by Sandra Brown
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 1983 by Erin St. Claire
All rights reserved.
Warner Books, Inc.
Hachette Book Group
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New York, NY 10017
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First eBook Edition: April 2002
ISBN: 978-0-446-54872-4
Contents
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
By Sandra Brown
Novels
Envy
The Switch
Standoff
The Alibi
Unspeakable
Fat Tuesday
Exclusive
The Witness
Charade
Where There’s Smoke
French Silk
Breath of Scandal
Mirror Image
Best Kept Secrets
Slow Heat in Heaven
Classic Love Stories
A Kiss Remembered
Seduction by Design
Bittersweet Rain
Sweet Anger
Temptation’s Kiss
Love’s Encore
Tempest in Eden
Primetime
Eloquent Silence
Hidden Fires
Love Beyond Reason
A Treasure Worth Seeking
Shadows of Yesterday
Another Dawn
Sunset Embrace
Silken Web
Dear Reader,
For years before I began writing general fiction, I wrote genre romances. A Kiss Remembered was originally published almost twenty years ago.
This story reflects the trends and attitudes that were popular at that time, but its themes are eternal and universal. As in all romance fiction, the plot revolves around star-crossed lovers. There are moments of passion, anguish, and tenderness—all integral facets of falling in love.
I very much enjoyed writing romances. They’re optimistic in orientation and have a charm unique to any other form of fiction. If this is your first taste of it, please enjoy.
Sandra Brown
CHAPTER 1
She had purposely chosen a seat near the back of the classroom in order to study him without being obvious. It was remarkable how unchanged he was. Physically, the ten years since they’d seen one another had enhanced his masculine appeal. During his twenties he had held the promise of being a magnetic, virile man; in his thirties that promise had been realized.
Shelley’s pen scratched across her tablet as she took notes on his lecture. This was only the second week of the fall semester, but he was already well into the topics he wanted to cover before the final exams just before Christmas. He held the class’s rapt attention.
The political-science courses were conducted in one of the oldest buildings on campus. Its ivy-covered walls suggested a prestigious East Coast university rather than a college located in a northeastern Oklahoma township.
The age of the building, its pleasantly creaking hardwood floors, and high-ceilinged, hushed hallways lent it a sedate atmosphere that appealed to the prelaw students.
The instructor, Grant Chapman, was propped against the desk at the front of the classroom. The desk was solid oak. It had survived over thirty years of professors leaning against it and bore its years well.
As did the man, Shelley thought. Mr. Chapman was as muscularly solid as he had been ten years before. Many a young heart had fluttered when he played on the faculty basketball team against the varsity. Wearing basketball trunks and a tank top, Grant Chapman had rendered the girls of Poshman Valley High School breathless. Shelley Browning included. Ten years had only honed those sleek muscles to a mature strength.
Silver now threaded the dark hair that was just as carelessly styled as it had been then. There had been a stringent rule against long hair at Poshman Valley High School, and the handsome young civics teacher had been one of its most frequent violators.
Shelley could vividly remember the day she’d first heard of Grant Chapman.
“Shelley, Shelley, wait until you see the dreamy new government teacher!” It was enrollment day after summer vacation. Her friend’s face was flushed with excitement as she ran up to greet Shelley with the news. “We have him second period and he’s absolutely beautiful. And he knows that when you talk about Chicago you’re not talking about a city in Illinois. He’s young! Government’s going to be a gas,” the girl had squealed, running off to inform someone else of their good fortune. “Oh, and his name is Mr. Chapman,” she had called over her shoulder.
Shelley now listened to the deep resonance of his voice as he answered a question from a student. But his thorough answer didn’t register any more than had the question asked him. Shelley was concentrating only on his voice. Leaning over her desk and unobtrusively closing her eyes, she remembered the first time she had heard those low, well-modulated tones.
“Browning, Shelley? Are you here?”
Her heart had plummeted to her feet. No one wanted to be called on the very first day back to school. Twenty pairs of curious eyes were riveted on her. She raised a trembling hand. “Yes, sir.”
“Miss Browning, you’ve already lost your gym shorts. You may pick them up in the girls’ locker room office. Miss Virgil sent a note.”
The class broke up and there were several catcalls and whistles. She stammered a thank-you to the new teacher, her cheeks flaming scarlet. He’d think she was a ninny. Funny, his opinion had meant more to her then than had that of her peers.
As she filed out of class that day he had stopped her at the door. “I’m sorry if I embarrassed you,” he said apologetically. Her girl friends were standing by, wide-eyed and envious.
“That’s all right,” Shelley had said timidly.
“No, it’s not. You get five grace points on the first exam.”
She had never gotten those five extra points because she made a one hundred on the first exam and on most of them after that. Government was her favorite subject that semester.
