Distracted by Her
by Caitlyn Blue
Check out this fantastic contemporary romance and grab your copy today!!
What they say: Windy City Millionaire Devlin Stone is about to discover that love and revenge don't mix.
Fifteen years ago my father went to jail for crime he didn't commit. Now, I'm back to take revenge on the man who sent him there. He believes himself untouchable, and for the most part, he is. His daughter, however, is very touchable and well within my reach.
I remember her as a sweet kid, who took piano lessons from my mother. These days she's a complicated woman, who has a knack for distracting me from my retribution.
She wants to save me. I intend to ruin her. Things are going to get interesting.
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Excerpt:
The driveway curves as it passes the
front of the house, and I spy the open front door. That's weird. I don't see
Sammy's red convertible or any other vehicles. I can't imagine anyone is
robbing the place. It's been abandoned for quite some time. The previous owners
had been driven out by marital problems and mold issues. In another Louisville
suburb, I might have been worried about squatters, but the police department in
Abbottsville is vigilant about protecting its wealthy citizens.
I turn off the engine and ponder my
options. Without the air conditioning running, the car grows stifling in under
a minute. Calling the police seems extreme before I check out the situation. I
push open my car door and get out. As I set my foot on the first step, a half-naked
man emerges from the shadows beyond the doorway. My pulse kicks into overdrive.
Sweat-streaked skin glistens in the late morning sun. My mouth goes dry as I
take in his wide bronze shoulders and athletic thighs.
Holy shit.
“What are you doing here?” He doesn’t
wait for my answer before pummeling me with a second question. "Are you
following me?"
Following him? Well, no. But he'd
definitely be worth chasing after if I did that sort of thing. For a long
moment, lust and confusion keep me rooted in place while humidity slicks my
nose, making my glasses slide down my face. Who the hell is this guy? If I
could unglue my eyes from his abs long enough to check out his face, I might
find out.
“I’m here to drop off some tile and
flooring samples for Samantha Robbins…” My voice trails off as he sets his
hands on his hips, unconsciously applying downward pressure to his faded
running shorts. The action bares more of his lean, muscled torso. Awareness
flares to life, strong and unbidden. I wrestle the sensation into submission,
but it's stronger than anything I've faced in a really long time. “They’re in
the back of my car.”
“Samples?”
Something about his voice tickles my
subconscious. As I focus on why, I’m at long last able to tear my attention
away from his body. I suck in a breath when I recognize him.
Devlin Stone.
Even as the thought surfaces, my mind
short circuits again. His strong cheekbones and chiseled mouth inspire a storm
of illicit cravings. When I ran into Devlin at Kathryn’s party, he’d been cold
and aloof. Today he hums with magnetic, crackling energy that sparks a
thrilling chain reaction inside me.
“Tile. Granite. Marble.” I sound as if
I’d sprinted the five miles from the design store. I'm dizzy and short of
breath. “Samples.”
Long masculine fingers burrow into
black-as-sin hair. Freed from its careful styling, the length almost obscures
the temperamental violence simmering in his dark brown eyes.
“Why are you bringing them?” he asks.
"Sammy's my aunt."
Whatever had sparked his annoyance
fizzles and dies. “Fine. Just set everything in the foyer.” His tone carries no
inflection whatsoever.
He pivots and vanishes into the house.
The abruptness of his departure puts an end to our conversation. From somewhere
in the neighborhood comes the roar of a lawn mower and the buzz of a leaf
blower. Heat creeps up my legs from the paving stones beneath my feet as I
retreat to the Volvo to get the samples. Step by cautious step I advance onto
the front porch. White paint flecks off the stout wooden door flanked by narrow
sidelights.
Common sense shrieks at me to do as he
requested and dump the samples inside the front door. I can't explain why,
after I set everything down, I advance further into the house. Decay and disuse
swamp my senses. The house is a lot worse off than I imagined it would be.
Unrelenting heat gives way to the cloying press of dust as I shuffle forward a
few steps. After the bright sunshine, my eyes take a moment to adjust to the
home’s dim interior.
The inside looks like a B-movie set. The
only things missing are screaming teenagers and a maniac with a bloody knife.
