Taken Identity

Excerpt

Chapter One

Whoever said a tone of voice couldn’t shatter glass was wrong. Very, very wrong. This one could.
"Is this the residence of Julia Frayne?"

Jules looked at the questioner closely. She'd been about to put her contacts in when the doorbell rang, and she hadn’t stopped to pick up her glasses before answering. He—she assumed it was a he by the deep voice—was distinctly hazy, although from what she could see, there was a tall, dark haired, drop-dead gorgeous man on her doorstep. Her body tingled. When was the last time a voice had sent her nigh on orgasmic, anywhere, anytime, let alone leaning on her doorframe, early on a misty, Scottish Sunday morning?

"Why?" she asked, not recognizing the caller. "Who wants to know?"

He ignored her queries.

"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, he didn’t need to try very hard. Over six feet of what seemed to be perfectly proportioned male, with short, dark hair, showing just a hint of curl, and deep, dark eyes, screamed macho without any effort. Every woman’s fantasy—or nightmare—depending on how you looked at it. Jules didn’t want to look at it, or him, either way, and until she put her contacts in, there wasn't much chance of that happening. Her instincts were screaming trouble as loud as possible.

She could feel his impatience, and a shiver ran down her spine. 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, trying to emulate his tone and pace, squinting slightly to bring him into focus, and showing none of the tension he invoked in her. "So, how may I help you?"

She thought the look 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.

"Well?" She prompted.

"I wish to speak to Julia Frayne."

"You are speaking to Julia Frayne."

The expression on his face would have frozen molten lava. If she hadn't been wearing her fuzzy slippers and a warm jumper, she'd have shivered from that look, as well as the nip in the air. Sometimes, she wished she lived somewhere you didn't have your last frost of the season in July, and the first frost of the next winter the month after.

"I beg to differ. 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, her tone 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: very proper!

"Prove it," he said, challenging her.

Jules lost her temper. A rare occurrence, but when it happened, friends and relatives knew to duck.

"Certainly. I’ll fetch my passport." She slammed the door shut, obviously taking him by surprise, as he made no move to stop her.

The doorbell rang almost immediately, seemingly invested with his impatience. Jules grinned to herself. Well, Mr. Whoever-you-are Reynard, you can bloody well wait. I’m putting my lenses in before I face you again. In addition, I’ll maybe just wave my passport through the window.

In the few minutes it took her to put in contact lenses, retrieve her passport from a drawer, and return to the front door, the noise of the doorbell was continuous. At this rate, the battery will stop before he does, she mused, stopping at the mirror and checking just what her uninvited caller might see when he looked at her.

Typically Celtic, she thought ruefully, eyeing her red hair, 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!"

Making sure there was a sturdy umbrella handy—for poking him, if need be—in its usual place in the hallway, she slipped the chain on before opening the door as far as it 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.

"Satisfied? 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.
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 could not 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 cautious nature.

"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, unexpected under the circumstances.

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

Jules almost laughed.

"No," she replied. "But I have a very sharp heel on my shoe, which can cause grave damage if applied correctly. And a brother who taught me very well how to defend myself when necessary. My knee is well known for its stunning abilities. In more ways than one." She slipped the chain and stood back in invitation, watching him as he nodded his acceptance and stepped over the threshold, looking, Jules thought, somewhat embarrassed.

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. This was not the same as having a large, realistic toy spider dropped onto her in the middle of the night. He'd cleverly thrown a "web"—in reality, her mum's delicate crocheted doily—over her face. She'd woken screaming and never been able to go near a spider again. Even now, she could remember how she'd panicked as she'd tried to get the stuff off her face.

She held out her hand. "Hello. I’m Julia Frayne, Jules to my friends. 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.

In spite of obviously being in a temper, and anxious, the man laughed. "Gray Reynard. Under the circumstance, 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." 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 11:00 a.m. Oh, well, it’s Sunday, and the sun will be over the yard arm somewhere."

"Melbourne."

She blinked. "Sorry?"