“Are you talking about before Vietnam or after?” Mr. Chapman was currently asking the student who had inquired about the influence of public opinion on presidential decisions.
Shelley shifted back to the present. He’d never remember “Browning, Shelley” and her lost gym shorts. She doubted if he’d remember at all those four brief months he’d taught at Poshman Valley High School. Surely not after all he’d been through. One didn’t climb up through the ranks of Congress to become a valuable senatorial aide by being sentimental. One didn’t survive the public scandal Grant Chapman had survived by dwelling on incidents that had happened years earlier in a small farming community that played such an insignificant role in his colorful life.
Maybe that was why he seemed so unchanged to her. She had seen him on television often when reporters were still hounding him for a comment on the scandal that had rocked Washington society. She had studied the pictures of him accompanying the newspapers’ headline accounts. Unflattering as newspaper pictures usually were, she could see no deterioration in the face that had emblazoned itself on her mind and refused, even after ten years, to be dismissed.
Shelley was sure he wouldn’t know her. At sixteen she had been coltishly slende
r. No less svelte now, she was softer, rounder, fuller in a very feminine way. The years had melted away the childish plumpness in her face to leave behind an interesting bone structure. High cheekbones accentuated her smoke-blue eyes.
Gone were the long bangs that had characterized her schoolgirl hairstyle. Now her hair was swept back to show her finely arched brows and heart-shaped hairline. A true brunette, she was blessed with richly textured hair that fell over her shoulders like dark wine with sunlight shimmering through it.
Gone was the round-cheeked girl in cheerleader’s uniform. Gone also was the innocence, the idealism. The woman was all too aware of the world and its selfishness and injustice. Grant Chapman knew something of that, too. They weren’t the same people they had been ten years before, and she asked herself for the thousandth time why she had signed up for his class.
“Consider President Johnson’s position at that time,” he was saying.
Shelley glanced down at her watch. Only fifteen minutes of the class remained and she had taken exactly two lines of notes. If she weren’t careful, she wouldn’t excel in this class as she had in the government class that first semester of her junior year.
She recalled a cold windy day after that season’s first norther.
“Would you consider helping me grade papers a few afternoons a week?” he had asked.
She was wearing her current boyfriend’s letter jacket and her hands were tightly balled into fists inside the deep pockets. Mr. Chapman had stopped her in the courtyard between the gym and the classroom building. His collar-length hair, a shade too long to meet the code, was whipping wildly around his head. Wearing only his sportcoat, he was hunched against the north wind.
“Of course if you’d rather not, just tell—”
“No, no,” she rushed to say and licked her lips, hoping they weren’t chapped and dry-looking. “Yes, I’d like to. If you think I can.”
“You’re my champion student. That was a super report you did on the judicial system.”
“Thank you.” She was flustered and wondered why her heart was pounding so. He was just a teacher. Well, not just a teacher.
“If you can grade the objective parts of the tests, I’ll read the essays. It’ll save me hours of time in the evenings.”
She had wondered then what he did in the evenings. Did he see a woman? That had been the topic of speculation at many a slumber party. She’d never seen him in town with anyone.
One night when her family had gone to the Wagon-wheel steak house to eat dinner he was there. Alone. When he’d spoken to her, she’d nearly died. She stumbled through introductions to her parents and he’d stood up to shake hands with her father. After they were seated her little brother had spilled his milk and she could have gladly strangled him. When she hazarded a glance toward Mr. Chapman’s table, he had left.
“Okay. What days?”
He squinted his eyes against the sunlight, which was bright in spite of the cold. She could never quite decide if his eyes were gray or green or somewhere in between, but she liked the way his dark lashes curled up when his eyes were narrowed that way. “You tell me.” He laughed.
“Well, I have cheerleading practice on Thursday because of the pep rallies on Fridays.” Stupid! He knows when the pep rallies are. “I take piano on Tuesday.” What does he care, Shelley? “I guess Monday and Wednesday would be best.”
“That’ll be fine,” he said. “Whew, it’s cold. Let’s get inside.”
She had nearly tripped over her own stumbling feet when he unexpectedly took her elbow and escorted her to the door of the building. By the time the metal door clanged shut behind them, she thought she might very well faint because he’d touched her. She never told any of her girl friends about that. At the time, it was too precious a secret to tell.
The afternoons spent quietly in his classroom became the pivot around which the rest of her life revolved. She agonized on the days she didn’t go, and she agonized on the days she did until the last bell of the day rang. She tried not to rush through the emptying halls to his classroom, but was often breathless when she arrived. Sometimes he wasn’t there, but had left her a stack of papers with instructions. She went about grading her classmates’ work with a diligence she’d never applied to anything else in her life. Often when he joined her, he’d bring her a soda.
One day as she sat checking the papers with the red pencil he’d given her, he stood up from his desk, where he was reading through an indecipherable composition. He peeled the V-necked sweater he wore over his head. “I think they’ve got the heat too high in here. This school isn’t doing its part to conserve energy.”
