Eleven
Allison Cartwright was in a pickle. The dill of all dills, she thought. The big, fat sour kind sold in American delicatessens, known for making one’s face pucker. She might as well be making that expression right now.
Her temporary visa would be expiring soon, and she didn’t want to return to her family’s sheep farm in Kenmare, Ireland, bleating like a lost lamb.
Presently, she sat in the passenger seat of an Uber car. The driver had picked her up at her apartment in Dallas, Texas, and was taking her to the exclusive Bellamy resort in Royal, Texas.
On this hot summer afternoon, she’d donned a sleeveless blouse and a long, pleated skirt with side pockets. Her deep red hair was smooth and straight, and her fair skin was scrubbed clean. Although she’d gotten used to thinking of herself as more plain than pretty, she sometimes wondered what being the sophisticated type would be like. But she had plenty of other things, besides her lack of glamour, to occupy her mind.
As the vehicle advanced on the interstate highway that led to Royal, she glanced down at her cowgirl-style boots with their brown leather, blue stitching and pointed toes. She’d purchased them when she first arrived in Texas, and this was where she wanted to stay. Even as a child, she’d been consumed with America, most specifically Texas, studying about it every chance she got. She’d always dreamed of living here.
During her teenage years, she helped out on her family’s farm and took online writing courses. Once she became an adult, she sold magazine articles to a variety of publications. But she also had a regular job, waiting tables in a popular tourist spot. She worked her tail off, saving practically everything she earned so she could visit the States one day and write an epic novel with a dashing Texas hero.
Then, just this year, she’d had an affair with the worst person imaginable, a handsome rancher and businessman who’d charmed her from the first moment he’d come into the restaurant. She’d followed him here to Texas with romantic notions and had spent three months growing closer to the man she’d known as Will Sanders. But that wasn’t who he was. About a month ago, she’d learned that his real name was Rich Lowell. By then, he was gone, completely out of her life. But that was a complex situation, too. When they were still together, she’d been informed that he’d been killed in a plane crash.
The funeral had been horrific. But the kicker? The real Will Sanders had shown up, walking straight into the service and stunning everyone in attendance. Allison had been shocked beyond belief, particularly when she’d discovered the truth. At the time, she’d thought the man who’d died, the man with whom she’d had an affair, was Will Sanders.
The impostor had even stolen Will’s face, altering his appearance to look just like him. Allison wasn’t privy to the details of where Will had been during the nearly two years that Rich had taken over his life. But she’d been supplied with enough information to know that Will had been recovering from injuries Rich had inflicted upon him.
At this point, Rich was presumed dead. But while the case was still under investigation, the people who’d attended the funeral had been warned to keep what they knew among themselves. For however long it took to fit the pieces altogether, the authorities wanted Will to stay out of sight and “play” dead, as if there had only ever been one Will Sanders all along.
In some ways, Allison felt like a ghost, too, floating around with her pain. Fool that she was, she’d given the impostor her life savings, right along with a piece of her naive heart.
But she was venturing forward, one cautious step at a time. She’d received an anonymous note to meet with someone at 2:00 p.m. today at the statue of Diana in the gardens of The Bellamy. In part the note read: I heard that your visa is set to expire. Do you want a green card? If you do, I have an interesting proposal for you. Yours, Mr. X.
She had no idea who this Mr. X was or where he’d heard about her visa or what made him assume that she might want a green card. He could have come to her home since he obviously knew her address, having sent her the note. But he’d invited her to meet in a public place instead. She hoped that meant he wasn’t a raving lunatic.
However, just in case, she was armed with a can of pepper spray in her right skirt pocket. Also, she figured that in an establishment like The Bellamy with security on staff, she could scream if he tried to accost her. Allison intended to be extra careful. Still, this was a risk, meeting a stranger and making herself vulnerable to him.
But damn it, she wanted a green card more than ever, especially after everything she’d been through. Forging ahead was a means of gaining her independence and restoring her self-worth, of not letting the man who’d broken her heart and stolen her money destroy what was left of her already fractured spirit.
Determined to stay strong, she glanced out the window, preparing for her meeting with Mr. X.
When she arrived at the hotel, she thanked the driver and exited the car. Making haste, she entered the lobby and checked her smartphone for the time. She had twenty minutes to spare.
She went over to the concierge and retrieved a map of the resort so she could make her way to the statue. The Bellamy sat on fifty-plus acres of lavish gardens. She wasn’t going to wander the grounds without direction.
Thankfully, the marble statue was easy to find. As Allison crossed the lawn, she spotted it in the distance. Diana, the Roman goddess of the hunt, the moon, and nature, proved strong and beautiful, reaching for an arrow from her quiver.
But it wasn’t only Diana that Allison saw. As she moved closer, she noticed a tall, striking man. He stood in front of the statue, with his stylishly messy black hair shining in the sun, and he was dressed in a button-down shirt and business tie. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, and with how powerful his aura was, he could’ve been daring the goddess to hand over one of her prized arrows to him.
Allison’s breaths grew labored. He wasn’t looking her way. His head was turned, his profile thrillingly familiar. Even from this range, she recognized him as Rand Gibson. He was closely associated with the real Will Sanders, and like Allison, he’d been at the funeral when all hell had broken loose.
Rand turned, all too suddenly, and appeared to catch sight of her from across the grass that separated them. She hoped that she didn’t lose her footing and fall flat on her bum. Rand was a local celebrity of sorts, a much-talked-about millionaire playboy with a huge social media following. In her mind, he would make the quintessential book hero, the wild type who made women swoon. Even she had the maddest crush on him, and considering her latest ordeal, she shouldn’t be having crushes on anyone.
In the real world, she barely knew Rand. Over the past month, since Will’s funeral, they’d crossed paths a few times at the Texas Cattleman’s Club here in Royal. Allison wasn’t a member of the club. She’d been invited to go there by Megan Phillips, one of the other women who’d been hurt by Rich Lowell. But for now Allison was immersed in the mystery
