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Oh God, oh God, this can’t be happening.
Sexual assault had crossed my mind, if only for a moment. But seeing his confirmation hurtles me into a fit of hysterics.
A guttural sound cleaves from my throat as I go wild, jerking and rolling to distance us. He watches me struggle, showing no emotion or concern about my effort to escape.
He’s going to rape me. If I don’t free myself, he will hurt me in ways I never imagined.
“Don’t do this,” I scream, yanking so hard that my shoulders throb as if tearing from the sockets.
Strolling to the dresser, he removes a pair of my leggings. Back at my side, he wraps the material around my mouth and head, tying it tightly. Gagging me.
My heart thumps against my rib cage at a frenzied pace as I glare up at him. He stares back, disturbingly composed, his entire demeanor at ease.
Then he winks.
Friendly. Flirtatious. Creepy as fuck, given the circumstances. Even more unsettling, I’m certain I’ve seen him before. But where?
With nothing to do but stare, I force myself to really look at him. The crinkles etching his eyes, the tousled blond hair that wisps around his ears and collar, the chiseled lips that form a distinguished smirk, the pointed goatee with trimmed sides and hints of gray…
Holy fuck, I see it now. He’s a goddamn spitting image of Brad Pitt in his late forties, only more ruggedly handsome and better built. All he needs is the newsboy cap to complete the look.
That’s why he’s so eerily familiar.
I gulp as the doppelgänger prowls through my bedroom like he’s above it all, as if everything he touches will turn to gold. Even his gait embodies the unnerving, cavalier attitude of America’s heartthrob.
Gifted with an attractive face and body, he owns the retro vibe that goes perfectly with his shoulder-length, pushed-back golden hair. But there’s a sharp edge to his classic Hollywood looks, a dangerous undertone that sends shivers along my scalp.
Straining my neck, I track his path into the closet. Rustling noises sound from within. Drawers open and close. The screech of hangers drags back and forth.
What is he doing?
What the hell am I going to do?
My phone sits miles away on the bed. There’s nothing within reach to use as a weapon. Not that I can grip anything with my hands tied to my ankles.
Monty could arrive any minute. How would that confrontation play out? He could get hurt, maybe even die. But I have to trust him to outmaneuver his opponent. Monty never loses.
If I bide my time and delay the intruder’s plans for me, I might escape this unscathed.
A heavy goose-down coat sails out of the closet and lands near my head. A pair of insulated extreme-weather boots follows.
Both were presents from Monty two Christmases ago. They’ve never been worn because I hate snow and cold and everything outside during Alaskan winters.
Sweat trickles down my temple.
There’s only one reason this man would be interested in my outerwear. The coldest season is months away. If he intends to keep me alive until then or take me farther north…
Panic sunders my chest.
If he forces me off this island, I’m dead. Never to be seen again. Just another sad statistic for homicide detectives.
“You made things easy for me.” He stalks out of the closet, kicking the coat and boots closer. “You already packed everything a woman needs when she leaves her husband. You even carried it all to the boat. Thank you for that.”
A pit hollows out my stomach.
He knows.
He knows I prepared to run away. If he takes me on my boat, it’ll look like I left willingly. By myself. There will be no suspicion of foul play. No investigation. No search parties.
If I had any uncertainty about this before, it’s gone now.
This isn’t a ransom situation.
“Fuuuck you!” Panic claws my chest as I scream behind the gag, spitting and snarling garbled threats.
Monty’s coming. He won’t let you take me!
He crouches beside me, his lips slightly parted in a resting smile as if he doesn’t have a care in the world.
“Your husband isn’t coming.” He clutches my left hand and forces my fingers open. “He’s still at the office.”
With the help of my sweat, he slides off my wedding rings.
My muffled shouts of protest ricochet through the room, searing my throat.
“Don’t believe me?” He steps away to deposit the jewelry beside my phone on the bed. “I know this is difficult to process, but I’m doing you a favor.”
I need to make it obvious that a struggle happened. A broken chair, a hole in the wall, blood on the floor…Desperation courses through me as I swing out my legs, rolling toward the nearby dresser, aiming to kick it until everything on the surface falls and breaks.
He stops me before my bare feet make contact.
