Live For Me (Blurred Lines #2)(11)
Author: Erin McCarthy

Verbs. Etre. Aller. Avoir.

I liked the rhythm of the language. I didn’t think I was actually learning a damn word, but it filled the house with sound. It was the one thing I had expected to love about living alone, the lack of noise. And I did. But it also echoed around me, foreign and profound. So I almost always had music or the TV on.

As for the mental solitude, hell, I was used to that. Gram hadn’t been good company. She had never once asked me how I was or for my opinion. Being away from her just allowed me the ability to indulge in doing whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted. It rocked. I was pretty sure that I couldn’t be any happier, ever. I knew I was going to have to stick to my plan to save my money and start nursing school the following year, but for now, I was content to roll through each easy day. This was my version of spring break. A party of privacy.

It wasn’t my house, but considering I was the only person ever in it, I had settled in, and felt comfortable there. I never heard from Devin. The owner, as I forced myself to think of him. Hadn’t since the day I’d woken up to find him gone and he had said that he wouldn’t be back until December. I wasn’t sure what that meant, exactly, if he was planning a big holiday or whatever at Richfield, but it was still two weeks away so I still had time before he interrupted my routine.

I had mixed feelings about that. I wanted to see him, because he intrigued me, but I knew he was going to make me feel ridiculous.

As I went to the pantry for the container of frosting I had bought, my phone chimed with a Google alert.

So, okay, I was stalking Devin online. I couldn’t help it. It was too easy, and I got a sick thrill at the voyeurism of seeing what he was doing in New York while I stayed in his country house. Over the past month, the only mentions had been a new record deal for one of his clients and two pictures of him with a leggy blonde underwear model at fashion week. The kind of woman I would expect him to be with, and while it had made me feel about as attractive as a stubby little garden gnome, I had to begrudgingly admit her appearance was an improvement over his ex-wife. This woman didn’t look quite so fake. Just thin, chic, and gorgeous.

This alert was a pic of them together from a gossip magazine’s website under the header “Fall Beach bodies.” He wasn’t the focus, she was. Brooke. And her amazing bikini body as she splashed Devin in the water.

So the blonde was the whiner who didn’t like ahi tuna and wanted “Daddy’s” full attention.

“On vacay in Turks and Caicos, Brooke shows off her incredible abs,” I read out loud. “Can you believe that, Amelia?” I asked the dog, who didn’t even blink from her curled-up position in her dog bed. It sat next to the island, and the fabric matched the stool cushions. “How does this stuff get published? Who cares?”

The answer was, of course, me. Not about the identity of Brooke’s trainer but about the fact that Devin was in the shot, looking pissed off at her. That was not a man who was frolicking. Though it was a man who himself had a great body below that stormy expression. I eyeballed his chest longer than I should have. “How is it some people are rich and good looking? What’s up with that? Spread it around, God.”

Amelia suddenly raised her head and listened. Not to my pointless babbling, but to a noise at the front of the house. I heard it too, though I wasn’t sure what I heard.

“J’ai, tu as, il a, nous avons, vous avez,” the woman’s voice droned on and I walked over and hit the pause button so I could hear better.

Nothing. The house creaked, the wind blowing, but it was the usual sounds of settling.

I was just starting to relax again when the peal of the doorbell rang through the house. I jumped. “Holy crap.” I’d never even heard the doorbell before. No one had come to the door in six weeks and while it wasn’t super late, it was still eight o’clock and dark out. Richfield wasn’t on the way to anything so it couldn’t be someone lost or broken down.

Moving down the hallway gingerly, the dog trotting beside me, I slid to the side of the front window and peeked out into the dark. There was a delivery truck in the drive, firing up loudly before pulling away. My heart rate settled down. “God, Tiffany, get a grip. It’s a package.”

But I still found myself slowly pulling the door open and scanning the area before snatching the legal-size envelope off the front step. Not even a package, just some paperwork, clearly. I shut the door quickly behind me and flipped the dead bolt. Back in the kitchen, I hit play again for the French lesson and stared at the envelope addressed to Devin. Marked Express Urgent, it looked important. I decided to text him to ask him what I should do with it. Maybe it was something he needed right away.

He answered with a brusque Open it.

Wrinkling my nose, I started to pull the tab. I didn’t want to see something personal or his bank statements or something. I was pretty sure the shock of his wealth in black and white would freak me the f**k out.

But it wasn’t bank statements. It was a pile of pictures. Of him. Which might have seemed somewhat normal, except someone had written all over them with a Sharpie. Liar. Cheater. Manwhore. Asshole.

“What the hell?” I murmured, shuffling through the stack. There was one of his sports car, and the license plate had been changed to read ET PUSSY. Everything about it was venomous and just a little bit crazy. Some of the shots seemed to be candids, like he knew the person taking the picture, others were magazine clippings or clearly printed off from online. As I moved through them, suddenly they were no longer pictures of him, but of women. Brooke, the bikini babe. A tiny brunette. A tall black girl with curls I was jealous of. Another blonde. Then me. It was a picture of me, walking outside with Amelia.

WTF. I dropped it like it was hot.

My phone buzzed. What is it?

With trembling hands, I typed. Pics of you and women.

That’s it?

Yes.

Just toss them.

That was it? He wasn’t bothered or creeped out? Of course I hadn’t told him about the slurs. I was debating if I should when the front door opened with a squeak. My stomach dropped and I turned to the dog and gestured for her to come with me. I was planning to go into my room, lock the door, and call the cops. But Amelia wouldn’t come with me. She had started down the hallway, tail wagging.

“Amelia, come,” I hissed in a desperate whisper. There was an intruder in the house and the dog was going to greet him. Fabulous.

But then I realized that I had locked the front door. No one could have jimmied the deadbolt. Only a key would open the door.