Anne & Henry Page 6

Focus.

  John picks up his oar, hovers it over the water. I catch him studying me.

  My jaw tenses. “What?”

  “You’d have to be blind not to see the way you two were acting the other night,” he says. “I’m all for checking out the menu, but you don’t want to go from caviar to mac and cheese, if you catch my drift.”

  My blood flows hot. I let go of the oar, twist the cap off the water, take a drink. My teeth grind together. “It was just a poker game,” I say, forcing the lie down with another long swig, working to control my temper. Truthfully, I’ve spent the past two days fantasizing about what Anne had on under that Sex Pistols tank top. I wipe the back of my mouth and toss the empty bottle to the front of the boat. “She’s got a great poker face.”

  John scowls. “Yeah, she’s got bluffing down to a science.”

  I don’t respond, understanding him well enough to know he’s still stinging from Anne’s slight at the charity gala. He’s not the most charming prince in our group, but this kind of reaction is over the top, even for his inflated ego—and it’s wearing thin.

  “Oh, come now, mates, she’s a bit bodgy maybe, but she’s no dero,” Charles says. At our combined silence, he chuckles. “She’s got a nice arse.”

  “That’s debatable,” John mutters.

  “She deserves a fair go,” Charles says, and looks away. “It’s not easy fitting in around here.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “Yeah, I guess you’d know, right?”

  “The key is persistence,” Charles says, amused. “And an accent.”

  He’s only part kidding. Family wealth and some mad rowing skills gave him a reluctant in with the guys, and white chicks pretty much throw their panties when they hear his voice. After a year in the U.S., the accent has faded, but every once in a while an unfamiliar word slips in, a reminder that he hasn’t always been one of us, hasn’t always fit in.

  A little like Anne.

  I shake my head. No, nothing like Anne. She doesn’t come from money, isn’t polished or refined, can’t lean on an accent. She’s hard, rebellious, and—

  Hot.

  Christ, she’s hot.

  My mind wanders back to that tank, the way the strap slid off her pale shoulder, further blurring the lines I’m already having a hard time seeing. I take a breath, pick up the oar, and stare straight ahead.

  “Thanks for the concern, boys,” I say with sarcasm, trying to regain control. “But it’s not me who’s spent the past five minutes talking about Anne Boleyn. Let’s get back in the game.”

  As we take our first synchronized stroke and the boat lunges forward, I focus on steadying my breathing. On keeping a featherlight grip on the oar. On guiding the boat through the water. I focus on the silence, my surroundings, the burn of my muscles with each strong, deliberate stroke.

  I focus on anything.

  Except Anne.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Anne

  Sam’s fingers wrap around my biceps, tighten so hard I’m sure the muscle will—

  “Shit, Sam! That kinda hurts.”

  She drops her voice to a whisper. “Incoming.”

  I scan the hallway, squint into the Friday afternoon crowds bulldozing their way to the front doors of the school. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  She opens her mouth, snaps it shut. A sheepish, ridiculous grin spreads across her face. I follow her gaze to—

  Charles?

  His tall, lanky body stands in front of us, blocking our way. Locks of sun-bleached hair sweep over one ocean-blue eye. When he smiles, his white teeth glow against the dark brown of his deep tan.

  “G’day, Anne,” he says, Aussie accent slipping through his practiced English.

  Sam’s posture straightens, her body tenses. Holy shit—she’s got a thing for Charles. He’s so not her type, or at least what I think of as her type, and the devil on my shoulder whispers for me to have a little fun. But Sam is my first, maybe only, real friend in Medina and I don’t want to piss her off.

  In truth, I’m surprised to see Charles. Sure, he’s one of the nice ones, the only guy besides Henry who hasn’t leered or sneered in my direction—but he’s still a friend of Henry’s. Of Catherine’s.

  “What did I do?” I say, smirking a little, positive the only reason he wants to talk to me is to relay some kind of message, another warning to stay away from Henry.

  “Nothing yet,” Charles says. He winks at Sam, though it’s more of an afterthought. I imagine her pooling at my feet in a puddle of desire. “But if you’re feeling adventurous, there’s this thingy tomorrow . . .”

