Oh, she’d already considered the similarities between Twist-the-TwistyTrader and Mr. Tristan King.
First, the name. Wow, could the similarity of “Twist” and “Tristan” be any more of a coincidence?
Twist was even nicknamed the King of the Killer Whales. It was so perfect that someone had to be playing a joke on her if they weren’t the same person, or else the gods had a wicked sense of humor that week.
And both of them happened to currently be in the greater Phoenix area. Twist, last night at the Devilhouse and Tristan King, today in her GameShack.
But—
Okay, first of all, there was the accent.
Both over the videocall and at the Devilhouse, every word Twist-the-TwistyTrader said had a clipped, cultured British accent. Very British. Perfectly British. More upper-crust British than Prince William British. He barely unclenched his jaw when he spoke and didn’t seem to be able to pronounce T’s unless he was adding them onto the ends of words that didn’t need them. Plus, Twist’s voice was so very deep that she’d practically felt the subsonic rumble through the floor under her feet. On the videocall, his voice hadn’t come from her computer’s speakers so much as from the subwoofer.
When TwistyTrader had gotten stern with her in the Devilhouse, he’d become quieter, and his voice had lowered to an ominous, demonic pitch.
But Tristan King had a normal man’s voice. It was on the low side, sure, because tall guys often, but not always, were basses. A tall guy’s larynx literally descended farther down his longer throat during puberty. But Tristan was a baritone, probably, and his accent was absolutely Midwestern standard American English. She hadn’t heard a whisker of British in there. Hadn’t he actually said Aw, shucks at one point?
But when Tristan King had verbally dismembered her manager, his tone had been precise and measured, even half-amused at some of the things he’d said, as he’d metaphorically eviscerated Miller and force-fed him his white-supremacist intestines while asking Miller to agree with Tristan’s assessment.
So that was different.
Plus, TwistyTrader had insinuated that he wasn’t a natural-born American or that something was off about his citizenship when they’d been trading IDs, saying that he “traveled under a US passport.” That didn’t sound like he was really an American, which was why she’d accused him of spying for MI-6.
Tristan King, however, had self-identified as solid Iowa corn-fed beef. She bet he could sing along with all the songs at fireworks displays on the Fourth of July.
And Tristan King was really, really dang tall, like six-four or six-five, maybe. While they’d been sitting at the high-top at the coffee shop, his feet had rested flat on the ground with his knees bent, and he’d almost ducked when they’d walked through the front door. Walking beside him made her feel like she was on the downslope of the side of a hill. He was a giant of a man.
TwistyTrader was tall, sure, but his chin had been eye-level when Colleen was standing in front of him. Twist must be something like five-eleven, or maybe he’d cracked six feet at the most.
But he was not six-four. She felt like a mouse beside someone who was six-four like Tristan King.
Plus, the vest of TwistyTrader’s three-piece suit had nipped in his waist, and his shoulders looked enormous.
Tristan King looked athletic and trim, but he wasn’t a powerhouse like TwistyTrader.
When TwistyTrader had been cradling her on his lap and she’d kissed his neck, he had a beard underneath his mask. She’d felt it on the insides of her thighs.
Tristan King was as clean-shaven as a Midwestern farm boy.
And then—Colleen reminded herself that she was not a creeper, that she was just observant—the two men smelled different.
When TwistyTrader had been holding Colleen cradled against his chest while he’d rocked her and told her what a good girl she was, how much he admired her, the scent filling her nose and lungs was like good wood smoke and cinnamon spice, like she was snuggling in front of a fireplace with spiced apple cider.
Earlier, when she’d been lying across his lap for the spanking, it had been more like she’d been standing too close to a forest fire and sucking on Red Hots candy.
But when she’d been hanging out on the sidewalk with Tristan King in the hot summer sun, a breeze had been blowing from behind him, bringing with it the scent of clean laundry and green herbs, like rolling around on a picnic sheet in a spring meadow. There was no denying that Tristan was hot, but he smelled like he was an outdoorsy, hiking type who would bring you wildflowers that he’d picked from beside his favorite trout stream and probably owned a big goofy dog like a yellow Labrador or a Weimaraner.
TwistyTrader seemed to be the kind of guy who drove a sportscar with a glovebox full of speeding tickets and knew where the Devilhouse was.
They just—they just couldn’t be the same guy. Their accents, their heights, their scents, the beard, and their demeanors were all so different.
And Tristan should have recognized her if they were the same person, right? She hadn’t been wearing a mask.
Just makeup.
And wouldn’t he have said something if he did?
Or maybe Twist was a big ol’ creeper who’d bribed that chick at the desk for Colleen’s name and address and then stalked her where she worked and got her fired so she’d have to take a job with him.
