Dead Shot Read Online Free Page A

in the limelight. How else to catch the bastard?
    Her best hope. Her worst nightmare.
    Come and get me.
    Around her people were fawning, their voices less real than the ones in her head. She was breathing too hard and too fast. She clutched the metal strap of the evening bag Genevra had thrust on her as they were leaving home, felt it bite into her skin until she was no longer gasping for air. Until she was back, back in the present, the museum, the party.
    Eyes hounded her. She glanced over the heads of the group to the tall man who’d been staring at her ever since she arrived. Museum security, someone had called him.
    Maddie had tested him, then whispered in her ear, calling him “fine,” “steady,” “undistractable.” Gillian called him what he was. Watchdog.
    She should be grateful.
    But if a watchdog was around, how would
he
get to her?
    She excused herself from the group but had only taken a few steps when she heard a shout, then a bloodcurdling scream.
    She whirled. A blur of movement raced across the room toward her.
    “You want to bleed?” a crazed voice screamed. “I’ll make you bleed!”
    Gillian froze, and the server from earlier tossed something at her.
    Before it could hit, someone pushed Gillian out of the way. Tackled her. She went down with a thud. A body landed on top. Her head cracked against the marble floor. Something cold and liquid splattered over her. Blood. Oh, God, there was blood everywhere.

6

    A moment of stunned silence, then shouts and screams ricocheted around her.
    When she could focus again, she saw the security man— what was his name? Ray something or other—pinning her down. Her arms were flung out; Genevra’s purse lay a few feet away.
    “What happened?” She pushed against him. Tried to get up.
    “Stay down.”
    “There’s blood!” The image of another body, another pool of blood invaded her thoughts. “There’s blood all over!” She fought to get away, but he was so strong.
    “It’s not blood. It’s someone’s idea of a joke. Stay still.”
    But her lungs felt like they were going to collapse. He was a big man, over six feet if she judged correctly, which meant nearly a foot taller than she. With all the extra pounds to go with it. He was squeezing the breath out of her. She pushed against his shoulder again. “I can’t breathe.”
    He didn’t seem to care. “Don’t move.” He looked around wildly. People scurried toward them. “Get back!” He reached beneath him, pulled out a gun, and waved it at them. More screams. People ran away. Someone dropped a glass, and it shattered against the marble floor. Feet gathered in a rush around her. Shiny shoes topped by pants with tuxedo stripes. More security circling close.
    A shout. People pointed. Between black-clad legs, she saw the waitress dash across the room, chased by two uniformed guards. The crowd slowed the pursuers, and the waitress darted away. Almost made it out of the exhibit room. The security men shoved, pushed people aside, cleared a path. One leaped and brought the fleeing woman down.
    She sprawled on the floor. Two seconds later, her hands were imprisoned behind her back in plastic cuffs. One of the men hauled her to her feet.
    “Poison!” she screamed in Gillian’s direction. “You’re poison!”
    “Shut up!” Her captor shook her.
    A few minutes ago, her face had been shy and polite. Now it was screwed into a vicious snarl. “Pig! Rich fucking pig!” Her screaming accusations faded as they dragged her away, but everyone could hear her distant rant: “De-cen-cy! De-cen-cy!”
    Only when the sounds had disappeared did Ray roll off Gillian. He stood, held out a hand to pull her up. “You all right?”
    She nodded grimly within the circle of men that enclosed her. The open plastic bag of whatever it was lay crushed at their feet. Ray had taken the brunt of the goop—paint, blood, thick, colored water. Oh, God. She swallowed. His neck and chest were soaked with it.
    “She . . .