Taken Identity Read online

  Table of Contents

  Legal Page

  Title Page

  Book Description

  Dedication

  Trademarks Acknowledgement

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Epilogue

  New Excerpt

  About the Author

  Publisher Page

  A Totally Bound Publication

  Taken Identity

  ISBN # 978-1-78430-600-7

  ©Copyright Raven McAllan 2015

  Cover Art by Posh Gosh ©Copyright May 2015

  Edited by Jennifer Douglas

  Totally Bound Publishing

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Totally Bound Publishing.

  Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Totally Bound Publishing. Unauthorized or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.

  The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.

  Published in 2015 by Totally Bound Publishing, Newland House, The Point, Weaver Road, Lincoln, LN6 3QN

  Totally Bound Publishing is a subsidiary of Totally Entwined Group Limited.

  Warning:

  This book contains sexually explicit content which is only suitable for mature readers. This story has a heat rating of Totally Sizzling and a Sexometer of 2.

  TAKEN IDENTITY

  Raven McAllan

  If someone steals your identity and marries a sex god and that sex god husband shows up at your door…do you get to keep him?

  Jules has no memory of marrying a sex god—and no woman is that forgetful.

  So when the devastatingly handsome Gray turned up on her doorstep looking for his wife and calling said wife by Jules’ name, Jules wondered briefly if she’d landed in an alternative universe. She knows she’s not his wife and so does he, but apparently someone with her name and history is. Is it a case of coincidence or did his missing wife ‘borrow’ Jules’ life?

  Even though the dominant Gray sends her knickers aflame with just one look, with a missing wife in the equation, Jules knows there’s no chance of finding out what else he could achieve.

  There’s only one thing to do—unravel the mystery and try to keep their hands off each other in the meantime. The first may well prove far easier than the latter.

  Dedication

  To Jenny, Emmy and everyone at Totally Bound.

  To Paul as ever, for ignoring the dust bunnies.

  Trademarks Acknowledgement

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

  Skype: Microsoft Corporation

  Google: Google Inc.

  Mercedes: Daimler AG

  Simply the Best: Mike Chapman and Holly Knight

  Miss Marple: Agatha Christie

  iPod: Apple, Inc.

  Human: Brandon Flowers, Dave Keuning, Mark Stoermer and Ronnie Vannucci, Jr.

  BMW: Bayerische Motoren Werke AG

  The Spider and the Fly: Mary Howitt

  Scooby: Joe Ruby and Ken Spears

  Boris the Spider: John Entwistle

  High Noon: Dimitri Tonkin and Ned Washington

  Chapter One

  “Is this the residence of Julia Frayne?”

  Whoever said a tone of voice couldn’t shatter glass was wrong. Very, very, wrong. This one could, and it sent shivers down Julia’s spine. Shivers of the, ‘Oh no, this is not good,’ kind.

  Julia—known to all and sundry as Jules—looked at the questioner closely. It was a pity he was a blur. She’d been about to put her contacts in when the doorbell rang, and she hadn’t stopped to pick up her specs before answering.

  “So, is this the residence of Julia Frayne?” His tone was tinged with annoyance. “For goodness’ sake, woman, it’s not a trick question. A simple yes or no will suffice.”

  He—she assumed it was a he by the deep voice—was distinctly hazy, although from what she could see, there was a tall, drop-dead gorgeous man on her doorstep. Her body tingled. “Why?” she asked. She hated the defensive tone in her voice, but she had no idea who her questioner was, and she was too wary of all the horror stories around to give out information freely. “Who wants to know?”

  He stared at her and didn’t answer. That made Jules grit her teeth. If there was one thing guaranteed to get her riled, it was an arrogant, up his own ass man, who ignored something so important as a question like that. Information was a two-way street. She groped around on the shelf by the front door and took hold of her rape alarm. When you lived out in the country, it paid to be careful.

  And who didn’t always remember to put the chain on, eh?

  Next to it was a spray bottle of water then one of deodorant. A step-by-step disable kit, as Miss McMurty, her next-door neighbor said, just in case. Miss M didn’t specify what case she had in mind, but as she loved Miss M, Jules made sure her homemade alarm kit was always handy. Now she might be glad of it.

  “Please tell Ms. Frayne I wish to speak with her.” He invested the Ms. with all the disdain his patrician voice could enunciate.

  “Tell her, Mr.—?”

  “Reynard.”

  Jules waited, but he obviously wasn’t going to expand his stark statement. What was it with tall, dark men trying to be macho? Okay, she admitted he didn’t need to try very hard. Over six feet of what seemed—even to her un-lensed eyes—to be perfectly proportioned male, whose short, dark hair showed just a hint of curl. And those eyes, oh, those eyes. She’d bet they were deep, dark and what Miss M would call enigmatic, they screamed macho without any effort. It still made her want to stamp on his toe to see if he squealed.

  Jules swallowed. He was every woman’s fantasy—or nightmare—depending on how you looked at it.

  She didn’t want to look at it—or him—and either way, until she put her contacts in, there wasn’t much chance of that happening. Her stomach did a flip and her skin crawled in a positively uncomfortable manner. All her instincts were screaming trouble as loud as possible.

