Chapter Two. "Your hands, Ms. Cavender." Mason unclenched her fists

"Your hands, Ms. Cavender." Mason unclenched her fists. She couldn't stop thinking about Vienna Blake and her arrogant threats: I'm going to raze your family's edifices to the ground, cut down your trees, and sell every animal on that property for slaughter. That stone-cold bitch. Mason could easily believe her capable of such callousness. Yet she'd played right into Vienna's hands with her hotheaded detour to Blake Industries. Her grandfather had ended up in an insane asylum before he killed himself. Was she losing her mind, too, marching into the enemy's camp with her Winchester loaded? She should be thankful that Vienna had let her walk away, but the reprieve grated. Vienna had brushed her off like an annoying insect. As always, her patronizing attitude set Mason's teeth on edge.

"Observe the facial muscles," Stanley Ashworth informed his protégée, Havel Kadlec, a delicate youth with a back deformity that corrupted his walk.

"Yes, master. Very tense." The young man studied Mason's face with the embarrassed fascination of a boy seeing more than he should. In the heavily accented English learned after Ashworth plucked him from a sidewalk in Prague, he noted, "The jaw. The mouth. The eyes. The appearance is...angry."

"A change of music, perhaps," the artist suggested.

Havel replaced the cap on a paint tube and limped over to the CD player. He queried Mason. "Mozart? Shostakovich? Dixie Chicks?"

"Do I look like a give a damn?" She instantly regretted her churlish reply. There was no need to take out her frustration on someone powerless to respond in kind. Softening her tone, she said, "Classical works for me."

She stared out the tall windows. The afternoon light would change soon and she could escape. She had wanted to cancel this appointment and her next one, with the chief financial officer of the Cavender Corporation. But Ashworth was leaving town shortly to paint a U.S. senator and had insisted on completing their final life sitting first. Mason owed him some consideration. He'd already declined a prestigious commission and changed his travel plans several times to accommodate the Cavenders.

His brush poised, he regarded her dispassionately. "Relax. Smooth brow. Keep your position."

"When can I see it?" Mason asked.

"When it's unveiled."

Havel closed the CD player and the poignant opening strains of Elgar's "Nimrod" plunged the studio into heroic despair. Mason's chest constricted. The famous classic was one of the pieces played at her brother's funeral nine days earlier. Ashworth obviously remembered. He glared at his protégée and slid a finger across his throat.

"Oh, pardon me," Havel stammered. "Please, I am very sorry."

"Don't worry about it." Mason said dryly, "At least it's not 'Agnus Dei.'"

Looking pained, Havel switched to the serenity of Fauré's "Pavane," and painting resumed. Mason worked on keeping her face composed. Her thoughts drifted with the haunting melody. Only a month ago she'd been standing here with her hand resting on Lynden's shoulder as he lolled in the armchair in front of her, posing for their portrait. The photos taken during their sittings were the last she had of him. She was thankful he'd insisted they pose together instead of having separate portraits done for the gallery at Laudes Absalom. He'd also come up with the concept for the painting, a snapshot of a typical Sunday: Lynden slouched in his favorite chair recovering from a hangover and Mason back from a long horse ride, her Winchester under her arm, symbolizing-Ashworth claimed-her protective nature.

She and her brother were opposites in temperament. Mason was a solitary animal, lacking the charm that made Lynden a fixture on the elite party scene, a bachelor profiled in GQ as the last in a long line of handsome bad boys, the man destined to reverse the Cavender family fortunes via a glittering marriage and smart investments. From all accounts he'd been well on his way to accomplishing both before the plane crash. According to the Boston Globe, the so-called "tragic accident" two weeks earlier signaled "the final throes of the colorful but ill-fated house of Cavender."

Once more, Mason considered Vienna Blake's indignant claims of innocence. The denial was laughable. Maybe she didn't sabotage the plane in person, but the Blakes had been conniving to destroy the Cavenders for well over a century. With talk of Lynden's engagement to a billionaire's daughter, Vienna must have seen their chances of victory slipping away. The marriage would have saved the Cavender Corporation, and the Blakes couldn't allow that to happen. So they'd somehow sabotaged Lynden's plane.

Vienna was too smart to get caught in a murder conspiracy. She must have hired someone who knew how to keep his mouth shut. Fear uncoiled in Mason's gut and she fought off the oily nausea that had bothered her since the crash. She harbored the dark belief that Vienna wouldn't stop until the job was done. The thought frayed her nerves. She could take care of herself, and she could hardly summon the will to care whether she lived or died anyway. But what about the people and animals who depended on her? She couldn't wait to get back to Laudes Absalom and make sure her dog and her horses were safe.

