But Harper had done enough remembering for a while. That had been the best part about dancing in the darkness in the palsied arms of a stranger: It became almost possible to forget.
He had to congratulate himself. He’d made it through the evening without allowing his emotions to leak through, his anger to explode. She had no idea that he’d seen her, with
Hidden in the shadows, he’d watched her betray him. Even then, he couldn’t help but admire her delicate porcelain skin, pale as ivory against her ink-black hair. She moved like a dancer, every swish of her arm and tilt of her head graceful and deliberate, almost as if she knew he was watching, and was performing just for him. And for a moment, he’d imagined that his hands followed hers, trailing their way across her soft, creamy skin.
But it was another man who took her hand in his. A stolen hand, a stolen touch’there should be punishment for taking something that doesn’t belong to you, he thought now. There should be punishment for giving it away, as she did, to another.
He could have turned away-he’d seen enough to know the truth. But he had stayed, waited, watched. She could play with all the men she wanted, but in the end, no one knew her like he did. No one but him knew the way she moved when she thought no one was watching.
The time they spent together was tainted now by what she’d done. But when he watched her in the darkness, that was pure. She could lie to him all she wanted, but she couldn’t avoid the truth: She belonged to him.
Apparently, she just needed a reminder.
Chapter 5
The cheerleaders flashed their pom poms, soared through the air, and led the crowd in a thundering chorus, hundreds of fans all chanting his name.
What a rush.
Number 8, Adam Morgan, dribbled up court, his heart pounding, his feet slamming into the boards. He could feel the Weston Wolves closing in behind him, longing to pounce, but he was faster. Stronger. Better.
After weeks of playing like shit, it had all fallen into place, now, in this moment. Adam could feel his body shift into motion, a seamless connection between legs, hands, ball, net; instinct took over, driving everything from his mind but the harsh
He stopped, scooped up the ball, lifted it above his head, ready to send it flying, and then, just as the ball tipped off his fingertips at the perfect angle-
A shove. Hard, from behind. Knocking Adam off balance.
And the ball bounced off the rim.
Adam barely registered what happened next: the outraged cries of his teammates, the crowd calling foul, the ref calling nothing. All he saw was his ball rolling off the rim and crashing to the floor, and the red, sweaty, sneering face of the guy who’d pushed him.
Somewhere within him, a voice urged restraint-but it was too late for that. Adam launched himself at the sneering Weston Wolf, sucker punching him in the gut and then, as the Wolf bent over, gasping for breath, kicking his legs out from under him, and knocking him to the floor.
And that was all it took.
The Wolves rushed the court to defend their man, and the Haven High Coyotes charged in to make it an even fight. Soon the court was filled with the grunts and thuds of a dozen basketball players punching and clawing one another-and the angry hoots of the crowd, cheering them on.
After all, who doesn’t like a little blood with their sport?
The refs blew their whistles and the coaches rushed in to pull their players away, but they couldn’t fight the chaos. And, somehow, in the confusion, after knocking one Wolf flat on his ass and barely avoiding the wrong end of a large fist, Adam found himself face-to-face with the true enemy.
Kane grinned at Adam, perhaps forgetting himself in the heat of battle. His usually perfect hair was drenched with sweat and plastered to his forehead, his eyes were wild, and a small trail of blood trickled down his face from a scratch along his temple. He smiled. And Adam exploded.
Lunging at Kane, he grabbed his old friend around the neck, pushed him against the floor, and punched him hard, in the face, where it would hurt the most, bruising his cartilage and his vanity. Adam wanted to keep punching, to feel the rhythm of Kane’s head slamming against the floor as if it were the ball, even while Kane gave up fighting back and curled up tight, waiting for it to end. And, simultaneously exhilarated and disgusted by the unfamiliar bloodlust, he might have done it-but they pulled Adam off and threw him to the sidelines with the rest of his team.
He’d gotten only that first punch. Maybe, in the confusion, no one had noticed Adam turning his back on the rivals, attacking his own teammate instead. Or if someone had noticed, hopefully it would be written off as a tragic but inescapable episode of friendly fire for which no one need be held accountable.
Whatever happened next, it would be worth it for the satisfaction he’d received from the sound of Kane’s head smacking against the floor and the rush of power coursing through him like a drug.
Adam wouldn’t soon forget it.
And, he knew, neither would Kane.
The letters were red, almost glowing against the shiny black paint of the freshly washed BMW.
She looked up and down the massive driveway. There was no one in sight, but that didn’t mean no one was watching. The floodlights cast shadows across the grounds that seemed to flicker and shudder at the corner of her eye.
She’d take it to the garage in the morning, she decided, forcing herself to think analytically, in hopes that would stop the trembling. She’d go early so the maids wouldn’t see it and report back to her father. If she told Daddy Dearest that there’d been a flat tire, he would pay as much as she asked, and she could tack on an extra hundred to ensure the mechanic would keep his mouth shut-no reason to spread her humiliation across town.
Kaia whipped her head to the left, suddenly certain she’d glimpsed a pale face peering out from the shadows. But there was no one there. She backed away from the car, edged toward her house, slipped inside, and locked the door. Then she entered in the code for her father’s state-of-the-art alarm system, the one she’d always mocked him for buying when there was nothing around for miles but the occasional coyote. Even if some lunatic did stumble upon Chez Sellers and set off the howling alarm, who would be around to hear it?
She decided it was probably best not to dwell on the emptiness outside, or the miles separating her from Grace’s lackluster police department, which was largely staffed by local, part-time volunteers and closed up shop at five P.M. Instead, Kaia curled up on the couch, tucked a cashmere throw around her shoulders, and flipped on the TV. She turned up the volume, hoping to drown out the silence that seemed to hold far too many soft, rustling
