Taken Identity

by Raven McAllan

  “Melbourne.”

  She blinked. What had Melbourne got to do with anything? “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. Jules held up a bottle of Highland Park single malt whisky, 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 gray 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. “This really is the water of life.”

  “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.”

  He did the raised eyebrow, ‘I bet your pardon’ look again, presumably at her summary of the situation, but he 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, stop ogling the man, it’s tacky. She opened her mouth and hurried into speech.

  “So, let’s see if I’ve got this right. You’re married to a Julia Frayne. Who is pregnant and not me?”

  He frowned and nodded. Worry lines creased his forehead. “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? For one brief moment she wondered if she was being somewhat harsh, but he was so up himself, he needed shaking.

  “More like she lost me,” Gray said. His words shot out like bullets. “Believe me, it was not careless. It was definitely premeditated. By her.”

  “Right, confused now. Clear as mud. How about you start at the beginning and go on to the end?” Jules wondered if he would he pay any attention to her, or just do as he liked. It might be unfair, but even on such a short acquaintance that attitude seemed to fit him.

  He shivered. It might be slightly nippy, but he seemed to be suffering in the early morning air. Jules looked at his tan and decided he wasn’t used to summer in Scotland. Even she, with all but two of her almost thirty years spent there, wished it wasn’t quite so cool most of the time, and she didn’t feel the necessity to dress as she would 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.

  He smiled and his dark eyes brightened. My God, that look could sell snow to the Arctic. And make women all over the world lie down and beg.

  “I’d appreciate that.”

  He ran his hand over his stubble-covered chin. It probably wasn’t designer stubble, more like he just hadn’t shaved for a day. Jules thought he would likely be a five o’clock shadow man.

  “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 wouldn’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. Oh, don’t get me wrong.” He held his hand up as if to ward off a blow. “Believe me, I appreciate it, but I can’t make up my mind if you are either very confident of your survival skills, or very naive.” The uptight attitude was beginning to show once more. Obvious supplication didn’t sit well on him—or last long.

  “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.

  He jumped. “Ah, hell, I’m sorry.” He ran his hand over his chin. “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. It seemed they were both on edge, and more than a little antsy. He stood and waited as she preceded him into the kitchen. She really was going to have to think before she spoke. Her words and attitude had been cruel. Harsh, true nonetheless, but unnecessary.

  She turned to the man following her. Now she saw that under his tan he looked gray.

  “Are you okay?” She spoke sharply, but Gray seemed not to notice.

  He shrugged. “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 or first, 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? She ought to feel sympathy, but having done the same thing herself—not that long ago—she didn’t. Jules peered into the fridge. As ever, its contents were pitiful.

  “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. I, er, don’t keep a full fridge.” That was an understatement if ever there was one. She wasn’t going to admit that the contents of the freezer weren’t much better. Fancy food wasn’t high on her list of priorities. Half the time she’d be happy with a salad and fruit. Her mum was always nagging her to get organized and to eat a more varied diet.

  “So, you did the flight from hell,” she said, as she fished in the salad drawer to see if there were any mushrooms lurking in its depths. “Where was hell?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Oh, sorry.” Jules realized she probably had been a bit vague. “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. She was becoming giddy with the way he made her feelings change.

  He looked bewildered. As well he might. Jules was no doormat, and if he chose to patronize her, she would give as good back as he gave her.

  “Food?” Jules prompted. “Take your pick. I might have a limited repertoire but within that sphere, I’m very good.” It wasn’t until she stopped speaking Jules realized her unintended double entendre. Of course her companion picked up on it. Thank goodness her head was turned away from him, and her jumper covered her from her neck down. At least he’d not see th
e blush that swept over her.

  “Oh, that sounds promising,” Gray said. “Good is…good.” He laughed, a sound that went all the way to her toes and back up again, via her pussy. Even though it was at her expense, it made Jules practically weak-kneed. If she could bottle that sound, she’d be a millionaire in a month.

  “Oh, and, er, food. Whatever is easiest.” His voice dropped an octave and to her scrambled brain was full of hints and… Stop it now.

  “Omelet. It’ll be quicker,” she said hastily and cursed the squeak on her last word. Really, he needed to come with a warning notice. “Tomato and cheese? The last mushroom seems a bit wizened.” She held it up, and hid the hard edge of the seen better days chunk of cheese. She’d cut that bit off.

  Gray winced. “Tomato and cheese sounds good.”

  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. “And then?” There was no answer. Jules glanced over her shoulder and noticed he still stood in the same place, 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.” Hell I sound like my primary school headmistress. Peremptory or what? “The wicker chair is comfy.” She watched whilst he did as she bade, and continued. “You said Melbourne. Hence knowing the time there. You don’t sound Australian. More like Rah Britain.”

  He straightened at that. Jules decided she now knew what the phrase ‘to bristle’ meant. It was scary.

  “I beg your pardon?” The glass shatterer was back. Damned if she wasn’t going to offer him a sheet of window strength to attack, instead of her.

