Total pages in book: 163
Estimated words: 154735 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 619(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 154735 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 619(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
A pair of taillights was following its way along, glowing red until the car was consumed by darkness as it surmounted the little ridge.
Devina walked forward and passed through the iron barricade, the coldness of the metal causing her body to shiver as the shafts penetrated her and came out her back side.
Striding forward, she wanted her stilettos to make a sound as an auditory way of pissing on fences, but Lash wasn’t going to appreciate her following him so she kept herself completely camo’d. As far as he knew, they’d gone their separate ways: After she’d gotten him into a very nice suit, and executed the tailoring with an I-Dream-of-Jeannie snap of the fingers, he’d taken off from the Saks.
But she’d slipped a lock of her own hair into his breast pocket.
So if he had the jacket on, he was as good as microchipped.
Cresting the rise herself, she stopped and felt her inner Zillow swoon. The grand house was a lovely sprawl, with two wings extending out from a central core, the whole of it painted a pale yellow, its shutters and doors black, its roof deep-gray slate. Discreet upward-focused lighting enhanced the visual impact, as did the approach of the driveway through mature plantings and full-time-gardener-maintained flower beds.
“What a money shot,” she murmured as she checked out the drapery-framed windows.
There appeared to be about seven thousand lamps in the place, and all of them were on, beacons of sunlight fighting back the darkness inside and out. And yup, wow, the interiors were professionally decorated, none of the hodgepodge, happy-hands-at-home stuff she supposed she’d have been surprised to see in such spread: This estate was not just venerable, it was lived in by humans who had money and knew how to spend it.
Or had inherited all those antiques.
The silver Mercedes sedan that had gone through the gates ahead of her pulled up right in front. After a pause, both the driver’s and passenger’s side doors opened.
And what a suit it was.
As Lash extended his powerful frame out of the car, his blond hair caught the glow that surrounded the mansion, and she refreshed her very keen memory of what she had picked out for him. The Tom Ford was the color of all that slate, a resonant gray that perfectly complemented the aura of power he gave off, and the double-breasted, double-vented cut was traditional—the subtle black stripe was not. And neither was the open collar of the fine white cotton shirt.
He looked wealthy. As if he could afford a place like this.
“Well, here we are, Mr. LeRoi,” the woman said. “Quite an impressive exterior, don’t you think? The sellers are motivated, but cognizant that whoever purchases the property should be… how do we say, appropriate for the neighborhood. They’ve entrusted me with the listing, but of course I can represent your interests with proper disclosures. Shall we go in?”
As the smooth voice carried over on the breeze, the only thing that saved the real estate agent’s life was the fact that she was over sixty and had had a bad facelift. Jesus, she looked like she’d been in a car accident and gotten put back together by a pathology resident.
Well, and then there was the fact that Lash completely ignored her. Hell, he didn’t even acknowledge her dumbass rhetorical.
“I’ll just—ah.” The agent looked back and forth between him and the front door. “I’ll just open us up, shall I? You know, I must point out that we’re very happy to provide this kind of after-hours service for clients such as yourself. Please keep us in mind for your colleagues?”
The woman double-checked with him one last time, and got nothing, not even a nod. So she walked up a handful of marble steps and worked some kind of locking system, the entry’s matched set of brass lanterns bathing her in a pool of light that was not kind to that puss with all its pulls at the ears and along the hairline at the forehead.
Meanwhile, Lash just stared at the central portion of the house, his hands in the pockets of the slacks, his weight back on his heels. As he was mostly facing away, Devina changed her position, materializing off to the side.
She was surprised when she got a look at him. His perfect profile seemed tense. But he had set this appointment up, and it wasn’t like he couldn’t conjure the money.
Was it possible he missed her?
The thought was a tantalizing relief—and as she replayed how they’d fucked in the men’s department… well, clearly she was under his skin in a way that had shit-all to do with a spell.
Lash wanted her. And he hated it.
If that wasn’t the basis for every one of her best relationships, she didn’t know what was. So yes, maybe it was time to let the spell go… and take another approach.