Table of Contents
Cover Page
Excerpt
About the Author
Books by Margot Dalton
Title Page
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Preview
Copyright
“I can’t believe what I’m about to do.”
Camilla carried her cat into the bedroom, brooding as she rested her chin on his head. She’d been worrying about her safety ever since the beginning of the school term when Jon Campbell had turned up in her classroom and scared her half to death.
But despite her fear, she was taking more and more risks—edging farther out onto thin ice with every day that passed
“I really can’t believe I’m doing this, Elton. I’m falling in love with his kids, and now I’ve actually agreed to go to his ranch this weekend. What on earth is wrong with me?”
She tossed the cat onto the bed, where he curled up and watched with interest as she opened her closet door.
“I don’t have the slightest idea what to pack.” She hauled down a couple of leather duffel bags from an upper shelf. “What exactly do you wear for a weekend jaunt with a man who terrifies you?”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Memories of You, Margot Dalton’s seventeenth Superromance novel, is set in Calgary, Alberta, Canada, where she and her husband have recently decided to spend their winters. For Margot, it’s like coming home. She was born in Alberta, and despite the cold temperatures, she takes pleasure in the clear, crisp, sunny days.
In addition to her Superromance novels, this bestselling author has also written seven books in Harlequin’s popular Crystal Creek series. She has an upcoming title in the new Delta Justice series, and has contributed novellas to two anthologies. As well, she writes mainstream novels for MIRA Books.
Books by Margot Dalton
HARLEQUIN SUPERROMANCE
622—KIM & THE COWBOY
638—THE SECRET YEARS
664—MAN OF MY DREAMS
693—THE HIDING PLACE
714—A FAMILY LIKENESS
MIRA BOOKS
TANGLED UVES (February 1996)
FIRST IMPRESSION (April 1997)
SECOND THOUGHTS (March 1998)
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Memories of You
Margot Dalton
PROLOGUE
June 1977
TODAY WAS MY seventeenth birthday; nobody remembered but me.
The rain is coming in the window again where some of the glass has broken away. Last week I nailed a scrap of tar paper across the opening, but it keeps coming loose. The rain blows in and falls onto my face and shoulders. I’m so cold.
I can hear them outside my room, so I turn my face to the wall and try to concentrate on the rain. It rattles on the metal body of the trailer like gunshots, and the whole thing shakes in every gust of wind.
They’re both drunk, but my mother is worse. She’s been screaming and throwing things. Now she’s starting to cry, so it won’t be long till she passes out. That’s the way it always happens.
I wonder what shape the man is in. This is a new one, a guy she picked up last week at the bar. I don’t know him yet, so I’m afraid. They’re all like wild animals, you have to learn their habits so you can feel safe around them. This one looks at me sometimes, but he’s never made a move.
He’s so ugly. It makes my stomach heave, thinking about him. I’m not sure my mother even realizes anymore how ugly they are. He’s got a big roll around his middle and a spotty little beard, and his breath stinks. One of his front teeth is missing, too.
A bug scurries over my blankets, and I flick it away and hope it’s gone. God knows what else is living in here. It’s always so dirty. I try to clean things up but. it’s impossible because every night my mother brings some filthy man home to drink with her. They drop food and knock things over, then pass out on the floor or on her bed. They spill liquor, too, and it makes sticky pools that draw the bugs.
I can’t hear my mother’s voice anymore. She must be asleep. The man’s singing some kind of drunken song. I remember how he looked at me earlier and I wonder if he’s going to try to come in here tonight.
If he does, I intend to kill him. I have a hunting knife under the pillow and I’m not afraid to use it. I’m not.
Today is my seventeenth birthday.
CHAPTER ONE
Twenty years later
JON CAMPBELL WATCHED in surprise as the beautiful woman at the back of the classroom stared at him across the row of desks. It was just a few seconds, but it seemed like an eternity that their eyes locked, and the colour drained from her face.
Could she be startled because he was so much older than the rest of the class? Somehow her reaction seemed disproportionate.
He certainly wasn’t the only middle-aged man who’d ever gone back to college to finish a degree. Even Jon had been surprised by the number of people his age he’d encountered on this first day of classes.
In fact, Jon wasn’t the oddity he’d feared he might be. And the campus was big enough that he wouldn’t be an embarrassment to his children, especially his son Steven who was a freshman at the same college.
While he was puzzling over the professor’s reaction, the woman turned abruptly and made her way to the front of the room.
“Good morning,” she said, moving away from her desk to stand in the middle of the room. “My name is Dr. Camilla Pritchard, and this class is intended to develop your creative-writing skills as well as to examine the work of some well-known authors. There is an extensive reading list that I will distribute at the conclusion of today’s session. You will need to read every book promptly in order to be prepared for assignments and class discussions.”
