Tides of Love (Seaswept Seduction Series)

by Sumner, Tracy

  Noah crushed his fountain pen in his fist, cursing his earlier slip. Thank God only two people in the room had noticed. "Excuse me?" He raised his brow in virtuous arrogance, hoping the ruse would throw Marty off course.

  Marty dropped into a chair and hooked the heels of his oxfords on the desk. Noah had never seen an educator alter his personality so dramatically before his students. "Come on, Noah. I may not know you well, after all, you weren't the most gregarious fellow in my residence hall, but I know you well enough. Quite a show. I actually believed Miss Beaumont was going to leap on the stage and claw your face to ribbons." He whistled, lips pursed. "Scared me, my friend."

  Me, too, Noah thought with pride and dismay, recalling the furious flush staining Elle's cheeks.

  Marty rocked his leg in time to a personal tempo, patiently waiting. Finally, he said, "The silence is killing me. Fortunately, I don't have another class for two hours."

  Noah sighed and dropped his pen to the desk, slipped his spectacles off, and buried the heels of his hands in his eyes. "She's a family friend." He rubbed hard, seeing stars. "Is that enough?"

  "Not nearly."

  "Sorry, but it will have to be."

  Marty's feet hit the floor. "You contact me out of the clear blue, a terse telegraph asking me to bring you on for a semester and help you fund a research project on the coast. Admittedly, in light of your stellar reputation, your arrival provided somewhat of a coup for me, as I took all the credit for inviting you and for creating the research project." He waved his hand in dismissal. "No thanks are necessary. Glad to accommodate an old university chum. Without complaint, without question."

  "Thank you. From the bottom of my heart." He replaced his spectacles, preparing to return to his work. He had to formulate a lesson plan for the oceanography course before four o'clock. And... until he figured out what to do about Elle, he wasn't clueing Martin Stanford in on anything.

  Marty hummed a ditty and tapped his foot in time. "I'm Miss Beaumont's advisor. Worked with her a lot this semester."

  Noah's head came up, greed overriding caution. He had missed her. In fact, he'd just about gone blind from missing her. Countless hours worrying and dreaming... and, a time or two, wishing he cursed her judgment as he cursed his. Damned helpless, he could not deny the impulse to ask, "Is she a good student? Is she happy?"

  A wide, cat-got-the-cream smile crossed Marty's face. "Talkative, temperately disruptive on occasion. Slides in right under the bell, but notably intelligent and enthusiastic. In fact, she's impressed quite a few of the program's detractors, of which there are many at this institution. At any institution accepting female students, I would imagine. Dane Cossin—you remember him don't you, came down in '94—anyway, he asked her to assist in his World Geography class. Grade papers, take notes, those types of duties. For that old cuss, a weighty honor."

  "Cossin?" Noah's hand shook, sputtering ink on his paper. "Wasn't there a rumor about a liaison with one of his students in Chicago?"

  "Yes, but the scandal involved his son, Daniel. Mathematics department. Dane is seventy if he's a day."

  Noah slumped back, wishing Marty would get the hell out of his office.

  "Is she a former student?"

  "No."

  "Had to ask." Marty shrugged, the first sign of chagrin. "I didn't think so. Excluding formal functions, I've never seen you in the company of a woman. But, I had to ask, you understand. Being a female student's advisor carries a peremptorily higher level of responsibility than I am used to."

  "Give me her class schedule, Marty."

  His gaze sliced back, round and startled. "I can't do that."

  "Yes, you can. If you don't, I'll find a way to get it myself. Make it easy on me, an old university chum."

  Marty unfolded from the chair. "What is this?"

  "I'm going to ask her to marry me. I'm quite certain that's all you need to know." There, he'd said it. As Caleb had predicted, the words hadn't stung much. Only a slight twinge of discomfiture.

  The next time he said them, probably wouldn't sting at all.

  "You're in love?" Marty stumbled. "You?"

  "What do you mean, 'you'?"

