in an ever-so-slightly unnatural position. His jeans covered the cut on his calf, so she couldn’t judge how bad it was.
“Does it hurt a lot?”
“Nothing the schnapps won’t cure.” He jiggled the bottle, sending little white fairy lights scampering over the brick walls. “This stuff packs a punch.”
She knew it was true. When her grandfather had run out of money less than halfway through stocking these Malaysian mahogany racks, she’d found him down here almost every night, brooding over his laptop, researching wines he’d never buy and getting plastered on peach schnapps.
But although liquor had always made her grandfather meaner, it seemed to be mellowing Trent. His voice sounded almost warm, as if the drink famous for thawing out Alpine skiers had finally cut through the ice inside him, too.
“I heard Doc Marchant had to sew up your calf.” She cringed, imagining. “Nineteen stitches, is that right?”
Trent shook his head. “That sounds like Zander’s usual hyperbole. It was only six stitches, and only because Marchant is a worrywart. I’ve had worse cuts from sliding down rocks at Green Fern Pool.”
She would have believed him, except that she’d seen the blood.
She still wasn’t sure how it had happened. The memory had the disjointed quality of a nightmare. She’d just met Richard on the back porch when she heard the crash of something heavy and metallic slamming into the ground. And then, before she could identify the cause, she saw Trent tumble from the ladder.
Without thinking, she flew down onto the lawn, her heart racing. She called out his name. No pausing to consider her dignity. No wondering whether he’d want her help.
Pure reflex. Pure gut.
The ladder wasn’t all that high, thank God, and it was clear immediately that there was no grave danger. While she knelt in the grass beside him, trying to still her heart and catch her breath, he pulled himself to his feet and shook himself off with a smile.
Within seconds, Zander, too, came running from the other side of the yard. The two men walked off together to check out what they insisted was just a scrape.
The message had been clear. Trent hadn’t wanted her to fuss over him then, and he certainly wouldn’t want it now.
“Well, I guess I should go,” she said after an awkward pause. “I just wanted to be sure you weren’t trying to haul out those tents. I was headed—”
She hesitated, suddenly uncomfortable about mentioning bed, for fear it might sound like an invitation. But the hesitation was conspicuous, too. “Headed upstairs.”
He looked amused, though he didn’t say anything.
Argh. She leaned her head against the cool bricks and shut her eyes for a second. Did every road lead to sex?
“I wanted to tell you…I’m really sorry about the ladder,” she said, eager to change the subject. “As you can see, I’ve had to let a lot of the repairs and maintenance slide lately.”
“Don’t worry.” He smiled. “I won’t sue.”
She couldn’t help smiling back. “That’s only because you know there’s nothing to get.”
He raised one eyebrow, toying with his empty shot glass with the tips of his fingers. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that. No money, maybe.”
The cellar’s extravagant, Internet-monitored thermostat and humidity control system had long ago been disabled, but suddenly the temperature in the shadowy room seemed to drop ten degrees. Susannah looked at his fingers, and something about their slow grace made her shiver.
The way he looked at her…
There was no mistaking what he meant.
Suddenly she realized what a foolish mistake she’d made, letting guilt send her down here. She knew he hadn’t given up his plan to make her pay, and wasn’t this the perfect spot, with its cool seclusion, the musty smell of old wine and the sticky sweet scent of peaches? He must have known she’d come. He’d waited here, like a panther, in the dark.
And she’d fallen right into the trap. She was the moronic horror movie heroine who, even knowing there was a killer in the house, still decided to investigate the spooky noises in the basement.
“But then,” he went on, “money hasn’t ever been my weakness.”
His voice made her shiver, too. She crossed her arms in front, holding them by the elbows, trying to warm herself. “Trent, I really should go to—”
“To bed. Yes, I know. We can do that, too, if you like. Later.”
“That isn’t what I meant. You’re deliberately misunderstanding me.”
“I think we understand each other perfectly.” He held out a hand, palm up. The bandage gleamed in the recessed lights. “You made a bargain, and it’s time to keep it. I promise you it won’t be too painful. It will meet all your terms, Sue. All pleasure. No risk. No repercussions.”
She flushed, well aware of what he wanted. Oral sex. He wanted her to take him into her mouth, and her hands, and make him come. Back when they first made love, at only eighteen, he’d begged her to. He’d told her that all girls did it. All men wanted it.
But she’d been afraid, afraid that she wouldn’t know how, that she wouldn’t be good enough, that she’d try and try, humiliating herself, only to fail.
She’d been such a prissy lover, she knew that now. Such a tame little Puritan. Only in the back of the car, only with their clothes on, only on the bottom, only in the dark.
She’d been so naive, in fact, that when she stumbled on Trent and Missy Snowdon in the abandoned playground that rainy midnight, sitting together on the swing, she had no idea what was happening.
She hadn’t been able to see him all day. Her grandfather had company and he required her to be on hostess duty. Trent, of course, hadn’t been invited. By late night, she knew that Trent probably wasn’t expecting her to show up at the playground, where they sometimes met. But she sneaked out anyhow, hoping against hope that he might have gone there, too, just in case. Surely he wanted to see her as much as she wanted to see him.
The sound reached her first, the grind of metal against metal as someone pumped the swing rhythmically back and forth. She heard throaty laughter, and other noises that were harder to identify.
She peered toward the swing set, off in a corner. Rain diamonds winked as moonlight caught on the metal legs and the thick, glistening rod of the frame. She saw the groaning swing move back and forth, never going very high, two sets of hands gripping the wet chains, slipping, gripping again.
At first she thought they were just playing. Doubled up, with Missy in Trent’s lap, the way children might do just for the crazy fun of flying backward. Limbs tangled, hair flying, sharing the thrill.
Shock made her stupid. She worried, like an idiot, whether the chains were strong enough to hold them both, with Trent so tall, so much heavier than any child.
But then Missy’s groans turned to soft
