Professor Love (7 page)

When he dropped the stack on the counter, the small mountain crumbled again and half a dozen paperbacks slid away from him to teeter on the edge of the desk, then plummeted over. The glare the librarian gave him went unnoticed as he rummaged through his pockets for his wallet. When he slapped his library card on the counter, he glanced up to find an amused expression on the face of the librarian.

“Something funny?” He wasn’t really in a laughing mood. Now that he had decided to do this, he wanted to escape as quickly as possible.

“Not at all, sir.” She ran his card over the scanner and picked up the first book. She flipped through it quickly to make sure there wasn’t any damage to the book, and the scanner beeped as she swiped the book underneath it. The amused smile still lingered on her lips as she thumbed past the cover brandishing a half-naked Native American and a long-haired pioneer siren.

Max wished that the clerk wouldn’t be quite so methodical; a small line was forming behind him, and the book covers were completely visible to the vaguely familiar titian-haired college student behind him. He thought he heard a giggle, and he frowned. “I don’t need to take all of them—” he protested.

“Don’t worry,” the librarian assured him. “This won’t take a minute.”

She flipped through the seventh book on the stack. Max cocked his head, for the first time noticing a small picture in the top right hand corner of the book’s pages. When the librarian flipped through the book again, he gulped, astonished to discover the design turning into a small cartoon.

A very X-rated cartoon.

Swallowing tightly, he turned his head slowly, hoping that the girl behind him hadn’t seen it. The lascivious grin on her face was all he needed to see.

His gaze snapped back to the librarian and his chin dropped onto his chest. “Oh god,” he moaned.

“Oh yeah,” the redhead piped up from behind him.

Finally the last book was scanned, and Max gathered the pile up in his arms.

The librarian frowned. “Did you want a bag for those?”

“No!” he fairly shouted. He just wanted to get out of there. As he stepped away from the desk, he heard the young woman’s voice again.

“See you next semester, Dr. Wright!”

Yes, passion was definitely about regret. Deep regret.

S
ophy’s night
was equally restless, but for different reasons. As soon as she had got home, she opened her laptop. Her fingers had flown over the keyboard until nearly four in the morning, her block surpassed. It was beginning to look as though Clarissa was a very lucky young lady. At least she got extremely lucky last night. It was the best way that Sophy could think of to relieve her own sexual frustrations—give them to someone else.

“What do you think, Herc?” Sophy glanced down at the cat curled up in her lap. It made it a little difficult to type, but she worked around the sleeping beast. She always had. The cat opened one eye and closed it just as quickly.

Sophy smiled. “Looks like Clarissa had a better time than I did last night.” Hercules flicked his tail twice, but otherwise ignored her. “But lucky Clarissa doesn’t have to deal with the consequences,” Sophy continued. “At least not until the next chapter.”

After a few hours catnap, Sophy was back at the computer, editing the previous night’s work. When the words started to blur in front of her, she tucked her t-shirt into her jeans, and headed for the door.

She stopped on the way to pick up some fresh croissants from a local bakery, suddenly realizing that she had forgotten to eat breakfast. Or dinner the night before, for that matter. The smell floating up from the waxed paper bag was driving her nuts as she leaned on the doorbell.

“I brought breakfast,” she announced as the door opened.

“Oh, thank you, but—”

Sophy glanced at the clock on the fireplace mantle and frowned. “I guess it’s closer to lunchtime.” She shrugged. “Oh well.”

Her mother closed the door behind her and adjusted her scarlet satin robe. “Thank you, dear, but it’s really not—”

“Oh, you’ve already eaten. I’m sorry, but I’m starving.” Sophy opened the bag and pulled out a croissant. “Do you mind?”

Maura Hadden sighed and her mouth quirked in a smile. “Not at all. But wouldn’t you be more comfortable in the kitchen?”

Her mother looked pointedly at the plush carpet beneath Sophy’s feet.

“Right.” She held a hand under her chin to collect any crumbs and munched on the way to the kitchen, mother in tow. She settled into a chair and brushed some crumbs from her lower lip. Her mother pulled out the chair opposite and sat down.

“What’s wrong, Sophy?”

Sophy’s eyes widened. “Does something have to be wrong for me to visit my mother?”

“Without calling first, yes.”

Sophy swallowed the last bite of croissant, looking at her mother for the first time.
Really
looking. “Why aren’t you dressed? Were you in bed? Are you sick? Why didn’t you tell me?” She scowled at her mother. “Your cheeks look awfully red. Do you have a fever?”