Her voice was crisp, but her hands, gripping a notebook, trembled slightly. Again Jon wondered at her nervousness. Did she feel threatened by one of her students?
They all looked so young. This was a senior class, but the participants still seemed like babies, freshfaced and anxious. A couple of them were chewing gum, while the thin boy sitting across the aisle from Jon appeared to be asleep.
“The workload is quite heavy,” the professor went on. “And, as you may have heard, I’m not tolerant of slackers.”
Jon grinned privately, amused by the contrast between her face and manner.
Oh, I’ll bet you’re not nearly as tough as you pretend, he told her silently.
She glanced at him almost as if he’d spoken aloud, and her cheeks turned faintly pink. She looked away quickly.
“There will be a daily writing assignment in addition to research papers and regular class work. If you feel this may be too much for you, I encourage you to drop the course immediately while you’re still in time to transfer to a different class. Otherwise, you run a very real risk of being assigned a failing grade or an incomplete rating.”
No wonder some of the students complained about Dr. Camilla Pritchard, Jon thought. He’d overheard a group of young men earlier in the day, loudly discussing this English professor.
A “dragon,” one of them had called her. And then, practi
cally in the same breath, a “real babe.”
Now that Jon had seen her, he could certainly understand the boy’s conflicting reaction. Camilla Pritchard was tall and graceful. Her face was finely carved, with high cheekbones and deep blue eyes, and she had an elegant straight nose.
But her beauty went beyond these physical attributes. There was something in the depths of that face, those remarkable eyes, that hinted at a person hidden in a complex private world.
Jon shifted awkwardly in the little desk as she began to discuss the process of creative writing, putting a few terms on the blackboard like “stream of consciousness” and “constructionism.” Jon tried to pay attention, but the sun from the adjacent window was warm on his back, and the room was so quiet, and he was not accustomed to this complete lack of physical activity.
Eventually his mind began to wander down sunlit paths of its own. He found himself wondering idly what the blond professor would look like in a bikini— or completely naked.
He shifted in his desk, aware suddenly of an uncomfortable stirring in his groin.
At that moment, the professor caught his eye. She’d moved nearer to ask a question of a student in the next row. Jon looked down hastily.
What a fool, he thought. Like a kid in seventh grade with a crush on the teacher, getting aroused by his daydreams. Next she’d ask him to go to the blackboard and he’d have to figure out some way to save himself from real embarrassment.
But the professor seemed reluctant to have anything to do with him. She directed rapid-fire questions at most of the others, but none at her oldest student.
Again Jon thought about that strange moment when their eyes had first met. She’d been so shaken.
Could they have met somewhere?
There was something about her that was vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t get close to the memory. It was as elusive as the disappearing image of a half-forgotten dream. Maybe he was simply experiencing déjà vu.
After all, if he’d actually met somebody like her, he wouldn’t be likely to forget her. Because she, without a doubt, was one of the most beautiful, desirable women he’d ever seen.
She moved toward the back of the room and stopped by the desk of the sleeping young man, who gave a start and looked up in alarm.
“Your name?” she asked.
The boy swallowed hard and cleared his throat. He was pale and obviously scared. He looked even younger than his classmates.
Probably no more than nineteen, Jon thought. Awfully young to be in a senior-level English class.
“Enrique,” he whispered at last. “My name is Enrique Valeros.”
“Do you intend to sleep through every class, Mr. Valeros?”
The boy had a shock of black hair, expressive dark eyes and clothes that were shabby but well tended. His voice was softly accented with the musical cadences of Spanish, and his thin hands trembled on the wooden surface of the desk. Jon couldn’t tell if the tremor was because of fear, or fatigue.
“I’m very sorry, ma’am,” he muttered. “It won’t happen again.”
Something about the boy tugged at Jon’s heart. He wondered why Enrique Valeros was so tired, or what he was afraid of. A quick glance at the professor’s blue eyes convinced Jon she shared these feelings of sympathy, though she was trying to remain stern and expressionless.
“I really hope it doesn’t happen again, Mr. Valeros,” she said.
She moved to the front of the room and picked up one of the books on her desk, a thick volume on grammar, punctuation and usage.
“This will be our only formal textbook,” she told the class. “I expect you to obtain a copy and use it as your guide. Failure to comply will result in immediate deductions from your grade on all written assignments. Are there any questions?”
A sullen-looking young woman near the front of the class asked for more details about the daily written assignment and the reading list. Dr. Pritchard clarified her expectations. Without another word, the girl picked up her books and left the classroom.
The professor surveyed the group. “Anybody else?” she asked. “Let me repeat that it’s much better to leave now if you feel incapable of handling the work. In two or three weeks, dropping the course will no longer be an option.”
