CHAPTER THREE
I roll to my side andcradle my head in my hands. My head throbs like I’ve been on an all-night bender. The last time I’d been drunk was on my twenty-first birthday when Mama bought me a bottle of cheap champagne and only had a sip for herself.
I stretch my legs and moan at the softness of the sheets under and above me. Am I wrapped in satin? And am I naked? I shoot up, the top sheet falling to my waist. I’m wearing a silk camisole, something I’d remember buying and would remember changing into.
Lifting the sheets, I let out a light sigh at the matching pale pink cropped pants. It’s not too light in the room, and I can just barely make out my surroundings. The bed takes up one wall, and across from me is a long, dark dresser and mirror. There are three doors: one next to the dresser, one to my left, and another to my right.
“Where the hell am I?” I rub my temples again and suddenly it all comes into focus.
The man from the diner. Then at the farmer’s market. The lemonade. He must have put something in it. Right before the world went dark, I swear he called me Callista.
I leap out of bed, my feet landing on a plush carpet before finding the cold tile floor. The door to my right opens to a walk-in closet filled with clothes. I close the door and open the one next to the dresser.
I shield my eyes and step into the bright hallway. A man appears before me, stopping my escape. He doesn’t say anything, just fills up the space with his massive body. He looks familiar, like he’s been in the restaurant before.
“Where am I?”
The giant oaf doesn’t speak. I push past him, but he grips my arm and yanks me back to the room, slamming the door in my face. The doorknob doesn’t budge but I turn and tug on it, hoping I can jiggle it free. Nothing. The beast outside my door locked me in. I ram my shoulder into the door and bang on it over and over again.
“Let me out of here!” I punch, kick, and scream until my throat grows hoarse and my knuckles swell, raw and red.
The headache I woke up with has only intensified. Accepting defeat—for now—I drag myself across the room and search for another way out. Fumbling around for a light switch, I shield my eyes as light fills the space.
The bathroom is bigger than my bedroom and the shower is as big as my bed. Four showerheads take up one tiled wall, with three more on the other two walls. A clawfoot tub big enough to fit two people comfortably sits under a row of windows.
I don’t allow myself to bask in the elegance of the bathroom. The tile itself must cost more than my car. I cross to the far end and find the toilet. After I do my business, I wash my hands in the deep basin bowl. The mirror in front of me doesn’t disguise the purple bags under my eyes or my lopsided ponytail.
If I cared a lick how I looked I’d use the gold-plated hairbrush or comb. Or I would poke through the drawers under the vanity. It’s bad enough that the hand soap smells like Plumeria, and there’s a lotion of the same scent in a glass bottle next to the sink.
I flee the bathroom and continue my search for freedom. Long drapes hang on either side of the bed. Pushing the cream-colored fabric aside, I sigh in frustration when the only view I’m met with is that of yet another wall. I cross to the other side of the bed and push the drapery aside.
“Bingo.” I look over my shoulder, making sure the bodyguard hasn’t snuck into the room, then unlock the sliding glass door.
It’s dark outside. Whether the sun has just set or is about to rise, I haven’t a clue. All I know is I need to get the hell out of this ivory prison. Stepping out onto the balcony, I listen to my surroundings.
There is just enough light from the bedroom for me to pick up some shadows on the other side of the railing. With no moon and heavy cloud cover concealing the stars, I can’t make out anything in the distance. The faint crashing of waves tells me I’m near the ocean.
Good. I must still be in San Diego. The stone and stucco walls and Italian decor mean the mansion must be somewhere on the northern end of San Diego, away from the city. I lean over the railing and strain my focus on the ground beneath me. I can’t tell if I’m on the ground level or ten stories up.
Since I was kidnapped and have a prison guard outside my door, I know it won’t be as easy as hopping over the railing to freedom. I move over to the lounge at the far end of the balcony and peer over the edge. Still not enough light to determine how far up I am.
The night air is warm, but I’m not about to make my getaway in a thin silk pajama set. I hop up and rush to the closet to find better running clothes. The entire right side is filled with gowns, cocktail ensembles, and summer dresses.
I shudder as too many painful memories attempt to push past the barrier I put up eight years ago. I turn to the other side of the boutique-sized space and clench my teeth at the designer slacks and tops.
“Does this chick not wear freaking jeans?” I don’t care that I’m rummaging through a stranger’s things. The man who kidnapped me shouldn’t have locked me in this suite. The drawers are filled with lingerie, lingerie, and more lingerie.
There are drawers and drawers of silk panties and bras, all perfectly laid out and not shoved in like they are back at my apartment. Most still had the tags on. The bottom right drawer is where I hit gold. Sports bras. That must mean there are workout clothes somewhere.
The back wall houses a rotating shoe contraption with at least a hundred shoes on it. I recognize the red soles of a dozen or so heels, and I bet my life the rest of the collection is just as expensive, if not more so, as the Louboutins.
I storm out of the closet and sift through the drawers in the tall bureau in the bedroom. The top two drawers are filled with jewelry but the third had what I’m looking for. I pull out a pair of black leggings and a black tank top.
Making sure the door is still locked, I yank off the satin pajamas and tug on the leggings. They are buttery soft on my legs and the sports bra fits perfectly. At least one thing is going in my favor. The woman’s body shape is the same as mine. I slip the tank over my head and look down at my bare feet.
I need shoes. I wish my work uniform and sneakers were strewn in a corner, but the room is spotless. Going back into the closet, I push the button on the rack and tap my leg with nervous energy as I wait for it to spin. Finally, I spot a pair of flats. Then a pair of slip-on sneakers. I reach for those, then toss them aside when a pair of running shoes comes into view.
Not caring about socks, or the blisters I’m sure to get breaking in the new shoes, I drop to the floor and lace up the sneakers. I shoot to my feet and race out to the balcony. I still can’t tell how long I have to wait for the sun to rise. I’m warmer in the leggings but wish the woman who lives here wore loose, baggy sweatshirts.
I curl into a ball in the chaise lounge and wait for the sun.
And for my freedom.