Passionate History

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Passionate History

Copyright © 2014 by Libby Waterford

ISBN: 978-1-61333-731-8

Cover art by Tibbs Designs

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work, in whole or in part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

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Love Unlocked

Passionate History

By

Libby Waterford

~Dedication~

For Pippa

Graduation couldn’t come soon enough for Aidan Worthy. Not his own—years ago now—but in a few hours, several hundred Weston University students would climb the dais and get their diplomas. He was anxious for the campus to quiet down after the hectic last days of finals and senior week. He would finally be able to focus on his book, a new interpretation of the works of Giorgio Vasari, the father of art history. He’d worked incredibly hard to get hired at Weston the year before, but he had to publish to get tenure, and he intended to live out his career teaching and writing about his one and only love, Italian Renaissance art, on the picturesque New England campus.

He had spent most of the semester preparing for a last-minute addition to his teaching schedule. A brand-new associate professor wouldn’t even be teaching a senior seminar—except the department chair, Clarissa Woodlawn, had needed to take an unexpected leave of absence and he’d been the only professor available to cover her class. He looked forward to the two-hour seminar every week. He enjoyed engaging the bright minds of the dozen art history majors, though to be honest, he most enjoyed engaging one mind in particular: that of Bree Ross.

Bree was smart and witty and didn’t hesitate to disagree with her classmates or with the accepted viewpoint on a given topic. Her contrary nature, when it came to the status quo of art history, had spurred his own thinking in new directions, and he loved the intellectual challenge. He looked forward to her thoughtful, sometimes provocative comments. But he also looked forward to her face, her strong features and luxuriant auburn hair, the way she carried herself, the way only a beautiful young person could get away with, lithe as a dancer, un-self-conscious about showing off skin. Show it off she did. As the spring weather grew warmer, Bree seemed to come to class wearing less clothing each week. By May, she’d show up in shorts and a tank top that would have been considered skimpy even if she were doing Bikram yoga. But Weston was a progressive place where people wore all manner of things. He normally didn’t notice his students’ clothing. Only Bree’s. He noticed everything about her.

She was confident, but not cocky. She always had plenty of self-deprecating humor to blunt the forcefulness of her arguments. He liked her. He told himself any hot-blooded man would like her, would notice her. He was definitely hot blooded, and, at twenty-eight, one of the youngest professors on campus. He wasn’t crazy to find her desirable, but it was inconvenient. He would never act on his feelings, so he had to live with the constant thrum of attraction he felt for her. He certainly never entertained the idea she could be interested in him.

That was, until he was working late in his office the night before graduation. The rest of the building had been hushed and still. He’d had a vague idea there might be a dinner or a dance happening somewhere on campus. Most of the students, except for the graduating seniors, had already gone home for the summer. One more day and he would be a free man until September. He’d nursed a finger of Scotch and was installed at his desk, engrossed in an article on Vasari’s early life when a soft knock interrupted him.

He was surprised to see Bree when she’d pushed open the door. He hadn’t thought very hard about the fact he wouldn’t be seeing her again once he’d handed back her final paper with its A grade, and given her his comments on her unusual but impeccably researched thesis. Setting eyes on her now felt like an unexpected gift. Her auburn hair fell over her bare shoulders. She wore something he supposed she’d call a dress, but was barely more than a shirt skimming the tops of her thighs. And heels. He’d never seen her wear heels before. Between the short dress and the heels, her legs looked about a mile long. He’d always had a thing for long, supple legs. He swallowed.

“Hi, Professor Worthy,” she said, her voice low and melodious. “I don’t want to disturb, but I wanted to tell you again how great senior seminar was.”

He smiled. She’d written him a detailed, and glowing, teaching evaluation—with twelve students, he’d easily been able to determine who wrote what—which he’d been touched by.

“Thank you, Bree. It was a pleasure having you in my class,” he said, careful to maintain the formality appropriate between student and teacher.

“I’m on my way to the all-school dance,” she said, fidgeting a little.

Bree never fidgeted. A draft of warm early summer air blew through the open window behind him, ruffling the papers on his desk and twitching the ends of Bree’s tresses. At Weston, it seemed the female students either kept their hair severely short or grew it impossibly long, to make a political or fashion statement. Or both. Bree’s was long and lush.

He cleared his throat, prepared to send her on her way, but she was inside his office now, gazing at the books on his shelf.

“Do you like it at Weston?” she asked. “I know it’s your first year here. But it’s not your first year teaching, right?”

He could only watch as she grazed her fingers along the spine of
History of Italian Renaissance Art
. He was riveted to the sight of her among his books. She stroked the head of an Egyptian cat icon he used to hold his collection of vintage Italian maps in place. He envied the cat her touch.

