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would like it, but I closed my eyes and dropped my head back slightly. A moan would have been a nice touch, but acting’s not my talent. Still, I didn’t need that extra drama, because apparently Bomstad was a big believer in his own overwhelming charm.
    “Been a while for you, has it, Doc?”
    I said nothing, but forced my muscles to relax.
    “Good thing the Bomber took you up on your offer, huh?”
    “Offer?” I opened my eyes, but kept my body carefully pliant.
    He chuckled again. “Little late to be playing hard to get now, ain’t it?” he asked. “Little late when the Bomber is all hot and ready.” He slipped his hand inside my bra, cupping my breast.
    I gasped. My stomach heaved. What would happen if I hurled on his perfectly polished shoes?
    “You like that?”
    Like porcupines in my underwear, but I forced a sigh. It sounded more like a growl to me, but he didn’t seem to notice, because he stepped forward.
    I struck immediately, snapping my knee up with all the strength I could muster.
    But even in his current state Bomstad had a professional athlete’s reflexes. My blow made only minimal contact with his newly regenerated area before it was deflected by a tree-sized thigh. Still, he stumbled backward, holding his offended parts and cursing.
    I didn’t wait to enrich my vocabulary but bolted around the other side of my desk and dashed for the door. My hand closed over the doorknob, but there was a growl behind me and I was snatched away and flung across the room. I scrambled for footing, lost a shoe, and bounced off a wall, but I was still free and sprinted behind my desk, my breath coming hard.
    “Don’t do this, Andrew,” I panted. “You’ll regret it.”
    He was breathing hard, too. Still bent, he stalked me. “You’re a tease is what you are, Doc.”
    “I’m not a tease,” I said, searching wildly for my professional voice. “I’m sorry if you got the wrong impression.”
    “No wrong impressions,” he said and lunged forward, grappling across my desk.
    I shrieked like a B-movie starlet and bolted sideways, making for the door again. He lunged after me. I skidded to a halt at the end of my desk, teetered on one shoe, and dashed off in the other direction. He was close behind. I screamed again. His hand closed on my jacket. Fabric tore. Buttons popped. I turned in desperation. There was no hope now. He was twice my weight and strength, but there was nothing to do but fight, so I swung with all my might. My fist thudded against his ear like the swat of a swallow’s wing. He caught my wrist with little effort and grinned into my face as he pushed me toward the floor.
    I was blubbering something incoherent, promises or threats or prayers. Who knows? Then suddenly, his grip gave a little. I scrambled backward, trying to gain my feet. He stumbled, grabbed his chest with clawed hands, and dropped to his knees. I lurched toward the phone, jabbing at numbers with spastic fingers and yammering into the receiver.
    Bomstad rolled his eyes up toward mine. I dropped the phone and staggered against the wall. Then, like a melodramatic overactor, he fell to the floor, dead as a thumbtack.

2
    Even choosing the perfect dinner wine loses its earth-shattering importance if your guests happen to be cannibals and you, the unsuspecting entrée.
    —Dr. Candon,
psych professor
    M A’AM. MS. M C MULLEN.”
    I tried to concentrate. The police had arrived with head-spinning haste. Apparently someone had heard my scream and dialed 911. My own call had probably gone to a hang-glider in Tibet.
    Everything seemed foggy and unfocused, except for the body lying immobile on my overpriced Berber. That was as clear as vodka. His eyes were open and vividly blue, his hands limp, his fingers slightly curled. He lay on his back, but his jacket had fallen across his crotch with blessed kindness. Still, my stomach threatened to reject both the yogurt and the dehydrated orange.
    “Ms. McMullen.”
    “What?” I dragged my