by Jill Blake
You OK?
Clearly, the man wasn’t going to let it go until she responded.
She dumped her belongings in the living room and typed:
All good. Back in LA.
His response was immediate:
Didn’t get chance to say goodbye.
She sank down on the couch.
Sorry, she wrote. Goodbye.
And that should have been the end of it. Except for some reason, Ethan seemed determined to go off script.
When are you back in SF?
Was he asking because he wanted to see her again, or because he wanted advance notice so he could avoid running into her? She wouldn’t blame him if it was the latter. She’d never made such a fool of herself before. The only thing that would have been worse was if he’d taken her up on her offer, and then she’d vomited all over him. Or passed out in the middle of things. Or woken up naked and alone and not remembering a damn thing about how she got that way.
Considering all the worst case scenarios that hadn’t happened, she supposed she should be grateful. But that didn’t mean she wanted to see Ethan again. Ignoring the little voice in her head that said liar, liar, she texted back:
Busy with work. Have to stay in LA.
Then she shut off her phone and headed for the bedroom. She squelched any residual guilt by reminding herself that they had nothing in common. If he tried texting or calling her again, she’d simply ignore him. The same way he’d ignored her emails and phone calls when she’d first attempted to contact him.
Of course he hadn’t known her then. He probably got a ton of spam and solicitations, and her messages might have gotten lost in the shuffle—assuming they ever reached him at all. Now that they’d met, the dynamics had changed.
But that was beside the point. She didn’t belong in his world, and he had no place in hers. Best to cut her losses before anyone got hurt. And by anyone, she meant herself. Because she really couldn’t imagine a man like Ethan Talbot getting too hung up on a woman whose IQ far exceeded her bra size.
She toed off her sensible flats, stripped off her clothes, and climbed into the shower. Time to get back to real life.
CHAPTER SIX
“You’re trending again,” Colette said, in lieu of a greeting.
Ethan put her on speaker phone and picked up his Hefeweizen. “What now?”
The aroma of pot roast wafted in from his parents’ kitchen and his stomach growled. He hadn’t eaten since getting off the plane earlier today. The housekeeper had offered to make him a snack, but he declined, preferring to wait until his parents arrived.
“Some woman lambasted you on her blog,” Colette said. “It’s gone viral. Apparently you’re the devil incarnate, offering college-age kids a Faustian bargain that threatens to undermine the foundation of Western civilization. That’s a direct quote, by the way.”
He leaned back in the recliner and took another sip of beer. “No kidding.”
“Don’t laugh. It’s all over Facebook and Twitter, with hashtags like #StayInSchool and #NoToTalbot.”
“Sounds like the writer had an ax to grind.” He sighed. “It wasn’t my ex-wife by chance?”
“Not unless she changed her name to Anna Lazarev.”
“Shit. Really?”
“I’ll send you the link.”
So much for a quiet evening of good food and relaxation.
He took his time reading the article. She was eloquent, he’d give her that. But the arguments she made were also narrow-minded and elitist. Exactly the sort of garbage he’d expect from someone who had spent her entire life in the insular world of academia and as a result felt threatened by anything beyond the ivory tower.
This was the Anna who’d stormed into his office, demanding that he discharge her sister from the Fellowship program.
What happened to the other Anna, the warm, funny, adventurous Anna who’d laughed and teased and flirted with him less than a week ago?
If he closed his eyes, he could still see her teetering on those ridiculous heels, still feel the imprint of her body against his, still taste the seductive heat of her mouth.
How could she, after all that, return to L.A. and write this dreck?
He scrolled back to the top of the page and saw something he’d failed to notice earlier. The post was dated ten days ago.
She’d written this diatribe before they met. Most likely when she’d been pissed because he wasn’t responding to any of her emails and phone messages. He’d discovered those buried in his inbox and beneath piles of paper on his desk—after she’d left San Francisco. Reading the words post-factum, he found himself smiling at the imperious tone.
He wasn’t smiling now. Even if her very public attack predated their weekend together, there had been enough time since for her to take the damn thing down. Or at least write another post to soften the criticism. He didn’t expect an apology. But an acknowledgment that she might have misjudged him, that he wasn’t the devil incarnate, would have been nice.
A Google search for the hashtags Colette had mentioned yielded thousands of hits—on Twitter, Facebook, Tumblr, other blogs, and even a few mentions on mainstream news media sites.
The one voice that seemed to be missing from all the chatter was the voice that had started it all. As if, having tossed a bloody carcass into shark-infested waters, she was now content to stand back and simply watch the feeding frenzy.
Maybe he’d underestimated her anger over her sister’s situation. It wouldn’t hurt to find out more about Klara and how she was doing. That way he could at least alleviate some of Anna’s worries about her sister.
Assuming he ever managed to get through to Anna again. Her failure to respond to his last few texts didn’t bode well. A lesser man might have taken it as a sign of rejection.
Ethan preferred to think positive. They’d made a connection, and he knew the attraction wasn’t one-sided. It was there, simmering beneath the surface, the entire time they played tourist.