  “No thanks.”

  Charles’s smile broadens, a dimple appears in his cheek, and for a second, I can’t help but stare. Maybe I can see a little of what Sam sees.

  “Hang on, now. You don’t even know what it is.” He leans in and lowers his voice. “Or who’s going.”

  I fold my arms across my chest, waiting for elaboration.

  “The party’s at Catherine’s.”

  “Definitely not,” I say, my gut twisting at the mere mention of her name. It’s one thing to accept an invitation from Henry’s mother, to hang out at his house—another entirely to willingly step into the lioness’s den without explicit consent. Her sweet smile may fool most of the school, but I’ve had a close-up view of her inner bitch.

  “It’s a murder mystery,” Charles says, like he hasn’t heard me. “You know, the kind where everyone dresses up and tries to figure out who the killer is. Just come. If you don’t like what you see, no worries. You can bugger off.”

  Okay, so now I’m a little intrigued. I’m always up for a good mystery.

  Sam shifts, nudging my hip with hers, a reminder to stay away from Henry and Catherine and keep a low profile. It’s harder than I thought. “Can Sam come?” I say. If she’s with me, I can’t get in trouble, right?

  But Sam shakes her head. “Sorry, no can do.” Her voice is small and shy. Sincere. If she was free, or could make up any excuse to get free, she’d jump at the chance to spend time with Charles.

  Charles fishes his cell out of his pocket and opens a new contact page. Punches in my name. “Phone number and e-mail,” he says. “That way Catherine can send you directions and your costume requirements.”

  Or the coordinates to hell.

  “I think I’d better sit this one out,” I say, reverting to gut instinct. I have a strong suspicion Catherine has no clue Charles has invited me to her party.

  “You don’t strike me as chicken,” he says.

  It’s clear he’s egging me on, and I’m too smart to fall for the trick. But then—

  Something catches my eye and before I can look away, I’m staring at Henry. He stands across the hall chatting up some girl, his leather bomber jacket proudly flashing the Medina Greyhounds colors. He sees me.

  My toes curl inside my boots with longing. My pulse races. Maybe I should worry about Catherine’s reaction, consider the consequences of my actions, but as I tear my gaze from Henry’s, I’m already saying “Yes.” Sam’s elbow jabs into my rib cage.

  “Good on ya,” Charles says. He enters my information into his smartphone. As he exits the contact screen, a picture emerges as the background, a group shot, maybe from the rowing team, Henry at the center, grinning, posing, making eyes at the camera. A lump forms in my throat. “See you there?” Charles says.

  “Why do I get the sense I’m being set up?” I say.

  “They’ll give you a chance eventually,” he says, all serious and sweet. “Take it from me, just keep working at it.”

  I bite my lower lip, dare to trust. Somehow I think Charles has some leverage on the whole fitting-in thing. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

  He doesn’t have to make an effort, doesn’t have to care. Beneath those surfer-dude looks, I sense that he does.

  Charles shrugs. “I know what it’s like to be new,” he says. “This isn’t the easiest town to fit into.”

  As he saunters awa
y, Sam blows out a breath like she’s been holding it for as long as Charles has lived. I relate to the feeling and, despite my better judgment, try not to think about Henry.

  “He’s bloody amazing,” she says.

  “Careful,” I say, and rest my hand on her shoulder. Look her straight in the eyes. “The janitors are going to need another bucket to mop your melted ass up off the floor.”

  She drops her head as though in shame. “We all have our weaknesses.”

  Which I guess is why I’m going to Catherine’s murder mystery party, even if there’s a strong chance I’ll end up the victim.

  “Catherine isn’t going to like this,” she says.

  That’s a serious understatement.

  We walk through the exit and out into the bright sunlight. The scent of exhaust breathes into the air as the line of expensive cars rumbles up to leave the parking lot. A single yellow bus idles at the end of the lane.

  “You want a ride?” Sam says. “Maybe I can convince you that going to that party is a terrible idea.”

  My cell phone chimes an incoming text. Catherine.

  Shit, that was quick.

