A Game Of Chance. Linda Howard
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briefcase, trying to jerk it away from her. The carry-on bag hit him on the shoulder, staggering him, but he didn’t release his grip.
Sunny didn’t even think of screaming, or of being scared; she was too angry for either reaction, and both would have splintered her concentration. Instead, she wound up for another swing, aiming the bag for the hand holding the knife.
Around her she heard raised voices, full of confused alarm as people tried to dodge around the disturbance, and jostled others instead. Few, if any, of them would have any idea what the ruckus was about. Vision was hampered; things were happening too fast. She couldn’t rely on anyone coming to help, so she ignored the noise, all her attention centered on the cretin whose dirty hand clutched her briefcase.
Whap! She hit him again, but still he held on to the knife.
“Bitch,” he snarled, his knife-hand darting toward her.
She jumped back, and her fingers slipped on the leather. Triumphantly he jerked it away from her. Sunny grabbed for the dangling strap and caught it, but the knife made a silver flash as he sliced downward, separating the strap from the briefcase. The abrupt release of tension sent her staggering back.
The cretin whirled and ran. Catching her balance, Sunny shouted, “Stop him!” and ran in pursuit. Her long skirt had a slit up the left side that let her reach full stride, but the cretin not only had a head start, he had longer legs. Her carry-on bag banged against her legs, further hampering her, but she didn’t dare leave it behind. Doggedly she kept running, even though she knew it was useless. Despair knotted her stomach. Her only prayer was that someone in the crowd would play hero and stop him.
Her prayer was abruptly answered.
Up ahead, a tall man standing with his back to the concourse turned and glanced almost negligently in the direction of the ruckus. The cretin was almost abreast of him. Sunny drew breath to yell out another “Stop him,” even though she knew the cretin would be past before the man could react. She never got the words out of her mouth.
The tall man took in with one glance what was happening, and in a movement as smooth and graceful as a ballet pirouette, he shifted, pivoted and lashed out with one booted foot. The kick landed squarely on the cretin’s right knee, taking his leg out from under him. He cart-wheeled once and landed flat on his back, his arms flung over his head. The briefcase skidded across the concourse before bouncing against the wall, then back into the path of a stream of passengers. One man hopped over the briefcase, while others stepped around it.
Sunny immediately swerved in that direction, snatching up the briefcase before any other quick-fingered thief could grab it, but she kept one eye on the action.
In another of those quick, graceful movements, the tall man bent and flipped the cretin onto his stomach, then wrenched both arms up high behind his back and held them with one big hand.
“Owww!” the cretin howled. “You bastard, you’re breaking my arms!”
The name-calling got his arms roughly levered even higher. He howled again, this time wordlessly and at a much higher pitch.
“Watch your language,” said his captor.
Sunny skidded to a halt beside him. “Be careful,” she said breathlessly. “He had a knife.”
“I saw it. It landed over there when he fell.” The man didn’t look up but jerked his chin to the left. As he spoke he efficiently stripped the cretin’s belt from its loop and wound the leather in a simple but effective snare around his captive’s wrists. “Pick it up before someone grabs it and disappears. Use two fingers, and touch only the blade.”
He seemed to know what he was doing, so Sunny obeyed without question. She took a tissue out of her skirt pocket and gingerly picked up the knife as he had directed, being careful not to smear any fingerprints on the handle.
“What do I do with it?”
“Hold it until Security gets here.” He angled his dark head toward the nearest airline employee, a transportation escort who was hovering nervously as if unsure what to do. “Security has been called, hasn’t it?”
“Yes, sir,” said the escort, his eyes round with excitement.
Sunny squatted beside her rescuer. “Thank you,” she said. She indicated the briefcase, with the two dangling pieces of its strap. “He cut the strap and grabbed it away from me.”
“Any time,” he said, turning his head to smile at her and giving her her first good look at him.
Her first look was almost her last. Her stomach fluttered. Her heart leaped. Her lungs seized. Wow, she thought, and tried to take a deep breath without being obvious about it.
He was probably the best-looking man she had ever seen, without being pretty in any sense of the word. Drop-dead handsome was the phrase that came to mind. Slightly dazed, she took in the details: black hair, a little too long and a little too shaggy, brushing the collar at the back of his battered brown leather jacket; smooth, honey-tanned skin; eyes of such a clear, light brown that they looked golden, framed by thick black lashes. As if that wasn’t enough, he had also been blessed with a thin, straight nose, high cheekbones, and such clearly delineated, well-shaped lips that she had the wild impulse to simply lean forward and kiss him.
She already knew he was tall, and now she had the time to notice the broad shoulders, flat belly and lean hips. Mother Nature had been in a really good mood when he was made. He should have been too perfect and pretty to be real, but there was a toughness in his expression that was purely masculine, and a thin, crescent-shaped scar on his left cheekbone only added to the impression. Looking down, she saw another scar slashing across the back of his right hand, a raised line that was white against his tanned skin.
The scars in no way detracted from his attractiveness; the evidence of rough living only accentuated it, stating unequivocally that this was a man.
She was so bemused that it took her several seconds to realize he was watching her with mingled amusement and interest. She felt her cheeks heat in embarrassment at being caught giving him a blatant once-over. Okay, twice-over.
But she didn’t have time to waste in admiration, so she forced her attention back to more pressing concerns. The cretin was grunting and making noises designed to show he was in agony, but she doubted he was in any great pain, despite his bound hands and the way her hero had a knee pressed into the small of his back. She had the briefcase back, but the cretin still presented her with a dilemma: It was her civic duty to stay and press charges against him, but if her flight left any time soon, she might very well miss it while she was answering questions and filling out forms.
“Jerk,” she muttered at him. “If I miss my flight…”
“When is it?” asked her hero.
“I don’t know. It’s been delayed, but they could begin boarding at any time. I’ll check at the gate and be right back.”
He nodded with approval. “I’ll hold your friend here and deal with Security until you get back.”
“I’ll only be a minute,” she said, and walked swiftly back to her gate. The counter was now jammed with angry or upset travelers, their mood far more agitated than when she had left just a few moments before. Swiftly she glanced at the board, where CANCELED had been posted in place of the DELAYED sign.
“Damn,” she said, under her breath. “Damn, damn, damn.” There went her last hope for getting to Seattle in time to complete her assignment, unless there was another miracle waiting for her. Two miracles in one day was probably too much to ask for, though.
She needed to call in, she thought wearily, but first she could deal with the cretin and airport security. She retraced her steps and found that the little drama was now mobile; the cretin was on his feet, being frog-marched under the control of two airport policemen into an office where they would be out of the view of curious passersby.
Her hero was waiting for her, and when he spotted her, he said something to the security guys, then began