"The sun. Over the yardarm. Melbourne, Australia. It’s evening there."

"Oh, right." Strange, but who was she to argue? She came up with some weird and wonderful explanations for things when necessary. She held up a bottle of Macallan, its golden color glowing in the weak sunlight that spilled through the window. "Whisky?"

"Why not? I’ve a feeling I’m going to need it." He smiled and his face lit up.

My God, Jules thought as she took in the smile and the tanned, toned body, clad casually in jeans and what looked like a feather-soft, dark grey, cashmere jumper, the same color as his eyes. He is magnificent.

She poured two generous measures of the single malt. "Water?"

At his nod, she left the room and returned a moment later with a jug of water.

"Living in this part of Scotland, I don’t need to waste money on bottled water. Our water is so pure it’s a delight to drink." My God! Do I sound pompous or what? A walking, talking, tourist ad. She handed him a glass and the jug. "Help yourself."

She watched with approval as he poured the recommended amount, to make his drink as the experts decreed.

"You like a good malt, then?" she asked.

Gray took an experimental sip and nodded, she assumed, his appreciation. And his agreement.

"Right then." Take charge, Jules, she told herself as she took the jug and added water to her own glass. "Grab a seat, and let’s try to sort this rubbish out."

It was his turn for the raised eyebrow, presumably at her summary of the situation, but he said nothing, and just looked at her as he sipped his whisky.

Jules sat on her rather squashy, sit-and-you'll-never-move-again settee, and waited to see what he would do. Somehow, she thought he wasn't the sort of man to wallow in soft comfort. He looked more like a ladder-back, dining chair, sit up straight and concentrate person.

How wrong could a girl be? He nodded slightly, a half smile on his lips, as he seemed to accept her unspoken challenge and settled next to her. Whew, testosterone, thy name is Gray Reynard! Get a grip, Jules. She opened her mouth and hurried into speech.

"So, you are married to a Julia Frayne. Who is pregnant and not me?"

He nodded. "That’s about the size of it, yes."

"And you’ve lost her? How careless." Jules was being flippant, but his attitude irritated her. Why would he assume a perfect stranger, albeit with the same name as his errant wife, would know where said wife was?

"More like she lost me." He shot back. "Believe me, it was not careless. It was definitely premeditated."

"Right, confused now. How about you start at the beginning and go on to the end?"

He shivered. Jules saw it as she looked at his tan. She decided he wasn’t used to summer in Scotland. Even she, with all but two of her almost thirty years spent there, was dressed for an English autumn.

"Look, you’re cold and probably hungry. If you don’t mind slumming it, let’s go into the kitchen. The Aga is on, so it’s warm in there. Then I’ll feed you. What do you say?"

Jules looked him in the eye as she sipped her whisky, hoping her expression didn't give away the butterflies in her stomach.

"I’d appreciate that. You’re right on all counts. Cold, hungry, and careless. However, I can't really recommend you do with someone else what you are doing with me."

She blinked. What, get turned on and show it? I can't be that transparent.

"What would that be, then? Show compassion? It won't be difficult to change my mind, you know." She could feel the temper that went with her hair about to make its presence known.

"No, invite a total stranger into your home. I can't make up my mind if you are either very confident of your survival skills, or very naive."

"Oh, naive, obviously, but don't worry, I won't be again." She slammed her glass down, making the bottle and water jug rattle and the dram in her glass ripple and spill onto the table.

"Ah, hell, I'm sorry. I seem to know just how to press the wrong buttons, don't I? Everything you said, I deserve. Even though there are mitigating circumstances, you are my hostess, wining and dining me, and believe it or not, I am grateful."

Jules winced. He stood and waited as she preceded him into the kitchen. She really was going to have to think before she spoke. That had been cruel. Harsh, true nonetheless, but unnecessary.
She turned to the man following her. Now she saw that under his tan he looked grey.

"Are you okay?" She spoke sharply, but he seemed not to notice.