Maura lay the back of her hand across her cheek. “I’ll be fine, don’t worry.”

“Have you seen a doctor? Can I get you anything?”

“Sweetie, I’m fine. I just don’t feel like getting out of bed today.”

Oh no, it was worse than she thought. Her mother was depressed, Sophy realized with a sinking heart. And it must be pretty far gone if she wasn’t getting out of bed in the mornings.

She sat down and reached across the table to take her mother’s hand. “Have you seen anyone, Mom? Maybe I can ask Max—”

A short bark of laughter erupted from her mother’s lips. “No, that’s okay. Really, I’m
fine
.” She squeezed Sophy’s hand. “Now what’s on your mind?”

“Nothing. Everything.” She sighed. “Men.”

Maura raised an eyebrow. “Anyone in particular?”

“Not really.” Sophy averted her mother’s quizzical gaze and peered into the empty bakery bag.

“Not even a tall, dark, handsome psychology professor?”

“Uh, no.” Sophy lifted the bag and tipped the open end towards her mouth, hoping that it would hide the fire she was sure was creeping up her cheeks. A few crumbs tumbled into her mouth, and when she was sure that she was no longer blushing, she put the bag down. “Why would you say that?” She tried to sound surprised at the suggestion, but knew she was failing miserably.

Her mother patted her hand. “Sweetie, I’m not stupid. Or blind.”

“I like him, Mom,” she admitted. Her tone was funereal; she could just as easily have said that she was planning on killing a few squirrels this afternoon.

“So what’s wrong with that?”

Sophy tugged her hand away from her mother’s incessant patting. A few times was comforting; a few dozen times started to feel like Chinese water torture. “I don’t
want
to like him. He’s a pompous, prejudiced, stick up his ass—”

“Fantastically good looking,” her mother interjected.

Sophy frowned, her train of thought permanently derailed as she pictured his flashing blue eyes and the smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose. “That’s beside the point.”

“What’s wrong with being attracted to an attractive man?”

“Well, for starters, he doesn’t respect my work.”

“What about your reaction when you found out he used to be a marriage counselor?” Sophy opened her mouth, but her mother continued before she could get a word out. “Don’t ‘but’ me, Sophy—I saw the look on your face. You thought his ex-profession was one step up from debt collector.”

Sophy slumped in her chair and toyed with the empty paper bag on the table. What was wrong with her? Did she like him or not? Okay, so she liked him. Was she attracted to him? Boy, was she! Did she love him? No way, not in a million years.

“Just what is going on between you two?” Her mother raised an eyebrow again and tried to look threatening. Fortunately, Sophy had known her mother for a while, and wasn’t fazed.

“Nothing. I’m helping him with a study he’s doing on romance novels.”

The eyebrow arched closer to the ceiling. “And what’s
he
helping
you
with?”

“Research for the book I’m working on now.”

The eyebrow nearly collided with the ceiling fan.

Sophy glowered at her mother. “Not
that
kind of research.”

The eyebrow finally descended with a relieved sigh. “Well, you can’t blame a mother for worrying. But it’s too bad.”

“What is?”

“He’s a nice, successful, handsome man. I think you should do him.”

“Mother!”

“Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it,” Maura challenged.

Sophy wondered if she should start breathing into the paper bag; perhaps it would ease the sudden tightening in her chest. “Yes, I’ve thought about it.” She paused. “Mom, don’t you think that two people should be in love before they...”

“Do the horizontal mambo? Ride the percale rails?”

“Ride the percale rails?” She gaped at her mother, not sure whether to laugh or cry. She shouldn’t be surprised at her mother’s audacity; she was used to it. Maura Hadden wasn’t exactly your typical suburban housewife. Sophy sometimes wondered if the reason she wrote about true love and happy endings was because her mother wasn’t that great at providing either for her own daughter.

“No, I don’t think that two people need to be in love to...” Maura made an obscene gesture, making Sophy wince. “Passion knows no limits.” She pulled the marabou-trimmed lapels of her silk robe together and sighed softly.

“But what about love?”

Here she was hoping that Maura would be sensible for once in her life and she was acting like a lovesick teenager. She picked up the paper bag and started blowing into it.

She should have known better. Like the time she asked her mother to chaperone her prom and discovered her spiking the punch. Or the time she asked her mother to take care of Hercules while she went away for a weekend and came home to find his feet dyed purple. She exhaled on a resigned sigh and tightened her fist around the top of the bag, holding all her panicked breath in.

