Assuming Names: a con artist's masquerade (Criminal Mischief Book 1) by Tanya Thompson Page A

shook his head, said, “Stop,” and nearly laughed. “You no like,” he took the glass from my hand and put it back on the table. “I have his work book,” he opened his hands like the pages were large. “Picture,” he licked the imaginary image like a stamp and slapped it into one hand. “Same with military book.”
    “And then?”
    He was pressing me into the arm of the couch again, but I was spellbound and hardly noticed until he put his hand on the back of my neck, preventing me from withdrawing further. He brushed his lips over mine, testing my resistance, but I was waiting to hear how it was done, so let him force a kiss on me to hear him say, “I go home,” then blocked his hand from my breast while he continued, “I say to asylum camp, ‘I am Român. My name is Sergiu.’” I was ducking to the side when he said, “I speak romaneste. Is no problem.”
    It sounded sublimely simple, making me think I had really messed things up in my attempt to get new identification. And it was too late for me now; the sheriff’s department, the FBI, DEA, and Interpol all had my fingerprints. I was tearing everything apart in my head, trying to figure out if there was a way I could fix it, or a way to backtrack and attach it, wondering who in the world would do a similar thing for me, thinking hard when the imposter pressing down on me said, “You no ask why.”
    It occurred to me I hadn’t. I turned my face back to him with interest.
    “But you no ask. Why you no ask?”
    “I’m asking now. Tell me why.” He got his arm behind my back and worked to shift me down while I pushed against his chest, smirking, shaking my head to deny him, yet still wanting an answer. “Tell me.”
    He began whispering a story in my ear that convinced me I should never have turned my face back, and if I hoped to reach sixteen, I’d better extricate myself and forget. I started saying, “Okay, that’s enough,” to both the tale and his advancements. Both continued. “No, no, no,” I was trying to keep it light and frivolous, “That’s more than I require.” But there was more. “Okay, really, time for this to end.” Except it didn’t.
    “I want to hear you say my name.”
    “Sure,” I was pushing myself to the side, reaching for the coffee table, leaning for the floor. “Tell me what it is.”
    Something about the way I said it didn’t settle right with him. He yanked me back, shaking his head, annoyed, on the cusp of becoming angry. His expression was irritated but his voice was formal, “What is your name?”
    It sounded like it came out of an English phrase book. I thought he wanted me to reword my question, so I spoke with indulgence, “Fine. What is your name?”
    “No. What is your name?”
    I nearly repeated it again with sincerity before realizing he was asking me. I reached for the top of the couch, trying to pull myself up, laughing it away. “You know my name.”
    “No,” and he slammed me back into the cushions. “I think about this. You no care my name. You only want to know how I get name Sergiu. You want new name with passport. You tell me,” his hand was tightening around my neck, “what is your name?”
    This was not expected. I stopped moving, returned my face to dead calm with coma eyes, except this time there was no hint of a smile. I looked down over my body under his with contempt and asked, “Would you like to get off me now?”
    The confrontation took a moment but he finally looked away, removed his hand from my throat, started to shift, and I shifted as well. Then he was enraged again and it all went back to the way it was and he was demanding, “What is your name?”
    “Jesus,” I said, and got choked for the sacrilege. “Not my name,” I explained, “God,” and got choked again. “Seriously now, dammit, stop.” Christ .
    “What is your name?”
    “You know my name.”
    “What is your name?”
    “Constance. You know that.”
    “I tell you my name. My name is …”
    “