In the Midnight Hour (8 page)

“I’m too busy. I’m graduating in two months.”

“You hope you’re graduating in two months.”

“Very funny. I am graduating. Guidry can’t fail me when I ace his term paper, and I will. I’ve got the best topic in the class, and I’ve already done a ton of research. I’ll get my diploma, then it’s full-time at some prestigious accounting firm, maybe even Burns & Anderson in New Orleans, and hello to the rest of my life. I’ll take the CPA exam next year, then start my own firm.”

“At that pace, you’ll wind up being a thirty-four-year-old virgin instead of a twenty-six-year-old one.”

“Thanks a lot.”

“You need to go for the gusto while you’re young. Get a little experience. You don’t have to marry the guy, or even like him. Just play the field.”

“I can’t exactly play the field if I don’t know the rules. How to walk and talk and act …”

“To attract a guy, all you have to do is breathe.” He eyed her oversized T-shirt. “And maybe wear something a little more clingy. A bodysuit or something.”

“How about I parade around in a wet T-shirt?”

“That would do it.”

She shook her head. “Women aren’t just a pair of boobs, you know. We’ve got brains, too.”

“Yeah, but it’s not your brains we fantasize about.” When she glared, he added, “I know there’s more to a woman than her bra size. If I were picking a study partner, I’d rather know her IQ, but if I’m looking for a little mindless fun, it’s only natural I’d be influenced by a pair of double D’s.” When she punched his arm, he shrugged. “I’m just telling it like it is. Go on and ignore me if you’re happy with a life of celibacy. But from the rigid set to your shoulders and the way you’re PMSing all over the place, I don’t think you are.”

“First off, you wouldn’t know PMS if it jumped up and bit you, mister. And second, I
am
content.” Or I
used to be
, she added silently.

But then she’d never known what she’d been missing out on until her dream man had paid a little visit and given Ronnie Parrish her very first orgasm.

And that was the trouble. Now that her body had had a little taste of heaven, it wanted more. It wanted
him
.

Chapter Four

“I was very pleased with the term paper topics and have made suggestions on each proposal. Please keep my advice in mind and get to work. Projects will be due in eight weeks, on the last day of class.” Guidry slapped a stack of papers on the corner of his desk. “Please pick up your topic on the way out—and good luck.”

The class had thinned out by the time Ronnie reached Guidry’s desk. She grabbed the papers and located her name in the top corner. Pulling her paper free, she stared down at the words and her heart literally stopped beating.

“This—this isn’t my topic,” she said, shock beating at her senses as she reread the words.

“Come again?” Professor Guidry pulled off his glasses and wiped at the lenses.

“I said this isn’t my topic.”

“That is your name in the corner?”

“Well, yes.”

“And your handwriting?”

“Yes, but this isn’t the topic I wrote down. I planned to write about society’s stereotype of boys and girls and its influence on social development.” She had firsthand experience with that one.

“Quite a good topic. My personal field of interest is in sociology and its effect on sexual development.”

“I know. That’s how I came up with the topic. I’ve even done a notebook full of research already. But this…” She stared down at the paper. “I can’t do this.”

“I’ve already approved it.”

Panic twisted at her gut and forced the air from her lungs. “But it’s not mine.”

He shoved the glasses back on and glared at her. “Your little joke has backfired, Miss Parrish. You thought to make light of this class on Friday, and insult my intelligence by turning in that paper topic. But I’m calling your bluff. That’s the topic you turned in, the topic I approved, and that’s what you will write about. Unless you prefer I give you your F now.” He reached for his grade book.

“An
F
?” Her mouth dropped open. “But—but I have to pass this class. I need the credit to graduate.”

He snapped the book shut and shoved it into his briefcase. “Then I suggest you get to work.”

“But…” She stared at the sheet of paper and tried to swallow past her heart, which had jammed into her throat.

Fifty Steps to Ultimate Sexual Fulfillment
.

The words were scribbled in her handwriting, with her name on the header. But they weren’t her words. She didn’t know one step on the way to sexual fulfillment, much less fifty.

Okay, so maybe one, she amended, the dream rushing full-force through her brain. But one dream, even one as good as the one she’d had, wasn’t enough to write a twenty-page-minimum term paper, complete with a bibliography of sources. And where would a person even start to get sources for something like this?
Playboy? Penthouse?
The boys’ locker room?

“Surely you can see there’s been some mistake? I would never… I mean, I couldn’t…” She searched for words to describe the turmoil rushing through her. “I can’t do a paper on this.”

“You can and you will, Miss Parrish.”

Her gaze went from the dreaded topic to Professor Guidry, who looked about as reasonable as the IRS rep who’d visited one of her tax lectures last semester.

Not that he looked like the fifty-something auditor. No thinning hair or paunchy middle. Guidry was tall, at least six-two, and not a day over thirty. One of the youngest professors at USL, she’d read in some article the campus newspaper had done on him. But he looked forty, with his glasses and navy tie, and acted fifty, with the chip on his shoulder the size of a boulder.

If he loosened up, lost the glasses and the anal look that forever carved his features, he wouldn’t be so bad. He had classic Creole coloring and a head full of thick black hair that would have curled around his ears if given the chance. As it was, Guidry slicked back every strand with some atrocious hair gel. No hair fell forward into his nearly black eyes to clutter his thinking, or to give even a touch of softness to his stern face.

Okay, so it would take more than contact lenses and a new hairdo. Guidry needed a makeover from the inside out, starting with a new heart to replace the one he had. Or didn’t have.

“Sir.” Her lips trembled as she fought back the tears blurring her vision. “Please. I just can’t do this topic.”

