Just Like a Man (13 page)

But there were threads of silver woven through his black hair, and faint lines of paler skin fanned out from his eyes and bracketed his mouth, alleviating a little of the darkness. Instead of detracting from his looks, however, the signs of age only made him seem that much more experienced, that much more potent. Even though the man wasn't young—he probably had almost two decades on Selby—he didn't seem middle-aged, either. Nevertheless, he carried himself as someone who had seen a lot of the world. But he didn't appear to have liked much of what he'd seen, since he scowled at her by way of a greeting.

And then he demanded, in a rough, coarse—and, she couldn't help thinking again,
dark
—voice, "Am I late?"

He was, but Selby sure wasn't going to be the one who told him that. In fact, she shook her head hard enough to send her chin-length black tresses skirting along her jawline. "No, not yet," she told him. "Please. Come in. Sit down."

And with any luck at all, she might even be able to come up with a few words that contained more than one syllable. That would be oh-so-helpful for the language arts segment of her show.

But he didn't move to take a seat, only remained standing in place for a moment, all his weight shifted to his left foot, his hip thrust impudently to the side. He gazed at Selby for a moment in silence, driving his gaze from the top of her head to the toe of her shoe, feeling, evidently, not one iota of self-consciousness at making so thorough a survey of her person. And he did make a survey of her person. Although she was seated, she hadn't pulled herself up to the desk much, and suddenly, for some reason, her plaid skirt and white shirt felt ridiculously indecent. Which was crazy, because what man in his right mind would be turned on by an outfit like hers, complete with black cable tights and updated Mary Janes?

Okay, so maybe a lot of men would be turned on by that, she thought, recalling some of the questionable reading material—as if anyone
read
that kind of magazine—she used to find wedged beneath the mattresses and box springs of her brothers' beds when she'd had to change the sheets. Men who suffered from arrested development. Men who still had to curb a giggle whenever they heard the word
nipple.
Which, in her opinion, pretty much included anyone with a Y chromosome, regardless of his age.

But this man didn't seem to suffer from arrested anything, and something told her he'd know
exactly
what to do with any nipple he might have the privilege of encountering, and it
didn't
involve laughing.

She felt herself blush at such uncharacteristic thoughts and glanced away. Or maybe she was blushing—not to mention glancing away—because of his frank appraisal of her. At this point, both her thoughts and her nerves were so frazzled, Selby could scarcely remember her own name. She had to be frazzled, she thought. Otherwise, why would she find herself worried that she had come up lacking in his evaluation of her?

"Please take a seat," she told the man, hoping he didn't hear the quaver in her voice that she felt.

"Yes, ma'am," he said readily.

But there was something mocking in his tone, something that sounded vaguely like amusement. And if there was one thing Selby hated, it was being an amusement to someone. So she clamped her jaw tight and waited for the man to cross the room and find an unoccupied desk, of which there were plenty left. And once he was seated, with his black leather jacket slung over the desk beside him, and his long, long, denim-clad legs stretched out before him, and his sinewy arms folded over his broad chest—not that Selby noticed, mind you—she went to work.

"Hello," she started off, congratulating herself for being able to voice the greeting with nary a quaver to be heard. "I'm Ms. Hudson. Welcome to adult returning education. I'll be your teacher every Monday and Thursday evening, from six until nine, for the next six months. During that time, we'll cover language arts, mathematics, science, and everything else you studied in high school but were never able to finish. By the end of the program, if you all work hard and take your studies seriously, you'll earn your high school diplomas. But we have a lot to cover before then, so let's get started now by calling roll."

Strangely, as Selby called roll, she realized that all of the people in her class were traveling incognito. Dame Edna was posing as someone named Doreen, Baby Jane was trying to pass herself off as a woman named Robin, and Winston Churchill was claiming his name was Bruno. As if. And on down the line it went, until she reached the end. But of all the dubious names she called, Number Thirteen's was the most suspect of all. Because Marlon Brando's booted sidekick claimed the unlikely moniker of Thomas Brown. Right. As if any man who looked like he did could possibly have a name that normal and unremarkable. Obviously, he had pirated someone else's identity. Obviously, he was hiding from the authorities. Obviously, she should keep an eye on him. Obviously, she should install a metal detector at her classroom door. Between him and Norman Bates, who insisted
his
name was John Smith—oh,
sure
—it could prove a wise move.

