A Kiss Remembered

by Sandra Brown

  “Mrs. Robins?”

  Her feet came to an abrupt halt, causing the student immediately behind her to bump into her. She toyed with the idea of ignoring the summons, but the other students had heard Grant address her. Besides, she didn’t want to provide him with more fuel to ridicule her. Stiffening her spine and straightening her shoulders, she turned to meet his gray-green eyes.

  “Yes?” she said as coldly as she could, though her blood had begun to heat the moment he spoke her name.

  “I need a research assistant and grader. Would you be interested in the job … Mrs. Robins?”

  CHAPTER 6

  The stream of students leaving the classroom eddied around her as she stood stock-still and stared at him. What did he think she was, a puppet that danced when he pulled the right string? He hadn’t spoken to her in weeks and now he was asking her to be his assistant.

  “I … I don’t think so, Mr. Chapman,” she said frostily.

  Before she turned away, he hurriedly added, “At least let me detail the job for you, then if you’re not interested I’ll ask someone else.”

  On the surface their conversation appeared quite ordinary. But the polite words hid suppressed sexual awareness and antagonism. Shelley wanted to lash out at him for ignoring her the last few weeks, and at the same time to fling herself into his arms, begging to be held.

  She despised that weakness in herself but was mature and honest enough to admit that it was there. Refusing to betray her emotions, she kept her face impassive, objective. Her posture was militarily straight.

  When the last student had left and the door had closed, Grant said calmly, “Sit down, Mrs. Robins.”

  “I’m in a hurry, Mr. Chapman. I prefer to stand. I’m not interested in becoming your assistant.”

  He shook his head and ran a hand around the back of his neck in irritation. She was reminded of his description of a professor and wanted to laugh. He looked like anything but that. His slacks were tailored to perfection, fitting his narrow hips like a glove. A dark plaid cotton shirt in muted shades of gray, green and rust stretched over the sleek muscles of his chest and shoulders. She tore her eyes away from the wedge of dark hair in the “V” of his collar and raised her gaze to his.

  Meeting his eyes proved to be a reckless mistake. They were looking at her with far too soft an expression. The hunger she read there mirrored her own.

  “I need someone to do research for me, Mrs… . damn … Shelley. It would involve extra reading on your part with reports back to me. Oral reports, not written. We have an exam next week and I need help in grading. I have five classes of forty or more students each.”

  She studied the toe of her boot. It wasn’t nearly as interesting as his male form, but it was safer. When she was looking at him, sound judgment deserted her. She forced a hard finality into her voice. “I can’t help you.”

  He went on as though she hadn’t spoken. “You’re an excellent student. I know your class schedule is heavy this semester, but I doubt your grade average is less than a two-point-five now. You don’t work and have no family obligations. And I need you.”

  Her eyes flew to his face. Those words were an echo of what she’d heard before. The deprivation on his face made her suspect a double entendre. But his choice of words had served his purpose. She felt the last fine threads of resistance snapping.

  “I’m sure you could find someone else,” she said a trifle shakily.

  “I’m sure I could, too. But I don’t want anyone else. I want you.”

  The stiff posture she had imposed on herself gradually relaxed until her shoulders took on their normal feminine softness. Avoiding his moss-colored eyes, she looked out the window at the gray, blustery day.

  “Wh—where would you want to work?”

  “The most logical place is my duplex. All the texts are there. They’re too heavy for you to carry around. I have an excellent filing system for exams, etcetera.”

  She was shaking her head. “That would be insane, Grant.” Rather than tell him she couldn’t bear sharing that cozy room with him, she used an excuse. “If Chancellor Martin ever found out—”

  “I’d tell him I needed an assistant, which is the truth, and that you are my best student, which is also the truth.”

  She faced him with as much composure as she could. “I’m sure it would be preferable if this assistant you need so much were a male student.”

  For the first time, the corners of his mouth tilted into a ghost of a smile. “Preferable for whom?” He coaxed a shadowy smile from her, too, before he said with soft earnestness, “I’ve missed you, Shelley.”

