Wicked Beat (Sinners on Tour #4)(81)

"I've got to ask," she said, straining to look at the house through the window. "What's with the Pollyanna house and the white picket fence?"

His heart sank. "You don't like it?"

"It's great. For someone's grandmother. But you're a young, hot, very hot, single-but-taken, hot, did I mention hot, man."

He laughed at her description and then shrugged. "I liked it, so I bought it." He'd always wanted to live in a big Victorian-styled house with intricate woodwork, a huge porch, a picket fence, and a tire swing in a big oak tree, so when he'd found this place, he had to buy it. Not that he was home often. Not that it didn't remind him that he had no one to share it with. Not that it wasn't frivolous and huge and expensive. But he had hoped Rebekah would like it as much as he did. He wasn't sure why that was important to him.

When they pulled into the garage, she gasped. He followed her gaze over his shoulder. "Is that a '68 Camaro?" she squealed.

She didn't like his showcase house, but liked the rusted out, beat-up muscle car that wouldn't start. He had to chuckle. "Yeah. That's my next project. After I finish the Corvette."

"Let's get to work!"

She climbed out of the car and went to inspect his tools and the spare Corvette parts scattered across the bench along one wall of the garage. "You have every part imaginable here!"

"Yeah, I wasn't sure what I needed, so anytime I find parts for this model, I buy them automatically."

Rebekah opened the Corvette's hood and peered at the engine. "I can't wait to get started, but the engine's too hot." 

Was it possible for this woman to be any more perfect? He didn't think so. "Let's take your stuff into the house," he said, dropping a kiss on the back of her neck. "Are you hungry?"

She looked up. "Not really."

"Horny?"

Her grin made his heart stutter. "Getting that way."

Eric grabbed his duffel bag and Rebekah's overnight bag out of his trunk and unlocked the door between the garage and the kitchen.

She stepped inside and looked around the huge kitchen with its white cabinetry and chef-sized appliances.

"You don't cook, do you?"

He shook his head.

She smiled. "How many bedrooms does this place have?"

"Why don't we try them all, and you can count them?"

"Six?"

"Seven," he admitted.

"There's something I'm missing here," she said, wandering farther into the kitchen and setting her purse on the pristine slate countertop at the breakfast bar. "It looks like Martha Stewart lives here." She examined the bowl of fruit on the counter.

"You don't like it?"

"I didn't say that. It's a spectacular house. Just not what I was expecting."

"What were you expecting?"

She laughed. "I dunno. That you live in your mother's basement?"

Eric grimaced.

She misinterpreted his pain for insult. "I'm sorry. You're probably a millionaire or something." Rebekah snapped her fingers. "I've got it. You inherited it from your great-aunt Edna."

He shook his head, unexpectedly sad that he didn't have a great-aunt Edna to inherit from. Rebekah crossed the room and snuggled against him, craning her neck to look at him. "What's the matter?"

He shook his head again. He'd never felt lonely in this house until now. And for once, he wasn't even alone.

"Why don't you give me a tour?"

He guided her through all three floors, showing her his storybook house with its perfect furnishings and its perfect decor, and for the first time, recognizing his house for the fantasy it was.

She was sufficiently impressed and even insisted that she loved the place. They ended up in the huge family room filled with the musical instruments he owned.

"Can you play all these?" she asked.

"Yeah."

"Really? Why so many?"

"I like them all."

"Eric?"

He looked up but stared over her head.

"I thought we weren't going to lie to each other," she pressed.

"It's not a lie. I do like them all."

When she didn't say anything for several minutes, he lowered his gaze to meet her eyes.

"I just realized I don't know anything about you," she said.

"You know all the important stuff."

"I don't think so. This house, it's perfect-like a fairy tale-but there's nothing personal here. Where are the pictures of your family? Your memories?"



       
         
       
        

"I don't have any."

"What do you mean? Do you have amnesia?"