by Janzen, Tara
She had Lila’s bra and blouse in one hand, and Jack didn’t trust himself to speak. Women were funny about things like that. Lila had probably hit the ceiling just before she’d hit the front door.
“Don’t worry, Jack. I’m sure she’ll be back. You were always the best catch around. She’ll be back.”
In silent fury he whipped the sheets back and got out of bed.
“You’re looking good, Jack . . . real good.”
He maintained his silence and his fury until he had his jeans on and buttoned. Then he turned to his ex-wife.
“Everybody looks good to you, Christina. That was one of our problems.”
Ten
It had taken three days, but the shock was finally wearing off. She’d seen his wife, or rather his ex-wife, standing in his kitchen, holding up her, Lila’s, silk and lace blouse and giving an odd look to the brassiere nestled over the grapes, apples, and oranges in the fruit bowl. She’d recognized the woman instantly from the sculpture in the bathroom, though when she’d seen the sculpture she hadn’t believed anyone had hair that flowed to her waist in unbroken perfection, or that anyone so slender in the hips could be so abundantly endowed in the chest.
She couldn’t believe he’d been married to a blond goddess, or that after having had such a woman he’d be content settling for a slighter model—a much slighter model. She couldn’t believe she’d gotten herself in trouble over Christmas break again, and she couldn’t believe where her bra had ended up.
She felt shameless.
Thank the Lord she still had her job and no explaining to do to anyone except herself. Fortunately, she was barely on speaking terms with herself, so no explanations had been required thus far.
Lila paused in her lecture for a second to gather her thoughts. She looked over the sea of expectant faces in the classroom, or maybe scattered ponds of expectant faces was a truer description. Typically, a fair portion of her students were busy doing something other than listening to her expound on Wuthering Heights, and a small but determined group were equally busy doing absolutely nothing, unless playing Lost in Space was the new rage on campus.
A hand went up in the front row, where most of the hand raising went on, and Lila nodded to the young woman.
“I don’t see the connection between Greek mythology and Wuthering Heights,” the student began in an authoritative tone, “unless you’ve skipped ahead in the syllabus to the Bible portion of the semester and are trying to make a case for Heathcliff as a tortured Messiah figure, which, quite frankly, Dr. Singer, you’re going to have a hard time doing.”
Lila stared at the young woman in silence, noting her very pale makeup, her carmine red lipstick, and the seriously black dye job on her short cropped hair. The young woman was “in,” an updated version of a beatnik, and she was right about Heathcliff.
“Of course,” Lila agreed, sneaking a glance at her watch. The big hand was on the twelve and the little hand was on the eleven, exactly where they’d been when she’d gone for lunch quite a while ago. So what time was it now, she wondered, and what class was she supposed to be teaching?
“Greek mythology, of course,” she reminded herself aloud, then quickly covered her mistake. “Greek mythology, of course, has no direct relation to the theme of Wuthering Heights, but an astute critical analysis of any piece of classical literature will turn up recurring threads of meaning referring to the human condition which have their base in ancient mythologies and religions.”
“Of course,” the young woman replied, as if she’d finally heard something worthwhile. “Is this what you’ll be looking for on the essay portion of our exams?”
“Of course,” Lila said, then on an uncharacteristic whim added, “Class dismissed.”
Those who had been listening looked momentarily confused. Those who had been sleeping with their eyes open burst from the room with amazing speed.
Lila turned away from the podium and sank into one of the chairs lined up behind the table at the front of the classroom. Wuthering Heights in Greek mythology class? She was losing it. Worse, it had taken far too long for one of her budding intellectuals to catch her mistake. She had no idea what in the world the rest of them had been thinking. She did know, however, exactly what she’d been thinking, and it had had very little to do with either Wuthering Heights or Greek mythology.
She’d had a long day. Make that three long days and three very short nights. She rested her head in her hands, then slowly let it slide to the desk and the cradle of her arms.
She’d been run out of her own house. Jack still had his key and he’d been using it every evening, requiring her to spend a good portion of her nights imposing on her parents, or going to the library, or eating out by herself until the fast food joints shut down and he left her home for his.
She knew she’d made a complete and utter fool of herself. She just wasn’t sure when. Had going to bed with him and having such a glorious morning been the foolish thing? Or had bolting out the door been her folly? A little of both, she’d decided, or, rather, a lot of both. At least she hadn’t compounded her mistake by writing him another letter. Of course, silence could be considered pretty foolish too.
She heard someone enter the room, and she peeked up just enough to check her watch. It seemed early for the next class, but then, she couldn’t tell by her watch, the darn thing. To save herself any possible embarrassment, she decided to go hide out in her office.
Muffling a sigh, she lifted her head and cast a casual, uninterested glance at the other person in the room. The look she got in return was anything but casual or uninterested. Hazel eyes swept over her with an intensity she remembered all too well, sending a thrill down to her toes and a flush across her cheeks.
She’d made love with him, this man with the sexily disheveled appearance of someone who might not be getting enough sleep either. His white shirt was rumpled and open at the collar, revealing a tender triangle of skin dusted with silky hair. She remembered the taste of him there. She remembered the warm, solid beat of his pulse beneath her lips, the life of him.
