by Linda Barlow
As he surveyed the audience and the other panelists, she gave in to the temptation to check him out a bit more. His wavy dark hair was longer than was fashionable, its silky ends brushing the back of collar. Those expressive green eyes were distanced by a pair of dark-rimmed glasses, the angular cheekbones and sensuous mouth were just as she remembered them. A tingle went through her as she recalled some the wicked things he could do with that mouth.
Stop that, hormones! Behave yourselves.
His gaze shifted, and he caught her staring. He smiled as she hurriedly glanced away. It was a friendly smile, and it reminded her that he used to smile a lot. He had been an outgoing, genial sort of guy. "I’m Stephen. Who are you?"
Pinned to her jacket was a tag that identified her simply as Prof. Bennett. He stared at it for such a long moment that she thought he'd identified her as the hostile book reviewer. But then she realized he was focusing on the open neckline of her blouse. That wretched tingle ran through her again, moving lower this time. Grrr! Surely that was nothing more than old memories churning. He was hot, yes, but so what?
"So, Professor," said Silkwood. "What do you profess?"
Something about the way he pronounced the word made it sound as though he regarded teaching as an activity that got you all slick and sweaty. "English lit." She nodded at Slayton, who had risen to make the introductions. "I think we're about to begin."
Silkwood politely turned his attention to Slayton, who got the panel rolling.
He didn't remember her. She could hardly believe it. His face and form were branded on her memory, but he had obviously forgotten the many hours they'd spent together back when he'd been a student of her father, Percy Quentin, also a novelist. Viola had been a teenager, just graduating from high school. Stephen had been a charming and talented writer who had not yet published his first book.
In those days, her father and Stephen had been close. Because her parents were divorced and Viola spent most of her time with her mother in San Francisco, she didn't meet Stephen until she spent that lazy summer before college on Cape Cod.
Stephen came down several times to visit her dad and talk about writing. He'd made friends with the cheerful teenager who was his mentor's only daughter. When he wasn’t busy workshopping the latest chapters of his novel with her father, they’d hung out. One balmy weekend in August, she tried to teach him how to windsurf. Although Stephen was fit and athletic—he had been a track star in college—he couldn't quite get the hang of windsurfing.
Her lesson had caused them both to collapse with laughter as he kept toppling over into the waves. They'd spent several hours in close physical contact, hauling each other up onto the board while she demonstrated the positioning and tried to help him stand and remain upright. He was determined to learn, and took his setbacks with good grace. She'd liked that about him. He had a calm, lighthearted attitude, and he didn't seem to mind that she, a teenager, was far more adept at the sport than he was.
Although she'd thought of Stephen as her father's friend, and much too old for her, on this afternoon the knowledge penetrated her brain that he wasn't that old. He had a beautiful body, long and lean, subtly muscled, with an ass to die for. At some point, as they bumped up against one another in the water, a spark caught. Stephen shoved the windsurf rig toward the shore, swam up against her slick body, fondled her long hair, and kissed her salt-sprayed lips.
She had fallen for him on the spot. She hadn't found out until later that he was engaged to be married.
Her father had broken the news to her at the end of that weekend, not long after Stephen had left. Percy Quentin must have noticed the change that had come over both of them after the windsurfing lesson. "He's got a girlfriend," he'd told her gently. "They're getting married. He's an unprincipled rascal. Forget him, child."
Forget him? She had tried. But she'd fallen hard. Even though he never wrote her any of the emails he promised, never texted, never called, it had taken a long time for the magic of that weekend to recede from her mind. Now here he was again, unearthing all those painful memories.
"What are we supposed to be discussing, anyway?" he asked under his breath. "Tell me, Professor, so I don't make an ass of myself."
"I think you'll mostly be taking questions from the audience." Mischievously she added, "I see several other members of the English department present, so you'd better be prepared to discuss stuff like post-colonial metaphor and allusion."
"Ouch. Wake me up when we get to the symbolism of murder or something equally literary."
