Blindfolded (2 page)

She looked to check the caller ID.
Unknown
number. Sighing, she
answered, anticipating a wrong number. She never got personal calls…

“Hello?”

“Is
this
Felicity?
Felicity
Fairchilde?”
a
low
voice
asked, accompanied by a tremendous amount
of static.

“I’m sorry, this is a bad connection. Yes, this is
Felicity. Who is this?” Regan frowned. It wasn’t
often she received a phone call using her pen name, and it usually came from a publisher trying to recruit her to another company.

Click
; just like that, the phone call ended.

Odd.
Perhaps they weren’t able to hear her? The signal strength was poor in the area, so
Regan did not particularly find the situation either unusual or alarming.

With a shrug, she
returned to her place of escape… her vivid imagination.

* * *

Four weeks later, the release of
Careful What She Wished For
was announced. In only one week, it
rose to the top ten of the best-seller charts; she knew Kennedy would be immensely
pleased with that.

Regan celebrated the immediate positive responses in the form of reviews and sales…
alone… with a bottle of wine and snuggled under a cozy fleece blanket, quietly listening to the
sounds of the night.

“A little wine, a little song, and a cold winter night. All one needs
to be happy,” Regan mused to
herself, repeating words from her latest book and caught in a haze of intoxication as she dredged out the remains of the bottle. “So what if it's not winter! Here’s to
you, Felicity! Salut!” Head spinning and pushing back lonely tears, Regan decided the best way to handle her sadness was to make it an early night. She planned to sleep away her pain until the morning, when she would, once again, be allowed to keep company in the lives of her characters.

She climbed into
her tiny single bed, still dressed in her favorite old sweats and toe-socks that she had been wearing since
waking up
that morning.

“You're pathetic, Regan. Your best friend is your alter ego. And people love
her
, not you,” she grumbled, closing her
eyes.

A single, hot tear dripped slowly down her cheek, and she found herself wishing that she could magically be transported into her books, where the heroine was beautiful, loved, and cared for. Fantasy was wonderful, but it did not fill that empty void in her heart.

The lulling sounds of crickets and tree
frogs brought her to a quick repose. The noises of the forest were so familiar that some time later a sudden silence was enough to awaken her. Something was wrong! Soundlessly, she pulled on her slippers and tiptoed out of bed and into the main room, where the
only light was a faint orange glow from the remains of the
tiny
fire in the hearth.

She checked the
locks on the door… an odd thing for her to do in the area, but a habit she performed anyway.

Satisfied that all was well, Regan assured herself that the reason for
the
sudden, strange
silence might have easily been a stray bobcat or
mountain lion. Laughing at her overactive imagination, she returned to her room and
climbed
back into bed without bothering to even kick off her slippers. She collapsed against the pillow with a pounding head from
too much wine and too little sleep and closed her eyes again.

Then without warning, a large hand clamped over her mouth,
startling
her awake.

Terror captured her breath, and she could not expel even the slightest sound from her throat. Not that her screams would ever be heard by human ears. She had made certain of that, living so far away from others. Fear pounded
as she fought to breathe under the
confines of the hard grip over her face, and she began to tremble uncontrollably as she felt hot breath on her neck.

“Shhh, I'm not going to hurt you, Felicity.
Just
do as you're told.” The voice was calm, soft, in control, and definitely very masculine.

Desperately, Regan nodded, her mind racing with thoughts of what the unseen voice had in store
for her. She tried to remember the basics of self-defense.
Be calm and cooperate as you focus and study your situation. Talk and make the assailant accept that you are a person…

Bullshit. This man—with a very large, strong, rough
hand that smelled of freshly
mowed grass and lemons—stole all her ability to focus. As for calming herself, she was paralyzed except for the tears that leaked from her eyes.

“It's alright, honey. Don't cry. I promise, I will not harm you,” he reassured her, whispering gently into her
ear. In spite of her fear, his warm, moist breath sent chills down her spine. It was rich, warm,
soothing, a bit gravely, and commanding. “I'm going to take my hand off your mouth. Promise me that
you will not scream. If you do, I will have to gag you and neither of us wants that, now do we? Do not turn
around.”

Shaking, Regan nodded again, relieved to feel him release her mouth. Oddly, she felt the absence of
his pressure upon her lips and his skin’s fresh scent as intensely as she had felt its presence.

She felt him place
something soft over her eyes… a blindfold! New tears began to pour.

