I went back to my room, my legs being weak and unsteady. The cold shower was my self-punishment—icy water smashing against my hot body till I was numb, till I could no longer distinguish between cold and the weird emptiness which was growing in my chest. I stood under the spray longer than I had to, and I allowed it to clean out the sweat, the bewilderment, the ghostly feel of Ralph touching my face with his fingers.
But it could not rinse the words of Dante.
By the time I switched off the water and put a towel around me, my skin was pink and raw. I pushed the door of the bathroom, and steam followed me—
I froze.
Dante was sitting on my bed.
My bed. In my room. As though lines were mere amusing propositions he could cross as he chose. He was with his legs crossed, and his dark suit wa
