Page 67 of Beautiful Liar

I set the backpack aside, buckle myself in and hold my breath for my first ever ride on a plane.

Soon after a slightly dizzying takeoff, I accept a glass of champagne and the offer of grilled shrimp.

True to Fionnella’s promise, the shrimp is divine. As is the pâté served on crackers and the mini burgers and accompanying sweet potato fries. When I return from using the lavatory, I curl up on the sofa and stare outside the window.

Geography fails me again, and with the outside shrouded in night, I have no clue where we’re headed.

I try to blank my mind to what lays ahead so I accept another glass of champagne. A few sips in, I notice a subtle difference in taste, but really, what the fuck do I know about vintage champagne?

The bubbles are pleasantly tingly and the alcohol is easing the stranglehold fear has on me. I take a few more sips, and stare at the light blinking on the jet’s wing.

It grows strangely hypnotic. I’m not sure if we dip, or if the swaying is just in my head. I try to take another sip, but my limbs feel heavy, lethargic.

My eyelids droop of their own accord. Just before they shut, I see the attendant lunge toward me.

Oops. I just dropped the glass.

***

A dull headache throbs at my temple. It’s not bad, but it’s uncomfortable enough for me not to want to open my eyes in case there’s more pain lurking at my periphery.

Also, I sense sunshine. And wherever this headache stems from, I know it won’t be a fan of bright lights. So I keep my eyes shut, breathe through it and attempt to orient myself.

The limo. The airport. The plane. Champagne.

I’m hung over? From one glass of champagne? Or had it been two?

My mind gives up on unraveling the hazy memory and moves on.

I’m in bed. The scent of crisp sheets and sea air register through my slightly foggy senses.

But how did I get here? And where the hell is here?

I suck in a breath and crack my eyes open. Yep, wall to wall sunshine. A bed wide enough to sleep a football team and a room large enough to accommodate their fans.

I drag myself onto my elbows, kick away the comforter and glance down at myself.

The clothes I wore to the airport are gone. I’m wearing a crisp white T-shirt and my panties. No bra.

My heart lurches and I feel sick. I close my eyes and concentrate on the part of my body that would surely know if it has been violated. I feel nothing untoward. I don’t allow myself to be relieved just yet.

I shift to the side of the bed. Besides the need to ease my bladder, I’m hoping a self-examination will enlighten me as to whether I’ve slept molest-free.

I emerge from the jaw-droppingly stunning marble and slate bathroom five minutes later none the wiser. A quick search for my things leads me to a dressing room. All my clothes and shoes from the loft are hung and arranged in neat rows. My backpack is in a small closet and a dressing table is set out with makeup and new accessories.

I grab a pair of lounge pants, slip them on and return to the bedroom. Heavy, half-closed curtains conceal floor-to-ceiling windows on both sides of the room. I push one aside and peer outside.

Dark sand and pebble beach gives way to an unfettered view of water. Although the sun’s shining, the dark-colored water makes me think we’re still in the East. But the truth is I don’t know.

Dropping the curtain, I turn and examine the room. The cream and gold decor is studded with expensive art and chandelier lamps that reek of elegance and class. It’s everything an exclusive whore purchased for a million dollars would want.

Except this whore can’t shake the notion that she was drugged and brought here so she wouldn’t know where she is.

Insides beginning to quiver, I hurry across the room and throw the bedroom door open.

The soft exhalation that emits from a nearby speaker freezes me to a stop the moment I reach an arched hallway.

“Lucky. You’re awake. Welcome to my home.”

---