  "I had it all mapped out for you, Garrett." Marty fluttered his fingers, not even bothering to hide his incredulity. "Living in a decrepit house surrounded by shark's teeth and driftwood, bundles of archaic netting. But a wife? And marriage?" His arm stilled as he stared past Noah's shoulder. "Come to think of it, I did see a lot of interested women flocking around you in Chicago, but you never gave them a second look. Actually, I'd started to wonder."

  "I never gave them a second look because of her." I think I've loved her since I was twelve years old, he added, too private a comment to make to anyone but Elle. Besides, it made him sound like a lovesick fool.

  "Hell's bells, you must have a worse case of the sickness than I ever did."

  "Have pity on me. I do." Noah slid a sheet of paper across the desk. "Either you give me her schedule or I follow her around campus, starting with your class on Wednesday morning." He tapped his pen. "Would the news you've invited a deranged marine biologist to teach in your department enhance your sterling reputation, Professor Stanford?"

  Marty grabbed the pen and scribbled. "You're lucky I have a crack memory. Anyway, can't stand in the way of true love, now can I? I'm a romantic fellow, really. Always have been."

  Noah linked his fingers over his twitching stomach muscles, hoping everything would be this easy.

  * * *

  Elle opened the door and peeked inside. She held her breath and crept along the deserted hallway. The two hours the library remained open after dinner seemed the safest time to study; she was certain Noah would eat in the faculty hall and stay for the customary cigar and brandy. In the day since he'd shown up in her science class, she had not caught a glimpse of him.

  But she had looked.

  Around every corner, beneath every shrub. Releasing a hysterical giggle, she wondered if his appearance at the university symbolized nothing more than the mercilessly ironic will of God.

  She turned into a back room that smelled of dust and leather. A comforting scent she would always associate with learning. Maturing. Heaviness settled in her chest, and she searched her mind for the source. Ah, yes. Now, she would also associate the aroma with him.

  Settling at a table hidden behind shelves devoted to Roman history, she blinked the mist from her vision. Why did this have to happen? When she had finally decided leaving was for the best? She stared out a window overlooking the quadrangle, pine straw and horse dung littering the grassy expanse. The wind snatched at student's hats and pulled at the pages of their textbooks. Elle pressed her fingers to the pane, feeling detached and despondent, her heart and mind working against each other.

  Merciful heavens, what could she do to forget him?

  A dull screech signaled someone taking the other chair. She swiveled on the smooth seat, thinking to ask for privacy.

  Noah. Elbows propped on the table, rolled cuffs hitting him high on his arms, wrinkled neckpiece twisted between his fingers. His hair mussed, his sun-kissed features angled in earnest regard. His lips softened into a half smile, faint and sorrowful, the corners tipped low. Hushed voices and heavy footfalls faded as his bewitching scent overwhelmed the stale one of aged parchment and learning—all crowding the air she breathed.

  She almost lifted her hand to adjust his collar, dazed by the longing that set her heart beating like a drum. "What are you doing here?" she whispered.

  He searched her face, considering. She saw a hint of sadness cross his, though his smile grew. "The best spot in the library. Quiet, an agreeable window."

  She gripped the edge of the table and leaned in, close enough to see a tiny circle of stubble he had missed with his razor. "That's not at all what I meant, and—"

  "What is this?" He dropped his neckpiece and used a slim finger to rotate her textbook. "Basic Discussions in Biology. I incorporated this text in a class once. Two y
ears ago. What chapter does Marty have you reading?" When the silence lengthened, he said, "I could tutor you... if you need help."

  A thousand memories crossed her mind. Carefree evenings spent at his mother's kitchen table, fireflies flitting outside the screen door, a scatter of pencils and paper, his hand guiding hers, gray eyes watchful and expectant. All the love she felt for him, absolute and powerful and unwelcome, flooded her being. Blind with panic, she grabbed the textbook and shoved her chair into the wall.

  Reacting quickly, he grasped her wrist, her bones shifting beneath his fingers. "Don't run, sweet. Please, don't." The sight of her fear—raw, gut-wrenching fear—eroded his control. "I've only seen fear on your face once before, when I blacked out in Caleb's skiff. That emotion was for me." He let her hand slip away. "It really hurts to be the cause."

