and guilt and worry. But
now he was going to see her again. The thought of taking in her scent, maybe even touching her, made his
pulse pound in his ears. Oh, he had it bad.