I pulled back my fist and plowed it toward his gut. He caught my hand easily and squeezed. Tears of pain sprang to my eyes. Oh God, you stupid, stupid—
He brought his face down to mine, and the thought dried up.
“I’m going to let go,” he said, his voice calm. “If you scream, I will crush your fingers. Do you understand?”
I blinked back tears and nodded. He took his hand from my mouth and released the other one just enough to stop the throbbing pain, but still gripped it so tightly that I didn’t dare even try to wiggle my fingers.
“I will only ask you this once,” he said. “Who do you work for?”
“The—I told you—the—”
“Interracial council,” he interrupted. “Is that so? Then tell me, which delegate of the council hired you?”
“I was approached by a representative—”
“Which delegate?”
“He’s not a delegate. He works for them.”
He exhaled, as if in frustration. “All right, then. Which delegates have you met?”
“None. I only work through my contact—”
He cut me off with a humorless laugh. “Oh, they have you well trained, don’t they? I’m sure this story has worked well for you in the past, but it falls a little flat when dealing with someone who actually knows the interracial council, knows most of the delegates, and knows, beyond any doubt, that they do not have employees or recruits or ‘agents’—”
A noise from the hall. Voices. Marsten half-turned, his attention diverted just long enough for me to ram my spiked heel into his shin and wrench my hand free.
He grabbed for me. I kicked and lashed out at the same time, my nails clawing his face. He fell back. I ran for the door, threw it open, and raced into the hall.
A split-second decision: run toward the voices or away from them? Running to them might have been safer, but I couldn’t—wouldn’t—endanger others. I’d already underestimated Marsten once.
I tore down the halls. Marsten’s soles squeaked behind me as he wheeled out of the office. That reminded me that he was in flat dress shoes…and I was in heels—with no hope of outrunning him.
I grabbed the first doorknob I came to. Locked.
I dove for the one across the hall. As my fingers closed around it, I saw Marsten running toward me. The handle turned. The door opened. I darted through, and slammed it.
Even as I turned the lock, I knew I might as well not have bothered. It was a flimsy household privacy lock, one that could be snapped by any strong man, let alone a werewolf.
I reached for my purse but it wasn’t on my shoulder. It must have fallen when Marsten yanked me off the desk. No purse…no gun.
Marsten’s footsteps had slowed to a walk. Of course they had; he didn’t need to hurry. I’d trapped myself in an office with no second door, no windows, no way to escape.
Blockade the door.
The council backup team was on the way. If I could slow Marsten down long enough to call Tristan—
The footsteps stopped inside the door. The handle turned.
Someone laughed—the sound close by—and the handle stopped turning. A drunken giggle. A voice, growing closer.
I grabbed the sides of the metal filing cabinet. It didn’t budge. The printer stand? Like that would slow down a werewolf.
“Oh,” someone said near the door. “Didn’t see you there.”
“Unless you’re staff, this hall is off limits,” Marsten said.
“Oh, right, we were just—”
“Lost,” the woman giggled.
“Then I suggest you turn around, go back to the end of the hall, and follow the sounds of the party. You can’t miss it.”
I looked around for something to block the door, but anything big enough was too heavy for me to move. Outside, the man was telling Marsten to mind his own business, but his companion was already moving away, and calling to him to do the same. No time to phone Tristan. I needed—
My gaze rose to the ventilation shaft over the desk.
Oh please. You have seen too many movies.
I silenced the inner voice, and climbed onto the desk as Marsten threatened to call security. As much as I appreciated the distraction the couple was providing, I prayed they moved on before Marsten gave up trying to handle them discreetly.
As the woman cajoled her partner away, I quickly unscrewed the ventilation cover with a quarter from a dish of coins on the desk.
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” the man slurred, then muttered a parting obscenity at Marsten.
As the man’s footsteps faded, I yanked on the cover. One side came free. I tugged again, but the other side caught.
The footsteps were almost gone. Palms sweating, I fumbled for a better hold. The cover popped off with a ping that I was sure could be heard throughout the museum. I shoved the cover into the shaft, grabbed the edges, heaved, and managed to get inside up to my breasts. Then I found myself stuck, upper torso in, butt hanging out, legs flailing, arms trembling with the strain of just holding myself up, with no extra strength for hauling the rest of me through.