  “Don’t,” she choked, lowering her eyes again and shaking her head. She cursed the tears she felt pooling in her eyes. “Please, don’t. Don’t make it harder than it is.”

  “You’re making it harder than it is. I told you we were on your timetable, but I can’t stand this state of limbo any longer.”

  “You’ve ignored me for almost three weeks,” she cried with wounded feminine pride. “I might just as well have been dead.”

  “Oh no, Shelley. I was all too aware of you. Perversely I hoped you were suffering as much as I. Each night I lay in bed thinking of you, your smell, your feel, your taste.”

  “No …”

  “I want you so bad I ache.” He stepped forward and placed his hands on her shoulders. “Shelley—” The door opened.

  “Mr. Chap—Well excuse me,” the coed drawled insinuatingly. Indolently she leaned against the opened door, a sly look narrowing her eyes.

  Shelley dashed the tears from her cheeks and turned toward the window. She folded her arms across her waist in a defensive gesture.

  “What is it, Miss Zimmerman?” Grant asked tersely.

  Not one to be intimidated, the girl met his stern expression with an insolent smile. “Nothing. It can wait. Later,” she said and walked out the door, firmly closing it behind her.

  For a tension-laden moment neither moved, then Grant came toward her. “Shelley, I’m sor—”

  She whirled around to face him. “Why don’t you ask her to be your assistant? She seems more than willing to do anything for you.”

  The surprised look on his face gave her a feeling of satisfaction but didn’t begin to abate her anger. Irrationally she was taking out her self-directed fury on him. She was no better than the others throwing themselves at him, craving his touch. How many hearts was he dangling along? That she could be one of a harem enraged her. “I’m sure your Miss Zimmerman or someone like her is just dying to spend long evenings with you poring over your dusty textbooks.”

  Grant had a hard time keeping his own temper in check. She could tell by the way his jaw was working and the way he held his arms stiffly at his sides. “She’s not ‘my’ Miss Zimmerman. What the hell does she have to do with anything anyway? She’s a silly little coed. So? Give me some credit, Shelley,” he said with exasperation. “Now, are you going to help me or not?”

  It was a challenge, bold and uncompromising. She had to meet it head-on. “Yes, I’ll help you. I’ll do your research and I’ll grade for you. But this is strictly a business arrangement.”

  “Very well.”

  “I mean it. Strictly business.”

  “I understand.”

  They were both lying and they both knew it. This face-off had nothing to do with business, but it suited their purpose at the time to pretend that it did.

  “What are you going to pay me?”

  He muttered a curse beneath his breath and shoved his hands into the pockets of his slacks, pulling the cloth taut over his hips. She averted her eyes. “How does twenty dollars a week sound? Two nights a week.”

  “I like the sound of forty dollars a week better. Twenty dollars a night, three hours maximum, seven to ten.”

  “Agreed,” he growled. “I’ll expect you tonight.”

  “I have an economics quiz I need to study for tonight. You can expect me tomorrow night.”

  “Okay,” he said
tightly. “I’ll pick you up.”

  “I’ll drive myself.”

  Aggravation and frustration formed a tangible aura around him. He was fairly bristling. “You know where I live.”

  “Yes. See you at seven sharp, Mr. Chapman.”

  She marched past him, opened the door and sailed out before she could give in to the impulse to bury her hands in his thick, unruly hair and beg him to kiss her.

  “You’re right on time,” he said, answering her knock on his door the following evening.

  “I promised to be.”

  “Come in.” He was wearing a ragged pair of jeans and a sweat shirt with the sleeves cut out. His bare feet had been pushed into docksiders. Seeing him so casually attired made her heart pound and her hands go clammy, but she passed him coolly and entered the apartment.

  She was dressed in a starched white shirt with a pleated front and a narrow black string tie. Her skirt was black wool. A prim ponytail contributed to the crisp and efficient look she knew it was essential to create. She regarded the mountains of paper littering his coffee table and floor with assumed distaste.

