And she knew just where to go.
The last time she had had sex in this house—excluding that brief hookup in the garden the other evening and what had just happened in her bedroom earlier—had been well over two years ago: She had ended most of her Easterly romps and excursions as soon as Amelia had gotten old enough to know what a slut was.
No reason for the dear girl to witness in person what others were going to tell her about her mother. At least that way, Gin had always thought, mommy might be able to sport a credible denial.
But … two years ago, on a random Thursday evening, after an uneventful sit-down dinner, she had found herself slipping up.
In the wine cellar.
Proceeding down to the staff hallway, she went past Rosalinda’s and Mr. Harris’s offices—or rather, where the butler’s still was and the controller’s had been—and opened a broad door to reveal the stairwell to the basement.
She was entirely unsurprised to find the glow of a light down at the bottom.
There was only one reason for it to be on, especially as all of the bourbon, champagne and chardonnay for the brunch had been delivered to the staging area—and in any event, no part of the family’s private collection would ever be used for such an occasion.
Her descent was silent, the pattern of squeaking boards long since memorized from back in her days as a teenager stealing bottles out of the depths of the tremendous basement. As she came to the bottom of the steps, she slipped off her shoes and put them aside. The uneven concrete was a cold relief on the soles of her feet, and her nose threatened a sneeze as the mustiness registered in her sinuses.
Passing by the bomb shelters that had been made in the forties out of lead walling set at right angles, she padded along, wrapping her arms around herself—although that was mainly a reflex, something she did because she should have been chilled down here.
She still felt nothing.
The wine cellar was separated from the larger basement by a fire-and bulletproof glass wall that was outfitted with polished wood supports and a door that had a code to it. Inside, the gleaming, mahogany-paneled room was fitted, floor to ceiling, with handmade bottle shelves, thousands of lots of priceless wine, champagne and liquor protected from both shifts in temperature and thieves of the human variety.
There was also a tasting table in the center surrounded by oxblood club chairs—and she was right, the thing was being put to use.
And there was a tasting of sorts going on.
Samuel T.’s sacrificial lamb was stretched out on the glossy surface, her blond hair spilling all over to hang off the table’s far end, her naked body gleaming in the low lighting from the brass fixtures. She was completely naked, her peach dress having been thrown carelessly on the top of one of the chairs, and Samuel T.’s head was between her thighs, his hands gripping her hips as he worked her.
Stepping back into a dark corner, Gin watched him finish what he was doing and then rear up over the woman. With rough hands, he freed his erection and mounted her.
The woman cried out loud enough so that her hoarse voice could be heard on the other side of all that glass.
For once, Gin did not put herself in the female’s position.
She had seen him have sex many times before—sometimes when he’d known about it, sometimes when he hadn’t—and inevitably, her body had always responded as though she were the one beneath him, on top of him, pushed up against a wall by him.
Not now.
That would have been too painful.
Because she knew she was never going to have him again.
You win.
After all their years of battling, she had put down her armaments first—and he hadn’t believed her. And when he finally had taken her seriously, events had conspired against them.
He was not going to play this game with her anymore. She’d seen the hints of resolve when he’d blown off her declaration of love the day before—and the final nail in the coffin had been put in out in the garden.
It was done.
Gin stayed where she was until he orgasmed, and she had to blink away tears as his head jerked back on his spine, and his neck strained, and his body pumped hard four more times. Perhaps unsurprisingly, his face showed no evidence of pleasure, the release having apparently been something generated only by his body.
Throughout the bucking, he remained as grim as she felt, his expression blank, his half-open eyes unfocused.
Meanwhile, however, the female went into spasms that were too ugly to have been faked: No doubt the darling girl would have preferred to impress him with more artful expressions of passion in hopes of this being the start to something, but movie-star sex poses were hard to maintain when Samuel T. was inside of you.
Gin stepped even further back, until the cold, damp wall informed her there was no more retreat permitted.
She knew he was going to leave fast.