So Wrong It's Right Read online

  Lefty leans in, meeting my furious gaze, and smiles stiffly. “You tell Paul he has one week to return what he took from Alexei,” he murmurs, stroking one finger slowly down my cheek. He’s so near, I can feel each of his breaths puffing hot against my face. “If he doesn’t… we’ll be back to pay you another visit. And next time, we won’t be quite so polite when it comes to his pretty wife.”

  Snapping my head forward, I try to head-butt him, but he pulls away before I can make contact.

  “Nice try.” His eyes gleam with dark amusement. “I must say, part of me hopes your husband doesn’t cooperate. You and I could have a lot of fun together, malishka…”

  I glare up at him. My blood is boiling with fury and, much as I hate to acknowledge it, fear. Because I know, if they walk away and leave me here, tied to a damn antique dining chair with my very existence contingent upon my shit-head husband’s decisions…

  I’m a dead woman.

  I try desperately to convey this message with my eyes.

  You can’t leave me like this!

  Paul doesn’t even live here!

  No one is going to check on me!

  Unfortunately, neither of them seems even remotely inclined to decipher the distress in my eyes. Without another word to me, they turn and walk out of the dining room, their heavy boots sounding sharply against the glossy hardwood floors I refinished this spring, just so I had something to keep my endless days occupied.

  “Mmmm! Mmmm!” I yell against the tape. “MMMMM!”

  But the only answer is the click of my front door, followed by thick, pervasive silence.

  For a moment I just sit there, stunned into submission, wondering how the hell this has happened. Wishing I could close my eyes and re-do this entire day, preferably not getting out of bed at all. Praying that it’s all a terrible dream from which I’ll jolt awake at any moment, only to find myself tangled in sweat-drenched sheets.

  The bite of duct tape against my bare wrists and ankles pointedly assures me that this is no dream. I’m awake. This is happening.

  I’m totally screwed.

  My purse mocks me from the center of the table where Lefty dropped it after forcing me into this chair. It’s far out of reach — as is the cellphone I know is sitting at the bottom beside my wallet and keys. I glance around the room, looking for anything that might possibly help get me out of this situation, but there’s nothing except antique furniture and gold foil art-deco wallpaper. No convenient letter openers or sharp-edged knickknacks I could use to cut myself out of this mess.

  Damn my aversion to clutter.

  The bright light streaming through the sheer curtains tells me it’s probably close to noon. I spend at least an hour thrashing, attempting to get free, trying like hell to scoot the heavy chair from its spot. My bonds don’t loosen. I barely budge more than an inch, and succeed only in frustrating myself to the point of tears.

  If my life were a movie, I suppose I’d be the sort of heroine who knocked the chair over, splintering it into pieces and freeing herself in the process. As we’ve already established, my life is not a movie. Even if I could topple my chair (which, for the record, I can’t; trust me, I tried) I doubt the impact would break its joints.

  Say what you will about American Colonial pieces… they’re sturdy as hell.

  When my muscles are exhausted and aching, I try screaming for help, hoping a neighbor might hear me through the open bay window on the other side of the room. My morose, muffled wails barely permeate the tape, let alone reach the street.

  No one can hear me. Or, if they can, they don’t care enough to come investigate. (I’m not sure which alternative is more upsetting.)

  The sunlight morphs from bright white to mellow yellow as the hours pass by and afternoon yields to early evening. I watch the shadows change, lengthening and growing as twilight approaches, and shiver at the thought of spending an entire night sitting here alone in the darkness.

  My captors said they’ll be back in a week, if Paul fails to return whatever it is he took from their boss. One week. Might as well be a lifetime. I’ve read enough books about wilderness survival to remember the Rule of Threes.

  Three minutes without air, three days without water, three weeks without food.

  Good news? I might not starve to death.

