Free Anne & Henry by Dawn Ius Page B

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.
    â€œYeah, 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?
    â€œYou’re up to something,