Nell looked at her watch. "I'm sorry, Peej, but I've got an appointment in about four minutes with the will-call people about that block of tickets the local radio station is giving away and it's gonna take me five to get there as it is. We'll come back here soon as I'm done, okay?"
"No. That is, yes, you go ahead. I'll just stay in the dressing room until you get back. That will actually give me time to organize some stuff."
"I don't think leaving you alone is a good idea. Jared told you to stay with me."
"Yeah, but I don't think he meant for me to go outside to the will-call booth." She reached for Nell's hand and gave it a squeeze. "I could use a little time to get my head together. I've let so many things slide lately. And if the bustier doesn't work I need to figure out which of my other stage outfits I can reuse in a pinch. You know how I sweat during performances. It may not always be possible to get my costumes cleaned between shows, but I at least like to give them a couple of days to fully dry before I have to use them again."
"Okay. But I'm not leaving you in the dressing room without at least checking it out first."
"Good idea."
It only took them a moment to make sure the room was empty, and reluctantly Nell headed for the door. "I'll be back as soon as I can. And I'm warning you right now, if I run into Jared between here and the will-call office I'm sending him back to stand guard."
Swell,she thought but merely nodded. "Fair enough." She waved her friend off. "Go take care of business. I promise I won't step foot outside this door until you return."
"See that you don't." With a final concerned look, Nell left the room, closing the door firmly behind her.
P.J. had barely turned away to start going through the pile of stage stuff she'd hauled over from the bus earlier when there was a thump against the door. Laughing, she crossed the room. "Nell, come on, I'm fine," she said, opening the door. "You really are going to be late if you don't-"
A man burst into the room, one hand clamping over her mouth. His momentum sent them both stumbling deeper into the room and he kicked back with one foot, slamming the door shut behind him.
For a minute her eyes went blurry with fear and all she could hear was the roar of her own heartbeat in her ears. Her only thought was a befuddled,Why does an electrician want to hurt me?
But the man with his hand over her mouth and a fierce grip on her arm wasn't one of the arena workers, of course. And once she got past the fear of expiring on the spot of a heart attack or-nearly as horrifying-wetting her pants, P.J. recognized his face. It was the police artist's rendering come to life, except that Luther Menks's eyes were more fanatical than any artist could ever capture. They burned with a zealot's fervor.
Looking into them now made her heart thunder in her chest and sent her pulse racing off the charts.
"I gave you every opportunity," he said, removing his hand from her mouth and rubbing it furiously against his pant leg as if to remove some invisible substance. He loosened his grip on her arm, as well. "If you'd just paid attention, if you had bothered to read even one of my letters, this would not have been necessary. All I asked was that you honor your mother-even though it's since become apparent that you have committed other equally unforgivable sins." His hand kept rubbing, rubbing, rubbing against his navy-blue cotton pants while spittle gathered in the corners of his lips.
P.J.'s blood ran cold, an expression until now she had always assumed was invented by someone with a propensity for melodrama. Now she understood if anything it was an understatement, for she felt frozen to the marrow.
With no time to worry about it. "I didn't get your letters."
"What?" It broke his rant and seemed to throw him off-stride.
Menks was old enough to be her father but he was fit, bigger and stronger than she was and standing between her and the door. She took a stealthy step to one side anyhow.
"I'm so sorry," she blurted, "but I never received them. I get hundreds of letters a week and they're all sent on to the Priscilla Jayne fan club. I'm afraid it's often months before I see them and even then I only see a select few." She took another careful step away.
"They should have come to you," he grumbled. "I thought you were a good, moral-"
"Yes, they should have." She knew she was taking a chance interrupting him, but it seemed an acceptable risk if it kept him from getting all wound up again. "And I apologize again for the error that prevented them from doing so. This fame thing is pretty new yet and we're still adjusting, trying to find better ways to be organized." Watching his continuous rubbing of his hand against his pant leg, she blurted, "Would you like to wash your hands, sir?"
He stared at her, the repetitive motion halting mid-action. "What?"
"You seem to have something on your hand and I've got a sink over there if you'd like to use it." She pointed toward the bathroom in the far corner.
When he turned from her to look in the direction she indicated, P.J. broke for the door. This was her best chance, her only chance, and she ran as if the hounds of hell were nipping at her heels, which was pretty much the case. She heard Menks bellow behind her but didn't look back. Panting, she snatched open the door and was two steps into the corridor when he grabbed her ponytail, stopping her in her tracks.
It felt as though her roots were being ripped from her scalp and, reaching back, she covered his hand with her own, first prying at his fingers, then clawing at them in an attempt to ease the pressure.
"Don't touch me with your whore's flesh!" His arm crossing her chest, he released her hair at the same time that he spun her around with the hand he'd clamped to her far shoulder. She twirled dizzily and his elbow, which was still raised from his hold on her hair, connected solidly with her cheekbone.
Black stars exploded in her vision and she staggered several steps back until the wall brought her up short.
"It's your fault," he snapped, half pulling, half carrying her back into the room. "You're so little you came around faster than I expected."
Yeah, great, blame the victim,she thought groggily but was smart enough to keep her mouth shut. Those black spots threatened again when he shoved her into a high-backed wooden chair with enough force to snap her head back. For a moment she was really, really afraid she was going to be sick.
By the time her head quit spinning she realized he'd tied her ankles together with her own belt.
"Ungrateful child, wanton woman," he muttered, jerking her hands together in front of her and whipping her narrow Indian gauze scarf around them several times. Adding insult to injury, the beads that made up its fringe clinked cheerfully as he jerked the ends together and knotted them over her wrist bones.
"Wicked Jezebel. I thought you were pure, but you've been fornicating with that man." His eyes burning with the conviction of his own righteousness, he scowled into her face. "Well, I know how to deal with you, missy." And reaching into the toolbelt slung around his hips, he pulled out a long-bladed pair of shears.
Her heart stopped dead. Oh God, he was crazy. And she wanted Jared, wanted him with every fiber of her being.
Menks yanked the rubber band from her hair. "You won't use your woman's wiles to entice men after I rid you of your crowning glory."
"My hair? You're going tocut off my hair? " Rage battled with horror as she watched him go from air-snipping the scissors open and shut to rubbing the side of his hand down his pants. Rage won. "Who do you think you are? I'm not a whore, and you don't know the first damn thing about my relationship with my mother." And what was the deal with all that hand rubbing, anyway? The man was too freaking scary for words.