A/N: Regular readers take note: this story contains three new chapters posted almost back-to-back.

Roxanne stood outside the front door of the frat, leaning against one of the big white columns and admiring the parking valets while she smoked. They were all college-age guys, and they all looked so cute, she thought, in their slacks and shirts and ties and red vests. They looked especially tasty when they were running for a parked car and their slacks stretched over their hineys.

Sightseeing out front with a cig was better entertainment than what was going on inside. The music was tedious, and the dancing painful to watch. Nobody was having any real fun. Half the people present were just playing the social-network game: seeing and being seen, touching base with their peers, trading a little gossip. Others, the sort who didn't usually pass the gates, were trying to impress one another in ridiculously bad imitation of the socials, or else were mingling listlessly, fish out of water. None of the social boys had brought a girl of his class to the party – a telling fact - and every presentable unattached female had a circle of guys trying to score. It just reminded her too much of a bad lunch period at MacArthur.

Some of the boys were pretty, though, and some of the cars they drove were fine, too. A lot of money had been invited to this party, and it showed by the selections in the lot: plenty of European metal, with the occasional glittering Detroit classic. She'd drooled over an immaculate early-Seventies Stingray driven by a guy whose dad probably hadn't been born when it rolled off the assembly line. At second look, the guy had been all right too, if you liked glasses. She took a puff and waited for the next sample.

An engine whirred. Under the canopy rolled a white Jag XK convertible with its top up, a sleek low shape with a hood a mile long. Roxy smiled in anticipation. The driver's door opened up, and she nearly dropped her cigarette. The guy handing his keys and a banknote to the valet was the blond boy who'd been eying her up that morning on the beach in back of the house.

She ducked behind the pillar, her mind racing. As soon as he goes inside, he'll spot Kat. He's sure to recognize her from this morning. He'll ask if anybody knows her, and ten minutes later every guy in the room will know where we live.

A desperate, half-formed plan came to mind. She reappeared from behind the column just as he was turning towards the house. She leaned casually against the pillar again. He took a couple of steps up the short walk and noticed her just as she said, "Hey. Boat boy."

It took him a bare moment to recognize her. She'd been wearing a minimum of makeup for sunbathing, of course, and now had on her 'forty minute face', the one she applied when she wanted to look old enough to purchase booze or cigarettes. But the purple-trimmed hair was distinctive and fresh in his memory, she imagined; her eyes were, too, if the glances of her he'd stolen during the volleyball session had lingered that far up. He smiled. "Heyy."

"Where's the rest of the jolly crew?" Please, let them be someplace else. This won't work if he's not alone.

"Still on the boat. I think they're spending the night off Catalina. I had some things to do, so they dropped me off. What about yours?"

"T.J. I'm bored with that. A couple friends invited me to this, but I've hardly seen them all night." She offered him a hand. "Roxanne."

He took it. "Eric." His eyes flicked over her. "Nice outfit. Not as nice as the last one I saw you in, though."

She smiled as if flattered by the lame line. "Love your car. I'll bet it rides like a dream."

"Zero to sixty in five seconds, and it steers like it's on rails. What are you doing out here?"

She lifted her cigarette and took a drag. "This, for one. Also, I'm bored to tears. I'd like to bail, but my ride won't be here for hours yet." Having planted the seed, she watched, smiling, as it took root.

"Listen," he said, "I need to go in here and mingle for a few. But when I come out, maybe you'd like to go for a drive?"

She took another hit off the cig and pulled her silver cigarette case out of her purse. She stubbed the cigarette out and stuck it in the case, looking out over the arriving and departing cars. "I might be gone by then. I really don't know how much longer I can stand it here." A young man had just passed the keys to his Mustang to the valet and started up the walk; she smiled at him, and he smiled back, his eyes flicking from her to Eric and back as he passed by.

Eric gave the valet a two-finger wave. "Bring back my car, please."

Eric dropped the top and pointed the Jag west. Roxanne noted that he didn't try to show off for her; he drove defensively and never exceeded the speed limit. She thought maybe he was making for the Coast Highway. She hoped not, and not only because it would take her a long way from her friends; the section of PCH between San Diego and L.A. was about the most unscenic drive she could imagine, all multilane concrete troughs decorated with spray paint. Then the car swung south, winding through low hills in the general direction of La Jolla and the beach house, as if he was just taking her home by a roundabout route.

He turned on the radio. Soft jazz drifted out of a dozen speakers. "What kind of music do you like?"

"Anything you can dance to, pretty much," she said.

"You like to dance? What kind?"

"Modern, mostly. A little classical. I might get into Latin someday."

Eric's hand never touched the radio, but the music switched to a thumping house track. "Plan to make a living at it?"

CD changer? "No. I think that would take the fun out of it. You know, we don't have to listen to dance tunes. How about some mood music? Electronica's good."

The track changed again, to a mellow tune by Boards of Canada; on the dark road lit only by their headlights, it was cool and a little spooky. Not a CD changer. He's got one of those satellite radios with a hundred commercial-free channels and musical-style presets. Controls on the steering wheel, too, so he can change it in a blink. He does aim to please, doesn't he?

"Like your hair," her driver said. "On you. Wouldn't work for every girl, for sure. You ever think about growing it out?"

"Nope. It's easy to take care of. I spend too much time in front of the mirror already."

"Every minute shows."

"Thanks. They told me this party was dressy; I just wanted to be worthy."

The asphalt disappeared beyond the headlights, and the street signs floated out of the dark almost as they were on them; she hoped he knew the road. She'd been hoping to come across a gas station or something, so she could duck into a bathroom and call her sister in private, before she was missed, and warn her. But Eric looked to be taking them far from civilization. To the left and ahead, she could see lights some distance below before a fork in the road took them out of sight.

Eric slowed the car as the road narrowed. "I thought you looked fantastic just dressed for the beach. Not just you, all of you. Like you were just waiting around for the photographer to show up. I hope you're not just houseguests." He smiled at the windshield. "It'd be nice to know you're going to be around awhile."

She smiled. "All of us, you mean?"

"Well, I do have friends."

"Sister, brother's girlfriend, and the little blonde's the housekeeper. Not enough to go around, I'm afraid."

"Shame." They approached an intersection, just two roads meeting in the middle of nowhere, lit by a single pole light and marked by four stop signs. She noted that he brought the car to a complete stop for a two-count before taking his foot off the brake. He hung a left, and they were gliding through the darkness again. "Your sister must work extra hard on that tan. Waste of time, I think. Girls with skin like yours look better without."

Roxanne was confused for a moment until it hit her. He thinks Sarah's my sister, not Kat. She imagined the four of them as they must have appeared from the beach. Same color hair, and my figure is way closer to Sarah's than Kat's. She remembered that Sarah had four sisters back on the rez, all sloe-eyed Amerind beauties with long dark hair. What will she say when I tell her somebody took us for sibs?

"That smile looks good on you," he said. "Kind of mischievous. What's it about?"

"Oh," she said, "Just wondering what she'd say if somebody told her she was working too hard on her tan."

