The stranger.
God, he was electrifying, offering to buy me a drink, igniting my senses as he leaned in closer, and I breathed in his scent… Of potent masculinity and danger.
The same scent that now clings to me.
My body reacts before my mind can catch up.
There’s a tightening low in my abdomen.A flare of awareness along my spine that annoys me.
I’d been attracted to him, flirting in a way that said I was in charge and knew what I was doing.
And then…
I fight through layers of fog.
What the hell happened after that?
The harder I search for recollections, the farther out of reach they loom.
Something’s terribly wrong.
Time feels wrong, stretched thin, like something slid out of alignment and hasn’t settled back yet.
I feel slightly hungover.But I only had one glass of champagne and two sips of my Sicilian Velvet cocktail.
Then it hits me.
The way my stool had been bumped, but my companion hadn’t reacted.I’d been distracted, talking about the Dallas humidity while the stranger had access to my drink.
And then…
Fighting back a sudden stab of panic, I force open my eyes.
There are bedside lamps filtering light into the room.So what time is it?
I blink as I look around.My clock isn’t there.
And…
I recognize nothing.
Needing to assess my situation, I catalog every detail, memorizing it.
I’m not in a cell or panic room.Instead, this appears to be a room in a house or mansion.
But it isn’t designed for comfort.
It’s designed to function.
The furniture is minimal and solid, expensive and elegant.There’s nothing soft about it.
There are no photographs.No books.No evidence of a life beyond this room.Just space.Control.And the unmistakable sense that this is a place where a man sleeps when he’s too dangerous to be anywhere else.
Then I see it.
High in the corner of the room is a small, black camera that’s pointed toward the bed and me.
My heart misses a beat, but I refuse to look away.
