Who Are You?: A life in danger. A race against time.
New ebook short: a gripping drama with a stunning twist from a master storytellerMargo, a high-flying political consultant based in Chicago, has made her name helping others, but now she’s the one in trouble. She is just about to board a plane with her husband, Jack, when he suddenly disappears. As Margo frantically attempts to find out what’s happened to Jack, she begins to discover how little she knows about the man she’s married. Lies, betrayal and double-crossing shock to the core – who can she trust?
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BARBARA TAYLOR BRADFORD
Who Are You?
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2016
Copyright © Barbara Taylor Bradford 2016
Cover design by Heike Schüssler © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2016
Cover photographs © Elisabeth Ansley / Arcangel Images; Shutterstock.com (sky).
Barbara Taylor Bradford asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Ebook Edition © August 2016 ISBN: 9780007503421
Version: 2017-10-25
Table of Contents
They were running late, as usual.
Before Jack, Margo’s life had been a model of organization. Reports were in before they were due, Christmas shopping finished by November. She was in her chair five minutes early for a meeting, ten minutes if the meeting was with the Senator.
But then, before Jack, she wasn’t really living.
She could have resisted this morning when he lured her back into that tangle of warmth and love. But what woman in her right mind would turn down an extra half hour in Jack McCarthy’s arms just to arrive at the airport with time to spare?
Certainly not Margo.
It was one of those typical Chicago winter days. The predominant colour was grey. The leaden sky was grey, the buildings were grey, spattered by salt and sand from the roads. Even the old snow was grey. An icy wind was blowing in off the lake and no amount of layering could keep the chill from biting into the bones.
But to Margo, snuggled next to Jack in the taxi, the world seemed painted in primary colours. She was oblivious to cold. She knew that in six hours she would be lying in the sun on the coast of Mexico celebrating what had been the happiest year of her life. If they didn’t miss the plane.
The taxi skidded to a stop at the terminal. Jack stuffed a handful of bills into the driver’s hand and they were out of the taxi instantly. They breezed through security and raced down one of the endless concourses for which O’Hare Airport was famous, suitcases careening behind them on tiny wheels.
Jack ran effortlessly, his well-travelled trench coat billowing behind him like a cape. Margo, on the other hand, was panting like a golden retriever.
‘So much for all that fitness training I’ve been doing,’ she gasped. ‘Who knew thirty would turn out to be the new ninety?’
‘Thirty never looked better,’ Jack answered. ‘But jogging on a treadmill is not the same as running in a heavy coat dragging an over-packed suitcase.’
He grabbed Margo’s bag and took charge of it without missing a stride.
‘Nothing in there but a few bikinis,’ Margo wheezed.
Jack winked at her. ‘Like I said … over-packed.’
Margo, doubling her effort to keep up, managed to sneak a peek at her husband as he ran ahead of her. As usual, a small thrill wormed its way straight to her core.
He had sandy hair that invariably looked as if he had just crawled out of bed, which in this case he had. His square jaw was interrupted by a cleft in his chin. He had a Roman nose that had been broken more than once and a thin white scar snaked its way from his ear to his throat. Battle scars from some undisclosed conflict, she guessed.
Rather than marring his looks, these imperfections somehow managed to make him more attractive. At thirty-six, he had a body that was steel-strong and his deep blue eyes held many secrets. Not from Margo. They had no secrets from each other.
The loudspeaker crackled. ‘Flight 363, non-stop to Puerto Vallarta, is now boarding at gate 57.’
‘That’s us,’ Margo said.
