Not that she noticed.
“Look, I just love his music OK?” Cara insisted, turning briefly to regard her smirking roommate as she added, “Imagine one of our very own classmates, cutting a CD and touring the state with his own brand of classic rock—all before graduation! If only I could have the same luck with that novel, I’m trying to sell.” She paused here. She then piled a small mound of chocolate covered peanuts unceremonious between her lips. “You would think that some big city—or, what the heck, even small city—publisher would jump all over a steampunk version of Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice, with some mild picaresque themes subtly intertwined. No accounting for taste in the world of modern publishing, I guess.”
Morgan chuckled.
“It’ll happen, Sis. And in the meantime, you’ll always have your tutoring job waiting for you at the student services building,” her roommate reminded her, nodding in the direction of the performer onstage. “And if you really are just an admirer of Ian McGovern’s music, then why are you shy about talking to him?”
Cara bit her lip.
“Well maybe I have yet to garner the courage to actually, you know, speak to him,” she admitted with an awkward shrug. “But I did manage to move up a couple of rows from the last show—so potentially, if he ever lifts his head from that blasted guitar at any point and time, we could indeed make eye contact. Potentially.”
Just then the object of her—um—admiration did indeed raise his head from the blasted guitar; his full moist lips graced with a slight frown as he seemed to be trying to figure out just who was talking through his show.
“Oh drat it to blazes,” Cara released through gritted teeth, adding as she jumped from her seat and ran some skittish hands down the length of the basic black dress that covered her Rubenesque form, “We’ve been found out. Code red! Let’s go!”
Just then she realized she’d said these words out loud; intensifying her ire as she grabbed the hand of her wide-eyed friend and ran for the door—the tousled strands of her cocoa brown hair flying like a banner posted to note the moment of her complete and total humiliation.
She froze before the door of the club, her cheeks flushing red hot as she heard a round of deep melodic laughter erupt from the stage behind them; followed by the opening strings of a rhythmic mid-tempo rock tune whose title and theme she knew all too well.
“Baby don’t go,” Ian howled, his deep throaty voice and stirring guitar riffs still searing her senses—even as they drove her straight out the door. “Please don’t leave me behind you, craving your light and your love.”
“Cha, very funny dude,” she mumbled, adding as she and her stunned friend made fast tracks out the door, “All that I’m craving right now is cab fare. Or the timely arrival of a bus. Or a friggin’ unicycle. You know, whatever works.”
What was not working, she decided quickly, was this entire disaster of an evening.
Chapter two
“Never. Again.”
The next morning Cara found herself ensconced in a far more comfortable and familiar atmosphere; one that took the form of her modest, clean-lined enclosed cubicle at the Primswell University student services center.
Sinking in the cushioned steel grey chair that sat behind her polished cherry wood desk, she poised her cell phone up against her ear as she insisted into its defenseless receiver, “I don’t care if Ian McGovern is playing the Primswell winter festival this year. I don’t care if he’s playing the front lawn of the flipping White House, with Barack and Michelle singing back up on his popular cover version of ‘Rock’n’Roll All Night.' I hope never again to lay eyes or ears on that most unsettling man.”
She rolled her eyes as her alleged friend Morgan met these words with a long, hard sigh.
“Did you even bother to turn around and gauge Ian’s reaction to your little melt down at the club last night?” she asked, adding without missing as much as a beat, “Well I did, and—from what I could see, at least—he was thoroughly charmed by you. He smiled, he laughed, and—in a bizarre, totally warped sort of way—he even was serenading you as we left the club.”
Cara shook her head—then pondered just what an ineffectual move this was to make over the telephone.
“Don’t try to dress it up Sis. He was mocking me,” Cara insisted, adding with a snort, “And although I am as much a glutton for punishment as the next university tutor, I will not—and I repeat, I will not!—voluntarily share prime breathing space with that man. Ever. Again.”