"If you don't care for academic discussions, why are you here?"
"Jeff's an old friend. He talked me into it. Besides, my publisher likes it when I do these things." He grinned at her. "Gotta try to sell a few books." There was a cheerful note of self-mockery in his tone.
Once again, his deep green gaze flickered over her without a trace of recognition. His eyes were the same shade as the sea. The damn water where he had first kissed her...touched her...given her pleasure.
But he didn't remember. Well, shit. She didn't want to remember either.
She knew she must look different now. In those days, she still had the short, spiky black hair she’d adopted for her senior year of high school. It had been summer vacation, so she’d run around with no make-up, dressed casually in shorts and bikini tops, spending so many hours in the sun that her fair skin must have been dotted with freckles. Today she was clad in a well-tailored suit. Her hair, long restored to its natural auburn, was loose on her shoulders. Her freckles, mercifully, had faded. She was more mature than she'd been that summer, more self-assured, and, she hoped, more resistant to the man's deadly charm.
"Relax," she said, tossing him a grin. "Think of the royalties."
He smiled back, sipped water from the bottle someone had left for him, and fielded a question from the audience. He answered with wit and self-deprecation, and after a couple of brief exchanges, he said, "I think you ought to ask this lovely lady beside me a question or two." He glanced once again at Viola's nametag. "Professor, uh, Bennett is undoubtedly an expert on Umberto Eco or Ellis Peters or—"
"Or you," David Newstead interrupted. David, another member of the English department, was seated on the other side of Viola, and he leaned eagerly across her as he spoke. "She's quite an expert on you, Mr. Silkwood, even if she's not one of your most ardent admirers."
Viola shot her colleague a quelling look, but it was too late. Behind his wire-rimmed glasses, Stephen's eyes narrowed as he stared harder at Viola's uninformative nametag. He raised his glance and looked at her as if they were alone in the room. "Not the immortal V. J. Bennett?"
"I'm afraid so."
A broad smile transformed his features, but the glint that flashed in his eyes was both a challenge and a goad. "My interest in this discussion has suddenly increased," he said.
Someone from the audience asked why the professor was not one of Silkwood's admirers. Since she hadn't expected him to show up, Viola hadn't come prepared to discuss his novels. Besides, although she disliked his work, she felt a bit guilty about writing such a negative review.
Oh well. She couldn’t back down now. "Your sadistic hero, Bartholomew Giles, has either raped, tortured, or brutally killed a woman in each of his last three adventures. Don't you think it's time he got over his blatant misogyny?"
Since the audience was packed with female students, several shouts of approval greeted her comment. Heartened, she went on, "After all, books like yours have a certain influence on the people who read them. It seems ethically questionable to me to suggest it's okay for a man to treat women the way Giles does."
"Bart Giles is the product of my imagination. I try to make him behave in a manner consistent with the times. Misogyny was not something folks gave much thought to in the 16th century."
"I don't find woman-haters appealing, no matter what century they appear in."
"Fair enough," said Stephen. "Neither do I, in the real world. But this is fiction. I'm
not suggesting people go out and imitate my protagonist's actions." He grinned at the audience. "Not that it would be too easy to do. I don't think most people have a rack in their basement. Or thumbscrews."
This got a laugh, and Viola smiled, too. It wasn’t easy to resist his charm. Focus.
"Besides," he added, still flirting with the audience, "I get fan mail from a lot of women who like Bart. The dangerous hero has always had a certain appeal."
Some members of the audience nodded, laughed and clapped. It wasn't easy to debate a dude who knew all there was to know about getting females to pant over him.
"Suppose somebody was inspired to attack a woman after reading one of your torture scenes?" she tried. "Would you feel morally responsible?"
"If a man murders his brother and marries his sister-in-law after a performance of Hamlet, does that make Shakespeare morally responsible?"
"Are you comparing yourself to Shakespeare, Mr. Silkwood?"