"Lack of sleep, that’s all. I was notified on Friday that Julia Frayne, long, red hair, around thirty, slim build, lived here, so I flew out straight away. There were no seats in business, so I did the whole trip in a middle-of-the-row economy seat, with a snoring man on one side and a woman with a crying baby on the other. Horrendous."

Aw, poor thing. Wasn't he aware of how many people did that as the norm? Jules peered into the fridge.

"I can make you an omelet, or I can heat up last night’s stir-fry leftover. Sorry, there's not much more without defrosting something. So, you did the flight from hell. Where was hell?"

"Pardon?" His voice demonstrated his bewilderment.

“Oh, sorry. Flew from where?"

"Oh, Melbourne . . . Australia."

Arrogant swine, did he think she didn't know where Melbourne was?

"Thank you for the geography lesson. I had no idea." And up yours, she thought unrepentantly.
He looked bewildered. As well he might, she thought. She was no doormat, and if he chose to patronize her, she would give as good as he gave her.

"Food?" She prompted. "Take your pick."

"Oh, er, whatever is easiest."

He laughed, a sound that went all the way to her toes and back up again, via her pussy. If she could bottle that sound, she'd be a millionaire in a month.

"Omelet, it’ll be quicker. Tomato and cheese?"

"Please."

She felt his eyes on her as she whisked eggs, added cheese and tomato, and put the mixture into a smoking frying pan.

"So . . . ." She picked up the conversation as she sliced bread and set the kitchen table for him.
She glanced over her shoulder and noticed he still stood there, swaying a little on his feet as if he might keel over any moment.

"Oh, for heaven’s sake, man, sit down before you fall down. The wicker chair is comfy." She watched whilst he did as she bade, and continued. "Melbourne. Hence knowing the time there. You don’t sound Australian. More like Rah Britain."

He straightened at that. Jules now knew what the phrase "to bristle" meant.

"I beg your pardon?" The glass shatterer was back.

"That, there. That voice. Pure Rah. No antipodean twang at all."

"I’m not Australian. I was born and brought up in Sussex. Though what that has to do with anything, I have no idea."

"Neither have I." Jules slid the omelet onto a plate and handed it to him. "Do you want to eat in the chair or at the table?"

She watched as he ran his hand over his head and then across his chin. Oh, for goodness sake, why is such a simple action loaded with sexual innuendo?

"Here, please. I don’t think I’ve got the energy to move."

Just as well, as she had invited him, a complete stranger, into her house. Stupid, or what?

Jules passed the cutlery and bread over. She watched as he cut into the omelet, and it disappeared in a much shorter time than it had taken to cook. She handed him a cup of coffee. "Milk and sugar?"

"No, no, thank you. That really hit the spot. Very generous of you, considering."

"Yes, I thought so too." Jules added milk to her coffee and sat down on the bench by the table.

Outside, she could hear a pheasant calling to its mate, the noise adding a touch of reality to what, she thought, was an otherwise bizarre situation.

"So, Mr. Reynard, to business. Shall we try to sort out some of this misunderstanding?"

"A good idea." He took a long draught of coffee. "Where to start? Rhetorical question. At the beginning, obviously."

Obviously, she echoed silently, about to butt in. So get on with it.

Jules watched him as he looked her up and down.

"Well, spill the beans. Do I really look like her?"

"At first glance, to a stranger, I would say perhaps you could be mistaken for the woman I knew as Julia Frayne. Similar height, body shape, and age. Nevertheless, that's where the similarity ends. Please, I intend no offense, but my Julia Frayne would never wear clothes like you are. No long, casual, tiered skirt or, er . . . ." He trailed off, obviously not wanting to insult her.

Jules grinned with amusement. "Don't worry. I know my dress sense is, shall we say, individual? This jumper is an old and trusted friend."

In shades of red and pink, it should have clashed with her hair but didn’t, though it wouldn't win any prizes for smartness. The elbows were stretched and the neckline askew. She loved it anyway.
"Hmm, well, as for my wife. Only the latest designer wear was acceptable to her. Her hair was brighter and darker than yours. More russet than . . . ."

