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“Where are we really going?” she says. “Somewhere in the city?”
“No, somewhere here.”
“Here as in Bishop’s Landing?” she says. Because, of course, Eva grew up here.
She should know the places a person would go to have fun in Bishop’s Landing. And I don’t mean champagne fun, I mean alcohol fun. I mean blackout-and-forget fun. Or at least the possibility of it. The possibility of bliss.
“Yes,” I tell her.
“Will you take me home afterward?”
“Back to your parents’ house?” I ask.
“I don’t live in the Morelli mansion,” she says.
No, of course she doesn’t. She lives in the city, but you wouldn’t know it by how often she’s here. Eva is always at her mother’s society events.
She’s always everywhere her family is.
“I’ll take you home,” I promise, knowing, even as I say it, that I’m never going to be able to drop her off at some ritzy loft in the city and drive away. I’ll be thinking of her straight through the next year, and maybe even after that. I’ll keep thinking and thinking and thinking until the thoughts turn into something filthy and rough, because I felt her body against mine.
It’s a short drive to the small downtown of Bishop’s Landing. I hook a right at an Italian restaurant that serves thin-crust pizzas as big as their tables. I keep driving down the alley. Cars gleam in a neat row behind closed businesses. Only one door has sound behind it.
During the day it’s an art gallery. Right now it’s something else entirely.
“Where are we?” she asks, whispering.
“The gallery. Don’t you recognize it?”
“Are we going to steal a painting?”
“No, but I like the way you think. We can do that another night.” I make a tsking sound when she tries to object. “But never fear. What we’re about to do is also illegal.”
Her eyes go wide in the dark. “Finn.”
I like her saying my name in that urgent, breathy way.
My body hardens. I’m having explicit ideas of ways I can take Eva in this alley. She’d probably like them, too. I’ve learned that high-society women enjoy a bit of roughness. They want something that silk sheets and bubble baths can’t give them.
I knock on the door three times.
In the faint moonlight, Eva gazes up at me. She looks exhilarated, fully alive, and breathtakingly beautiful. It makes me want to corrupt her in every way I can imagine.
Chapter Three
Eva
I’ve been to countless showings at this art gallery.
Apparently they deal in more than sculpture.
Clay pieces move across baize-covered tables. Alcohol flows freely. The underground poker club is in full swing when we arrive.
“How come I never knew about this place?”
“Overprotective brothers,” Finn says with a shrug.
“Leo knows about this?” I ask, but then of course he does.
