Did he intend to kill her now, this instant? Or had she a moment or two to try to save herself? Recalling Leonardo’s dictum, she did not struggle, for that would only tighten the trap about her, and perhaps even spring it. Her heart was beating with quite unaccustomed vigour, her hands were hot, she was conscious of a warmth in her blood which the summer sunshine was scarcely responsible for. She’d prefer that I read classic literature, of course, but she only reads paperback romance novels, so she can’t exactly complain. It’s just upon my lunch-time. ‘You make a game with me, I think.
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