Did she take her vows seriously?

Of course not.

At last the newscast shows a picture of Camille in her full habit, appearing pious, a rosary draped through her fingers.

Such incredible blasphemy.

Watching those angelic images of her upon the screen, I can barely tolerate the perfidy. And yet the wanting stays with me, and I remember her body against mine, the torturous but sweet warmth of her whisper against my ear, the sly smile and bright bit of wickedness in her gaze.

Oh . . . to touch her again.

To lay with her in sin . . .

I close my eyes. Feel her breath upon my face. The back of my throat turns to dust with the wanting. “Camille,” I whisper, and my fists curl in frustration. I consider self-flagellation—the smooth whip with its sharp bite—but not tonight. There is no time.

For now the wanting is enough of a punishment.

But there will be more.

A reckoning.

As my eyelids open, I see the fuzzy screen again.

The report of her death makes my insides churn. I could throw up at all the accolades bestowed upon Camille, as if she were truly holy, on her way to canonization—a saint.

Which is the ultimate profanity.

She was as far from saintly as Jezebel.

And just as tempting.

Her smiling, beatific visage is such a sham. I can’t stand the ignominy any longer. Angrily, I turn off the television.

“Rot in hell,” I whisper as the image fades to black.

But Camille’s face stays with me, haunts me as I blow out the candle. A pain as hot as the fires of Hades tears through my soul.

Then I hear her laughter, as surely as if she were still at my side.

My stomach curdles as I walk out of the room, and in a vain effort to keep her ghost from chasing after me, I lock the door.

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 26

Gracie Blanc needed cash. She was late on her rent again, and that creep of an apartment manager Harold Horwood, who had the balls to call himself McHorny, like a character on a popular television show—oh, sure—was pressuring her, offering to be her pimp for special privileges. “You’re a whore, and I’ve got a woody. Get it? Horwood?” he’d said, thinking he was super clever.

Gross.

He wasn’t even bad-looking, with his straight, near-black hair and ever-tanned complexion, but his attitude made her stomach churn. She needed to get another place.

All his attempts to enter pimpdom were a waste of time. Grace was independent. She didn’t need some man “managing” her career, as McHorny had put it so often. As if turning tricks was her lifelong ambition.