Chapter Two
When did a marching band move into Susan’s head? The question set off another round of stomping against her skull. She wanted to wake up, but exhaustion weighed down everything, including her eyelids. Processing her thoughts felt like dragging them through molasses.
She heard noises in the background. A voice? It sounded like half a conversation.
Was that her name?
“Don’t force it.” The voice was distant. And male. And sexy, in a confident, careless kind of way. And unfamiliar. “Take it easy.” And right next to her, instead of miles away.
As each realization clicked, her panic grew, until the marching band was joined by a thunderstorm. She summoned her strength, to force her eyes open. Realization slammed into her sluggish brain. This wasn’t her room. She didn’t know whose it was, but those were ugly curtains.
“It takes time to shake the fog.” The guy sitting in the chair next to the bed, studying her, was so completely a stranger, it wasn’t funny.
Adrenaline slammed through her veins, kicking up the bedlam in her skull. She jolted upright and scooted away until her back hit the wall. Her heart hammered against her ribs. “Who the hell are you?”
“Andrew. You don’t remember.” He sounded as if he expected it.
She dug through the mire, searching for snippets of the familiar. There was a guy in the steakhouse. Irritating. Wouldn’t go the heck away. It wasn’t this dude, though. “No.” The answer came out more timid than she intended. Why weren’t the memories there?
His smile was sympathetic. The right corner of his mouth didn’t pull up all the way; it collided with a scar running from his ear down to his jaw. He was kind of cute. And a little terrifying, given she didn’t know who he was. “Best guess? GHB. Rohypnol. A drug along those lines. And I’m guessing you didn’t take it willingly.”
“Like, date-rape drugs?” Her stomach churned, and acid surged into her throat. “What did you do to me?” Better question—how was she going to get out of here?
He held up his hands and leaned away. “Whoa. Not me. Some douchenut who was bugging you.”
“Then why am I here with you?” Slivers of the evening struggled to surface, and they matched his story, but she didn’t trust them. Not when she couldn’t think straight.
“You sounded like you needed a hand, so I stepped in. We told him I was your brother.”
“And then you brought me to a hotel? Is this Deer Valley?” At least, if he’d assaulted her, he chose one of the most expensive resorts around. How… classy? She was still clothed. Her shoes were missing, but everything else was intact. And no pain down there. Not that she had any idea what that would feel like. None of this made sense.
“It’s The Chateaux. I didn’t want anyone making the assumptions you’re making before I could call your sister and have her come get you.”
Maybe this was a hidden-camera show. Or The Twilight Zone. Or the most screwed up dream she’d had in ever. “What makes you think I have a sister?”
“Because she talks about you. Susan Rice. You’re eight years younger. Only sibling she has who likes her.”
“Everyone knows that. Half the town is familiar with our family drama.”
He chuckled.
“What?” Frustration joined the churning inside.
“Mercy told me you were stubborn. You’re a lot like her. I don’t know how you’re thinking through the drugs. Low dosage, I suppose.”
“What?”
“Mercy. Told. Me—”
“You didn’t call her Melissa.” Susan was coming further out of the fog, and her logic believed this man. Andrew. His name sounded familiar. Did he give it to her earlier?
He raised his left brow. She wasn’t sure if the single raise was on purpose, or because of the scarring. “She hates that name,” he said.
“So you might know her. Maybe.”
“You were a lot more trusting in the steakhouse. Good drugs. If it makes you feel better, you can walk out the door right now. I promise I won’t stop you. You can take the elevator down to the front desk and call the police and Mercy. She’ll vouch for me. Fuck.” He lifted his butt off the chair, reached into his pocket, pulled out a wallet and a phone, and tossed both on the bed. They landed near her without a sound. “You can call from here if you want, and see I am who I say I am.”
She opened the leather wallet, alternating her gaze between him and it. His driver’s license was from Atlanta and said he was Andrew Newton. She definitely knew that name. Why? The logo on his business cards was a silhouette of a curvy woman with horns and a halo. The company name was Smut Central. That was why he was familiar. Sure enough, his title was CEO and Lord High God of Smut. If he was lying about his identity, it was the most elaborate setup ever.