Page 26 of K-9 Prime Target

She stared at him, memorizing his details—average height, average weight, thinning brown hair, pale skin with a sheen of sweat. He had blue eyes that might have been attractive except for the manic gleam in them. He was so ordinary looking—so harmless seeming.

He grinned at her, revealing straight white teeth. “It’s so good to be alone at last, darling.”

That word again. A term of endearment made chilling. She wasn’t this man’s darling. She didn’t even know him. “You’re the one who sent the notes,” she said. Almost one a day for a while now. For weeks. All professing his love for her. When she had shown them to her coaches, they had dismissed them as misguided fan mail. “Ignore them and they’ll eventually go away,” everyone told her. “That’s the price you pay for being famous. As long as all they do is write, they’re harmless.”

Her head was perfectly clear now, any fuzziness banished by steely fear. What should she do? How could she get away from him? She tried to summon moisture into her dry mouth and avoided looking at the knife. She needed to make him not want to use the knife. “What’s your name?” she asked.

His smile broadened. “It’s Aaron. Aaron Nicholson.”

“It…it’s good to meet you, Aaron. How…how did you find me?”

“Oh, I’ve been following you for years.” The smile dimmed. “Didn’t you just say you got my letters?”

“Of…of course I got your letters. I just didn’t know who you were.”

“Don’t you remember when we first met?”

“R-remember you?” She had started noticing him at events maybe two weeks ago. The bland-looking man who gazed at her with an adoration that at the time had seemed sweet and a little naive.

“In Vail. I was there. Last year. I was waiting right at the finish line. I got your autograph.”

She must have given out hundreds of autographs in the last year alone. People were always asking her to sign something. There was no way she could remember all of them. But clearly he thought she should remember. She forced a smile. “Of course. It’s…it’s just a surprise to see you here now.” Her gaze flickered toward the door. “It…it’s very late and I have to ski tomorrow. We should talk some other time.”

“No. We’ll talk now.” He moved toward her, knife in front, forcing her back against the wall.

She screamed, and he was on her immediately, one hand at her throat, the knife pressed against the sequins of her dress at the stomach. “Shut up!” he ordered. “Shut up or I’ll cut you open.”

She nodded to show she had understood, and he loosened his grip on her throat but kept his hand in place. They were about the same height—five-nine. He must outweigh her, but she was strong. Could she wrestle the knife away from him? “What do you want?” she asked.

“I want you.”

Nausea welled up at the words—at the tone of them. She swallowed hard and tried to think. “Why me?” she asked.

“You don’t think a man like me deserves a woman like you?”

“No! That’s not what I mean.” She tried to smile again, the expression wobbly. “I mean, you could have any woman you want. Why me?”

“Because you’re the best. The champion. Not only a champion, a medal winner—and a model. You’re the perfect woman.”

She shook her head. “I’m not perfect.”

“You’re perfect for me. I knew it from the moment I saw you.”

I have to keep him talking, she thought. As long as he was talking, he wasn’t using the knife. “When did you first see me?” she asked.

“The first time I saw you was on television, during the World Cup. I was mesmerized. Watching you, I just knew we were meant to be together. I traveled to Vail to see you race there and I wasn’t disappointed. The feeling was even stronger when we were together in person.”

He droned on, cataloguing every time he had seen her, every interview she had done, all the articles and photos he had collected of her. The level of obsession stunned her, and frightened her almost as much as the knife.

She couldn’t see a clock from here, but surely an hour or more had passed since he had accosted her in the hallway. She yawned.

His expression hardened. “Am I boring you?”

“No! I’m just so tired. And I have to train tomorrow. For the next race.” The charity exposition wasn’t a real race, merely a chance for donors to watch a mock competition from the sidelines.

“Then it’s time to stop talking.” He moved in closer, the knife threatening. At first she hoped he might put it aside. If he tried to move in to kiss her, maybe she could knee him. Or gouge his eyes. She tried to think of all the self-defense moves she had read about.

But he didn’t discard the knife. Instead, he began cutting her dress. He gouged the tip of the blade into the fabric, then cut upward, the razor-sharp edge skimming her belly and nicking one breast. He tore the dress with his hands, ripping it away, sequins flying, and left her exposed, standing only in thong underwear.