Bad Professor (An Alpha Male Bad Boy Romance) (7 page)

I
caught the fresh, floral scent of her hair and forgot about dancing. Her dress
dipped low in the back and my thumb brushed bare skin. "Any ideas for an
article?" I asked, desperate for a coherent thought.

Clarity
smiled and starting listing possible subjects but I didn't hear a thing she
said. Her dress flowed against my legs and her easy grace smoothed over my
clumsy steps. The only lifeline I had was Clarity did not feel the same. She
talked as if there wasn't a burst of sensations every time our bodies brushed.

As
soon as the song ended, I could see Dean Dunkirk beaming. He was leading his
dance partner across the floor to join us. Clarity turned to smile at her
father and I slipped away into the crowd. I headed for the bar like a man
stumbling out of the desert.

"A
scotch, neat. Very professor-ish."

I
turned to see Jackson's wife smiling up at me. "Hello, Alice. So, Jackson
suckered you into coming."

She
nodded. "And it's been lovely. Though, I have to say, your appearance on
the dance floor might be the highlight of my night. You never once stepped foot
on the dance floor at our wedding."

"Didn't
want to show up the groom," I said.

Alice
laughed. "Well, I bet you were only tempted into dancing tonight because
of your beautiful partner. You two looked wonderful together."

The
scotch burned my throat and I coughed. "We're not together. Clarity is one
of my students; she's on the student newspaper staff."

Disappointment
sped across Alice's face like a cloud then gave way to curiosity. "How old—"

"Ah,
Ford Bauer, we keep running into each other. Who knew?"

My
spine stiffened as Barton joined us. He and Alice smiled politely at each other
and then looked at me. I cleared my throat. "Wesley Barton, meet Alice
Rumsfeld. Her husband is an English professor."

"An
English professor?" Barton asked as he kissed Alice's hand. "I hope
he recites sonnets to you."

"Only
as much as I recite the law to him," Alice laughed.

"A
lawyer. Beauty, brains, and an empty drink. Here, allow me." Barton
signaled the bartender, who left another couple waiting as he poured a second
wine for Alice.

"Thank
you, Mr. Barton."

"Please,
call me Wesley," Barton said with a warm smile.

Jackson
appeared before anyone noticed my clenched fist. I considered following through
with the punch just for the hell of it, but remembered both my department head
and the college president were present.

"Wesley
Barton, this is my husband," Alice said. She threaded an arm through
Jackson's and leaned into him.

Next
to Alice's slim and compact figure, Jackson was too tall and gangly. Barton
gave him a sardonic smile. "Nice to see you again, professor."

"Why
are you here?" I asked.

Everyone
blinked but Barton recovered in two seconds. "My friend, Michael Tailor,
has a son starting here next year and I'm always willing to help a good
cause."

"Does
he have a nephew that plays football? Brian Tailor?" Jackson asked.

I
scowled, wishing the conversation would end so I could get my friends far away
from Barton. "The running back," I said.

Barton
cocked an eyebrow at me. "You really do notice everything, eh,
Bauer?" He smiled at Alice, though she had caught the grim expression of
her husband. "The Tailors have a long history with Landsman College, and
my friend makes many generous donations. Perhaps there is something the English
Department needs? Do people actually read books anymore?"

Jackson
lifted a foot to step forward but Alice steered him away. "How about a
turn around the dance floor? Still remember those lessons we took before the
wedding?" she asked her husband.

"I
need to wait for a waltz or I'm lost," Jackson lied, eyeing Barton again.

Alice,
tucked under her tall husband's arm, pulled him off balance so he had to move. "Too
bad Ford's pretty partner is gone, otherwise they could show you how it's
done."

"Dancing
with a pretty partner?" Barton turned his narrow gaze on me. "And
here I thought you were all work, work, work. Which lovely lady is it?"

 
"Back off, Barton," I snarled as
soon as Jackson and Alice were out of earshot. "You've got a lot of nerve
coming up to me here and acting as if everything is fine between us."