But as much as he fantasized about getting Anna in bed, he drew the line at taking advantage of her alcohol-fueled disinhibition. He was an adult, not some green kid on the make who was too stupid or hormone-driven to pull back when the woman in his arms was clearly drunk and incapable of consenting to anything. If—when—they finally did come together, he wanted her fully aware of everything that was happening. Not just a willing participant, but an eager and fully engaged partner.
Later that evening, over dinner with his parents, he found himself unexpectedly revisiting the topic.
It was his mother who brought it up. “You know,” she said, “I’ve had five patients ask about you today.”
“Really?” Ethan said, pausing with the fork halfway to his mouth. “Why?”
“Well, many of them saw you grow up,” she said. “Naturally they’re interested in how you’re doing, especially now that you’re famous.”
“I’m not exactly famous,” Ethan protested.
“More like infamous,” his father said. “You’re all over the news these days—and not in a good way.”
“Daniel,” his mother chided.
“It’s okay, Mom.” Ethan pushed away his plate. “Not everyone is a fan of the Talbot Fellowship, that’s all. There’s bound to be some bad press.”
His father glanced at him over the rim of his reading glasses. “Maybe you should hire a publicist, Ethan. Have a professional clean up your image.”
“My image isn’t the problem, Dad.”
“You sure about that, son? Seems to me people would be a lot kinder if you didn’t go out of your way to piss them off. What’d you do this time?”
Ethan gritted his teeth. It didn’t matter that he was an adult, that he’d helped kick-start a handful of tech companies now worth billions, that he was the managing partner of one of Silicon Valley’s most successful venture capital firms, that he was being courted by the boards of multi-national corporations, non-profits, and think-tanks—all eager to tap into his expertise and tra
ck record for success. His father was a perfectionist who would find fault with Ethan no matter what.
When Anna asked if he was close to his parents, Ethan had waffled on the answer. While he respected his father, no one would ever accuse them of being bosom buddies. His mother was forever trying to smooth the waters. If not for her, Ethan doubted he’d bother visiting Clifton Park.
“I didn’t do anything,” Ethan said in response to his father’s gibe. “Other than offer some very bright kids an opportunity they might not otherwise have had.”
“And I’m sure they’re grateful,” his mom said. “Now who wants dessert? I picked up some strawberry cheesecake on the way home.”
His father groaned. “Laura, that’s exactly the kind of food that keeps me in business.”
She smiled and patted his hand. “A little indulgence every once in a while won’t kill you.”
She rose and started clearing the table. Ethan got up to help, but she waved him off. “I’ve got this, sweetie. You and your dad relax and catch up.”
The silence stretched for several minutes after she disappeared into the kitchen. Daniel finally cleared his throat. “She’s something, isn’t she?”
“Yeah.”
“She worries about you.”
Ethan glanced at his father. “I’m fine.”
“Let me rephrase that. She worries about you being alone.”
“Ah.” Ethan leaned back in his chair. “For whatever it’s worth, I’m rarely alone.”
His father frowned. “I’m not talking about your Hollywood floozies.”
“Floozies? Wow, Dad. I didn’t think people still used that word. I think the politically correct term would be female companion.”
His father’s frown deepened. “Don’t give me that politically correct bullshit, son. You know exactly what I mean. You’re forty years old—”
“Not for another six months.”
“It’s time you settled down. With someone who’s interested in you, not just your money.”
Ethan winced at the dig. His father had been right on the mark about Stacy, Ethan’s ex-wife. Unfortunately, Ethan had brushed off the warning—and paid for that hubris many times over.
“I hear you, Dad. And let me assure you: I don’t repeat my mistakes.”
“Good.” Daniel nodded.
From the kitchen, Ethan could hear the clatter of silverware. He wondered if he should go and see if his mom needed help after all.
His father’s voice stopped him. “While we’re on the subject…some grandkids would be nice, too.”
Ethan sucked in a breath. Thought about the years he’d spent arguing with Stacy about this very thing. She hadn’t wanted children. In the end, he supposed it was a blessing. The divorce had been nasty enough, even absent the issue of custody.
Could he see himself trying for kids with someone else?
Anna’s image flashed across his brain.
Ridiculous. She wasn’t even talking with him. There was no guarantee she’d agree to see him again, let alone invite him into her bed. But if she did…
He grinned, imagining. “I’ll see what I can do, Dad.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Anna responded with an anemic smile when yet another colleague offered her a pat on the back. Three weeks ago, when she’d taken to her blog to express her frustration over Klara’s situation and Ethan Talbot’s stonewalling, she hadn’t expected such an outpouring of support from fellow academics across the country.
She viewed blogging as a cheap form of therapy. It enabled her to write about whatever bothered her, and then move on. She never anticipated that her posts would garner much attention. They usually fell like the proverbial tree in a forest: with just enough noise to get a comment or two from current students, or the occasional backlink from another mathematician’s web page.
