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door.
    She was lying on her side facing the door, but she couldn't see anything, not even the light she had left burning in the hall. For several seconds she heard nothing more, and she was trying to convince herself that the bulb had burned out and the sound had been the product of dreaming when another sound put an end to those comfortable assumptions. It was the sound of expelled breath.
    Her heart was pounding so hard she felt sure the intruder could hear it, and she almost regretted her refusal to buy a gun. Almost, but not really. Phil had insisted on keeping his in the drawer of the bedside table, and its proximity had always made her nervous. A loaded gun was an invitation to accident or manslaughter, and an unloaded weapon wasn't worth a damn. "What am I supposed to do, ask the burglar to please wait till I find the bullets and put them in the gun?" she had demanded of Phil. He had not thought it was funny.
    The only potentially useful item in the drawer now was a flashlight. Rachel's arms were under the bedclothes, and she knew she couldn't extract them without making a noise. The flashlight was no good anyhow. He was already too close. Her eyes had adjusted and she could see his outline, motionless in the open doorway. Ideas ran wildly around in her head like a frantic animal trapped in a maze. How had he gotten in? Silly question, there were no bars on the windows . . . With a key? Phil still had one. There was no comfort in that thought; he had been furious with her the day he left, mouthing curses and threats. He'd been drunk, probably he hadn't meant it ... She couldn't think what to do, she couldn't move. Better lie still, pretend to be asleep, let him find her purse, her few pieces of jewelry.
    Coward.
    The voice was as clear as if she had spoken aloud, but the words leaped into her consciousness with the instantaneous speed of thought. Hoping for a hero, are you? There are no heroes. Just you. Are you going to let him do whatever he wants — steal, rape you, hurt you? You can fight back.
    The rustle of the sheets sounded as loud as an explosion to her, but the shapeless form didn't react. Perhaps he thought she was only turning over in her sleep. She knew the next sound would be louder. The drawer always stuck. She yanked it open, grabbed the flashlight, and switched it on. The beam struck him full in the face.
    Rachel didn't get to Georgetown until almost ten a.m. She had hoped Kara would be gone by then and that she could leave the bag of linens with the maid. No such luck. Kara answered the door herself.
    By her standards she was casually dressed, in loose slacks and an oversized shirt whose sleeves were rolled to the elbows. The shirt was Edwardian, a man's dress shirt with a starched pleated bib, and it looked sensational on her.
    "Good God!" she exclaimed. "What happened to you?"
    Involuntarily Rachel raised a hand to her face. " I ran into a door."
    Kara grabbed the bag with one hand and Rachel with the other. "I had planned to offer you a cup of coffee, but I think an icebag or a slice of raw beefsteak—"
    "I really can't stay. I'm late."
    "Cheryl isn't expecting you till you get there." Moving with brisk efficiency she closed the door, divested Rachel of her wet coat, and draped it over a chair. "She called to tell me you were dropping off that parcel, but she didn't mention you'd had an accident. Come back to the kitchen and tell me about it."
    There was no reason for reticence; Rachel had already reported the incident to the police, and she would have to tell Cheryl, if only to put her on her guard. But she resented Kara's authoritative manner, and she felt out of place in that house. It was as elegant as its mistress, one of the old Federal houses that gave the area its distinctive character, and as Rachel shuffled along the hall in Kara's wake she noticed details—a gracefully curved staircase, an antique Persian rug in the drawing room, floors polished to mirror smoothness except where her