"But
it is," Barton smiled. "It was just business. Ask anyone of the
donors here: making money is a team effort and you just weren't willing to
play."

"That
bullshit doesn't make what you did right and I don't care who your friends
are," I snapped.

"Oh,
but you do. People like us run things and there is nothing you can do about
it." Barton sipped his drink and smiled at the other guests. "The truth
is that Michael's son, Junior, is dumber than a tree stump. He once almost
drowned using a beer bong. But, because of who he is and who his father knows,
he'll be accepted at Landsman College without a problem. Just wait and see. Maybe
I'll suggest he look at a career in journalism."

"Just
what you need: a reporter too dumb not to spew out the crap you pretend is the
truth." I finished my drink and walked away.

I
searched the dining hall for someone I wanted to talk to, but Jackson and Alice
were still on the dance floor. Dean Dunkirk was surrounded by alumni eager to
hear stories. It was also difficult to talk to him without feeling like I was
just as low as Wesley Barton. He entrusted me with his daughter and he treated
me like a friend. In return all I could do was fight off my growing attraction.

I
turned and saw Clarity from across the room. From the distance, her eyes were a
deep forest green that hid her thoughts. My heart pumped against my ribs as it
occurred to me she was the only person I wanted to see.

She
waited until I didn't look away and then she wove through the crowd to join me.
Our eyes were still locked as she neared, a rosy hue warming her cheeks. Then
she shook it away and put a polite smile in place.

"Do
you have any ideas for an article?" she asked. "You look so serious. Like
you overheard something big."

I
considered telling her about the string-pulling donors but thought better of
it. If I hadn't learned my lesson, I knew better than to drag Clarity into a
similar situation. "Lady's choice," I said.

Clarity
beamed. "Good because I have this great idea to write a story about the
catering. Why would Landsman College spend so much money to pay servers when
students could do it? It would be great networking for the students and a chance
for the alumni to share wisdom with them."

"Wisdom?"
I snorted.

"Fine,"
she swiped back an errant curl, "but I'm right about the networking
part."

"I
don't know. It just seems like another opportunity that would be rife with
nepotism," I said.

Clarity's
nostrils flared. "Landsman College does not have a problem with nepotism
and I don't like what you are implying."

I
held up both hands. "I'm offering the opposite viewpoint to make your core
claims stronger. How about the fact that alumni and donors may not be able to
relax and enjoy the bar as easily with students watching?"

Clarity
put a hand on her hip and pointed the other at my chest. "Are you speaking
for the faculty or for yourself personally?"

"I
could use a drink. And I pride myself on treating my students as adults, not
children," I said.

"That's
the spirit I think this event could capture. Maybe students should be allowed
to raise enough money to attend themselves. Different groups of students could
band together and build up interest in specific funding." Clarity’s eyes
shone.

Her
enthusiasm made me smile. "Are you telling me you'd trade looking gorgeous
in that dress for black pants and a white button-down shirt?"

She
stopped and blinked. "Gorgeous?"

I
felt a flash of heat rise to my ears. "I find it hard to believe you've
never heard that before."

Clarity
couldn't meet my eyes. "Um, thank you. You look very handsome
tonight."

My
burst of laughter cooled the conversation. "I wasn't fishing for a
compliment, Ms. Dunkirk. Are you going to get all stutter-y if I tell you I
like your story idea? Why don't you run it by some of your father's friends and
see if you can get some quotes."

Her
brow furrowed, but the polite smile slipped back into place. "Sure thing,
Professor Bauer."

I
stopped a passing server. "I'll tip you directly if you bring me a
scotch." The server nodded and I shook my head. That was definitely not
something I would say to a student.

Then
again, I wouldn't normally compliment a female student on her looks. No matter
how innocent it was intended to be, that just begged for problems.

I
looked down at my scuffed shoes. My problem was the compliment had popped out
of its own accord. Clarity had a way of eliciting responses from my brain and
body that were not in any way appropriate.

That
made me angry. In any other room, in any other place, she would just be an
attractive young woman. Her maturity set her apart from other students, and the
more times I talked to her, the more I connected with her on an intellectual
level. But no one would ever see that, they would only see an old professor
leering at a student.

