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deliver the news of his brother’s death. Joshua had
wrapped his car around a telephone pole. She had fallen apart in Xavier’s arms,
knowing it had been her fault.
    Her love for one brother had killed the other.
    Perhaps her quick capitulation to Xavier’s extortion was her
means of penance. Penance for a love that refused to abate. Atonement for the
need urging her to be with Xavier and snatch up the scrap of time their deal
allotted.
    “Turn left here. You have arrived at your destination,” the
GPS announced cheerily.
    Oh shut up. What are you so damn happy about?
    Her stomach executed a flip worthy of a perfect ten. Bile
roared up her digestive tract, scalded her trachea and played handball with the
back of her throat. She whimpered as the white elegant marker for Xavier’s
house came into sight. Oh, thank God. Nerves tap-danced under her clammy
skin, but the anxiety over beginning her service as Xavier’s temporary mistress
paled in comparison to her desperate gratification of finally arriving at her
destination without puking in the car. She slapped her left turn signal even
though the road behind her was empty of traffic and turned onto the narrow
lane.
    Besides, if she died from the plague twisting her insides
into a pretzel then she wouldn’t have to worry about being Xavier’s sex slave
for a week.
    “Oh. Wow,” she breathed. Her foot eased off the accelerator
and the car slowed to a crawl as the sprawling home came into view.
    Good Lord. This place differed from her small, West Roxbury
apartment like the majestic mountains contrasted with Boston’s steel giants.
    A quintessential New England farmhouse greeted her, with a
wide, spacious front porch and an emerald green lawn that seemed to stretch for
miles. Out her side window, a fence as pristine white as the house ran the
length of the driveway. Several elegant horses grazed behind the barrier and
their regal beauty momentarily distracted her from the nauseating twists of her
stomach. A city girl, she’d never had the opportunity to be around the animals
much less ride one. They were beautiful.
    Shaking her head, she pressed the gas pedal, continued up
the long lane and soon pulled to a stop in front of the house. She shoved open
the door and spilled out of the front seat. Every ounce of her strength and
concentration was poured into covering the space from the car to the front
door. In reality, the distance was most likely a couple hundred feet, but it yawned
to the size of a football field with each shuffling step.
    Finally she climbed the steps and knocked on the door. I
made it. She sighed. But the respite was short-lived. Nausea cramped her
insides and a wave of darkness swamped her. It faded almost immediately, but
the calling card of unconsciousness left her reeling on her heels and gold
sparks twinkling in her peripheral vision. Oh shit. I’m not going to make
it.
    One of the front red double doors opened. She stared up at
Xavier through a dim veil of misery. Yet even her abject suffering didn’t
detract from the potency of his sexual magnetism. Dammit.
    He arched a dark-brown eyebrow. “Congratulations. You made
it without a second to—” He frowned and the sarcasm melted from his tone to be
replaced by confused irritation. “You look like shit.”
    “You charmer, you,” she whispered. And then her world
crashed to black.
    * * * * *
    She met Jesus.
    And he was hot. Like gorgeous hot.
    Was that sacrilegious?
    Must be, because He’d tossed her blasphemous ass into hell.
And God—did one call on God when roasting in hell?—she was burning up .
The flames licked and roasted every part of her body. Tears stung her eyes as
she flipped to her left side. So this was how Joan of Arc had felt…
    Wait. Not hot. Cool. Refreshing coolness. She
cried…blubbering like a person who’d been redeemed from infinity as Satan’s
bitch. Maybe she hadn’t been condemned to eternal damnation after all. Everyone
knew there was no ice water in hell.