by Nikky Kaye
“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.
7
Clarissa 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.
* * *
“Dr. 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.
* * *
On 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.
“Fencing?”
“Yeah.” She gestured towards the foil laying on the floor. Its tip was blunted by a small plastic knob, but the steel gleamed menacingly in the late day sun that stretched across the room.
Of course. He should have realized that weapons would play a large part in her leisure time. Max looked around the empty room. “With whom?”
“Myself.” When Max raised an eyebrow, Sophy explained, “I’m just practicing some moves. I’m trying to work out a scene. A scene with your... uh, you, by the way.” She tossed the huge glove on the floor beside the foil and wandered into the kitchen. Her hips were encased in tight black leggings and swayed enticingly in front of him, momentarily distracting him. “What were you talking about?”
Max shook his head lightly and tossed a copy of the student rag on the kitchen counter. Sophy’s eyes widened beneath the glass of water tipped to her mouth, and she choked as she took in the front page.
She set the glass down with a clunk and swiped her thumb over her chin. “What is that?”
“Journalism,” he said drily.
A small furrow appeared between her eyebrows as she picked up the paper. “Are you sure?”
“They found a picture online. Did you put it on Facebook or something?”
Her mouth fell open. “Cocks of the Camp—”
He snatched the paper back. “Yeah, I know. Did you give them the picture?”
She gulped down the rest of the water. Placing the empty glass in the sink, she shook her head. “No, I didn’t.”
Max waved the tabloid at her.
“Okay, Tumblr. But hey, look at the bright side. It’s not a bad picture.” She grinned. “At least it got your good side.”
“My good side?” He dropped the paper on the counter again and dragged a hand through his hair. “Look, I have to tell you something.”
