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Sammara’s expression remained unchanged. I watched as the wind blew her hair back, her face heartbreakingly beautiful once again.
“You caught me.”
Nine
SAMMARA
I was pissed.
Pissed at Kyle, for getting me all wrapped up in this mess. Pissed at Ryan for sure, for being such an abrasive dick. Hell, I was even pissed at Dakota for sitting there all innocently in the front seat, his hard, magnificent body gelling perfectly with his warm, country-boy smile.
But most of all I was pissed at myself.
I’d let myself get in over my head. Allowed myself to get my hopes up — whatever they were at this point — over something that couldn’t possibly be. And now I was about to see this gorgeous, unbelievable house. One I knew I’d never get to sink my claws into, because of this impossible situation.
It was a tease. A slow, lingering tease that made me angrier and more furious at myself with each passing mile.
But then we pulled up the driveway…
… and all of that stuff disappeared in an instant.
The house wasn’t just amazing, it was glorious. Offensively, disgustingly perfect.
Ahh, shit.
I was out of the sand-colored Hummer before it even rolled to a stop. The big doors opened to my touch and a minute later I was standing in the magnificent parlor, surrounded by art and wonder and beauty… and decay.
“This is horrendous.”
Kyle stood behind me, flanked by his comrades. His face was crossed with a worried look.
“What? You don’t like it?”
“No,” I said. “I love it. It’s just horrendous that someone let it get like this!” I walked up to one of the columns that held up the vaulted ceiling and ran my hand over it. Paint chips fell away like snow.
“This is criminal!”
Dakota stepped up beside me, his expression blank. He was looking around as if seeing the place for the first time.
“How long was it unoccupied?” I asked. “How many years did it—”
“Too long, I guess,” Kyle shrugged. “But Briggs fell in love with it, and so here we are.”
Briggs has good taste, I thought to myself. He wasn’t even here and I liked him already.
“And we’ve been told it has ‘good bones’, so we—”
“Bones?” I swore. “A Victorian like this just doesn’t have bones! It has life! It lives and breathes and—”
I stopped, choking on my own words. Scanning around in horror.
“Did you guys paint this room?” I asked incredulously.
“Yes. Why?”
The words came from Ryan. They were short. Staccato. Daringly defiant.
“Well did you scrape it first? Down to the paneling?” I spun around, more offended with every step. “Did you sand it before priming it, or—”
