Passionate History (3 page)

The door to Professor Worthy’s office opened. Bree had never run from anything in her life, but she had a sudden, irrational urge to flee fast and hard down the hall. She was granted a momentary reprieve when, instead of a tall, ginger-blond-haired man, a willowy brunette carrying a binder emerged. Bree’s feet were stuck to the threadbare Persian carpet runner.

“Thanks again, Professor Worthy, I really appreciate it,” the young woman said.

Bree’s feminine hackles rose at the breathiness in her voice.

“Of course. E-mail me the recommendation information, and I’ll get to it as soon as I can.”

His voice took her back more than anything had already. The strong, clear baritone with its soft, Scottish burr had no doubt melted more than one heart during his lectures on Titian or Bronzino.

The brunette flashed Bree a distracted smile as she came out into the hall. Bree must have looked ridiculous standing there, but even though she shouldn’t have wanted this, it seemed necessary to see him. Professor Worthy followed the woman out, and the hallway suddenly became very small.

She felt his gaze turn on her and found it imperative to meet it. There was recognition in his eyes. His face, looking largely unchanged since she’d last seen him, seemed to flush. Was he blushing? The idea made her instantly more confident, and she smiled.

“Bree.”

He sounded surprised, and who could blame him?

“Hello, Professor Worthy.” She wanted to grin, she wanted to laugh. Seeing him, hearing him say her name, filled her with an indescribable rush of joy. Almost like skydiving, free and giddy. She wasn’t expecting the sensation, but the endorphins pulsing through her body made her feel alive.

The other woman was still there, looking at them with a puzzled expression. “Well, I’ll see you,” she said, and slowly walked down the hall, leaving them alone.

Professor Worthy nodded absently, and Bree continued to smile. His dumbstruck response to her appearance gratified her.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“I’m here for my reunion. Five years. Remember?” She moved her gaze, peering into the office behind him. He still had the ground-floor office, the least desirable one. But though he was no longer the newest addition to the department, she was glad he hadn’t moved. The space was familiar, the overfull bookshelves and general air of messiness, the comfortable armchair and a few splendid original artworks sprinkled here and there.

“Of course,” he said stiffly.

Now they were alone, Bree was more conscious of her appearance. A hairbrush would have been nice. Oh well.

“I’m glad I ran into you,” she said.

“Are you?” he asked.

Did she detect a note of wariness in his voice? Would he hold their little rendezvous against her and refuse to write her a recommendation? “Um, yes. I’m planning to apply to some master’s programs, and I wondered if you would write me a letter of recommendation. If it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”

Professor Worthy’s lips turned down. Maybe she’d made a mistake by leading with business. But how else was she supposed to ask him?

“Very well. Why don’t you step into my office and we can discuss it?”

“Now?”

“No time like the present, Bree.” Something in his attractively accented voice made her shiver. Just the air conditioning on her sweaty skin, she told herself.

Suggesting they go into his office was a mistake. Aidan realized it as the words came out of his mouth, but where else would they have some privacy? He took up his usual seat on the battered office chair behind his desk. She sat in the only other chair whose seat wasn’t piled high with books. Yes, the desk was his shield. Until he remembered he’d bent her over that very piece of furniture and pumped into her from behind. Aidan’s brain suddenly drained of all coherent thought as he relived the moment in an instant. He shook his head and tried to grab on to something real, something in the present. He saw the date on the calendar on his desk. Almost five years to the day since he’d had sex with one of his students, and here she was, out of thin air, to bring back the memory he both cherished and reviled every time it passed through his consciousness.

He focused on the girl in front of him. No, she was a woman now. Her face was more angular than it had been at twenty-one, but still utterly ravishing, with the rich auburn hair that had bewitched him for a semester before he’d at last been able to feel it for himself, and long, creamy legs barely covered by her flimsy sundress. She looked rumpled and sticky and utterly fuckable. There he went again—when it came to Bree, his normally well-ordered, disciplined mind headed straight for the gutter.

He needed to say something, but she’d apparently given up waiting for him. “Professor Worthy, I appreciate your time. I—”

“Would you please call me Aidan?” Every time she called him professor it made him feel like a hideous pervert.

“Um, sure.” But he noticed she didn’t actually say his name as she went on. “I recently decided to apply to some graduate programs. Most of the deadlines aren’t until the fall, but I thought I’d kill two birds and get my recs lined up while I’m here for the reunion. I rushed in from Logan, but I wanted to get to the reception. Maybe I should go back out there. I want to see Professor Woodlawn and Professor Bunmi as well.”

“Sarrah Bunmi is no longer with the department. She got a job at Dartmouth last year. We’re interviewing candidates to replace her.”

“Oh, how disappointing,” she said, frown lines marring her forehead.

He hated to see her unhappy. “I’m sure I can find her contact information for you.” His offer was rewarded with a brilliant smile.

“That would be helpful, thanks.”

“It’s nothing,” he said, feeling like an inept teen when faced with the homecoming queen asking him for help with her algebra homework. Not that he knew anything about math. Bad analogy.

