Free Every Wickedness by Cathy Vasas-Brown Page A

you.”
    “What’s your point, Manny?”
    “My point is, maybe the lovely Beth Wells is writing the letters to herself.”

16
    O nce Beth extricated herself from the snarl of downtown traffic, she put the sleazy vision of Rex McKenna behind her and thought about Jordan Bailey.
    It amazed her how vividly his image came to her, even in the middle of a working day with customers all around. Jordan was tall, with brown hair cropped short, which only made his eyes all the more noticeable, eyes that drew her in, mesmerized her past the point of caring. They’d had only two dates, once for lunch, the next for dinner, both to discuss decorating Jordan’s house. They’d talked about everything but. Finally, it was agreed Beth should come and see his place, and now she hoped they could get the business part over with quickly.
    Ginny was right. Beth usually resisted beginning relationships, often refusing second dates from perfectly decent men because they failed to captivate her instantly. “Can’t you date a few Mr. In-Betweens while you wait for Mr. Right?” Ginny would wail.
    No, it seemed, she couldn’t. But when Jordan walked into Personal Touch Interiors, after Beth had spotted him pacing the sidewalk outside on three separate occasions, she was ready to strap him into a chair so he wouldn’t leave. He had been getting up the nerve to come inside, he’d said.
    Now, two weeks later, she was paying a house call, and she was nervous, too. As she steered the Audi through the steep streets of Upper Noe, she wondered about the home that Jordan had described as a fixer-upper. She was not ready for what she found.
    The house, painted Wedgwood blue, was a classic example of San Francisco Stick architecture. Tones of plum, greyish-turquoise, and cream accented the ornate trim. A milk glass lantern hung from a brass chain, illuminating the front porch, its delicate archway resembling a crown of pearls. No detail had been overlooked; even the discs that flanked a bay window had been painted in gold leaf, like a collection of coins.
    Beth lingered in her car, drinking in the façade. It was warm, inviting, and knowing what she did about houses and their owners, Beth assumed this place reflected something about Jordan. From the outside, the fixer-upper was a showpiece. Maybe the inside needed gutting. She shut off the engine and got out of the car.
    Jordan, wearing snug faded jeans and a white cotton shirt, greeted her from the doorway with a broad smile. As she passed him, she caught a trace of musky cologne and turned toward him. His feathery kiss brushed her forehead, and she had to remind herself that this was primarily a business meeting.
    “Nice to see you again.” Quickly, he closed the door and ushered her inside.
    It was the kind of house you could sink into when the fog wrapped itself around the city.Standing in the warmly lit foyer, with a partial view into the front parlour, Beth thought Jordan had gone a long way to creating the sanctuary he claimed to crave.
    Each room on the ground floor was as lovely as the next. A gas fireplace burned brightly in the living room. The dining room displayed a magnificent lin-crusta wallcovering at the cornice, producing an elegant frieze effect. The kitchen was a chef’s dream. Even Jordan’s furniture, an eclectic mix of Empire, Eastlake, and Mission oak pieces, suited the house perfectly.
    A bottle of white wine stood on the central island in the kitchen, chilling in a ceramic cooler. “Like to see the upstairs?”
    She preceded him up the front staircase, his hand holding her elbow as they climbed the narrow steps. The rich wooden banister felt cool and smooth. Jordan’s closeness was overwhelming, and when they reached the top of the stairs, he didn’t move away, but kept a strong hand on the small of her back as he guided her from room to room.
    Beth expected to see at least one room torn apart, plaster removed to the bare struts. Two of the bedrooms were small, one