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go and phone for an ambulance?' |
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'I don't want an ambulance,' Cassy said. 'I'll be OK in a minute. He just . . . knocked my wind out. I'm feeling . . . a lot better.' |
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'Be that as it may,' Goodman said, 'I think it would be wise to have you checked over.' |
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'I'll stay with her,' John said. |
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Goodman patted his shoulder, then pushed against it as he uncrouched. |
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The moment he was gone, Cassy shook her head. 'I don't want any ambulance.' Holding the blazer to her chest, she started to rise. |
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'I'm not sure you ought to do that.' |
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Ignoring him, she sat up. The top of her costume slid off her back and dropped to the floor. She scowled at the man who'd attacked her. |
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Her scowl looked troubled and confused, not angry. |
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John had spoken to her briefly when he entered the restaurant, but he'd been too preoccupied to notice much about her appearance. Now, he found himself staring at her. He guessed she wasn't much older than twenty. She had a small, faint scar on her right cheekbone. Like a nick that a sculptor might've given his statue because he found it too perfect and felt the need to give it a small flaw for a touch of humanity and vulnerability. Her hair was glossy black. It was very short, cut in a style that reminded John of Peter Pan. |
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He imagined himself painting a portrait of her. A nude, of course. Right. When hell freezes over. A, she would never go for it. B, Lynn would pitch a fit. C, the temptation to do more than paint her picture . . . |
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