by Zoe Blake
“Me.”
“You are Eustace Pringle?”
“It’s a family name.” She rushed on to say, “Actually I prefer Phoebe.”
“Phoebe.”
That name suited her far better. It fit the classic beauty. French sounding. Delicate.
He cleared his throat before continuing. “So you are Professor Phoebe Pringle?”
She nodded her head without speaking.
“How old are you?”
“I don’t think you’re allowed to ask me that.”
“I’m asking anyway,” he asserted.
Shifting in her seat, pushing her shoulders back as she tilted her chin up, she responded in an unmistakably stubborn tone, “I’m twenty-six.” He loved a stubborn streak in a woman, it made for infinitely more occasions for creative punishments.
Still, there was something about her….
Fuck.
Michael looked down at the files on his desk regarding the murders. He just realized what it was that bothered him about her…besides the obvious. She matched the description of the two murder victims. Beautiful, mid-twenties, blonde.
As much as he would enjoy getting to know Phoebe, she had to go.
“Listen. This is a military academy full of men. I thought I was getting an old battle-ax who could take on a classroom filled with spirited, rowdy men. Not someone who… who….”
“Who what? Please do continue your incredibly sexist speech!”
There was that petulant stubborn streak again. The palm of his hand itched to feel the smooth skin of her ass.
He could see her eyes turn a bright shade of jade with her rising anger. The tiny silver charm on her necklace fluttered against the smooth column of her throat as she seethed. Damn him for an arrogant asshole but he wanted to see if he could push her a little further. He found her temper intoxicating, plus it served his purposes. He couldn’t allow her to stay at the school.
But damn, her anger did something for him. Perhaps it was the thought of subduing her once she flew into a full passion. Grabbing her wrists, holding her body against his own as she twisted and raged to be set free. He shifted as he felt his cock respond to his wayward, highly unprofessional thoughts. The fabric of his uniform trousers became painful as it pinched and confined his thick shaft.
Michael rose to his full height, uncaring if she saw the evidence of his arousal. Placing his two fists on his desk, he leaned in close. Christ. Towering over her, he could just glimpse the soft swell of her breasts through her open neckline, could smell the sweet floral scent of her perfume.
Without another thought, he ground out, “Who looks like she should be bent over a desk instead of behind one.”
The tense atmosphere in the room froze in stunned suspension.
There, that should do it, thought Michael. She would sashay her gorgeous hips out of his office and back to wherever she came from. He felt a pang of remorse but it was for the best. He needed to focus on finding a murderer, not watching over the next possible victim.
There was just something about this particular woman. He felt like a marauding conqueror. The crude antecedents of his chosen profession. The men who went into battle and took what they wanted as spoils of war. Tossing a woman over his shoulder with a shout to his compatriots, ‘this one is mine!’ Michael clenched his jaw to prevent those very words from escaping his lips.
She slowly rose to her feet. Her pert little nose reached just below his jaw. Tilting her head back, she stormed, “How dare you say that to me? I am more than capable of leading a class of rowdy men, as you say, you… you… sexist… soldier!”
He responded out of habit. “Marine.”
“What?” she asked, hands on hips. Her stance radiated righteous indignation. Her cheekbones were tinged with pink as her breath came in quick, angry gasps. Her green eyes were flashing. As he suspected, she was even more beautiful when she was in a rage. So much so that Michael was having a hard time regretting the rash words which antagonized her.
Leaning in closer, only the span of the desk protecting her from the full force of his body, the full force of his cock, he breathed almost against her mouth, “I said, I’m a Marine, babygirl, not a soldier.”
He watched her lids lower to gaze at his mouth. Her tiny pink tongue caressed her lower lip, wetting it. Her gaze became liquid and unfocused. It was good to know he wasn’t the only one feeling the pull of desire.
“What… what’s the difference?” she whispered, her sweet, peppermint breath taunting him.
“Come a little closer and I’ll show you.”
Michael watched her sway slightly toward him at his command before giving herself a mental shake. Smoothing her hands down her skirt, he watched as she picked up her purse, holding it before her like a shield, and took a step back.
“Are you refusing me the position? Because I’m sure the members of the board who hired me would have a different opinion about that.”
He bit his own tongue before replying that he wouldn’t refuse her any position she liked.
Fuck. He needed as much autonomy here as possible. The last thing he needed was intervention from the board, many of whom did not know the real reason why he was chosen for the position, even if he was acting in the best interests of the primly sexy Professor Phoebe’s safety.
“No,” he responded through clenched teeth. “I’m not.”
Phoebe nodded her head as she took another step back.
Michael straightened his back. His fists still clenched as he was forced to watch her retreat from him.
“Very well. Then I look forward to proving you wrong. Good day, Mr.—”
“It’s Lieutenant Colonel Michael Lawson but you’ll call me Commander.” His voice rang with dark authority for now. Already vowing to hear those lips scream his name before the week was out. By the spark in her eye, he knew she hadn’t missed the unspoken promise behind his order.
“Good day....” she paused. +-
He watched her lips open to address him as he bid. To recognize his authority over her, to command her.
