Free Deadlier Than the Pen by Kathy Lynn Emerson

inside to avoid her pursuit, ordered a drink, and claimed a shadowy corner for himself. Once there, he'd become lost in his own dismal thoughts.

For one moment outside the theater, he'd been tempted to throw caution to the winds and voluntarily talk to his nemesis. Foolhardy. Imbecilic. Yet appealing. He was becoming obsessed with the woman. What was it about her? He tried to tell himself that she was ordinary, no one special, that he had simply been too long without a female companion. But there was something ... he shook his head and polished off his drink. Time to go back to the hotel and get a good night's sleep.

Union Square was quieter, almost peaceful at this early morning hour. The fresh air came as a welcome relief and he inhaled deeply. In spite of his tiredness, he decided to take the long way around the three-acre park to get back to his hotel, to let the mild exercise relax him.

His perambulation brought him past the heroic equestrian statue of George Washington that stood at the southeast corner of the square and the pitiful remains of the Union Square Theater. The latter sight triggered a vague recollection of talk overheard in the bar. Something about a woman being accosted in an alley between the ruins and the adjacent Star Theater.

He made his way to its mouth and peered into the darkness but saw nothing of interest. He had already moved on when more of the comments he'd overheard while he'd been brooding over his solitary drink came back to him.

They'd run the gamut from sympathetic to outraged to foul obscenity. No one had mentioned the victim's name, but several of the Hungaria's patrons had speculated that she must be a prostitute. What other sort of female, someone had asked, went out unescorted at night?

Ben suddenly knew the answer to that question.

A woman like Mrs. Spaulding.

As if compelled, he hurried back to the alley and ventured in. He did not expect to discover anything to tell him what had happened or to whom, but when his foot struck an object lying on the ground, he didn't hesitate to scoop it up and carry it back to the street to examine under better light.

The item was small and would have been easily overlooked. Perhaps the woman who'd been attacked had not even realized she'd dropped it during the struggle. Obviously the police had not found it afterward.

Ben stared at the green cloth cover. It was badly stained where it had fallen into a pile of refuse but he could not fail to recognize it. Standing under a lamppost, jaw clenched, he flipped it open to read the name and address neatly inscribed on the flyleaf.

     * * * *

A telegram from Horatio Foxe awaited Diana when she awoke on Sunday morning. This fact did not surprise her. She'd expected Bruno Webb to go directly to their boss after escorting her home. The content of Foxe's wire, however, did take her aback.

"STAY ON BATHORY TRAIL," it read. "DO NOT WRITE ACCOUNT OF ATTACK."

Crumpling the cable in her hand, Diana bit back a curse. Of her three explanations, the one in which Foxe had been behind the entire business suddenly seemed by far the most plausible. It even provided a reason why Bruno had taken so long to show up when he was supposed to be right behind her.

She dragged a weary hand over her face, wincing when it came in contact with the bruise on her jaw. She'd have to use powder to cover it.

Diana sighed. She had not slept well. After the attack, she'd been calm on the surface, but as soon as her head hit the pillow, all her doubts and fears had been set free. In troubled dreams, she'd revisited last night's events in the alley, and unhappy incidents from her past, as well.

Evan had struck her once in a fit of frustration over his failure to do justice to a role. That was one of the dangers inherent in loving a man with a creative temperament.

She'd felt powerless then. Now she was just angry, and too exhausted to do more than damn Horatio Foxe for getting her into such an impossible