You can walk into any room of people and find someone with something similar, or the same as you. (Well usually.) A birthday, the same name—sometimes more than one name the same—same parents’ names, education, employment. You name it, these coincidences occur more often than you’d think.
But the chances of it being more than one of those things are a lot lower. You might both be called Rose and were both born on 28th April, but you probably aren’t both named Rose Ellen Grant and work as teachers.
But what if you were?
Obviously it’s a lot more likely if you’re a Susan Smith or John Jones and you do a job that is universally popular, than if you’re Araminta Lovett and Peregrine Crompton. And it’s definitely a lot more likely if you’re a Jones in Wales or A MacDonald in Scotland.
However, it happens.
Usually it’s a coincidence and all is okay.
But what if it isn’t?
What if someone turns up on your doorstep asking for someone of your name, who lives—allegedly—at your address?
Then to make things worse, shares every facet of your life? Is it coincidence, or is it maybe something much more sinister?
Just the other day, I heard yet another horror story, about how some ruthless criminals managed to get hold of the details of an elderly lady’s store account, change the delivery address and run up a sizeable bill.
How do you cope with that?
We read of passports stolen, bank details ditto, and oh so many horrible, similar tricks.
This got me to thinking how many people in the world could be so very like you, but not you—even down to hair colour, eye colour, hating cheese and pickles and unable to ride a bike, or some such thing. And you can only hope its real, not made up, and no one gets you mixed up. Especially if your doppelganger is into drug smuggling or bigamy.
I’d hazard a guess most of us go through life never knowing how many Susan Smiths (or Raven McAllans) with the same eyes, hair and birthday as us there are. Probably doing the same job and even living close by. Just check any phone book and see the list of names the same.
Because it doesn’t matter, apart from, to us, the novelty value.
But to have a man demand to see his wife, who had your name and allegedly lives in your house, goes one step further.
It’s not surprising both Gray and Jules wonder what on earth is going on…
Blurb for Taken Identity:
If someone steals your identity and marries a sex god and that sex god husband shows up at your door…do you get to keep him?
Jules has no memory of marrying a sex god—and no woman is that forgetful.
So when the devastatingly handsome Gray turned up on her doorstep looking for his wife and calling said wife by Jules’ name, Jules wondered briefly if she’d landed in an alternative universe. She knows she’s not his wife and so does he, but apparently someone with her name and history is. Is it a case of coincidence or did his missing wife ‘borrow’ Jules’ life?
Even though the dominant Gray sends her knickers aflame with just one look, with a missing wife in the equation, Jules knows there’s no chance of finding out what else he could achieve.
There’s only one thing to do—unravel the mystery and try to keep their hands off each other in the meantime. The first may well prove far easier than the latter.
Reader Advisory: This book contains scenes of light bondage and BDSM.
Publisher’s Note: This book was previously published elsewhere. It has been revised and re-edited for release with Totally Bound.
Excerpt From Taken Identity:
Jules stopped in front of the mirror and checked just what her uninvited caller might see when he looked at her.
Typically Celt, she thought ruefully as she eyed her red corkscrew curls, green eyes, pale skin that never tanned properly and the myriad of freckles sprinkled over her nose. Never was she going to be a page three girl—Thank goodness. But, as her mother used to say, “What you’ve got is all yours!” Her strappy vest was now covered with a long, fluffy jumper, and her feet had striped socks on. Not haute couture but warm and serviceable.
Jules checked that her dad’s old, sturdy golf umbrella was tucked away in its usual place in the hallway—for poking her visitor, if need be—then slipped the chain on before she opened the door as far as the security measure allowed. A foot immediately inserted itself into the gap.
“Congratulations,” Jules said sarcastically. “A bit slow last time, weren’t you? But be warned, Mr. Reynard, that’s as far as you’ll get. An expert fixed this chain. Now, if you look to the window on your right, I’ll show you my passport.”
Jules could almost hear his teeth grinding. Too bad. She had no intention of handing her passport to a stranger. For any reason. She moved to the side of the door where a small window brought a little more natural light into her otherwise darkish hallway and pressed the photograph page of her passport to the glass. Her—what? Intruder? Unwanted visitor? —moved slightly, without taking his foot from the door opening and leaned toward the glass. After long seconds, he stood back with a bewildered expression. He blinked, and tiny lines radiated out from the corners of his eyes. Then he shook his head.
“Ah…” He stopped speaking and shrugged.
“Satisfied?” Try as she might, Jules couldn’t keep the satisfied note out of her voice. “I, Mr. Reynard, am I! Julia Frances Frayne. Spinster of this parish. Do you need anything else?”
“Yes, actually. I want my wife. Julia Frayne.” His voice was no longer sharp. More bewildered. She could understand that. After all, it wasn’t a common set of names to be found together.
Like the sound of Taken Identity? Buy it here.
About Raven McAllan:
A multi-published author of erotic romance, Raven lives in Scotland, along with her husband and their two cats—their children having flown the nest—surrounded by beautiful scenery, which inspires a lot of the settings in her books.
She is used to sharing her life with the occasional deer, red squirrel, and lost tourist, to say nothing of the scourge of Scotland—the midge. As once she is writing she is oblivious to everything else, her lovely long-suffering husband is learning to love the dust bunnies, work the Aga, and be on stand-by with a glass of wine.
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