Free The Billionaire's Caress by Olivia Thorne

2
    Oh God NO!
    I turn and run through the maze of corridors, back the way I came.
    “That won’t do you any good, Ms. Saunders,” the voice says, full of mock sympathy. “I’ve already shut down the elevator.”
    In confirmation, when I hit the DOWN button, it doesn’t light up. I try UP – same thing.
    My mind is ticking through the options.
    Got to find a stairwell – got to get out of here –
    But the text was from Grant! It came from his phone number! How did –
    And then I realize: if this guy could find Grant’s phone number, he could temporarily clone it, reroute it, whatever he wanted to do.
    Long enough to send me a couple of text messages, anyway.
    The text messages make me think of my cell. I fumble it out of my purse to call 911 –
    But the screen says ‘No Service.’
    I want to scream.
    Actually, that’s a good idea.
    “HELLLLLP!” I shriek.
    “No one can hear you from the outside,” the voice informs me. “And if you were planning to call the authorities, let me save you the trouble: I’m blocking all frequencies with a jammer. So don’t bother.”
    I start running through the hallways, my heels clicking on the hardwood floors. My heart is jackhammering in my chest.
    “Why are you running, Ms. Saunders? Don’t you think I might anticipate where you’re going?”
    Shit.
    I slow down.
    If he wanted me to go someplace specific – say, an emergency exit where he might be waiting in ambush – then shutting down the elevator would be the absolute best way to herd me.
    But why is he pointing that out?
    A line from the FBI profiler’s report jumps into my mind:
    Because he views the interaction as a game to be savored.
    Oh my God.
    I’m going to die in here…
    Then my stubborn streak kicks in.
    No I’m not. I am absolutely NOT going to die in here. I am NOT dying at all – not today.
    I slow down and start thinking.
    First I need a weapon.
    I reach in my purse, get my key ring out, and ball it in my fist, letting one single key stick out between my fingers. I learned that in a dorm rape prevention course in my freshman year.
    If the asshole tries to take me down, I’m taking at least one of his eyeballs with me.
    I look up at the ceiling. In the dim light it’s impossible to see much. I can’t tell whether there are security cameras or not. There aren’t any big clunky ones, anyway.
    In that case, I need to be quiet.
    I slip off my heels and put them in my purse.
    Now he can’t hear me.
    But if he does get to me, I want someone to catch the bastard.
    So, in the hopes that he might leave behind my purse, I open up the Voice Memo app on my phone and hit ‘Record.’ I’m going to get his voice.
    Next: logic.
    What does he WANT me to do?
    Stay away from the exits. He can’t cover all of them.
    Was he trying to psych me out with that ‘don’t you think I might anticipate where you’re going’ crap?
    “You’re probably trying to backwards-engineer my plans, aren’t you,” the voice says snidely. “Trying to outthink me. That’s… amusing. And utterly futile.”
    What an ASSHOLE.
    But don’t answer back. Don’t let him know where you are.
    “You’re staying silent. A wise move, if there were no surveillance system in the gallery. Unfortunately for you, they have one, and I’m tapped into it. Want me to prove it? You’re standing five feet away from an Andre Rothschfin. The black and white painting.”
    I look to my right. I have no idea who Andre Rothschfin is, but there’s a five-foot-square canvas with a bunch of white, oval lines outlining black shapes.
    “By the way, nice touch, taking off your shoes,” the voice continues.
    My heart sinks.
    “You might as well talk to me, since there’s no advantage in keeping quiet,” the man says. His voice seems to float out of the maze, both nowhere and several places all at once.
    I don’t want to interact with him, though. I don’t want to get distracted.
    I don’t want him inside my head. No more than he already