Victor Zane watched the cold, predatory sneer vanish from Jack Brooks's face, replaced by that familiar mask of indifferent boredom. Only then did the oxygen seem to return to the hotel lobby.
Victor let out a breath he felt he had been holding for five years. He raised a trembling hand to his forehead, wiping away a layer of cold sweat that had gathered at his hairline. His heart, which had been hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird, began to slow to a survivable rhythm.
He didn't kill me, Victor thought, the realization washing over him with the force of a religious epiphany. He isn't going to kill me right here.
The crisis was averted, but the performance had to continue. Victor knew that Jack preferred to keep a low profile. If Victor dropped to his knees and worshipped him
