parked on bar stools, she homed in on Dutch. Even from behind, he drew attention with his brawny build and the wink of tattoos she glimpsed through the crowd.
The food was already on the table, but it looked as if he’d waited for her. Another good sign. As she sat down, she spotted three to-go containers on the side of the table.
“It really picked up in here,” he said. “I figured if you couldn’t finish your meal, you’d want a to-go box. It might take the waitress a good ten minutes to grab one later.”
“You’re a planner. I like that.” Isabel picked up a fry, took the first delicious, hot bite and glanced up toward the bar.
Her heart nearly stopped, the blood in her veins turning to slush as she locked gazes with him.
Chapter Six
A thousand thoughts rushed through Isabel’s head like a high-speed train derailing. She couldn’t think. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak.
At the far end of the bar, he was seated in the very spot that she had passed on the way back from the restroom. He must’ve arrived while she was inside.
Well-groomed as always, wearing a tailored suit, he resembled a thirtysomething Hugh Jackman. Looking at him, no one would suspect what he really was. Isabel hadn’t the first time they met. He’d lured her in with his good looks, smooth charm and sophistication, his ability to talk to anyone about anything. She’d been flattered when he’d asked her out.
He sat there in the restaurant, staring at her. Unblinking. His eyes rabid, excited. His body rigid. With his elbows propped on the bar, he brushed one index finger across the other and mouthed, “Shame on you.”
Isabel choked on the French fry going down her throat. She coughed, patting her chest, struggling to breathe, to gain her bearings.
Why was he here?
But deep down she knew. He was here because of her.
“Are you all right?” Dutch asked, handing her a glass of water. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
More like a living, breathing nightmare.
Her nerves stretched tight as bowstrings as she tried to gauge how far away he sat. At least seventy-five feet in the large restaurant. The restraining order only stipulated fifty.
He was within legal bounds.
The last time he’d pulled a stunt like this, he had shown up at LACMA, Los Angeles County Museum of Art, when she’d been enjoying her time off with Brenda. For days she and Brenda had planned the excursion, texting back and forth about shopping on Rodeo Drive afterward and having a late lunch at the best Peruvian restaurant in town. Isabel had stood her ground and called the police.
And they had done absolutely nothing.
If the petitioner was aware the respondent was in the vicinity and wasn’t violating the provisions of the restraining order, then it was the petitioner’s responsibility to leave.
Not the other way around.
She had argued that it hadn’t been a coincidence and the police had countered that LACMA was the largest art museum in the western United States with a new exhibit that’d just started. Could she prove that it wasn’t a coincidence?
Of course not.
It didn’t help the situation that he was well-known by the cops, well liked and respected.
Trepidation weighted every muscle in Isabel’s body and her stomach clenched hard as a fist. “I have to go.”
“What?” Dutch froze with the burger in his hand midair before taking a single bite. “What’s wrong?”
Dropping her gaze, she said, “There’s an urgent call I have to make. I need to leave.”
“All right. Let’s box up the food.”
“No.” Grabbing her purse, she stood. “I’m not hungry anymore. I lost my appetite.”
“Isabel, what’s happening right now?”
“I told you.” Her gaze flickered up to the far end of the bar.
He was still staring at her. An ominous smile full of evil spread on his face. Like some demon sent from hell to torment her. That’s what he wanted—to possess her, body, mind and soul.
A chill spilled down her entire body, and she had an almost uncontrollable urge to make the sign of the cross over her chest.
Dutch turned as if to see what she was looking at, and that sicko glanced away almost immediately and called to a bartender.
Isabel could barely swallow, her throat growing dry as sandpaper. She spun on her heel and dashed out the door.
Heavy footsteps thudded after her. A warm, strong hand took her wrist, callused fingertips pressed against her skin, bringing her to a gentle stop on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant.