Free The Seventh Night by Amanda Stevens Page B

contact startled me, making me jump.
    “I’d almost think you had a guilty conscience,” he murmured in my ear as he steered me toward the living-room.
    Choosing to ignore the comment, I looked around. It was an impressive room. Floor-to-ceiling windows, with beautiful, ornate molding, formed one wall, while bookcases—crowded with books and objets d’art—lined another. A grand piano dominated one large corner of the room, and two white brocade sofas flanked the fireplace. Hanging from the cathedral ceiling, a crystal chandelier tinkled softly in the breeze from the open terrace doors, and thick, Aubusson rugs adorned the polished hardwood floor.
    Two women who looked to be about my age, or perhapsa little younger, were seated on one of the white sofas, sipping drinks. When we entered the room, one of them set aside her glass and rose. The other remained seated, curling her legs under her and eyeing me with an insolent stare.
    “I’m Rachel DuPrae,” the woman who came toward us said. She was a younger, prettier version of her mother, with the same quiet, unassuming grace. She wore a red dress, which accentuated her dark complexion and the thick black braid hanging down her back.
    Her eyes, like her mother’s, were brown, but for some reason they seemed less vibrant than the older woman’s, less expressive. We shook hands briefly, and she retreated to an obscure corner of the room.
    “Angelique, come say hello to Christine,” Reid ordered, speaking to the other woman as though she were a child.
    In fact, she wore an expression I’d seen on some of my more precocious fifth-graders, and one I had become very suspicious of.
    Put more succinctly, there was no way I would turn my back on her.
    She rose slowly, revealing slender, tanned legs displayed beneath a daring black mini dress. Her lustrous black hair had been piled on top of her head in an arrangement that looked carefully disheveled, and long silver earrings dangled from her lobes. Her berry-stained lips curved upward, but her smile was devoid of warmth.
    “Sister, dearest. We meet at last,” she said, and the animosity in her tone shocked me.
    “Hello, Angelique.” I cleared my throat and tried to smile as I gazed up at her. She was a tall woman, at least five-eight or five-nine. At five-four, I felt positively diminished, which she seemed to relish. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you,” I said.
    Her kohl-rimmed eyes glared at me. “Why?”
    “Well…I’ve always been curious about you.”
    “Really? I’ve never given you a second thought.”
    “Angelique.” The warning note in Reid’s voice was unmistakable. Angelique smiled at him. “So you’ve decided to play the gracious host, Reid. How gallant. I wonder how long you’ll be able to keep it up.”
    Mrs. DuPrae came in then, carrying a tray laden with drinks. I accepted one, and she and I chatted for a few minutes while Reid and Angelique drifted away. Out of the corner of my eye, I observed them from across the room. Their discussion had grown into an argument.
    Angelique’s blue eyes sparked angrily as she glared up at her brother, but Reid’s manner remained calm, and in a moment, Angelique appeared to back down. She nodded her head, and then, as Reid leaned forward and whispered something in her ear, she laughed, her gaze meeting mine in triumph.
    I had never felt more alone and out of place than I did at that precise moment.
    Mrs. DuPrae said discreetly at my side, “I’m sure you’d like to freshen up before dinner. I’ll be happy to show you the guest house. Would you like to take your drink with you?”
    It was as graceful an exit line as I was likely to get, and I accepted it gratefully. If I had been uncomfortable in this house before, the sight of Reid and Angelique—their heads bent together like deadly conspirators—made me want to turn tail and run.
    Yet, at the doorway, I couldn’t resist turning one last time to glance at him. He was watching me from