She fell silent seconds later, as the stout form of her mustached employer—one Gary Lennox, lead teacher at the Primswell University student tutoring center—loomed suddenly in her doorway.
“And as I was saying,” Cara resumed her conversation, this time in a formal, officious tone, “Just keep practicing that long division, and we’ll see you acing Math 101 in no time. Got it? Good.”
With these words she hit the off button on her phone, dropping it like a piece of hot coal on the surface of her desk as she turned to face her smiling boss.
“Good morning, Gary!” she greeted him with a smile. “I hope we have a full roster of students awaiting us today, eager to benefit from our almost lethal dose of intellectual enlightenment. I don’t have my first class of the day until 2 p.m.”
Gary nodded.
“Well you’re in luck Kid,” he told her, adding with a broad gesture to the office around them, “As it turns out, your newest student is set to walk through our doors in just about 10 minutes. And this should be the first visit of many, considering the fact that he’s about to flunk Classic Literature.”
Cara clapped her hands together, beaming her approval of this concept as she declared, “I love a challenge, especially as it pertains to a subject that I know pretty well. I am an English major, as you know, and I have written a….”
“…a steampunk version of Pride and Prejudice with some mild picaresque themes subtly intertwined,” Gary finished in a deadpan tone, adding with a slight chuckle, “And I’m sure you will be more than pleased to learn that your new student also boasts a most artistic bent. He is a musician, as a matter of fact.”
Cara nodded.
“Well, in that case, he’ll make my third regular client who plays the pipes or tickles the ivories,” she reminded him. “I’m currently tutoring the French horn player and a lead saxophonist from our school’s marching band.”
Gary nodded.
“You do indeed,” he affirmed, adding with a shrug, “I daresay that this gent is just a bit different, though. More of a rocker, I would say.”
Cara froze, eyes flying wide as she considered these words.
“A rocker?” she squeaked, shaking her head from side to side as she considered the unfathomable.
“Yes, Miss. A rocker.”
Cara relaxed immediately as her senses were soothed by the sound of a deep sonorous voice; one that she immediately recognized, but couldn’t quite place.
The mystery was solved seconds later, as her gaze rose to admire the vision of an angel on earth.
A particularly ripped angel who just happened to look mouthwateringly good in a near strangulating pair of skintight blue jeans and a crisp, bright patterned T-shirt bearing his own ebullient image.
Just then her gaze wandered upward to identify the unmistakable face that topped this tall, muscled form; one distinguished by the presence of wide azure eyes bronzed chiseled cheekbones, and a pair of full moist lips that now spread in a downright catlike smile.
“Or to put it in other terms: You may be able to pull an A minor out of me, Sweetheart, but an A plus? Well, that’s entirely unlikely.” He paused here, adding as he extended his hand to her, “Ian McGovern, at your service.”
Cara chuckled.
“Very nice to meet you, Ian,” she greeted him, adding silently, “And even nicer that you have no earthly idea as to who the devil I am. Fates be thanked!”
Reaching forth to engage her new student in her usual hearty handshake, Cara almos
t pulled her hand away as her fingers touched fire; or at least, that’s how it felt when finally she touched the skin of the man she’d admired for so long.
Sparks ignited the instant they touched hands, spreading swift from their fingertips straight to her heart; igniting her senses with a thrilling sensation that energized her from head to toe.
For just a moment she stared into those azure eyes; seeing in their aquiline depths a sense of awareness that unsettled her still further; letting her know that he knew exactly what she was thinking.
“What we seem to be thinking,” she corrected herself, now seeing those same eyes come alight with more than a spark of passionate interest.
Aloud she told him, “No worries about that grade, Ian. If you can write a song, then you can write a paper. All we have to do is tailor your talents to a different art form.”
Ian paused, his smile softening as he squeezed her fingers in his.
“You know, you aren’t the first tutor who has tried to teach me classic lit,” he told her, adding in a thoughtful tone, “But you are the first who hasn’t treated me like a braindead rocker in the process. I appreciate that, Cara.”
