>It's on<

Holy shit. Holy fucking shit. I stare transfixed at the two words on my message app. It's on? Are you kidding me? I touch the contact name.

Rhys Blackstone.

His info comes up. Number. Email. All of it. Just as it was when he typed it into my contacts two years ago after the vintner’s class in Paris. I can still see his face, clean shaven, square jaw, the military hair cut, broad shoulders, big fucking hands holding a wine glass like he could snap it with a twitch.

He was so out of place in that class, like a muscle bound pit bull cross at a toy poodle dog show. Most people in the class avoided him, watching him suspiciously, like he might suddenly turn on us and cause an international incident. All except me and the only other single female in the group, a little bird-like lady who couldn’t have been a day younger than eighty-five. He was such a gentleman to her, opening the door, giving her his arm while touring the vineyard.

The only time he broke contact with her was to come stand by my side as I was inspecting a bunch of grapes, lean down and whisper, "You're spending the night with me.” I stood up, shocked. He grinned, nice and slow, a sinful light shining in his whiskey eyes. "Just thought you should know."

That was his pick-up line. And...he was right—the jerk—I spent an amazing, crazy, wickedly hot night with the man before he was deployed off the continent; some special opps something or other. We didn't talk shop. Nope. No work talk, no history. Nothing. The only sharing we did was to relay our favorite fantasies—of the sexual variety, of course.

That was the last I heard from him. Yep. It may have been just over two years ago, but I can still hear him; his voice...kind of gravelly; so deep, but soft too. Like crushed velvet. At least that's how I remember it. Maybe because he spent the majority of the night whispering naughty stuff in my ear. Constantly. Telling me what he was going to do to me moments before he'd do it. Then he'd do it and while he was doing it he'd inform me about the stuff he was going to do next.

I’m going to stroke that sweet pussy of yours until you’re drenched and quivering in my hand, only then will I fuck you…

The man left me spent, boneless, completely and utterly satiated. I remember lying there, spread-eagled, watching him dress and just when he was about to leave, he pulled me out of bed, gently sweeping my sex crazed hair away from my ear. "When I text, it's on, you will come to me. Do you understand?"

"Bossy," I joked, playfully slapping his chest.

Taking my hand, he tugged me upright, so I was forced onto tippy toes, and gave me this stern, authoritative glare, making my knees knock and my tummy tighten, it gave me an inkling into the badass military man he could be. "I’m not kidding, Tessa."

His severe expression and rigid grip shocked me and I remember trying to tug my hand out of his grasp but there was no budging him. I remember thinking, much like the wine stem, he could snap my wrist with little to no effort at all.

"What is this?" I asked trying to sound tough but missing the mark by a mile.

"It's your fantasy." Then he smiled and his demeanor changed completely as he kissed me soundly and walked out of my life.

Until today.

Until this text.

All of it, the memory of the night, the semi-thrilled, semi-scared, semi-put off feelings return as I remember that night. Of course, I recall anticipating his text in the days that followed. Watching for it. Both wanting it and not wanting it. Imagining how it'd go, how he'd be, which fantasy of mine he'd choose to enact, feeling hot and cold about the whole thing, checking my phone again and again.

When after a month I still hadn’t heard from him, I reminded myself he was involved in an operation of some sort, could be gone for months. When a year went by, I figured that was it. Rhys Blackstone was simply a fun interlude, an interesting man who was one part wine aficionado and ten parts muscle bound military. Who knew where he was and whether he even remembered me.

I check the text again.

>It's on.<

My stomach does a complete flip because there's a new message beneath it. An address. Somewhere in California. I click on the address in order to see the map of the location. It's in Napa.

"Shit," I whisper to myself. A cool tickle travels from the base of my spine up between my shoulder blades resting at the nape of my neck. Gripping. Kind of like Rhys’s hand when he was fucking me from behind. The immediate visual that flashes through my mind makes me shiver, the tingling sensation spreading around my shoulders to the front of my throat. We’d only known each other for a couple of days. Only spent one night together, and yet two years later the man still has this crazy effect on me.

I glance at the clock on the wall beside the departure gate. Boarding to New York should start in about twenty minutes. I can see the plane out the window and I'm sure my bags are being loaded into the cargo space at this very moment. I should ignore the text and continue with my current plans to go to New York where I’ve got a contract starting next week.

I really shouldn’t even consider going to Napa.

My phone pings again.

>You've got 24 hours<

It’s many hours later, after checking into a local bed and breakfast, showering and dressing carefully, that I drive up the long and winding lane to the address Rhys sent. The property is nestled in the Mayacama Mountains, an isolated corner of wine country between Sonoma and Napa, but by the gorgeous scenery and remoteness of the area, I feel as if I could be in Tuscany or Provence, rather than in the United States. The estate was obviously once a winery, with large outbuildings, restaurant and tasting room and an enormous villa that looks like a crumbling remnant from another era.

“What the hell, Rhys?” I mutter to myself, parking at the end of the drive. There are no other cars around. The place is completely abandoned.

>Not Bad, Tessa Savage. Still three hours to spare.<

With a hand to my forehead, I gaze around the property, looking for some sign of Rhys before typing, <Where the hell are you?>

My phone vibrates in my hand. >Follow the steps up to the house. The door is open. On the second floor is a room with the door ajar. Go there and wait for instructions<

I don’t reply right away. My mind is too busy playing over scenarios. What did I tell him that night? What fantasy is he playing on. Possibilities flit through my mind as I lean against the car, vaguely listening to the sound of birds chirping from nearby trees and the distant rumble of a plane flying by. The normalcy of the sounds settle my nervous stomach. No, not nervous. Excited? Anxious?