The road forked again, and he took the left branch without slowing. She realized that she no longer had any idea of their direction. The sky was cloudy, and the moon and stars hidden from view. She caught a chill and shivered.

"You want the top up? Or I can turn on the heater."

She crossed her arms in front of her, feeling goosebumps on her upper arms and her pokies pressing against her forearms like buttons. "Let's try the heater first. I don't want to give up the fresh air. I just wish I'd brought a jacket."

The heater came on, sending warm air across her legs, and her thighs broke out as well. She watched the dark hills rush by. Eventually she warmed up. "Better." She smiled. "Blood must be thinned out from all the time in the sun."

"Hm." The road widened to four lanes. He swung the car into the right lane and turned right. "What do you do for a living, Roxanne?"

She shifted a leg. "Still in school. What about you? Is that your frat?"

"I'm an alum. Graduated last year."

Which makes him twenty-two or –three. She ran a hand along the window sill. "Looks like you didn't waste any time making your fortune."

"Trust fund. But I do all right on my own. I'm pulling down eighty grand a year at my law firm. And I'm on the fast track to make partner."

Eric, you know where I live. Are you really trying to impress me with your money? "Lawyer, huh? That explains."

"Explains what?"

"Talking comes easy to you."

"Is that good or bad?"

"Depends on what you've got to say."

"You've got the most gorgeous eyes," he said. "Sorry, couldn't help it. Every guy you've ever met must have told you the same thing. I'm sure you get tired of hearing it."

Straight out of the playbook, she thought. Separate the quarry from her support group, and get her alone as soon as you can without spooking her. Keep the compliments above the neck till she warms up and you're sure she'll be receptive. A little touch of uncertainty to help her feel in control, and a little vulnerability to make her sympathetic. Very smooth, Eric. The little exchange brought home that she was engaged in serious business. Her plan had seemed simple enough: to entice him away from the frat house until Mel could finish her business and get Kat out of there, then 'tire' and ask for a ride home. But she couldn't do that for a while yet, and things seemed to be getting more complicated by the minute.

You're not playing with some teenage boy, Roxanne. This guy has more experience handling women than you do handling boys, years more. He isn't used to being refused anything. And he obviously wants something you're not prepared to give. Be very careful with him. "Not always," she said, running the leather seat all the way to the rear and lowering its back halfway, obviously settling in – and, quite incidentally, giving him a better view. "It depends on the guy." She put her hands behind her head, raised her elbows, and stretched. She was rewarded with a tiny swerve as the hand on the wheel followed his eyes. She smiled out the window at the sky, pretending not to notice.

The road abruptly rose in front of them, and the car slowed as it climbed, following a gentle curve.

She sat up. "Where are we going?"

"Just a place I like to see at night."

The car crested the rise, and Roxy said, "Ooh." On her side of the road, the ground dropped away, and a galaxy of lights spread out below, unevenly distributed along the slopes and valleys. "Pretty."

"I'd pull over, but it really isn't safe. Somebody could come tearing around the curve and hit us with no warning."

"Sokay." She glanced over to him as the car began to descend and the hill blocked the view. "Got any other scenic destinations in mind?"

He hesitated. "My place is ten minutes away," he said. "I'd like you to see it. But if you'd rather not…"

If she refused, she thought, he'd probably turn the car around and take her back to the party, and this whole trip would be a waste. Kat wouldn't leave the party without her, Roxy was certain, and would call as soon as she missed her. Roxy needed a chance to call and give her sister a heads-up. Should have done it before we left. Just excuse myself to go to the bathroom… but would he have waited out front for me?

The road ended at a T-junction. Eric brought the car to a halt behind the stop sign. "Left turn takes us back to the party. Right turn…"

She swallowed, hoping he didn't see. "Take a right," she said. "I'd like to see how you live."

Eric's place was a stuccoed hacienda-style set on a big lot among low hills. She could see lights inside, burning welcomingly behind patterned translucent blinds. The driveway curved around the house and ended at a double-width garage door hidden from the street. He pressed a button on the overhead console, and the door rose to reveal an empty two-space garage, and a regular door that doubtless led inside. He can bring guests home, and no one would ever see them enter or leave. Reassuring or ominous, depending. He opened the car door for her, then the door inside, which made her feel like a sheep being guided to the shearing shed.

She took a step inside and halted. Behind her, Eric said, "What do you think?"

"Cozy. And very male." The kitchen, dining, and living areas were combined in an open floorplan that made maximum use of the space, which was nevertheless smaller than she'd expected. The ceiling angled up, rising to maybe eleven or twelve feet along one wall. The floor was wood planks with thick rugs under the furniture. A couple of doorways flanked the kitchen; the left-hand one was a pair of pocket doors that would open up to five or six feet. Everything about the furnishings said 'bachelor crib': the leather sofa with the Mexican throw and widescreen TV over the fireplace in the living room; the island kitchen with utensils hung from a wrought-iron hoop suspended from the ceiling; the pool table and foosball game in one corner. A couple of pictures hung on the walls, pieces whose colors went well with the décor; after a few weeks of living surrounded by Mr. Lynch's collection, they didn't rate a second glance from her. Everything was neat and uncluttered, but not obsessively so; more like he'd picked up for company. Uh-oh.

She examined the room again. The sofa was a six-footer, even though the room was big enough for a full-size or even a sectional, and there were no chairs. She looked again at the game tables: two-player games. There was no dining table, just the bar at the kitchen island and two stools. Eric's place was set up for entertaining… but not for parties. Two couples would be a capacity crowd.

He said, "Those shoes can't be comfortable. Leave them at the door, why don't you? Then go wiggle your toes in the rug. It feels great at the end of the day."

She looked up at him; even with the heels on, she was five or six inches shorter. "If I do, promise not to laugh."

"Why would I laugh?"

"Because I don't think I'll come up to your chin with them off."

"Proof that the best things sometimes come in small packages." He offered a steadying hand.

With her hand lightly held in his, she undid the shoes' straps one foot at a time and slipped them off, and her feet throbbed with relief. She moved to the rug in front of the couch, and her feet sank into the thick pile. It felt heavenly. She closed her eyes, tipped her head back, and sighed a couple times, wiggling her toes, until the stiffness disappeared from her feet and calves. She lifted her arms over her head and stretched her upper body as well, arching her back and rolling her shoulders.

She opened her eyes. Eric was watching her, intent, almost spellbound. She said, "What?"

He blinked. "Just enjoying the look on your face. Very much."

She felt a touch of warmth at her ears. "Someplace I can freshen up?"

He moved toward the kitchen. "Bathroom's the door to the right."

The bathroom's layout was odd. The toilet and washbasin were alone in the room; she presumed that a door set opposite the one she'd entered contained the tub. She opened the taps in the sink, then she flipped open her phone and tapped out Kat's number; whatever trick Mr. Lynch used to make their cellphones trace-proof didn't permit the numbers to be stored on speed dial.

Kat picked up on the first ring. "Hello?"

"It's me. Did you miss me yet?" A silly question; if Kat had noticed she was gone, Roxy's phone would have buzzed a hole in her purse by now.