Thirty-one
was not old—I was practically a baby when it came to professors—but I felt old.
I watched as Clarity joined her father in an animated and smiling conversation.
That was the biggest difference between us—she was all hope and ideals while I
was all cynicism and experience. The last thing I would wish on Clarity was a
man like me.

"What
are you scowling at?" Jackson appeared at my elbow. "Or whom? You
know, she can't help who her father is."

I
stiffened at his keen observation. "Clarity? She's lucky to have him as a
father."

Jackson
shrugged. "Yeah, I can see that. You know he raves about you, right?"

"What?"

"Dean
Dunkirk. He's always going on about how you bring realism and experience to
Landsman. The rest of us are sheltered scholars, but you've been out in the
world and really seen some things." Jackson watched me as the server
arrived with my drink.

I
took a long sip. "He keeps pushing his daughter to wander off her path and
explore a little. I'm not sure he knows how hard it can be to get back on the
straight and narrow."

Jackson
followed my eyes back to Clarity. "Maybe that's why you're his favorite. If
anyone can do that, it's you."

CHAPTER
SEVEN

Clarity

Racing
waves of
sensation rolled up my back and over my shoulders from the place where Ford's
hand had touched my bare back. My body reverberated with the awkward strength I
had felt from him on the dance floor. The masculine pull of his body during the
waltz still tugged at me and my eyes sought him out again.

He
stood with a colleague, an English professor, across the dining hall and I
wished we were anywhere but Landsman College. In any neighborhood, in any city,
our age difference would not be an issue and I wouldn't feel the bonds of an honor
code strangling my natural responses to him.

My
stomach warmed with a hunger to be near him again, but Ford was doing his best
to avoid me. He had practically run off the dance floor. My cheeks burned with
the thought that he had felt my attraction and dismissed it with distance, but
my heart wondered if maybe he felt the same.

If
only we had met in some big, anonymous city. I played over the cocktail party
in my mind, an urban skyline replacing the manicured lawns and fall leaves of
Landsman College.

"Having
fun?" Thomas popped out of the crowd in front of me.

I
clapped a hand over my chest as the fantasy shattered. "Sure, yeah, I
guess," I said.

"I'm
sorry we couldn't be partners. I tried," Thomas' smile was crooked.

"I
thought Ford, I mean, Professor Bauer chose them at random."

Thomas
scrubbed a hand over his opposite shoulder. "Yeah, but we would have
written a great article. Don't you think?"

I
shrugged. "What did you and Allison come up with?"

"She
thinks the silent auction should include eco-friendlier items in order to raise
awareness of global warming." Thomas crinkled his nose.

"That's
a good way to spin the assignment to something you think is important." I
shifted so I could see Ford again across the dance floor. He was heading out
the door and my thoughts stumbled.

Thomas
followed my gaze. "Professor Ford wants everyone to meet in the foyer so
we can compare story ideas and make sure we're not overlapping."

"Oh,
god, I was supposed to mingle with my father and get quotes from alumni for our
story idea." I clutched my champagne flute with both hands. All I had done
was stand in the corner and daydream.

Thomas
brightened. "That's okay, I'll stay with you if you want. We can hear what
Professor Bauer has to say then come back in here and try to have some
fun."

I
threaded my way through the crowd with Thomas close on my heels. "I
haven't even come up with a good lead. I don't even really have my opinion
fully formed. Oh, my god, I hope this assignment isn't due soon."

"Don't
worry, I'll help," Thomas said.

"No,
that's okay, you have your own article to write and it looks like Allison is
waiting for you," I pointed to our classmate.

Thomas
took one look at Allison and crinkled his nose at her hopeful smile. Then he
grabbed my arm and steered me to the opposite side of the door. I couldn't
dodge around a tall table without wrenching my arm away from him and making a
scene, so I found a spot in the corner and turned on him.

"Thomas,
what has gotten into you?" I asked.

