“Hey, baby,” says a male voice from behind.
I’m still looking back for that guy when I collide with something solid. A wall of muscle wrapped in wool. A scream catches in my throat.
Large hands grab my shoulder, triggering my fight-or-flight. Just as I’m about to reach for his junk, my captor says, “Are you Annalisa Burlington?”
The voice is cultured and low. I crane my neck and notice two things at once, despite the broad shoulders and chiseled jaw. He wears a black chauffeur’s uniform with a cap pulled low over features I can barely make out in the shadows. Definitely not FBI.
“Annalisa Burlington?” he repeats, releasing my shoulders.
Burlington. That’s the name I gave the guy from Facebook Marketplace. I nod because my voice has abandoned me somewhere between fear and relief.
“Um… Yes?” I croak. “That’s me.”
“Rochester Manor awaits.” He opens the car door with white-gloved hands.
I glance back toward the terminal one last time. That weirdo is nowhere to be seen. I grind my teeth. Guilt has me seeing predators in every stranger’s face. Either way, this car is my only shot at disappearing, and standing here in the rain won’t save me from arrest.
“Thank you,” I mutter, and step into the limousine’s interior.
The leather seats are worn soft with age and smell like tobacco and cedar, masculine scents that remind me of the old man I once hooked up with from Casino DeMartini. Wood paneling lines the interior, and the windows are tinted so dark I might as well be in a coffin. I clutch my duffel on my lap and try not to think about how many bodies have disappeared in cars like this one.
Seriously, I need to shut the fuck up. A woman facing the electric chair can’t afford to worry about being whisked away by maniacs.
He pulls out onto the access road and continues along the flyover. I lean against the window, my gaze fixed on the exit signs.
“Where did you work before?” His voice breaks me out of my thoughts.
I meet his eyes in the rearview mirror. Black. Unblinking. Probing. Shouldn’t he already know all this? I shake off that thought. Of course, he wouldn’t. I was emailing Mr. Rochester. This guy is probably just making small talk. Shit. He wants to know where I worked.
What the hell did I say in that fake résumé? Was it Milwaukee? Damn it, why did I have to be so extra?
“Um… Chicago,” I mutter. “Private family.”
“How long?”
“A year.”
“Why did you leave?”
“They moved to Europe.” My throat dries. “Wanted a nanny who could teach them French.”
“Where before that?”
I swallow. “Milwaukee.”
“And before that?”
“Um… Indiana.”
Silence. Then: “No luggage? Or did you leave it on purpose?”
My hackles rise. My fingers tighten around the duffel. What the hell is this interrogation? I clench my teeth. “Airline lost it.”
“Or are you traveling light because you’re on the run?”
“I’m not—” My voice cracks. Prickly heat crawls up my neck, threatening to brand my face with a confession. Who the hell does this guy think he is? A chauffeur doesn’t get to ask if I’m a wanted woman.
“Excuse me?” I snap, trying to regain some ground.
