Chapter Seven
That day four years ago had started out great.
One of Nina’s best. Training in the morning, a massage in the afternoon, a press conference with the rest of the team.
Tomorrow was an easy day—a light workout, a strategy session with her coach, a few leisurely runs at the resort, then rehearsal for the charity exhibition the next day.
That night, she went out with friends—fellow skiers, a couple of coaches and technicians, and romantic partners.
It was a glitzy place, where people dressed to the nines and gathered in the glow of soft light and gleaming glass and steel.
Photographers had been there, as they always were in those days.
They had taken pictures of her on the dance floor, in a short, sparkly dress, a drink in one hand, head thrown back, a huge smile on her lips.
She remembered the sensation of moving to throbbing music, surrounded by people she loved, bathed in the adoration of the public. She was beautiful, talented, famous.
And she was in love. Liam was there that night.
Off to one side, talking with friends, sipping his own drink and smiling at her.
She had been buzzing from the alcohol but also from sheer happiness.
All those lonely years, away from her family, training hard, enduring the pain of injury and traveling constantly, had brought her to this. It had all been worth it.
Later—early morning, really—she and Liam parted outside the club.
He had to leave in a few hours to catch a flight to somewhere exotic—Cairo?
Or some city in Argentina? Some magazine assignment that would take him away for a few weeks.
He held her tightly, their bodies pressed together, mouths locked in a passionate kiss that had left her breathless and giddy.
“I’ll call when I get to my hotel,” he said.
She walked back to her hotel room alone, humming one of the songs she had danced to at the club.
She would pay for the night’s revelry tomorrow.
Her trainer would scold. But even tired and slightly hungover, her body always responded once she was on her skis, out on the snow.
She would surrender to that flying, reckless sensation of launching herself down the mountain, confident in her ability to remain in control. To succeed. To win.
She slipped her key card into the lock and pushed open the door, then arms came around her, hugging her close. She thought at first it might be Liam. Maybe he had changed his mind about spending the night with her.
But no—this wasn’t Liam. This man was shorter, and he smelled of stale sweat and an overly-perfumed aftershave. He held her much too tightly, crushing her. She dropped the key card and struggled against him.
“Don’t fight me, darling,” he said, his breath hot in her ear. “I’d hate to have to cut you.”
That single word—darling—sent ice through her. “Who—”
A stab of pain in her side surprised a cry from her. “Quiet!” he barked, then he shoved her into the room and kicked the door shut behind them. He kept one arm around her as he locked the door. Then he flicked on the light.
She recognized him right away—her ardent fan. The one who had started showing up at all her races and events. The man who had previously cornered her in the hallway. He released her but flashed a wicked looking blade. “Don’t try anything,” he said. “I could kill you in a second.”
She stared at him, memorizing his details—average height, average weight, thinning brown hair, pale skin with a sheen of sweat. He had blue eyes that might have been attractive except for the manic gleam in them. He was so ordinary looking—so harmless seeming.
He grinned at her, revealing straight white teeth. “It’s so good to be alone at last, darling.”
That word again. A term of endearment made chilling.
She wasn’t this man’s darling. She didn’t even know him.
“You’re the one who sent the notes,” she said.
Almost one a day for a while now. For weeks.
All professing his love for her. When she had shown them to her coaches, they had dismissed them as misguided fan mail.
“Ignore them and they’ll eventually go away,” everyone told her.
“That’s the price you pay for being famous.
As long as all they do is write, they’re harmless. ”
Her head was perfectly clear now, any fuzziness banished by steely fear. What should she do? How could she get away from him? She tried to summon moisture into her dry mouth and avoided looking at the knife. She needed to make him not want to use the knife. “What’s your name?” she asked.
His smile broadened. “It’s Aaron. Aaron Nicholson.”
“It…it’s good to meet you, Aaron. How…how did you find me?”
“Oh, I’ve been following you for years.” The smile dimmed. “Didn’t you just say you got my letters?”
“Of…of course I got your letters. I just didn’t know who you were.”
“Don’t you remember when we first met?”
“R-remember you?” She had started noticing him at events maybe two weeks ago. The bland-looking man who gazed at her with an adoration that at the time had seemed sweet and a little naive.