The students listened silently.
“Mr. Valeros,” she said, moving partway down the aisle, though she was still careful to keep a row of desks between herself and Jon, “have you had occasion to read Silas Marner?
“Yes, ma’am,” the boy whispered. “I have read it.”
“And what can you tell us about Eliot’s narrative style in that book?”
“It…The book is much more…” Enrique struggled for words while the teacher watched him in silence. “It is more gentle and poetic than Adam Bede, or Middlemarch, he said at last. “It shows George Eliot’s…it shows her quiet, mystical side.”
The professor’s eyebrows rose in surprise and approval. “Very good, Mr. Valeros. I’m pleased to see you’ve already done some of the required reading.”
Enrique relaxed visibly under her praise. “I got the list a couple of weeks ago, ma’am,” he said in a shy, almost inaudible voice.
“Well, that’s excellent. Now, if you can find a way to stay awake in class, we’ll get along just fine.”
But her voice belied the sharpness of her words, and she gave the young man a brief, teasing smile before she turned away.
When Jon saw that glow on her face, he was totally undone. The woman’s smile was like a ray of sunlight in a darkened room, illuminating all kinds of treasures. For a fleeting moment her face was light and sparkling, young and sweet.
Young…
Again that elusive image tugged at his memory. Something to do with warmth and youth, a distant place and time…
He shook his head in frustration and watched as she moved around the room, probing first one student and then another with her skillful questioning, trying to gauge their knowledge and understanding.
“Hey, Enrique,” Jon whispered, leaning across the aisle.
“Yes?” the boy asked.
“You did good, son. I think you really impressed the professor.”
His words were rewarded by another shy smile. The poor kid might be dead on his feet, but he was still courteous and friendly.
Jon glanced at the boy’s frayed shirt cuffs, the worn-out shoes and patched jeans, the thin body and shaking hands and general air of fatigue.
He wondered how he could learn a little more about Enrique Valeros.
The class continued with a discussion of plotting techniques. The professor never asked him a question or directed a comment at him. Jon found himself both relieved and annoyed by the omission.
When the class ended and the students began to disperse, Jon approached her desk.
Dr. Pritchard’s head was bent over her work. She had dark blond hair with a few streaks of sunny highlights, cut short and combed back in a simple, elegant style. Her hands were ringless, with the nails neatly trimmed and free of polish.
“I like that perfume,” he said as he drew near.
She looked up, and her eyes widened in alarm. He could sense that she had to force herself to meet his eyes, though her gaze was calm and steady.
“Thank you,” she said.
“What is it?”
“What?”
“The perfume.”
Her cheeks turned faintly pink. “I doubt that it’s any concern of yours, Mr….”
“Campbell. Jonathan Campbell. People usually call me Jon.”
“I see.” She gave him a wintry smile and returned to her work, clearly dismissing him.
Jon watched her for a moment, fighting the unsettling urge to reach out and stroke her shining hair or touch her bare arm.
“Is there something else. Mr. Campbell?” she asked without looking up.
“I was just wondering why you never called on me during the session. Do you think I’m not capable of answering questions?”
&nbs
p; “The fact is, I didn’t really think about you at all.”
“I believe that’s not altogether true,” Jon said quietly. “When you first noticed me sitting over there, you acted like you recognized me.”
“You must be imagining things.” She got to her feet, gathered the pile of books on her desk and moved toward the door.
“Have we met somewhere?” he asked, following her. “Because I can’t believe I’d ever forget a woman like you.” She looked back at him, and this time he caught a trace of genuine panic in her eyes, a fear that was urgent and almost childlike. But her voice was cool when she answered.
“I really don’t think so, Mr. Campbell. Please excuse me.”
Then she was gone, vanishing down the crowded hallway until all he could glimpse of the woman was the distant gleam of overhead lights on her smooth blond head.
THE CALGARY UNIVERSITY sprawled over many acres of prairie in the northwest section of the city. A number of apartment buildings were located on campus but most faculty members chose to live elsewhere, preferring to leave their jobs behind when they went home at night.
Camilla Pritchard, however, lived on the university grounds. Her apartment was just a few steps from the building where she taught most of her classes.
She hurried down the leafy paths of the campus, heading home for lunch on the first day of school, anxious to reach her apartment. She could hardly wait to be safely inside the door, out of sight of everybody.
Camilla had suffered for years from intense shyness, and a personal reserve that gave her an air of detachment bordering on rudeness. Except when she was in her own home—a bright and comfortable place, filled with whimsical ornaments, bright woven afghans and wall hangings, nature prints, Aztec pottery and throw rugs. And masses of plants, crowded on every available windowsill.
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