Restoring the house would be Belle's dream project.
"Shit." Tate stood beside him, shaking his head as he studied the place in the streetlamp lit evening. "She's never going to want to leave here. We have three bedrooms that she says need paint with 'personality,' whatever that means, and a game room she refers to as the man cave. She holds her nose when she walks in there. Do you think that means something?"
"It means you should pick up your damn socks," Eric groused.
"I'd even be grateful for that," Kell put in. "But you've heard her diatribe about your kitchen. Even if this house needs a lot of work, she's going to be far more interested in redoing a historic charmer in New Orleans than some suburban abode in Chicago."
"We're fucked. Our only saving grace might be that she can't live here forever. This place is way too big for one person. I looked around for the front door. That guest house behind it is attached, but I didn't find the main entrance. This isn't it." Tate pointed at the little blue door.
Usually, Eric liked to be aware of the problems he faced. This time, the entire conversation just unnerved him.
Kellan studied what they could see of the place. "The taxes will be a killer. I don't think Belle has a ton of cash, unless that was part of her inheritance."
"Her grandmother left her some money," Tate said. "But the amount wasn't specified in the documents I saw. Those were about the house, but if her grandmother had a lot of money, would the place be in disrepair? Even if Belle sinks her whole bank account into the house, I doubt it will be enough."
"Before we can worry about the house or her intentions, we need to remember that she ran. Will she even let us in the door, presuming this is it?" Eric hoped there was a hotel nearby with rooms available. Even this late at night, tourists walked up and down the street. They all had to sleep somewhere. He and the guys did too, though he sincerely hoped it would be with Belle.
He scanned the exterior of Belle's new house, assessing the modest but colorful door flanked by shutters. The rusted screen door flapped a bit in the breeze. He didn't see any light from the inside coming through the windows. Was she still awake or had she gone to sleep, blissful that she hadn't had to talk to them all day?
He'd played through about a hundred scenarios in his head, ranging from Belle running into his arms to the one where she found her inner warrior princess and went medieval on their asses.
Now that he was standing outside her darkened house, he really worried. He wasn't sure how the hell he would handle it if she told them to go to hell.
"Why are the lights out?" Kellan stepped up to a little carriage-style fixture affixed to the exterior that should have illuminated the area.
"The house hasn't been lived in for months," Tate explained. "She'll be lucky if the power is still on."
Standing here in front of the place, a chill swept through him, much colder than anything the fall breeze had swept in. Just a couple of yards away, the street was lit, looking bright and elegant, but here, a deep gloom clung.
He glanced around the back of the house, looking for any sign of life. Total darkness. There was a thin alley between Belle's house on one side and a neighbor's fence on the other. Just enough for a man to lay in wait. Belle wouldn't see anyone creeping through her yard. No one from the street would see a thing either.
If they couldn't persuade her to come back to Chicago with them in the morning, they would so be getting some lights to brighten up the alley and exterior tomorrow. And whether it lacked charm or not, he'd make sure the perimeter had a sturdy fence.
"I don't like it," Tate said. "It's too dangerous. This is just two blocks from that woman's murder yesterday, the one we heard about on the radio."
The death of Karen Ehlers had made a huge news splash across New Orleans. It had been all over the radio as they'd driven into town. The fifty-nine-year-old socialite had been discovered in her New Orleans mansion, strangled by unknown intruders.
She'd been one of the toasts of the city, known for her philanthropy and love of her home town. Turned out that she'd also been known for something else.
"Belle's not a hooker," Eric reminded him.
"She won't be turning tricks for strange men so that will reduce her odds of being strangled significantly," Tate added. "That's true."
The big guy hadn't factored him in. Eric was still really mad. And yeah, he hadn't done the best job of letting Belle know that he would treasure her virginity. Not as bad as Kell, but even so … she shouldn't have run off.
"But technically, Karen Ehlers wasn't a hooker. She was a madam." Tate was always so fucking precise. "Should we knock on the door or something, even if it's not the front? You two constantly tell me I can't just hang out around her house and look like a pervert stalker or the cops will arrest me."