“Love, my love,” her mother pronounced, “is a fleeting emotion at best. You’re better off sticking to passion. And passion can be sticky, take my word for it.”

“That’s your advice? Have a passionate affair with him?”

Maura nodded.

Sophy snorted and slammed her fist against the bottom of the bag. The resulting pop was like a car backfiring in the tiny kitchen. It was the same sound she was sure her heart was making.

“Thanks, Mom. You’ve been a big help,” she muttered sarcastically. Maura’s face fell, and Sophy filled with contrition. She reached across the table again and touched her mother’s crimson-tipped fingers. “It’s just not me. I guess I’m too old-fashioned.”

Her mother smiled lopsidedly. “I know. It’s too bad. I thought I raised you worse than that.”

She made a three-pointer with the busted bag into the garbage, then yanked her car keys out of her jeans pocket. “Thanks, Mom. See you later.”

After Sophy had pulled away, Maura walked to her bedroom. She opened the door and her gaze swept across the room, finally landing on the bed. She hadn’t been kidding about not wanting to get out of bed today.

“That was close, wasn’t it?”

Maura loosened the belt on her robe and swayed towards the rumpled covers. “Too close,” she replied, a smile as old as time creeping across her face. “Now, where were we?”

She pounced.

C
larissa fanned herself vigorously
, her body cooling in the fresh night air. The dance floor had been a crush, but the balcony was nearly deserted. The gay sounds from the ballroom were distant, hushed by a light breeze that whispered through the gardens and the low sounds of laughter that rose from the trembling shrubs.

She frowned, disapproving of such debauchery. Sometimes it seemed as though such parties were merely an excuse for members of the ton to conduct their sordid liaisons, usually right underneath their husband’s or wife’s nose. It was too much.

She snapped her fan shut and let it dangle unceremoniously from her wrist as she placed her hands on the cool marble of the railing and leaned forward to breathe in the night. The heady scent of the blooming roses mingled with the crispness of the holly bushes and tickled her nose.

A breeze picked up, molding her gown to her body. She shivered slightly and pivoted on one heel to return to the ball, but a large wall loomed in front of her. A large wall smelling faintly of fine cigars and finer brandy.

“Miss Templeton.” The Earl of Maxmara tilted his head down and to one side in deference. The gesture was so slight she would have missed it had she blinked. But she hadn’t. When he remained in front of her, his eyes sparkling with humor in the spring night, then she blinked. Several times, in fact.

“My lord.” She fell into a half-curtsy, not knowing exactly what to say. She set her shoulders back and stepped gingerly away from him.

“I promise you I shall not inflict my deplorable lack of formal dance instruction on you this evening,” he vowed, laughter shading his voice. “In fact, I should like to apologize for our last such encounter.”

“It is forgotten.” Suddenly feeling the need to shield herself, she whipped the fan open again and started fluttering it near her chin.

“That is most generous of you, Miss Templeton.”

She nodded, wondering how she should step around him to return inside. When she should.
If
she should.

“You are not dancing this evening, my lord?”

“Indeed, I have only just arrived. But I see that you have been dancing, and I hope your partners were more graceful than I.” He smiled down at Clarissa as she frowned quizzically. “Your cheeks are red and your eyes bright, Miss Templeton. You must have been dancing,” he concluded. “Even your breath is coming shortly.”

She raised the fan a few inches, reluctant to relinquish her shield though her wrist was starting to ache. “Yes, I must have been.” She shivered again as the damp breeze slithered around her ankles.

“Are you cold, Miss Templeton? Let me offer you my protection.”

“I beg your pardon, my lord?” Surely he didn’t mean...

Maxmara shrugged his broad shoulders and moved closer to her. “The protection of my body from the chill of the night air,” he explained. “Unless you wish to go inside...?”

She turned away from him and rested her hands on the balcony. It was like ice beneath her fingers, but she had suddenly had enough of whirling couples and the musky closeness of the party. “No, my lord. I should like to stay out here for a few more minutes. But please do not let me detain you.” She smiled into the night. “I’m sure there are many begging your attendance.”

“You overestimate my charms, Miss Templeton.”

She tilted her head towards the sound of his husky voice behind her. “Do I, my lord?” Her skirts billowed out as another gust blew across her feet.

“You are cold,” he announced, and moved closer to her. The wind was buffeted by his large frame, and she could feel the heat emanating from him lick across her back. She shivered again, but not from chill. It reminded her of something...

“What think you of passion, my lord?”

