If she had a weakness, it was her complete and consuming worship of all the wrong things. Fast cars. Expensive clothes. Shiny, glittering jewelry.
Men.
It was the latter that always got her in trouble. And this time was no different. Another lover with a lopsided grin and dreamy bedroom eyes. He’d reeled her in with those good looks and bad-boy attitude.
Hoodwinked. She liked the sound of the word. Old, nearly forgotten words were a favorite of hers. And this one fit, the way a good pair of jeans hug you once you’ve broken them in. Yes, he’d hoodwinked her, blinded her with lust and what she’d so naively thought was love.
The tall, thin stilettos she favored clicked with each slow step across the gleaming hardwood. She was going to miss the house. Possibly more than the man. He was nothing to her, now. What was the saying? Hell hath no fury like a woman spurned? No, scorned. Like a woman scorned. That was it.
And oh, how her fury had burned, bright and fast, consuming everything in its path while it raged. Until she was emptied out, cleansed by the heat and destruction.
She stepped over the miniature replica of the Eiffel Tower laying on its side. A souvenir from a whirlwind trip, where she’d confused his extravagance with love. It was a mistake she wouldn’t make again. Or so she told herself.
She wandered from room to room, already feeling nostalgic for the place she’d considered home for a short while. It might do her some good to get away. Surely there was somewhere on this miserable planet where she could spend some time alone. Recharge a bit.
There was that little resort tucked away in the mountains of upstate New York. The one where they made their own strawberry wine. She’d spent a week there a few years back with her sister. Her sweet, boring sister who’d fretted the entire time over the decadence of it all.
So, she’d go alone. She’d treat herself to a week of indulgence, drink too much wine, and let herself be pampered by people who knew how to make a woman feel brand new again.
Forgetting all about wreckage of the once beautiful home, and the body facedown in the middle of it, she headed for the stairs. To the bedroom she’d shared with the man she’d left on the living room floor. Not that she was concerned with such things, when she had a trip to plan.
She didn’t noticed the red spots on her shoes until she stepped into the bright lights of the master bath. Frowning, she slipped them off to inspect the stains marring the gorgeous cream suede she’d coveted. Dammit, they were her favorite pair.
With a sigh, she tossed the designer heels aside. No matter. After her little getaway, she’d find herself another man and replace the ruined pair. And in a few months, she’d be in the same place, picking up the pieces from another tragic affair.
She had a weakness, after all, for worshipping all the wrong things.
