Learning Curves (17 page)

He deepened the kiss and his cock hardened, his desire a resurgent wave tempered with the immense debt of feeling he couldn’t express. Even without words, he wanted to show her just a little of how he felt through his touch. That was all right, wasn’t it? She’d consider it just another round of their casual affair and he could express his feelings through movement, in the only way open to him. A dance. A pas de deux.

The irony twisted his lips into a grudging smile.

He stood, wrapping his arms around her waist, and Leanne’s legs locked around his hips, grinding against his rapidly expanding erection. He tipped her back, feasting on her succulent breasts.

“I want you again.”

She whimpered as his teeth closed over her nipple. “God, I want you again too.”

The words were a balm to his aching soul.

As he carried Leanne down the hall toward her bedroom, the words of the plaintive French song floated back to him.

As they sank into a torrid tangle on Leanne’s bed, he knew the chanteuse sang the truth. There was no one else for him and there never would be.

And there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it, either.

A little before one o’clock on Tuesday afternoon, Leanne hurried down the crowded corridor toward the Office of Graduate Studies, the staccato rap of her heels marking her rapid progress through the halls. A burst water main two blocks from her apartment had delayed her commute to campus by nearly twenty minutes and today of all days was not the time for running late. Today was the first day of the rest of her life, as the guidance office posters used to tout, and she felt ready and eager to forge ahead.

Easing a newly manicured hand over the front of her chic suit, she grinned and pulled open the heavy door. In less than half an hour, she would be sitting before the Walters committee, answering their questions about her research and her academic goals and she was stoked.

In between bouts of sensual gluttony, she’d spent every remaining hour boning up on her presentation. She’d rehearsed her answers with Julia and Cassandra Sunday night. She’d met with her department chair again on Monday between classes, so they could nail down her closing statement, making it as note perfect as humanly possible. She’d even found a few minutes to steal away and shop for her new suit—its sharp tailoring hopefully conveying her serious professional qualifications even as its stylish cut and rich color reflected her newly discovered inner energies too.

And it was all thanks to Brandon, she thought smugly. Due to his talents and his faith and his amazing lovemaking she’d discovered the woman who’d lain dormant inside her for far too many years. With a confident flip of her hair, she walked into the reception area.

“Hello, Judy. Are Deans Kessler and Rose ready for me?” she asked the receptionist.

Looking up from her computer, the other woman shook her head. “Not yet. But they haven’t forgotten your big interview this afternoon, don’t you worry. They’re in with a student on a disciplinary matter but they should be done any minute. Why don’t you have a seat and I’ll let you know as soon as they’re free.”

Tucking her satchel beneath the waiting room chair, Leanne sat down and crossed her legs. Resisting the urge to take out her closing statement and rehearse it one last time, she had just picked up an information packet on travel opportunities overseas when the frosted glass door swung open to reveal Milton Kessler, Dean of Graduate Studies, her longtime mentor, Dean Rose and…

“Brandon?”

Leanne was stunned. What was he doing here? Judy said the dean was dealing with a disciplinary matter but what did that have to do with him? A swarm of apprehensive butterflies took flight and her confidence began to seep away.

Ignoring Leanne’s outburst, the dean spoke to Brandon. “Mr. Myles, you’ll need to speak with my secretary to schedule a date to appear before the Senate’s academic review committee. I’d like the matter resolved before the end of term.”

“Academic review committee?” Leanne gasped. Only the most serious cases were referred to that committee—plagiarism, criminal misconduct, fraud. There had to be a mistake. Somehow, somewhere, something had gone terribly wrong. She expected Brandon to protest or argue but he simply nodded as if the instructions were to be expected.

“I’ll do that today,” he agreed grimly.

“What are you talking about?” Leanne insisted. “I don’t understand what Brandon could be accused of that would merit this level of response.”

Dean Kessler turned and said, “Don’t worry, Leanne. This matter doesn’t concern you. We’ll be on our way to your interview shortly.”

She dropped her briefcase on the floor. It thudded and fell on its side.

The dean expected her to just walk away after dropping the bombshell that Brandon’s academic career hung in the balance? She looked at Brandon, hoping his expression would give her some clue, but his eyes were fixed on the carpeting at his feet.

“Surely there’s been some sort of a misunderstanding,” she said. “What about mediation? Or the university ombudsperson?”

