The Taking (31 page)

Regan rushed around her dining room, checking on the placement of the food as the caterers deposited heaping trays of seafood gumbo, jambalaya, red beans and rice, king cakes, and pralines on the massive table she had bought the week before. The band was setting up on the second-floor landing, the flowers were being arranged on various surfaces, and Jen was running around with a clipboard in her hand looking frantic.

Jumping when someone touched her back as she leaned over, Regan paused in the act of shifting the candlesticks in the center of the table to see who it was.

“Everything looks beautiful,” Felix said. “You’ve done an amazing job.”

She smiled at him over her shoulder. “Thank you.” What was amazing to her was that when Felix gave her a compliment, she believed him. There was no hidden agenda, or flattery that was covering a criticism. He just meant it. Likewise, when he was angry or upset or uncomfortable, he told her. That was so new to her she had to constantly remind herself not to seek out the hidden meanings with him.

Everything was what it was.

Despite the fact that she was still sleepwalking, and anxiety about her house, the dreams, the visions, still plagued her, the past few days had been calm. Being around Felix was comfortable, easy, and the irony of that made her laugh. When she had met him she could have never imagined that he would be anything but a mystery to her, but once she had learned more about him, it was very, very easy to be together.

Turning, she let Felix pull her into his arms. One quick kiss, one short hug, then she had to get back to work. But it was so nice to just be close to him, to know that this was their house, their home.

The short kiss lengthened, and Regan felt the familiar tug of desire yanking at her.

“You look beautiful,” he told her. “The proper hostess, yet so sexy.”

That was another thing she believed. When he said she was sexy, she felt sexy. She was sexy. As his tongue flicked over her bottom lip in teasing, Regan felt a sly defiance creep over her. This was her house, her man.

“I’m wearing a skirt,” she said, her fingers stroking down the front of his jeans, where he had the beginnings of an erection. A few pumps with her hand on his bare flesh and she knew it would be a full, hard cock, and she could have it inside her, right here, against the table.

Felix pulled back slightly and gave her a quizzical look. “Regan, we’re in the dining room with caterers all over the place.”

“You can just pull my panties down and no one will know.” She spread her legs a little, hitching her skirt up an inch or two to show him what she was offering.

His eyes darkened, but he pulled a little back from her, as if he needed distance to resist the temptation. “I would love to, but it’s not a good idea...”

“Don’t you want me?” she said, the words shocking her a little as they came out. She had never been one to pout, yet she was, her lip jutting forward, her hands still stroking him, as if they were acting independently from her brain.

From her.

“Of course I want you,” he murmured. “I always want you.” His mouth turned up in that small smile she had been so attracted to from the beginning. “But you have a party to host.”

Regan let go of the fabric of her skirt she’d been bunching, so that it fell back down over her thighs to her knees. “I know. Of course I do.” Suddenly embarrassed, she glanced around the room to see if any of the hired staff was making note of them. “I wasn’t serious.”

She hadn’t been.

Or had she?

She wasn’t sure what exactly had just happened. It wasn’t like her to flirt with voyeurism, and especially not here, not tonight, of all nights, at the party she had worked so hard planning.

But now she couldn’t quite focus on the thought process, what had run through her head, how she had been feeling, just two minutes ago. “Anyway, I guess neither one of us should be standing around. We have work to do.”

Felix stared at her for a second, but he didn’t comment further. He just kissed her cheek and said, “Okay, I’m taking my station to wow and amaze your guests.”

Regan smiled, her heart pounding a little too fast. Trying to restore her equilibrium, she reached out and squeezed his hand. “Hey, do I get a discount on your party fee now that we’re living together? Especially since it will just end up in a pile on my coffee table.”

She was joking, just teasing him and trying to shake the unease she suddenly felt, but he frowned. “My money is not my own, Regan. I have a debt to pay.”

Confused, she frowned. What the hell did that mean? “Felix . . .”

But he was already walking away.

She tried to ignore the anxiety that was suddenly crawling all over her, and went to find Jen to see if everything was ready.

An hour later the party was in full swing, over a hundred people mingling in the house. Mounds of food were being devoured on the first floor, the zydeco was ringing cheerfully on the second, and Felix was doing readings for a long line of curious women in the sitting room. Regan was thrilled that the crowd was enjoying themselves, that the house looked fantastic, that the energy of the event was high and festive. It was like the house itself was embracing the soiree, like it was telling Regan this was what it had been designed for, for the joy and excitement of entertaining.

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 fuck 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 fucking 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 fucking 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.”

He had no clue who Mr. Tradd was, but he didn’t think it was a hot idea to piss off the possessor. “Okay, we can get rid of Mr. Tradd, no problemo. Consider him gone.”