  She drew a breath and perched on the edge of the chair. Her throat trembled beneath her lace collar. Noah wanted to press his lips to her pulse, love her with his heart and body. Share his soul.

  He would tell her everything this time; he would show her she was not alone.

  Forcing his hands by his side, he tried to disregard how beautiful she looked in what he thought was a new dress. "I'm sorry for shocking you in class. I'm also sorry for sneaking up on you today." He repressed visions of what she might be wearing beneath the butter yellow material.

  "Caroline told you where to find me, I suppose." She linked her fingers and squeezed, presenting the crown of her head.

  "After my fourth telegraph, plus two from Zach, yes, she finally did. You mustn't blame her. I left her no choice. Since then, I've been going crazy trying to get the lab on its feet and get to you."

  Her eyes met his. "Get to me? Why would you want to get to me?"

  "Elle, I"—he tunneled his hand through his hair—"I need to talk to you. Desperately. There are things I want to say. Words best spoken in"—he glanced over his shoulder and back—"private."

  "I thought this might be why you'd made this journey." Her voice dropped. "I'm not pregnant, Noah. Thank God, for both of us. So you can go to Pilot Isle or Chicago or wherever it is the fish need you with a clear conscience."

  He glanced down in dismay. He had hoped to find her pregnant. What would she think about that? "If you're trying to hurt me, you're doing a fine job."

  "I'm, I'm not trying to hurt you."

  "Doesn't matter. Nothing hurts as much as your leaving did. You didn't it important to tell me you planned to return to university? I woke up on Devil alone, Elle."

  "You don't need to remind me how much being left hurts, Noah."

  "Is that what this is? Revenge?" He leaned in, the scent of almonds and honey fueling his desire and his anger. "I wish I had never left. I wish I had given you your first kiss, been the one to hold your hand and dance with you, see you through university and the opening of the school. I wish... oh, hell." He banged his fist on the table.

  "No use in wishing, Professor. We're like oil and water. You're the one who reminded me time after time, in your diplomatic way. Congratulations. Now I believe it."

  His hand shot out. "You don't."

  She flinched, dodging the contact. "Yes, I do."

  He wrenched his spectacles off and gazed into her eyes. "Look into my face, Elle, and tell me what you see."

  "I used to be able to see everything. Now... I, I see us, together, kissing and touching. Like the night on—" She flinched and her textbook hit the floor. "Why did you come, Noah? Why? You're not responsible for what happened. You were right when you begged me to forget the boy I loved. You should do the same and forget the girl you protected."

  "I did say that, didn't I?" He laughed and scrubbed his hand over his jaw. "I once said far too many things." Before she could react, he was halfway across the table. His hands rose to cradle her face. "I hadn't planned to say this for the first time in my life in a damned library, of all places, although the irony isn't lost on me. However, another night cannot pass without you hearing me say it. The last two months I've said it in my dreams. Tonight I want to say it to you." He leaned in until their mouths brushed. "I love you, Marielle-Claire Beaumont. I'm deeply, hopelessly, helplessly in love with you."

  Then he kissed her. And felt love flow from his heart.

  Against his, her mouth formed one word—no—as anguish etched her face. With a cry that cut clear through him, she wrenched to her feet and rushed from the room.

  He stared at the strand of hair wrapped around his finger, realizing he did not know where she lived, and that she had sprinted into a dark night. Shoving from his chair, he slipped on a smooth marble edge and cursed leather soles, inferior vision, and lack of foresight.

  "Elle, stop!"

  Chest hitching, he caught her as she turned into a dim passageway bordering the faculty residences. She shoved at his hands, tears streaming, dampening the hair hanging in her face. "Easy, sweet. There now. I'm here." He leaned against the rough bricks and wrapped his arms around her, drawing her close to ease her trembling.

  "No." She slumped, the crown of her head slipping beneath his chin.

  "Tell me why my loving you is a terrible circumstance." He turned his face into her hair. Lemon, he remembered, and inhaled deeply.

  "What happened that night wasn't"—she burrowed her cheek against his chest, her sob tearing into his soul—"what you planned and... you don't know how to make if right. It's nagging at you... to make the situation right. Make me fit somewhere proper, somewhere decent. It's your way."

