The Taking (Seven Deadly Sins #3)(58)
Author: Erin McCarthy

Maybe that was her being fantastical, flush with the success of her event, but it seemed to her that the house was happy.

So was she, her earlier weird feelings dissipating with each compliment on her home and on Felix’s charm and accuracy as a tarot reader. Watching women practically knocking each other down to get in line for a reading with Felix made her secretly smile with feminine satisfaction. They weren’t just interested in the cards, they were interested in him. And he belonged to her.

Oh, yeah. She was definitely happy.

Then she turned and locked eyes with Beau, a drink in his hand, a smirk on his handsome face.

She shouldn’t be surprised. It was a classic Beau tactic. Show up for the purpose of making her uncomfortable, in a venue where she couldn’t call him out. But he underestimated her.

Setting down her wineglass on the coffee table, she excused herself from the conversation she’d been having with two food critics and strolled over to him, a smile pasted on her face.

“Hello, Regan. How are you?” He bussed her cheek.

“Get the f**k out of my house,” she told him in a quiet but firm voice, still smiling for the benefit of anyone who might be glancing in their direction.

His own smile froze, then he chuckled softly. “I admit, I didn’t see that one coming. But maybe you should order me out of our house since we have both owned it now.”

“Excuse me?” Regan glanced around, torn between wanting to walk away, and curiosity over his words.

“You bought this house from me. I’ve owned it for the last ten years.”

It was bullshit. It had to be. “That’s ridiculous. There were people living here when I looked at the property, a family.”

“Renters in town for a movie shoot”

Regan wanted to crack that smugness right off of his face. This was her house, her dream, her future. “You hate the Quarter. And you can’t afford this house.”

“You shouldn’t have signed the divorce papers so soon, Regan… a few more weeks of prodding and I have no doubt your lawyer would have uncovered the assets I’ve hidden.” He raised his glass. “I’m almost as rich as you, my dear.”

Regan didn’t want to believe him, but somehow, looking into his cold brown eyes, she knew he was telling the truth. All those months he had made her feel she had to apologize for her wealth, for making him feel so inadequate, and the bastard had been hiding money from her? He’d made her feel that her major contribution to their relationship was cash, and while he appreciated that, he hated it at the same time.

She turned and walked away, having nothing to say to him, and not sure what would come out of her mouth if she opened it. She would investigate who was behind the trust that she had bought this house from, but she already knew it was Beau. He wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t true. He enjoyed winning far too much.

Feeling a headache springing up out of nowhere, she decided to run upstairs to her room for some ibuprofen.

Her ex-husband was not going to ruin her party, damn him.

Chris swiped another glass of champagne off the passing waiter’s tray as his boyfriend Nelson stood next to him fiddling with his video camera. Videography was a hobby of Nelson’s, and Regan had asked for some footage of the party for the foundation’s website.

“This house is insanely big,” Nelson commented. “I cannot believe Regan lives here alone.”“Well, not alone anymore. Voodoo dude is here like twenty-four-seven these days. I think he’s moved in, though Regan hasn’t admitted that to me.” Chris glanced over at the sitting room, where tall, dark, and tarot was holding court with fawning women. “I don’t like him for Regan,” he added. “He has a rock star quality that doesn’t fit her.”

“That’s for her to decide, not you.” Nelson pushed up his black designer glasses before raising the camera.

Chris rolled his eyes, well aware Nelson was filming him. “Whatever. I kept my mouth shut about Beau-Beau and look at how that turned out.”

He saw Regan dashing up the stairs, her face pale, looking on the verge of tears. “Hey, there she is and she looks upset. Come on.” Not bothering to see if Nelson was following him, Chris jogged up the stairs himself, wondering why this damn house had so many steps. He needed to work out just to be able to visit her without straining his lung capacity.

Regan was standing in the middle of her bedroom pulling her hair out of its knot and shaking it loose, her back to them.

“Hey, everything okay—”

Chris stopped speaking when he realized Regan seemed to be unbuttoning her blouse. “Um, Re, hello, your door is open. If you spilled wine on your shirt, you should lock the door. Half those men downstairs are old and undersexed and would love a glimpse of you naked.”

It was meant to be funny, but she ignored him, which was totally unlike Regan. She had either spontaneously gone deaf, or something was really, really wrong.

“What is she doing?” Nelson murmured beside him.

“I have no f**king clue.” A chill shot up his spine. “Regan. Look at me.”

She didn’t turn, but dropped her blouse to the floor and began peeling off her skirt.

A weird, crazy idea occurred to Chris, and he acted on it before he had time to consider just how absurd it was. “Camille?” he said. “Turn around.”

Regan turned and Chris about wet himself. “Ohmigod,” he breathed.

“Jesus…” Nelson whispered.

Regan wasn’t Regan. They were staring at her body, her hair, but it was not Regan’s face. It had changed in a way Chris couldn’t explain, the shape and structure just … different. The eyes were lighter, the mouth thinner, the expression much more sly than Regan’s ever would be. It was like what had happened when they’d been at lunch, only sharper. There was no mistaking this. It wasn’t a trick of the light, or his imagination, or a tilt of her head skewing the way she looked.

This wasn’t Regan’s face.

“Lift your f**king camera and record this,” he told Nelson, swallowing the golf-ball-size lump in his throat. Trying to force images from The Exorcist out of his head, Chris moved forward slowly. “Camille, what do you want?”

“I want him out of my house,” she said, her voice Regan’s, yet altered. Angry, petulant, manic.

All the hairs on Chris’s arms spiked straight up, and he had to pause to grow another set of balls before continuing forward. “Who?”

“That awful Mr. Tradd. I threw dirt at his door to keep him away and yet he’s here.”