Page 4 of The Wrong Man

“Well,” I say to the empty studio. “That’s unexpected.”

Chapter two

Dylan

Where am I?

My head feels like it’s stuffed with cotton wool, and there’s something soft beneath my cheek. But I’m definitely lying on something that is far harder than my bed. Which is odd.

I blink slowly, trying to focus.

Why is there a devilishly handsome man peering down at me? He is the incarnation of tall, dark, and handsome. Complete with smoldering eyes that would make any sensible person weak at the knees.

Holy Mary! I’ve fainted in public again, haven’t I? This is mortifying. My cheeks burn with embarrassment even as my brain begins to catch up with the rest of me.

Oh no. I remember now. Not public. Definitely not public. This is much, much worse than public.

The memories come flooding back in a rush that makes my stomach lurch. The concrete walls. The tools laid out like surgical instruments. The chair. The opera music that made everything seem like a horror film. And the man currently staring down at me with those smoldering eyes... he was about to do unspeakable things to me with those pliers.

I sit up with a gasp, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. I was lying on the floor, but there’s something soft where my head was. A pillow. An actual pillow.

My kidnapper gave me a pillow.

I look up at him, blinking in confusion. He’s crouched beside me, close enough that I can smell his cologne. Something expensive with notes of cedar that makes my treacherous brain think entirely inappropriate thoughts about how good he smells.

“Does this mean you believe me?” I say brightly, and immediately want to kick myself. Who sounds cheerful when asking if their torturer believes they’re innocent? Only me, apparently.

He frowns, and I notice he has a small scar through his left eyebrow that only makes him more devastatingly attractive. Which is deeply unfair, really. Shouldn’t terrifying kidnappers look grotesque?

“No,” he says, his voice low and rough in a way that sends shivers down my spine. “It means I didn’t want you dying prematurely, so I needed to check you weren’t having a medical episode.”

Oh. Right. Of course it’s not because he believes me. That would be too much to hope for.

He reaches down and pulls me to my feet with surprising gentleness, his hands warm and steady on my arms. For just a moment, I’m pressed close enough to him to feel the solid strength of his chest, and my brain completely short-circuits.

This is not the time to be noticing how broad his shoulders are, Dylan. Focus.

He guides me back to the chair, and I go willingly because what choice do I have? But when he starts retying the restraints, I notice he’s not pulling them nearly as tight as before. I can actually move my wrists a little, and the circulation in my hands doesn’t immediately cut off.

“I really am Dylan,” I say as he works. “I know you don’t believe me, but it’s true. I’m not Declan. I would never steal anything, especially not a tiara worth twelve million euros. Not that having twelve million euros wouldn’t be nice. Do you know how many baking supplies I could buy with twelve million euros? Sweet Jesus, I could probably buy every bakery in London.”

He doesn’t respond, just continues securing my ankles to the chair legs with the same careful efficiency. His fingers brush against my skin, and instantly remind me of how long it’s been since I’ve felt the touch of another human being.

“I really do run a small bakery,” I continue, because talking helps keep the panic at bay. “Knead Me, in Borough Market. We specialize in traditional Irish bakes with a modern twist. My aunt taught me everything I know. She’s the one who took me in when my parents...” I trail off, because that’s still a painful subject even after all these years. Even though I’ve already blurted this all out to him.

“When your parents what?” he asks, and I’m surprised by the genuine curiosity in his voice.

“When they disowned me for being gay,” I say quietly. “They shipped me off to London the day after my sixteenth birthday. Told everyone I’d gone to boarding school. But really they just wanted me gone.”

He straightens up, finished with the restraints, and looks down with those dark, unreadable eyes. “And you’ve been here ever since?”

“Yes. With my Aunt Moira. She’s wonderful. She left that life behind years before I did, said she was tired of the violence and the fear. She taught me to bake, helped me set up the bakery, never made me feel like I was a burden or a disappointment.” My voice gets smaller. “She’s probably wondering where I am. I was supposed to call her tonight.”

The thought of Aunt Moira worrying about me makes tears prick at my eyes. She’s the only family I have left who actually cares about me, and she must be sick with worry by now.

“Tell me about yesterday,” he says, settling into a chair across from me. “From the beginning. I want to hear your story.”

Yesterday. God, was it only yesterday that my life was normal? It feels like a lifetime ago.