Taken

Chapter 1

one

“Half my ass is hanging out.” Sophie tugged on silken skirt hem; there really was nothing like wearing a friend’s clothes to remind you of your own shortcomings. “I’m, what, only an inch taller than you?”

“Oh, you look fine.” Lucy shook back her short, sleek dark hair, staring in the rearview to blot her lipstick before reaching for the driver’s side door handle. “You look hot. You oughta miniskirt more often.”

“I prefer job-appropriate attire.” Sophie pushed her glasses up, wishing curls weren’t falling in her eyes.

But no, Lucy insisted she leave her hair down.

The car was nice and warm, so the blast of cold air on her bare legs was shocking.

She pulled the back of the skirt down one more time before closing her own door, and wished she’d just worn jeans.

Jeans covered up a lot. “There’s a dress code, you know.

” And I don’t have anything else in my closet.

Food first, clothes later. That was the rule.

Luce was already tapping one stiletto-heeled foot, eager to set off down cracked sidewalk toward a distant hum of nightlife.

“Oh, please. Battle-Ax Margo wears scrubs all day, business casual be damned. You could too.” She’d squeezed into a short evening-blue sheath that showed her ample curves to advantage; her legs were long and beautiful in a pair of fishnets, ending in those lovely, glittering silver Cinderella-shoes.

Really, spindly stilettos for a whole night of dancing? Lucy had more endurance than Sophie in a lot of areas. Still, Sophie could have a drink, watch everyone making fools of themselves, then catch a cab home.

Cabs were expensive. So were rideshares, but she made do without a smartphone as well.

Lucy slid a warm, smoothly muscled arm through Sophie’s. “Besides, you need to dip your toesies in the dating pool again, sweetheart. It’s been six months since the decree came through. You’re a free woman.”

I wish someone would tell Marc that. “I guess so.”

“Oh, jeez.” Luce’s eyeroll was a wonder of the world. “Come on, Soph.”

“Okay, okay. I’m a free woman.” So long as he can’t find out where I live. Stop worrying so much, dammit. But that was like telling herself to stop breathing. And good God, but she had no intention of ever dipping a toe—or any other appendage—in the dating pool ever again.

Once was more than enough.

They turned left on Broadway, the street suddenly pulsing with neon.

A good proportion of Jasper City’s nightclubs clustered here for warmth, blinking and rollicking to either side of a square bounded by leafless trees and trellises laden with strings of decorative all-weather lights.

More chill wind rushed up Fifth Avenue, teasing at Sophie’s bare legs.

Her back was already unhappy with the low black heels Lucy had talked her into, a familiar pain she put up with during the week but could have happily done without in her off hours. “Why am I doing this again?”

“Because I need to practice my lambada. And it won’t hurt you to get out from under all those books,” Lucy added sharply.

Thank God for you, Luce. Sophie straightened her shirt.

Well, maybe shirt was an ambitious word for a spaghetti-strapped tank top showing too much cleavage as well as a generous slice of midriff—Lucy’s, as well.

Sophie didn’t have anything that satisfied her best and only friend’s exacting standards for a night out.

She had precious few clothes at all, matter of fact, and was furthermore sneakingly glad Luce had rolled right over the top of any objections, bundling Soph into an outfit she didn’t have to buy or wash.

Lucy Cavanaugh wasn’t always the soul of tact, but she almost never referred to Sophie’s economic straits—except to note that Marc had been a bastard, and to lament that Sophie hadn’t taken him to the cleaners.

“I’m having one drink,” Sophie repeated. “And I’ll stay to drive you home. Okay? That means we have to leave at a reasonable hour.” Which would solve the whole problem of getting a cab, too.

I want to get some sleep this weekend. Plus, rent’s almost due. Jeez, can’t even afford to go on a decent drinking binge.

It was certainly pathetic, and almost embarrassing.

“Reasonable?” Lucy’s laugh caroled out again, sweet as silver bells. “What the hell? It’s a Friday night, and you’re out on the town with a smokin’-hot babe. Live a little, honey.”

Luce thought “safety” and “reliability” were both highly overrated. It was one of the things Sophie loved about the woman—and also drove her to tooth-grinding distraction.

Still, Lucy was there when it counted. And she never asked unnecessary questions, even when Sophie showed up at her door, bruised and bleeding, terrified and—

That’s an Unpleasant Thing. Don’t think about it. “Come on. Seriously. I have stuff to do tomorrow.” Like figure out next month’s budget. If they don’t give me some overtime I don’t know how I’ll make it.

“For Chrissake, don’t moan about that right now.” An airy handwave, dismissing all responsible irrelevancies, Lucy’s stack of gold charm bracelets glittering. “Focus on how good we both look instead. Tonight’s gonna be great.”

Their first stop was the Paintbox, looming closer and closer. Pounding music spilled free, multicolored lights glare-flickering, cigarette smoke and sweat exhaling from the crowd jammed near the door.

Everything was fine, but Sophie’s heart was already galloping along uncomfortably hard. It was strange and unsettling to be out in public at night. The sky was too big, and there were too many people to keep track of.

She forced a few long, slow inhales. The therapy books all said deep breathing was key. You couldn’t control a lot of things, but respiration was only semi-autonomic.

For a measly ten bucks on an autumn Friday, every club and bar on Broadway Square forewent the usual door-fee for ladies—and you could get a free drink in most, as a matter of course.

It really wasn’t worth a whole roll of laundry quarters, to Sophie’s mind.

And the thought of so many human beings clustering around made her feel a little nauseous.

Maybe this was a bad idea. She slowed, but Luce was having none of it.

“God, Soph, you’re divorced, not dead. Come on.”

I’m wondering if one is analogous to the other, really.

Sophie made sure Lucy’s keys were in the teensy plastic-jeweled purse at her hip as her bestie piloted them both into blessed muggy warmth full of pounding bass way too loud to be healthy.

The beefy, mustachioed bouncer wolf-whistled; Luce swished her hips in response and laughed.

This is going to be trouble. Sophie sighed, but the sound was lost under music. What the hell, right? Lucy was just being kind. The only friend Soph had left, really, since the others had fallen away at one point or another during the first year of her marriage to an egotistical bastard.

Stop thinking like that. She blinked, keeping balance with a teetering effort as Lucy actually hopped with excitement, aiming them straight for the crush of people around the bar.

The Paintbox’s major attraction was its dance floor, blocks of light turning different colors in time to the beat.

The place was packed already, and only going to get more so as the night wore on.

Sophie kept her arm carefully over the tiny also-borrowed purse—just big enough for ID, keys, cash, and a tube of pale-pink lip gloss—and let her friend set the pace.

Another Unpleasant Thing, and it’s in the Past. Leave it there, for God’s sake. Look at how hard Lucy’s trying.

She plastered a smile on her face and followed her friend, wincing every time the music hit the decibels just before “jet takeoff” level.

It’s going to be a long damn night.