Passion's Price
By
Donna Kimel Vitek
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
SHE HAD NO DESIRE TO ESCAPE…
She felt too gloriously alive, all her senses aroused to total receptiveness. Fascinated by the contours of taut rippling muscles, she traced them tentatively, then cupped his neck in trembling hands. Her fingers tangled compulsively in the crisp clean hair brushing his nape and she pressed closer to him.
Nick's free hand was moving over her back, arching her to him, his fingertips exploring the delicate bone structure and warm firm flesh, sending tremors of delight feathering up and down her spine. Every sensitized nerve ending conveyed his message of passion…
Published by
Dell Publishing Co., Inc.
1 Dag Hammarskjold Plaza
New York, New York 10017
Copyright © 1983 by Donna Kimel Vitek
ISBN: 0-440-17036-2
First printing—January 1983
To Our Readers:
We have been delighted with your enthusiastic response to Candlelight Ecstasy Romances™, and we thank you for the interest you have shown in this exciting series.
In the upcoming months we will continue to present the distinctive sensuous love stories you have come to expect only from Ecstasy. We look forward to bringing you many more books from your favorite authors and also the very finest work from new authors of contemporary romantic fiction.
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CHAPTER ONE
Laine Winthrop slid her stockinged feet across the plush carpeting beneath her desk and sighed with relief. Relaxing back in her chair, she ran one hand lightly over her short cap of golden hair, then tugged one strand of the feathery sweep that fell to one side across her forehead. For a long thoughtful moment she gazed out the window at twin magnolia trees adorned with huge white flowers. Native to Georgia, not the cultivated variety, these two trees burst forth in spring with large glossy green leaves that further accentuated the loveliness of the creamy blossoms that bloomed later. A light breeze drifted through the office window, and Laine appreciatively inhaled the heady lemony fragrance that accompanied it. A pleasant drowsiness stole over her, but before she could nestle down more comfortably in her chair, her door was opened. The tall auburn-haired woman who stepped into the room grinned broadly.
"Liberated at last, I see," Marge Simmons drawled, strolling toward the desk. "Free of the formidable Mrs. Wainwright and of your shoes. It hasn't exactly been a fun day, has it?"
Wry amusement sparkled in Laine's wide blue eyes as she shook her head. "No, I have to admit it hasn't been one of my best. Hopefully, you're not going to make it worse by firing me for kicking off my shoes."
"Not likely. You're the best assistant director I've ever had, so I plan on keeping you, shoes or no shoes. And frankly, I think your father was wrong to insist you dress up in a suit and highheel pumps simply because Marian Wainwright decided to conduct an inspection. Even if she is a member of the board of trustees, she should know you're not just an administrator here. You're actively involved with the children, and you just can't wear your Sunday best to deal with nursery school and kindergarten kids."
"You know my father," Laine answered, wrinkling her nose while lifting her shoulders in a slight shrug. "As the daughter of a college president, I must always look impeccably respectable. 'Professional and above reproach' were his exact words I think," Laine quoted, her voice dropping two octaves as she imitated her father's somber tone.
Settling down on the corner of Laine's desk, Marge smiled wickedly. "Why don't we invite him over for a visit? After his three-piece suit has been decorated with finger-paints, I don't think he'll ever insist you dress up for Mrs. Wainwright again." Her gaze drifted downward. "Or show him that. I see one of our little charges gave you something to remember him by."
Laughing softly, Laine glanced down at the small handprint gracing her white linen skirt just above her right knee. "Oatmeal cookie—should wash out pretty easily. And speaking of our charges, I'd better go check on mine. Mary Lou Baker's got them now, and she can't always control them."
Marge frowned. "What kind of evaluation will you give her then? If she can't maintain discipline…"
"She's improved since the term began. And besides, she's only a sophomore. Most people wait until their junior year to come into this program," Laine explained as she retrieved her black kid pumps from beneath her desk.
"Actually, Mary Lou's gaining more confidence every day, and since she has a natural ability to make learning fun, I think she can become a fine teacher."
"A rare breed—those with natural ability," Marge commented, then frowned as the younger woman slipped on her shoes with a slight wince. "Look, why don't you go home now. It's nearly five o'clock anyway, and on Fridays people usually pick up their children before six. I can even look in on Mary Lou for you."
For a moment Laine was tempted to accept the offer, but at last she shook her head. "No, that's okay. I'll just stay. You…"
"For heaven's sake, go home before your feet fall off," Marge interrupted firmly. "You deserve an hour off anyway. Besides," she added, patting the stack of folders atop the desk, "you have your work cut out for you this weekend. Mary Lou and all your other student assistants to evaluate. And grades have to be posted by Monday."
"Sometimes I think it would be very nice to average a row of test scores and determine grades solely by that," Laine commented wryly. "As it is, though, I'm sure you're right. I'll spend all weekend going over their weekly evaluations. It's the only way to really grade them fairly."
"Then go home and get started," Marge commanded, lifting the student folders and thrusting them into Laine's arms. "And soak your feet for an hour or so."