"Sorry,
Clarity, I just wanted, I just thought we could take a second." He looked
around in panic and then snagged a wilting rose from the centerpiece of the
tall table. "I just wanted to know if—"

"Are
you two coming?" Ford appeared behind Thomas. The college kid shrank
despite their almost equal height. "Sorry, did I interrupt
something?"

"No,
we were just on our way to the class meeting." I stepped around Thomas and
caught Ford's sleeve. "I haven't gotten any quotes from people."

He
patted my hand. "That's alright, we don't want to bury our own opinions
for this assignment. Op-eds are a vital part of a student newspaper."

He
shrugged off my touch and the bubble in my chest deflated. I followed Ford out
to the foyer and Thomas trailed after us. "But op-eds very rarely share a
byline. Shouldn't we be sticking to the assignment like everyone else?"

"Why
don't you let me check in with the other students and see where we all stand,
Ms. Dunkirk," Ford said. The blue in his eyes was hidden under a shade of
hard gray. "Unless you have further issues with this assignment, can I
address the newspaper staff?"

The
push and pull of Ford made me step carefully. I stood on the opposite side of
the circle from him, arms crossed. Each brush of his eyes called up sparks that
his serious expression extinguished. My early fantasy cooled and hardened as he
clearly regarded me as just another student.

As
he talked, I suddenly couldn't take it. "Shouldn't this have been an
individual assignment in order to get the best variety of opinions and ideas? You
could have asked us each to find a topic and then assigned partners after the
most compelling stories were chosen," I said.

Ford's
gray eyes flashed over me again. "Ms. Dunkirk, I think you'll find, in the
real world, editors very rarely tell you what to write. Yes, there are
expectations, but if you cannot discover those and cater to them, your articles
will not be included."

"But
you've told us to write a co-authored piece," I snapped.

"In
order to facilitate your learning. Is that something you are still interested
in, Ms. Dunkirk?"

When
the quick meeting broke up, Thomas leaned in to nudge my shoulder. "I'll
stay if you still want to get those quotes," he said.

"Clarity,"
Ford strode across the dispersing circle. "If we're done discussing
tonight's assignment, I have that feedback you asked for."

"My
story?" I asked. "Yes, I'd like to see what you thought."

"It's
in my office, if you're interested." Ford said. He gestured towards the
doors and I went with him.

 
The cool air after a formal event always felt
freeing, but tonight it only whipped up a stir of nerves. I shivered.

"Did
you have a coat?" Ford asked.

"No,
there was valet parking," I said.

He
unbuttoned his tuxedo jacket and slipped it around my shoulders. I tried to
protest but he shook his head. "It's a rental, might as well get some good
use out of it."

Ford's
spicy musk surrounded me and I breathed deep. Feeling his amused attention on
me, I tried to recover myself. "I love the smell of autumn, all the leaves
and wood smoke."

He
nodded. "You know, I don't mind typing up my comments if you send me it."

Fear
gripped me. "You didn't like it. I knew it was a frivolous waste of time,
but it felt like I just had to get it out." I wrapped his coat tighter
around me and shuffled my high heels through the dried leaves.

Ford
laughed. "Spoken like a true writer. All I meant was I could save you a
trip."

"Thanks,"
I glanced at him, "but it was nice to have an excuse to leave."

It
sounded innocent, but echoes of other thoughts loudly contradicted me inside my
head. Ford's dark hair curled over the crisp collar of the white tuxedo shirt
and my fingers itched to sweep it clear. To tangle my hands in the hair at the
back of his neck, that neck that already showed dark stubble. I wondered what
it would feel like against my cheek, the bare skin of my arm.

I
shivered again and Ford jumped ahead to open the door of Thompson Hall. "One
nice thing about a top floor office is that it's always hot," he joked.

His
narrow office was so warm that I immediately shed his tuxedo jacket and slipped
it onto the hanger I found on his couch. Ford opened the small, ivy-covered
window and let in a soft, autumn breeze to cool us.

"So
you really liked it? You're not just being nice to me?" I asked.

