Lust

table.

Mmm… maybe not all the students. “Everyone” apparently included two tasty guys who looked as if they’d just walked out of an Abercrombie ad. They were sprawled on the wooden benches along with a few other apparent A-listers-even mahogany-filled dining halls have tables set aside for the social elite, and as a lifelong member of that class, Kaia could spot the signs from a mile away. The table was on the outskirts of the quad, far from the lunchroom monitor who poked her head outside every once in a while to make sure no one was smoking, drinking, or destroying school property. But even physically on the margins, the group was still somehow at the center of everything-attention, conversation, focus. These kids were loved, they were hated-but most of all, they were watched. Kaia knew the feeling.

“Kaia, this is Miranda Stevens.” Harper stood next to Kaia but had carefully angled her body away, so that she could keep a close watch on her but didn’t have to make any direct eye contact.

One of the girls, apparently Miranda, stepped forward to shake Kaia’s hand. Scarecrow thin, limp, dull hair pulled back into geeky braids, some unfortunate fashion choices-the white T-shirt under the imitation Chanel jacket just wasn’t doing it. But cute, Kaia thought. She’d do.

“And I’m Beth,” the other girl, blond and beautiful-if you liked that farmer’s daughter thing-waved from the other end of the table, where she was nuzzled under the arm of Abercrombie Number One. “Welcome to Haven High. I’m sure you-”

“And this is Adam and Kane,” Harper interrupted, stepping around to the other side of the table and placing a possessive hand on each of their backs. Adam was an all-American boy, with blond hair, a square jaw, an honest face, a dark blue T-shirt that no doubt hid washboard abs but revealed astonishingly thick biceps-no surprise, then, that he would be dating the farmer’s daughter, Kaia supposed. He kept one arm tightly around the blond girl, but reached out the other to shake Kaia’s hand. His fingers were warm, his grasp firm-she held it just a second too long.

Kane, on the other hand-there was nothing honest about him. The same muscles (they definitely didn’t make them like this in New York), the same striking good looks, but she could tell from his hooded eyes, from the smirk playing across his lips, from his unabashed and appreciative appraisal of her body as he rose to greet her, that he was playing in a different league. Maybe playing a different game.

Again Kaia extended a hand; instead of shaking it, Kane gently turned it face down, then raised it to his lips and gave it a light kiss.

“Charmed,” he said. From anyone else, it might have been smarmy. From him? It worked.

Both boys grinned at her, and Kaia could feel their gazes traveling down her long neck and lingering at the point where her silver pendant disappeared into the darkness of her low-cut V-neck. Boys and cleavage, she thought. It never fails.

She also noticed Harper noticing the boys’ glances-and saw the girl’s eyes narrow.

Not bad, Kaia decided. Pretty standard, maybe, but not too bad.

Who knows-maybe she could have a little fun here after all…

It was a perverse rule of nature: The first day of school always lasted forever. Temporal distortion not covered by the theory of relativity: One hour of first-day time roughly equivalent to half an eternity of normal time. Endless minutes of staring out the window, cursing the wasted daylight, all that time not getting a tan, not drinking a frozen strawberry margarita, not listening to cheesy eighties music and complaining there was never anything to do while secretly delighting in the Madonna singalong. Outside was suddenly Eden-inside, sweating through sixth period and watching the decrepit clock tick off the minutes, surely nothing less than the seventh level of Hell.

But this year, waiting through the day presented, at least for some, a special torture. They weren’t waiting for the final bell, they were waiting for the final period: advanced French. Normally a snoozefest with 150-year-old Madame Marshak (who, in the best tradition of hatefully eccentric high school French teachers, remained convinced of her essential Frenchness, despite her Houston birth certificate and unmistakable Texan twang). But this year Marshak had finally gone on to greener pastures-her sister’s house in Buffalo. Although given her advanced age and penchant for driving around tipsy after too much cheap French wine, it seemed likely that Buffalo would be only a brief layover on the way to her final destination.

Regardless, there was a new professeur in town-the first new teacher Haven High had seen in years.

He was young.

He was British.

And, if freshman gossip was to be believed-for he’d already made an appearance in third period’s French for annoying beginners-he was hot.

Seriously hot.

There was only one advanced French class, which meant that Beth, Harper, and now Kaia would be stuck in the small room together all year long. Beth sat toward the front (though not in the front row-she’d learned long ago that good grades were one thing, teacher’s pet was quite another) and flipped through her organizer, trying to figure out how she was going to fit in homework, editing the school newspaper, applying to colleges, babysitting her little brothers, and working a part-time job without going insane. And, oh yeah, without letting her boyfriend forget what she looked like.

Harper, ensconced as usual in the back row, lazily examined her nails and decided that it was definitely time for a manicure. And, come to think of it, maybe a pedicure. And a haircut. Not that there was a decent salon anywhere in town, but at Betty’s off of Green Street, they did a slightly better than half-assed job, and threw in a ten-minute head and shoulder massage for free. Which was an appealing thought-it was only the first day of school and already she could use a serious de-stressing.

Kaia slipped into the classroom just before the bell-Haven High stuck its language classes down in the basement, and she’d already stumbled across a decrepit boiler room and overstuffed janitor’s closet before finally finding her way here. She took the only seat that was left, on the aisle next to a boy who smelled like rotten fruit. A fitting end to the day. Or un fin parfait pour le jour, as her new French teacher would say. Wherever he was. “Advanced” French. Such a waste of her time, Kaia thought, considering she’d spent half of last summer on the Riviera, gossiping with the chateau’s staff like a native. Such a joke. Such a-

Such an unexpected treat. If the man who had just appeared in the doorway, flashed the class a rakish smile, ran a hand through his adorably floppy hair, and strode to the front of the room was actually their teacher, life at Haven High was suddenly looking up.

For the rumors were right.

This guy was hot.

Seriously hot.

Just like a movie star, Beth sighed to herself as he grabbed a piece of chalk and wrote his name on the board in quick, loping script.

Jack Powell. “Hola! Me llamo Jack Powell. Como esta?” he asked, as the class stared blankly back at him. “Okay, and if you understood any of that, you’re probably in the wrong place and you should get out. As for the rest of you, bienvenue and welcome to French 4.”

Hot and British, Harper mused. Tasty-Hugh Grant meets Clive Owen. So what the hell is he doing here?

“As you probably know, I’m new around here,” Powell admitted, taking off his sports jacket and perching casually on the edge of his desk. “So I’m sure this class is going to have some surprises to offer all of us.”

You have no idea, Kaia thought. She had never expected to find someone like him-so handsome, so charming, so cosmopolitan, so her-in this shitty town. But now that opportunity had knocked, it seemed only polite to open the door and invite him in.

Chapter 3

“Adam, I told you. Not yet.” Beth reached out a hand toward him, but he pulled away, rolling over on his side. It was still strange for her to see him there, in the bed she’d slept in since she was a child. It was still a child’s