“Good day,” she said in a rush before turning and fleeing his office.
He was right. She had an amazing ass, and he was completely fucked.
At the very least, she just banished any concern he may have had for academy life competing with the excitement of battle.
Professor Phoebe Pringle may have just won this skirmish, but he was going to win the war and claim his prize.
Chapter 4
Phoebe walked in a daze behind the secretary, a Mrs. Lintz or Luds or something, as she showed Phoebe to her quarters. Most of the teaching staff stayed on campus in rooms similar to the dorm during term. It was tradition, droned on Mrs. L-something as she chatted about Phoebe needing to fill out some final paperwork and made more pronouncements on tradition and the way things were done at the school.
Phoebe barely missed crashing into the woman’s back when she stopped in front of a heavy wooden door with a worn brass handle.
“Here you are, Professor Pringle.”
“Call me Phoebe, please.”
“No. It’s tradition to call staff by their formal titles, Professor Pringle.”
“Thank you, Mrs.…” said Phoebe genially as she held out her hand.
“Mrs. Ludtz,” responded the woman crisply, disdainfully ignoring Phoebe’s outstretched hand.
“Thank you, Mrs. Ludtz.”
Phoebe took the woman’s measure. Her severe demeanor and abrupt, judgmental way of talking gave the impression she was much older. Yet, upon closer inspection, Phoebe wouldn’t put the woman past forty-five years old. Of course, the tight bun, bulky cardigan and serviceable shoes didn’t help, thought Phoebe. Perhaps if the woman warmed to her, she would recommend a fun makeover. Phoebe always felt that a fabulous pair of shoes and the right shade of lipstick did wonders for a girl’s outlook on life.
Mrs. Ludtz’s sharp voice interrupted Phoebe’s musings. “I have left a copy of your schedule and
a map of the school grounds on your desk for you. Classes are over for the day but begin promptly at 8:00 am tomorrow. You have a meeting with the English Department head at 7:00 am. Most of the female staff are more mature and married, so, of course, they live off campus, so you are the only one housed here for the moment.” The censure in the woman’s voice was unmistakable.
It was with relief that Phoebe closed the door behind the disagreeable woman and leaned on it. Kicking off her high heels, she took two steps and face-planted onto the small, neatly-made twin bed. After a moment, she turned onto her back and stared sightlessly up at the ceiling.
What the hell had just happened?
Never in her life had she been spoken to that way. She honestly didn’t think men still spoke to women like… like…that!
Good God!
The worse part of it all was instead of it causing a call to arms from her inner feminine warrior it had made her feel, well, warm. Hot, really.
Good God!
And the way the man looked. She honestly didn’t think men looked like… like… that!
He was a marble statue of a Roman centurion come to life. All chiseled jaw and harsh, beautiful angles. Those strong shoulders! The way he looked in his blue uniform. His short haircut only emphasized his high cheekbones and beautiful, deep blue eyes. And when he spoke, his voice was dark and commanding, as if he was used to everyone in the room standing there just waiting to obey his every utterance.
He was arrogant. Condescending. An ass. A sexist Marine.
He was also tall. And handsome. And…sexy as fuck. The kind of man who grabbed you by the hair to tilt your head back for a kiss. Who took what he wanted without asking.
Good God. She was fucked.
Phoebe gave herself another mental shake. No. She had an assignment to complete. The owner of the newspaper was watching her on this one. She needed to stay focused. She needed to remember why she was here.
She needed to stay far away from Lieutenant Colonel Michael Lawson.
Phoebe surveyed the room. She had interviewed people in prison who’d had a cozier cell than this. The room was spartan to say the least, containing only the bare necessities. The room looked to be as old as the university itself. Even the windows had that distorted wobble of turn-of-the-century glass. Apparently, even the teachers were subjected to rigid military conditions.
Ah, well. At least it had a private bathroom and shower and it was only for a week or two, enough time for her to poke around and see what she could learn about the suspicious deaths without rousing suspicion herself.
Now that she had passed the first crucial test and was accepted as an assistant professor, it was time to tackle the gruesome task of looking through the files Henry had provided. They contained information and photos of the women as well as the autopsy reports and photos. Phoebe had delayed doing this necessary part until she was certain she could infiltrate the school. No point in upsetting herself if, in the end, she couldn’t write the story.
Sitting cross-legged on the bed, Phoebe opened her laptop and took out the two files on the murdered women.
Opening the first one, she was startled to see a striking resemblance to herself.
Ms. Annie Porter had honey blonde hair and favored red lipstick judging by both her photo in the file as well as the social media profile that was still up and that Phoebe was flipping through. She’d been only twenty years old and the girlfriend of one of the midshipmen when she was found naked and strangled. According to the autopsy report, there was nothing sexual about her murder. As Phoebe continued to read, her hand flew to her mouth in shock. Oh God!
Phoebe quickly grabbed the other file. Again noticing a strong resemblance to her own features, she flipped to the autopsy report for Mary Bruen, the professor she had just replaced. It had the same horrible note.
Both women had been strangled.
Both were found naked with a strange, somewhat satanic symbol carved into their chests.
