"Are you sure it's Elizabeth?"
He remained silent for a moment as the air in his coffin sank in with the thickness of a wool blanket. Yes, he knew it was her. Her memories of him, of their past, even of their lovemaking rested in the deepest recesses of her mind waiting to be brought back. "It is her, without a doubt, Alex."
She said nothing and he hadn’t expected her to. Alex looked out for him, as she always had since the beginning. At first, they sought solace in each other's arms. In time, they’d discovered that they made better friends than lovers. "I don't want to see you hurt." The sound of her voice resounded in his head. "If Zakara finds out about Elizabeth, there is not telling what will happen."
"She won't find out."
"How can you be sure?"
Alex's question struck him in the chest. He drew in a deep breath. How was he to be sure? When Elizabeth had belonged to him before, he had vowed to keep her safe from every imaginable harm. Unfortunately, he could not keep his vow. One night, in a fit of rage, Zakara had killed Elizabeth and forced him to join their coven completely. The only thing Zakara allowed him to do was hold Elizabeth as the life drained from her body.
His fists curled at his sides. No, the damned bitch would not take his love from him again. "Even if I have to die, Alex, I won't let her down again."
"What do you plan to do?"
"It's all taken care of, my dear friend."
Her slight laughter echoed. "Hmmm, let me see. You're going to be a visiting history professor who just happens to start teaching history this semester. Am I correct?"
He returned her mirth. "The same old Alex. Nothing gets by you."
"It can't," she laughed silently. "I've been around almost eight hundred years and have seen or done it all. So what's the plan after that?"
"I don't know yet. She wants to change her looks yet it doesn’t matter to me if she does or not. I’ll give her the courage to capture her desires."
"Raphael, you know I love you as much as my own brother. Transforming her into Elizabeth will not make her so."
"Ah, it will," he countered. "I will bring out all those memories that she keeps hidden deep within the recesses of her mind like so many precious jewels. Once I get her to see that she is Elizabeth, she will be again."
"Is this what you want, Raphael?"
"More than anything else in the world."
Chapter 2
"So you want me to teach all of the night courses on top of my other ones?" Liz sat across from Dean Waters in the most uncomfortable chair ever created. Sweet morning sunlight drifted in through the church-like windows and stained the oak floor with its brightness. Precious art objects were scattered around the room and rested on light-oak bookshelves along with the books. She sighed deeply. It never failed. When there was something they needed done, they always dumped it on her, knowing that she wouldn't fight back and stand up for herself.
Sweat poured down the dean’s puffy face even though the air conditioning was on full blast. "I'm reassigning your other classes to the other professors. Since your masters is in history, I want you to concentrate on Professor Mitchell's classes, may God help him." Dean Waters’ fat fingers shuffled through the myriad of papers on his desk. "You won't be doing it alone, however. I'm bringing someone in to help you, Liza."
"That's Liz," she said sourly, listening to the sound of his fingers drum irritatingly against the oak top of his desk. For some strange reason, he could never get her name right.
"Sorry. Liz." He pulled out a black leather-clad book and flipped it to the middle. He loosened his tie and opened the top button of his shirt at the same time. She cringed when she saw black hair sprouting from the open vee. If nothing else, Dean Waters was the epitome of the old wives tale. If you're bald on top, the rest of your body is usually as hairy as an ape.
"What is her name?" Probably some hundred-year-old fossil, she thought dryly, someone who needs to be pushed around campus in a wheelchair.
"His name is..." His pudgy finger scanned down the page. "Professor Raphael Chamberlain."
The moment that name entered her brain, she envisioned a stuffy old Englishman with a cravat and a walking stick, topped off with a monocle and top hat. She laughed aloud at the thought.
Dean Waters’ beady eyes wrinkled as scowled. "What's so funny?"
"Nothing" She stifled her giggles. "When will I get to meet this illustrious Professor Chamberlain?"
"Immediately," echoed a male voice behind her, the sound clipped with a hint of British accent.