  She could feel his impatience. It hit her like a winter wind. Cold and unfriendly, it bombarded her with slivers of icy annoyance and a shiver ran down her spine. Jules reckoned she’d better tell him what he wanted and use her ‘knee him in the balls and slam the door shut’ technique if he didn’t like her answer.

  “Well, Mr. Reynard.” She spoke in a brisk fashion, as she did her best to emulate his tone and pace and show none of the tension he invoked in her. Unfortunately—and no doubt he’d see it as a weakness—she had to squint slightly to bring him into focus. It wouldn’t be a pretty look. She’d taken enough selfies sans glasses or contacts to know that. She peered at him closely to bring him into focus. “So, how may I help you?”

  Even without twenty-twenty vision, Jules was now close enough to see and decide the glance he gave her was along the lines of one you might give a not very bright child. She gritted her teeth, determined to show nothing of how she felt. Which was like a particularly unpleasant bug under a microscope.

  “Well?” she prompted him
in as pleasant a voice as she could manage. When she’d gone to answer the door, Jules hadn’t had time to put her shoes on and the old stone floor of the cottage’s hallway wasn’t warm. It would have been oh so easy to shiver, except she thought it would project a wrong image. She was not scared. Allegedly.

  “I wish to speak to Julia Frayne.”

  Sheesh, is he a robot or something? Stuck on one sentence? “You are speaking to Julia Frayne. Oh, for fuck’s sake, hold on a sec.” She remembered her old glasses, the ones she wore for gardening, were in her jacket pocket and if she stretched out, she should be able to reach them.

  She managed and shoved them on her nose. All her suppositions were correct. A tall, dark, dangerous, sex-on-legs specimen of manhood was filling her doorway. A very pissed off one.

  The expression on his face would have frozen molten lava. Even more now, she wished she was wearing fuzzy slippers and a warm jumper. The look as well as the nip in the air didn’t make her feel comfortable in her thin, strappy vest and long, floaty skirt. Julia risked a brief glance downward and groaned inwardly. Just as she thought, her nipples had responded to the chilly atmosphere and pushed at the silky material covering them. Even though she was getting mighty sick of the guy, one of Miss McMurty’s expressions floated into her brain and she gave a stifled laugh. Sticking out like hat pegs, lovey. She crossed her arms over her chest and ignored the fact she was annoyed that her action looked defensive.

  “You think something I’ve said is funny?” he asked with a frown on his face. “I beg to differ. This is no laughing matter. Impersonating someone—or purporting not to know what I’m referring to—isn’t something to smirk about. You are not Julia Frayne. And neither are you pregnant.”

  Jules knew her jaw dropped, and she stood and stared at him, mouth open. At last, she found her voice.

  “Half correct,” she said, pleased her tone was almost as frosty as his. “I can assure you, I am most certainly the former, and have been for close to thirty years. Equally, I am certain I am not the latter.”

  For goodness sake, she thought in disgust, I sound like his clone with a stick up my ass. Very proper!

  “Prove it,” he said.

  The challenging tone made the hairs on the back of her neck stand upright, and Jules lost her temper. It was a rare occurrence, but when it happened, friends and relatives knew to duck. As her parents had often said, she lived up to the red-haired virago scenario when necessary.

  “Certainly. I’ll fetch my passport.” She slammed the door shut, obviously taking him by surprise, as he made no move to stop her. Damn it, I wish I’d trapped his balls in there. Or at least his toes. Arrogant ass.

  The doorbell rang almost immediately, seemingly invested with his impatience. Jules grinned to herself. She’d bet his finger was jammed on the buzzer, and it would stay there until she reopened the door. Let it, she had more things to worry about—like who the hell was he looking for? The bell began to ring in short staccato buzzes. Well, Mr. Whoever-you-are Reynard, you can bloody well wait, Buzz Colonel Bogey and whistle, and if you hurt your finger, well, tough. I’m putting my lenses in before I face you again. In addition, I’ll maybe just wave my passport through the window.

  It only took a few minutes for her to put in contact lenses, swipe the mascara brush over her pale eyelashes—she really must remember to book an appointment to get them re-dyed—retrieve her passport from a drawer and return to the front door. Nevertheless, in the short time she was away, the noise of the doorbell continued non-stop. At this rate, the battery will stop before he does, she mused, as she stopped in front of the mirror and checked just what her uninvited caller might see when he looked at her.

  Typically Celt, she thought ruefully as she eyed her red corkscrew curls, green eyes, pale skin that never tanned properly and the myriad of freckles sprinkled over her nose. Never was she going to be a page three girl—Thank goodness. But, as her mother used to say, “What you’ve got is all yours!” Her strappy vest was now covered with a long, fluffy jumper, and her feet had striped socks on. Not haute couture but warm and serviceable.

  Jules checked that her dad’s old, sturdy golf umbrella was tucked away in its usual place in the hallway—for poking her visitor, if need be—then slipped the chain on before she opened the door as far as the security measure allowed. A foot immediately inserted itself into the gap.

