Finally, as the cab groaned into gear and lurched away from the curb, she did look back, just once. But Tom Hawkins had already turned to light a cigarette, his shoulders hunched in the brown bomber jacket, hands cupped beneath the brim of the baseball cap, the incongruous black briefcase wedged between his feet. He didn’t look up, or wave.

Odd, she thought, settling once more into her seat, and into a boggy little slough of depression for which she could find no reasonable cause.

He says he’s going to kiss me, and with such convietion I almost believed him, but as far as I can see, this is goodbye. And he doesn’t ask for my phone number, or give me any way of reaching him. Why? I wonder…

Well, okay, she could think of two logical answers to that question. One, he was just a very good actor and hadn’t meant it, after all, about kissing her. Or two, he had no intention of saying goodbye, and simply had his own way of finding her.

Both scenarios seemed equally possible to her. And oddly enough, neither one made her feel happy.

Tom had told her the truth about one thing, at least; it wasn’t far to Georgetown. It seemed only minutes, in fact, before the taxicab was pulling up to a curb on a bustling street filled with shops and restaurants offering every kind of cuisine imaginable, many of them housed in converted residences dating back she could only guess how many hundred years. Ordinarily, she’d have been delighted at the prospect of an afternoon of window-shopping and exploring, including the quaint and narrow side streets she could only catch glimpses of. Now, though, all she wanted was to find Connie’s friend’s gallery as quickly as possible and lay to rest all these wild imaginings about valuable art “finds” and mysterious strangers with sinister agendas.

She paid the driver and extricated herself from the back seat of the cab, a little awkwardly because of the bulky tote bag. She slammed the door and stood for a moment watching the cab pull away from the curb, absently smoothing the front of her slacks and tugging her jacket into proper order. Somewhere nearby, a car door opened and quickly closed again.

She glanced once more at the piece of paper in her hand and then at the number etched in the semicircle of glass over the door of the nearest shop. Ah-hah, she thought. Left.

But she’d taken only one step in that direction when something-someone-a man-suddenly brushed against her, filling up all the space on her right.

Aaron Campbell! Even with one panic-stricken glance out of the corner of her eye, she’d recognized that angry black glower and hawk-faced profile. But before she had time to react, even to draw breath for a scream, a hand closed around her elbow and a voice just loud enough to override her soft gasp of surprise, said, “Mrs. Carlysle, I’m going to have to ask you to come with me, please.”

How polite he seemed. But she saw him reach inside his jacket with the hand not holding her elbow, the right hand. And it was reaching into the left side of his jacket, the side next to her, where she was absolutely certain she could feel something hard, like a… Oh, God-the man was wearing a shoulder holster with a gun in it, and he was reaching for it now. What should she do? What should she do?“

Take control! Take action! Shing Lee’s commands shrieked inside her head like an alarm klaxon.

With adrenaline already tingling her nerves to readiness and her heart racing in high gear, she searched for, and found, the quiet place in her mind, the place where all things moved in slow motion, the place in which she had absolute control. From that place of peace and tranquillity, she willed her breaths to come slow and even, gathering her strength as she wrapped her left hand over her right fist.

A split second before the strike, she uttered a loud, “Eeeyuh!” which had the effect of startling Aaron Campbell so that he eased his hold on her elbow just long enough for her to drive it, with all the combined force in her upper body, into the softness of his belly, just below the apex of his ribs.

Jane found the sounds he made as he dropped to his knees on the sidewalk somewhat disturbing; Shing’s demonstrations had somehow neglected to include that ugly little detail.

Fortunately, she was pumped up enough by her success to carry her through the next step, which was to drop the tote bag to the sidewalk and bring her clasped fists down as hard as she could, with all her weight behind them, onto the back of her opponent’s neck.

She was considering whether to follow that up with a good solid knee to the underside of the chin, or perhaps a swift kick to the, uh, groin, when something struck her arm-not hard-and a voice hissed urgently, “Cartyste-quick! This way-come on!”

She whirled, still riled and combative, arms raised in the defensive position. Tom Hawkins, poised like a relay runner about to accept the baton, relaxed momentarily and looked pained. “For God’s sake, put that away. I’m on your side, dammit! Come on, give me that bag and let’s go.”

“Over my dead body,” Jane shouted.

She only meant that in response to the first half of Tom’s command, of course; the second part seemed only good sense. Though she thought it probable that only seconds had elapsed since she’d stepped out of the taxi and into Aaron Campbell’s clutches, a few curious spectators had already begun to drift in her direction, drawn by the always-mesmerizing specter of violence. It would only be a matter of time before it occurred to one of them to summon someone in authority. Which Jane, being a law-abiding citizen, would definitely have welcomed if it hadn’t become apparent that her fallen foe was only temporarily vanquished. He was already on his feet, in fact, and shaking his head like a dazed prizefighter. And there was still the matter of that gun.

No time to think about alternatives-she just snatched her tote bag and ran.

No time to wonder how it was possible Tom Hawkins could be here, when just moments ago he’d said goodbye to her in the shadow of the Lincoln Memorial-it was toward him she ran, and reached for his outstretched hand.

No time to question the surge of joy she felt inside at seeing his face, hearing his voice, feeling his fingers close around hers. Because at that point, her arm was nearly wrenched out of its socket.

“Slow down,” she gasped. “I can’t…run that fast.”

“Sure you can. You’re doing it, aren’t you?” Tom retorted, pulling her down a side street. “Here-this way.”

