“Coming!” I hollered, tugging on my sneakers. “Just a sec!”
It was probably Jamie, coming over to check on the puppy. Or Gwen, thinking I needed a ride to work. Or Sally, dropping off cheesecake. Or a Mormon missionary, attempting to convert me.
The doorbell went again.
I waved goodbye to Socks, who was happily making a mess of a rawhide bone in the middle of the living room, and yanked open the door. “Sorry, sorry. I was?—”
My words dried up.
Gwen wasn’t standing on the porch.
Neither was Florence.
Or Georgia.
Or Sally.
Or Agatha.
Or even Jamie-the-dog-walker.
It was a man. A man with thick, dark hair and sultry bedroom eyes. A man in an expensive wool suit. (Which, I might add, was way too tight for him, exposing his ankles and hugging his chest muscles in a ridiculous way that I’m sure he thought was the pinnacle of fashion.) A man who, when our gazes snagged, looked at me like he wanted to rip my throat out with his bare hands.
“Adrian,” I breathed.
His fist cocked back and, before I could even attempt to duck, he punched me square in the face.
I was out cold before I hit the floor.
* * *
I came to as I was being dragged down Cade’s front steps, toward a bright red Ferrari that was idling by the curb.Of courseAdrian drove the most ostentatious car on the market. It practically screamed “I’m rich!” in a desperate sort of way that wasn’t fooling anybody. I’d told him as much, back when we were dating. He’d not taken the slight in stride. (i.e.He shattered an heirloom Tiffany lamp on the floor in a fit of rage.)
I had no desire to be kidnapped. Not ever. But I definitely did not care to be kidnapped in a freaking Ferrari the color of a Cheeto.
Not.
Freaking.
Happening.
“Let go of me!” I screeched, starting to struggle as we reached the walkway. “I mean it, Adrian! Let me go!”
“Shut the fuck up!”
“I willnot!” I elbowed blindly at his gut. “Shut!”I clawed the length of his arm. “The fuck!”My heel connected hard with his shin. “Up!”
“Had about enough of your shit, dollface.” He grunted in pain as I landed another kick to his leg. “Making me drive all the way up here…”
“I didn’t make you do anything!” I snapped, furious. “How did you even find me?”
“Gotta admit, those automated search alerts are handy as fuck. You popped into my inbox a few days back. Two clicks and I had you,” he said, voice somewhat labored as he struggled to haul me down the walk. “Imogen Warner, brand new psychic at some shop in Salem. Your picture and everything, right there on the page.”
Damn.
I kept struggling, but his hold was like iron.
“Couldn’t be that easy, I thought. No fucking way.” He scoffed again, still dragging me toward the curb. We were close, now. “Then, I called. And, surprise surprise, who answers the fucking phone?”