Their gazes met. He gripped her by her shoulders, hesitating. His eyes were sky blue and determined. "No!" Annabel shouted, struggling against him, trying to push him away. But she knew that it was futile-for she had experienced his superior strength firsthand just moments ago, when he had taken her hostage at the house. "You need a hostage, don't you? How much luckier could you be?-For I am willing!"

His eyes widened. "You are insane," he muttered. And then a whistle sounded behind them, loud and shrill and piercing.

He cursed, releasing her, shifting into gear and gunning the motorcar forward. Annabel was slammed back against the seat and the unconscious Louie. She struggled to right herself as another shrill whistle sounded and she twisted around to gaze behind them. Still driving like someone insane-or like a crook determined to avoid capture-the thief turned the automobile hard onto Twenty-seventh Street heading west toward Broadway. Annabel watched two mounted policemen galloping after them, in hot pursuit.

She stole a glance at her captor. His expression was set, at once grim, determined, and fierce. His eyes remained glued upon the road-he was about to shoot across the congested avenue of Broadway. He did not seem frightened by their pursuit in the least. She had to admire him, and not just because of his cool demeanor. He was, without a doubt, one of the most striking men she had ever laid eyes upon. Annabel twisted to watch the galloping policemen again. "They will catch us," she cried. "There's too much traffic on Broadway. You should have stayed on Fifth!" She could see herself standing at the altar with Harold.

He shot her a look of disbelief.

"The traffic was lighter on Fifth," she said defensively.

"Hold on," he ordered, his eyes on the intersection ahead, his knuckles white as he gripped the steering wheel.

She turned her gaze forward and all her admiration for the man driving the Packard vanished. Her heart slammed to a stop. Two cable cars were coming down Broadway, one after the other, on their electric tracks. If he did not halt and let the cars pass, it was obvious they would all crash into one another. Their motorcar could not possibly cross the path of the cable cars in time to avoid a collision. "Stop!" Annabel cried, seized with panic. "Stop or you will kill us all!"

It was as if he had not heard her. With one hand he banged hard on the horn, so it sounded as one long, incessant blare. And the motorcar shot into the intersection.

Annabel was clinging to the dashboard of the automobile. She could see the faces of the men and women m the approaching first trolley. It was but a few yards away. Expressions of incredulity gave way to panic and then terror. A blond woman screamed. A straphanger's eyes, behind horn-rimmed spectacles, met her own. Her own face, she thought, mesmerized, must be as white as his. She tasted fear. Saw twisted metal, blood, and death.

The Packard screamed over the electric rails as the first cable car continued forward, metal and brass missing brass and wood by mere inches. And then they were roaring up Twenty-seventh Street, leaving Broadway behind.

And Annabel, turned completely around in her seat now, her veil twisted around her neck, watched the second trolley continuing down the track, quite literally on the back fender of the first. It was effectively blocking the two mounted policemen from following them. She slumped against the seat back, her heart beating like a jungle drum, smiling. "You did it," she whispered. Then she was thrown against the driver as he turned the motorcar hard to the right, onto Sixth Avenue. Overhead, a train on the El thundered by.

Annabel disengaged herself as the thief drove beneath the elevated tracks, chasing young boys in knickers playing stick ball into the shadows of the surrounding five-and six-story tenement buildings. Briefly, his gaze met hers. "Are you enjoying yourself?" he asked.

Annabel settled down in her seat. "Actually, you are quite a good driver." She smiled at him. She was enjoying herself-now that they had eluded the police and a fatal cable-car crash.

He glanced at her again while turning so sharply up another cross street that a man pulling a two-wheeled fruit cart was almost run over. As they sprayed a muddy puddle in their wake, Annabel glanced back and saw the vendor, perhaps a Jewish immigrant, shaking his fist at

after the first introductions were made, because she could outride, outshoot, outtalk, and outthink them all, she was fairly certain that she was beautiful-she had been told so a thousand times. She was, in fact, considered the most beautiful of the Boothe sisters, and Melissa and Lizzie were both gorgeous. Of course, she was also considered the odd one, the mannish one, the bluestocking-the one who couldn't catch a husband even if her father gave away most of his fortune on her behalf. Annabel had never cared about her beauty before, it had never seemed important or even useful.

But now she cared. She needed this man's help. Very self-conscious, she leaned toward him, her gaze on his, at once earnest and intent, praying that this once she could manage a man the way her sister Melissa could. "Please."

For one more moment they stared at one another. The clanging of trolleys, the roaring of the elevated trains, the clopping of horses' hooves, even pigeons cooing on the nearby roof, all faded and disappeared. Annabel crossed her fingers. Instinct told her not to move, not to speak-not even to breathe.

"Do not bat your lashes at me, it makes you look like a simpering fool."

Annabel winced, afraid she had lost, not just that round, but everything she valued in her life.

He grimaced. And then he shifted hard into gear and drove back into the heavy traffic of milk wagons and freight lorries, horse cars and trolleys. He turned his hard blue gaze to the road, as if concentrating on driving. His strong, clean jaw was set. Annabel was faint with relief. But she thought she could feel his thoughts-• and they were directed, not quite charitably, toward herself. She had won, but it was only the first round, and she did not fool herself. He intended to get rid of her, and eventually he would.

But she could manage with eventually. As long as it them, his coarse wool jacket soaking wet. Pedestrians on the sidewalks, working women in ready-mades and young male clerks, were all turning to gape at them as they sped by.

"Thank you," he said, and he flashed his spectacular smile at her. "I have had a lot of practice."

Annabel found herself smiling back. This thief had nerve-lots of it. "I imagine you have. Who are you?"

He turned onto Seventh Avenue, still driving at a mad-cap pace. "You may call me Braxton." Two mounted gentlemen jerked their mounts out of their way, riding up onto the sidewalk.

She eyed him, aware of them racing past another motorcar. "Is that your real name?"

His smile reappeared, but briefly. "You are a clever girl." Suddenly he veered around an omnibus and pulled up at the curb in front of a store advertising suits for sale. A furrier's sign was hanging outside the second-floor window. "Now get out."

Annabel did not move.

He appeared relaxed as he sat there in the front seat, both hands lightly on the wheel. "I am not Louie," he warned. "And I do not need a hostage."

She wet her lips. "Yes you do. They will let you get away if you threaten to hurt me. I am certain of it."

He leaned toward her. "Aren't you frightened, Miss Boothe? Hasn't it crossed your mind that I might hurt you-or at the least get you killed accidentally?"

His gaze was mesmerizing. She could not look away, i "I can't. I can't go back there. I cannot."

He was staring. His eyes were opaque, impossible to read. "So it is the groom who terrifies you-far more than myself."

He did not frighten her at all. Not really-even \ though he did make her heart race. And Annabel had never been at all seductive before. But she was desperate. And even though men always lost interest in her soon wasn't just then. For she had not lied when she had said she could not go back.