"I was just about to call. Where are you?"

"I left the party. Don't panic, I'm fine. There was something I had to do."

"Roxy…"

"I'll see you at home before curfew. I'll explain then. Just head for home as soon as Melanie sews up the deal And don't call back." She disconnected and set the phone to silent mode, just in case. She shut off the taps just in time to hear a pop from the kitchen. Then she opened the big mirror door over the sink to examine the medicine cabinet.

Uh oh, she thought again. Looks like Eric's a Boy Scout. The big cabinet held a few guy articles like deodorant and such, but half the shelves contained travel-size bottles and tubes in pastel colors, feminine stuff: shampoo, shower gel, deodorant, lotion, baby powder. A toothbrush, still in its plastic packaging, lay on one shelf, next to a brush and combs that she was sure were brand new. The bathroom had been provisioned to accommodate a female guest who hadn't planned to spend the night. She unscrewed the tops of a couple of the little bottles. They were all full. Bet he replaces any used ones as soon as she leaves. She started to put them back on the shelf and froze, remembering. The last time she'd looked into a bathroom cabinet full of sample bottles had been her last night as a student at Darwin. There was no connection, but the memory sent ice up her spine anyway.

She eyed the bathroom's unopened door, grasped the knob, and swung it open. The bathing area was big enough to throw a party in, with a two-seat Jacuzzi tub in one corner and a walk-in shower next to it. The stall was built-in, oversized, with floor-to-ceiling tiles, multiple controls and shower heads, and clear glass doors. Bachelor crib, definitely. Next to the towel bar hung a pair of white terrycloth robes, very thick and soft and luxurious. So she needn't feel in a rush to get back in her clothes. Set in the wall opposite the tub and shower was another set of pocket doors. Uneasily certain of what lay beyond them, she put her fingers into the handle recesses and parted them.

As soon as they slid aside, she saw that the garage wasn't the only reason the house had seemed larger on the outside: a third of the floor space was in this bedroom.

The carpet was white shag, and looked as soft and warm as the robes; a big pile of pillows in the corner made it clear Eric spent time on it. Another set of pocket doors, presumably the ones she'd seen from the living room, graced the left wall. But the centerpiece of the room was a beautiful bed, way too large not to be custom-made, that stood with its headboard against the right wall. A mini fridge and a wine cooler flanked it instead of night tables. Through the cooler's glass door, she could see rows of bottles and a pair of stemmed glasses. A flatscreen bigger than the one in the living room was mounted on the wall opposite the bed, above the pocket doors. A row of mirrored doors lined the wall opposite her; she could see her reflection, peering wide-eyed at her over Eric's X-rated workbench.

Something about those doors especially bothered her: they looked to be just mirrored six-foot sliders, typical closet doors – but why were there four of them? What guy has that many clothes? Her imagination kicked into second gear, and she envisioned crossing the room and opening one to reveal his handcuff collection or something. Or... She looked at the probable view from the doors. There was one pair that would overlook the entire room without obstruction. She imagined drawing one of them aside and discovering a bank of cameras behind one-way glass.

She blinked. Get real. Look at this room. For that matter, think about the layout of the rest of the house. Aside from kitchen cabinets and the coat closet by the front door, there's no storage anywhere. He probably keeps everything from cufflinks to running shoes behind those doors. Skis, even.

She glanced over at the pocket doors again and saw that one of them was now open and her host was looking into the bedroom. Eric's eyes roved over the floor and bed and coolers. Making sure everything's ready. His face turned her way, and she ducked back and silently slid the doors shut, hoping he hadn't noticed her.

Back in the 'front' bathroom, she took a moment to get a grip, and to remind herself she wasn't your average ninety-eight pound girl. She could be out of here in three seconds flat anytime she wanted, no matter how insistent he got. But if it comes to that… can I do it using what Mr. Lynch taught us, or will I have to use Gen, do something that will raise questions?

When she came out of the bathroom, she heard a sound system playing quietly in the living room: more electronic mood music, soothing and familiar – or would have been, if she hadn't been wound too tight to be soothed. Eric was waiting at the kitchen island with a bottle in an ice bucket and two champagne glasses, which were filled with bubbly. That's the pop I heard. She took a quick breath and forced herself to look at ease. He handed her a glass. He raised his own, touched rims with her, and raised it to his lips. "Find what you were looking for?"

Busted. She looked over her rim at his faint smile and imagined how it would have looked to him, both of them peeking in the bedroom at the same time, sharing a preview of coming attractions. "Not looking for anything in particular, just looking."

She took a tiny sip. The bubbles fizzed on her tongue. It was crisp and sort of fruity without being too sweet, and the scent of it filled her throat and nose. She could barely taste the alcohol, false advertising for sure; she was certain she'd be stoned on just a couple glasses. She resolved to do no more than wet her lips with the rest.

Something about Eric's smile as he watched her drink bothered her. It wasn't good humor curling the corners of his mouth. A stab of panic stopped her breath. I didn't watch him pour. She blinked and looked again. No, that smile wasn't predatory enough. But there was definitely some serious anticipation in it. It's the alcohol he's counting on, that's all.

"Thought I heard you on the phone," he said.

She nodded and took another sip without thinking. "I canceled my ride. You don't mind taking me home, do you? Or did I presume?"

"I'll take you anywhere you want." He lifted his glass and said, "Want to take these to the couch? I can start a fire."

I just bet you could. She gestured towards the pool table. It was a beautiful piece of furniture, antique-looking, with carved legs and braided leather cups at the pockets instead of a collection mechanism. "How about a game instead? I'm crazy good."

"Are you really?" He topped off their glasses. "Your own opinion, or is that what they tell you?"

Gawd. Could the double entendres be any heavier? She smiled up at him. "Wait till you see my trick shots."

He moved to the pool table and set his glass on a butler's table against the wall. "Pick a cue. I rack, you break." He walked around the table collecting balls, then arranged them carefully inside the wooden triangle, positioning the assembly with a few tiny adjustments. He lifted the triangle and stepped back. "Show me what you've got."

She selected a cue, giving more attention to the corner pocket behind the balls than to the sticks. She bent over the table with her choice gripped in her thumbs and wiggled her fingers. "Limbering up." She sighted on the cue ball and the pack of balls. She stroked, and the cue ball whacked into the set, scattering the balls.

Three balls dropped into the corner pocket.

Eric stared at the pocket. "That better have been luck."

She smiled. "Maybe a little."

"First one in was the two. You've got solids."

"Hmp." The other two balls had been striped. Which meant that Eric was one up on her already.

She walked around the table, looking for a shot she could make without Gen, or at least a solid near a pocket with no stripes between. The three, standing a foot from a corner pocket, was her best bet, but the cue ball was almost in the middle of the table, an awkward shot for a player who was only five-foot-one.

"Want to put a bet down?" Eric leaned against the wall behind her, sipping his drink.