Neither was sexually assaulted.
Both had their livers removed; the organs were not recovered at the scene.
Phoebe shuddered as images of every Jack the Ripper documentary she had ever seen plagued her.
It was one thing to report on a murder.
It was another when both women bore an uncomfortable resemblance to yourself, and yet quite another when it was assumed the murderer carved out and ate each woman’s liver!
She needed a break, and a stiff drink.
Putting aside her own research for the night, Phoebe looked her schedule over and started to jot down some notes for a lesson plan. She would have to play the game of being Professor Pringle if she wanted to last long enough to find out the truth about the deaths of those two poor women! And the thought that word would get back to Michael about what an amazing, competent teacher she was didn’t even cross her mind… nope… not even once.
After working late into the night, Phoebe stripped off her clothes and finally fell on top of the bed, dressed only in her panties, too exhausted to put on pajamas. Sleep did not come easily though. Visions of a tall, uniformed Marine forcing her to bend over his desk swam before her eyes. She bit her lip and moaned as she imagined him tearing her skirt off and kicking her feet wide to position his own hips behind her. She could hear the sound of him lowering his zipper as if he were really in the room. Her hand drifted across her flat stomach to rest between her thighs. Dipping her fingers beneath the edge of her panties, she raised her knees up. She imagined the scrape from the fabric of his uniform against her soft skin as he stepped closer. The feel of his large, warm hands on her hips as he held her down. Could feel the press of his cock against her pussy.
Phoebe’s fingers moved in swift circles over her clit. Faster and faster. Increasing the pressure. Her hips rising off the bed.
He thrust forward. Impaling her. So thick and big she cried out from the pain of the intrusion.
Phoebe squeezed her eyes closed as she let out a soft keen in the silent room. Coming to the thought of Michael forcing himself on her.
Lowering her hips, she haphazardly tossed a corner of the blanket over her body, thoughts of an arrogant Marine lulling her into a restive sleep.
Phoebe sat up in bed, looking about the quiet, unfamiliar room, unsure of what had just woken her.
She stopped to listen.
Nothing.
Conscious of her undressed state, she reached over to her open suitcase and grabbed a pair of yoga pants and a T-shirt. Slipping them on, feeling more secure, she turned to burrow under the covers.
There it was again.
The sound of approaching footsteps just outside her door. A heavy footfall. She glanced at her phone. Three am. She could see through the shaft of light under the door that someone was standing just outside.
Waiting.
Phoebe held her breath.
Her eyes grew wide as the doorknob slowly turned. Then stopped.
Thank God she had remembered to lock the door.
The footsteps paced away, only to return again.
This time whoever it was rattled the doorknob angrily. The door itself shook.
Phoebe covered her mouth to prevent a scream from escaping.
Who the hell was trying to get into her room? Mrs. Ludtz had made it clear she was the only person down this particular hallway. After studying the map, she had learned the male students were housed in a completely different building across campus.
Could it be Michael, she thought wildly.
Fantasy was one thing, but she wasn’t prepared for matching wits, and other things, with him just now.
Just as she was about to risk yelling ‘go away,’ the person stormed off.
Phoebe wrapped the thin blanket from the bed around her shoulders and sat against the headboard.
So much for sleeping, she thought as her eyes stayed focused on the door.
Standing up on shaking legs, she slowly made her way to the door. She stopped and unplugged the bedside lamp and held
it up like a weapon. Stepping closer, she pressed her ear to the wood panel and listened intently. There wasn’t a sound. Unclenching her left fist, she reached for the doorknob. Twisting the lock, she threw the door open quickly while taking a defensive step back, raising the lamp high and at the ready.
The hallway was empty.
Placing her hand on the door to steady her shaking limbs, she poked her head out and looked left and right. Nothing.
It was then she became aware her hand was sticky and wet. Pulling it off the door, she looked down.
Her hand was covered in what looked like blood.
Crying out, she fell back against the wall. Holding her hand up to the light in the hallway, she examined it more closely. The sticky substance on her palm was a bright red. Phoebe sniffed the air.
It was blood.
She then turned her attention to the door. The image was smeared, probably because it was painted in haste, but unmistakable. It was a satanic symbol. The same image that had been carved into the chests of both murdered women. A crude, simplistic image of a goat over a pentagram.
It was an unmistakable warning.
Swallowing the bile in her throat, Phoebe quickly wet a towel and cleaned off the symbol. She couldn’t risk raising an alarm on campus. The commander already wanted her gone. This would give him the perfect excuse to force her to leave. No, she would tell no one. This only proved she was on to something. Phoebe was determined to see her investigation through.
When she was finished, she closed the door, this time throwing the small deadbolt lock as well.
Undaunted, Phoebe walked into her classroom at a quarter to eight the next morning. It was a pleasant, cozy room. Something straight out of Dead Poet’s Society with its dusty old bookshelves and lattice window overlooking a slightly overgrown courtyard. She loved it. It made her feel like she should be wearing tweed and smoking a pipe.
The meeting with the department head had gone surprisingly well. Professor Jones was a short, pleasant man who was shockingly candid.