Calming herself, Mason watched a mourning dove bob and weave along the window ledge. It peered into the studio and tapped a glass pane. From the guilty look on Havel's face, Mason guessed he usually left breadcrumbs out but hadn't today. She studied the dove more closely and realized it was missing a foot.

"Excuse me." She dropped her pose and crossed to the window. Unfastening the catch, she asked, "Do you have any food for it?"

Havel hurried over with a bag of sunflower seeds, and Mason scooped a handful and offered her open palm to the dove. It examined her for a few seconds, then took the seeds from her hand.

Havel seemed surprised. "Usually, she does not come to me. I place the seeds and she eats."

"Birds seem to like me," Mason said. "And I guess she's extra hungry today."

Ashworth tapped a jar of brushes against his studio table like a gavel. "When you're both ready...we have thirty minutes of light and I would like to use it."

Havel snapped to and hurried back across the room. Mason spilled the remaining seeds onto the ledge and closed the window. The dove continued snacking. Maimed, it got about the business of survival despite life's crippling blows.

"That's outrageous." Marjorie Blake daintily deconstructed her watercress salad, sidelining the cucumber slices. "Why didn't you have her thrown in jail?"

"Mom, she just lost her brother."

"And she thinks you killed him. As if you would risk incarceration over that worthless playboy. You should have held your ground."

"It felt too easy," Vienna said. "Like kicking an animal when it's down."

"You're going to have to put her out of her misery sooner or later. The Cavenders are finished and she knows it."

"I'm not so sure she does. You should have seen her."

"They're are all the same." Her mother sniffed contemptuously. "Rash. Unpredictable. Dangerous. Her father was a monster."

"I know. I met him once. Before that day."

Marjorie frowned. "When did you meet him? You never mentioned it."

"What does it matter? He's dead."

"And good riddance. The nerve of him, marching into the house with his paranoid accusations."

Vienna refrained from mentioning that the accusations were well founded. The Blakes had used their political connections to kill a government contract that could have saved the Cavender Corporation.

"As I was saying, she can't run that company without her brother," Marjorie continued. "I heard he was about to get engaged to that girl. What's her name?"

"I can't remember." Vienna cast a look around the restaurant in the vague hopes of spotting a business acquaintance she could greet. A few shell-shocked schmucks were attacking their meals with the same desperation she felt, no doubt roped in for a Louis Boston shopping expedition by pitiless wives. The store's restaurant was a destination for ladies who lunch.

"You were at Winsor with her, weren't you?" her mother persisted.

"We were in different years."

Vienna didn't want to revisit her prep school days, but it was too late. The palm of her right hand was already tingling. Over the years she'd tried to forget the reason for that ghost pain, but the incident was one of her most vivid memories. She was almost fifteen at the time, and Mason was a high school senior. They were hostile opponents in a lacrosse rivalry that was tame compared with their family feud. Vienna, playing center for Winsor in the first game of the season, had expected a competitive matchup when the Dana Hall team took their positions. She'd been stunned to find herself facing off for the draw with none other than Mason Cavender.

Vienna had lost the draw, an omen of things to come. Dana Hall proceeded to outhustle her team in a scrappy game where everything went wrong in the first half. Winsor's passing sucked, their defense was breached constantly, and they gave up three goals out of every four. Dana Hall had built their attack around Mason, who was easily their most aggressive player. And Mason went after Vienna, one-on-one, dismantling her game and making her look like an idiot. Winsor had finally clawed their way back into the game in the second half, chipping away at their opponents' lead after some aggressive ground ball play and a hat trick. Vienna was looking for a fast-break goal when Mason caused a turnover that prevented her from leveling the score. The rest was history, a loss to the school Vienna and her friends viewed as little more than a dating academy for brainless fashion victims.

Afterward, the students were supposed to socialize in a combined picnic but Vienna had decided to walk off her anger instead. Wandering through the unfamiliar Dana Hall campus, she'd ended up at the stables and made her way around the outdoor ring toward the riding center building. There had to be a map somewhere, showing her how to find the parking area. Before too long, she would have to locate the team minivans.

"Lost?" The voice came from a tall figure standing in the shadow of a hunter fence.

"No, just talking a walk."

Mason Cavender strolled toward her. Even then, she'd exuded the blatant self-awareness of a mature woman, not a high school senior. She was so completely unlike the typical Dana Hill student Vienna wondered why on earth she'd put up with being sent there. She couldn't imagine Mason fitting into popular cliques and trolling parties for Belmont Hill jocks. She couldn't be popular, yet five years of preppy hell seemed to have left her unscathed. The other girls were probably afraid of her, Vienna thought, even the bitches.

"It's been a long time," Mason said.

"Miss me?" The flippant response seemed stupid, but what was she supposed to say? It wasn't as if they'd been friends when they were little kids.

Mason studied her. There was an odd warmth in her gaze. "Yes, I've missed you."

