Page 22 of Wished

No. I’m in a red lace thong and a matching red lace bra. I’ve never seen this underwear before. In fact, it’s so decidedly sexual and provocative that my nipples bead just looking down at the see-through lace. Or perhaps that’s the cold air running over me now that I’ve flung back the thick down comforter.

I scramble back, kicking the sheets and the comforter away, and hit the wooden headboard of the large four-poster bed.

I make a squeaky, whimpery noise and frantically scan the bedroom. It’s huge. The bedroom has to be larger than our entire apartment.

The room has tall ceilings with decorative plaster in the gorgeous designs you see in grand palaces and the great houses of Europe. The walls are covered in golden satin and the floor is laid with thick, creamy white rugs. On the far wall is a trio of tall, lead paned windows letting in the soft morning sunlight, with a perfect view of Geneva and the vivid blue of the lake glittering in the morning light. On the windowsill the downy gray mourning dove lets out another coo.

I grip the soft sheet—it feels like Egyptian cotton—and yank it up to cover my puckering breasts. I glance around the room, expecting someone to hop out and yell, “Boo!”

There are plenty of places to hide. The furniture in the room is all of a set. I’ve cleaned enough chateaus, mansions, and luxury apartments to recognize quality antiques. These are in the style of Louise XIV, made from walnut, elegantly carved with thin scrolled legs and brilliant gilding. There’s the four-poster bed with a gold satin canopy, two matching chests of drawers with ornate scrollwork, a spindly-legged desk near the window, and a tall wardrobe on the wall opposite the bed. There’s also a gilded mirror on the wall, large enough and angled perfectly to capture the entire bed.

My cheeks flame red as I stare at myself in that mirror. My hair is loose around my shoulders, post-sex curly and bed-messy. My skin has a rosy-pink glow and my lips are pouty full.

I drop the sheet and lift a hand to my cheek.

Is that whisker burn?

And that ...My heart slams against my ribs…Is that a hickey?There’s a love bite, a little purple-blue love bite, on my neck, and another on my collarbone.

“Oh no. Oh no, oh no, oh no.”

My voice bounces around the room. The only response is anothercoo, coofrom the mourning dove.

A slow, needlelike prickle works its way over my skin until every goose bump on my body is standing at attention.

Apparently, I got so drunk last night that I stumbled into the street, picked up a man—probably one driving a Bugatti, in honor of Dorene—and landed in his ornate Louis XIV four-poster bed.

Meanwhile, I traded my old T-shirt for sexy lingerie, got down and dirty, and then ...

I have no idea.

I literally have no idea.

I bury my face in my hands.

Okay. There’s another explanation. I also may have been kidnapped and taken to a luxurious boudoir to play out all my long-repressed sexual fantasies. That’s a possibility.

I glance around the bedroom, searching for my clothes. There’s nothing. The bedroom is pristine. There isn’t a speck of dust, not a bit of dirt, not even a dirty sock tossed on the floor or a half-empty glass of water to be found.

The only thing out of place is a worn book on the nightstand. I glance at the hunter-green hardback and wrinkle my brow when I see the title.David Copperfield.

That’s weird. How many people keep Dickens on their nightstand?

Suddenly my dream flashes in my mind. Max holding my hands in the stone cathedral. Me saying, “I do.”

I shake my head.

Except ...

Well. This isn’t his bedroom. It’s not even close.

But the view from the windows? That’s oddly familiar.

I kick back the sheets and slide down the bed to the floor. The carpet sinks beneath my bare feet as I hurriedly stride across the room. I stop when I step into the bright glow of the sun falling across the carpet. It’s sun-warm beneath the soles of my feet. When I look down over the expansive lawn my heart gives a slow, throbbing thud.

It can’t be.

I know that lush green lawn. I know that cool, fern-lined forest that rings the edges of the grounds. I know that sloping, shaggy grass that tumbles into the smooth fall of the lake. I know every inch of this barren, austere, gray-stoned estate.

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