The Taking (Seven Deadly Sins #3)(28)
Author: Erin McCarthy

Yet there was no way out.

And while it wasn’t at all smart or self-protective to be ringing the doorbell of what was now Regan Henry’s house, he felt defiant. He had done what he was told, and it got him nothing. A century of servitude and he had absolutely nothing but bitterness and a complete loss of hope that he would ever enjoy anything in his life again. Showing up here might earn him punishment, but could anything be more miserable than his day in, day out endless existence of peddling voodoo to tourists?

The memory of the vast, echoing darkness crowded him, pain leeching across his body slowly, a hot, fiery lava of agony. Yes, there were worse punishments than selling trinkets to tourists. Much, much worse.

Yet Felix was very curious about Regan, about what was happening in her house, and he was willing to take the risk to satisfy that curiosity. And if he were honest with himself, he would admit it was way more than curiosity. He wanted Regan in a way he hadn’t wanted a woman in longer than he could even remember.

He wanted to see if her whole body would go as pink as her cheeks in her arousal, if she would let go of her inhibitions and scream in pleasure.

Or if she would stay muted, a dim version of herself in a black-and-white world.

But Regan wasn’t the kind of woman who would enjoy casual sex, of that he was certain. She would want a relationship, and he had nothing to offer her.

And the way he felt about her, intrigued and protective and fascinated, made him question if he could have casual sex with her either.

Which made his standing on her stoop even stupider.

The door swung open for him. Regan was practically bouncing on the balls of her feet, and she looked like if he gave her one indication he would allow it, she would throw herself into his arms.

So he folded them across his chest.

“How are you?” he asked as he stepped into the foyer and glanced over into the dining room. The house had changed since he had last been in it. Different flooring, different paint colors, giving a varied overall impression. It seemed lighter, less oppressive.

It was also ablaze with every light the three-story house had. “I see you’re not worried about your electric bill,” he added.

She gave a nervous laugh, tucking her hands into her front pockets. “Emergency circumstances. Look, I’m sorry. I feel like a complete idiot for freaking out. Last night I called the cops and I didn’t think I could do that again without being fined or something. And my friend Chris is great, but I can’t keep calling him either.”

“I don’t mind,” he said.

“Well, come on in. I don’t know what I expect you to do or say. I’m sorry, it’s so rude of me to be bothering you like this. It was just so weird.”

“It’s no big deal. I wanted to give you something anyway.” Felix pulled out the three photocopies he had folded and crammed into the back pocket of his jeans for Regan. He had known this was all information she could, and would, find on her own, so he figured he would save her a step and save himself the trouble and discomfort of having to lie.

“Oh, what’s this?” She glanced curiously at the papers, but she didn’t take them from him.

“It’s some information I found on the house.” This very house that he had never expected to be standing in again.

Regan said, “Oh, wow, great, thank you. Let’s go upstairs. Would you like a drink?”

“No, thank you.” A drink was not what he needed or wanted. Felix watched her walk in front of him, appreciating the curves of her body. She was thin, but not boyish, and she had a very cute backside. He had the urge to cup her ass with two hands, and then slide a finger between her legs and feel that warm heat. Of course, she would throw him out of her house if he did that without warning.

Or would she? She wanted him, he had no doubt of that.

It was an entertaining what-if, to consider taking Regan to bed, burying himself inside her.

And the temptation to touch Regan distracted him from the memories of this house. Of coming in through the courtyard and being led up the servants’ stairs in the back. He had come up these main stairs only once, when he had gotten as bold as Camille. It had been that last night. He had knocked on the front door and walked in with all the arrogance of youth, the two of them addicted to defiance and danger.

“The family did die here,” Felix told Regan. “That’s pretty clear from the quick research I did.”

She stopped in her living room and turned to face him. “Really? Why? What did you find?”

“I looked up who owned the house in that time period then searched newspaper articles relating to the owner. Your house was purchased by a wealthy businessman named Francois Comeaux in 1867. Searching his name, I found several articles that show he died in the yellow fever epidemic of 1878, along with his wife and four daughters. Only one daughter survived, his youngest, Camille.”

Regan blanched, every inch of color draining from her face in a split second, her knees buckling. The change was so sudden and severe, he actually looked behind him to see if something or someone was standing behind him, but the stairwell was empty. So what the hell had he said to cause that kind of reaction?

“Regan?” he asked, moving forward quickly, his hand crumpling the papers as he grabbed her elbow to steady her when she looked ready to drop. “What’s wrong?”

“I think I’m going to faint,” she said, swallowing hard, her hands clawing toward him to find purchase.

“I’ve got you. You’re fine,” he reassured her in a soothing voice, using both hands to grip her, shaking her a little. “Look at me.”

She struggled for a second, her eyes rolling in and out of focus, but then she managed to lock her gaze with his.

“You’re okay,” he murmured.

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, she nodded. “I am. I’m okay. Sorry. I’m okay.”

“Lie down for a second.” He guided her to the sofa, which she sank onto without a word, looking intensely grateful to give up the fight to stay standing.

She lay on her side, tucking her hands under her cheek on the cushion. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry.” Felix sat on the sofa next to her waist, perching precariously. Brushing back some of her hairs that had fallen loose, he leaned over and set the crumpled papers he’d been holding onto the end table. “What happened?”

“You’re going to think I’m insane.”

Hardly. “Hey, no judgments, remember? You’re talking to a guy who sticks pins in dolls and dances with a snake.”