>You have five minutes to comply<

What?

I quickly type, <What happens if I don’t?>

>This will be the last communication you will get from me<

He’s here somewhere. Watching me. God! A part of me—a pretty damn big part of me—thinks I should hop right back into my rental and drive away. However…another part of me—a small but significant part—feels ripe for whatever it is Rhys has in mind.

My pulse races and my skin flushes with the anticipation of that thing. Blindfolds? Bondage? Something else? Definitely sex…

>Four minutes<

Shit. I grab my overnight bag out of the trunk and make my way up the stairs. Not only am I out of breath from the climb, I’m out of breath from wondering what the hell is going on. I reread the instructions on the text and follow the unkempt walk to the sprawling Spanish style mansion. Vines overtake the front walls barely leaving space for the large double doors that look like they haven’t been opened in years. They open, however, and I’m greeted by a vast foyer with curved stairs leading up to the second level. There are a few articles of furniture but what is there is covered in drop cloths giving the mansion a ghostly air.

Holy shit, what have I gotten myself into?

My phone pings. >Two minutes<

With a hand to my churning tummy, I climb the stairs and once at the top, peer down the dimly lit hall. Halfway down there is beam of light coming from an open doorway. What am I going to find there? Will Rhys be there? Is that where he’s waiting for me? What will I do when I see him? What will he do when he sees me? I want to run—no—sprint down the hall to Rhys and throw myself in his arms. I also want to race right back out the front door.

Instead, I make my way, slowly, to the open doorway and pause.

The room is totally and completely out of place in that it does not have the abandoned atmosphere, like the rest of the house. It is beautifully furnished with a large canopied bed taking up the center of the room. An open window leads out onto a small balcony overlooking the front of the property. The space is light and airy, the bedding, white and comfy and the room is decorated with well crafted, antique furniture. It’s something out of a fairytale. Or someone’s imagination. There is something so familiar about this room and all its details, the creamy paint, the hairbrush on the bureau, the robe hanging by the bathroom. Like I’m coming home to a room I designed myself. Like it’s my room.

But no Rhys.

I go to the window and the view from the balcony is stunning. From where I stand I can see the road, the out buildings, the low, forested mountains bathed in sunshine. There’s a pond with a dock and boat tethered to it and then there is the row upon row of grapevines that have not been tended in years.

My phone pings again and the sound makes me jump.

>You cut that close.<

<What’s going on? Where are you?>

>There are clothes laid out on the bed. Put them on.<

<Why?>

>Do as you’re told and you’ll find out<

I wander to the bed and pick up the carefully folded garment. It’s a dress made of the lightest cotton, so fine, it has the texture of silk. The top is a fitted bodice with pearl buttons that run up the front. The skirts are billowing and full and when I hold it up against myself, it comes just past my knees. There is a pair of white, lace panties—virginal and sexy all at once—and some soft, leather shoes that look more like ballet flats than proper shoes.

I’ll be wearing a white dress, flowing skirts—I don’t know why—that’s the image I have in my mind…

Holy fuck.

This is my fantasy alright. It takes me a moment to catch my breath as I stare at the dress, the memory of what I told Rhys echoing in my mind. Without making the conscious decision to play along, I find myself slowly removing my clothes and shimmying into the panties. Then I pull the dress over my head and button up the pearls. God, I feel like some woman out of the nineteen twenties or thirties in this dress. The design is exquisite, the material is soft and light and the fit is perfect. The shoes fit as if they were hand stitched for my feet.

How did Rhys do it? How does he know my size? How does he remember all the details of what I told him that night? We spent two days together—only one of which was spent in bed. Has he been watching me? Following me? What the hell?

I should feel violated.

I don’t.

I check the room for signs of cameras, having no idea what I’m looking for, anything out of place, I guess.

An envelope sitting on the top of the antique dressing table is out of place. It has my name printed in bold capitals. I open the flap and inside find a very small, flesh colored ear bud. I turn it over in my hand before inserting it carefully into my right ear.

Within seconds Rhys’s distinct, gravelly voice is in my head. “Hello, Tessa.”

“Hi Rhys,” I whisper. It’s so weird speaking to an empty room, an empty mansion, like I’m talking to a ghost.

“I’m glad you came.”

“Where are you?”

“Nearby.”

“Let me see you.”

“No.”

I swallow with difficulty. “Why?”

“It’s your fantasy. Don’t you remember describing it for me?”

“Yes.” I press a hand to my chest, trying to quell the racing heart beating fiercely inside. “But, I didn’t think—”

“I’d remember?” Silence. “Of course I remember.”

Suddenly it feels like there isn’t enough air in the room. Suddenly my harried heart is out of control, like a caged animal overcome by the closeness and constriction of the bars. Suddenly I realize the difference between fantasy and reality.

“Every room and building on the property is open to you. There’s an electric fence that skirts the seven hundred acres of land so you’ll know the boundaries…if you get that far. There are plenty of places to hide.”

“Rhys…” his name trails off as I struggle to draw breath.

“I’m giving you a twenty minute head start.”

I collapse onto the edge of the bed, my legs feeling like noodles, my hands shaking. But Rhys is still there, in my head, his voice quiet and low. Sexy. Exciting…menacing. “I suggest you run.”