I come to as soon as the light cracks the shades around five in the morning. Before thought is rational I reach out to stroke across an empty bed. Did I dream all that happened last night? I force my mind to backtrack through the previous twelve hours. The police trying to arrest me was real enough and makes my heart pound painfully hard just remembering it. But what about Hopper? Was my boss really here in my bed with me? Or did I sink into lush fantasy?

It seems like a delicious dream, his hard body against my chest, my thighs slightly wrapping his thick one. My leg was thrown across his lower half as though I could only sleep by pinning him down and being connected at every limb.

I recall, I think, playing my fingers along every last tendon on his exceptional frame. It has to be my fantasy. I could go with that if it weren’t for the fact there’s a definite indentation in the pillow beside me that has to be from someone else. The bed covers are mussed on that side. I direct my focus to between my legs.

My purity is intact.

Sadly.

I’m still wearing my underwear that has in no way been dislodged although the panties are soaked through between my legs. It’s all too obvious that the ache located there isn’t from the friction of fierce pounding, just the desperate desire for that. At the wedding we attended a few weekends ago, I really thought my boss had the hots for me. The way he held me on the beach and when we danced – I didn’t imagine the electric showers falling all around that day, did I?

Since then he’s been all about business, including our private deal. Aside from one or two moments I turned and caught him gazing at me with a look of intense lust bordering on animal. I’m not imagining how Hopper stepped up to rescue me from the police, impressively telling them how things would go in a way I would never dare even if I were a powerful billionaire.

Shit, it’s Saturday. My heart rate picks up as I remember we have another wedding to attend today. The company may be ugly under the surface but the surroundings are always so picture perfect and I’ll get to be be with Hopper all day into the evening. Maybe we can get back to where we were that wedding a month ago – when I’m sure the romance fueled atmosphere wasn’t only because of the occasion. Our brief time spent alone on the beach was the best moment of my life.

I hope Hopper isn’t pissed about his charge card being run up. He can’t believe that was me, right? If he did he wouldn’t have blown off the cops then taken care of me and brought me home. He wouldn’t have laid down with me. But then why did he take off in the night like a cat burglar? Ugh, don’t think of criminal behavior. It renders the simple act of breathing into hard labor.

I snuggle down into the crisp sheets and soft coverlet, filled with gratitude for the luxury of a comfortable bed. Something most people take for granted probably. But after the jail, with the plastic mattress over iron slats, then that hideous halfway house, I’ll be forever grateful for this miraculous pleasure of tempurpedic that Hopper thought to give me.

Actually it was right after he brought me here that he went cold on what seemed like increasing affection. The way he held me while we danced, the way he kissed the side of my neck and inhaled my aroma. Oh god, it makes me shiver to remember that.

Now I can’t stay in bed without thinking of Hopper. Certain I can detect his lingering masculine scent on the covers, my hands slide down between my thighs.

My clit urgently needs relief but I don’t want to lose the jittery feeling I’ll get when Hopper touches me. And I’ll be with him all of today. I remain agitated and get out of bed to get busy and take my mind off how desperately I want my boss’s huge cock sliding between my legs.

First I luxuriate in a long bath then fix my hair carefully. I must try on at least twenty different dresses before I fix on the perfect one. Then there are the shoes to match which necessitates trying on every pair just to be sure. I want to be perfect for him, today more than ever.

Even though I was up so early, I finish getting ready exactly at the moment he knocks at the door.

My heart leaps up and goes skittering around my chest as I dash to open it. He could easily use his key.

“Wow,” I gasp, because somehow he looks breathtaking, more so than ever.

He hands me a hand-tied bouquet of white peonies and roses. The scent is incredible but the headier perfume comes off Hopper himself, dark earth masculinity.

“Thank you, they’re so beautiful,” I chirp, touching his arm as I step aside to let him enter.

“You look very nice,” he says flatly. His eyes travel to the bedroom where he takes in the clothes strewn across the bed like I’m preparing for a yard sale.

Damn. He must think I’m a real slob. Plus all those dresses cost a fortune and deserve better treatment. Is he calculating what I’m costing him in this game we’re playing? Whether he could have gotten better value elsewhere.

“Can I get you a coffee? Or anything?” I ask, politely.

“No, we should get going. Traffic.”

“Okay I’ll just put these in water.”

Why is he being so cold? Did something happen last night I can’t remember? I don’t even know why my recall is so hazy and why my heart beats so painfully when I think about yesterday.

He’s the perfect escort, seeing me into the back seat like always. But as the car moves off with us side by side in the back seat, Hopper doesn’t take my hand in his. He looks straight ahead, his jaw steely. Disappointment sits in my tummy from my thwarted expectations. I realize how eagerly I’d been waiting to spend the day with him, outside of the office. He can’t possibly think that those worldwide trips were booked by me. I’d never take advantage of his generosity.

“I don’t remember much about yesterday,” I tell him, trying to break the icy environment.

“You were under a lot of stress,” he says dully and looks to the side window, away from me. “That’s a killer.”

“I didn’t run up those charges on your card,” I blurt, suddenly desperate to know that he doesn't believe it was me. He stares ahead without a word. The need to get through to him makes me continue. “I know the evidence says otherwise but -”

“Evidence is meaningless,” Hopper snaps.