He grinned. "I hope I’m not that arrogant." He paused, taking off his glasses and cleaning them off with a handkerchief he pulled from his pants' pocket. "Tell me, Ms. Bennett, why do academics criticize living writers so harshly? You wait until we're dead before giving us any credit for artistry. Yet without us, where would literature professors be? You need me, Professor Bennett. You really ought to support my work."
He got another round of applause for this, but something about the way he said, "You need me," and the mischievous gleam in his eyes as he said it, sent another flash of awareness through her. Jeez, not again!
"Plenty of critics love your work," she said, meeting his smile and raising him a wink. "I doubt you're injured by the criticism of one insignificant reviewer."
"Just because Bart's a hard-ass doesn't mean I am. I could be a shy man who reveres women, abhors violence, and spills copious tears over bad reviews."
But his words mocked her gently, and she knew he wasn't shy. "It's also possible the author and hero are alike. Maybe in more ways than the author is willing to admit?"
Stephen's eyebrows rose extravagantly, but before he could respond to this salvo, Jeff Slayton, grinning, cut in and raised a different question altogether.
"What are you doing when this is over?" Stephen whispered.
Viola's heart just about leapt out of her ribcage. "What? Why?"
"I like a spirited debate." He shot her a smile. "Come somewhere with me and have a coffee?"
"You're married," she objected.
He looked faintly puzzled. "No, I'm not." He pointed his thumb at his chest. "Single. Very much so."
Uh-oh. Headrush. He must have gotten divorced. This was so not good. She needed him to be unavailable. Off limits. Well and truly unfuckable. She did not need him suggesting they hang out.
It was still there, that magnetic pull. She knew it, and he was giving off the kind of vibes that meant he felt it, too.
"There's a reception when this is over," she reminded him. "You have to be there to sign your books and meet your fans."
"After that?" he said, keeping his voice low as the literary discussion continued around them. "Bart and I would like to get to know you better. But don't worry, there's nary a dungeon in sight."
She smiled, in spite of herself. But she wasn't going to accept his invitation. No way.
Chapter 2
The reception in the fine arts building threatened to go on all evening. Stephen was mobbed by fans, many of whom had brought copies of his books for him to sign. He was gracious to them all, Viola noted from where she stood conversing with her colleagues. He seemed more relaxed than he had been during the discussion. He laughed easily and flirted with some of the bolder students.
He was single. She wished he hadn't told her that. She also wished she could make herself leave, as some of the other panelists already had.
She tried to concentrate on the ramblings of David Newstead, who was making the most of the opportunity to try out some of his theories on narrative techniques of the modern detective novel. David was a pleasant young man who had been asking Viola to go out with him ever since she had begun teaching at Whittacre in the fall. She always refused, but he continued to try, rather diffidently and never with much hope that she’d accept. Once or twice, feeling lonely, she had nearly said yes, but she wasn't attracted to David.
There was a certain irony in this. David was a nice guy. It would be impossible to imagine him ever creating an alter ego like Bartholomew Giles. So why did she feel not even the slightest twinge of lust when he was around? He wasn't bad-looking. He was slender and fit, and he had a lovely smile. Chemistry was an odd thing.
Jeff Slayton joined them, the organizer and history department chair, and Viola noted that unlike David, Jeff's lanky body did draw her. He had an indefinable roguish air about him—a bit like Stephen, if not quite so blatant—that piqued her interest and made her envision sultry nights getting naked. But Jeff had never asked her out.
She missed masculine company, and she particularly missed sex. But given the way her marriage had ended, she needed time to heal.
She'd been focusing on rebuilding her life, and things, at last, were getting better. She could laugh again, and she dearly loved to laugh. She could be happy. The last thing she needed was another domineering man in her life. She was so done with all that.
Stephen Silkwood had worked his way over to the wine table to refill his cup. He smiled at Viola, a good-humored grin that sent yet another unwanted zing through her. He was taller than she remembered—over six feet. His body was lean and lithe, and he moved with the grace of a dancer. Unlike his hero, Bartholomew Giles, Stephen was not brawny, but he conveyed the impression of masculine competence and strength.