Her pleading met with a black glare. “You should have thought about that before you tried to make light of this course and this assignment. You know, I expected more from a mature woman like yourself, Miss Parrish. You’re a senior, not to mention you’re an older senior, by university standards, and you’ve got several years on most of the freshmen in this class. I am severely disappointed. I don’t care for practical jokes, particularly when they’re directed at my life’s work.”

“But I didn’t—”

“You did, and how you must deal with the repercussions. This is the topic you submitted, this is the one I approved. End of discussion, Miss Parrish. Good day.”

He shoved his clipboard and lecture notes into his briefcase and left her staring after him, her head spinning and her hands trembling around the paper.

Fifty Steps to Ultimate Sexual Fulfillment
.

What did a twenty-six-year-old virgin know about sexual fulfillment? Sure, she’d kissed a few guys, and she’d nearly married one, but Raymond had always acted the perfect gentleman. Other than chaste kisses, a little hand-holding, and a few lustful stares, he’d been content to wait for the honeymoon to start planting seeds for his family.
Their
family.

The realization of what Ronnie had been about to get herself into had hit her as she’d stood so virginal and proper at the altar nearly eight years ago.

Her future had flashed before her eyes as the minister had read the sacred vows that would forever tie her to Raymond Cormier, a man she didn’t love even though he was one of her father’s most devout supporters. Ronnie had opened her mouth to say “I do” and instead had blurted out, “No.”

Forever was … well, it was
forever
.

She’d already spent her entire life being the dutiful daughter, learning to cook, playing piano, and always acting the little lady—so sweet and proper and demure. She wasn’t about to spend till-death-do-us-part being the dutiful wife—making dinner instead of money, having babies instead of a career.

Women could do more, be more, want more, and Ronnie did. She wanted a career, and that meant she had to ace this class.

She took a deep breath.
You can do this. You’ve beaten the odds, hung in for eight long, money-scarce years. Just toughen up and do it
.

Straightening her shoulders, Ronnie marched from the lecture hall, down the corridor—and straight into Mr. Jailhouse Rock, only he’d changed into Mr. Heartbreak Hotel.

“Uh, excuse me,” she said, grasping at the books that threatened to tumble from her arms.
Here’s your chance. If you’re going to write that paper, you’d better start gaining a little experience with the opposite sex
.

Ronnie pasted on her best smile and pushed her chest up and out. “Fancy meeting you again.”

“What?” He didn’t even glance at her chest.

“I’ve seen you before. At the intersection, and the library.” She tried batting her eyelashes. “You looked at me.”

“Did I?” he asked, shifting from one foot to the other, as if anxious to get away.

“So, do you go to school here? Are you a Ragin’ Cajun?”

“A what?”

“A football player.”

“Football?” His head jerked up. “Uh, yeah. I play a little ball. Here. Yeah, right here.”

“I knew you were a jock.” And a cute one, and probably very experienced. The cute ones usually were. “I’m an accounting major.” She expected a response. Instead, he shifted again and stared past her.

Get out while the getting is good
. Delta’s favorite saying raced through her mind. This was useless, futile. She’d spent the past eight years learning about cost accounting and tax credits instead of cultivating her womanly skills.

She’d buried them beneath her ambition. Too deep to dig them up now—

No. She could do this. She was a doer.

She ignored the nerves beating at her senses.
Stay calm and say something
.… “You have really great eyes.”

“Uh, contacts. Gotta go.”

“Maybe we could have coffee.”

“Never touch the stuff when I’m in training.”

“But football season’s over—”

“Later.” He darted past her and disappeared around the corner. No backwards glance. No “Nice talking to you.” Nothing except the frantic slide of boots on the walkway as he practically tripped over his feet to get away from her.

Fifty Steps to Ultimate Sexual Fulfillment
.

She was in trouble. Big, big trouble.

Ronnie’s weekdays usually passed in a hustling blur, but not today. The hours crawled by slower than molasses on ice cream. Monday was lecture day in her other two classes. So she spent the next couple of hours taking notes in a freezing lecture hall and watching the clock. Then the two Landrys of Landry & Landry were out of the office for a meeting and the phones were unusually slow. The campus library was practically a morgue.

Ronnie spent the entire day going over and over in her mind what had happened that morning with Guidry and her failed attempt at bagging herself a date for some measley coffee.

By the time she walked into her apartment building just after eleven that night, she had a major headache and an upset stomach.

“Ronnie. Oh, thank God you’re here.” Mr. Weatherby, the old man who lived down the hall, rushed toward her, a fluffy orange cat in his arms. “Pringles is sick and I have to run to the all-night animal hospital to pick up some medication for her. Can you look after her until I get back?”

Just what she needed to top off her day. The cat from hell.

Was someone Upstairs trying to tell her something?

That maybe her father had been right and she should have stuck to making babies and keeping house instead of a career?

The cat made a sick mewing noise and Mr. Weatherby stroked the feline’s head. “There, there, sweetheart. Daddy knows it hurts but he’s going to get you some medicine to make it all better. You can stay with Aunt Ronnie in the meantime.” He stared hopefully.

Ronnie sighed, dropped her book bag at the door, and held out her arms. “Oh, all right.”

“Thank you so much, dear.” Mr. Weatherby beamed. “I should be back within the hour.”

Fifteen minutes later, Ronnie had settled down on her bed, the almost full bottle of champagne from last night cradled in her lap. Desperate times called for desperate measures, and she was a doer, after all. No sense moaning and groaning. Just
do it
. She tilted the bottle to her lips.

The alcohol burned down her throat and she pursed her lips. Another long swig, then another. The third drink wasn’t nearly as bad as the first. And on the fourth, a tingling warmth stole through her. The bittersweetness fingered on her tongue and she sighed.