Still, once Selby went into teacher mode, everything moved smoothly. Even though she had just received her M.Ed, the previous spring, she was comfortable as a teacher.

It was what she had always wanted to be, what she had worked so hard to become, and she was suited to it. As long as she was teaching, she felt good about herself. She felt smart. Talented. Capable. Valuable. All the things she had always been told she wasn't.

Class was winding down when Harmless Guy, who hadn't spoken a word since roll call, raised his hand. Selby settled her chalk—which had grown stubby from use over the past few hours—into the tray beneath a blackboard covered with everything from sentence diagramming to algebraic rules to the molecular structure of table salt, since she had decided to use her first class as an introduction to everything they'd be studying in the coming weeks. Then she lifted a hand toward Harmless Guy and said, "Yes? Do you have a question?"

"Will we be covering history, too? Because I'm kind of a World War Two buff, and I really think society has been misled about Hitler. He did some really wonderful things for the twentieth century."

Selby bit the inside of her jaw as she digested that. Hoo-kay, so Harmless Guy was actually Hermann Goering. At least she'd had his initials right.

"I'm sorry, and your name again?" Selby asked, approaching her desk to scan her list of names when she realized she didn't remember his.

"Herman," Harmless Guy said in what she now realized was a vaguely foreign accent.

Selby narrowed her eyes at him. "Herman?"

"O'Malley," he finished.

Oh, sure,
Selby thought. Aloud, however, she said, "Yes, we'll be covering history, as well, Mr.
O'Malley.
For this first part of the session, though, we'll focus on the big three—language arts, math, and science. Okay, people," she added with a weary sigh. "That's it for tonight's lesson. For homework, let's see…"

Selby flipped through her notes and assigned the necessary lessons, then dismissed her class and began to gather up her things. She took a few moments to jot down some notes to herself regarding Thursday's class, murmuring distracted good-byes to her students as they passed, then closed her books and began shoveling them into her satchel. When she looked up again, her thoughts were jumbled and the room was empty.

Oh.

Except for Number Thirteen, who still slouched in the desk he had occupied all evening, and who still gazed at her in the vaguely hungry way he had since his arrival.

And it occurred to Selby, too late, that maybe, just maybe, it wasn't a good idea for her to leave
after
her students.

"Was there something else you wanted?" she asked Thomas Brown—
his
name she remembered. Too well. And—again too late—she realized that maybe, just maybe, she should have phrased the question a little differently. Because Thomas Brown definitely looked like a man who wanted something else, but it was something Selby had no intention of giving him.

His response was a loose, and very predatory, smile. "As a matter of fact…" he began.

But he said nothing more than that, only smiled in a way that was even more predacious, a development that reinforced Selby's certainty that he wanted that thing she was saving for someone else, someone she hadn't met yet, granted, but someone else all the same, someone to whom it would mean something, someone who would take care of it, and cherish it, and never mistreat it at all. Someone who was the complete antithesis of Thomas Brown.

And, oh, but it would be so helpful if whoever that someone was rode in right then on a bright and brilliant steed, to sweep her up into his arms and carry her to his castle far, far away, safe from the fiery breath of this wicked, unholy dragon.

Unfortunately, it wasn't a knight in shining armor who rose to the occasion. No, it was dark and denim-clad Thomas Brown. Because he stood then. And he stretched, a long, languid stretch that seemed to harden and toughen every powerful muscle he possessed. And then he gathered his jacket and his notebook and tucked both under his arm. Then he strode forward, one… leisurely… step… after… another, the soles of his boots scraping across the floor as he approached, sounding like distant thunder predicating an awesome storm.