“That’s right, I taught for two years at Duke. But I was anxious to find a place at a school like Weston. I might have been born in Edinburgh, but I’m a New Englander at heart.”

“Funny,” she said. “I’ve lived here all my life, and I can’t wait to get away.”

Her inspection of his office took her around to the miniature globe on his desk. It had been a gift from his father when he’d been admitted to Amherst College, so he could always find his way back home, his father had said. Aidan had gone to Amherst as an undergraduate, and he’d never returned to the land of his birth.

“You have lots of time to explore the world,” he said, forcing a note of jovial condescension into his voice. Why was she still here? His self-control started to break down when she spun the globe, perched on the edge of his desk, her ass actually touching the oak surface.

She nodded to the glass of Scotch. “Celebrating the end of the semester?”

“I suppose. It’ll be quiet around here with everyone gone. I’ll be able to get some work done on my book.”

“Won’t you miss your students?” she asked.

He wondered for the first time if she was trying to seduce him. For some reason, his ears grew hot and a buzz of anticipation vibrated low in his belly.

“I’ll miss a few,” he allowed.

“Will you miss me?” she asked, gazing at him guilelessly, as if it were merely an innocent question. Maybe it was. Maybe he was imagining things, imagining she could want him, imagining he could act on his inappropriate feelings for his own student, despite condemning his own father for just such behavior. Imagining he was the type of person who could have sex with someone he wasn’t actually in a relationship with, period.

She didn’t give him a chance to answer the question. “Can I have some?” she asked, indicating the drink.

He hesitated.

“I am twenty-one. And I’m not your student anymore. I graduate tomorrow.”

“I don’t think that would be wise.” There, someone had to be the voice of reason. Didn’t they?

“I haven’t been drinking already, if you’re wondering.”

The thought had crossed his mind. He was nowhere near drunk, but this conversation, this situation was starting to feel like some kind of dream.

He said nothing, and she seemed to take it as an answer.

Bree sighed and hopped off the desk, the action making her breasts bounce deliciously. She stopped at the door, holding it open. “All right. Well, I really did love your class. Good-bye, Professor Worthy.”

She was going to leave, and he would be alone again, with his Scotch and his Vasari.

“Wait.”

She shut the door and leaned against it, a small smile on her lips.

“One drink,” he said quietly.

She flipped the lock on the doorknob. The slight click flooded him with an irrational, insatiable need to touch her. He rose and walked around his desk, holding up the glass of amber liquid, offering her the drink. On some level, he was offering himself to her, as she seemed to be doing the same.

He stood motionless, six inches away from her, as she accepted the glass and took a tiny swallow. He met her gaze, searching her emerald green eyes for some clue of how she felt, of what she wanted. She didn’t seem afraid or confused or needy. She seemed in control, happy almost. If he’d seen anything else in her eyes, he told himself he’d show her the door that very minute. But her eyes were clear and bright, and she was so incredibly beautiful. She handed him back the glass. He dropped it heedlessly on the worn sisal carpet, smelling the last sip as its aroma pervaded the air. After a moment, there was nothing more between them as he wrapped his arms around her waist and crushed her to him. He kissed her with a feverish intensity, one still-rational part of his brain hoping she’d shove him away so he’d be saved from this madness, the rest of him intent upon wringing every moment of pleasure from this unexpected encounter. She didn’t shove him away. She kissed him back, opening her mouth to him like the sweetest of gifts. He’d take what she offered, and to hell with regret.

He tasted of Scotch, mellow and oaky, and his kisses were as delightfully controlled yet passionate as his lecture style. Bree hadn’t been lying when she’d told him she loved senior seminar. It had been one of her favorite classes at Weston. But getting in one last compliment wasn’t why she’d detoured past his office the night before graduation on the off chance he’d be there. She was there because Professor Worthy was hot, she hadn’t had sex in two months, and she believed in trying everything once. Even sex with a borderline-unsuitable older man.

He was only seven years older than her. She’d done some minor stalking of him a month or so into the semester, when she realized she looked forward to this particular class with a bit more than her normal enthusiasm because the professor, an adorable man with an equally adorable Scottish accent, turned her on. She’d started working extra hard, doing some of the reading twice to make sure she understood the salient points, crafting her ideas and opinions carefully so she wouldn’t sound dumb in class. Not that she was dumb. But she wanted to make a good impression. Sometimes, she even liked to show off. But as impressed as he might have seemed with her coursework, she’d never ever even gotten a hint he might have noticed her body or had any warm feelings toward her at all. It didn’t matter. She enjoyed fantasizing about him, and she dreamed about him often, about finding herself alone with him, him falling all over himself telling her how much he pined for her, and then they’d make passionate love. She almost always woke up before the payoff.