Every ounce of me surged out in my screams. I tried to get my footing, but he kicked me in the side. The darkness impaired his aim and it hit me only as a glancing blow. Still, it was enough to throw off my balance. “Help!” My voice carried along the wet street and I thought I heard an answer. My voice strained with effort. “Please!”
The little guy had begun to pull at the back of my jacket, and though I already knew I was no match for him, I remembered what Tom had told me about the knees-a lesson recently reviewed with the passing tap-shoe guy. With Shan-Yu’s hands gripping the fabric on my back, I wrenched sideways and lashed out at him with my foot. I connected with his knee, just as Mr. Tap Shoes had connected with mine. The little guy went down.
Fighting sparkles of pain that danced before my eyes, I made myself stand-just in time. Although he’d gone down, he didn’t stay there. In one smooth roll, he’d bounced himself back to his feet and come at me again.
I dodged him, spinning around the back of the car and racing to the open driver’s-side door. I’d thought to jump in and drive away, but Shan-Yu was too fast, too close. Just as I got near the door, I whirled to face him. He hadn’t expected that. When I ducked, he toppled over me. Scratching, biting, and screaming, I fought my way out from under him, hearing footsteps-loud ones-and knowing I had almost nothing left with which to fight.
“Hey!” someone yelled.
Shan-Yu turned long enough for me to get another good look at his face. I scrambled out of the way of the back tires as he leaped into the car and tore off down the street.
A big guy wearing jogging pants and a do-rag leaned down to me, rain pouring down his bewildered face. “Are you okay?”
CHAPTER 14
I SPENT MOST OF THE NIGHT IN THE EMERGENCY room, giving the Metropolitan Police a statement, descriptions of both Mr. Tap Shoes and the man who identified himself as Shan-Yu, and a description of the car. Two things I learned from the cops-one: The bad guy hurts you, Good Samaritan helps you game is one of the oldest in the book. Two, the tap shoes were probably special steel-toed shoes designed to inflict maximum damage on kicked opponents.
Once I’d been identified, the Secret Service was called in to find out what sensitive items I might have lost in the theft. Agents Kevin Martin and Patricia Berland showed up while my knee was being examined. I was moved to a room with a door so they could interrogate me in private.
“We need a comprehensive list of everything in your purse,” Agent Martin said. “I do mean everything. Even personal items you believe may have no significance.”
I came up with the best recollection I could. In addition to my ID, I had keys: for my apartment, my car, and a number of them for the White House. The two agents were not happy. “I have some notes, a few recipes…” Oh, God, what a mess. “My Metro pass…” I named everything else I could think of, including personal female items that made me blush when I listed them.
They asked me if I thought I’d been targeted specifically. “No,” I said, then stopped. “Wait…”
“What?”
“The guy in the car,” I said, thinking aloud. “He told me he lived in my building.”
The two agents exchanged a look. “Was this before you told him where you lived?”
“Yes,” I said, warming to the subject now. “He rattled off the address of my building, so that’s why I believed him-but he came up with the address first. He must have known where I lived.”
We talked a bit longer, both agents peppering me with questions designed to jog my memory.
“Keep all this information to yourself when you’re back at the White House,” Agent Martin said when the interview was over. “When do you plan to return?”
“Tomorrow,” I said. Glancing at the clock on the wall over his head, I amended. “I mean, today.”
Although they attempted to talk me out of returning in the morning, they didn’t forbid me to do so. Their grudging acceptance might have been due to my spirited explanation of the difficulties of getting the residence together for the holiday opening. Or, it might have been my nonstop pleading. Mostly I think they just wanted to shut me up.
From the doorway, I heard a familiar voice asking for me.
“Tom!” I called.
Tall and muscular, Tom looked even more handsome tonight than he usually did. He wore his customary Secret Service apparel-a business suit-but his hair was tousled as though he’d raced the whole way from the president’s side to come see me. He edged around Agents Martin and Berland, acknowledging them with a nod. “I’ll see Ms. Paras home,” he said to them.
Kevin Martin’s mouth twitched. “Yes, sir.” He turned to me. “Are you comfortable with Agent MacKenzie escorting you home?”
At this point, despite my aches, I was all smiles. “I’m perfectly comfortable,” I said.
Agent Berland was either in the dark about my relationship with Tom, or she pretended very well.
“Good night, then,” Martin said. “We’ll be in touch.”
As soon as they were gone, Tom came close. He started to put his arms around me, stopped himself, and gently gripped my shoulders with both hands. “Are you okay?”
“Better now,” I said. “God, you look so good.” I started to reach around to hug him, but he held me at arm’s length.
“I’m afraid I’ll hurt you.”
“I’m willing to risk it,” I said, and pulled him close.
Yeah, it stung, but the hug was worth it.
I brought him up-to-date on the altercation that landed me in the emergency room, with him shaking his head the whole while. “Ollie,” he said, “you’ve got to be more careful.”
He was right, but I hated being told things I already knew. “I thought I was.”
“Remember last time.”
I shuddered when I thought about the terrifying incident right before I’d been promoted to executive chef. Tom took my reaction as an invitation to lecture me a bit more. Not that I blamed him.
“Those of us associated with the White House have to be extra vigilant.”
“I know. I just can’t imagine why anyone would target me.”
“And that’s why the criminals have the upper hand. Because no one expects to be attacked.” With a pensive expression, he skimmed his fingers along the side of my face. “I wish I wasn’t on duty tomorrow.”
“I wish you weren’t either.”
Once all the hospital paperwork was complete, Tom helped me to his car. He had keys to my apartment, which allowed us to get in, and he’d arranged for a locksmith to meet us there. Amidst a lot of drilling and scraping-annoying my neighbor till two in the morning-my apartment was outfitted with spanking-new locks.
“Here you go, miss,” Lou, the weary locksmith, said as he dangled the keys in front of me. “Good, solid brand I put in. You’ll really enjoy these.”
Enjoying locks was not something I anticipated, but I thanked Lou and tumbled into bed the minute he was gone. Tom insisted on staying with me, and I finally relaxed with him stroking my cheeks and forehead. Thank God for kindness in this world, I thought, and drifted safely off to dreamland.
“OH, MY GOD,” CYAN SAID WHEN SHE SAW MY hands the next morning. “You can’t work like that.”
“I know,” I said. “What horrible timing, huh?”
She cocked an eyebrow. “Like there’s a good time?”
She had a point.
“One positive thing,” she said, as we got started. “Turns out the president and Mrs. Campbell are out all day, after all. That’ll take some pressure off.”
I hated delegating every task, but I was faced with little choice. Although I had no open cuts-that would have banished me from the kitchen completely for the duration of my healing-I wore an Ace bandage on my left hand and a splint on my right ring finger. The doctors told me I’d bruised my left ulna and jammed the finger on my right. Nothing debilitating, but bandages were hardly sterile when it came to working with food, so I found myself more the executive and less the chef for most of the morning.