He tenderly kissed the
left side of her neck. “You have no need to be afraid, Felicity. I am not here to hurt you. I am here to teach you,” he
whispered, running his hands down her smooth arms.

Regan shivered at his touch; it
undoubtedly aroused her as much as it frightened her. Her confusion, her fear, and her loneliness—in addition to her woeful state of drunkenness—gave way to despondent resignation. There was a part of her that simply did not care at the moment. “You are not to touch this blindfold for
any reason. It is for your protection. Now stand.”

“Are you going to rape me?” she asked, her tone flat. She was preparing herself for the worst, including the distant hope that this encounter would put an abrupt end to her miserable life.

“No. I promised I would not harm you,” he said,
leading her by the elbow, his grip firm and confident.

“Who are you?” she whimpered, listening to him unlocking her front door and the squeak of the
screen as it was pushed open.

“At the risk of sounding corny, I proudly claim the title of being your biggest fan. What is it you wrote? Ah, yes: ‘
And he came to her by night. Her savior. Her greatest
fantasy
.’”

“Oh my God, that was from my newest book. Please, listen! It was a fantasy. Just for entertainment! Women fantasize about being kidnapped and taken forcefully all the time—it doesn’t mean we really desire it! Please, I am begging you, let me go. I swear, I will never say anything to anyone,” Regan
cried out with a sudden surge of adrenaline as he pulled her beside him down the unlit path to
the
street.

The absence of gravel crunching under her feet told her that he had parked across the road,
near the bridge. Any hope of being seen was quickly abandoned. No one ever came this way, which was one of the main reasons she purchased this property.

Her will to survive had quickly emerged, and she was determined not to go down without a decent fight.

He did not respond to her denial, nor did he relax the powerful hold on her arm as she struggled to force him to release her. He smacked her rump sharply; Regan gasped at the onslaught of pain, suddenly feeling very sober and alert. Realizing the wisdom in saving her strength for when she had a better chance to escape, she growled under her breath as he led her across the hard pavement of the road.

She cringed at the sound
of a car door opening and moaned with frustration as he silently tied her
hands behind her back. She could not help but note the gentleness with which he bound her and the care he took as he pushed her
head down to place her in the backseat of the car. Regan took a deep breath the air mixed with new-car smell and leather polish. She was pushed down to lie upon her right side in the surprisingly roomy space and was securely
buckled into place. Regan began to sob, despite the calm stroking of his hand against the top of her
left thigh.

“Sleep now, baby. We have a long drive ahead.”

* * *

Blindfolded, Regan was forced to concentrate on the clues awarded to her by her other senses. In an
attempt to make sense of her situation, she turned inward to her 'writer's eye' and began to analyze the data she’d collected so far.

He called her by
her pen name… but that didn't mean he did not know who she was.
Questions swarmed.

How did he find her? She lived so far away that she did not receive
mail except through the post office. She went into town infrequently and had very little interaction with the locals. Most of the locals avoided
her anyway; they weren't interested in the 'recluses' living in the woods.

He had also known where to
park and how to break into her home, which suggested he might know the area. Was he a real estate
agent? The sheriff? The last homeowner? But she didn't think any of them knew about her
writing…

So who did? Of course, Kennedy and Leigh, but they wouldn't give out her information to
anyone. Especially Kennedy… God forbid that the woman lose her primary bread-winner! Perhaps her accountant? No reason for him to expose her; the breach of privacy would cost his
license. Who else? Steve was out of the picture and her parents, although they were aware of her desire to write, had passed away before her first book was published.

The bouncing car jarred her back to reality and she was pressed back against the seat with a
sense of climbing a steep hill. It did not seem as though they had been traveling for very long,
but then again, time often flew by without recollection as to where it had gone whenever she disappeared inside her head… The sounds and surface of the road had gone from smooth and quiet to bumpy, loud, and gritty. Regan tensed
her muscles to prevent being flung off the broad seat. There was an abrupt turn to the left, and
then
the car slowed to a stop.

“Where are we?” she asked timidly as the driver turned off the ignition.

“Your new home for the next few days.
Excited?” the man asked from the front seat.

“No, you asshole! I'm terrified!” Regan snapped. Immediately, she disbelieved she had dared to display such behavior, given her present circumstances. “I'm sorry!” she immediately stated. “Please, don't hurt me!”

“That really was not very nice, young lady. Not after all
the loving care I gave you to make sure you
were comfortable,” he tsked. Regan heard his door open and the sound of his footsteps on the
loose rocks below heavy, booted feet.
He wore boots
—another clue.