The firestorm that this particular post generated caught her by surprise. Somehow she’d become the unwitting mouthpiece for all of Ethan Talbot’s critics. She considered taking the post down, but to what end? Her words had already been reposted, liked, and re-tweeted, their reach growing exponentially each day. And her views hadn’t really changed.
So what if Ethan was charming, smart, sophisticated, and so damn sexy that just thinking about him turned her brain to mush? He was still pouring money into something that was not just wrong-headed, but also the direct antithesis of everything she stood for and believed in. His experiment was laying waste to nine years of effort on her part to raise her sister the way their parents would have wanted. And on a broader scale, it was sending the wrong message to a generation of kids already at risk of failing. What they needed was incentive to stay in school, not encouragement to drop out.
She wondered if Klara was following any of the chatter, and if so, what she thought of it. They’d talked by phone just yesterday—a brief “How are you” and “All is well” type call, with no mention made of the controversy sparked by Anna’s post. At least Klara was still talking to her. That had to be a good sign.
“Anna, wait up.”
She glanced over her shoulder and stopped, allowing the chair of the math department to catch up. “Hi, Bill.”
“I need a favor.” He brushed a hand through his receding ginger hair. “Are you busy tonight?”
That depended on his definition of busy. She was planning to polish one of the proofs she’d been working on for months. The submission deadline was next week. Not exactly what most people would consider the height of excitement for a Thursday night—especially on a college campus where the weekend started early. “What’s going on?”
“The dean is concerned that our department is under-represented at tonight’s donor recognition dinner.”
“Ah.” She knew what was coming, but she wasn’t going to make it easy. Just because she was one of three women in the department—twelve if the count included adjunct professors and visiting scholars—and the only one in the group who was still unattached, didn’t mean she relished being the token female and perpetual last-minute substitute at whatever official function lacked sufficient diversity.
“It’s really important that we have a good turnout,” Bill continued. “If we want the donors to keep funding our efforts, we need to at least show them a little of what we’re doing with their money.”
Have them attend one of my lectures, Anna wanted to say. Or read a few of my papers. But she kept quiet. Bill had championed her bid for tenure four years ago. Even though the voting process was confidential, she’d heard there had been quite a bit of grumbling among the older faculty members about promoting such a young candidate—opposition that might have sunk her case, had it not been for Bill’s vigorous support. As much as she owed Terry Tao for providing the initial opportunity to join the department, she owed Bill even more for helping secure that position for life.
She sighed. “What do you need me to do?”
“Show up. Talk for five minutes in plain English about how your research will change the world. Thank the donors. That’s it.” He smiled. “Two hours of your time. Three, tops.”
“Wait—what happened to ‘five minutes’?”
His eyes glinted behind the wire-framed glasses. “Well, there’s dinner. And dancing.”
“Oh, no.” She shook her head. “I’m no good at schmoozing. And I’ve got two left feet.”
He glanced down at the feet in question, currently encased in Teva sandals, and shrugged. “Don’t dance. Just show up. Seven o’clock at the W Hotel on Hilgard.”
~
She surrendered her keys to the valet and slowly made her way up the neon-green stairs to the hotel’s main entrance. By the time she reached the second floor reception hall where the guests mingled for pre-dinner cocktails, she was cursing her choice of footwear. She’d be lucky if she didn’t break her neck in the stupid heels that she’d dumped at the back of her closet after returning from San Francisco.
Damn, she hated these events. She was no good at small talk. Or dumbing thin
gs down for the benefit of people with too much money and too little brains. She ought to be grateful for their support, she knew that. After all, it was these private donors’ largesse that helped fill the funding gaps left by shrinking resources at the federal, state, and institutional levels. But trotting out her accomplishments as part of a professors-on-parade show ranked as one of her least favorite things to do. Laser hair removal was less painful than having to explain her work in sexy sound bites to an audience that didn’t know the difference between a group and a ring.
Taking a deep breath, she smoothed down the material of the only little black dress she owned, adjusted her silk wrap, and stepped through the double doors.
It might have helped if she had a plus-one to bring along. Someone to bridge the awkward pauses in conversation, and to keep her from falling flat on her face both physically and metaphorically. Too bad all the colleagues and friends with whom she might otherwise have attended were either paired up or too busy to accompany her tonight.
For a moment, she imagined what it would have been like to have Ethan by her side. If things had turned out differently, if she hadn’t gotten drunk and made an idiot of herself….But she had, and despite the few additional texts that he’d sent and she’d been too embarrassed to respond to, that interlude was over.
“Anna?”
She paled. It couldn’t be. Here, in L.A., at an event honoring donors to the university?
But it was.
She looked up from a snowy shirt framed by a gray suit the exact color of his eyes. Eyes that melted whatever resolve she might have had.
“Ethan.” She licked her suddenly dry lips. “What are you doing here?”
His mouth curved into the same half-smile that had haunted her dreams.
That’s when she noticed the proprietary hand on his arm, and the blond blue-eyed goddess at his side.
“Colette Broussard,” the goddess said, extending a hand toward Anna. “And you are?”
~
Something sharp jabbed him in the ribs. He glanced down. Colette’s elbow.
