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Emotion broke in her chest
and sentiment left her vulnerable. Tears glistened in her eyes. She'd fallen
fast for Kason Rhodes, and was heart-deep in love with the man.

Rainbow sparks from the
diamond band shot across the showcase as he slipped the ring on the fourth
finger of her left hand. The gold was weighted with the promise of forever.

Her hands shook so bad, she
couldn't fit the wide gold band, inset with diamond chips, onto his finger.
Kason covered her hand, steadied her. Together, they slid the ring over his
knuckles.

They raised their crystal
flutes in a toast, and the cameraman locked on their wedding rings. “Wrap,” he
called to the room, which had been bound in silence.

“Incendiary.” Gayle
released her breath. “You really worked it. I felt you growing as a couple.
That last spot could win an Oscar. I'm one happy jeweler.”

Gayle requested their
bands, wanting to return them to the office safe. Physical pain gripped Dayne
in the absence of the ring. She felt exposed and unsettled as the campaign came
to a close.

Albie was quick to help her
out of the wedding dress. Her casual clothes brought her down to earth. Today
she'd played a woman in love. What scared her most was that she hadn't been
acting. She cherished Kason Rhodes.

Back in the showroom, she
met with Revelle. “You did a great job,” her boss praised. “Gayle plans to pay
you for your time. A check will be delivered to the stadium in the morning.”

Player promotions. Tomorrow
she'd face a deskload of work. Tonight she'd drift on the day's memories.
Thoughts of Kason warmed her heart, made her mellow. She couldn't allow her
feelings for him to shape her future. He was a man who guarded his privacy, was
distant and alone.

She was more into him than
he was into her.

“Want to honeymoon?” Kason
came up behind her, his voice low and suggestive.

She couldn't help herself. “Your
trailer or mine?”

“Let's go double-wide.”

Big man, bigger bed,
biggest night of her life ahead.

Fourteen

Rhaden Dunn parked in the back lot behind the historic schoolhouse. He
turned off the truck's engine and cracked his window. The sky stretched clear
and blue, hinting at a hot summer ahead. The sun played across his face, making
him sleepy. He'd slept little in the past two weeks. All because he'd kissed
Revelle Sullivan.

Memories of her amazing mouth kept him up at night. She'd given him more
than a good-night tease on the sidewalk outside the Maximillian Hotel. She'd
initiated, tasted, and sucked on his tongue. He still wanted her so much that
he suffered blue balls.

Revelle was the type of woman who made a man's hands sweat, his pulse
pound. A stray impulse would have him tattooing her name over his heart.

He'd held off sending her flowers this week, on the off chance she'd
miss the delivery. He loved spoiling her, but he also needed her to think of
him without the reminder of a vase of roses.

Today they'd judge a sixth-grade photography exhibit together. Then he
planned to kidnap her and take her off-roading. They'd drive to Hiker Hills and
explore bumpy back trails, deep valleys, river crossings, and, if he got lucky,
each other.

Catching sight of the Rogues stretch limo made his heart thump. Revelle
as she exited was worth the wait. Her skirt hitched at midthigh, and Rhaden had
a nice long look at her legs.

He hopped out of his Ford pickup, crossed to her. Her soft pink skirt
suit was less severe than her usual black. A spritz of Chanel scented her
throat. Her lavender eyes were soft and her smile tentative. His gaze lit on
her mouth and she self-consciously licked her lips. They both remembered their
kiss. The memory clearly made her apprehensive.

He quelled her nerves. Tipping up her chin, he kissed her. The kiss was
as playful as it was intimate, and one that was difficult to break.

The limo driver raised his brow and a man skirting them on the sidewalk
winked at Rhaden. One of those male bonding winks that complimented Rhaden on
his taste in women and stated he was one lucky bastard.

He didn't feel all that fortunate. Revelle wasn't officially his. Rhaden
had never analyzed his time with any woman. Women came; women went. He never
secondguessed himself.

Revelle, however, was special. He damn sure hoped he wasn't reading more
into their situation than was warranted.

“Ready to judge the photography?” she asked.

“I've looked forward to the sixth-grade exhibit.” His anticipation had
run high at seeing her again.

“Me too.” He thought her enthusiasm matched his.

She took his arm, and they moved as one into the schoolhouse. He liked
the way she felt at his side.

Some women brushed against him, crowded his space. With Revelle, he
wanted her close. Their hips pressed and her full skirt flirted with his thigh.
The pale pink fabric snuck around his leg, teasing and inviting.

Men were visual animals, and sex entered their minds every six seconds.
He'd like a second look at her lacy thigh-high stockings should the opportunity
arise. Long, shapely legs did it for him.

Curator Anne Malone met them just inside the door. Garbed in period
clothing, she wore a matching expression, schoolmarmish and severe. She nodded
to Revelle, but spoke directly to Rhaden. “Nice to see you again, Mr. Dunn. Ms.
Sullivan must feel confident in your judging skills. No other Rogue has had the
honor of a return visit.”

Revelle blushed, and Rhaden enjoyed the color in her cheeks. Good old
Annie had let the cat out of the bag. He now knew that more than his assessment
of the artwork had prompted Revelle's invitation. Their kiss had sealed round
two.

Anne nodded toward the photography. “Some photos are risqué,” she
informed them with a frown. “I'm of an older generation, but I'd swear these
kids' hormones have already kicked in. Sonya Garrett's sixth graders have sex
on the brain.”