  Bad news? I’m still going to die — either from dehydration or mortification. Because the fact that I’m here, asscheeks going numb from sitting so long, stomach rumbling with hunger, about to pee my yoga pants because oh my freaking god it’s been hours since I last encountered a bathroom, all due to my asshole husband getting himself into trouble with some seriously scary dudes…

  That’s just pathetic.

  I hear a beep from the bowels of my bag: my phone is dying. Not that it matters — I can’t reach it with my hands bound, anyway. For a while, as I listen to the rhythmic beeps of the depleting battery, I entertain the deluded thought that someone will call and check in on me. That, when I fail to answer my phone, they’ll get in their car and come over to make sure everything is A-OK at the Hunt household.

  After all, a gal can’t just fall of the face of the earth without anyone bothering to notice…

  Right?

  The reassurances sound thin to my own ears. The truth is, the few family members still in my life reside three states away and don’t keep in touch if it’s not a major holiday — sometimes, not even then. As a freelance graphic designer, I don’t have any co-workers to notice my absence in an office cubicle come Monday morning. And my friends are all far too busy with their own lives to realize mine might be in jeopardy.

  Phoebe’s off on her honeymoon with her new husband. Gemma is due to have her baby any time now, confined strictly to bed rest until she goes into labor. Chrissy has two toddlers that keep her occupied every minute of the day. Lila is working full-time as a nanny while balancing her brand new relationship. And Zoe is halfway around the world by now, sailing off into the sunset with her fiancé. It’s safe to say, “Check in on Shelby!” isn’t the most important item on their packed to-do lists.

  I’m officially on my own, here.

  Night falls, and with it the temperature. I shiver in the dark, wishing I could summon the strength even to cry about my own miserable luck, but I’m too tired. Every bone in my body aches like I’ve been thrown down a flight of stairs. Ten straight hours of stress have sapped my energy levels completely. To make matters worse, when all is said and done, I’ll probably have a UTI from holding my pee for this long… if I manage to survive, that is.

  Straining my ears, I listen to sounds from the street as my neighbors return home for the night — slamming car doors, muffled laughter. I imagine them eating dinner, watching tv, climbing the stairs to go to sleep. Eventually, the whole block falls silent as lights are doused and eyes slip closed.

  All my life, I’ve felt invisible. As though no one sees the real Shelby Hunt — merely the illusion I’ve put forth for so many years, desperate to show the world a brave face instead of a tear-stained one.

  The perfect woman in the perfect house with the perfect marriage.

  As the hours trickle by, silent and unyielding, I realize my well-crafted facade of perfection will be my own undoing.

  No one is looking for me.

  No one is coming for me.

  I am alone in a prison of my own making.

  I have built my walls so high, isolated myself so thoroughly, that even my closest friends and family will not seek me out when a day, or a week, or a month goes by without contact.

  I will slip out of existence as easily as a ring off the finger of a cheating husband at a seedy bar whose wife waits at home with dinner on the table.

  I am Shelby Hunt.

  The perfect woman.

  The perfect ghost.

  Chapter Three

  AVOCA-DON’T

  I’m not sure what wakes me.

  Perhaps the stirring of the curtains as wind blows through the half-closed bay window
. Perhaps some distant sound — the jiggling of a doorknob, the thudding of footsteps on a wood porch. Perhaps nothing remotely so dramatic — merely the dull ache in my bones from being stuck in the same upright position for such a long time.

  It doesn’t matter.

  All I know is, my eyes crack open and I’m abruptly awake, heart pounding, senses on high alert. Ignoring the stiffness of my neck, I glance around the dark room. It’s the middle of the night. There’s no sound from the street, no light except the pale moonbeams shining through the skylights in the vaulted ceiling overhead.

  I give my chafed wrists a halfhearted tug and find — shocker! — they haven’t magically loosened while I slept. I’m surprised I managed to fall asleep in the first place, propped up like this; I typically have a hard enough time dozing off each night in my plush king-sized bed.

  A loud creak from outside makes my mind go blank. My head whips around toward the sound, eyes widening as they study the large bay window where a set of gauzy white curtains flutter gently in the breeze. I tell myself it was just the house settling. Or maybe a raccoon in search of some dinner in the neighbors trash bins.