She offered him a dirty look. "Ask me again after I make this shot." The edge of the table was just below her navel. She leaned far across the middle of the table, her chest almost touching the felt. It still wasn't quite enough. She rested a forearm on the felt and put a knee up on the edge of the table to improve her angle, standing on the ball of the other foot, and felt the hem of her dress brush her butt, probably exposing an inch or so of cheek. Thank God I opted for Brazil cut instead of a thong tonight.

Eric said, "You might not plan on dancing for a living, but I bet you practice for hours every day."

Not my shot you're checking out back there, is it, Eric? "Every day, but sometimes not for long. I've got other interests, you know." She stroked the cue ball, which tapped the bright-red three. It shot off towards the bumper right next to the pocket, certain to miss the hole and go ricocheting back into the middle of the table… then curved and went in.

"How did you get that kind of spin on it?"

She shrugged. "Oh, practice." She straightened and slid her knee off the table, still looking over the scattered balls for her next shot. "How big a bet? I don't have much money." Not exactly true; Anna wouldn't let any of them out of the house without plastic and a couple hundred in cash, but their little den mother had made it clear that it was emergency money, not discretionary funds.

On the other hand, she wanted to stay at the pool table, upright and mobile, for the rest of the night if possible; the couch seemed like a very bad idea, especially with champagne in hand. She'd be glad to let him win half the games to keep him playing. If he wanted to throw a little dinero on it besides, well, she thought Anna might class this as an emergency.

"I wasn't thinking of money." He was still behind her, but sounded closer.

She tensed. "What then?" She turned and he was right behind her. The table bumped her butt before she realized she'd tried to step back.

He smiled at her discomfort. "Ever play 'Truth or Dare'?"

She tipped her head up to meet his eyes. "I don't think I'd ever pick 'dare' if I lost."

He tilted his head slightly. "How about if we agree on the dare beforehand? Keep the 'truth' a surprise, though. And the winner picks."

She slid sideways and moved to the end of the table, pretending to study it.

He didn't follow, as she'd half expected him to. "Roxanne," he said softly, "nothing's going to happen here that you don't want."

She didn't find that statement reassuring. How many defendants in rape cases claimed she was asking for it? She avoided his eyes and bent over the table. "Okay." She found an easy shot, the six, standing near the side pocket. She stroked it in. Three to two. "What kind of dare are you thinking of?"

"Dance for me," he said, voice still soft and deep. "One song, my pick."

"That's it?"

"That's it. What about yours?"

She grinned. "The same."

He grinned back and things were friendlier than they'd been since she'd gotten in his car.

The one-ball was next. She sent it into the pocket without Gen, and surveyed the table, picking her next target. Nothing presented itself; the eight-ball and Eric's five remaining stripes were covering every pocket.

"Give me a turn," he said, "and maybe I could clear some of the clutter out for you."

"Next game, maybe." She settled on the seven, almost touching Eric's twelve-ball in the corner. "After I've seen you play." She drove the cue ball into the seven, popping the brick-red ball into the pocket. The twelve seemed about to follow it in, then did a curious reverse and stopped an inch short.

Eric stared at the twelve. "Trick shots, all right. You sure know how to put English on a ball. It's as if you're tilting the table."

The last two balls, the four and five, were hemmed in by stripies. She didn't see how she could even get the cue ball to them.

Eric smiled. "Looks like I'm getting a turn after all."

"Fat chance." She sighted on the purple four and concentrated. Then she concentrated some more.

"Ahem," Eric said.

"Quit distracting me." She waited with the end of the stick poised an inch from the cue ball until she got her focus back. Then she drove the end of the stick into the white ball, just below center, and it leaped into the air, clearing the stripers, and smacked the four. It took off, not heading for a pocket. It bounced off a bumper, then another, without losing any momentum. It bounced off a couple of Eric's balls, dislodging them from the pocket and sending them into the center of the table, then curved into a side pocket and dropped in.

Eric stared at the pocket. "No. Freaking. Way."

She blew on the tip of the cue. Then she took a big gulp from her glass, watching him from over the rim.

"If I'd seen that on TV," he said, "I'd have thought it was special effects. Tell me you didn't do that."

"I didn't do that," she lied. "I was just trying to bust things up a little before I gave you the table. But it still counts, right?"

"Yeah. Though, now, I'm starting to think I didn't really see what I thought I saw. Did you maybe drop some acid in my wine?" He smiled. "Kidding. I know you wouldn't do that."

She giggled. "You're gonna think I'm paranoid. But, early on, I was worried about you putting something in my drink."

"I did put something in your drink."

Time stopped.

He smiled into his glass. "My tongue. After you drank half of it. I had this idea it would taste sweeter after it touched your lips."

"Gawd." She put a fist into his shoulder. Oh, crap. I'm liking him.

The last of her balls, the five, was now a clear shot into the far corner pocket. She stroked it in, and studied her angle on the eight. There was a stripe in the way, so she'd have to make a bank shot, and the only approach she could feasibly make put her in real danger of scratching. She thought briefly of doing another voodoo shot, but decided she'd pushed Eric's credulity enough on the four-ball. She'd just give the cue ball a nudge away from the pocket at the last second if she had to. She leaned over the table, concentrating on her aim, and drew back for the stroke.

Eric blew softly in her ear.

She shivered and fluffed the shot, sending the cue rolling lazily towards the side pocket. He grabbed the ball, laughing. "Sorry, sorry. You just looked so damn serious." He set it back in its original place. "Do-over." He stepped back, hands in the air.

She gave him a dirty look, lined up the shot again, and tapped the cue ball with the end of the stick. The white ball just missed a striper, hit the bumper at a shallow angle, bounced, and tapped the black ball. The eight ball dropped into the hole. The cue ball bounced against one bumper, then the other, then came to rest an inch in front of the pocket.

"Well." He turned from the table to her. "Got a song picked out? Don't expect much."

She lowered her lashes. "Actually, I think I'll pick 'truth'." She set aside her cue and started collecting balls. "At the beach, it seemed like each of you guys had one of us staked out as soon as you set up the net. How did that happen?"

He looked uncomfortable. "Sure you don't want me to dance?"

"Yes. Very." She set the rack on the felt. "Well?"

"We scissor-paper-rocked before we dropped anchor."

She dropped all the balls into the triangle before she spoke again. "Who'd you duel for first? The redhead?"

He nodded.

"How far down the list was I?"

"Roxanne, I –"

"Third or fourth?" She shook the rack forward and back to pack the balls.

"Third." He bent close. "But I wasn't the one who picked the order. If I had, you'd have been first, and I'd have ended up with the redhead. I got lucky."

"Not that lucky." She smiled. "We didn't even trade names before you remembered your urgent appointment."

"And who were those Neanderthals on the beach? They looked like Moustache Petes."

She paused with her fingers still in the rack. "What?"

"Mooks. Godfather types." He adopted an awful Godfather accent. "Wassa matter, you little punks? You got no respect. Get outta here an doanna come back, less you want to sleep with the fishes."

She giggled, then decided to tease him a little, maybe test his temper. "Aww, did the big mean men scare you?"

"Let's just say they made it hard to concentrate on the game."

"Which one?"

He frowned. "Which one?"

"Which game? The game with the net, or the game up on the deck?"

