Celia’s hand clenched on Mark’s arm.
He glanced sharply at her. “What—”
He didn’t have time to ask. A hand closed around her throat and hauled her away from him. The steel nose of a gun pressed against her temple. She dropped her champagne glass, which shattered.
An irrational part of her complained, Not tonight, of all nights.
In moments, it was over. A couple of women screamed. A large space, in which Celia and her captor formed the center, cleared. Mayor Paulson’s voice demanded over the PA, “What is this?”
The other gunmen surrounded the string quartet and their priceless instruments.
“Nobody move, nobody make a sound, or she gets it!” shouted her captor. He held her in a headlock, pinning her against his body. She gripped his arm for balance, and couldn’t move without his assistance. “Hand over the instruments!”
Before the musicians could comply, the assailants took them out of their hands. The cello player started to resist; he held both hands on the cello’s neck and glared. Celia’s captor made a noise and gestured with the gun for emphasis. The cellist let go.
She was insurance. Somebody might launch into heroics at the risk of destroying a chunk of wood and string. But not when someone had a gun pointed at her head.
Not for a minute did she believe that their choice of hostage was random.
With the instruments taken captive, the gang made its way to the back of the hall and the service entrance. The leader dragged Celia along. They weren’t going to let her go.
Mark broke from the stricken crowd to intercept the gang. Celia had no idea what he thought he could do. Flash his badge and intimidate them? He ought to know better than that.
He said, “Let her go. Take me instead.”
“Mark, no!” said the mayor, still speaking into his microphone. That’d lose him points in the polls, she bet.
Mark continued. “Don’t hurt her. I’ll do anything you ask, just don’t hurt her.”
God, it was touching. If only he had a clue. “Mark, don’t,” she said. “It’ll be okay. I’m used to this.” I’m a pro by now.
“Please,” Mark said, ignoring her.
“Okay,” the gunman said. Celia groaned to herself.
Still dragging her alongside, he inched over to Mark to make the switch. He wasn’t going to take chances, and he wasn’t going to take his gun off both of them. She sincerely hoped Mark didn’t have some kind of rough-and-tumble police kung-fu trick planned. She liked him, but she didn’t trust him to rescue her.
In one movement, the gunman shoved her away and trained his weapon at Mark, who held his hands up and stayed still. Celia hugged her shawl tight around her shoulders and met Mark’s gaze as the gunman grabbed his arm, pushed the gun to his neck, and hauled him away. He seemed calm and determined. Very heroic.
The moment they were all gone, the room burst into motion and conversation. A hundred cell phones came out of clutches and jacket pockets. The first violinist burst into tears. Celia closed her eyes, hugged herself, and sighed. She needed another drink; she’d suddenly sobered up.
“Ms. West! My God, are you all right?” The mayor, cutting through the crowd like an arrow, strode toward her. Mrs. Paulson flanked him, looking interested for the first time all evening. Paulson touched Celia’s arm and studied her like he expected her to faint.
“Yes. Except for Mark being an idiot.”
“I can’t argue with that,” Andrea Paulson said.
Sternly, Paulson said, “He probably saved your life.”
That was how everyone was going to read the situation, she realized. Handsome young cop puts his life on the line. “I’d have been okay.”
“You’re taking this very well.”
“I’ve done it before. Several times.”
There it was, that look of morbid curiosity, though to his credit the mayor repressed it quickly. Mrs. Paulson wasn’t so circumspect. She gaped. “You’re that Celia West?”
Celia looked away, repressing a wry smile. “I’m assuming the police are after them already?”