"Carrots?" Jules supplied helpfully.

Gray laughed. "You said it, not me. And, I'll bet my last pound that your hair color is natural."

Jules felt herself blush, the same color as that dreaded hair.

He smiled. "I like it."

"It's red." Very, very red, and there was nothing she would do to change it. A disastrous, "I'm going to go blonde" whim at eighteen had proven that.

"True, but natural, something my Julia's wasn't."

"How do you know . . . ? Oh." Her cheeks felt even hotter. I bet I'm red all over now, she thought despairingly.

"Exactly." His tone was dry. "Shall we take this coffee somewhere more comfortable? I rather liked that sofa we were ensconced in earlier."

Oh, he would. It pushes him rather too close to me, Jules thought, wondering if he knew just how much he turned her on. Oh God, she hoped not. It would be mortifying. Still, she nodded and stood up, as, ever the gentleman, he let her lead the way back into the lounge.

The sun shined fully through the window now, the earlier lack of warmth replaced by Scottish midday heat.

Jules opened the French windows to let the fresh air in and to help cool her overheated body. No way was she stripping down to the strappy she had on under her jumper. She hadn't put a bra on, and Gray Reynard would soon see all too easily the effect he had on her.

"I married Julia Frances Frayne just over two years ago, in the Caribbean," he said as they both sat.
The settee did its usual job of trying to meld two bodies into one. Jules resigned herself to feeling hot and bothered.

“We met in London, where we both worked. She was articulate, attractive, and well, to be blunt—and probably crude—hot for me. Six months after we met, she moved in with me, and three months later, we married. It was fine at first, and yes, I know that’s damning with faint praise, but I can’t say more than that." He stopped and seemed to reflect before continuing.

"That is a terrible admission. I guess she thought it was all going to be holidays and fun, and I thought it would be good to have someone to come home to. However, I work hard, and although I play hard, work tends to come first. If I ignored that, well, there would be no money to play with. However, Julia couldn’t see that. Eventually, she just went. Left one day whilst I was at work. I came back to a Dear John and an empty joint account. All her clothes and belongings gone. In addition, all my family’s heirloom jewelry had been taken out of the bank. That was about eighteen months ago. I heard nothing more. All trails that I thought might lead to her came to dead ends. And she has remained silent, apart from asking me through several intermediaries for a divorce."

"Took you to the cleaners?" Jules asked with sympathy. Her namesake didn’t seem to have any redeeming features.

He shook his head. "Strange, but she didn't. Asked for nothing, apart from me to agree to the divorce. So, I said I would only go ahead if I got the family jewelry returned. It was not hers to take. Since then, I’ve heard nothing. That was about three months ago. Then, last week, the private investigator I’ve had working on finding her said he’d found her. And he'd been told she was pregnant. But he’d found you. Right name, wrong person. But a very easy mistake to make." He sipped his coffee and just looked at her.

Trying not to squirm—after all, it was some look and sent her insides to mush— she did her best to hold his gaze and not show how her stomach was churning, her nipples peaking, and . . . . No more, Jules. No X-rated thoughts. Not now.

"May I say that’s no compliment? She sounds a right bitch. And it’s certainly no compliment to be told I look pregnant." She hoped there was a twinkle in her eye as she spoke. Gray looked relieved.
Because she seemed to be taking his tale of woe in good spirit? After all, she thought, I am correct. It was no compliment to her. Especially when, if he looked at her, she most definitely did not have a pregnancy bulge. The only bulges she had were higher, and there were two of them!

Gray was still speaking about the other woman. "True, but he’d been told that before he found you, evidently. Superficially, there are some similarities. Age, height, shape. However, your hair is shorter, redder, and like I said before, I’m guessing it's the real deal. But, dammit, I saw her documents. They match yours. As far as I knew, I met, married, and lived with Julia Frances Frayne. So somewhere, you have a double. Right down to age, name, and God knows what else."