Cobwebs span the gaps in the staircase spindles. A tarnished chandelier hangs
like a bad omen above the two-story foyer. Neglect shows in the faded wallpaper
and dusty wooden floors. I taste mold in the air, stronger now as the fresh air
dissipates.
A board creaks beneath my foot, the sound
loud in the heavy silence. I freeze, listening. In my mind I hear the faint
tinkle of piano keys. Happy birthday to you. I’d played it as an accompaniment
to the crowd gathered to celebrate a fourteen-year-old boy’s special day. My
first performance on the piano in front of an audience.
I look around for Devlin, but the house
has swallowed him. Directly in front me stretches a long hallway with doorways
that open left and right into the empty dining and living rooms. I remember
Josephine Stone’s graceful hands splayed across ivory and black keys and her
patient smiles. Her dark brown eyes, framed by the longest lashes I’d ever
seen. I’d loved sitting next to her on the piano bench and staring at those
lashes, all the while wondering why my mother’s weren’t as pretty.
Memories lure me to the left. The living
room walls, now papered in some hideous flowered print, seem to absorb what
muffled light slips past the fraying drapes that cover three large windows.
Footprints mottle the dusty oak floors. I advance into the room and stumble as
my toe catches on a buckled board.
“My mother loved this house.” Despite its
low pitch, Devlin Stone’s voice echoes powerfully through the large, empty
room.
I spy him standing in the doorway leading
to what had been the music room. Thankfully, for my peace of mind, he’s donned
a gray Notre Dame T-shirt. He might not be less daunting fully-dressed, but
he’s certainly less distracting. A bottle of water dangles from his fingers. I
tell myself to leave. He’s made it clear that he doesn’t want me around. But
then his gaze flows over me and I find myself lured into the room by what I
glimpse in his expression.
“It used to be so beautiful,” I say.
On my first visit, I’d run through
decorated rooms heedless of the antiques and delicate pastel figures that
tempted a little girl to touch. My mother’s sharp tone had beckoned me to her.
I’d flinched when her fingers had bitten into my shoulder in a silent command
to behave.
“She’d be pretty appalled that someone
painted the trim and the fireplace aqua.” I don’t know why I’m still talking.
Maybe I’m hoping my attempt at levity will inspire the glint of the mischief
that had once been an integral part of his youthful expression. But his
features remain mired in grim lines. And like a damned fool, I keep babbling.
“Don’t worry. By the time Sammy’s done, it will be a showplace.”
Everything sensible warns me to get the
hell out. Instead, I hear myself asking, “How’s your mother?”
“She died a year ago.”
“I’m sorry.” Thinking to offer comfort I
take a step in his direction. He turns away so abruptly that I feel foolish.
“She was such a wonderful person. I missed her a lot after you moved away.”
He strides past me, crossing to the
windows. I flinch as he tears the curtains open with a clash of metal against
metal and sunlight floods the room. His action sends dust whirling through the
air. I throw up my hand to block the light, blinking away moisture. As my eyes
adjust, I locate the man who remains cloaked in shadow.
“Is there something you want?” There’s a
snap in his voice that screams irritation.
“No.” My own temper rises at his
rudeness. “I’m just trying to be nice. Our families were close once.”
“Close.” He fills the word with derision.
"Do you really expect me to act friendly toward you after what happened
fifteen years ago?”
I shake my head in confusion. What is he
talking about?
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I know things got
awkward between our families. I was so upset when my mother refused to let me
continue my piano lessons after what happened with your dad.”
“Piano lessons?” He gives a short
mirthless laugh. “You really have no idea what your father did.”
I’m almost afraid to ask. “What did he
do?”
“He uncovered the documents that led to
my dad being arrested for embezzling.” Devlin glares at me. “Thanks to your
father, my dad died in jail.”
Author Spotlight:
Voracious reader with an overactive imagination, chocolate addict, lover of fancy cocktails and tasty edibles, sucker for adventure movies and any music with a beat.
When not writing, Caitlyn loves to connect with her readers for whom she's extremely grateful. Join her VIP list to stay up to date on giveaways and exclusive offers.
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