Chapter FiveThe thing about being a virgin is that I don’t really have any sexy lingerie. No one has ever seen my underwear except other girls in the gym changing room. I wear sturdy skin-toned bras and cute underwear with pink doughnuts and blue butterflies on them. Nothing with lace or silk.
I stare at the slim contents of my underwear drawer without inspiration as sunlight streams through the window. Last night the lawn seemed ominous, concealing intruders in its shadows. In the daylight it seems like the same cheery place I played as a child. It’s almost enough to make me forget the intruder last night, except that I found the little metal clasp on the electrical box broken. The cops assure me that the lock can get broken in a bad storm, but I know what I saw.
There’s only one way to make sure we’re safe here.
In the end it’s too late to get a fancy bra-and-panty set. Besides, my credit card would get declined. I pull on a plain white T-shirt bra and white panties with a pretty scalloped edge.
If they want a virgin, then they can damn well deal with my underwear.
I have a few fancy dresses left from my days attending opening galas and evening operas, ones I couldn’t sell because they were ripped or too old. But I can’t quite bring myself to dress in a daring red or mysterious black. These are dresses I wore on Justin’s arm, the toast of society. That girl doesn’t exist anymore.
Instead I put on a white sundress. At least it hugs my curves.
I find sandals and a clutch to match, pretending I’m getting ready for brunch with friends.
There will be no more brunches. Maybe no more friends. And I won’t see Justin ever again. A pang in my chest reminds me that I love him—that I love a man who saw me as a stepping stone.
The Den looks different today, more like one of the historic buildings dotting Tanglewood’s downtown. There are offices and stores bustling with people at two in the afternoon.
Maybe I should have waited until tonight.
A knock on the brass ring in a lion’s mouth goes unanswered.
I need to do this before I lose my nerve. I knock harder this time, almost hurting my knuckles against the thick wood. Why aren’t they answering? Maybe they aren’t here, but I can’t turn back now. I’m too deep into this.
Some impulse puts my hand on the doorknob. It turns.
Why isn’t the door locked? Unease moves through my stomach. I expected to find Gabriel opening the door like he did last night. He scared me then, but for some reason I miss him now.
I wander down the hallway, into the large room filled with plush leather armchairs and tables that have been cleared of ashtrays and half-filled glasses. Only smooth surfaces remain, gleaming in the faint light. I take a step back, another—backing out of a room I shouldn’t be in.
A sound comes to me faintly, and I whirl. The wide hallway is empty.
There’s a door at the end of the hall, and it draws me closer with strange magnetism. My feet move on their own, bringing me to the forbidden. I shouldn’t even be in the Den, much less wandering the hallways alone. My curiosity has always gotten me into trouble, but before I had the security of my family name. Now I’m falling without a net.
The door opens to a set of dark wooden stairs. Servants’ quarters, I realize. These old houses were divided by class. The steps lead up to another door, no place to wait except two steps down. My knock echoes through the dim hallway, overloud and startling even though I made the sound.
I chance a look down the stairs, at the shadowed landing below, darkness impenetrable. Dizzy waves rush over me. I’m in one of those twisting sketches with stairs that turn into themselves, a never-ending maze. I’ll never find my way back.
The door swings open, and then a large body slams into mine—as hard and solid as the stairs beneath my feet. I lose my grip on the rail and fall backward, world upside down. Oh God, I’m falling.
I twist in the air, all sense of balance lost, no ground to fall back on. Firm hands grasp my arms, almost bruising. They haul me upright, toes brushing the steps, gaze snapping to fierce eyes and a snarl.
Wild. That’s all I can think of the man holding me up. Heavy eyebrows slant over copper eyes, the pupils large enough to make him almost feral. This close I can see his features better, lit by the overhead light instead of the dim room downstairs. His nose and mouth are crude, etched from stone instead of flesh. The whole effect is made more sinister by the faint slash through his cheek and upper lip, a scar so deep and so old it’s a part of his features now, a thin sliver of water through a canyon wall.