Taken by Sin - By Jaci Burton Page 0,3

Isabelle’s eyes, the drawn look to her face. She’d lost weight over the past couple weeks because she hadn’t eaten much.

“No, she’s just tired.” Dalton slid his arm around Isabelle’s waist and led her up the path toward the house.

He liked the old house. Reminiscent of a plantation home, the house was rectangular, two stories with a wraparound porch. It always looked like it had been freshly painted, white with green shutters at each of the windows, cheerful flowers climbing up out of pots sitting on the porch. The house was a sprawling mansion, at least what he would call a mansion, though there was nothing fancy about the place. But it was huge, it was clean, and to Dalton, it was the only home he had. More important, as soon as he took the first of the five stairs heading up to the porch, the tension within him dissolved.

He felt safe here, and Dalton rarely felt safe.

The screen door opened and a woman stepped out, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel. Her skin was flawless, the color of cream-flavored coffee. Her hair was cut short and her full lips lifted in a smile as she waited for them with her hands on her hips, her colorful ankle-length skirt swishing around her as she shifted back and forth. She looked a lot like her great-grandmother, that same kind of strange magic radiating in waves off her. It had been years since he’d been here, but he knew her. And she knew him.

“Dalton.”

“Georgianne.”

She held out her arms and he walked into them. She hugged him, and despite how much older he was than her, he was the one who drew comfort from the embrace. He pulled back and turned. “This is Isabelle.”

“Bienvenue à notre maison, Isabelle. I’m Georgianne. Welcome to the Labeau home. We’re so happy to have you here.”

“Bonjour, Georgianne.”

“Everyone calls me Georgie, and if you’re a friend of Dalton’s then you’re practically family.”

“Merci, Georgie,” Isabelle said, dropping her chin to her chest. “Je suis désolée.”

“Now don’t you go apologizin’,” Georgie said. “There’s nothing to be sorry for. We love having visitors here.” Georgie slung her arm around Isabelle. “Come on, let’s go inside for something cool to drink. It’s blisterin’ hot out here today.”

Isabelle nodded and went in with Georgie. Dalton noted Isabelle was having trouble making eye contact, as if she was uncomfortable.

Maybe she was just tired. But on a good note, she’d spoken more words to Georgie in those few seconds than she had to him in weeks.

The kitchen was exactly as he remembered. Linoleum floors, still scrubbed to a gleaming shine every day, no doubt. The one thing he remembered most about Celine, Georgie’s great-grandmother, was the woman always scrubbing something. She kept a seriously clean house and God help you if you tracked mud into her kitchen.

Gingham yellow-and-white curtains covered each window, open today to let what little breeze there was blow through the house. Georgie motioned to the old wooden table where Dalton had eaten many a meal. It could seat twenty, with wide benches on either side and chairs on each end that reminded him of thrones. It was a lot more scarred now than it had been on his last visit, but still sturdy as a hundred-year-old oak.

He climbed over the bench and took a seat next to Isabelle.

“Lemonade,” Georgie said, setting glasses down and filling them with ice before pouring lemonade from the pitcher. “Loaded with sugar, too, because girl, you look like you need some nourishment.”

“I haven’t been very hungry,” Isabelle said, her head bent down and her eyes averted as she grasped the glass and brought it to her lips. She sipped, then her lips curled in a hint of a smile. “Bien, merci. This is very good.”

“Drink it all. You look like you’re about to fall down.”

Isabelle exhaled. “I feel that way.”

“Then you should eat. There’s soup on the stove.” Georgie stood.

Isabelle raised her head enough to peer at Georgie through her half-lidded gaze. “Please, don’t trouble yourself.”

“Chère, it’s no trouble. What’s trouble is you passing out on my kitchen floor.” She scooped seafood stew into two bowls and laid it in front of them.

Dalton inhaled, the memories taking him back. “Your great-grandma used to make this soup.”

“Yeah,” Georgie said with a wide smile. “She and my mama taught me how to cook.”

“I was sorry to hear of your grandmother’s passing,” Dalton said. He’d known Georgie’s grandmother well. Marie had a twinkle in her eye that had