"You talked me into it," Laine agreed with a grimace. "My arches are beginning to ache a little."
"Be off with you then, while I go rescue Mary Lou," Marge quipped before walking briskly from the small office.
Within minutes, Laine was on her way across campus. Because her feet did hurt, she strolled at a casual unhurried pace along the cobbled sidewalks. A gentle cooling breeze played with wisps of her hair and rustled the thick shiny leaves of the magnolias. Snow white camellia blossoms studded dark green foliage and provided a festive touch to the ivy-covered brick buildings that surrounded the grassy commons. Latham College was an old school, steeped in tradition. Laine often wondered if anything here had ever changed since Andrew Latham had opened the doors way back in the 1840s. The school's appearance certainly hadn't altered in her lifetime, but she found the perpetual sameness comforting. Latham was home, and she had no desire to leave, despite living with a father who rarely if ever showed her affection. Though he had never said he loved her, she tried to assume he did, at least in his own way. Yet she knew she was a disappointment to him; that was a fact of life she had accepted for fourteen years—ever since her mother had died when she was ten.
Thornton Winthrop had wanted his second child to be a son. Laine's gender might not have mattered so much to him had she proved to be an exceptional l
ittle girl, but she hadn't been blessed with any extraordinary talents. Before her marriage, Laine's mother had been an acclaimed concert pianist, but her second daughter didn't inherit her musical genius nor her exquisite loveliness. It was Laine's sister, Regina, older by five years, who was the child of rare beauty and the beneficiary of almost all their father's attention. Laine's loving, generous nature hadn't seemed to impress Thornton Winthrop very much.
Despite that, Laine's childhood had been happy. Her mother loved her dearly and instilled in her a sense of self-worth no amount of a father's inattention could diminish. After her mother died, ten-year-old Laine had felt somewhat lost and alone for a time, but an inherent joyousness had triumphed, enabling her to accept Thornton's lack of affection with little more than a vague sense of disappointment.
Still, even now that she was an adult, Laine occasionally regretted she couldn't be closer to her father. It would be nice to know he was proud of her, but she couldn't think how she could possibly do more to try to please him. After all, she was already making a success of her chosen career. She had many friends and was an attractive young woman. Her warm blue eyes, soft blond hair, and slight yet shapely body had caught the glances of many young men even if she couldn't compete with Regina's stunning statuesque beauty. It wasn't her fault she didn't have her sister's natural platinum hair and bewitching violet eyes. She was what she was and she did the best she could, she told herself as she continued across the campus's main square; then she temporarily pushed all thoughts about her father to the back of her mind.
After passing the bookstore and waving to a friend who manned the counter by the window, Laine lifted her face to the warming rays of the late May sun. This was one of her favorite times of year. Though Latham College was located only five miles inland from the Atlantic, the campus was surrounded by pine forests, which helped alleviate some of summer's excessive heat. Situated south of Savannah and ten miles north of Brunswick, the village of Latham was so tiny it couldn't even qualify as a small town; its quiet charm and peacefulness were the qualities that appealed most to Laine.
Turning down the lane that was Faculty Row, she smiled at the ancient sea oaks, dripping with Spanish moss, that lined the street. She couldn't imagine willingly leaving this place forever, as Regina had done seven years ago, when the bright lights of big cities had lured her away. It was ironic that Thornton Winthrop's favorite daughter didn't share his love for Latham, but Laine knew he could forgive Regina anything, even that particular disloyalty. Pausing for a moment to inhale the sweet fragrance of the white roses growing at the edge of Dean Jacobs's yard, Laine smiled ruefully. Despite her father's ability to ignore that one fairly serious failure of Regina's, she suspected that his love for Latham College surpassed even his adoration of her elder sister. Only their mother had come before his position here, and since her death he had immersed himself in his work, determined to make Latham the best small college in Georgia. His dedication bordered on obsession.
Though Laine's dedication was far less intense, she did appreciate the graciousness of life on a college campus and she enjoyed living in the house her mother had loved so well. Thornton Winthrop's residence befitted his position as college president; situated at the end of a cul-de-sac at the peak of a gently rolling hill, it presided in a queenly manner over the homes of the most prestigious members of faculty and staff. Traditional wrought-iron filigrees along the boundaries of the lower veranda and the second-story balcony were like delicate etching against the background of cream stucco walls. Scattered cedars shaded much of the lawn, but sunlit flower beds—tended long ago by Laine's mother—bordered the flagstone walkway. Thornton tended them now, and as Laine reached the veranda she noticed that the blue southern stars by the stairs were blooming a bit early this year.