At the time, she couldn’t even admire his patriotic conscientiousness, for she was dazzled by him. He linked his fingers, turned his hands outward and stretched his arms high over his head, arching his back. She was spellbound by the play of muscles under his soft cotton shirt. He released his breath in a healthy sigh as he lowered his arms and rolled his shoulders in an effort to relax them.
Shelley dropped the red pencil, her fingers suddenly useless. Had her skin not been holding her together, she thought she would have melted over the desk. She became aware of a stifling heat that had nothing to do with the thermostat on the wall.
She left his classroom that day bewildered. Much as she wanted to be near him, she suddenly felt compelled to escape. But there was no escaping this assault on her emotions because the tumult was within herself. It was totally new and different and nothing in her dating experiences had prepared her for it. She couldn’t identify it then. Only later, when she was older, was she able to define what she had felt that afternoon: desire.
During those days of late fall, he never treated her with anything but open friendliness. When her boyfriend picked her up after football practice to drive her home in his reconditioned Cougar, Mr. Chapman called, “Have fun,” to them as they left.
“Before next session you might want to read the first three chapters of the textbook. It’s boring as hell, but it will give you good background information.”
Shelley was yanked out of her revery by his words. He had one hip hitched over the edge of the desk, a posture that blatantly declared his sex. Shelley doubted that any woman in the room was immune to his overwhelming sexuality. A woman would have to be blind or senile not to be affected, and glancing around, Shelley saw none that fit that description.
Rather, she saw that the female members of the class were all in their late teens or early twenties. High firm breasts jutted braless under T-shirts, and well-shaped, athletic thighs were encased in tight designer jeans. There were skeins of long carelessly styled hair in varying shades of brown, auburn, and gold. She felt old and dowdy by comparison.
As you are, Shelley, she reminded herself. She was wearing a sweater, cranberry in color, and she wore a bra beneath it. The sweater matched her textured hose and complemented the mid-calf-length gray wool skirt. At least she knew how to dress fashionably and wasn’t consigned to the polyester set—yet.
At twenty-six she was second oldest in the class. A serious gray-haired gentleman was seated in the front row. He had taken copious notes while the young man in the cowboy hat sitting next to Shelley had peacefully napped during the entire hour.
“Good-bye,” Mr. Chapman said when the bell rang. “Oh yes, would Mrs. Robins please stop by the desk?”
History was repeating itself.
Shelley all but dropped the armload of books she was gathering up when he made his request. Less interested than the classmates at Poshman Valley had been, the forty or so other students filed out of the classroom, most of them intent on lighting up their first cigarette in over an hour.
Head down, she concentrated on weaving her way through the maze of desks, less ordered than the neat rows in his classroom ten years ago. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the last student leave the room. Negligently he let the door close solidly behind him. She stifled the insane impulse to ask him to please leave it open.
; When she was a few feet away from his desk, when she had run out of excuses not to look at him, she lifted the screen of dark lashes from her eyes and met Grant Chapman’s gaze fully for the first time in ten years.
“Hello, Shelley.”
She gasped. Or at least she felt the soft gasp rise to her throat and only hoped later that she had caught it in time. “Hello, Mr. Chapman.”
A chuckle formed in his throat, but he, too, stopped it before it made a sound. His wide, sensually molded lips smiled easily, but his eyes were busy taking an inventory of her face. They took note of her hair, the unknowingly vulnerable eyes, the slender elegance of her nose, her lips. He studied her lips for a long time, and when her tongue came out nervously to moisten them, she cursed it for doing so.
It was dangerously still and quiet in the room. He had come away from the desk to stand directly in front of her. He had always seemed so overwhelmingly tall. Not frighteningly so, but protectively so.
“I … I didn’t think you’d know me.”
“I knew you the first day you came to class.” Standing close like this, his voice sounded huskier. When he projected it during one of his lectures, it lost the intimate pitch that was now wreaking havoc on her equilibrium. “I was starting to wonder if you were going to go through the entire semester without even saying hello.”
Ten years of maturity were swept away by his gentle teasing and she felt as young and callow as the first day she met him.
“I didn’t want to embarrass you by speaking and having you struggle to remember me. That would have put you in an awkward position.”
“I appreciate your concern, but it was unnecessary. I remember you well.” He continued to peruse her face analytically and she wondered if he thought the years had embellished or detracted from her features. She herself didn’t feel that she had become less attractive or more so; she only knew she was different from the girl who had so painstakingly graded his papers.
Had he known about her infatuation for him? Had he discussed it with a lady friend? “You should see her, sitting there so prim and proper, her hands perspiring. Every time I move, she jumps like a scared rabbit.” She imagined him shaking his head ruefully and laughing.
