Page 18 of High-Priority Asset

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.

“I know something is wrong,” Dutch said, facing her. “You just did a one-eighty on me for a reason. Please, tell me what it is.”

Shame burned a hole in her heart. There was no clear way to explain—her lack of judgment and poor instincts, every twisted thing that man had done to her, the degrees of sickness she had tolerated, how she’d allowed him to steal her dignity. The ways he’d terrorized her after she’d ended the relationship.

How did she let any of it happen?

A sob rattled her chest.

If she told Dutch, once she finished spewing out the whole sordid story, he would no doubt see her as a victim.

It was bad enough her best friend looked at her with poor you in her eyes. She wasn’t inviting another person to the pity party.

“I’m sorry. Today wasn’t a good day for lunch. I have to go.” Isabel turned and fled at a pace just short of running.

No wasting precious seconds glancing back over her shoulder. No waiting at the light to cross—she held out her hand to cars and dashed across traffic. No aching lungs or quivering thighs holding her back. No letting her three-inch heels slow her down. She’d scurry down the street on stilts if she had to.

Hot tears blurred her eyes, and she thumbed them away.

Shoving through the gallery door, she almost bumped into Brenda.

“Why are you back so soon?” her friend asked. “Did you have time to eat?”

She hurried up the stairs. “He was there.”

Brenda stopped dead in her tracks and recoiled. “Not...him.”