Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 95196 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95196 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
“This isn’t funny,” I cried to anyone who might be filming for social media.
My reflection spoke with me, and a lump grew in my throat. I reached out, quivering, and poked the glass. Solid. Beginning to wheeze, I hunched over to catch my breath. My likeness moved, too, not missing a beat.
Okay, so this wasn’t a trick or a joke. But what was it? What? I should have brown hair, brown eyes, and skin several shades duskier. I should have hips! Yet, I looked exactly like Isobel. Same red waves. Same green eyes, freckled skin and slender build. But this wasn’t… I couldn’t…
Tremors overtook me, and I backed away, pivoted. I would hunt down Isobel and get answers however proved necessary. She would admit she’d hypnotized me. Or drugged me. Yes! Drugged. I remembered now; she’d already admitted it! Had probably slipped something into my cranberry juice before handing me the glass. This could be a prolonged hallucination. A residual effect.
What, had Skyscraper Red roofied me all to stuff me in the wedding gown and marry me off to the highest bidder?
How dare she! As soon as I found her, she would learn a hard truth: You did not mess with Oklahoma girls. We did not stop until we got a job done.
“Isobel,” a deep masculine voice snapped. “Come here.”
I went still. The man had called for Isobel. Was she nearby?
Clutching fistfuls of skirt, I dashed from the closet. The bedroom’s new occupant caught my gaze, and I skidded to a halt. Oh my hotness.
Details registered, each hitting me with the precision of a punch. He occupied and totally owned a space just past the doorway. Around thirty years old, he stood well over six feet tall. He wore a tailored, pinstriped suit that failed to mask his muscular physique. Far more beautiful than zipper guy, with sleek black hair, icy blue eyes, and an amazing complexion without a single laugh line. Trim dark scruff covered a strong jaw.
“I told you to be ready by three sharp.” His crisp words slashed the atmosphere between us. He looked me up and down, his lids narrowing. “This is not ready.”
Did he and Isobel work together to abduct innocent tourists?
“Who are you?” I demanded with all the vim and vigor I could muster. You’ve got to be kidding me. I even sounded like the redhead. Not her lyrical pronunciation, just her voice. “Where’s Isobel?”
There was no alteration in the man’s expression as he checked the diamond-studded watch strapped to his wrist. A bejeweled signet ring glinted from a blunt-tipped finger. “There’s no time for your games. Change clothes. And stop using that atrocious American accent. It’s worse than the others. This reception would’ve taken place last night if you hadn’t drunk yourself into a stupor.”
“My games? Mine?” What did he mean, atrocious? Lots of people found my slight southern drawl pleasing, thank you. And what other accents? “I mean it. Who are you? Where am I? Where’s my necklace? What are you planning to do with me?” And where was the dog?
“Isobel,” he grated with a glare. “Enough. I married you. Now you will do your duty as my wife, exactly as agreed. Understood? Change clothes.”
A shudder rocked me. He’d called me Isobel. Which meant he, too, saw the redhead when he looked at me. What if Isobel had drugged us both?
My fury downgraded to concern. “You’ve got to listen to me, sir. My name is Elizabeth. I’m not Isobel, and I didn’t marry you.” I would never! He was hot and all, but way too bossy for my tastes. Although, yes, if he were fictional, I might marathon read his series. Because of course he would have a saga spanning decades. “As wild as this sounds, I think we’re both hallucinating. We require medical care. And an arrest warrant for Isobel Campbell.”
He flicked the tip of his tongue over an incisor. “Do you want to be executed? Because that’s where such talk is headed.”
Fear iced my veins, and I gasped. “You just threatened to kill me.”
“Donna be ridiculous. You know I never bother with threats. I’ll give you two minutes to don proper attire. If you fail to act, I’ll force you to go just as you are.”
Forget my accent. He had just developed one, and all kinds of menace layered the undertone. Somehow, it was far worse than the (definite) threat. “That was a threat.”
“That was a promise.”
Self-preservation instincts sparked. I might not have my mother’s fiery temper or my father’s unrufflable calm, but I had something invaluable. Stamina. I’d started running in high school and never stopped. I could go for miles. And I definitely needed to run. My companion wasn’t interested in the truth.
“I hear you loud and clear, big guy. Dress better. Got it logged now.” I tapped my temple. “Why don’t you step in the hall, and I’ll get started?” I’d sneak out a window.