The door burst open, banging against the side of her face with a painful thwack and sending her flying backward against the desk. A figure in dark, nondescript clothing lunged at her. She rolled to one side before scrambling to her feet. Running around the desk, she shoved the chair toward her attacker, causing him to stumble.
Losing no time, Genevieve scurried around the other side of the desk and toward the open door. If she could just get out of the cramped space of the office, she could run toward the stairs, begin to scream, and hope somebody heard her. She had seen Verna in the elevator; perhaps people knew she was here. Her fingers had just grazed the edge of the doorway when a strong arm wrapped around her waist and yanked her back, nearly forcing the breath out of her. She kicked with all her might, but it felt useless. She was spun around, and the man’s body weight suddenly pinned her to the desk, a pair of hands wrapping around her throat. Screaming, she managed to wedge two fingers between the attacker’s hands and her vulnerable neck, pushing against him with all her strength. The man’s face hovered mere inches above hers, covered by the type of mask one might see at a society ball, a grotesque incongruity.
Light abruptly flooded the exterior hallway.
“Genevieve?” It was Luther’s voice, thick with concern. “Genevieve!” There came another sound of footsteps rushing, only this time they were welcome, the noise of a savior.
The hands instantly released from her throat, and her attacker sped through the open door into the hallway.
“Hey! Stop!” A moment later, Luther’s figure filled the open doorway. He rushed toward her. “Genevieve! Are you all right?”
Clutching her bruised throat, Genevieve frantically gestured that he should chase her assailant. “Go!” she creaked.
Luther dashed out the door again. She listened to his retreating steps as she shakily sat up on the desk, pushing her hair, which had come partially loose, behind her ears with hands that wouldn’t stop trembling.
Shaking his head, Luther returned. “He was halfway down the fire escape outside Morgan’s office; there’s no way I could have caught up.” He put an arm around her shoulders. “Jesus, Genevieve, what happened? Can you walk? We need to call the police.”
“No.” She winced; talking hurt. A lot. “No police.”
“Are you crazy? Genevieve, someone just tried to kill you.”
She shook her head, Daniel’s reminder about Commissioner Simons ringing in her ears. “No police. I can’t explain. Not yet.”
“Then a hospital. We need that throat of yours looked at.”
She shook her head again. “No. It will be fine. All I need is a cab.”
There was only one place to go: Lüchow’s. She needed to get to Daniel, and fast. Despite the numerous, swirling uncertainties, one thing now was certain: this was no wild-goose chase. She and Daniel were onto something, and somebody was desperate to stop them.
CHAPTER 13
Checking his gold pocket watch for the fifth time in seven minutes, Daniel swore lightly under his breath.
She was almost thirty minutes late.
A black-jacketed waiter arrived with the wine he had ordered, and Daniel allowed him to pour. He liked Lüchow’s; it was slightly more casual than Delmonico’s, and while the food wasn’t the type that made one’s eyes roll into the back of one’s head in ecstasy, it was satisfying, solid German fare. The restaurant catered to the after-theater crowd, and it somehow managed to be both elegant and cozy, with the heads of taxidermied game set against deep golden walls. He nodded to a few acquaintances while he took a sip of the burgundy liquid, hopefully seeming to all the world like any man casually waiting for his dinner companion to arrive.
But he was in a turmoil of anxiety.
Dammit, he shouldn’t have encouraged her to pursue any of this, not when he suspected it could be dangerous.
He tried to reassure himself that anything could be causing Genevieve’s delay—a broken carriage wheel, a horse with a lost shoe, a traffic snarl, or even the unpleasant but not unrealistic possibility that she wanted nothing to do with him and had decided not to keep their appointment—but couldn’t shake the foreboding feeling that something was amiss.
Daniel was getting ready to signal the waiter so he could pay for his half-drunk glass of wine, hop a cab downtown, and pound on the door to the Stewart townhouse until someone produced Genevieve whole and well, when he spotted Otto, the restaurant’s unflappable maître d’, leading the very cause of his worry toward his table. Relief caused his body to momentarily sag, before he composed himself and rose to do the honors of pulling back Genevieve’s chair at the white-linen-covered table.
But another man was already there, helping Genevieve into her seat and glaring at Daniel with what appeared to be the force of a thousand suns, an expression that seemed out of place on the fellow’s round, amiable face.
Confused by this stranger’s appearance, Daniel looked to Genevieve for clarification, only to have his recent relief replaced by white-hot rage.
Something horrific had clearly transpired. Her lips were set but pale, and while she seemed composed, there was a slight tremor to her hands as she reached for the wineglass instantly filled by Otto. But what set every fiber in Daniel’s being on edge was the beginnings of a bruise, at present delicately purple, along her right cheekbone. She had been struck, and hard.
His hands instantly clenched into fists, and he felt the muscles of his back tense. He was familiar with bruises and could tell hers would blossom into something truly spectacular by the following day.
“Will there be three?” Otto asked, having moved a discreet step back.
“No,” Daniel ground out, staring down the newcomer, who stared back with equal force.
The maître d’ bowed slightly and retreated, seeming to rightly read the sudden strain that enveloped the table.
“What happened?” he asked in a low voice, directing the question toward Genevieve but keeping his eyes on