  I click on the message and the attachment, read the invitation and the directions to her guest mansion in the woods. A shiver of unease runs along my spine. There’s nothing personal about the text, but as I scan my assigned role and the suggested costume accessories, it’s clear Catherine has something malicious in mind.

  Message received—loud and clear. Catherine’s doing her best to scare me off, make me think twice about going. Well, screw her.

  “Would you mind dropping me at the mall instead?” I say, and an anxious thrill runs the length of my body. “Looks like I need to do a bit of shopping.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Henry

  A magician and a blackjack dealer are crammed into the backseat of my car. Elvis leans toward the front dash and cranks the tunes, belting out one of his greatest hits so badly off-key it makes me cringe.

  As for me, I’m trussed up like a turkey, stuffed into a crisp shirt and silk tuxedo, knotted off at the neck with one of Dad’s old bowties. I catch Rick’s reflection in the rearview and a twitch of envy crawls under my skin. More Criss Angel than David Blaine, Rick-the-magician embodies cool. Me? I’m predictable.

  My shoulders tighten and I roll them forward, back, ease some of the tension. The fingers on my left hand drum against the steering wheel and my right hand grips the stick shift. The urge to jam the car into reverse pulses through my veins, swells with every curve of the dense, tree-lined drive.

  Things haven’t been right with Catherine and me for a few days. Shit, maybe they never were. Tonight, no more dodging phone calls and making excuses—I’m ready to cut loose, have some fun. Screw everything for one evening.

  I round the last corner and Catherine’s “getaway” mansion emerges from the woods. It’s an oppressive stone lodge perched on an acre of private forest on the other side of the lake. Light shines through the giant bay windows, creating the illusion of a wide-eyed jack-o’-lantern. Fitting. This place has always given me the creeps.

  I park and pop open the driver’s side door. “Let the fun and games begin,” I say, emphasizing the sarcasm.

  “Oh, hell yeah,” John says, and his enthusiasm lightens my mood. His white pantsuit glows under the car light, the fake gold embellishments sparkling like stars. John’s Fendi shades are the only real accessory on a shitty Elvis getup. Collar up, shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest—maybe I got off easy.

  The front door opens and a steady thump of bass winds its way through the tall hemlock trees. A bride emerges from the shadows, long white train in her left hand, wine glass in the other. I can’t see her face, but her blond hair cascades over her left shoulder, and for one terrifying split second, I worry it’s Catherine.

  Rick slaps my back and I cough. “It’s just Liz,” he says, like he can read my mind.

  I bite the inside of my lip to conceal the smile forming as we climb the stone staircase and cross into Sin City. An enormous crystal chandelier hangs over a large blackjack table, and across the room, a bank of six rented slot machines clink, swoosh, and beep in competition with music pumping through a kick-ass sound system. There’s even a faux stage at the back of the room. Catherine really knows how to work a theme.

  A thin moonbeam cuts through the trees outside and filters into the room, out of sync with the whole Las Vegas feel. Only Catherine would turn her family’s wilderness retreat into Glitter Gulch.

  I’m about to ask Liz where she is when a flash of purple draws my attention. Catherine slithers across the room, the tight skirt of her fitted dress parting to reveal an inverted V of flesh halfway up her thigh. I can’t help but enjoy the view. A silver band of diamonds crisscrosses her chest, pushing everything—I mean everything—up. My throat goes dry. Catherine is in her element here, radiating confidence and power. She’s both beautiful and scary and, in this moment, I can’t get enough.

  She slides into my arms and nuzzles her head against my neck. Her lips are cool, wet. The honeysuckle scent of her perfume takes me back to our first date. And poof—just like that, I’m sucked in. “You look handsome, Henry,” she says, a low growl in my left ear. She pulls back and sweeps her arm across the room. “Do you like it? I thought you’d enjoy the evening, given your recent infatuation with poker.”

  That’s when it hits me—a humming vibration beneath my skin that lets me know something’s not right. I scan the room and note the characters in this evening’s charade. Elvis lifts his wine glass, the magician stuffs his face with caviar. The groom—is that Wyatt?—eyes a couple of showgirls, while his bride loiters by a theater-style red curtain chatting with Marie and Charles. The gang’s all here. So why are my hackles up?