After checking that the potted fern by the doorway wasn't in need of water, Laine limped into the house. The walk home hadn't helped her feet, so she immediately kicked off her shoes and hobbled across the foyer to the staircase. She put the student folders down on the second step and sank down on the first to begin massaging her arches. She breathed soft contented sighs as the muscles started relaxing. Warmth tingled in her toes while her fingers continued the soothing massage. Sunlight reflected from the crystal chandelier danced and sparkled on the polished hardwood floor. The house was quiet. Laine felt a sudden rush of gladness because her father wasn't there. Although she loved him, he often seemed so completely unapproachable that she felt uneasy in his presence. She had even considered leaving home to move into one of the tiny faculty apartments two streets away, but there was a waiting list of people who wanted one. And besides, if she moved out, her father would have to hire a housekeeper to take care of him. So she stayed, accepted his silences, and was grateful for times like this when she could truly relax because she had the house to herself.
Her solitude was abruptly and rudely interrupted when the doorchimes echoed in the foyer. "Damn," she muttered. With extreme reluctance, she eased her sore feet back into her shoes and walked gingerly across the foyer to open the door.
A tall dark-haired man in his midthirties was leaning on one hand against the doorjamb, but he straightened immediately when Laine appeared on the threshold. "That was fast. Maybe you were expecting someone else," he commented, surveying her from head to toe with one swift appraising glance. Then jade green eyes met hers directly. "I want to see Thornton Winthrop. Is he in?"
"No, he isn't. I'm sorry," Laine said, curiously surveying him too, sure she had never seen him around campus before. She would have remembered him, she was certain, because he was highly noticeable, a truly attractive man. The subtly muscular contours of his long hard body exuded virility and those piercing eyes were set in a classically Roman face. His finely chiseled features suggested a certain ruthlessness, yet… there was something else, a quality Laine couldn't name. Giving up on trying to make an instant analysis, she smiled politely at him. "My father's usually still in his office this time of day. If you'd like to try to find him there…"
The man shook his head. "No, I'll just wait here for him. You don't mind if I come in?"
His assured commanding tone caught Laine off guard for a second, but she recovered in time to plant herself firmly in the doorway, an incongruously slight figure facing someone of such obviously superior strength as if she actually believed she could prevent his entering. "I'm afraid I do mind," she challenged hastily. "I don't even know your name. Just who are you anyway?"
"Nicolas Brannon. Maybe my uncle's mentioned me," he said, his voice vibrantly deep and melodious though his words were crisp. When he noticed the questioning frown that knitted Laine's forehead, he elaborated. "My uncle is Phillip Winston. I believe that name should ring a bell on this campus."
"Of course his name rings a bell. Phillip Winston is highly respected here at Latham," Laine said, though the uncertain frown still lingered on her brow. "But I can't say I recall Mr. Winston ever mentioning a nephew."
"Maybe he hasn't mentioned me then," Nick Brannon conceded with an easy unconcerned smile. "Uncle Phillip probably does tend to lose himself in memories of his college days when he visits here."
"That's true," Laine said, her frown fading. "And for some reason, Mr. Brannon, your name does sound familiar to me."
"Excellent. Now do you think it's safe to let me in?" he asked, a hint of amusement gentling his tone. He moved toward Laine. "Or are you going to make me wait here on the veranda until your father comes home?"
"Certainly not. Do come in, please." Stepping back from the doorway, she extended one arm, then felt as if the space in the foyer diminished when Nick Brannon entered. Tilting her head back, she attempted a nonchalant smile and, succeeding, graciously directed him into the living room. "Please sit down. Make yourself comfortable."
He did. Taking a seat, he loosened his tie and unfastened his collar button. With a confident unapologetic smile at Laine, he draped one arm across the back of the blue brocade sofa.
"Coul
d I get you a drink?" Laine asked, and when he declined, she settled herself in the chair opposite him. As he continued to observe her in silence, she at last added rather lamely, "My father should be home soon, Mr. Brannon."
"Nick is sufficient, Miss Winthrop. I assume it is Miss and I also assume you have a first name. Perhaps you should tell me what it is, since I plan to spend a few days here and it might come in handy to know what to call you."
His unabashed straightforwardness was irresistibly charming and she had to smile at him. "I'm Laine Winthrop, and I'm very pleased to meet you, Mr. Bran— Nick."
"The pleasure's all mine." Allowing a longer lingering gaze to drift over her, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Do you go to school here, Laine? Or are you just home for the summer?"
"I'm one of the faculty here," she said simply, working to control her amusement as she watched a look of surprise register on his face. For some reason it felt very good to catch this self-assured man off guard.
"And do you simply look young for your age or are you one of those geniuses who finish college at fifteen or sixteen?"
Laine laughed. "With that kind of lead I'd be a fool to deny a certain… above-average intelligence. But I did finish college at the usual pace. I'm just older than I look."
"Someday I'm sure you'll consider that an asset," he countered wryly, sitting back again to stretch his long legs out before him. "So what do you teach?"
"I teach teachers how to teach, actually. I'm assistant director of the nursery school-kindergarten we've opened on campus. It allows us to give the students who hope to teach someday the chance to deal with a classroom of children. Experience always helps," she continued, enthusiasm sparkling in her blue eyes. "Did you realize Latham used to be exclusively a teachers' college? That's no longer true, but many of our students are planning careers in education."
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