Page 18 of Misadventures with a Professor
It’s certainly not her fault that I can’t get this woman out of my head and that I’m strangely upset she left me that morning. Strangely bothered by the finality in her note.
We won’t see each other again.
Why does that sting so much?
At least my lingering hard-on has settled down. It’s a small comfort as I unlock the front door, unshoulder my bag, and step inside. I expect Beatrix to come whining for food as she usually does, but the front hall remains empty as I shut the door and shuck off my jacket.
She must be with the girl.
It’s late, near midnight, and the girl should be in bed. Given all the lights, however, I assume she’s in the snug or the kitchen, reading perhaps. Michael’s always said he’s a night owl himself, so perhaps it’s fair to assume Zandy is the same.
When I get to the snug, though, she’s not there. Nor is she in the kitchen. Maybe she went to bed and left the lights on for me?
But then I see it from the back hall off the kitchen—the light coming from under the study door. Suddenly all of the dread about this arrangement comes roaring back. All of the frustration about Amanda. And I hate that someone’s in my study while I’m not in there, touching my things without my permission.
I stalk to the study door, ready to kick it down and roar like a true Bluebeard, when I hear a low voice talking. A woman’s alto, with a hint of rasp around the edges. I wonder if she’s talking on the phone, but then I hear her pause to wait for a response, and Beatrix meows.
The girl is talking to the damn cat.
It shouldn’t be so irritating, really, this familiarity with my cat, but it is. She’s already in my study. She’s already touching things she shouldn’t be. And for my only companion to be drawn into this flagrant violation of hospitality? It’s infuriating.
I’m going to eviscerate her for this. I’m going to make her regret ever setting foot in my private space and making friends with my cat. I don’t care how ridiculous that sounds. It’s still forbidden!
I start to open the door. And freeze.
I’m not greeted with the sight of some scrawny, owlish bookworm. No, I’m greeted with a heart-shaped bottom that begs to be pulled over my lap. And a narrow waist and lush breasts and—bloody Nora—no bra. She’s only in a thin camisole and some very short sleeping shorts, moving on all fours at an angle away from me, her long dark hair spilling in luscious waves and breaking over her shoulders.
No, not scrawny at all. She’s a siren. She’s…she’s…
She turns as she chatters to the cat and I see her face for the first time. No lipstick, but I’d remember those plush, sinful lips anywhere.
The girl inside is not Michael Lynch’s daughter.
She can’t be.
Because she’s Amanda.
My Amanda.
“Why would anyone keep an office in this state? Or their research?”
My voice is harsh. “Because I like it that way.”
She spins with a gasp, dropping the book she was holding. I don’t trust myself to take another step inside, not sure if I’d take her over my knee or fuck her senseless. But I do know one thing. I thought I was furious before?
It’s nothing compared to now.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” I demand. “Are you stalking me?”
Her face goes from confused to stung in an instant. Then to angry. “I think the real question is what are you doing here?” she asks. And then she reaches for one of the pokers still hanging by the disused fireplace. She waves it at me. “I’ll—I’ll call the police. And the professor. He’s supposed to be back any minute now. He just went out to the…the store…and if he comes back and finds an intruder, he’ll get the police for sure!” Her voice is warbling higher in her hysteria, and I’m so bemused by the poker situation and the way she’s talking about me like I’m in the third person and all the lies she’s telling and has told, that it takes me a moment to realize she doesn’t know I’m Professor Graeme.
She thinks I’m the intruder. She thinks I might hurt her.
Which—no. Never. I would never raise a hand against her.
Except if you’ve got her over your knee, a silky voice reminds me. Visions of her rump under my palm fill my head, and I know the voice is right.
“I fucking live here,” I say. “This is my fucking house. Now do you want to explain what the bloody hell you’re doing inside of it? After that little note? ‘We’ll never see each other again’? Did you steal my credit card information too?”