  Don’t panic over one squeaky floorboard, Shelby.

  My attempts at mollification go up in smoke when I hear the porch creak again, louder this time. This is no nocturnal critter. Someone’s on my porch, just beyond the view of that window. My heart lurches into overdrive as I hear yet another groan — another footstep, I realize belatedly.

  I can’t move, can’t run. Can’t even scream. All I can do is wait for my own worst nightmares to be confirmed.

  It doesn’t take long.

  He steps into view a few seconds later — a large, man-shaped silhouette, clear as day through the thin curtains. There’s no doubt in my mind it’s a man; one well-trained in stealth, judging by the way he moves. Even from here, I recognize the coiled power of his muscles, the utter alertness of his body, the broadness of his shoulders.

  That’s not Paul, I think, picturing my husband’s lean stature. And it’s definitely not Righty or Lefty. They wouldn’t be back already. So… who the hell is this guy?

  My heart is pounding so hard, I fear it heart might explode as the man hesitates just outside the open window. A thousand possibilities about burglars and rapists and murderers spin through my mind as I watch his large hand extend outward to the frame. As he slowly pushes the opening wider, thoughts clang around inside my skull like a pingpong balls of panic.

  If he’s a burglar, he’s in for the surprise of his life…

  His leg straddles the sill, his head ducks down, he scrambles nimbly across the cushions of my pretty window seat…

  And then, he’s in my house.

  Ten freaking feet from me.

  Big and scary and, let’s face it, more than likely up to no good. (In my experience, people rarely climb through windows in the dead of the night without nefarious intentions.)

  Breaths coming in short bursts through my nose, I struggle to hold off a panic attack as my eyes move over the shadowed stranger. He’s tall. Very tall. So far over six feet, he makes me look petite at five foot seven. And he’s muscular. Not in the steroid-induced manner of my earlier assailants; in a way that tells me he knows his way around a weight room and probably doesn’t have a single ounce of extra body fat lurking beneath that black, fitted t-shirt he’s wearing.

  It’s too dark to make out his facial features, but I notice he’s got one hand resting on what seems to be a gun holster as his head sweeps from left to right, scanning the room. He jolts visibly when he spots me.

  “Christ.”

  His tone low and smooth as velvet. Just that one word sends a not-altogether-unpleasant shiver down my spine.

  Shelby! He’s probably here to murder you! Now is not the time to be turned on!

  Before I can blink, he’s across the room — kneeling before me, his face a half-foot from mine. He reaches out and I barely have time to brace myself for imminent death, let alone attempt to struggle away when he peels the tape off my lips in a sharp tug that makes my skin sting like a bitch.

  “Ow!”

  Cursing like a sailor, I blink back tears as I haul desperate gulps of air into my lungs. Hours of breathing through my nose have left me oxygen-deprived. It takes a long moment before the light-headedness abates and I’m able to breathe normally again.

  “Are you all right?”

  At the sound of his voice, I glance up sharply — straight into a set of the darkest eyes I’ve ever seen. I suck in an unsteady breath when they lock on mine. They’re like two bottomless pits inside his face. A face which, now that it’s so close, appears remarkably familiar.

  And remarkably handsome.

  Mind reeling with adrenaline and shock and something else I can’t quite name, I squint at my savior in the dim light, trying to place him in my memories. Try as I might, I can’t recall where, exactly, I’ve seen that chiseled jawline or that aristocratic nose or that lush mouth surrounded by that seriously sexy scruff he’s got going on… but I’d swear on my life I’ve seen this man somewhere before.

  Maybe in a fashion magazine because, hot damn, those are some serious cheekbones…

  His jaw is clenched tight as his gaze moves over my features, scanning for visible signs of trauma. I realize his large hands are still cupping my face, stroking my chapped skin with callused fingertips as if to erase the pain caused by the tape. That sensation — gentleness in the wake of violence — is enough to make the breath catch inside my throat.