The corner of his mouth quirked. "The one with the net. Skip missed a return and caught a spike right in the forehead, left him staggering. You didn't see it?"

"Nope. Must've been watching you." Passing grade, Eric. No fragile male ego here. She smiled at the set as she lifted the triangle. "Your break."

He set down his glass and passed hers to her as he bent over the table with his cue, taking a few slow practice strokes. She watched him, sipped, and downed a quarter of it before she remembered her resolution and set it on the side table again. She liked his hands: wide, like Eddie's, the fingers square-tipped and perfectly manicured. They handled the stick with ease and confidence. She blinked at the sudden realization that she was wondering how they would feel in her hands.

With his eye on the tip of his cue, he said, "Are you avoiding the question?"

"Uh, no. Just thinking of something else." She reached for her glass and took a sip. "They're neighbors, actually. The kind it's best to be on friendly terms with. I bet Dad asked them to keep an eye on things while he's out of town." The cover story they'd been coached to tell presented Mr. Lynch as a patron, not a relative, but she thought a dangerous father in the picture might give her some leverage with this guy. And besides, it just sounds right.

"'Things'. Right." He drove the cue into the white ball. With a loud crack, the cue ball split the pack wide open, scattering balls all over the table. One ball, the seven, dropped into a corner pocket.

"Yow," she said. "Sledgehammer break."

He smiled at her. "The only time starting out gentle is a bad idea." He studied her a moment. "What does your dad do for a living, Roxanne?"

She felt mischief touch the corners of her mouth. "You wearing a wire, Eric?"

"I just think it might be important to know if I'm abducting a Mafia princess tonight. I hope your 'ride' isn't packing heat."

She giggled. "No and no."

He stepped to the counter and lifted the bottle out of the ice, wrapping it in a towel as he removed it like he was swaddling a baby. He brought it to the table and topped off his glass, then extended the bottle towards the one in her hand.

She pulled the glass to her. "Whoa," she said. "I'm not planning on killing that."

"Neither am I." He poured an inch of liquid into her glass, bringing the level almost to the rim, then returned the bottle to the ice and unwrapped it. "But it gets warm in these little glasses, and I think it tastes better cold, don't you?" He returned his attention to the table. "Six in the side." He stroked the ball in.

"Showoff," she said. "You gonna call every one?"

"Yep." He circled the table, ending up next to her. He picked his glass off the table and sipped at it, returning it three-quarters full. "So," he pressed, "how does he make his money, if he doesn't run rackets?"

Time for a little more fun? She brought the glass to her lips to hide her smile. "Would you believe he's a mercenary commander?" Sometimes the best way to lie is to tell the truth in a way you know won't be believed.

"You're shitting me."

She snorted. "Wondered if you knew how to cuss." She took a sip from her glass. "Yeah, I am. He's a 'security consultant', whatever that is; he's always been a little vague about what he does. But it pays beaucoup, and he travels all over. I think he trains bodyguards and security forces for important stuff like nuke plants. You know, shoot first, ask questions never kind of guys. He used to be a SWAT commander or something like that." She'd gone far beyond the limits of the cover story, but the look on Eric's face was too satisfying to let go of. "He still teaches unarmed combat, too. He can break a guy's arm in one second flat."

He circled the table and brushed against her, then bumped his butt into her belly as he bent for a shot. "Mind?"

"Nope," she said, surprised at the little tingle the contact gave her. She moved away, glass in one hand and stick in the other, and sat at the counter.

"Five." He touched a corner pocket with the end of the cue, then dropped the orange ball in with a bank shot. "Has he ever broken a guy's arm over you?"

She smiled. "Yeah, but not lately. Guess he thinks I'm grown up enough to start making mistakes."

He moved to the other end of the table and sighted on the four. "What's your mom think about his career?"

Her train of thought stuttered. "Not much. They're not together anymore."

"So your dad got custody of all three of you?"

Three? She almost corrected him, then thought back to what she'd told him earlier. Sarah and me… and a brother he hasn't seen, Kat's boyfriend. Doesn't take long for a poorly-thought-out lie to start coming apart, does it? "No, we're just spending some time with him. Listen, can we talk about something else?"

"Sorry." He stared at the felt. "My folks are divorced too. It was pretty ugly. They still don't talk." He turned to her with a smile that looked like it had cost him a little effort, then returned his attention to the table. "Four in the corner."

She pushed down a little flush of sympathy. Okay, so you're short a parent too – assuming they're really divorced, and this isn't just a play. At least you had money. Bet you never shopped for clothes at the Goodwill, or ate box mac-and-cheese for dinner three nights running. I can't afford to get simpatico with you, Eric.

Eric stroked, and the white ball leaped off the stick's tip to smack into the purple four-ball. It caromed off the eleven and dropped into the corner pocket. "Three in the side." It was an easy shot, and he had no trouble with it.

Then he set his cue against the wall and reached into his back pocket and pulled out his phone. Odd, she thought. I didn't hear it ring. He held it up to his eye, and she just had time to realize he was taking her picture before the phone made its little shutter-click sound. "Sorry," he said. "I should've asked first. I'll erase it if you want. But I had to take it."

He brought the phone to the counter and showed her the picture. She studied it, and saw why he'd wanted it. She was turned almost in side view, but face to the camera. The stools were a little tall for her, and she was half-standing with her butt perched on the edge and the near leg stretched out to touch the floor with the ball of her foot. The other leg was bent, the bare heel resting on the stool's bottom rung, toe pointing at the floor. Her dress, already short, was hiked up a tiny bit more, a thumb's width this side of decent. The pool cue stood between her legs, clasped loosely between her thumbs and her twined fingers, resting against the inside of her bare upraised thigh. She was looking directly at the camera with an intent and focused expression; she knew she'd only been studying the table, but along with the pinup-girl pose, it construed interest of an entirely different sort. "Wow. I don't think I could look sexier if I tried." And I look like I'm about ten minutes from jumping into bed with the guy taking the pic.

"Opinions vary," he said. "Can I keep it?"

"Let me think about that awhile." Roxy slid off the stool and led the way back to the table. She took a sip from her glass at the sideboard as she watched him study the playing field. He seemed to be ignoring an easy shot on the one-ball as he regarded the cue and two-ball from several angles. Then it hit her. "You're sinking them in order."

"More of a challenge that way, don't you think?" He sent the two into a corner pocket with a two-bank shot that almost, but not quite, put her nine ball into the side. The one ball was as easy as she'd predicted. He sank the eight and looked her way, eyes dark. "I think I'll take that dance now."

He picked up his glass and turned to the kitchen, and she took a nervous sip from hers. He reached under the island's counter, and the music changed to a smoky dance tune she recognized. "If you're ready."

She moved off the carpet to the wooden part of the floor. Just pretend you're at home, or at a club surrounded by strangers. You're not performing for a guy, you're just enjoying yourself. She started moving to the beat, a little stiffly at first until she limbered up, then more fluidly as the music sank into her and her lower body began to stretch and warm. Her spine flexed and her hips rocked as her feet and knees found a pattern that pleased them. She rolled her neck and head and moved her arms like a hula dancer's, and felt the tension drain away as the music claimed her.