  Catherine fills in the blanks. “We’re just waiting for Anne.” Her lips stretch into an exaggerated smile. “Things will really heat up then.”

  Frankly, I’m stunned—maybe even a little impressed—she’s allowed Anne to come and hasn’t crossed Charles off the guest list for inviting her. My thoughts are cut off by the distinct rumble of a motorcycle winding its way up the driveway. I move to the window, tilt my head. “That’s her now.”

  I’m grateful Catherine can’t see my expression. A dangerous twitch runs along my spine as Anne slides off her bike. My mouth drops open a little. I guess I figured the motorcycle was her unicorn. But seeing it—her on it—ratchets up my pulse.

  Anne removes her helmet, whips her black hair loose, and slings a backpack over her shoulder. The short leather jacket rubs against the thin strip of bare skin where her T-shirt doesn’t quite meet the waistband of her tight purple jeans.

  Fuck me.

  She jogs up the stairs, disappears behind a stone column, and then falls through the door like she’s tripped over the top step. There’s an awkward pause as she takes in the scene, and then her face twists in disgust. Yeah, I know what you’re thinking. Her eyes find mine, and for a second, neither of us moves.

  She snaps out of it first—it’s always that way. “Sorry I’m late,” she says, all apologetic and sweet. “Clarice was acting up.” She raises her helmet in explanation.

  Catherine jerks her head in Anne’s direction as if she’s a five-year-old. “Clarice?” The second “C” extends on a hiss.

  “Yeah, my motorcycle. She’s . . .” Anne’s voice trails off. She shifts on her feet, loops her fingers through her backpack strap. “Forget it. Is there somewhere I can change?”

  Catherine’s face lights up like a damn disco ball. She pats Anne’s arm—actually touches her!—and points her to the bathroom down the hall. “Take your time, hon. I’ll just get things started out here. You’ll catch on superfast.”

  Anne’s eyes darken to charcoal. She casts one more wary glance around at the room before disappearing to go change. Tension binds my muscles. Hon?

  “You’re up to something, Catherine.”

  Her eyebrows narrow. “Oh, don’t b
e a party pooper, Henry.”

  I barely notice as she gathers the cast of characters and reads through the instructions and rules, then passes out small yellow envelopes containing clues, objectives, and role descriptions. I’m a high roller—loads of cash, deep pockets, head over heels in love with . . .

  I look up at Catherine and smirk. “You must be the up and coming starlet.”

  Catherine doesn’t answer. Distracted, she looks over me, through me maybe, at something behind me, her eyes wide, disbelieving. Her mouth opens in a silent O—Catherine is rarely at a loss for words. A strange hush falls over the room.

  Sweet Jesus. My knees knock together like they’re going to buckle, and I break out into a cold sweat. A black and red corset is laced up tight against Anne’s slender waist, accentuating the curve of her chest, her hips. . . . My eyes trace the path from her black lingerie to thigh-high fishnet stockings held up by lace garters.

  Lust steals my breath, but it’s anger that feeds my adrenaline. This is Catherine’s doing, a pitiful attempt to embarrass Anne. I grind my teeth together and resist wrapping my jacket around Anne’s naked shoulders and leading her away from the judgmental stares of our friends, from this . . . from Catherine.

  Quickly, the lights dim, the curtain rises, and Elvis takes the mic on the stage. John swings his hips, really getting into character, but it’s not his body I’m thinking about.

  Anne works the room like there’s nobody watching her, oblivious or immune to the harsh whispers and catty mutterings of the other girls. It’s like she doesn’t give a shit. Meanwhile, I’m memorizing every curve, every inch of her bare flesh. And clearly, I’m not the only one. She slinks up to Wyatt, runs her hands through his spiked blond hair. At my side, my fists open and close. Though it shouldn’t matter, the thought of her touching anyone makes me tense.

  The power cuts out, plunging the room into abrupt darkness. It’s pitch black. Still. So still the erratic beat of my pulse pounds in my ear.

  A gunshot rings out.

  Someone screams.

  Anne’s voice slices through the chaos. “Well now, sounds like someone’s got a pistol in their pocket.”