“It has to be over between us. I’m sorry.”

“I don’t care that you’re married!” Her voice was shrill, louder. “I still love you!”

He grabbed her roughly by the arm and led her into a bedroom. She took in the muddle of pale blue sheets and pillows, the mound of a matching duvet. On the wall: a poster for a school play, a rainbow flag, a signed photograph of Gloria Steinem. They were in Violet’s room.

Gabe went to his daughter’s dresser, yanked open a drawer, and grabbed a black T-shirt. “Get changed,” he snapped, tossing the shirt to her. “I’ll drive you to the bus station.”

She hated him. He was dismissing her. He was looking out for himself.

She loved him. He was taking care of her. He was getting her out of this mess.

Their eyes locked then: love, lust, hatred, intermingling in a sick challenge. She pulled the stained T-shirt over her head and dropped it on the floor. She was in her bikini top, perfectly respectable, but the look in Gabe’s eyes was not. He wanted her. A surge of triumph, of power coursed through her, and she smiled. Reaching behind her, she undid the clasp on her tiny top, let it fall to the floor.

He was on her then, his lips bruising hers, his hands rough on her breasts. He turned her around, pushed her up against the wall, and fumbled with the button of her shorts. Nat had never had rough sex, had never thought she would enjoy it, but she was aroused, almost rapturous. She reached back for him, groping for his belt. She wanted him so badly, didn’t care that they were in his wife’s house, in his daughter’s bedroom. But suddenly, he jumped away from her like she was on fire.

She heard it then: feet climbing the staircase. Turning, she saw the terror in Gabe’s eyes. She could destroy him right now, ruin his relationship with his daughter forever. Or . . . she could save him. Nat pulled the black T-shirt over her head, slipped her arms through the holes, just as Violet entered the room. The girl’s pretty brown eyes landed on Nat first, and then her father, standing near the dresser, hands clasped in front of his crotch. What did the girl see? What did the scene look like?

“Is it okay if Natalie borrows that shirt?” Gabe said. He was so quick, so smooth.

“Sure,” Violet said, assuming nothing inappropriate. She smiled at Nat. “It looks good on you.”

“Thanks.”

“I’ll be downstairs.” Gabe scooped up Nat’s T-shirt and bikini top, shot her a quick, warning look, then he was gone.

Violet waited until she heard the rumble of her father’s descending feet before she spoke. “I’m sorry about Fern. She’s insecure and jealous. She has a bad temper.”

“I noticed.”

“She thinks there’s something between us,” Violet said, her eyes soft. “I was just wondering . . . Is there? Something between us?”