“Not a problem,” Cara felt her cheeks flush as she considered this compliment. “Now let’s go back to my station and get to work!”
Soon the pair settled themselves on opposite sides of Cara’s work table, their gazes holding as the tutor asked her student to relate his difficulties in completing a successful lit composition.
“Dude I dunno,” Ian released with a sigh, shifting uncomfortable in the seat beneath him. “It seems like, as a songwriter, I should be able to turn out a kickass…that is, kick butt…I mean, a top quality essay.” He paused here, adding with a frustrated sigh, “I guess it’s just so different when I’m standing onstage, feeling free and in charge—sexy, in a way—with the girls screaming and the guys high fiving me from the front row. Out there I feel like I’m in my element like I can do no wrong. It’s just not the same as sitting at a classroom desk, with no fans and no music to back me up—only a smug, smirking professor who seems destined to see me fail.”
Cara thought a moment, then nodded.
“Yes, I can clearly see the difference in atmosphere,” she admitted, adding with an encouraging smile, “What you have to remember, though, is that—regardless of where you are or what you’re doing—your gifts and talents never leave you. You just have to know how to tap into them.”
She took in her breath as her pupil met these words with a downright sinful narrow-eyed look and a flirty smile.
“And just how would you know about my gifts and talents, Miss?” he purred, piercing her with a penetrating gaze as he added, “Might you have seen a live demonstration of them, at one time or another?”
Cara cleared her throat.
“Well who around this campus—heck, around this entire city—hasn’t heard of Ian McGovern? My roommate has your CD and plays it constantly. Good stuff!” she affirmed, adding with a weak attempt at a casual shrug, “All the same, you have to admit that I don’t exactly look like the type of gal that frequents rock clubs. It’s not often that I venture to pull out my Doc Martens and my fucsia hairspray and really cut loose.”
The laughter that she expected in response to this obvious joke was replaced by a sly, all knowing smile.
“If I’ve learned anything from my time as a rock performer, Cara, it’s that the way a gal looks has next to nothing to do with her ability to really get into and enjoy a rock show—or other, equally exciting life experiences, for that matter,” he told her, arching his eyebrows in a flirtatious tease as he added, “You don’t know how many times I’ve looked out into the crowd to see gorgeous, stylish sorority girls who refuse to crack a smile as they listen to my music. They sit still and frigid at their tables, clutching their Gucci bags and wearing their designer sunglasses—they’re in a friggin’ rock club where, with all the smoke and the low lights, the visibly level is roughly three and a half inches in front of your face. Why in the blazes do they need to be wearin’ sunglasses, of all things? Sure they’re cute and everything, but I dated enough of them freshman year to know that—aside from a noted lack of music appreciation, seeing as how one gal thought that Bob Dylan was the heralded star of There’s Something About Mary and The Outsiders—they lack the passion and the emotion that I need in a woman.”
Cara ducked her head, a strange but not unpleasant wave of warmth coursing her being from head to toe as she considered these soft spoken words; words that seemed meant only for her.
“Well what exactly makes you think that I could be that woman?” she queried, adding as she ran a self-conscious hand down the length of her modestly dressed Rubenesque form, “With my glasses and my books and my all-concealing sweaters…not to mention my (ahem!) obvious curves. Now I’m very proud of them mind you—but all things considered, you might be more apt to pin me as the girlfriend of a chemistry major—not an emerging rock star.”
Ian looked at her for a long moment, then shook his head.
“Well while that would be one lucky chemistry major, you also might want to take a good long look at the rocker in the blue jeans,” he purred, adding as he leaned across the table and took her hands in his, “The one who just might see right through to the sexy, vital woman inside you.”
For just a moment she succumbed to the aura that Ian seemed to weave around her; enveloping her in a web of desire that threatened to consumer her whole.
Still she sat up straight in her seat, pulling her hands sharp from his grasp as she folded them tight before her on the desk.