Her gaze drifted down to his sawdust- and plaster-dusted jeans. Was it her imagination, or were his jeans riding a little lower on his hips? Had he lost weight? She had, even with her lousy eating habits. Five pounds in three days. Four days, if she counted Sunday.
She looked back up at his face, knowing she should say something, but all she came up with were memories of the time she’d spent in his arms, tangled in his sheets and wrapped in the heat of his lovemaking.
She knew what fantasies lay behind the banked fire in his eyes, because he’d told her in whispers. He’d told her with his touch. She knew how it felt to be held by him in the most intimate embrace, how the muscles in his arms flexed, how the tautness of his abdomen felt against the softness of hers. She knew the sound of him in love. She knew the scent of him. The very essence of him was imprinted on her memory with indelible delicacy.
She wanted to cry.
Jack didn’t feel like crying, but he saw on her face all the signs of an imminent flood of tears.
“I missed you after you left,” he said, his voice husky and low. She blinked twice, and he immediately realized he’d said the wrong thing.
“Christina apologized for using her key unannounced,” he said as a second attempt. It was a bit of a lie, but he was just a man trying to do his best. “I should have changed the locks years ago.”
Missed again, he thought, watching a pink flush spread across her face like a mask.
“I guess school is keeping you pretty busy . . . even at night.” Subtlety wasn’t his strong point, but he was still trying.
She brushed her cheek, automatically extending the movement to tuck a straying curl behind her ear, then began organizing books, notes, and pencils. “No, not really,” she said, forgetting to politely lie. “Not yet anyway. The semester isn’t even a week old.”
That was not what Jack had wanted to hear, not even close. She was telling him somethi
ng, probably the same thing she’d tried to tell him by leaving on Sunday, and he was just being too damned stubborn to accept it.
To hell with subtlety, he decided.
“Why haven’t you returned my phone calls?”
Before she had time to answer, a movement at the door caught his eye, and he silently cursed. His timing really needed work. Students were coming in for the next class, right in the middle of his big scene.
“I’ve been busy,” she said in a shaky voice, not meeting his gaze and forgetting she’d forgotten to lie before. She rose from the chair, scraping the legs back with a disconcerting screech, and picked up her books.
“You just said you weren’t.” He strode over to her and took the books out of her arms. She let him have them despite a brief nervous glance. “Have you had lunch?”
She paused to let a student pass in front of her and absently checked her watch. She gave it a shake. “Yes. Hours ago.”
“How about dinner?” Jack asked, weaving through the crowd to keep up with her.
“I . . . uh—”
“Hey, Dr. Singer!” an exuberant masculine voice interrupted. “You teaching this class?”
Jack eyed the much younger man elbowing his way to a very flustered Lila. Muscle beach, he thought. The kid was rippling with them, and most of them were exposed. His torn T-shirt didn’t quite meet his jeans, which were so skin-tight Jack was sure he was going to hurt himself. He could only hope, considering the definitely appreciative gleam in the kid’s sinfully blue eyes.
Jack would never have touted himself as an expert on women, but he knew enough about them to guess how most of them would react to the black-haired Italian stallion headed in Lila’s direction. The kid looked like a hothouse model, with the kind of face that made young girls swoon and older women wonder how much they could get away with. In fact, the boy had unfailingly captured the rapt attention of every woman in the classroom—except for Lila.
On the other hand, Jack did know about men, being one himself, and he knew exactly what was going on behind those young blue eyes as they roamed over the good doctor’s body. Sex, and the cocky assurance that he could back up any promises he cared to make. This kid made Trey Farris look like a monk.
“Oh, hello, Ace,” Lila said. “No, I’m afraid I’m not teaching this class.”
Ace? Jack almost groaned.
“Too bad,” Ace drawled, giving it everything he had. “We sure had a good time last semester.”
Jack saw her quizzical look, the furrowing of her brow. “Didn’t you flunk my class last semester?” she asked.
“Sure.” A wide grin split the boy’s classically handsome face. “But that doesn’t mean I didn’t have fun.” With a wink and a swagger of lean hips in those tight jeans, Ace turned down one of the aisles of desks.
“I don’t get it,” she murmured, finally deigning to look at Jack. “He even came to my study group. I’ve never had anyone who came to study group fail my class.”
Jack got it, and he started to tell her, his voice slightly strained due to the tightness of his jaw. “I think it was a concentration problem. With him concentrating too much on getting into your—”
“Dr. Singer! Hey! This is great!”
They both turned in the direction of the door and the well-groomed young man entering the room. Frat boy, Jack thought with a silent, resigned sigh, taking in the expensive cut and cloth of the boy’s suit and tie. Probably class president, or head of the Young Republicans Club. His blond hair was styled short and correct, and he had the look of somebody who was up and coming.
“Hello, Porter,” she answered.
Porter? “Do you know all of your students by name?” Jack asked, not bothering to mask his irritation.
“Only the ones who drop by my office a lot, or those who are active in class discussion.”