She got up and turned, staring into familiar green eyes. Her heart gave a little leap. "You—you're Professor Chamberlain?" For one wild moment, she was sure that she knew him, but from where? Until today, she'd never heard of him.
He nodded, the movement encouraging strands of black hair to cover those hypnotic eyes. "That would be me." The tone of his voice reminded her of a debonair Errol Flynn. She'd always been attracted to Errol Flynn and all the swashbuckling actors of the thirties and forties. "Raphael Chamberlain at your service." He bowed low. "And you are?"
"Liz Quartermaine." She held her hand out. She knew she shouldn't stare. She couldn’t help it. He was perhaps the most handsome man she had ever seen besides Errol. His face was strong and aristocratic with high cheekbones, plump, full lips and a slightly off-center nose. For a wild moment, she imagined what experience lay in those lips.
"Very nice to meet you, Mrs. Quartermaine." He lifted her hand to his lips. The gentle kiss he put there seared her skin and sent wild spirals of lust slamming against her spine.
"It's Ms. Quartermaine," she corrected gently as he let go of her hand. "I'm not married and never have been." Why did she feel the need to provide him with that information?
"What luck." He stood up to his full height of well over six feet. "I would have thought a woman like you would be unavailable."
His tone was deep and sensual, making her blush. She was so drawn to him that everything else seemed to fade into the background. What was it about him that seemed so familiar?
"Ahem," Dean Waters cleared his throat to draw back their attention. "May we get down to business?"
"Of course." Raphael took a chair next to her and settled his muscular build into it.
She couldn't help looking at him. His shoulders, clad in a light jacket, were broad and thick, almost as though he were into bodybuilding. Blue chambray swathed his upper body under the jacket, the first two buttons undone. Liz drew a deep breath when she glimpsed the bronze skin around his throat. Whew, no hair. She had always hated men with body hair. Given her current situation she couldn't be picky.
"Are you with us, Liz?"
She jerked her head forward at the sound of the dean’s voice. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the corner of Raphael's lip curl upwards in a slight smile. Apparently he was aware of how he looked and didn't mind being stared at. "Yes, I am."
Dean Waters perched his bifocals on his pudgy nose and looked down at the semester schedule in his hand. "I've got Liz teaching the European History class as well as Medieval History. Professor Chamberlain, you'll be teaching the American History as well as Civil War." He looked up. "I know this is a big load and I'm asking a lot. It's only for a semester."
"I have no problem with it." Raphael stretched out his denim-covered legs and crossed them at the ankles. His muscles flexed beneath the dark fabric, making her heart leap. "I'm a night owl anyway so it works perfectly for me."
She flipped her attention back to the frumpy dean in front of her, refusing to look at Raphael anymore. There was no way he'd ever be interested in her.
Dean Waters turned to her. "What about you, Liz? Is this schedule all right with you?"
She nodded. "That's fine," she said, muttering under breath. "It's not as though I have a life."
Dean Waters’ face screwed up in question. “What did you say?"
"Nothing," she said, trying to rise from the seat in a dignified manner. The arms pinched at her thighs and
the last thing she wanted to do was to get up and have the chair stuck to her ass. That would be completely embarrassing.
Raphael rose and held the chair for her. "Thank you." Shards of embarrassment flooded her cheeks, making the room entirely too hot.
"It's just good manners," he stated in a low tone. "I was taught when a woman comes into or leaves a room, a man should stand."
She ignored the slight chuckle of Dean Waters. "Thank you," she said, tugging at the hem of her flowered-print skirt, making sure it didn't hover above her thick knees. "Do you need someone to take you around the campus and show you where everything is?"
His midnight hue brow rose. "Is this an invitation?"
She caught the implication. The heat deepened. “I just thought maybe--"
Professor Chamberlain laughed aloud. "It would be a great honor for me if you would be so kind as to show me where I'll be teaching."
His manners were unlike those of any man she'd ever known. Maybe it was because he'd been raised in Europe with old world traditions and attitudes toward women. She shrugged. Whatever it was, she found it utterly intriguing.