  “Congratulations,” Jules said sarcastically. “A bit slow last time, weren’t you? But be warned, Mr. Reynard, that’s as far as you’ll get. An expert fixed this chain. Now, if you look to the window on your right, I’ll show you my passport.”

  Jules could almost hear his teeth grinding. Too bad. She had no intention of handing her passport to a stranger. For any reason. She moved to the side of the door where a small window brought a little more natural light into her otherwise darkish hallway and pressed the photograph page of her passport to the glass. Her—what? Intruder? Unwanted visitor? —moved slightly, without taking his foot from the door opening and leaned toward the glass. After long seconds, he stood back with a bewildered expression. He blinked, and tiny lines radiated out from the corners of his eyes. Then he shook his head.

  “Ah…” He stopped speaking and shrugged.

  “Satisfied?” Try as she might, Jules couldn’t keep the satisfied note out of her voice. “I, Mr. Reynard, am I! Julia Frances Frayne. Spinster of this parish. Do you need anything else?”

  “Yes, actually. I want my wife. Julia Frayne.” His voice was no longer sharp. More bewildered. She could understand that. After all, it wasn’t a common set of names to be found together.

  Silence reigned on both sides of the door. Slowly, Jules moved to the gap between door and jamb. When she thought about it later, she couldn’t believe her stupidity. Her actions went so totally against all she knew was wise. Put it down to shock? Or the fact that somewhere, deep in her subconscious, she felt a spark of recognition? Whatever it was, it allowed her to behave in a manner alien to her normally more cautious nature. She ignored the inner voice that prodded her and said, The beach at midnight? Rio Canderas and the motorbike. That asshole at uni. Watch it. They were the exception to the rule, and none of them walked comfortably for at least a week after, but she now wondered if looking at a hunk rendered you stupid.

  “Move your foot,” she advised. “I need to close it slightly to get the chain off. The door, I mean, not your foot. Although that can be arranged, if you step out of line.”

  She saw his lips twitch, which, she allowed, was unexpected. Under the circumstances, she’d expect him to gnash his teeth and scowl.

  “Are you sure you can trust me not to be an ax murderer now, then?” he asked in a conversational manner.

  Jules almost laughed. “No,” she answered him, in the same tone. “But I have a very sharp heel on my shoe, which can and will cause grave damage if applied correctly.”

  He looked at her slipper covered feet then at her face before he raised one eyebrow.

  Jules reckoned her face was the color of her hair. How the hell could she have forgotten she was in her Piggy Wiggy slippers? “Yes, well, and a brother who taught me very well how to defend myself when necessary. My knee is known throughout the country for its stunning abilities. In more ways than one. So do I let you in? Can I trust your word you’ll behave?”

  He nodded. “Apart from when I seem to be scaring people with my menacing attitude, I can assure you I’m a normal, well-behaved guy. I give you my word I’ll behave. I’d say Scouts Honor, but I was never a boy scout. No, that’s not true, I went and I got kicked out for ogling the guides in their gym kit.”

  Jules smothered a giggle. “Guides didn’t wear gym kit.”

  He raised one eyebrow. “They didn’t?”

  “Nope.”

  “Ah, no wonder I got kicked out then. Must have been when they were changing for the annual panto.”

  That did it. She laughed and he chuckled along with her.

  “But I give you my word, on my
oath, I will behave.”

  The tone and look seemed genuine, so Jules slipped the chain and stood back in invitation. She watched him closely as he nodded his thanks and stepped over the threshold. He looked, Jules thought, somewhat embarrassed. It didn’t make her any less wary though. She took her mobile out of her pocket and waved it at him.

  “The cops are on speed dial,” she said in an offhand manner.

  He nodded. “Good on you. Let’s hope you don’t press the button by mistake.”

  “There is that. Best not make me twitchy.” Not like that anyway.

  Never one to hold a grudge for too long, except, she thought, against Alasdair, her brother, and his toy spider, Jules decided to defuse the situation. She put her mobile back into her pocket and held out her hand. “Hello. I’m Julia Frayne—Jules to my friends. Not your wife of the same name, but it’s been my name for all of my almost thirty years. And you are?”

  She watched as he looked around, his gaze appraising the small, narrow hall. The pale, ivory walls and the parquet flooring added as much light and sense of spaciousness as Jules had been able to conjure up, and the fragrance diffuser added a hint of roses and summer, which was echoed in the original pastel on one wall.

  He took a deep breath. In spite of obviously having been in a temper and anxious, the man laughed. “Gray Reynard. Under the circumstances, I’m not sure I can say pleased to meet you, but I can say thank you.”

  Jules raised an eyebrow. “What for?”

  “Not using your heel or the emasculating techniques your brother taught you, perhaps? Or just for letting me in, so I can try to explain.”

  “Oh, I’m all for explanations.”

  He rolled his eyes. So he did have a sense of humor. Jules led the way into her lounge. “Drink? I have a feeling we could probably do with one, even if it is”—she looked at the clock—“good grief, only eleven a.m. Ah, well, it’s Sunday, and the sun will be over the yardarm somewhere.”