peering inside like some wannabe burglar. Only he didn't want to steal anything; he just wanted a closer look at her world.
The sun's glare kept him from making out much through the doors-an immaculate white-on-white kitchen with the same Italian tile from the foyer, a breakfast table of glass and thick, curling wrought iron.
Turning to go, he caught the toe of his work boot on something and glanced down to find a small turtle-shaped planter, which he'd accidentally kicked a few inches away from the larger terracotta pot of bright pink petunias next to it. He stooped to move it back in to place and when he lifted it up, he found a key.
He hesitated, looking from the key to the door, then back again. Keep moving, Armstrong, he lectured himself.
Then he shook his head, feeling unbalanced, skewed, as if some other person had just taken over his body. He couldn't quite believe he was considering going inside.
He couldn't do it, no way.
Yet a wild curiosity ached inside him. And even as he closed his fingers around the key, he cursed her for being so irresponsible, making this so easy.
Are you really going to do this? Jesus, looked like he was.
His chest burned as he inserted the key, but then he reminded himself he wasn't planning to do anything heinous; he just wanted a glimpse inside the house.
It wasn't until he'd stepped in and closed the door that he feared a security system. He scanned the walls for an alarm box and saw none; waited for something to happen, but nothing did. Good thing, too. He might've managed to explain his way out of it to the police, but he'd surely have lost his contracts with Ash Builders.
The realization should've made him leave, but didn't.
And it was then that he understood-he was obsessed with Lauren Ash's life. He'd spent years wondering about it, feeling it should rightfully be his life, and now that he was faced with the opportunity to explore it, the temptation was simply too great to resist. He wasn't proud of it, but there it was.
The large living room extending from the kitchen and breakfast area boasted an enormous gray stone fireplace, beautiful but almost useless in the tropical climate. The rest of the room shone nearly as white as the kitchen white carpet, a white sofa, and a matching leather recliner, The only color came from a few velvet throw pillows, turquoise and soft pink, and silk flowers and candles in the same sbades,
Then he noticed the cat, nearly invisible on the white couch, its head propped on the largest pink pillow. As plush as its surroundings, the feline sported long white fur, its neck adorned with a sparkly rhinestone collar. Only Lauren Ash, he thought, would possess such a gaudy cat.
As he got nearer, the cat shifted, rolling onto its back and gazing up at him from huge marble blue eyes, clearly seeking attention.
"Sorry, cat, but I don't have a lot of time."
Moving on through the princess's palace, he found a second living room, this one decked out in antique Victorian furniture in bold shades of goldenrod and deep green, a definite contrast to the other rooms he'd seen so far.
And then he spotted the foyer, and the lavish staircase curving up behind the chandelier he'd spied yesterday morning. Almost without thought, he grabbed the banister and climbed the wide steps.
What the hell are you doing? The recrimination echoed through his brain, yet his feet kept moving. He barely knew how he'd gotten here-in her house, for God's sake, climbing the freaking stairs-but it was like moving in a dream now, somehow out of his control.
When he stumbled upon her office at the top, he stopped, realizing this likely held what had drawn him up the stairs more than anything he might find in Lauren Ash's bedroom. Company business. The company that should've been half his, his family's. What if he could find something here, some way to prove Henry had cheated them? He knew he had a snowball's chance in hell of locating anything like that, but he moved through the
The sun's glare kept him from making out much through the doors-an immaculate white-on-white kitchen with the same Italian tile from the foyer, a breakfast table of glass and thick, curling wrought iron.
Turning to go, he caught the toe of his work boot on something and glanced down to find a small turtle-shaped planter, which he'd accidentally kicked a few inches away from the larger terracotta pot of bright pink petunias next to it. He stooped to move it back in to place and when he lifted it up, he found a key.
He hesitated, looking from the key to the door, then back again. Keep moving, Armstrong, he lectured himself.
Then he shook his head, feeling unbalanced, skewed, as if some other person had just taken over his body. He couldn't quite believe he was considering going inside.
He couldn't do it, no way.
Yet a wild curiosity ached inside him. And even as he closed his fingers around the key, he cursed her for being so irresponsible, making this so easy.
Are you really going to do this? Jesus, looked like he was.
His chest burned as he inserted the key, but then he reminded himself he wasn't planning to do anything heinous; he just wanted a glimpse inside the house.
It wasn't until he'd stepped in and closed the door that he feared a security system. He scanned the walls for an alarm box and saw none; waited for something to happen, but nothing did. Good thing, too. He might've managed to explain his way out of it to the police, but he'd surely have lost his contracts with Ash Builders.
The realization should've made him leave, but didn't.
And it was then that he understood-he was obsessed with Lauren Ash's life. He'd spent years wondering about it, feeling it should rightfully be his life, and now that he was faced with the opportunity to explore it, the temptation was simply too great to resist. He wasn't proud of it, but there it was.
The large living room extending from the kitchen and breakfast area boasted an enormous gray stone fireplace, beautiful but almost useless in the tropical climate. The rest of the room shone nearly as white as the kitchen white carpet, a white sofa, and a matching leather recliner, The only color came from a few velvet throw pillows, turquoise and soft pink, and silk flowers and candles in the same sbades,
Then he noticed the cat, nearly invisible on the white couch, its head propped on the largest pink pillow. As plush as its surroundings, the feline sported long white fur, its neck adorned with a sparkly rhinestone collar. Only Lauren Ash, he thought, would possess such a gaudy cat.
As he got nearer, the cat shifted, rolling onto its back and gazing up at him from huge marble blue eyes, clearly seeking attention.
"Sorry, cat, but I don't have a lot of time."
Moving on through the princess's palace, he found a second living room, this one decked out in antique Victorian furniture in bold shades of goldenrod and deep green, a definite contrast to the other rooms he'd seen so far.
And then he spotted the foyer, and the lavish staircase curving up behind the chandelier he'd spied yesterday morning. Almost without thought, he grabbed the banister and climbed the wide steps.
What the hell are you doing? The recrimination echoed through his brain, yet his feet kept moving. He barely knew how he'd gotten here-in her house, for God's sake, climbing the freaking stairs-but it was like moving in a dream now, somehow out of his control.
When he stumbled upon her office at the top, he stopped, realizing this likely held what had drawn him up the stairs more than anything he might find in Lauren Ash's bedroom. Company business. The company that should've been half his, his family's. What if he could find something here, some way to prove Henry had cheated them? He knew he had a snowball's chance in hell of locating anything like that, but he moved through the
Similar Books