“Listen, Ian, I really want to help you,” she told him, adding through pursed lips, “but you have to work with me here—not just try to charm your way to a better grade….”
Ian had heard enough.
“This isn’t about grades Cara, and we both know that ” he interrupted her, holding his newly released hand up before him as he added in a low confidential tone, “I’ve seen you at every one of my last eight shows—and not only have I seen you, I’ve felt you. I see you staring at me on stage, your body moving to my rhythm. You sing along to every single word of every single song, and you smile so pretty when you hear your personal favorite….”
“…Passion of the Night,” Cara supplied on a whisper, adding as she gritted her teeth in a show of keen consternation, “So now we know the full and true reason for your visit here today. Most specifically, to serve me with a not so rockin’ restraining order. True this?”
Ian guffawed outright.
“You know, it was at last night’s show that I really got a good taste of your sense of humor,” he observed, adding in a darker tone, “I stopped laughing, though, when I saw you run out the door. I was afraid I’d never see you again.”
Cara snorted.
“Well that was the general plan,” she allowed, adding as she arched her eyebrows in his direction, “Do you mean to tell me that you set all of this up just to meet me?” she paused here, adding with crossed eyes, “Are you intentionally flunking classic lit, just so we could connect? Kinda creepy there, dude.”
Ian shook his head.
“Believe me, Cara, I sure do wish that I was faking my complete and utter inability to write a composition just so I could meet you. The fact is, though, that I really am in need of your services,” he revealed, adding through gritted teeth, “I must admit, of course, that I have been putting off seeking out the services of yet another tutor who is just going to take particular delight in treating me like an illiterate metal head. So imagine my surprise when I asked around about the mystery girl who keeps popping up at my shows, only to learn that she just happens to be an ace English tutor.”
With these words Ian leaned once again across the table; continuing to pierce her with that unnerving azure-eyed stare as he erased all distance between them.
“So what do you think, Teach?” he asked her, voice laced with sensual challenge. “Are you ready to take on a rock’n’roll rebe
l?”
The tutor pursed her lips, considering his words with arched eyebrows and a decided air of skepticism.
“Take you on?” she repeated in an intentionally vague tone. “You mean as a pupil? Lordy, why am I even bothering to ask?” she finished, more to herself than to Ian.
Yet she smiled as Ian let loose with a deep melodic chuckle that sent tingles down her spine.
“No, actually you’re exactly spot on,” he revealed, adding as his azure eyes came alight with a bold flash of blatant seduction, “I figure that, if you teach me a few things, I just might be able to return the favor.”
Grinning in spite of herself, Cara reached across the table to grace his muscled shoulder with a single playful slap.
“Oh be-have,” she chided him with a playful grin, adding with the slight waggle of her eyebrows, “Or don’t.”
Chapter three
Reluctantly insisting that they set aside all intervals of flirtation and playfulness, at least for the time being, Cara issued a unique challenge to her new pupil; one that she hoped would make him just as comfortable and at ease in a classroom as he was on a concert stage.
Seizing upon the contents of his current learning unit in classic literature, one that revolved around a comprehensive study of Greek mythology and the gods and goddesses that fill its legends, she challenged him to craft an old-style ballad about each of these divine heroes and heroines; then working with her to morph these songs into workable grade A compositions— literally, or so they hoped.
As an avid fan of Greek mythology herself, Cara came to relish the weekly music performances involved in this lesson. Bringing his guitar with him to every tutoring session and putting it to excellent use, Ian entertained her with highly theatrical renditions of his original compositions.
For each session he morphed her cubicle into a (very) small scale performance stage, his deep smooth voice booming as he delivered stirring ballads that told tales of legends past; emphasizing each performance with all of his usual performance tricks and ‘shows of showmanship.’
Romance: Young Adult Romance: The Perfect Game (A Highschool Football Romance) (Bad Boy Nerd New Adult Romance) Page 46