She glanced toward the counter and faltered. Eric was leaning over the island with his elbow on the counter and his chin in his hand, staring dreamily at her. She turned away and continued. "Enjoying the show?"

"More than I ever imagined. You're incredible." His voice deepened and softened. "It's like you're making love to the music. I feel like I could watch you forever."

The song ended – just in time, she thought. She took a deep breath and returned to the table. "My break?"

He filled his empty glass. She reached for hers, and brought the full glass carefully to her mouth, for fear of spilling it. She stopped with the rim to her lips. Wait a minute. I took a sip out of this already. "Did you fill this?"

"Not lately. Why?"

"I thought…" She shrugged, drank off a quarter of it, and returned it to the shelf. It was pretty tasty, she thought, and not as strong as she'd feared. Drinking in little sips seemed to keep it from having any effect at all. She was feeling really warm and loose right now, but she was sure that was just from the dance. "Rack em up, cowboy."

He started collecting balls from the pockets. "I need to think up a new dare before we start." He set the rack on the table and started dropping balls in. "Gonna be hard to top the first one, though."

"Oh, I don't know." I could lift you off the floor by pointing at you, how about that? "I bet you can come up with something."

He nodded slowly. "I think I have. First thought was to have you spend fifteen minutes in my bubble tub."

"No way."

He smiled and shook his head. "Alone. You just look like you could use it. But, now, I think… Another dance. With me this time."

She lifted her eyebrows. "Slow or fast?"

"You need to ask?" He shook the rack back and forth. "What about you? Sticking with the first one?"

"Mm-hm." She lowered her lashes. "But I'm gonna be spending a lot of time thinking up a new question."

"Gulp." He lifted the rack.

-0-

Roxy watched Eric line up on his last stripe, feeling uneasy. Not because he was about to win; because this should have been her game. She'd broken, and dropped the six, a solid, into a corner pocket. She'd started to run the table, pleasant with anticipation of collecting her wager. But then her power had betrayed her.

She'd run out of easy shots. Actually, she'd run out of possible shots. Somehow, every reasonable path between one of her balls and a pocket, or between the cue ball and one of her solids, had been blocked by a stripe or the eight. She'd needed nothing less than a two- or three-bank shot to sink her next ball. She didn't mind that; she'd just needed to find one that didn't look like special effects.

And it was getting strangely hard to focus. She'd circled the table a couple times, staring at the lays. She'd found herself studying a shot, and remembered that she'd looked at it before and passed on it. Another time, she'd been staring at a setup that looked surprisingly good, wondering why she hadn't noticed it before, only to realize that she was looking at the eleven, not one of her target balls. Tension, she'd decided. Only, she didn't really feel all that tense. Just easily confused, and … distracted.

"Take it easy," Eric had chuckled behind her. He'd taken to following her around the table and standing close. She'd felt his hands on her shoulders, kneading gently. "It's just a game. If you want an answer to your question that bad, I'll just tell you. Loosen up."

The feel of his fingertips pressing into her shoulders through the fabric had made her feel loose, all right; she'd nearly dropped the cue. "Mm. That feels good, but you need to stop. I can't even see the table when you do that." And it would help my concentration if I couldn't feel your body heat every time I pause to look it over. "Could you, uh, top off my glass?"

"Sure." He'd picked both their glasses off the sideboard and headed to the counter. She'd leaned a hip against the side of the table, trying to think. She'd finally decided to drop the six into the corner pocket. But it would take a lot of help from her Gen to get the ball past two stripes and into the pocket cleanly without scratching or pushing in a stripe ahead of it.

She'd stared at the pocket, sort of folding the space between it and the ball in her mind, making the pocket call to it. That wasn't really what using her power was like, but she couldn't come up with a better description. She'd tried to explain to Kat and Sarah, and had only confused herself.

She'd felt a weird sensation, like climbing a hill and cresting it unexpectedly and finding your next step lower than your last when you expected it to be higher. She'd actually lurched as she'd leaned over the table with the cue in hand.

"Whoa, there." Eric had set his glass on the rail of the pool table, near the pocket she'd been trying to hex. He'd stood watching her from the other side of the table.

The level of the liquid in his glass had begun to tilt, rising up the side nearest the pocket. She'd stared at it in alarm. Hold on, I didn't want to do that.

The striped ball nearest the pocket had stirred slightly.

Stop.

It had begun to roll towards the corner pocket. Another stripe, a bit farther away, had stirred.

She'd done the first thing she could think of. She'd slammed the cue into the white ball, aiming for the corner, and driven both stripes into the pocket. The cue ball had followed immediately after.

The spell had broken. The bubbly in Eric's glass, released, had sloshed gently back and forth. Her companion's gaze had shifted from her to the pocket. "What was that?"

"I don't know. Frustration, I guess. I couldn't find a shot."

"Roxanne, are you okay? Do you want to sit down?"

She'd shaken her head. "No. Take your turn." She'd stood behind him while the shakes went away. Then she'd stood at the sideboard, sipping from her glass, while he'd run the table.

She watched the last stripe go in. The eight was an easy shot. He laid the cue on the table and looked at her. "I don't know how to dance, actually. This is going to be more like junior prom than Dancing with the Stars."

"Let me put my shoes back on then, so I'm not like a little kid standing next to you." She started towards the door.

"It's all right," he said quickly, and reached for her wrist to pull her to him. "I don't mind. We can reach everything we need to." He smiled. "If I was going to steal a kiss, then maybe."

Thirty seconds later, Roxanne said, "Wow. You really can't dance."

"Shut up." But he was smiling when she looked up.

They really were just prom-dancing, taking the occasional step-and-turn, but mostly just holding on to each other and swaying to the music. They'd started out classic-formal, her right hand clasped in his left, his right at the small of her back, her left on his right shoulder. But it felt ridiculous, since he wasn't leading or even moving around much, so she let go of his hand and put her arms around his neck, and his left hand found a cozy home between her shoulder blades. She laid the side of her head against his chest. "I can hear your heartbeat."

"I can't hear yours." He pressed her a little tighter against him. "But I can feel it."

She suddenly felt out of sync. Not because she'd turned clumsy or anything, although she did feel a little light-headed; because the arms wrapped around her felt right and wrong at the same time.

"You've got a boyfriend," he said, voice neutral.

She let out a breath. "Sometimes I wonder."

"What's he like?"

She shook her head, sort of rubbing it against his shirt. "You don't really want to know."

"I might. I'd like to know what it is about him that makes you sigh."

She scoffed. "Exasperation. I don't know what I see in him. He's such a pig sometimes."

"Except when he's not." He took a step, and she stumbled a tiny bit; he snugged her closer. "What's he like when he's not?"

She tightened her grip around his neck. "Even when he's not, he's nothing like you. Is it getting hot in here?"

"Only since you walked in." He looked down at her. "You're not like other girls. It's not just your looks. There's something about you, something special." They swayed together a bit more. The heel of his hand at the small of her back moved in a little circle, the smallest of caresses. "At the frat, you could have gotten a dozen guys to take you away. What made you pick me?"

