Page 4 of Unbelonging
"Not in person," she said, "but I think I know who you're talking about. You said you saw him in front of that big stone house? The one with the iron gate?"
"That's the one," I said.
She nodded, looking oddly pleased. "He lives there. Just moved in last week."
"Really?" I said, trying to keep the shock out of my voice. "Is he like the owner's son or something?"
She shook her head. "Guess again."
I threw out my second-best guess. "The gardener?" Sure, I'd never seen a gardener who looked like that, but hey, you never know.
This time, she laughed. "Hardly."
I gave it some thought. Trophy husband? No, too many tattoos. Gigolo? He certainly had the body for it, but that was too ridiculous for words. Gigolos didn't loiter outside the front gate after giving someone a nooner. They'd take their money and run. Drug dealer? Possible, but somehow, I didn't think so. He looked tough, but not slimy.
I didn't speak any of these guesses out loud. I couldn't – not if I wanted to keep up the sheltered rich-girl act.
"Cable guy?" I finally said.
Mrs. Parker gave me a strange look, like she was trying to decide if I was kidding or clueless.
"Just kidding," I laughed. "But honestly, I'm out of guesses."
"Hang on," Mrs. Parker said. She strode out of the room and came back a minute later. She was holding a magazine. She plopped it on the counter in front of me.
And there he was, gracing the front ofCelebrity Watch. I felt my jaw drop. The image was all too familiar. He stood, leaning against some brick wall, shirtless and tattooed, his six-pack glistening with what I guessed was sweat. He had that same half smile, that same dark hair, those same dangerous eyes.
My eyes drifted back to his abs. Absolute perfection. I swallowed, and then caught myself. Didn't the guy own a shirt?
Pulling my gaze from the image, I glanced at Mrs. Parker.
She was grinning. "So that's the guy, huh?"
Boy was it ever.
Chapter 4
I'd been living in the Parkers' house for just over a week.
I never did meet the husband, although I'd seen a bunch of framed photos here and there throughout the house. The Parkers in Paris. The Parkers skiing. The Parkers on some sailboat.
In some of the photos, it was just the two of them, looking for all the world like second-honeymooners. In others, it was the Parkers with their son – a cute kid who'd apparently grown up and moved to Chicago.
The husband was noticeably older than the wife, and it was pretty obvious it wasn't the guy's looks that had gotten him the house – or the wife for that matter. But they looked happy, at least from what I could tell.
And now, they were in Costa Rica for the winter.
And I was living in their house, along with Chucky, the plants, and my growing obsession with Lawton Rastor.
While walking Chucky, I saw him almost every day, sometimes outside his fence, sometimes inside. Sometimes, the gate to his estate was open. Sometimes, it was shut. I continued to act like he was invisible. He continued to act like he owned the place, which, well, I guess he did.
After that first time, he always wore a shirt, normally a simple T-shirt, sometimes gray, sometimes black. They were never tight, but didn't matter. Thanks to my Internet-fueled obsession, I knew exactly what was underneath them.
Now, every time I looked at the guy, I had a hard time not filling in the blanks, seeing those perfect abs, the muscular chest, the intricate tattoos that would send any sane girl running.
Normally, I was sane and then some, but there was something about the guy that was making me a little crazy. It wasn't his wealth, and it wasn't his celebrity status. It wasn't even his body, as mouth-watering as it was.
It was the way he'd looked on that very first day – the way he stood, the look in his eyes, and the unbridled energy that fell off of him in waves. One night, I actually dreamed about him. The dream should've been a nightmare, except it wasn't. I woke in a fevered confusion, burning for him in a way that made me blush in the pale morning light.