  “Where should I start?”

  He hung her cape on a rack near the door and indicated with a sweep of his hand that she should precede him into the room. “I’d like you to go through these three books—I’ll tell you the chapters—and cite instances when the Congress has overridden a presidential veto. Also note if the bill passed was eventually beneficial and list the reasons why. It’ll make a good exam question and if a student has read the material, he should be able to give several good examples.”

  “Won’t I be taking the same exam?”

  “You’ll get alternate questions.”

  She nodded, not thinking about what was being said, not thinking of anything except how marvelous his eyes were.

  He looked at her for a long while, tension emanating from him. His eyes drifted down to her mouth, but lingered only an instant before he said gruffly, “I’ll be working over here if you have any questions.”

  For the rest of the evening they shared the room, but nothing else. He treated her with professional detachment. As she adjusted herself into a comfortable position on the sofa he turned on the stereo system, then went to the heaped table and began wading through his own stack of books.

  After an hour or more he got up and stretched, raising his arms high over his head. Shelley happened to glance up and catch a glimpse of the skin between the hem of his sweat shirt and his low-riding jeans. His navel, thatched with the dark, silky hair her fingers remembered, took on a forbidden, erotic aspect when seen accidentally this way. The flagrant manner in which his threadbare jeans detailed his manhood made her heart thud painfully against her ribs.

  Licking suddenly dry lips, she dragged her eyes back down to the page she was studying, though for the next few minutes the blurred words wouldn’t come into focus.

  “Coke?” he called to her over the barroom doors.

  “Yes. Please.” He came back into the room carrying two tall, iced glasses. He set one on a coaster on the coffee table. “Thank you,” she said crisply.

  “You’re welcome,” he replied politely.

  At precisely ten o’clock she put her pen in her purse, neatly stacked the pages on which she’d written the required information and stood up. She carried the papers to the table.

  “All done, Shelley?” His eyes were watching the rapid rise and fall of her breasts.

  “Yes, I’ve finished, but if my notes need clarification, I’ll be glad to explain them.” His bare arms looked beautiful in the soft lighting. The curvature of the smooth muscles was accented by light and shadow. She wanted to touch him, to lovingly caress him, much as a sculptor would admire the handiwork he had created out of clay.

  “I’m sure they’re clear and concise.” He stood. “Do I pay you in cash?”

  He was much too close and she retreated to the door. She avoided looking at him, pulling on her cape instead. “No. You can give me a check every two weeks or so.”

  “Fine.”

  The low huskiness of his voice just behind her was an attraction not to be resisted. Her chin grazed her shoulder as she looked up at him. “Good night.” Her hand was on the doorknob, but she hesitated in turning it. She wished he’d say something, do something, demand that they end this ridiculous farce. At that moment, when her body was screaming for her to relent, she would gladly have obeyed him and thrown away the last vestiges of circumspection. Why didn’t he reach for her, caress her, kiss her?

  His expression was wooden, expressing nothing of the raging war inside him. His farewell was short and clipped. “Good night.”

  At the next evening session, she graded exams. He’d given her a list of points each essay should cover. “Just mark them. I’ll put the grade on later.”

  In the same awkward manner as before, they settled down to work. The silence wasn’t interrupted until the telephone rang. Grant hauled himself up from the sofa, where he’d been stretched out on his back, the exam book he was reading propped on his chest.

  “Hello,” he said into the receiver when he picked up the telephone on the end table. “No, Miss Zimmerman, I don’t think it’s been graded yet… . No, you’ll find out your grade when everyone else does… . Well, I can appreciate that, but … No. Good-bye.” He hung up with a sigh of irritation. “That girl never gives up!”

  “Pru?”

  He turned to Shelley with a disbelieving scowl wrinkling his brow. “Pru?”

  She held up the coed’s exam, which she had graded minutes earlier. “Short for Prudence. It’s written right here. P-R-U-D-E-N-C-E with quotation marks around the first three letters.”