She smiled at him, feeling sly. "Maybe there was something special about you, too."

He pulled her a little tighter. "If I was your boyfriend, you wouldn't wonder."

The song ended. She stood leaning against him for a moment longer. He kissed the top of her head and let go of her. "Rack em up."

"Wait a minute. You won last time."

"You broke last time, remember? We're alternating breaks, not handing the break to the loser."

"Loser." Grumbling, she collected the balls from the pockets and set them into the triangle. One slipped from her fingers and hit the surface with a crack. "Sorry."

She didn't really watch the game, feeling sure of its outcome. Instead, she watched Eric as she sipped at her glass. Eric ran the table again, but, as he stroked the eight in, she realized she wasn't sure whether he'd had stripes or solids. She looked at the remaining balls as she emptied her glass: solids. He had stripes again. She blinked. "Hey. We didn't agree on a dare for this game. Did we?"

"No." His eyes met hers. "We didn't."

She felt a little uneasy, but it was a vague and distant sort of feeling, as if she knew she should be tensing up, but had almost forgotten how. "What dare were you…."

"Nothing too scary." He smiled and pointed to the couch. "You've been on your feet since you got here. You look a little wobbly. Kick back and put your feet up on the table for fifteen minutes." He pressed a button beside the fireplace, and flames leaped up inside.

She sat on the couch, sinking in just a bit. She had to slouch a little to reach the table with her feet, but that was okay. The upholstery was cool for a moment, then warmed with reflected heat. She sighed and let her eyes drift closed. I could almost fall asleep.

Something bumped the front of her shoulder. She opened her eyes to see Eric holding their glasses. "Here. It's really full. Better take it down a little. It'll stain the leather if you spill it." She accepted the glass and took a swallow. He sat down on the coffee table, facing her. He set his half-full glass down, took her feet in his lap, and started rubbing one of them. "High heels are murder, huh? The things you girls do for us." He pressed and kneaded her arch and pulled gently on her toes.

She let out a little moan. "Unh."

"Did I hurt you?"

"Yes. Hurt me some more."

"Your wish is my command." He squeezed her toes together at the ball of her foot, then bent her foot back and forth while pressing the heel of one hand into her Achilles tendon. "Better?"

She rolled her hips, sliding a little lower. "Oh. Oh. Gawd, yes. That feels so good. I didn't even know they hurt."

He smiled and switched feet. "Really. You seem perfectly in tune to your body when you dance. You done with that? I'll take it."

She looked down at the glass in her hand. It was empty. "Did I spill it?"

"Don't think so." He stretched out her leg, putting her foot against his stomach, and started massaging her calf. His hands were stronger than she would have guessed, and her legs tingled wherever he'd touched them. She couldn't stop the breathy little sounds coming out of her mouth as he worked his way up to the hollow of her knee. He gave the back of her thigh a soft little caress that made her glutes tighten, then picked up the other leg as he slid forward a bit and went to work on it.

She closed her eyes and the room started to turn slowly, so she opened them again. Eric was smiling at her as he softly caressed the backs of her knees. "You have the most unbelievable skin." He leaned forward with his half-full glass. "Share?" He touched it to his lips and presented it to her. She emptied it, and it joined hers on the table. "A good massage always leaves you a little drowsy." With one hand under her knees and the other gripping the tops of her ankles, he bent her legs and swung her feet towards the end of the couch. "Like you're floating away."

She felt her shoulders come off the back of the couch. "Hey."

"It's okay, just stretch out and relax. Don't fight it. You know you want to."

Her head was pillowed on the padded arm of the couch now. It was comfy, she decided, as the leather warmed up. She felt her eyelids growing heavy, and smiled. "All I need now is a blanket."

"You're already plenty warm. And soft. And you smell like heaven."

His voice was low and very near. She opened her eyes, and he was kneeling beside her. His arm slid smoothly into the hollow space under her neck. His fingers parted her hair on the opposite side of her head to stroke her ear, feather-light. His other hand stoked her forearm. She felt a tingle from her neck to her thighs that had nothing to do with champagne. "Eric-"

"Shh." She could feel his breath in her other ear as he leaned closer, and she couldn't exhale. She flattened her palms against the cushion, not co-operating, but not hindering either.

His hand was stroking the side of her neck now, the fingers sliding an inch under her dress and then retreating. It cradled the back of her neck and lifted, gently but firmly, irresistible, bringing her shoulders up and tilting her head back. His lips touched her neck where it joined her shoulder, and kissed it. She shivered, and his other hand moved to her knee. "God, you're beautiful." His lips moved up her neck to her ear, delivering little kisses all along the way, and nuzzled it briefly. Her breath shallowed out to little sips of air.

What's happening to me? Why am I letting this happen? To buy more time? Because I can't think of a way to stop? Because I'm angry at my boyfriend? Because it feels wonderful? His questing lips traced a line just under her jaw. His head dipped briefly to her throat and turned, and she gasped as his tongue gently probed the hollow. His other hand started to slide very slowly up the inside of her thigh, taking the hem of her dress with it, and she felt her glutes tighten again. Move, dammit. Grab his hand. Sit up. Nothing happened. She tried to speak, but his lips glided up under her chin, and her voice faded away in her throat. She felt paralyzed, overloaded with sensation, barely able to breathe. He stopped at her chin, an inch from meeting her lips. He removed his hand from between her thighs, one finger just brushing her panties as it withdrew. "Come, baby." His forearm was under her shoulder blades. He gripped her shoulder and pulled her against his chest, and slid his other arm under her knees, lifting. "I think it's time to see the rest of the house."

She said, "I'm fifteen."

He brushed his mouth against hers for a second before her words sank in. Then he jerked his head back as if he'd just mashed his face into a glass wall. "That's not funny, Roxanne."

"No," she said, shaking as she exhaled. "It isn't." From here, she thought, things would go one of three ways: he would get angry, and chill; he would get angry and violent; or he might get angry and decide to go through with it, which was pretty much the same as option two. She waited, tense.

He turned her in his arms and set her back on the couch. She felt her rear end settle into the leather cushion. Then his arms slipped off her, and her feet dropped to the floor again. The look on his face might have been funny if it hadn't made her feel weak with relief. "Tell me you're shitting me." He searched her face; clearly, he didn't find any reassurance there. "You said you were in school. High school?"

She sat up and looked at her knees. It seemed the safest place.

He stood and picked up their champagne glasses. He headed for the sink, where he rinsed the glasses and set them on the strainer board to dry. "I'm sure every man in my position says the same thing, but you…."

"I'm good with clothes and makeup."

"More than that." He was still standing at the sink, with the island and the sofa between them. She suddenly felt like a leper. "The way you act. That's not fifteen."

"Older sister, remember?" What a joke. As if Kat would ever have something to teach me about guys. I've learned more from Sarah, lots, and she doesn't even like them. "I can talk the talk. But I don't…."

"Do what a woman does." He picked his keys up off the counter. "I need to take you home now."