  “Are you all right?” he asks again, after a long moment.

  “Assuming you’re not here to kill, rob, or rape me? I’m just peachy,” I whisper, my voice cracking on the lie. I’m so far from all right, I don’t even have words to convey it.

  I think I see a flare of humor in his eyes before they drop away from mine. His hands leave my face and he reaches down to slide a knife from inside his boot. I can’t help flinching when he flicks it open, the lethal blade catching the moonlight like a mirror. My muscles tense up, momentarily petrified by the prospect of my apparent savior carving me into pieces.

  “Don’t!” I squeak out mortifyingly.

  He registers my sudden panic and goes totally still. Knife held aloft, his eyes find mine in the dark again. When he speaks, his velvet voice is grave. “I’m not here to hurt you, Ms. Hunt.”

  My eyes widen. He knows me?

  I wait for him to explain, but he doesn’t. He merely pauses for a long moment, holding my stare, then says, “You can trust me.”

  I don’t know how to explain it — whether it’s that look on his face or the sincerity in his tone that sways my opinion — but I do. I trust him. Possibly because I don’t have any other choice, seeing as I’m stuck in this chair, entirely at his mercy… but mostly because there’s something about his presence that tells me he means it when he says he’s here to help. I look into his dark eyes and for once, my internal bullshit alarm is silent.

  If he was going to hurt you, he would’ve done it by now, a small voice whispers at the back of my mind. Why bother removing the duct tape or making small talk if he’s merely here to kill you or rob you blind?

  The panic bleeds out of me and I give a small nod of affirmation. With a neat jerk of his blade, he slices through the bonds at my wrists, then bends down to do the same for my ankles. The tape falls away and, eager for freedom after so long in captivity, I immediately rise from my seat… only to sway off balance when blood floods my head in a woozy rush. The room around me is spinning and I’m far too lightheaded to find my feet again.

  Shit! Is that the floor, hurling high-speed at my face?

  I brace myself for impact, but it never comes. Instead, two arms go around me, catching me midair. Before I can fathom what’s happening, I’ve been swept off my feet and find myself cradled against a broad chest like a child. Head spinning — this time for entirely different reasons — I’m too stunned even to struggle as he carries me out of the dining room, towar
d the dove gray sectional in the adjacent parlor.

  It’s strange but… his arms feel terrifyingly good around me. Safe and solid and entirely unexpected — like stumbling upon a storm cellar in the midst of an emotional tornado. Everything in my life appears to be coming apart at the seams… but he’s holding me. And for just one moment, his arms offer temporary reprieve from the fear and shock and anger swirling inside me in an uncontrollable vortex.

  Under normal circumstances, I’d never allow a stranger to carry me like this. To comfort me like some… some… weakling in need of coddling. Surely, on any other day, I wouldn’t find myself so affected by the feeling of his strong arms looped beneath my knees and back, his broad chest bracing my head like a cushion each time he takes a step.

  Even if it has been years since anyone held me this close…

  But these circumstances are anything but normal and this day is not any other day. As he carries me, I have to fight the urge to let my eyes slide closed. To absorb his strength, his heat. To set my breaths by his rhythm. To use the steady thrumming of his pulse as a metronome for my own racing heart.

  It makes no sense at all, but every inclination inside me is screaming out for me to take comfort in the circle of this stranger’s arms.

  This is just transference, the sensible part of my brain chides. You’re redirecting your own feelings of fear and adrenaline into gratitude for this guy, since he saved you. It’ll fade, once you calm down. You’ll see.

  If I could, I’d roll my eyes at myself.

  How dare I lecture me? Who do I think I am, some kind of adult?

  He sets me down on the sofa like I weigh no more than one of the down-stuffed cushions. He’s not even winded. I keep my eyes on his as he steps away, creating a careful distance between us. The feeling of his arms around me still tingles through my bloodstream like whiskey.