Ford
tossed me the short story and leaned against his desk. It took a moment before
I could tear my eyes from the shirt that was tight against his muscles when he
crossed his arms.

"I
loved it," he said.

The
words sent a honeyed delight over my body until I looked down at the pages. "There's
so much red ink. Oh, my god, it's like a blood bath."

Ford
chuckled as I sank onto the small sofa in his office. He stepped over and sat
on the arm next to me. "Don't let that get you down. Most of my comments
are about structure and clearing out the extra images. Your writing itself is
impressive."

I
gripped the pages and pored over each mark. Ford cleared his throat and went to
reopen his office door. The breeze made it waver closed again, so he leaned against
it. The faint light from the hallway cast him into silhouette and I realized
neither of us had bothered to turn on more than the small desk lamp.

In
the dim light, he could still read my expression and chuckled again. "You
have to think of all criticism as constructive or it'll sink you," he
said.

"Do
you mind going over it with me? I'm not sure I can interpret all of this as
positive unless you explain it," I said.

Ford
pushed off the office door and went to one of the sparsely occupied shelves. He
pulled a bottle of scotch from behind a wide textbook. "Would my comments
go down better with a drink?" he asked.

I
shook my head. "I had champagne at the event," I confessed.

He
smiled at me, then pried his eyes away and poured an extra finger of scotch. I
tugged my thin dress strap back into place and wished the breeze would blow
through the open window again. His office was getting warm.

"You
seem used to events like that. Does your father make you go with him a
lot?" Ford asked.

I
looked up from the pages of my short story and met his eyes. In the dim light,
the gray was shifting to a deeper, fathomless blue. "You don't like events
like that, do you?"

"The
event's fine, I just have a problem with a lot of the people there," Ford
said.

I
shrugged and my dress strap slipped again. "My father is great at those
events. Maybe knowing how to schmooze is an inherited trait."

Ford
finished his drink and settled onto the arm of the sofa next to me again. His
fingers plucked m,y errant strap and tugged it back in place. "You
inherited that but not your father's passion for creativity in everyday
life?" he asked.

My
breath faltered. His fingers had left a brand on my bare skin, one that my body
believed only his touch could sooth. "Creative expression has its place
but, no, I think practicality should take precedent in everyday life."

Ford
reached for the tendrils of hair escaping my messy chignon then pulled back. He
rose and tossed himself into his creaky, old desk chair and kicked his feet up.
"You know, I think I might be starting to agree with your father. You are
too practical. You know college is supposed to be a time to explore,
right?"

I
shoved away the blazing thoughts of what I wanted to explore. "Is that
what you did?"

He
shook his head. "I enlisted straight out of high school and had the Army
pay for my education."

"So
you were practical too," I said.

Ford
trailed his eyes up to my face and I realized how primly I was perched. "You
know it's possible to be both. Like Hemingway," he said. He nodded towards
the skeleton selection on his shelves. "Top, middle shelf.",

I
stood up, the swirl of my long black dress and the appreciative focus of his
eyes like a caress against my sensitive skin. I hoped he didn't see the trail
of grazed goosebumps. I had never felt a man's eyes on my body with such
pleasure.,

I
wanted to linger along the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves but the book was easy
to find. "Did you just move offices or something?" I asked.

Ford
snorted. "I guess I'm just not your stereotypical professor."

My
mind backtracked and played that thought over again. Ford was not a
stereotypical professor. Maybe that was why I was having trouble thinking of
him as off-limits. He was relatively young for a professor, more closely
connected to a vocation than scholarly studies. Ford was also unmarried,
single, and devastatingly handsome.,

I
was not the only student that thought about him, and that was a fact. My female
classmates, and a few of the men, commented on his effortless attractiveness
almost every day.

"Have
you ever read
A Moveable Feast
? It's Hemingway's reminiscing about
starting out as a writer in Paris." Ford continued to lounge in his office
chair.

I
blocked out the thousand nagging voices of my body that urged me to test the
muscles of his thighs by falling into his lap or taste the potent scotch flavor
that must have lingered on his lips.