Disconcerted, Vienna changed the subject. "Good game." She added mentally, I hate you, bitch.

Mason grinned so knowingly Vienna wondered if she'd accidentally spoken her thought aloud. "Your stick-handling needs work. You should play all lefty in some practice games to work on your weak hand. I could give you some pointers."

The nerve of her. Vienna wanted to kick her. "We have a coach, thank you."

"Yeah, looks like that's working out," Mason said dryly.

"It's only the beginning of the season."

"Depressing thought. For you, I mean." Mason looked her up and down with calm insolence. Apparently she couldn't resist rubbing salt in Vienna's wounds. "You'll be off the squad if you can't hang tough out there."

"Oh, please. You don't know what you're talking about." Vienna resented the way Mason's dark stare made her prickle all over. And she knew her face was red. That was the trouble with milky pale skin. Everything showed.

"I get it. You think your daddy's endowment buys you a free pass." Mason's slow smile was infuriating. "Wait till you play Brooks. They're going to maul you."

Stung, Vienna snapped, "Why don't you just go back to whatever rock you crawled out from under and leave me alone."

"It's your funeral. One other thing...your shaft is too short." Something wicked glittered in Mason's eyes. "Mine is longer. I find that helps."

Vienna felt herself blush more deeply. "You're taller than I am."

A dimple formed beside Mason's mouth, in one corner only, drawing attention to the faint scar that made her smile uneven. Vienna caught a flash of that ragged upper lip, bruised and cut the last time they'd seen each other.

Mason looked her up and down. "How old are you?"

Resenting the implication that she was too young to play an aggressive game, Vienna lied, "Sixteen."

"You're small for a center."

"Piss off, Mason."

Vienna had heard enough. She marched off toward one of the bridle paths near the building. Mason wasn't the first person to imply that she owed her place on the squad to her father's hefty donations, but Vienna refused to believe it. Everyone's parents gave money to the school. Still, the comments hurt and she had desperately wanted to prove her critics wrong with a stellar performance. Thanks to Mason, she had done the complete opposite.

"You don't want to walk along there." Mason had the nerve to step in front of her. "The track's really muddy."

Vienna resisted the urge to stamp her foot. "Get out of my way." She stepped to one side.

Mason stepped with her. "I board a horse here," she said in a transparent bid to steer their conversation to neutral ground. "Want to see her?"

"Christ, what's wrong with you?" Vienna exploded. "Why would I want to see your horse? We're not friends. Have you forgotten who I am?"

For a long while Mason stared at her, then she said in a near whisper, "As if I could."

She took a step closer, her expression faraway. To Vienna's shock she extended a hand to touch her hair. Her fingers brushed Vienna's cheek. She immediately looked embarrassed as though realizing she'd done something strange. But instead of withdrawing she stood exactly where she was. Her chest rose and fell sharply and she made an odd, strangled sound as if she'd just forced back some words. Something cleared the dreaminess from her eyes, and she stared at Vienna with an intensity that made her pulse accelerate.

She knew she should back away but her legs refused to move. They felt warm and weak like the rest of her. Blood rushed in her ears, driven by an erratic furry of heartbeats. Mason's breath fanned her top lip. Her face was so close, Vienna could see the true color of her eyes. They weren't completely black, but obsidian etched with traces of midnight blue. Vienna thought about the irises coming into bloom outside her bedroom window at Penwraithe. Her mother had planted a new hybrid the previous year. The name jumped into her head: Hello Darkness.

Unnerved, she stammered, "What do you want?"

Mason smiled and touched a fingertip to Vienna's trembling bottom lip. "What I can't have."

Vienna willed herself to look away but instead she fell into the velvet promise of Mason's eyes. Something in Mason's face made her shiver, and she felt herself sway fractionally, drawn toward the sheltering strength she remembered from long ago, the day Mason stole her from the wedding festivities. She started to shake as Mason's fingers slid past her nape and into her hair. She tried to make herself move but her common sense was no match for the powerful thrall that enveloped her. Something was happening that had never happened. A bubble of enchantment imprisoned her. Everyday life seemed remote.

When Mason's lips finally touched hers, neither of them moved. Her mouth was warm and dry. Later, Vienna convinced herself that the daring act of kissing a girl explained her inertia. It was obvious that Mason had experimented before. She placed one hand firmly in the small of Vienna's back. The other cupped her cheek. And she kissed her like she knew exactly how. Worse, still, Vienna kissed her right back, and what she lacked in experience, she made up for in determination, rushing toward each new sensation when she should have fed.

The warm, slippery glide of Mason's tongue thrilled her. So did the sudden crush of her body as she closed the final inches between them. Her warmth, her strength, the urgency of their embrace addled Vienna's thinking. She couldn't resist. She didn't even try. She was aware of a sense of belonging, the crazy idea that every step she'd taken in her short life had led her here, to a moment destined by forces beyond her control.