The dean looked grim. “There’s no mistake, I’m afraid. We only learned of the infraction yesterday, when a concerned alumna contacted the department to share her suspicions. We met with Mr. Myles today and he’s admitted that the charges were true. He has violated two separate clauses of his fellowship funding agreement with the university.”

Funding agreement? This was about money? None of it made any sense.

“Are you saying this is about Brandon’s fellowship?” she pressed.

Every graduate student at Wellington received some degree of monetary support during their studies. It wasn’t much, but topped up by teaching assistantships, research grants and student loans, it made life as a student possible. The dean’s charges
were
serious but she couldn’t imagine Brandon doing anything underhanded with the money he received. And he lived so modestly—a shoebox apartment, no car, no fancy clothes or electronics.

“Brandon, what are they talking about?”

He stepped forward and touched her arm, the heat from his fingers traveling along her icy-cold body like a molten torch. From the corner of her eye, she saw Dean Kessler stiffen, his disapproving gaze taking in the intimate gesture.

“Leanne, don’t worry about this right now. About me. Focus on what you need to do today to win that prize,” Brandon said. But his words only confused her further and provided no reassurance at all.

Focus on what she needs to do?

How could Brandon imagine she could focus on herself at a time like this? His academic and professional life hung in the balance and he was just standing there, acting as if it didn’t matter, as if
he
didn’t matter. Well, he was wrong. He mattered to her.

“No,” she said resolutely, “I’m not going anywhere until someone explains these ridiculous charges to me. If you won’t defend yourself, then I will.”

His mouth tipped up in a ghostly shadow of its usual brilliance, one lone dimple making a fleeting appearance. “Trust you for that.”

“Leanne—” Dean Kessler spoke now, his narrow face creased with concern and displeasure, “—are you and this student
involved?”
He asked it as though the very thought was distasteful.

“Yes.”

“No.”

The administrators looked perplexed by the discrepancy but Brandon’s mouth was set in a tight, implacable line that said he was in no mood to expand on the inconsistencies in their positions.

Turning to Dean Rose, Leanne pleaded, “Please tell me what’s going on.”

She sighed. “Brandon admitted that he has been working a second job in direct contravention of his signed fellowship agreement. Someone—a former Wellington student—informed the university yesterday that in addition to working as a teaching assistant here and taking a tuition scholarship, he was also working as an exotic dancer.”

Leanne’s jaw dropped. Somehow, someone had connected Brandon’s work at the Foxe’s Den to his studies here at the university. But who would be so cruel as to expose him and set in motion such serious repercussions? Her mind boggled even as her anger flared at the university’s unsympathetic response. They had no interest in the extenuating circumstances of Brandon’s case or working toward a solution that would allow him to continue on at the university. Instead, they were going to throw him under the bus without so much as a how do you do. It was ridiculous.

“But it has nothing to do with his work here,” she insisted. “You’re threatening to put a permanent mark on his transcript and derail his entire academic career because he exceeded his allocated work hours?”

Dean Kessler scoffed. “It has everything to do with his work here. We are an institution whose continued success rests largely on its august and longstanding reputation for scholarly excellence. In addition to explicitly contravening the funding agreement
he
signed by working at an additional, undeclared job, this student’s actions—the job he’s been working!—seriously threaten to bring that excellence into disrepute.”

Contravening the funding agreement was a technicality. It was less about the rules and all about the university’s reputation. They were worried about the possible embarrassment that would ensue if Brandon’s out-of-hours job became widely known.

“It does nothing of the sort,” Leanne argued. “You’re blowing this issue out of proportion. He could promise to quit. To leave the club behind him. Why would anyone else ever make the connection? Or care?”

The dean looked at her in disbelief. “One Wellington alumna making the connection is one too many in my opinion.

“I know half a dozen students who do work under the table. They need the money too, and I don’t see you throwing the book at them. Just Brandon. It’s unfair and I won’t let you do that to him.”

“I’m afraid you don’t have any standing in the matter, Leanne.”

“Dean Rose, surely you don’t agree with this,” she pleaded.

The Dean of Humanities sighed. “I was overruled.”

“Brandon, you’ve got to fight this.”

“Leanne,” he said stiffly, “I appreciate your concern but I can handle this on my own.”

On his own.