“That is a dangerous subject for a young lady to pursue, Miss Templeton.”

Was that laughter in his voice, or warning? She whirled on him, squeezing her cold fingers together. “I should think our acquaintance close enough to omit the formalities, my lord.”

“Clarissa.”

He stepped towards her, his hand outstretched, but she neatly sidestepped him with a quick hop and a glare. His hand dropped and his eyes darkened to the color of the night sky above them. “I think much of passion,” Maxmara drawled. “But I have the distinct impression that it has not, shall we say, impressed you?”

Her cheeks burned and she spun towards the railing again. Oh, how he delighted in vexing her! But it was difficult to place too much blame on the man, as she was the one who had brought up the subject in the first place. “On the contrary, my lord, it impressed me a great deal. But it is something I should think best not repeated.”

“Why not?”

“Because, my lord, you are looking for a paragon of womanliness that I may never achieve to. Beautiful, charming, well-mannered...” Her recitation of his requirements trailed off and she inhaled deeply. The fragrant perfume of the roses suddenly seemed cloying and sickly.

“But, Miss Templeton, I am becoming daily assured that you have all the qualities I seek.” He stepped closer, trapping her between his hard body and the harder balcony. “Indeed, all the qualities I would have you search for in other candidates.”

She raised the fan to her face again and tapped it against her chin thoughtfully as his heat enveloped her.

“Are you certain about that, my lord?” she challenged.

“
D
r. Wright
?”

Max nearly fell out of his chair as the voice boomed over his head. He glanced up to see Chapaty in front of his desk wearing a somber expression. His seriousness cracked momentarily as he caught a glimpse of the book in Max’s hands.

He grinned. “Research?”

Max shoved the paperback in the top lefthand drawer of his desk and cleared his throat noisily.
Red Hot Riding Hood
would have to wait. “Research,” he affirmed, and cleared his throat again.

“Got a cold, Wright?”

“No, sir. Was there something you needed?”

“Not me, the dean. He wants to see you.”

“Me?”

“And me. Not sure why.”

Max nodded and followed Chapaty out the door.

The dean’s office was two buildings over, and they were ushered into the inner sanctum right away. Dean Stanton sat behind a large teak desk, his papers and knick-knacks aligned in perfect angles in front of him.

Three chairs were placed in front of his desk. Two were empty, but one was already occupied by a woman in her early twenties. She glanced up at Max when he and Chapaty entered the room and her face flooded with color. Quickly averting her eyes, she studied the institutional beige carpet as though it were an antique Persian rug.

Max barely had time to wonder what was going on when the dean rose and gestured him to a chair.

“Thank you for coming so promptly, Dr. Wright. Dr. Chapaty.” He nodded to them both and settled back into his chair. “I’d like to have this matter cleared up as soon as possible.”

This was starting to look like trouble. Max leaned forward, pressing his palms together tightly. “I beg your pardon, sir, but what matter?”

Stanton’s brow furrowed. “I assumed you were aware of the situation, Dr. Wright.” Max shook his head. “Ah, in that case...” The dean lifted a folded newspaper off his immaculate desk and held it out. The young woman sitting beside Max sunk further into her chair, her face deepening to a lavender color.

Max glanced over at Chapaty, who merely shrugged. Then he looked down at the paper in his hand and inhaled sharply. The blood drained from his head as he blinked rapidly in shock at the picture on the front page.

Oh, she was a dead woman. Sophy Hadden, or Violet Honeypot,
whatever
her name was—was one. Very. Dead. Woman.

One of the pictures from their little costume session was plastered on the front page of the student newspaper. The expression on Max’s face in the shot was more than a little annoyed, but it was unmistakably him.

Max resisted the urge to wedge his head between his knees and took three deep breaths. He remembered Sophy taking this picture. She was kneeling in the puddle of her skirt in front of him at the time, her blush barely hidden behind her phone. He remembered looking down at her and seeing the shadow of cleavage visible in the curve of her sweater.

It was that expression of annoyed lust that the camera had caught, along with a disproportionately emphasized view of his, um, heroic qualities.

“I take it you haven’t seen this yet, Dr. Wright?” The dean leaned forward, his hands splayed on the desk.

Max shook his head, instantly regretting the motion as black spots wavered behind his eyes like a lava lamp. He thrust the paper blindly at the dean, but Chapaty snatched it out of his hand.

A broad grin spread over his dour face. “Max! I didn’t know you had it in you!”

Max and the woman slumped further in their seats.