"Mad at me?"

"No. Shocked. Hugely disappointed."

"Sorry."

"Not with you." He looked at her across the barriers between them, and her upper arms broke out in goosebumps. "No man's ever going to be disappointed with you, I'm sure of it." He jingled the keys. "Come on."

"Just let me go to the bathroom first."

It took her two tries to punch in Kat's number. This time, she flushed the toilet before she spoke on the phone. "Kat. Red alert. Get out of there. Leave Melanie and Lori if you have to, but get out of there now."

Her sister didn't argue or question. "Okay. But you're going to tell me everything when we get home." She disconnected.

Oops, she thought, missed Joel. Can't forget to leave him behind. For some reason, that seemed funny.

When she came out, Eric was standing by the door to the garage with her shoes in one hand. She said, "Sure you're okay to drive?"

"What?"

"How much did you-" She pulled the champagne bottle out of its bucket and set it on the counter; she was mildly surprised to see it was empty. "That's a lotta booze."

He offered her a shoe. "I've never felt so painfully sober in my life."

She slipped on her shoes, leaning heavily on Eric's arm. They seemed harder to get on; she supposed her feet were still swollen. She took two steps towards the car and stumbled. The heels seemed way more difficult to walk in than they had earlier in the evening. The straps must be stretched, she thought. She took Eric's arm again, slipped them off, and walked to the car barefoot.

Ten minutes into the drive, she felt flushed. She found the window control and lowered the glass.

"Hey," Eric said. "I'll pull over. Don't get sick in the car."

Sick? "M'not sick," she said. "Just need some air." The breeze cooled and steadied her, and after a few minutes, she rolled the window back up. She rested the side of her head on the cool glass. "You're not going to tell anybody, are you?"

"That I almost bedded a girl who's still playing with dolls?"

"Smartass."

"No," he said, gentler, "I'm not going to tell anybody."

She nodded, forehead against the glass. "That's good. You tell somebody you trust, and he tells somebody he trusts, and sooner or later it reaches somebody you'd never trust, you know?"

They rode in silence for a few more minutes, then she said, "It's not too late to go back to the party." This possibility had been the reason she'd urged Kat out the door. Taking Roxy home and driving back to the frat would take Eric most of an hour, but Kat would need to leave the scene early enough to have dropped out of the general conversation by the time he got there. "Probly not too late to find another girl to bring home, even. One old enough to spend the night."

"That wouldn't be fair to her," he said to the windshield. "I'd be thinking of you the whole time."

She blushed from her chin to her hairline.

When they reached the gate closing off the community, she said, "This is good. Drop me off right here."

He looked over the gate at the deserted street. "You sure?"

"It's just a few houses down. Security will probly pick me up before I get there and give me a ride."

He held her eyes. "Roxanne, are you in trouble?"

"Not as much as I'd be in if I let you take me to the door." She reached over quickly and gave him a kiss on the corner of his mouth.

"What was that for?" He said, his face shadowed and unreadable.

"For being a gentleman. Before and after." She reached for the door handle and got out, feeling a little unsteady again.

She looked down the street. She'd never realized how dark it was here at night. The houses were lit up all around, but they were spaced far apart and well-back from the street. There were no overhead lights. Every mailbox beside the drive had a marker light, but it only illuminated a small circle where the driveway joined the road, little stepping-stones of light a hundred yards apart. The only other light on the road or sidewalk came from the Jag's headlights.

She heard a clunk as he shut the passenger door. I forgot to shut the door? What's wrong with me? She watched him back and turn. He waved out the window as he took off, and she waved back, not knowing if he saw her. That was when she realized she'd left her shoes in his car.

My purse. She panicked for a moment until she looked down and saw it in her hand. Gawd. I'm drunk. How? On maybe a glass and a half of champagne? She started toward the house. Five houses down, or six? I'll know when I get there. She walked into the darkness with her eyes squinted to hurry her night vision. She stepped off the sidewalk into the grass and promptly turned her ankle, almost falling. Dang. If I had been wearing my shoes, I might have broken something.

The puddle of light at the end of the first driveway didn't seem to be getting any closer; she began to wonder if she was making any forward progress at all, she felt so tired and wobbly. Finally, it grew larger in her sight, and she realized she'd almost reached it. She had just begun to be able to make out the sidewalk under her feet when a black-hooded figure stepped into the light, waiting.

She stumbled to a stop as her heart sped up. Mugger? Where's the security patrol? Her hand reached into her purse and found her cellphone. She flipped it open and dropped it; she heard it clatter on the sidewalk. Running wasout of the question; she was sure she'd fall before she got ten feet. Her Gen had deserted her. She was a ninety-eight pound girl, alone with a stranger in the dark.

The figure, still shadowy from the waist up, reached up and dropped its hood back, dimly revealing the Tinkerbelle features of their android housekeeper. "Welcome home, sweetie." She bent to pick up the phone, reaching unerringly for it in the dark, then fell in beside Roxy and took her arm.

"How did you know to meet me?"

"Caitlin has been home for ten minutes. I take it your driver didn't travel the expressway."

"No." She gratefully leaned on the slender arm that felt as solid as a practice bar. "But how'd you know I was at the gate?"

The little cyber reached for the crucifix resting on Roxanne's collarbone and straightened it, returning the ornament to its usual place below the hollow of Roxy's throat. "Just had a feeling. So, do you want to practice?"

"Practice?"

"You've got a story to tell. Your sister is bobbing on the balls of her feet, waiting to hear it. I thought you might want to try it on me, in case it doesn't come out right the first time." Anna guided her out of the light and down the darkened sidewalk with the confidence of someone walking in daylight. "You've been drinking."

"Just a glass of champagne. Glass and a half, rather." She thought about Eric continually freshening her glass. "Maybe two."

"Maybe more. Did he pour your drinks?"

"He just topped off my glass. I was watching him. Mostly."

"Did he offer you something to eat?"

"I didn't ask."

"Roxanne. Did you tell him your age?"

"Yeah. About ten seconds before he said he was taking me home."

"And he dropped you off at the end of the street. Well, there's nothing wrong with his survival instinct." The dark deepened again; Anna was a faint silhouette backlighted by one of the neighbors' lawn lights. "It's hard to keep track of how much you drink when your glass never goes empty. 'Topping off' is a good way to get someone to drink more than they intend. And champagne doesn't taste strong, but it's at least as proof as wine. Plus, the carbonation accelerates the alcohol's absorption into the bloodstream, multiplying its effect. If you don't mind the expense, it's quite an effective date-rape drug."

"No." She hiccupped. "It wasn't like that. He was just trying to loosen me up. He didn't try to force me or anything. He didn't even kiss me. Well," she amended, "not on the mouth."

"I'm not going to ask you to expand on that. Are you thinking of seeing him again?"

She shook her head, and instantly regretted it; the world kept wobbling after she stopped. "No way."

"In that case, I think it might be best if we don't inform Mr. Lynch about this."

She leaned harder on Anna's arm. "What would he do?"

"I don't know. But the image of his face when I tell him is too frightening a thought to dwell upon."

36