The men who sold them?

The creditors she couldn’t keep up with, the repo men she hid from or—worse—invited in for her barter system?

Wrong choice after wrong choice, man after man, time after time. Maybe if one of the sweaty many had guided instead of giving in, taught instead of getting in—maybe she’d still be alive.

He’d been too young to help then. Too unsure.

Now he was sure. Strong, patient, firm, responsible, understanding, and above all, disciplined.

Not only could he own a woman, he’d have one in his basement by the end of the week.

Chapter 2

CHAPTER

2

“ARE YOU OKAY, Caitie? You look like you’ve been crying.”

Caitie. Forty-two years old and Mary Lubbers-Gaffney still called her Caitie, like two decades hadn’t passed since they’d stood in the same state.

Caitlin dabbed the last of the unexpected weakness from her eyes and motioned Mary into the hotel room. “Allergic to the Midwest, I guess.”

“Maybe the recycled plane air.”

“Probably.”

Rather than meet Mary’s unconvinced gaze, she studied time’s gifts to her old friend. Mary’s shoulder-length auburn tangle burned like a forest fire with a tinge of gray ash, and her smile flared like the match that set the blaze. Her power suit, assertive but feminine. Her makeup, flawless.

“You look good, Mary.”

“You too, Skinny. They don’t have carbs in LA?”

“I run a lot.”

“From what?”

The only way to knock the awkward out of the moment was to concede to the hug. Caitlin took off her sport coat, then raised both hands. Mary did the rest. Somewhere past a ten count, Mary released her, reached into a bag, and pulled out a red graduation gown and matching mortarboard.

“Ready for your big day?”

Caitlin slipped the satin robe over her dress shirt and ran a brush through her hair. Brown and straight, down to the chin. Good enough for journalism.

Mary presented lipstick. Nothing had changed. Back in college, Lipstick Lubbers wouldn’t go to a party without half an hour in front of a mirror. Caitlin carried only powder and eyeliner, but rarely used either. She took the tube, puckered, dotted on a coat of Maybelline’s Rebel Bloom.

“Wow, that is exceptionally pink.”

Mary winked. “You’re single, right? Keep it. Might help you make a friend at the after-party.”

Caitlin made a note to trash the war paint at a less insulting moment, dropped the tube into her purse, and donned her pointy new cap.

“Lead the way, Dean Lubbers-Gaffney.”

Mary guided her out of the hotel and into the halls of the student union. An April evening in Indiana meant hot-blooded students wearing T-shirts and shorts—anything to tease the spring out of hiding after a white winter, even if the temperature only hovered in the sixties. Caitlin’s thin-blooded California body was thankful for the gown.