She wasn't sure how long that fateful kiss lasted before she heard a shaky groan and realized she was touching Mason's breast. Breathing hard, she stumbled back. Her face was scorching hot. She felt disoriented, as though she'd been blindfolded and set down in a street she didn't recognize. Nothing was the same anymore.

A breeze stirred the branches of the gaunt birch trees beyond them. They were not yet in leaf, but budding with promise. Above them, sunlight filtered through thin mackerel clouds. Spring storms were expected. At this rate, she would be the last one back to the minivans. Coach would be mad at her.

"I have to go," she croaked out.

"No." Mason's hand closed around her wrist. "Please. Talk to me."

"I can't." With a sharp tug, Vienna tried to free herself but Mason lifted the imprisoned hand and planted a kiss on the inside wrist.

"Come with me," she insisted, like the words were dragged from her. "Come back to Laudes Absalom. No one's there. We can have the place to ourselves."

"What are you talking about?" Vienna stammered.

"Don't you see?" Mason's low voice was stretched thin. "We can change things. It's up to us. I've known it all along."

"Don't." Vienna shook her head adamantly, trying to clear the fog that had clouded her judgment. "Don't say another word."

"You feel it, too," Mason insisted. "I can tell."

Vienna could hear a steady chatter echoing in the recesses of her mind. Her parents. Her grandmother, warning her to pull herself together and remember who she was. "You're crazy," she said. "My parents told me everyone in your family has a mental problem but I didn't believe it till now."

"A mental problem?" Mason flung Vienna's hand aside like it was infected with plague.

"Have you told your family that you're a lesbo?" Vienna demanded.

Mason gave her a quizzical look. "Have you told yours?"

"Of course not," Vienna replied scathingly. "Since I'm not one."

"Oh, really? Let's see about that."

Mason grabbed her shoulders and jerked her forward so hard Vienna tripped off balance. Before she could steady herself, Mason's mouth was on hers, silencing her protests. She tried to free her arms, but Mason held them pinned to her sides with the power of someone who spent half her life controlling horses and the other half wielding a lacrosse stick.

"Don't," Vienna gasped, averting her head to end the kiss. "I hate you."

"You hate that you like me," Mason said in her ear. "You hate that you like kissing me. You hate that you want more."

"I do not." Vienna cursed her small build as she struggled to free herself. She hadn't had the growth spurt that changed girls her age into young women. Mason was at least five inches taller. "If you don't let go of me right now, I'm going to report this."

Mason laughed. "Go ahead. Tell them you were kissed by a Dana Hall lesbian. Just wait and see how many friends you have left."

"Bitch."

"Actually, the word you're looking for is butch."

"I'm going to tell my father," Vienna said weakly. Every time she moved, her clothing strained over her breasts, making her horribly aware of her tight nipples.

"No, you're not," Mason said with conviction. "You're going to pretend this never happened. You don't have the guts to tell your family that you got your first kiss from a Cavender."

"That wasn't my first kiss," Vienna lied. "I kissed a boy last summer."

"Sure you did," Mason said sarcastically.

Vienna planted a swift kick to Mason's shin, then realized Mason was wearing tall riding boots and probably hadn't felt a thing. The danger of more kisses seemed to have passed and they stared at each other for several seconds, both breathing fast. Then, abruptly, Mason let go. Her words were acid on Vienna's nerves.

"Come and see me when you've grown up."

Vienna stumbled back a step. Tears stung and she blinked them away, mortified by the weird hurt she felt, the sense that she had been found wanting and Mason had discarded her like a stupid child. She wanted to say something that would hurt Mason and prove which one of them was tougher, but all she could think about was that deep, astounding kiss. That perfect moment, with her eyes closed and her lips pressed to Mason's. She'd never experienced such bliss, but with it came the dread certainty she'd tried to ignore for the past year or more. Mason had obliterated all doubt and confirmed who she was. A lesbian. And worse, a Blake who had kissed a Cavender.

Appalled, she said, "Just wait. One day I'm going to make you sorry you ever touched me."

Mason regarded her calmly. "The only thing I'm sorry about is that you're a virgin. Otherwise we could have had some real fun."

"That's disgusting."

"Can't handle it?" A muscle moved in Mason's neck. "Go home and play with your dolls."

"Go fuck yourself."

"No, I think I'll go fuck a girl who knows how."

Vienna's palm stung almost before she realized how hard she'd slapped Mason's face. She stared at the mark she'd left. Mason licked a fen film of blood from her mouth. She must have bitten her lip.

Shaking, Vienna said, "Don't ever speak to me again."

And six years passed before Mason did.