She stole a glance at her watch. The best thing for her was to get away from him as soon as possible. Perhaps then her good sense would return. Damn, she had class in seven minutes almost all the way across the campus! "Can you meet me in the library in, say, two hours? My class is almost about to begin."
He picked up her hand and kissed it again. She trembled all over as her pussy clenched strangely. Somehow she felt like she knew him and her body awakened with every touch. How could she? "Until then, my dear. Parting is such sweet sorrow."
She stared at him for a moment and blinked hard. His lines were a little corny though they sounded quite sincere in an odd Old World sort of way. She shook her head slightly. No, he was just being polite. "Until then," she returned and picked up her purse. "Will you just put the course sheet in my mailbox, Dean Waters?"
Dean Waters tilted his head. "Of course, Liza."
She gave a swift wave. "That's Liz," she muttered low as she left. Why couldn't the dumbass ever get it right? Just because she was ugly didn't mean she didn't deserve to hear her name right.
* * * *
Liz waited in the mahogany-paneled library for half an hour and glanced at her watch every few minutes like a nervous schoolgirl waiting for her crush to arrive. Where was this new professor?
Her heart fluttered in her chest. Why did she think of him like that? All she was going to do was show him around campus, that was all.
He was going to stand her up, just like all the others had. She had wanted to cry but she refused. Those tears were for nothing and would change nothing. Still, one moment in time stood out for her among the many of her life.
Sophomore year of high school.
The prom.
Bobby Sinclair.
She closed her eyes and relived the hateful memory. Bobby, a junior, had been the captain of the football team, tall and totally awesome. She'd practically fallen in love with him the first moment she saw him. Keeping to herself, she would draw little hearts on the inside pages of her history books and label them 'Bobby + Liz = 4-Ever'. Of course, he'd never look at a girl like her so she had felt safe to draw those little innocuous hearts. Unfortunately, Tara Henley, leader of the bitch squad (she had christened the popular clique with this name because that's what they were to anyone who wasn't part of their inner circle), stole her book one day and read what had been written inside
Liz had been mortified.
Tara had let everyone, including Bobby, know what was in it. After that, she couldn't hold her head up high at all. Bobby, on the other hand, seemed nice and understanding, even asking her to the upcoming junior prom. At first, she had thought he was joking. He had insisted that he was not. Reluctantly, she'd agreed to go.
Big mistake.
She'd gone out with Aunt Patty, the woman who'd raised her after her parents were killed in a fiery car accident, to find a dress. She had found the perfect one. It didn't do anything for her shape. She loved it anyway. It had taken most of her savings to buy it.
The night of the prom, she had waited for Bobby on the couch, her palms beneath her gloves dampening. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. The grandfather clock kept time, the hands silently clicking over. She trembled. He was supposed to pick her up at seven-thirty.
Eight o'clock had come and gone, forcing her to realize he wasn't going to come.
He had never shown up.
The next day, she'd been the joke of the school. When she had asked Bobby why he didn't come, his glib answer was: "They don't allow pigs at the prom."
She'd been devastated.
"I'm sorry I'm late, Ms. Quartermaine," Professor Chamberlain's softly accented voice drifted over her shoulder and interrupted those hurtful visions. "I think I must have taken a wrong turn somewhere."
Her spine stiffened. It was time to tuck away all those hateful memories and get on with things. After all, she was an adult woman and had to forget all of the past if she wanted to get on with her future. "That's no problem, Professor." She spun on her heel to face him.
Their eyes locked, intense and powerful.
Her breath caught, the sight of him catching her totally off guard. He was too handsome for his own good. "Are you ready for the grand tour?" Her voice sounded completely nervous and unnatural. Hopefully he didn't pick up on that.
His hand swept in the direction of the door. "After you."
"What brings you to our little town, Professor?"
He halted in mid-stride. "If we're going to be working together, I insist that you call me Raphael, Ms. Quartermaine. The other is too formal."