Rhaden was certain she was right. Statistics showed increased
pregnancies in the projects. Babies were born to babies, and girls as young as
twelve were now mothers. Beset by violence, low incomes, cramped housing, and
single parenthood, families barely held together.

Cops were posted on the elementary campus to keep the peace.
Eight-year-olds had been busted for guns. Ten-year-olds arrested for selling
drugs.

“Sonya petitioned for the exhibit,” Revelle told the curator. “Collage
donated the disposable cameras. While the photographs may not seem
age-appropriate to you, kids grow up fast these days. What I knew at sixteen,
most children learn by seven. I have a thirteen-year-old nephew whose Christmas
list included condoms and a subscription to
Playboy.”

The curator sighed. “I do feel old and out of touch. Are the sixth
graders too big for juice boxes and sugar cookies? Do we even offer snacks?”

Revelle tapped a finger on her chin. “Sonya's class is huge, close to
forty students. Let's go with popcorn in plastic bowls and canned soda.”

“I'll start popping,” said Anne as she headed to the storeroom that
shelved supplies, a small refrigerator, and a microwave.

Rhaden wandered over to the wall with the framed black-and-white
photographs. The pictures were a lesson in contrasts. A succession of shots
caught his attention and he soon shook his head, amazed by the audacity of
twelve-year-old photographer Samson Banks at a local mall.

Sam-boy had crouched off to the side at the bottom of an escalator near
a massive potted plant. Ficus leaves edged the photographs and neon signs from
the food court lit up the background.

Hunkered low, Samson had captured customers as they'd ridden down. He'd
snapped six quick shots, then set up his framed prints so the viewer could feel
the descent of the escalator.

It was an intriguing concept, if a person could get around the subject
matter. Looking up, Samson had gotten
under
those he filmed. He'd
captured three teenage girls in miniskirts, as well as a flash of their
panties. Samson had snapped a man adjusting himself. And a grandma with one
side of her dress tucked into her pantyhose. Last, came a snapshot of a
middle-aged woman with her hand down the front of her blouse, scratching her
breast.

The kid had guts to shoot those photos,
Rhaden thought. Where was mall security when Samson
was sneaking off shots?

He closed in on Revelle, who was studying a photograph of a window
display at Satin Dreams, a sexy lingerie store. A jeweled bustier, a collection
of lacy thongs, and thigh-high nylons with decorative back seams stimulated wet
dreams. The two female mannequins were both naked and extremely well endowed.

Whether posed or accidentally positioned, one of the mannequin's hands
cupped the other's mound. The photo was startling, even disgusting, yet it made
Rhaden smile. Men would find humor in the shot. Revelle, on the other hand,
wasn't quite certain what to make of the picture.

“Sixth-grade boys are sexually inquisitive,” he told her. “Guys giggle
like girls over nudity, even if it's storefront mannequins.”

Her brow creased. “They must have laughed themselves silly. The
second-grade exhibit was much easier to judge. Although this photography is
expressive, I much prefer crayons and charcoal.”

“How about
H Street?”
Rhaden pointed to a photograph of a street corner
backed by brick walls and plastered with graffiti. A trash can had been
overturned near the stoplight, garbage everywhere. The camera captured two
women at twilight, eyeing the traffic. Prostitutes, Rhaden figured, given their
skimpy outfits, dangling cigarettes, and defeated expressions.

They reviewed all forty photographs, most of which dealt with the
students' community. Rhaden caught the slump in Revelle's shoulders as she took
on the weight of Highland Heights. The photos revealed the harsh reality of the
children's lives. Revelle was deeply touched and sympathetic. She felt their
struggle.

Seconds before the school bus arrived, they came to a decision. First
prize would go to
The Playground,
a photograph that featured the class at recess. The
girls were clustered by a broken swing set, the boys by a bent and twisted
chain-link fence. All postured, trying to act cool, yet in that single moment,
their eyes betrayed the bitterness of life and their inner need for acceptance.

The sixth graders soon arrived, all loud and undisciplined. There was
horseplay, some profanity, and total disrespect. Each student held a disposable
camera. They took pictures of one another, the flashes blindingly bright. Then
they staggered around like zombies, bumping into the desks and bouncing off the
walls.

Sonya Garrett blew a whistle, so loud and sharp, she couldn't be
ignored. The kids gave her five minutes.

Rhaden studied the boys, a diversified group—black, white, and Hispanic.
Dressed for their one and only outing that year, they all wore the same blue
T-shirts with the school logo; the guys had cut off the sleeves. Baggy jeans
flashed boxers and one young plumber's crack.

The girls shirts were red. Cut off at the waist, the cotton T's became
belly shirts. Most wore tight jeans, a few denim miniskirts. The visible
elastic on their thongs was as much a statement of who they were as their
heavily made-up faces.

Several girls showed off birth-control patches on the high curve of
their hips. A sixth-grade status symbol.

There was belching and farting.

Someone in the crowd needed a shower, bad.

They're twelve,
Rhaden forced himself to
remember. These kids weren't yet teenagers, yet life had aged them fast. They
were street-corner tough.

“The field trip from hell,” Sonya Garrett said under her breath when
Revelle introduced her to Rhaden. “Samson Banks tried to escape through the
emergency exit of the bus and set off the alarm. A police car pulled us over.
My students hung out the windows and called them pigs.”

Rhaden easily picked Samson out of the group. He was the leader of the
pack. Gangly with slicked-back hair, he had a piercing stare and a fuck-you
curl to his lip. He had the badass attitude that made it easy to lead kids
astray.