Free One Night by Marsha Qualey Page A

time they were dead, I’d built my own life, one totally separate from theirs.”
    I closed my eyes, focused, and pulled up what I knew—what the whole world knew—about his mother and father: dissolute, pampered, royal jet-setters. Long divorced, each with a string of succeeding spouses. But they must have stayed friendly, because they died together, two drunks in a car crash.
    I opened my eyes to see that he had a wry half-smile on his face. “What?” I said.
    “You were just filing something away, right?”
    Close enough. “I guess. Sometimes I’m not really aware I’m doing it.”
    He tapped his index finger noiselessly on the edge of the table. “If word got out about this…recess I’m taking and the things I’ve been saying—I mean, if it got out the wrong way, a lot of people would use that publicity as a reason to stop the peace negotiations.”
    “You’re worried I’ll open the file”—I tapped my head—“and sell the story of my night with a prince to some tabloid.”
    “Yes.”
    I leaned forward. “I would never do that, Tom. Not for a million dollars, not in a million years.”
    “I don’t know why, but I believe you. Trust you.” His smile broadened. “It should be a two-way thing, shouldn’t it? So why not trust me and tell me about the worst day of your life. Or the best.”
    I picked up my fork and stabbed it into the cake. The food had been delicious, but suddenly everything seemed sour, probably because the guilt was roiling with all the talk about trust.
    “Kelly?” he prompted softly.
    I nodded. “The best day? This one might make the list. The worst?” I set down the fork. “As for the worst, well, let’s just say, Tom, that my worst day was self-inflicted. And I’d like you to let me keep it buried in the past.”
    He looked like I’d jabbed the fork into him. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It was rude of me. Pushy.”
    Pushy? I laughed, thinking of Kit. This guy didn’t know pushy. “Tom Tomas Buckhorn Teronovich, you are the least pushy person I’ve ever met.” I picked up my teacup and cradled it.
    “It’s just that we’ve spent the day together and I don’t know who you are. Who are you, Delivery Girl?”
    I’m a liar and a tease and an ex-junkie gofer who is trying her hardest to lead you into a trap, I thought. I haven’t allowed myself to want something for a long time, and now it is my heart’s desire to lead you into that trap.
    He said, “Please?”
    I have so little strength sometimes, so little defense against so many things. Guilt, for example, almost always wins. Over the last few hours I’d deceived him, hijacked him, laughed at him, forced him to give up an expensive suit. Maybe I owed him a crumb of truth. So I counted to three and I said, “I’m a recovering heroin addict, Tom. Nineteen years old and I’ve been clean going on two years. Obviously, I started young. I grew up in Dakota City and have never lived anywhere else. Grew up and messed up right here.”
    He searched carefully for the next thing to say, then hit wrong. “Your family—”
    “No parents. I live with my aunt.” Too close—I’d brought it too close to what I needed to hide from him. “We’re a bit alike that way, aren’t we, Prince Tom?”
    He nodded. “Did you quit playing violin because of the drugs?”
    “Yes.”
    He reached out and took my hand. Held and looked at my fingers. It was a chaste, curious move. His thumb stroked mine. Okay, maybe it wasn’t so chaste. “You told me earlier that you were very good. ‘Once upon a time,’ you said.”
    I pulled back. “I was very good. I started when I was three and by the time I was four, it was clear I was special, a prodigy.”
    “That’s fun to picture. What sort of music does a four-year-old play?”
    “Entry-level classical. But tougher stuff very soon.”
    “So you started using and had to give it up.”
    I shook my head. “No.”
    “You said—”
    “I said I quit playing because of the