She started walking again slowly and waited for him to catch up, her heart racing. Every word he uttered did something to her body and mind. "I agree, Raphael, so please call me Liz."
He grinned. "It's Liz, then," he said, stuffing his hands into his pants pockets. "In reference to your question, a possible professorship brought me here. As you might have guessed by my accent, I was born in England and studied in Oxford, where I got my masters in European History."
She stopped and stared at him, confused. "Then why am I teaching Medieval and European history? You seem much more qualified than me."
His smile seemed to light up the dying of the day. "My other master's degree is in American History. Besides, I get a little bored with teaching European history since that's where I'm from." The deep emerald of his eyes glowed and hypnotized her completely. "Since you know a bit about me. What about you?"
She froze inside. Was he actually asking about her? "I think we should head over to the Steely Building. That's where you'll be teaching most of your classes," she said picking up her pace. Bobby had acted like this when he asked her out for the prom. No, she was not going to fall for any man's trap again.
* * * *
Raphael hurried along behind Liz, his long strides closing the distance. He sensed her pain and sorrow, as well as why she chose not to get too close. Damn that Bobby Sinclair for hurting her like that. If it hadn't been for that bastard, Elizabeth might have been a completely different person. "Do you have a date tonight?"
Elizabeth stopped, her body becoming as rigid as a statue. "What did you say?"
He walked around to the front of her, tilting her chin upwards in the palm of one hand and forcing her to look at him. Why did she consider herself so unattractive? "I simply asked if you had a date."
"Why?"
"I would like to take you to dinner."
Fear radiated behind the eyes hidden by the thick glasses. "I don't date," she confessed.
"Why not?"
She jerked her chin out of his hand. "Because I don't." Her eyes glossed over with tears. "If you will excuse me, I need to leave."
He was not about to let her get away. Time for more glamour. "You don't want to leave, Elizabeth."
"What did you call me?"
"That is your given name, is it not?"
&n
bsp; She nodded slowly, as if animated, obviously under his spell. "Yes, it is."
"You would like to go to dinner with me, wouldn't you?"
"Yes."
* * * *
The attractive little restaurant was a mile or so away from campus. Liz felt nervous and scared as Raphael guided his Jaguar through the middle of town, as if the eyes of everyone were on her.
Several times, she glanced over to see his long fingers gripping the wheel, her mind running riot. Would those hands be as experienced as they seemed? Instantly, she could see them cupping her breasts, massaging her nipples from root to tip, exerting the right amount of pressure.
"Are you all right, Liz? You haven't said a word since we got in the car."
"Yes, Raphael." Her fingers gripped the leather seats of the expensive car. "It's just that I've never been in a Jaguar." It was the truth. The closest she'd ever gotten to one was when she had worked for a Jaguar dealership through college. The rule there was look, never touch.
"It's just a car, my dear, nothing more." He pulled into a parking spot and killed the engine. "Is Italian okay with you?"
How in the world did he know she loved Italian? "Sure," she answered, her hand going to the latch on the door.
"Don't," he said. "Wait for me."
Liz sat there in stunned silence as Raphael circled the car, made his way to her side and opened the door for her. She'd never been treated like such a lady before.
Raphael held the door and extended his hand to her. "Thank you.” Her hand slid into his and for the first time Liz noticed how chilly his hands were. Did he have bad circulation in them? A neighbor of hers had a similar condition due to an accident.
Liz’s fear slipped away from her as she got out of the car a lot easier than she had imagined.
He slammed the door behind her and guided her into the restaurant with a gentle hand on her back. "So our biggest question is: do we eat inside or al fresco?"
Her nervous gaze darted about. Perhaps she should tell him that this was all a mistake. Just as she opened her mouth, a calm feeling washed over her, almost as if she had taken one of her anxiety pills. "Al fresco, I suppose.”
Ranson, Tracy L. - Prince of Night [Bloodborn 1] (Siren Publishing Classic) Page 3