Why in the hell, Jack wondered, had he come to the university that day? To rub salt in his own wound? He’d had her in his bed for all of a morning and half of an afternoon and she’d taken a powder on him. What did he think he was going to prove in this den of overstimulated hormones?
“Are you teaching this class?” Porter asked.
“No,” Lila repeated. “I just finished the last one.”
“Are you going to be in your office later?” Porter directed the question to Lila, but his attention flickered over to Jack for a quick sizing-up moment.
“No,” Jack said.
“Yes,” Lila said at the same time.
They turned to look at each other, one face upturned and flushed, the other stoically determined.
Jack knew it was time to back off, but he had too much at stake, too much ego, too much future, too much of his heart.
“The lady in the office said you were finished teaching for the day,” he said to Lila half under his breath, trying to keep the frat boy out of the conversation.
“I am,” she said, her own voice soft, her eyes wide and unsure. “But I usually keep office hours on Wednesday afternoons.”
“I’d like to come by and see you,” Porter interjected.
Jack sighed again. What was the younger generation coming to? Didn’t anybody respect their elders anymore? Or have enough sense to know when they were trespassing? Or was he the one out of line? Looking into Lila’s eyes, he couldn’t tell whose side she was on. But he knew he hadn’t walked out of a job on a half-million-dollar house just to get shot down.
“I submitted that political science paper for publication, like you suggested,” Porter said, breaking the moment of silence. “I thought we could get together and talk about it some more.”
“Sure,” Lila tore her gaze away from Jack to address her student. Jack felt the effort it cost her, and though it didn’t make sense, his confidence rebounded. Maybe her only problem was confusion. Lord knew, he was confused.
“I guess I can go back to work,” he said, reaching out to cup her chin in his palm. He turned her until her eyes locked onto his and he had her undivided attention. “I get off at five and I’ll be at your house by six.” He gently tilted her face upward and whispered as his mouth descended to hers, “Be there, Lila.”
She could have moved. She had time, and she knew what he was going to do long seconds before their lips met, long seconds before hers parted for the sweet invasion of his tongue. She didn’t move, though, and in an instant she was swept back to Sunday morning, to the warmth and strength of his embrace, to the secret enticements of his mouth.
Had anyone ever kissed her with such passion, with such need? she wondered. With such cataclysmic results?
A shockwave of desire ripped through her, and her body automatically responded. Of its own accord, her fingers threaded through the hair at the nape of his neck, holding him to her. Her breasts yearned to be crushed against his chest. Her hips longed for the molding caress of his hands. Within the magical web of his kiss, she wanted more, always more, even though she knew they should stop.
“Neanderthal, man.” She heard the unsolicited opinion from afar.
“I think it’s romantic,” a female voice responded.
Lila herself thought the heated kiss was crazy, and wild, and wonderful, and unorthodox, and was probably going to be a major source of embarrassment later. It could be dangerous to enjoy kissing Jack so much, especially if her department head found out.
Her mouth stilled. Her hand dropped away.
Jack understood her withdrawal and released her. But he did it slowly, kissing the corner of her mouth, then her cheek, before whispering in her ear, “Six o’clock.”
Lila watched him leave, once again blissfully unaware of the students staring at her, until a quiet voice of indeterminate gender spoke from the back of the room.
“Sex education? Is this sex education? I didn’t think they had sex education in college. And live models? I’m not sure I should be here.”
Finally, she found the presence of mind to be embarrassed and hurried from the room.
* * *
&n
bsp; Fifteen minutes to six. She’d changed her mind and her outfit eight times since she’d gotten home. She’d settled on staying put, and on a white blouse with a high collar, an ebony and gold brooch closing the neck, and a black split skirt with buff-leather-trimmed pockets and a buff-colored leather belt. Her boots matched the belt and trim. She felt her decisions on the outfit were pretty solid. Staying home to meet him, though, was still a long shot.
But they had to talk. That much was obvious even to her cowardly heart. She was a mature, grown woman, capable of reason. As a step in the right direction, she’d started a couple of lists of topics, good and bad. There had been little else to do during the past three nights of blanket twisting and pillow bashing. She hadn’t intended to share her list of problems, excuses, and apologies—always an apology—but he was coming, and she doubted if he wanted to talk about two-by-fours and paint chips.
She looked at the kitchen clock again. Ten minutes to six. It was run now or hold her ground.
* * *
Five minutes to six. Jack pulled up in her driveway and was eternally grateful to see her car parked behind the house. In his experience, women didn’t respond well to ultimatums. Not that he’d given many, or even cared to.
Lila was different, though. He had a list of dos and don’ts for her a mile long and no reason whatsoever to believe she’d follow any of them.
First of all, he thought she should be teaching kindergarten, not college. Actually, he thought she should be teaching kindergarten boys. She could teach all the girls of any age she wanted. College boys had too many ideas to suit him, from the insipid Trey Farris, to the cocky Ace, to the preppy Porter. The lady obviously had no idea of the broad base of her appeal. With so many men after her, it was a miracle she’d ended up with only one affair.