I sit silent for awhile then decide to try again, to share what’s going on for me inside.

“Sometimes I wonder whether I’m a little broken by what happened to me, being herded around like an animal for something I didn’t do.”

His face twitches at that, like he’s moved an inch but no more.

“You’re only broken if you let yourself be,” he says.

“I don't know how to make myself feel differently,” I admit and am rewarded with a turn of his head so his gorgeous dark eyes burrow into mine, making goosebumps lift along my arms.

“You rise above what people think of you and trust the way you think about yourself,” he says. Softening a little.

“I’m trying,” I say, “It’s so hard.”

“I know. The important things in life are.”

“Like what?” I ask, lurching for something to keep him engaged.

“Like love.”

I bite on my tongue so as not to gasp. That word fills the car and pushes against us.

“Have you ever been in love?” I inquire gently.

“Not that I know of. Ever. Before.”

And just like that he’s disappeared again. Maybe he’s gone back in time to some woman he could have loved. I have no idea where he went but Hopper’s renewed cool attitude toward me feels like the ultimate rejection. Time to focus only on the job. As I told myself from the beginning but somehow forgot, subsumed in the gorgeousness of Mr Grady.

We arrive at perhaps the grandest estate of any we’ve been to yet. Not one, but two long staircases fan out on each side of the double entrance.

“Do we take one each?” I joke, nervous at the unsettling grandeur but mostly because of Hopper’s detachment.

His smile of response isn’t the usual Hopper but he remains the perfect gentleman. As usual he palms the small of my back to guide me into the celebrations. This is my fifth wedding this summer as Hopper’s girlfriend. While the natives aren’t exactly friendly, I’ve learned a ton about people and the roles they all play. So I don’t feel too dislodged by mine or that I stand out like the ugly ducking in a parade of swans. The same faces at every ritual ceremony have become used to seeing Hopper and I as a couple and no longer stare with such outright incredulity.

Hopper grabs two flutes from a passing tray and hands me one. He downs his and grabs another as he leads me out to the pristine garden sweeping down to the water, where everyone is mingling. A string quartet plays some syrupy tune as some of Hopper’s business associates pass by to shake his hand. A couple of women swarm around to kiss him lingeringly and I notice they still press their pelvises into his. A move he pulls back from firmly before shifting closer into me. At least he does the imitation of the perfect boyfriend – perfectly.

“I’ll be right back,” he murmurs once we’re alone again, “bathroom break.”

“Not surprising,” I joke. “You’ve had a bottle of champagne already.”

“Who’s counting?” he snips before heading off to the house.

I wander over to the pool, a freeform shape with an island of rocks and tumbling waterfall in the middle. I still find it amazing how some people get to live their lives.

“Grace Hart of the Chicago Harts,” a voice startles me behind.

I whirl around to see Sophie, wearing a plunging white dress like she’s set to compete with the bride, at her deflowerment.

“I never -” I start to remind her, it wasn’t me that claimed that.

“Or should we call you Sing-sing Grace?”

My heart plummets through my lungs, ripping a tear through my core.

“Does Hopper know you’re a felon?” Sophie sneers, looking me up and down like I’m covered with the stinky stuff. “What did you do to worm your way into his life? Or is it too filthy to relate in civilized company? Never mind, tell me anyway I love a good slut story.”

“Shut up,” I snap. “Hopper knows what he’s doing and what he wants. It just isn’t you. Probably because you’re such an uncivilized bitch.”

My champagne glass goes flying into the pool as Sophie barrels into me, screeching like a banshee. Her hands are flapping and tugging at anything she can grab, forcing me to respond. She pulls my hair, my clothes in a fury. Her long nails scratch at my bare skin and I fight back, trying to shove her off me. Locked in a rage, we stagger this way and that on our stiletto points.

One sideways hip-check and she wobbles on her towering heels. We’ve worked our way, scraping and slapping to the edge of the pool. Her eyes stretch wide as she realizes what’s about to happen. Her hand tangled in my hair, grips for purchase then she reaches out with the other to grab my sleeve.

Next second I’m plunging down under the water, my nostrils filling painfully. I swim well, having grown up on the lakes in Ozark, but I’m impeded from kicking my way back to the surface. Sophie’s hand is knotted into my hair and she grapples at my clothes, dragging me down, pulling us both under.

With a swish, I manage to break free and bolt for the surface. Sophie catches hold of my legs and clings like I’m her lifeline.

I try to kick her off but she digs her nails into my bare legs harder, gripping and grasping until my lungs are burning from lack of oxygen. With a sharp jerk of my thighs, I release from her manic grip and point my way to the light. When I burst from the water, all I want is to haul for breath, spluttering. A crowd is circling the pool, gazing down into the uniquely unnatural shade of blue.

No one makes a move, they just look at the pool like it’s a movie. I look down through the opaque water and see Sophie still down at the bottom. She’s not moving. It can be exceptionally difficult to move through water with clothes sicking to your body.

“Can she swim?” I splutter at the ensemble.

Everyone looks dumbly back and forth, shrugging. No one knows. Why isn’t someone diving in to help her?

For fuck’s sake.

I heave a long gulp into my stinging lungs and flip my legs skyward in a water dive. I tug a stroke with both arms and go down to retrieve my most recent worst enemy.