A Margin of Lust (The Seven Deadly Sins #1)(18)

She'd only read a chapter when she heard her parents' voices rumbling through the ceiling. Her mother's timbre was what first alerted her something wasn't right. It was louder, more piercing, than her usual peaceful tones. Gwen lay still for several minutes listening to the rise and fall of their discussion before throwing off her covers. She needed to know what they were talking about.

She perched at the top of the stairs where she could hear their words clearly. "Please don't cry. It won't do any good. I've made my decision," her father said.

"How long? How long has this been going on?" Her mother's voice broke with anguish.

"It doesn't matter."

"It matters to me."

How long had what been going on? Gwen couldn't imagine what they were talking about, but a stab of fear ran through her.

"We've been seeing each other for several months. Long enough for me to know how I feel about her."

"So, you're just leaving? Abandoning me and Gwen?"

Gwen sucked in a breath. Abandoning? The word belonged in novels and Disney movies. It had nothing to do with her, with her life.

"Certainly not." Her father's voice was chiding. It was the same tone he used with Gwen when she disobeyed. "I'm not the kind of man who shirks his responsibilities. You know that. I'll take care of all your financial needs. You and Gwen will never do without."

"Only without you." Her mother sounded so sad.

Gwen crept to her bed, crawled under the covers and cried herself to sleep. The recurring nightmare she had so often back then visited her that night with renewed intensity. She woke screaming.





CHAPTER TWELVE


The view was stunning—her word, not mine. She stood in front of the large picture window and raised an upturned palm to the sparkling ocean beyond like Vanna White offering a vowel.

"Million dollars, that's what it is." She smiled. The sunlight behind her turned her hair into a halo of gold. I didn't gasp this time, but took it as heavenly confirmation of the decision I'd already made.

"Million dollars, at least," I agreed.

"Would you like to see the rest of the house?"

"Most definitely."

I followed her through the great room into an ocean of granite. She pointed out a breakfast nook, and down a short hall to a laundry room and maid's quarters. “Everybody Ought To Have a Maid”, that old Broadway title played through my head.

She must have assumed cooking was beneath me, because the kitchen only received a flap of her hand. I, however, recently discovered I wasn't too bad at slicing and dicing. An assortment of knives on a butcher's block caught my attention. I just had time to find one with a nice heft and pocket it before she rushed me onward.

The dining room was empty except for a chandelier as big as a freighter that marked where the table should go. The thought crossed my mind that I should take her here, under that showstopper of a lamp. It would be so theatrical, so Hollywood. The setting should fit the crime and ostentatious was the word this wheel was spelling.

If there was ever a town that deserved the moniker, Newport Beach, California, was it. When Ms. White pulled up the paved drive in her powder blue BMW—vanity plate "HERBEEMR"—took her Louis Vuitton bag from the passenger seat, and graced me with her beautiful set of ivories, I almost laughed in her face.

She was another gorgon.

Another grasping chit.

Not even the abundance of makeup she wore could conceal her lust for status, her need for significance. The listing was just what you'd expect her to represent. Ostentation was carved into the little-boy-peeing fountain in the front yard and the ivy scrollwork on the huge front doors. The word echoed through all the empty, cavernous rooms and swam in the infinity pool in the backyard. I hated it almost as much as I hated her.

The click of her heels on the hardwood floor grew softer. I had to hurry to catch up.

"The game room is really the best spot in the house in my humble opinion," she said.

I doubted she considered any of her opinions humble.

She walked to the dead center of the space and spun toward me. Her beige skirt billowed. Her deceitfully pretty face devolved into a scowl when she noticed I had been lagging and almost missed the performance.

It was a fine room. Windows lined both west and north facing walls. You could see up the coast for miles. It reminded me of the living room in my father's house.

She was off, down a hall and halfway up the stairs, her non-stop talk trailing behind her like steam. "The master suite is directly above the game room. It is my second favorite space in the house. It has a fireplace too, and the balcony is to die for."

Interesting choice of words. We toured the guest suites, none of which was very inspiring, then descended another set of stairs into a wide hall. The first door led into a library.

One wall was covered in floor to ceiling bookshelves, another with a heavy, mahogany mantled fireplace. The room was too Agatha Christie for my taste. Who-done-its aren't really about murder. They are about the cleverness of detectives, not something I was interested in thinking about at the moment.

After passing a sunroom and a music room, we walked into a theater. It was all done up in maroons and golds like an old time cinema. There were no windows. The only light came from wall sconces that made long shadows of us as we marched toward the small stage. It was the perfect place to make a dramatic statement.