  “That, there. That voice. Pure Rah. No antipodean twang at all.” Jules grinned. It was that or throw something, and she really didn’t have anything to waste.

  “I’m not Australian. I was born and brought up in Sussex,” he said. “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. “I was doing my polite hostess bit. Do you want to eat sitting in the chair or at the table?”

  She watched as he ran his hand over his head 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.” The smile was half-hearted but it was definitely an advance on the scowl he’d supported earlier. “I’m shattered. So, in this chair, thank you.”

  Just as well he seemed polite and amenable, to say nothing of half asleep. She might go all gooey at the sound of his voice—well, sometimes—but she had invited him, a complete stranger, into her house. Stupid or what?

  With a wry smile—it seemed the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach—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.

  “How do you take your coffee? Milk and sugar?”

  “Black, thanks. God, I needed that food, and I didn’t know until I saw it.”

  Jules sniggered. “The rumble of your tum was a bit of a giveaway though.”

  “Yeah.”

  He patted that part of his anatomy, which really did live up to the expression washboard stomach.

  “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. Well out of cutlery-stabbing range, she thought, with an inward snigger.

  “Generous, considering, I mean.”

  Outside, she could hear a pheasant calling to its mate. The noise added a touch of reality to what, she thought, was an otherwise bizarre situation. When was the last time she’d shared a meal with such a testosterone-full man? Think, like never. And get your mind out of the gutter, or out of…argh, shut up.

  “So, Mr. Reynard, to business.” She took a sip of her coffee and winced as the over-hot liquid hit the back of her throat. “Shall we try to sort out some of this misunderstanding?”

  “A good idea.” He took a long draft of his own coffee and seemed unfazed by the heat. “And the name is Gray. Ah, this is perfect, thank you. So, where to start? Rhetorical question. At the beginning, obviously.”

  Obviously, she echoed silently. Jules bit her lip to stop herself from butting in. So get on with it. We’ve not got all day. Actually, she had, but she wasn’t about to mention her lack of a social life.

  Jules watched him as he looked her up and down. Why did he keep doing that? She wasn’t a flea under a microscope, even if he did make her feel like it.

  “Well, spill the beans.” Now she was getting impatient. “Do I really look like her? Your wife.”

  “At first glance, to a stranger, I would say perhaps you could be mistaken for the woman I knew as Julia Frayne.” Gray raised one eyebrow, and his lips quirked in a half smile. On some people, it would look affected. On him, it seemed natural. “First glance, I said.”

  Jules hadn’t been about to contradict him.

  “You’re of a similar height, body shape, and I’m guessing here, age. Late twenties? Don’t be offended if I’ve got that bit wrong, men are notorious for aging a woman.”

  “You can say that again, but you’re right this time.”

  “Phew.” He wiped his finger over his brow in a parody of a relieved man. “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. She knew she would never be held up as an advocate for sartorial elegance and it didn’t faze her one jot. She held her arms up so the baggy sleeves of her jumper hung down like wings.

  “Don’t worry. I know my dress sense is—shall we say—individual? This jumper is an old and trusted friend.” She ran her hand over the wool. In shades of red and pink, it should have clashed with her hair but didn’t. However, Jules would be the first to admit it wouldn’t win any prizes for smartness. The elbows were stretched, the hem uneven and the neckline askew. She loved it anyway. Her gran had knitted it during one of her earth mother phases.

  “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, er, 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. “Who on earth would chose this?”

  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. That’s 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 in despair. Bloody embarrassment indicator.

  “Exactly.” His tone was dry. “Hair dye isn’t always used everywhere. Shall we take this coffee somewhere more comfortable? I rather liked that sofa we were ensconced in earlier.”

  Take charge, why don’t you? Trust him to want to sit there. It pushes him rather too close to me. Jules smiled, somewhat falsely, as she clenched her clit, and wondered if he knew just how much he turned her on. Oh, God, she hoped not. It would be mortifying if he discovered how damp her knickers were. Still, she nodded and stood up as, ever the gentleman, he let her lead the way back into the lounge.

  The sun shone 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 stri
pping back down to the strappy vest she still 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. There was no way she could spend all day with her arms crossed over her chest and hiding the evidence of her arousal.

  “I married Julia Frances Frayne just over two years ago in the Caribbean,” Gray said, as they both sat down. His long legs seemed to take up most of the floor space, and Jules became dry mouthed at the way the denim over his lower limbs clung to him like a second skin. She stared at his feet, his thighs then his face, but nowhere in between. Please, God, don’t let me get an eye full. Or do I mean please, God, do?

  The settee did its usual job of trying to meld two bodies into one. Jules inched back up the seat away from him—there was friendly and there was friendly, and she didn’t want him to get the wrong idea.

  Even though, in any other circumstances she’d happily jump his bones, sadly here or now, wasn’t one of those. She moved away from his leg and toward the side of the settee, and resigned herself to feeling hot and bothered.

  “We met in London, where we both worked,” her visitor continued. “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.

  “Shit, that’s 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. Not really, except, oh shit, let’s just say not really.”