"Hell, I hope not in attitude," Jules said, somewhat shaken. "What did she do for a living?"

"She said she wrote children’s books. Showed me some. Although, I never saw her work on anything. She said she did it when I wasn’t around. Why? What’s the matter?"

"I write children’s books," Jules said slowly. "Hold on."

She left the room and walked up her narrow staircase into a tiny, box of a room she laughingly called her study. There was just enough space for a desk to hold her computer, its comfortable swivel chair—a necessary extravagance as far as Jules was concerned—and a bookcase, its shelves overflowing. She could never bear to throw any book away. Within a minute, she was back, holding several brightly covered volumes in her hands. She thrust them at him and sat down again quickly. She hoped he didn't notice she was trembling, but whether with fear or anger, she couldn’t tell.

He looked at the books and nodded.

"What the hell is going on?" Jules burst out. "This is sick. I feel sick. Raped. Someone, somewhere, is using me, my identity. Who knows what the hell she is doing with it."

The cup left her hand and shattered against the wall where she flung it. Jules looked at the coffee dregs dripping down the wall.

"Oh, shit." The dismay showing on her face was such a contrast to the rage she had experienced a few seconds earlier, that when, after a first, startled glance, Gray began to laugh, she had to join in.
"Although, it’s nothing to laugh about, is it?" she asked him as she tucked the bottom of her long skirt into the waistband, bringing it to knee-length and out of the way. Then she took a cloth and wiped the wall as Gray picked up the shards of china.

"I guess I should be thankful she didn't get my bank cards, as well." She saw the sharp glance he gave her and understood it.

"No, Gray, she hasn’t. Or if she has, I’m not paying for them. I know what I spend and where. Believe me, I am very careful with my hard-earned money. What I can’t understand is why someone thinks it would be beneficial to steal my identity. Unless she’s a criminal, of course. Surely, it can’t be easy to find such a good doppelganger as you say I am. As far as I can tell, there’s been no monetary gain. I still get my royalties, still have an excellent credit rating. Haven’t received any unusual requests to pay bills, open new bank accounts, or confirm another mortgage. Weird, and scary." His gaze followed her as she threw the coffee-sodden cloth into the bin and straightened up. She hoped he saw the resolution on her face.

"Okay then, what’s next? I’ve just finished one book, not started another, so I’m all yours. In a strictly nonsexual way, of course." Ha, and if he believed her, she had a bridge she could sell him. Gah, she hoped he didn't take her at her word. His denim-clad derriere was giving her all sorts of ideas—carnal ones.

"Of course." He wriggled slightly.

To adjust his jeans? His reply hadn't sounded at all convincing to her. Did that mean he was as turned on as she was?

"So, where do we begin?" She mused, worrying her top lip. "I’ve no idea. I could ask my agent if there’s been anyone asking questions about me. I guess it would have been a couple of years ago, so it’s not likely anyone would remember now."

"I don't know the answer to that, Julia. All I can do is contact Sean McGregor tomorrow—he’s the investigator who found you—and ask him to meet us, and we can both hear what information he’s got and where he got it from. Okay? Meanwhile, I’ll get off your back."

"Jules," she said as a matter of course, and just stopped herself from adding he could get on her back anytime!

"Okay, thank you. Jules it is. So, I'm going to check in at my hotel and get some sleep. Then maybe I could take you out to dinner? Say yes. Give me a chance to undo the bad first impression I gave you."

She considered. Why the hell not?

"All right then," she said finally. "What time?"

"I’ll pick you up at seven."

"No, I’ll meet you there. Tell me where and when."

He stood and made his way to the door. "Sense kicking in now, Jules? Strange man and all that. Jeffrey’s, at seven fifteen. You know it?"

She knew of it. New, very expensive, and almost impossible to get a table. Somewhat out of her reach, normally. "Yes, thank you. Seven fifteen."

"Thank you for breakfast."

Jules nodded. "I think you’re welcome."