So I try logic instead.
“Call your brother and he’ll tell you right now that it’s not me. Better yet, send him a photo on your phone and we’ll have this whole thing straightened out in no time.”
The dark man just snarls again.
“Please stop, your excuses are so pathetic. Chance said he met a beautiful redhead,” he sneers, “and that’s fucking you. That’s fucking you,” he spits this time, eyes going up and down over my frame, insolent and hungry.
And against my will, my nips pop out. I can’t help it, this guy is so gorgeous and he’s looking at me like the Big Bad Wolf, ready to eat up my curvy frame. My tits stand out at attention even as below, my insides gush hotly. Oh god, it’s just his eyes doing this to me, that knowing gaze traveling over every inch of my frame.
And snorting, the dark man turns away again.
“I knew you were a slut,” he grinds out. “Only fucking sluts have nipples like rocks. Cover yourself!” he barks harshly.
I don’t know what to do, it’s not like I have a jacket or something. So reaching a tentative hand, I pick up a blanket from the couch, shrouding myself in it, and start again.
“Listen,” I rush. “You have the wrong girl. I swear, it’s not me. It’s my sister you want, Ann-Marie. She’s the model, she’s the one who’s got the charm, who makes men fall to their feet. Seriously, I’m just plain old Anna, you’ve got the wrong girl.”
But the man swings blazing blue eyes to me again, traveling over every inch of my features. I can feel how he eats me up, my quivering, plush mouth, my big brown eyes devoured by his.
“You’re such a slut,” he spits again. “Such a fucking slut, and shameless too, trying to blame it on some make-believe sister. Just shut the fuck up,” he roars.
And before I can move, he growls and grabs me roughly by the waist before throwing me over his shoulder. My head swims from the new position, the world spinning in a dizzy circle.
Taking the steps two at a time, he’s up to the second-floor landing in a minute and stops outside a wooden door. But no, there’s no use for door handles because kicking it open, a small room comes into view with a comfortable looking bed, dresser and reading nook.
From my inverted position, I take in the furnishings around the room. It’s sweet, actually. Small but homey with lots of cozy accents and plush pillows.
But niceties be damned. The man dumps me on the bed, ass jiggling, boobs bouncing and he pauses for a moment, taking in my flying assets. But whirling, he snarls once more.
“Such a fucking slut,” are his final words.
And just like that, he’s gone, the lock in the door snicking into place.
The space immediately feels empty without him. The room is small, and I hate myself for feeling lost without him. I hate how I immediately want the dark man back, even if all he wants to do is yell at me.
But I’m gonna fight. I’m not gonna give up, and tiptoeing over to the door, I test the knob, confirming my suspicions. I’m locked in here. Crossing the room to the large window, I try the latch and it doesn’t budge.
My heartrate quickens with each new discovery, panic chilling the blood in my veins.
There’s no way out.
I listen to his retreating footsteps and again, fear fills my lungs, making it harder and harder to breathe.
This is all just one huge misunderstanding. I’m not supposed to be here. I should be walking home from work right about now, not in the middle of nowhere with no escape in sight.
This is fucked up. So fucked up.
I’m trapped and the worst part is that no one even knows I’m gone. The dark, handsome kidnapper is my only human connection … and I have to do whatever he wants.
CHAPTER FOUR
Robert
The wooden stairs take the brunt of my frustration as I head back down to the first level of the house. Once in the kitchen, fury locks my jaw in place and I pound my fist against the granite counter.
The impact of the blow to my knuckles doesn’t even register as I try to regain an ounce of my control.
I could wring Chance’s fucking neck for being so fucking reckless.
Who the hell gets engaged after knowing someone for only one night?
My dumbass brother, apparently.
There’s no talking sense to that boy. Fresh out of college, he’s in a phase where hormones control his life. Still, I can’t remember being quite as idiotic during that phase of my life.
At the tender age of twenty-two, my brother Chance is what I like to call “young and dumb.” Or “younger and dumber.” Or “youngest and dumbest,” your choice.
Because when he came home this morning, giggling and filled with news of his engagement to the town’s most notorious gold digging tramp, I’d seen nothing but deep streaks of red.