Chapter 1

I don't often go to private parties, but Clarissa Bowen had insisted I come. I didn't know why—perhaps she wanted some younger women to liven up the place—but I had agreed.

Shortly after seven o'clock one Friday evening, I nosed my Blazer into a spot near the fountain and got out.

I should explain that Clarissa is an acquaintance and not a friend; I work as a posting clerk and she has more money than God. She is, however, one of the few people who know every available gay female within a hundred miles, and she throws great parties. I was between—very far between—girlfriends, and I'd thought a party might lighten my mood.

I was fashionably late; almost everyone else had already arrived, if the abundance of luxury cars was any indication. I parked my old Blazer between a particularly beautiful blue Mercedes and a gray Cadillac, then walked toward the double doors of the house.

It was late May, the start of summer, and the air was pleasantly warm. The sun hadn't set, but it was low enough to cast a golden glow on the surrounding trees.

Clarissa's house was big, expensive and secluded, situated on the northern edge of 145 acres. The trees were tall and stately, almost certainly planted the century before. The grounds were immaculately landscaped, and the view of the river from the back terrace was astounding. Pergolas and gazebos dotted the large yard, offering privacy and seclusion from prying eyes.

The house had been built in 1895 by Clarissa's great-great-grandfather on a bluff overlooking the Missouri River, back in the days of railroad and cattle barons. As is customary among the very wealthy, the house had been passed down through the generations. It probably had twenty or thirty rooms and four or five bathrooms, but I don't think even Clarissa knew exactly. It was extremely ugly as well—think 'Gone with the Wind meets Frankenstein's Castle'. The outer walls were brick and mostly ivy-covered, and the turrets and dormers that pierced the roofline were placed haphazardly, with no sense of symmetry or proportion. No fewer than three chimneys pointed at the sky, but I knew of only one fireplace.

My short heels tapped on the walkway leading to the doors, and I handed my jacket to an out-stretched hand. I ducked into one of the bathrooms on the ground floor to get rid of the last of the workday coffee. After finishing my business, I checked my appearance in the mirror.

I hoped my light cotton summer dress was fancy enough; I'd come direct from work without changing clothes. I brushed back a few stray strands of my light-brown hair, straightened my dress and walked out to meet the crowd.

Clarissa grabbed my hands and kissed my cheek before I'd gone ten feet. After bubbling her welcome, she gently shoved me in the direction of the bar. I ordered a Heineken Dark and looked over the room.

I saw quite a few women I knew by sight, and several more I knew more or less intimately—mostly less, since I'd been out of the closet only three and a half years. My track record with females and romance was extremely disappointing.

With my drink in my hand, I walked toward the sound of dance music coming from somewhere in the rear of the house. Friends and acquaintances saying hello and exchanging hugs delayed me, but after a few minutes I was standing at the edge of the ballroom listening to the band. The five girls on the elevated stage seemed to have the undivided attention of the throng packing the dance floor.

Most of the women present were older and very well dressed, but I spotted a few teenagers in shorts and halter tops, showing off their nubile charms. I didn't know if statutory rape laws applied to women as well as men, but I knew Clarissa had a thing for young girls. Perhaps they would escape her clutches and perhaps not; it wasn't my decision to make.

As usual there wasn't a man in sight, and the dimly lit room provided an intimate atmosphere. It was shortly before eight o'clock, but I knew that by ten or so there wouldn't be a dry pair of panties in the house. I also knew—by virtue of my single prior visit—that there were bedrooms that Clarissa made available to friends who couldn't wait to get someone behind a closed door. I suspected she had all the rooms wired for video and sound, too, but that was only a rumor.

I danced to a dozen songs and drank two more beers, then, pleading the need for air, escaped to the room leading to the terrace. I put my bottle on the mantle of the fireplace near the door and fluffed the bodice of my dress to cool my breasts. It was after sunset and the river breeze was most welcome.

A cute little blonde in a black and white uniform gave me a fresh beer and I walked out onto the terrace to fully enjoy the breeze. I was alone, so I leaned against the rail and watched the river. The fishermen and boaters were gone for the day, and I was seeing the river as Lewis and Clark might have done in 1805. With a little imagination, one could see the keelboats and canoes. It was very peaceful.

I turned to go back into the house and saw a shape deep in shadows off in the corner, standing between the house and a large potted tree. I took two or three steps closer and froze. If my eyes weren't deceiving me, I was looking at Connie McLaughlin.

I'd seen Connie around the places where gay girls normally went, like Sulli's or Pheasant Run, and I was drawn to her like a moth to a flame. She was exactly what I wanted in a woman; she was taller than my five feet ten, she looked physically fit and she had an aura of self-assurance about her that I was sorely lacking. Sadly, I'd never had the nerve to approach her for so much as a dance, never mind a date. I'd been taught the boy asked the girl, true gender aside, and I was very much a female. I didn't want to be rejected or laughed at either, which was the real reason I had not asked.

Like everyone else in my social and economic stratum, I looked at her as unattainable. She hung out with the wealthy, older crowd, and it was rumored she had a bit of money herself. It wasn't that I disliked rich people; I just didn't have anything in common with them. She reportedly worked for the State in some capacity, but no one knew for sure.

I saw her shoulders shake and heard her quiet sobbing, along with the intermittent sound of ice in her glass. Torn between the urge to comfort her and her obvious desire for privacy, I silently stepped deeper into the nearby shadows and waited.

She turned and put her glass on the rail. I watched in morbid fascination as her stomach rolled and heaved several times. She gagged and bent over the rail, spewing vomit into the bushes below. She did it once more, her hands gripping the rail. Finally she stood up, took a deep breath, then twisted around and crumpled into a heap on the flagstone.

I ran to her side and knelt to check her airway. She seemed to be breathing okay, so I ran into the house for a washcloth. I grabbed two from the rack in the bathroom, wet them in warm water and ran back outside.

She hadn't moved, so I picked up her head and wiped her mouth as gently as I could. The stench of it was rising from the shrubbery, and I began to feel a little queasy myself. I propped her into a sitting position and tried to wake her.

"Connie? Wake up. It's all right, wake up," I said.

I remembered I was squatting when a hand groped my inner thigh, very near my privates.

She blinked and looked at me with unfocused eyes. "You're a pretty thing, you know that? What's your name?"

Her voice was deep for a woman, a husky alto. The hand was getting more familiar by the second and I brushed it away.