She did not deign to answer his question, simply kept moving forward with that slow, wary approach as though she were stalking him.
“Don’t get nervous and pull the trigger on that gun,” Mason said apprehensively.
“I know what I’m doing.”
“Then look out for that chair in front of you,” he warned. “You’ll hit that, the gun will go off, and...”
She turned her head slightly in the direction indicated, and Mason’s long arms shot out. His left hand clamped down over her right wrist. He felt her muscles bunch into tension. His fingers squeezed the strength out of her wrist. When he felt her fingers grow limp, he took the revolver from her hand, and slipped it into the side pocket of his coat.
The realization that she was disarmed gave her the strength of panic. She jerked her arm, trying to free her hand. When Mason held tight, she raised her right leg high, and kicked out at him hard, driving the heel of her shoe toward the pit of his stomach.
Mason swung to one side, jerking on her wrist as he moved. He threw her off balance and toward him. Then as she lowered her leg to keep from falling, Mason grabbed her around the waist with his left hand, circled her shoulders with his right, pinning her arms to her sides. “Now let’s be sensible,” he said.
He could feel the resistance drain out of her. The slender body crushed up against his grew limp.
“No kicking now,” Mason warned, and relaxed his grip·
“Who are you?” she asked.