The phrase echoed through Leanne’s mind like a death knell. He’d been on his own his entire life and with a blinding burst of insight, she realized that to someone like Brandon, this moment would seem like the inevitable final move in a game he’d been playing since he was young. One step forward, two steps back. He’d fought and clawed his way from the chaos of his childhood to this point. He’d wanted to succeed but in the back of his mind, there would always be voices telling him not to bother, to give up now, that his efforts were futile.

But she knew him so much better now and knew how much he could accomplish. He wasn’t a failure. He was a survivor. One who thought he had to fight every battle alone. But he didn’t. She would fight beside him. He’d given her the chance to find her own strength; the least she could do was lend him some of it when he needed it most.

“No,” she promised, “we’ll fight this together.”

For a brief moment, a flash of happiness raced across his face, but then it was as if a shutter dropped and his smile disappeared beneath a fierce wave of despair.

He stepped close and she could smell his unique scent when he wrapped his strong arms around her. “Please don’t make this harder than it has to be,” he whispered into her ear.

She tipped her head back. “Why? Why won’t you let me help you?”

“Because helping me would only hurt you. And I won’t let you lose your dreams too.”

He looked down at her and she could see herself reflected in his troubled eyes. His arms dropped away and he stepped back. “I don’t want your help. I don’t need your help. And you’re a fool to try helping someone like me at your own expense.”

A wrenching jolt of pain struck Leanne’s heart. “Is that what you think I am?”

He looked away, refusing to meet her eyes. “What we had was never going to last, Leanne. So why are you standing here, trying to rescue me? You’re trying to hide behind me and my failures as a way of justifying your own,” he said harshly. “And I won’t let you use me as your excuse. Ever.”

As she listened to his words, Leanne realized she’d never truly appreciated how much the simple act of breathing could hurt. Every short, shallow gasp sent a lancing pain through her chest. He was wrong. She wasn’t hiding behind his failures. She was done hiding from her life. But nothing she could say would ever convince him of that, would it? It would never be enough—there’d always be something that would act as proof of his shortcomings.

And hers.

The connection she’d felt had all been in her mind. Because if he felt anything for her, he’d never speak to her this way. The fling was over. Their time was done. And it was time for her to get on with her life. Because no one else would do it for her.

Dean Kessler’s deep voice carried into the hallway outside the auditorium, the volume rising and falling as latecomers hurried past Leanne. As the heavy doors swung open and closed, disjointed snatches of his introductory remarks came through like a badly played game of Telephone: “exemplary,” “noted journals,” “future star.”

Yet Kessler’s speech, as predictable as it was, still felt surreal, as though the person he spoke of was merely a compendium of parts and skills.

Of course, given her emotional state, it was entirely possible she was projecting.

At this point in the day, anything seemed possible.

The door to the auditorium opened once more but this time, instead of admitting another audience member, someone exited the room instead. Leanne turned, expecting to see the dean telling her it was time to take her place at the podium.

But it wasn’t Kessler at all.

It was Gillian, a tailored winter coat slung gracefully over her arm. Letting the door close, she stood in front of Leanne.

“What are you doing here?”

Gillian smiled. “How long have we known each other? Did you think I’d miss the biggest day in your academic career?”

It sounded less like a compliment and more like a threat.

“Yes, actually I did. After all, we’ve never liked each other. Why start now?”

“I couldn’t miss it,” Gillian explained gleefully. “I had to be here in person to see it happen. It just gives it so much more poignancy.”

Leanne straightened and looked her foe in the eye.

“Is there something you wanted to tell me? Because if there is, I suggest you spit it out. I’ve got more important things to do right now,” she snapped, her patience for Gillian’s cloak-and-dagger tactics wearing perilously thin.

She braced herself for Gillian’s next volley but instead of flying off the handle, she simply smiled and admired her flawless princess-cut engagement ring. “So, how’s Brandon these days?”

“B-Brandon?” Even saying his name was difficult, but she’d withdraw from the Walters Prize, drop out of university and flip burgers for the rest of her natural life before she’d ever let Gillian see the pain her question inflicted.

“I enjoyed meeting him Saturday night at our dinner. And he certainly seemed attentive to you. Very affectionate.”

Leanne couldn’t summon an answer. Her chest ached too much, keeping her short of breath so she contented herself with a dark and hopefully quelling glare.