At first she thought she’d surely fall flat on her face, but when she didn’t, she began to feel exhilarated instead. It was as Tom had said-she could run that fast. Imagine-at her age!

“Why don’t you let me cany that damn bag?” Tom asked in a bumpy voice as he ran, matching his stride now with hers. He no longer had the briefcase, she noticed. He’d also ditched the baseball cap and sunglasses.

“No way, you can run faster than I can.”

He grunted, glanced her way and then ran for several paces in silence before growling, “You think I’d take the damn painting and leave you to Campbell, is that it? What the hell kind of guy do you think I am?”

“I don’t know,” Jane managed to say. “That’s pretty much…the problem.” She ran a few more steps. “I think…you owe me…an explanation.”

“Yeah, well, this is hardly the time or place for it. Look who’s got his legs back.”

One brief, wild glance over her shoulder confirmed it: Campbell had just turned into the narrow residential street behind them, running hard. “Oh, God,” she moaned. Her chest was on fire and she was developing a side ache. “He’s gaining on us, isn’t he?”

Her companion didn’t answer that but instead veered suddenly, yanking her after him as he dodged between two parked cars. She gave a horrified squeak as they narrowly missed a collision with a bicyclist, skittered on across the street with her heart in her throat and almost tripped over Tom’s heels when he ducked into an even narrower cross street. She was following blindly now.

Hawk had had a reason for choosing this particular street He’d spotted a moving van parked about halfway down the block, facing out, taking up most of the pavement. He could see that the doors on the side facing the sidewalk were open, and that the interior of the van was all but filled with boxes and indeterminate shapes shrouded in packing blankets. And also that no one was in sight.

A quick look over his shoulder told him Campbell hadn’t made the turn into this street yet, although he couldn’t be far from it, and had surely seen them do so. And Jane was tiring; she couldn’t keep this up much longer. It wasn’t a hard decision to make.

“In here.” Jerking Jane up beside him, he pushed her ahead of him into the van.

There wasn’t much room; the van seemed to be fully loaded, though whether going or coming he had no way of knowing. After wasting precious seconds in search of a nook or cranny big enough to hide them both, he shoved Jane down into a space between a washer and dryer and what appeared to be an upright piano wrapped in blankets. He then squeezed in after her as best he could, pulling a blanket over the part of him that didn’t quite fit.

And not a moment too soon. In the sudden breathy stillness, he could hear the sound of footsteps slapping on the pavement outside the van.

“Not a sound,” he hissed. And then there was silence, so heavy it seemed to thunder with the beat of his heart.

It was stifling under the blanket. The footsteps grew louder, scraping past, finally, only inches from their hiding place. They receded, but only a short distance, then stopped…hesitated… scuffled around first one way, then another. And then came back.

Hawk uttered a very nasty word under his breath. Feeling Jane’s body jerk slightly-whether because of the language he’d used or the gravity of their situation, he couldn’t be sure-he reached out a hand to touch her, to steady and caution her, while with the other he found the comforting shape of the gun nestled in the small of his back. Braced and ready, he waited.

The footsteps drew nearer…and nearer. Slowly this time. In his mind’s eye, Hawk could see his adversary, see the suspicion in his face, feel the tension in his body as, so cautiously, so carefully, he advanced, knowing his prey was cornered, but suspicious, too, of traps and ambushes. He could see him in the doorway, now, every nerve, every muscle vibrating, his own breath suspended… One foot, now, on the floor of the van-he could feel it give a little with the weight…then-

Suddenly, just like that, he was gone. In the distance, Hawk heard voices, low and casual, bantering voices. The movers were returning.

He let his gun hand relax and with the other, the one still touching Jane, gave her a couple of reassuring strokes and encouraging pats.

But relief was short-lived. He barely had time to register it in his consciousness before a new series of sounds elevated the short hairs on the back of his neck and sent a fresh shot of adrenaline into his system. First, a loud and prolonged squeak, metal on metal…then a reverberating clang…and another…and then a sliding thunk. And finally…dead silence.

“Uh-oh,” said Hawk, and muttered that word again.

“They’ve shut us in,” said Jane, her voice small and air-starved.

Hawk drew his head out from under the blanket and into total darkness…“Yep,” he grunted. “Looks that way.”

“Sh-shouldn’t we do something? Yell, or bang on the door?”

“Yeah, and then what? They let us out, listen to our explanation-you’ ve got one, I suppose?-and assuming they buy it, drive off and leave us here? Campbell’s still out there, you know. He won’t have gone far. He knows we have to be here somewhere.”

Just then, there was a belly-deep roar, like a growl from the throat of some gigantic beast, and then a low, continuous rumbling. Under their hands and knees the floor of the van had begun to vibrate.

“Oh dear,” said Jane. There was a pause, and then a surprisingly meek and tremulous. “So, what do we do now?”

“Hope and pray it’s not a long-distance move, I guess.”

There was another pause during which the van lurched from one side to the other, but in an almost stately manner that reminded Hawk of a very large and tipsy lady.

And then in an altogether different voice, one he couldn’t quite interpret, he heard Jane say, “Tom? Would you stop stroking my bottom, please?”

He snatched his hand away from her as if she’d bitten him, and muttered, “Sorry,” under his breath.

“Under the circumstances, I forgive you.” And now there was no mistaking her amusement. That teetering-on-the-brink-of-laughter quiver in her voice was contagious, too; he could feel the almost-forgotten sensation building inside him like an oncoming sneeze. Well, hell, he supposed it was one way to react to a crisis.