Dean Stanton raised an eyebrow and focused his attention on the woman. “Miss Robertson, perhaps you’d like to enlighten Dr. Wright as to how his picture got in the paper. Miss Robertson is the editor-in-chief, Dr. Wright,” he added to Max.

“One of your students found it online,” she mumbled, her gaze fixed on the carpet. “We just thought it was a hoot, so we ran it.”

“Hoot?” Max echoed flatly. It was
online
?

“The rest, Miss Robertson?”

The girl squirmed under the dean’s gaze. “Uh, yeah. We should have gotten faculty approval to call the feature ‘Cocks of the Campus Walk.’ And I’m sorry we didn’t get your permission, Dr. Wright. It was, uh, highly unprofessional.”

Frankly, Max couldn’t care less about his
permission
. It was his professional reputation that was in the chopper now. Wait,
what
of the campus
what
? He shook his head, but the words still rang there like an ear worm for a one-hit wonder.

“Forget it, Miss Robertson,” he bit out.

The dean was satisfied with her apology, and nodded towards the door. Miss Robertson bolted from the chair and scurried out of the room.

Stanton leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers beneath his chin. “Dr. Wright, may I ask you something?”

Max swallowed, feeling a bead of perspiration trickle down his back.

“Are you involved with our local dramatic society?”

Max shook his head.

“Were you attending a fancy dress party? Into cosplay?”

Memories of the ill-fated department wine and cheese flitted through Max’s head.

Stanton sighed. “Then I’m afraid I am at a loss, Dr. Wright. Just what exactly were you doing?”

Good question
, thought Max wryly. “Research,” he finally said.

The dean’s scrutiny intensified.

“He’s doing a study on romance,” Chapaty chuckled as an explanation.

Max glared at him, then turned his attention to Stanton. “I apologize if this has caused any embarrassment for the department or the faculty, sir. You have my word that nothing like this will ever happen again,” he vowed, crossing his fingers in his lap. With a little more than a week left on his deal with Sophy, it was a promise he wasn’t sure he could make.

Stanton relaxed slightly and peered down his nose at Max. “I hope not, Dr. Wright. I don’t have to remind you that you do not have tenure here.”

“No, sir.”

“And this university has a certain reputation to uphold.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Excellent.” Stanton smiled and closed a file on his desk.

When they left the dean’s office, Chapaty slapped Max on the back. “Sure am looking forward to hearing that paper, Wright.” He grinned and walked to the elevator, leaving Max dumbfounded.

And angry.

It was time he had a talk with Sophy.

O
n the way
to her apartment, Max rehearsed what he was going to say. He wouldn’t let his emotions get the better of him; he would be calm, cool, and collected. This arrangement just wasn’t going to work, no matter how much help he needed with his study. There was only so much he was prepared to sacrifice. His sanity, perhaps. His free time, certainly. But his professional image? No way.

He had worked damn hard to get this teaching position after he left practice, and he’d be damned if he was going to let it be tossed down the drain by a dizzy blonde with an inspiring body and a knack for getting into trouble.

Max sobered as he pulled up to her apartment building. That dizzy blonde also had a big heart. An enormous, generous heart. That was part of the problem.

He was in danger of starting to believe in romance, and true love, and it frightened him. She was getting too close, and it was time to call it quits. Max knew that he would be disappointing her by his abandonment, but hell, he disappointed everyone—why break with tradition? He grimaced and slipped in the front door as an elderly gentleman with a surly-looking cat on a leash left the building.

The hallway was brightly lit and smelled faintly of mothballs. It only took him a minute to reach her door, and less than that for her to open it up after he pounded on it.

“I have a bone to pi...” Max lowered his pointed finger, trailing off. Then he frowned. “What the hell are you doing?”

She looked like a giant bug.

Sophy grabbed the chin of the mesh mask and tipped it up to rest on her head like some bizarre hat. She was breathing heavily and beads of sweat trickled down her temples and past her ear to curve under her jaw. Her hair was dragged back into a straggly ponytail, wispy curls escaping around her hairline. Her cheeks were red and her eyes bright with exertion as she tugged off her heavy leather glove with her teeth. She licked her lips and wiped the back of her hand across her forehead.

“Fencing,” she finally said. “You coming in?”

Max followed her into the living room. At least, he thought it was the living room. All the furniture had been pushed against the walls, leaving an open space measuring about ten feet by ten feet. He could see where the area rug had lay; it was now rolled and propped up against one corner of the tiny kitchen.