And all the while, he eyed Selby as if she were the tastiest morsel he'd ever seen. And all the while, Selby felt helpless to do anything but cower in her seat, as if she were a tasty morsel waiting to be devoured.

"Hey, teach," he said as he halted in front of her desk. "That was an awful lot of homework you gave us tonight. And I was kinda planning on hanging out at the soda shop for a while before going home." His words were flirtatious, harmless. His expression was anything but.

"I'm sorry if you find the workload overwhelming, Mr. Brown," Selby said. "I'm just following the curriculum."

"What happens if I don't finish it by Thursday?" he asked.

Selby forced herself to smile and hoped the gesture came out lighter than it felt. "Well, I won't send you to the principal's office, if that's what you're worried about."

"Actually, I was wondering if you'd spank me. But I wasn't worried about it. In fact, I was kind of looking forward to—"

"That's enough, Mr. Brown," Selby said coolly, wanting to make clear both her zero tolerance for come-ons and the fact that she was completely unaffected by him. Not that she really
was
unaffected by him, since something manic and hot splashed through her midsection at the mention of spanking him. But there was no reason he had to know that. "I don't appreciate comments like yours from my students. And I can have you thrown out of the program for making them." Actually, she wasn't entirely sure about that last part. But she'd do her best to make it happen if he kept it up.

He seemed stymied by her reaction, as if he hadn't expected her to be so unruffled and straightforward. As if he'd wanted her to be shocked and humiliated, and squeal her disgust like a schoolgirl.

Finally, though, "Then how about having a drink with me?" he asked. "And then I'll be more than a student, and you might receive comments like that differently."

Selby could scarcely believe the audacity of the man. "Not likely," she told him. And she managed to remain calm and direct as she added, "I repeat: I can have you removed from the program for something like this. And I will." And she was proud of herself for standing her ground, when what she really wanted to do was turn tail and run. She even stood up then, as if to punctuate the statement physically, and flattened her palms on her desktop to lean forward. She was crazy, she told herself. The man was a good foot taller than she, probably weighed nearly twice as much as she did, and she was completely alone with him. Yes, there were other classes that met in the school, on this floor. But they were, by now, almost certainly gone.

Selby's heart hammered hard in her chest when Thomas Brown made no motion to leave, and a hot flush rushed through her entire body. For one long moment, neither of them moved, neither of them spoke, neither of them glanced away. And even though a part of her had never been more frightened in her life, she somehow knew that if she so much as flinched or glanced away, Thomas Brown would run roughshod over her.

And she didn't even want to think about what a man like him could do to a woman like her.

"Class dismissed," she finally said, amazed at the steeli-ness and calmness in her tone.

Strangely, Thomas Brown smiled at the words. "Yes, ma'am," he said. And then he winked at her, a gesture so quaint, and so old-fashioned, Selby almost smiled back.

He dipped his head forward in silent acknowledgment, then continued on his way to the door and through it, never looking back once. For a full minute, Selby stood at her desk, her palms damp with nervous perspiration, wondering what the hell had just happened. Gradually, she managed to steady her breathing and will her pulse rate to slow. Then she finished collecting her things, put on her sweater, slung her satchel over her shoulder, and headed out, trying not to think about how she was retracing every step Thomas Brown had just taken.

Outside, the night was dark and the wind was crisp, and the street was utterly deserted. Somehow, Selby made herself not look over her shoulder every step of the way as she walked to the bus stop a block from the high school. She wasn't fearful, walking the streets at night alone. She'd grown up walking alone. But she was afraid of Thomas Brown. Afraid he might return. Afraid of what would happen on Thursday, when her class met again. Afraid tonight's episode was simply the first of many. Afraid she wouldn't be able to remain unruffled and unaffected the next time.

Because that was what scared Selby more than anything else—her reaction to Thomas Brown. There was something about him that made her feel hot and wild and restless, something that made her want things she had no business wanting. Not from a man like him.

Never from a man like him.