Why did he have to be so wickedly hot? She couldn't seem to help cataloguing his physical attributes: the appealing contrast of his black hair against his fair skin; the easy way his long limbs flowed as he moved; the breadth of those fine shoulders in his slightly rumpled blue shirt, the taut belly, the firm ass. Okay, she couldn't actually see his ass or his belly, dammit...his pants weren't that tight, more's the pity. But she remembered what was underneath them all too well.
"This shouldn't take too much longer," he said, sipping his wine. "Maybe in about ten minutes or so you and I can excuse ourselves and make a dash for the exit."
"I didn't accept your invitation," she said, somewhat taken aback.
Say yes! her treacherous innards were clamoring.
"I'm your guest. Isn't it your duty to entertain me?"
"Let me introduce you to David Newstead." She beckoned David over. "He's a professor of modern literature and a great admirer of yours. David, Mr. Silkwood wants to talk to you about the symbolism of murder."
David's face lit up and he offered his hand enthusiastically. Stephen shook it, shooting a nasty look at Viola over David's head. Laughing, she slipped away. Time to make her escape.
She didn't succeed as quickly as she'd hoped, though, since one of her students waylaid her to beg an extension for a paper that was due on Monday. Jeff Slayton also corralled her before she could make her way out. "You're not leaving, are you? I've hardly had any chance to talk to you."
She pulled him aside, saying, with a nod in Silkwood's direction, "You told me he wasn't coming today."
"He changed his mind." Jeff looked amused. "What's the problem? I thought the two of you hit it off well."
She recalled what Stephen had said about Jeff's being an old friend of his, and a suspicion flashed. "Wait. You weren't trying to set him up with me, were you?"
Jeff grinned, looking mischievous now. "Why would I do that? Set you up with that oaf? No way. At least, not until you've given me a chance with you first."
Whoa. Were her pheromones particularly active today? Jeff had never hit on her before. She didn't usually go for blonds, but he was one of the few good-looking professors she'd met on campus. On a warm spring day about a week ago, she had watched with a certain fascination as he had practiced his fencing in the
courtyard with no shirt on. Very definite eye candy.
I have got to get out of here, she thought. "Goodnight, Jeff," she said, laughing, and ducking out of his reach and bee-lining it for the exit before anybody else could stop her.
Standing beside the plate glass windows in the foyer, she waited for the elevator to take her down to the ground floor. Outside, a spring thunderstorm was growling. Flashes of lightning revealed the budding leaves of the huge oak trees that guarded the campus. The orange-globed lanterns along the brick sidewalk six floors below shone like beacons. Viola slipped on her windbreaker and flipped up the collar. It was just beginning to rain.
Overhead, the lights flickered off, then came back on again. The electricity often went out in this building during storms. It was a nuisance.
The elevator doors glided open, and she heard footsteps rapidly crossing the polished tile floor behind her. "Hold it," someone said, and she automatically pressed the open door button.
Stephen Silkwood joined her in the elevator.
"Trying to escape me, Professor?"
Chapter 3
Viola was aware of a ridiculous blush rising over her features. "It's late. I need to get home."
He leaned lazily against the interior wall of the elevator and said, "You can take your finger off the button now, Ms. Bennett. Nobody else is coming. It's just you and me."
Feeling foolish, Viola pressed the ground floor button, and the elevator started down. They regarded each other. She tried her best to ignore his sex godliness, but this was difficult in the small confines of the elevator.
He cocked his head a little to one side, looking puzzled. "You remind me of someone. We haven't met before, have we? I'm sure I'd remember if we had."
A knot of pique formed inside her. "Just how good is your memory?"
"Well, I remember your nasty book review almost word for word. Serves me right, I suppose. It's a bad idea to read one's reviews. They usually make me squirm."
