Forbidden Sister (The Forbidden 1)

He finally took it. “If you don’t want it, why did you do this?”

“I saw you read the cover with interest and then put it back. On a budget?”

“Sorta,” he said, smiling.

“There you go, then. You have what you wanted at no cost.”

“Yes, but why did y

ou want to do this for me? Who are you?”

“I’m not an undercover policeman working out an entrapment or anything. Don’t worry. You looked like you really wanted it. I liked your look, so I did one of the things I do best. I made some good-looking guy happy.”

He laughed but shook his head incredulously. I could tell he had never met anyone like me. But then again, few people ever had. “My name is Roxy Wilcox,” I added, and offered my hand.

He looked at it as if taking it would doom him.

“No diseases,” I said.

He took it, holding it very gently, almost too gently for a man who looked as fit as he did. “Steve Carson. You liked my look?”

“Sorta,” I said, and he did that smile and shaking of his head again.

He looked around—to see if anyone was noticing us, I guess. Then he turned back to me. “I guess you live in New York?”

“Right. East Side. You?”

“I’m going to Columbia. Junior. Born and raised in Rochester, New York.”

“Raised? What are you, corn?” I asked, and he laughed.

“You’re funny, all right. You go to school or what?”

“Mostly or what, but I’m still enrolled in school. At least today.”

“College or . . .”

“High school,” I said. “A senior, but don’t hold it against me.”

He nodded. Then he looked at his watch.

“Heavy date at the dorm?” I asked.

“No. I don’t live at the dorm. I took a studio apartment on Jerome Avenue.”

“Oh, a loner?”

“I’m just not into the college rah-rah stuff. Can’t afford to fail anything. Besides, I like being on my own.”

“Makes two of us.”

“So you’re a senior in high school?”

“I’m old enough. Don’t worry about that. I was left back three times,” I added, half in jest. He looked as if he believed it and smiled a little more warmly now. I could see he was very attracted to me, not that most boys weren’t.

I think that was a big part of what confused my parents and my teachers. I was, in all modesty, quite beautiful, with a terrific figure, but as Billy Barton, a boy in my class, was fond of saying, I was “hell on wheels.” The contradiction probably kept me from suffering more severe punishments. Whenever I had been brought before a judge, I could see the confusion on his face. Why would someone who looks like me be so bad? Who was I, the daughter of Bonnie and Clyde? I knew how to be sweet and remorseful, too. Each time, I was sent off with warnings. Most men, especially some of my teachers, were easy to manipulate. But not my father, never mon père.

“So what do you want to do afterward?” he asked.