mistaking that just-got-laid look of these two—the damp clothes buttoned crooked, grass in their hair, the sheepish, sated expressions on both their faces.
The girl’s face changed instantly, sharpening with accusation as she glared at Greg. “He’s hurt,” she said. “You had no right—”
“I had no right?” Now, that pissed him off. He gave a disgusted laugh.
On the ground, the cadet moved his jaw from side to side. Okay, thought Greg, so at least he hadn’t done anything permanent to the guy. He wasn’t sure he was relieved by that or not. He nudged the guy with the toe of his shoe. “Get up,” he said.
The guy frowned, blinked in confusion until he spotted the girl. “Nina? What’s going on? Who the hell is this?”
Greg made a mental note of the girl’s name. Then, treating the guy like a recalcitrant camper, he said, “Party’s over, pal. So get your ass up and go back inside.”
“Laurence, I’m really sorry,” the girl—Nina—said in a small, horrified voice.
She was sorry. Sorry. Greg rounded on her. “Do you have a ride home?” he demanded.
She hung her head, turned away from Laurence and mumbled, “I rode my bike.”
He almost laughed. A bike. She’d ridden a damn bike to the country club to get laid. “It’s pitch-black outside,” he said. “Were you planning to find your way home by radar?”
The guy called Laurence climbed to his feet. Damn, he was tall. And still a little dazed. Or drunk. Or both. “Nina?” he asked again.
“Shut up,” Greg snapped, ready to be done with the whole drama, and eager to send the guy on his way before he decided to fight back. “Get back inside, now, and pray I don’t report you. I’m taking her home.”
“Are not,” Nina snapped back, then grabbed Laurence’s hand. “He’s not taking me anywhere.”
Greg ignored her and glared at Laurence. “She’s fourteen, you moron. What the hell were you thinking?”
Laurence dropped her hand as though it was a red-hot coal. He even stepped back, hands up, palms facing out, as though Greg had a gun pointed at him. “Shit—”
“Fifteen,” she said defiantly. “I just turned fifteen last month.”
The guy’s panic was genuine. He truly hadn’t known, the same as Greg hadn’t known that day in the dining hall. Until someone had clued him in, Greg, too, had been fooled by her impossibly curvy body, her smoldering eyes that pretended to know things she had no clue about, her full lips that made reckless promises to morons like this one.
“Go back inside,” he repeated. “Like I said, the party’s over.”
The guy took a step back. “I’m sorry,” he told Nina. “I didn’t know, I—Girl, you should have been straight with me.”
“I said,” Greg reminded him, “it’s over.”
“Laurence, no,” Nina protested. “This … this person has no idea what he’s talking about.”
The cadet offered a wordless look of helpless regret, then turned and hurried back to the clubhouse. Nina started after him. Greg grabbed her arm and held her back.
“Let go of me,” she said. “I have five brothers, and I know how to defend myself.”
Greg relinquished her. “How many of those brothers would approve of what you’re doing here?”
“None of your business.” She began to stomp toward the clubhouse, which was still bubbling over with golden light and music, as though nothing had happened.
“You go after that kid now,” Greg called to her, “and you’ll end his chances at West Point before he even starts.”
She was young, but she was far from stupid. She stopped walking and turned to him, and he could see the understanding rise in her eyes. An incident like this—fraternizing with an underage girl—was more than enough to get a guy dismissed or worse. Reluctant acceptance softened her face for a moment. Then, with a haughty sniff, she marched past him, grabbing a bicycle from a rack at the edge of the parking lot. The thing didn’t even have a light, just a cracked reflector on the rear fender.
“Hey,” he said, “you’re not riding that home.”
“Watch me.” She threw her dancing shoes into the basket and expertly pushed off, swinging her leg up and over the back. The skirts of her party dress fluttered around her bare legs.
Being a camp counselor had taught Greg a few things about catching kids who were trying to escape. He charged, grabbing the back of the seat, pulling her to a halt. She stood on the pedals, putting up a fierce resistance, but to no avail. Greg refused to let go of the bike until she surrendered to him with a surly glare.
“I’m driving you home,” he told her.
“The hell you are,” she shot back.
He saw her weighing her options and making a silent calculation, balancing her need for defiance and rebellion against the consequences he promised. Greg recognized the struggle. Just a few years older than her, he vividly recalled the raging clash of urges in a teenager. Hell, he still had those urges himself.
“You do not want to know how bad this can get,” he warned her.
He could tell the moment she resigned herself to common sense. Her shoulders slumped in defeat as she dismounted the bike. Greg let out the breath he didn’t know he was holding. He didn’t want her to see how relieved he felt. He hadn’t been eager to get her in trouble. He just wanted her home, safe. And, okay, when he thought about the fact that someone had been banging her, he also felt an undertone of envy, which shamed him. This girl was trouble. He didn’t know why he felt so protective of her. It was just that she was so young, so foolish. Somebody had to look out for her.
Now he had a dilemma, though. Driving her back to town could take ten minutes; returning to the country club—another ten. His parents were going to wonder where the heck he’d gone. He could tell Nina to wait right here while he went inside to explain, but he knew she’d seize the chance to bolt. He’d have to risk his parents’ displeasure, because the idea of keeping this underage pretty-baby from pedaling home through the dark night was more compelling.
He slung her bike into the trunk of his car and held open the passenger-side door. “Get in.”
“I’ll get the seat wet. It might ruin the upholstery.”
“Don’t worry about the seat, just get in.”
Nina gave an elaborate shrug. “I guess you Bellamys don’t worry about ruining things.”
Greg was startled by the resentment in her voice. “Us Bellamys? So I take it you’re acquainted with my family.”
She sniffed. “I know your type. Spoiled. Bossy. Interfering. Who needs you?”
He wondered why she had such a chip on her shoulder about his family. She probably just had a chip on her shoulder,