  He cupped her chin, forcing her gaze to his. "You think my love for you is born of guilt? I don't feel any guilt over what happened between us. I'm incredibly awed by the beauty of what we shared. And I'm starved, actually somewhat desperate, to touch you again, but guilt?" He shook his head.

  "Your list—"

  Laughing softly, he fit his brow to hers. "Oh, sweet. Forget that ridiculous list. I've been making those since the day I defended a disheveled French immigrant in a crowded schoolyard. A thousand by now, at least."

  "If you have, you hid them well."

  A renewed burst of love swelled his heart as a renewed burst of desire swelled things elsewhere. He had not been lying when he'd said he was starved. For the sensation her body beneath his, arching to meet his thrusts, grasping his hips, and guiding his movements. Taking command in a manner unknown to him before her. His heart stuttered in remembrance. Sixty nights alone, dreaming and wishing for her companionship had proven to be a torturous experiment.

  One he never wanted to repeat.

  He lost sight of his purpose and lowered his head, thinking only of tasting.

  Oh, no, he's casting his spell.

  Proof of his hunger pressed into her hip, hard and long, as his mouth skimmed her cheek, his tongue flicking, stoking. Her thoughts scattered. Frantic and aroused beyond measure, she shoved against his chest. Then repeated the action more forcefully when he refused to move.

  He backed off with a swear. "Elle, for God's sake, you're killing me. Tearing my heart from my body." He drew a shallow breath and let the air rush out. "I need you. Blessit, I love you. How can I prove it?"

  She covered her ears, the pounding of her heart deafening. "You're confusing passion with love. You see, I went to the psychology section of the university library when I first arrived and spent an entire afternoon reading about... intimate relations. A classic example of misplaced affection, confounded by our childhood relationship. Also, I realize it's odd because, at one time, I would have sold my soul to hear you say the words you said to me tonight. I prayed to hear them, dreamed of hearing them. Only, I don't want to hear them now." She babbled and could not stop. "I can't depend on you. I have to depend upon myself. I've been trying to heal, trying to find my way. Trying to decide what I'm going to do with my life, now that my family is gone. You have your life planned, successful career, loving family. I'm alone now, and—"

  He grabbed her shoulders, his fingers digging into her skin. Throat working, he glanced at his ha
nds. Jerking them back, he turned to lean stiff-armed against the wall. His frenetic breaths echoed in the silence.

  Had she imagined the glint of tears in his eyes? "Noah? I think, I think this would be better for both of—"

  "Please," he said, an anguished, inaudible plea. "Don't say any more. I'll go crazy if you do." His fists clenched, his knuckles scraping the wall in what must have been a painful movement. "Not your fault. I expected too much after what I've said. The warnings." His head dipped low, and she watched him struggle, the muscles beneath his shirt bunching. "Just before you left, I figured this out, what it means, the rarity of the bond between us. I understand how poor the timing is. You've started university again. I intended to tell you that night on Devil, had every word planned, but you stopped me, kissed me. I never got my thread of thought back."

  "You're a child with a new toy. You don't—"

  He slapped the wall. "Don't presume to tell me what I feel, Marielle-Claire Beaumont. Don't you dare."

  She swallowed, heartsick, and surprisingly, a tad angry. "It's too late." She added, "You're too late. Time will take care of this, for both of us."

  "You little fool, time won't take care of a damned thing." His features settled into an intractable expression. "You'll marry me, Elle. Within the month. I'm not waiting any longer for you to come to your senses."

  "Not waiting?" she asked, red coloring her vision. Stepping forward, she jabbed his shoulder. "Well, you'll wait a long time." Jab. "I'm not marrying you." Jab. "This is my life, Professor, and you have no say. And thank you, but you can keep your romantic proposal."

  He captured her hand before she uttered another word. "I love you, and I'll do whatever is necessary to make you believe it. Every day for the rest of my life. Swim the length of the Atlantic Ocean. Lasso the moon. You're the only person I've ever belonged to, and I'm not letting you give me up."

  "No." He didn't hear her, as he was occupied with nibbling on her wrist.