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you’re…well…”
    “What? Stupid? Gullible?” I snapped, yanking my hand away.
    “Inexperienced.”
    I snorted. Really? “That’s just another word for gullible. Or maybe weak. Is that what you mean?”
    “No.”
    “So you feel you’re so charming and skilled in bed that I couldn’t resist you, even if I wanted to?”
    “I’m not the kind to brag but…” His pointed look, smirk, and shrug did all the bragging his words didn’t.
    I wanted to laugh. So I did. Right in his smug face. “Bullshit. I can resist you, Valmont.” I poked his chest. “I will.”
    “Valmont?” His lopsided grin said he liked the comparison. “Shall we set some stakes in our friendly little bet?”
    “What kind of stakes.” I jerked up my chin in a display of confidence. I would not lose this bet. Not a chance.
    He cupped my chin in his palm. “If I win, then you must promise to accept any and all offers of assistance, money, whatever, I make to you. No arguments. No excuses.” His eyes narrowed. “No matter what.”
    Jerk. Would he not let me have even a little sliver of pride? “And if I win?”
    He motioned toward me. “Name your prize.”
    “I want one conversation. Only one. But you must answer any and all questions I pose to you. No arguments. No excuses. No matter what. Agreed?”
    “Agreed.”
    “Good.” I jerked around and, facing the sink, mashed all the uneaten pasta down in the garbage disposal. “By the way, the electrician called and he can’t get to my house until next week. So you’re stuck with me.”
    Kent stepped into my path, blocking what I had intended to be a hasty retreat. He plucked up a lock of my hair and it wound itself around his finger, like a shameless hussy. “No, my dear Madamoiselle , you are stuck with me .”

 
     
     
     

Chapter 5
     
    Okay, there was no shame in admitting I’d watched more than my share of movies based on old books. Jane Austen, Emily Bronte, Pierre Choderlos de Laclos. Nor was it a shame in admitting I didn’t just watch one film based on each novel; I watched them all. They were so mouthwateringly delicious, I would binge-watch them on weekends when my college roommate went home, leaving me alone in our dorm room.
    There was something about those stories--of love and loss, joy and grief, struggle and victory--that resonated within me. I could not get enough. I probably never would. So it was no wonder I’d compared our somewhat taboo tryst to one of my favorite films.
    I just hoped our story would have a better ending. Things didn’t end so well for poor John Malkovich and Michelle Pfeiffer. Or for pretty much the entire cast of characters, for that matter.
    Maybe I’d made a mistake in comparing Kent to Valmont, and maybe I’d made an even bigger mistake challenging him the way I had. I already knew how devastating Kent’s charm could be. I’d succumbed to it three times. Then it hadn’t been a matter of pride that I’d buckled. But now it would be. I had to stay strong, to resist, like I’d boasted I could.
    It was midnight. And for some reason, my room in Kent’s mansion was slowly but surely heating up. Wearing only a t-shirt over my underwear, I was coated in a sheen of sweat. I barefooted across the floor and placed one foot on top of the floor air conditioning register, which should have felt cool. It didn’t.
    The air conditioning wasn’t working.
    Hoping to get some relief, I dragged open the curtains and opened the windows. But the air outside was just as thick and hot as the air inside.
    Well, hell.
    I checked the clock sitting on the nightstand. The numbers glowed red, like always. The power wasn’t out. Just the air conditioning, evidently.
    My neck itched, my hair glued to my skin by the perspiration. I gathered it in my hands and knotted it on top of my head then headed down to the kitchen for something cold to drink. It was going to be impossible to sleep in this heat. I thought about the pool outside, the sparkling clear,