Free Mistaken Identity (Women's Fantasies) by Giselle Renarde Page B

younger. Now? Eternal brain fog.
    “Look, you’ve got the wrong person.” Brenda felt strangely calm now that she’d cried herself dry. “You’re looking for some Mitzi lady. Maybe I look like her, I don’t know, but my name is Brenda. Brenda Jones. Not Mitzi. My husband is not a mob boss. He’s just some boring old guy who watches TV and eats chips and barely gives me the time of day.”
    Oops. She hadn’t meant to say that last bit.
    The agents, or whatever they were, exchanged odd glances in the rear-view mirror. Green looked like she had a bright idea. Red looked like he knew what it was and didn’t want her to do it.
    “Can I see your badges?” Brenda asked, like it was an afterthought—because, really, it was.
    Red said, “That won’t be necessary.”
    If Green had answered, Brenda would have kicked up a fuss. But she obeyed Red. His voice was so deep and commanding that it resonated in her pelvis.
    As they sped across the city, Brenda marvelled at the ridiculousness of this situation. She felt like she was in a movie—a comedy about a middle-aged working wife getting abducted by FBI agents who inexplicably mistook her for someone else. It beggared belief, didn’t it?
    Maybe … no, couldn’t be. For a split second, she wondered if Danny had set this up. Back when they used to talk about their sexual fantasies, her list-topper had always been a kidnapping. She’d never considered being swept away by law enforcement officials, but she liked the angle. Kudos to Danny, if this was his doing.
    No . How silly did that sound? Her husband arranged to have her thrown into a town car and abducted by Red and Green? Although, it sounded silly as a life event, too. Sounded like a dream. Maybe she’d sneezed in the restaurant bathroom and hit her head on that dark marble countertop?
    “Getting close,” Red said, closing the opaque divider.
    “Getting close to what?” she asked Green. Their eyes met, the woman’s striking beauty gave her a funny, tingling feeling.
    Green shoved something over her head—a bag, or a toque.
    Brenda’s centre of gravity shifted with the car’s every turn. Her blindness seemed to exacerbate the motions.
    The car came to a screeching halt, and Brenda shifted forward on the seat. Between her legs, a throbbing sensation took over. Arousal. She recognized it, from long-long ago.
    A door opened. Humid summer air stuck to her skin.
    Red said, “Quick. Let’s get her inside.”
    “Where?” Brenda asked as he wrapped a powerful hand around her arm and pulled her from the car. “Where are we?”
    Her feet met gravel. Rocks knocked against her hard soles, then the surface smoothed. A sidewalk? Driveway? Nope. The metallic digging sound of a key in a lock, then the squeal of a door opening. Dim light. Ugh, lemon cleanser masked the dense odors of mildew and piss.
    “Where am I?” Brenda asked, feeling panicked now.
    They didn’t answer.
    “Cuff her to the chair,” Green said.
    Her knees were bent and her arms poked through what felt like iron bars. Red unlocked the handcuffs and secured them again. It all happened too fast to process.
    When the thing on her head came off, her eyes adjusted quickly to the dank motel room: a boxy television chained to a scuffed dresser that would have gone out of fashion in the 70s. The bed was probably that old too, and she cringed to think how many bodily fluids had soaked into the floral bedspread.
    “I’ll call it in.” Red paced the room, pulling the curtains even though they were already closed. He swept his phone out of his pants pocket and dialled. “Safe on arrival.”
    Green stood eerily still, with her arms crossed beneath her breasts. “I’ve got your number, Mitzi.”
    “I’m not Mitzi.” At this point, she was even starting to question herself. Was she really Brenda Jones? Maybe Danny was a mob boss. Maybe she was Mitzi Antonelli, and she didn’t even know it.
    No, that was dumb. Of course she wasn’t. She shook her