  He threw back his head and roared with laughter. “Boy, if that’s not a misnomer I don’t know what is.”

  “Does she call often?” Shelley asked casually as she neatly stacked the exam books she’d already read.

  “Jealous?”

  “No,” she said shortly, but the smoky hue in her blue eyes told him of the fire smoldering just beneath the surface.

  He grinned wickedly. “She calls on the days she doesn’t leave something in the classroom that she has to come back for or when she doesn’t accidentally run into me in the Student Center. She’s about as subtle as a locomotive.”

  Shelley was about to tell him she didn’t think one of his female students should be calling him, but what gave her the right? When it came right down to it, she and Pru Zimmerman were on an equal footing. “She’s attractive in a blowsy sort of way,” she said offhandedly.

  “Is ‘blowsy’ another way of saying she’s got big bosoms?”

  Her mouth dropped open in stunned surprise and he laughed at her expression. Miffed, she snapped her mouth shut again. “I see you noticed,” she said through stiff lips.

  He laughed harder. “I’d notice a bulldozer if it were coming at me all the time, too.”

  “You poor thing,” she said. “You can’t help it if every girl on campus is smitten, can you?”

  His smile suddenly changed into a fierce frown. “You’re a fine one to talk. I’ve seen that guy who sits next to you making cow eyes across the aisle.” His expression softened somewhat. “I guess I ought to thank you for keeping him awake during class.” He walked toward her until he was only inches away. She had to tilt her head back to look into his face. “I can empathize. Fantasies about you have been keeping me awake, too.”

  Her mouth went dry and she looked away as she stood up quickly. “It’s time for me to go,” she said hoarsely, stepping around him and bruising her hip against the table in her haste to leave.

  Surprisingly he didn’t try to stop her, but he tracked her like a hunter as she went around the room picking up her purse, her coat, a folder she’d brought along.

  “Shelley?”

  “Yes?” she said, whirling around to face him before her name had completely left his lips.

  His eyes roamed her face, lingering a long time on her mouth. “Nothing,
” he said with a sigh. “Is it all right if we work Friday night? I have a department meeting Thursday evening.”

  “Yes.”

  “See you then.”

  “Is that rain?”

  Grant rose from his deep chair and crossed to the window, sliding open one panel of louvers. “Yes. It’s raining hard.”

  “It was cold when I came in this evening.”

  She had almost been late. That afternoon her honors sorority had hosted a tea for the women on the faculty. She’d stayed afterward to help with the cleanup and, since she was running late, had walked to Grant’s duplex. It was closer than the lot where she had parked her car earlier in the day.

  She had arrived out of breath, still wearing her gray georgette blouse under a tailored slate-blue suit. “Did someone just get married?” he had quipped when he answered her knock. He was wearing the jeans that seemed to be his uniform while at home and a gold crew-neck sweater.

  They had worked silently for hours. Now, with the stack of exams they were grading almost done, Shelley had raised her head when she heard the patter of rain on the roof two stories overhead.

  “Would you like a fire? You’ve had your feet curled up under you for the past hour and I know how cold they can get.”

  His words were a poignant reminder of the night in the library when his own hands had warmed her feet. Their eyes held for an instant before she looked at the fireplace wistfully. “You shouldn’t bother. There are only a few exams left to grade and then it’ll be time for me to go.”

  “No bother,” he said, kneeling down to the grate to arrange the firewood and kindling that had previously been stored on the hearth.

  While he coaxed the wood into flame, Shelley read through two more exams, making notations in the margins. She was concentrating on an indecipherable essay when the overhead light suddenly went out, plunging the room into darkness, save for the light from the fireplace.

  She raised her head and saw Grant just lowering his hand from the light switch on the wall. In the flickering light he appeared larger, stronger, more masculine than ever. The firelight touched the planes of his face and cast the hollows into deep shadow. The stark contrast made his expression impossible to read, but the predatory gait with which he walked toward her announced his intent.