“In Vail. I was there. Last year. I was waiting right at the finish line. I got your autograph.”
She must have given out hundreds of autographs in the last year alone.
People were always asking her to sign something.
There was no way she could remember all of them.
But clearly he thought she should remember.
She forced a smile. “Of course. It’s…it’s just a surprise to see you here now.
” Her gaze flickered toward the door. “It…it’s very late and I have to ski tomorrow. We should talk some other time.”
“No. We’ll talk now.” He moved toward her, knife in front, forcing her back against the wall.
She screamed, and he was on her immediately, one hand at her throat, the knife pressed against the sequins of her dress at the stomach. “Shut up!” he ordered. “Shut up or I’ll cut you open.”
She nodded to show she had understood, and he loosened his grip on her throat but kept his hand in place. They were about the same height—five-nine. He must outweigh her, but she was strong. Could she wrestle the knife away from him? “What do you want?” she asked.
“I want you.”
Nausea welled up at the words—at the tone of them. She swallowed hard and tried to think. “Why me?” she asked.
“You don’t think a man like me deserves a woman like you?”
“No! That’s not what I mean.” She tried to smile again, the expression wobbly. “I mean, you could have any woman you want. Why me?”
“Because you’re the best. The champion. Not only a champion, a medal winner—and a model. You’re the perfect woman.”
She shook her head. “I’m not perfect.”
“You’re perfect for me. I knew it from the moment I saw you.”
I have to keep him talking, she thought. As long as he was talking, he wasn’t using the knife. “When did you first see me?” she asked.
“The first time I saw you was on television, during the World Cup. I was mesmerized. Watching you, I just knew we were meant to be together. I traveled to Vail to see you race there and I wasn’t disappointed. The feeling was even stronger when we were together in person.”
He droned on, cataloguing every time he had seen her, every interview she had done, all the articles and photos he had collected of her. The level of obsession stunned her, and frightened her almost as much as the knife.
She couldn’t see a clock from here, but surely an hour or more had passed since he had accosted her in the hallway. She yawned.
His expression hardened. “Am I boring you?”
“No! I’m just so tired. And I have to train tomorrow. For the next race.” The charity exposition wasn’t a real race, merely a chance for donors to watch a mock competition from the sidelines.
“Then it’s time to stop talking.” He moved in closer, the knife threatening. At first she hoped he might put it aside. If he tried to move in to kiss her, maybe she could knee him. Or gouge his eyes. She tried to think of all the self-defense moves she had read about.
But he didn’t discard the knife. Instead, he began cutting her dress.
He gouged the tip of the blade into the fabric, then cut upward, the razor-sharp edge skimming her belly and nicking one breast. He tore the dress with his hands, ripping it away, sequins flying, and left her exposed, standing only in thong underwear.
He grinned, a wolfish grin. “Perfect,” he breathed.
“If…if I’m going to be naked, you should be naked, too,” she said, doing her best to sound coy.
“No. I don’t have to be naked.” He traced the knife across the top of one breast, a razor slice, leaving behind a line of blood.
“Stop it!” she cried, and tried to move away, though he had her backed against the wall.
“Hold still,” he ordered, and squeezed her arm.
But she wouldn’t hold still. She wouldn’t stand here and let him cut her to pieces. She shoved him away, even as the knife sliced again, deeper this time. Warm blood dripped down her icy skin.
She launched herself at the door and fumbled with the lock.
The knife drove into her back just below the right shoulder as she wrenched open the door.
Pain flooded her, but she ran, ankles repeatedly giving way in the high heels.
She ignored the pain and kept running, screaming and pounding on the doors of neighboring rooms as she moved down the corridor. “Help! Help! Call the police!”
She still didn’t know who had saved her.
People began emerging from their rooms. Someone wrapped her in a blanket.
Someone else tore a fire extinguisher from the wall and hurled it at Nicholson, who had run after her, brandishing the knife.
Other people tackled and held him until the police and an ambulance arrived.
Nina woke hours later in the hospital. A guard stood outside her door, and reporters filled the parking lot below her window.
Her coach was there, along with a state police officer.
She had stitches and ached all over. She had lost a lot of blood, but beyond that she had lost forever that sense of being safe and happy and lucky.