Page 20 of Prelude To You

“I know what an NDA is. I’m just baffled by all the secrecy.”

George watched me carefully in the rearview mirror. “If you feel uncomfortable with signing an NDA, I understand, but you’ll have to let me know now.”

“No, I’m fine with it, but just so you know I’m activating the GPS on my phone. Call me paranoid but I’ve watched enough true crime stories—”

“I will also need your phone,” George said. “It will be returned to you when you leave the residence at the end of the day.”

The rebel in me started to revolt. This was getting a tad ridiculous.

“Listen George, I maybe get the reason to keep everything so top secret, but seriously, my phone? How am I going to compromise anyone’s secrets with my phone?”

As soon as the words escaped my mouth I realized how ignorant that had to sound. Rich people probably didn’t like it much when strangers took pictures of their homes and lives. Their very secret lives.

George gave me an understanding nod. “I’m sorry but I’m not the one making the rules.”

I weighed my desperate need for money against…well, not having a phone for a few hours. My financial crisis tipped the scales. I dug my phone out of my bag and reluctantly handed it over. “At some point during the day, Meg is going to expect a text that says I’m safe.”

The hint of a smile sparked in George’s eyes. “The phone will be with Miss Leyland. You’re welcome to ask her for the opportunity to text your friend when you need to.”

And with that, all the windows in the back turned dark. Not a shadow was visible outside. As soon as I felt relief that at least I could still see through the front window, a black glass divider slid up between George and me.

I was captive in the back of a luxury car, without a phone, absolutely blind to the passing surroundings. I guessed they wanted to keep the destination a secret.

George’s voice sounded over an invisible speaker. “If you have any questions, Miss Le Roche, you’ll find a red button on the console.”

I looked down and, sure enough, a small red button gleamed amid a gaggle of shiny black ones. I pressed it. “Thank you, George. But please let’s cut the formalities. Call me Isabel.”

Unprepared for this covert journey and not knowing how long it would take to reach our mysterious destination, my thoughts began to wander. It was pointless to go over and over the events in the bookshop.

And since I’d deliberately exiled Stranger from my mind, I thought about my antique French pastry book. It really opened another world to me, one where bakers weren’t tempted by shortcuts and cheap ingredients.

My plan was to save enough money to open a small pastry shop. I’d made peace with the fact that this was going to take some time. I couldn’t help but wonder how much easier my life would be with a stable income and no debt.

The debt part was all the loans I took out to make sure my mom was comfortable in her final days. It was the least I could do for the amazing woman who’d sacrificed so much to give me the best childhood any kid could wish for.

I never knew my father, nor were there any stories about him. My curiosity intensified after my mom’s death. Somewhere out there in the world was a man who shared my DNA. I wondered if he even knew about me. Or if he’d want to know about me.

And then my thoughts wandered right back to the previous night. My fingers involuntarily touched my throat, exactly where Stranger’s thumb had rested, claiming the hollow spot as if it belonged to him.

How could I free my mind from the what-ifs roaming around inside my head? Could I have handled things differently in the bookshop? Maybe, but I don’t see what difference it would have made.

Perhaps he was just a man with too much time and money on his hands, getting his kicks out of fooling around with random women. Granted if that were the case, it would make the whole thing easier to forget. But there was a moment when I felt an unmistakable connection with him, and I was almost sure he felt it too.

Why couldn’t I get him out of my head? Especially when he probably hadn’t given me a second thought. ‘Probably’ being the key word there.

George and I had been driving for a while and I was getting anxious. I pressed the red button.

“So, George…”

“Yes, Miss Le Roche…”

“Word on the street is the readers at this place don’t last more than a day or two. Why is that?”

Since I couldn’t see George’s reaction, I took his hesitation as a big red flag.

“I mean, I’d just like to know so I can avoid making whatever mistakes they’re making,” I said. And I really did want to know. Because the kind of money I could make with this job would make life a whole lot easier.

“We’re here, Miss Le Roche. Miss Leyland will be able to answer any questions you may have.” It was clear George didn’t get invested in the people he shuttled around. Probably because they never lasted.

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