“So which programs are you interested in?” he asked, trying to stay on track and forget how soft her skin had felt under his hands.

“I haven’t done a ton of research yet, but I’m interested in Berkeley and UCLA. And I’m looking at credentialing programs.”

“Do you want to be a teacher?”

“I’m not sure,” she said, looking serious again. “I’ve spent the last five years flitting about. The only thing I’m certain of at the moment is I need a goal to work toward. I want a career I can be passionate about. I haven’t ever felt as fulfilled as when I was right back here…studying great art and the people and cultures who engendered it.”

It would be so easy to read into her words, but she seemed genuinely calm and matter-of-fact about running into him. Of course, she’d known she was coming here; she was prepared to see him. Or perhaps their encounter hadn’t meant much to her at all, so she could come back and play everything cool. Maybe she didn’t even remember what had happened between them.

He remembered every second of that extraordinary, improbable night.

Still, a long time had passed since they had last been together. She could be married. Best to keep things professional.

“I’m happy to help with a recommendation. Have you considered Weston’s graduate program? It’s small, but it might offer the learning environment you are seeking.”

“I haven’t looked at it very closely. Another item on my to-do list while I’m here.”

Silence fell. Surely that was bad. Bree stood up, startling him out of his reverie. He’d been staring at her legs. Did she own nothing but insubstantial sundresses?

She walked over to the bookcase, and he had a curious sense of déjà vu. She stopped in front of the little cat idol. Aidan held his breath. But instead of stroking its head, she turned back to him.

“Well, I better get going. I want to catch Professor Woodlawn. I really appreciate your time. Can I e-mail you?”

“Of course.” Yes, she’d leave and his world would go back to normal. Ordered and proper and dull. Everything would be fine.

On Saturday, the humidity that made the day sweltering and uncomfortable had turned the night air chilly and damp. Though going on nine o’clock, the lights from campus reflected off low clouds. They covered the sky like a ceiling, encapsulating the campus in a silver-gray bubble.

The metaphor comforted Bree as she trudged across the north end of campus. She’d had a long day on little sleep, and since most of the seniors and visitors were gathering on the green for the all-school dance, she was alone as she walked between the centuries-old graveyard and the relatively new freshman dorm. Both were dark and silent.

After leaving Professor Worthy’s—Aidan’s—office the day before, she’d managed to find Professor Woodlawn and pay her respects then tracked down her friend Lena, who’d given her the couch in her cramped hotel room. She’d slept long but poorly, and spent the morning in search of a decent cup of coffee and preparing for a meeting with the admissions officer in charge of graduate students. It had been bracing to hear what she’d need to do in order to apply for the few spots open for the following fall in the art history master’s program. She’d known Weston had one, but Professor Worthy’s reminder had gotten her thinking. The program offered exactly what she was looking for. It would be silly to discount it because she’d been here as an undergraduate. Wasn’t stability what she was seeking these days?

The afternoon had been a blast, catching up with countless friends and acquaintances at her class reunion reception, which had an open bar and surprisingly great food. It had been dizzying to see so many old, familiar faces, most of whom she barely kept up with on Facebook. There were the expected number of engagements and wedding news, and a few pregnant bellies in the crowd. Bree didn’t envy her more settled friends. She was happy for them, but she grew a little tired of trying to explain the last five years of her life in two sentences or less. She finally settled on, “Did a lot of traveling, worked in New Zealand for a while, thinking of going for my master’s in art history.” The summary seemed to satisfy people.

She’d been swept along to dinner with her freshman hall-mates, and when they’d opted for a bar crawl in town, she’d pleaded exhaustion and decided to walk back to campus and find her car. In a hurry for her morning meeting, she’d ditched her generic sedan in the first free parking space she’d found. Unfortunately, she couldn’t exactly remember where the space had been. But it was bound to be around there, somewhere.

Earlier in the day, there had been a seminar on Mannerism at the art history building she’d thought about going to. But
he
probably would have been there. Aidan. The name sounded strange in her mind, let alone on her lips. She was a bit thrown from seeing him the day before. She didn’t want him to think she
wanted
to see him.

Which, of course, she had. She’d spent five years being slightly embarrassed by the way she’d behaved in the office that night. She was no prude, but the way she’d asked him, practically ordered him to take her, and then the way he
had
taken her…it had been undeniably hot. But in retrospect, the episode made her a bit uncomfortable which was probably why she hadn’t contacted him since it happened. Bree Ross, who faced everything head-on, who never shied away from something she wanted, went all squirmy at the idea of Professor Worthy—Aidan—thinking she was some kind of slut who came on to her professors. She wasn’t—well, only when it came to him.

Seeing him had been good. She’d been able to act normally, professionally even. Maybe she’d be able to move on and grow up a little.

She just hadn’t counted on his face making her so happy.

He’d been as adorable as she remembered him, sweet, a bit befuddled. Not like the raging sex god she’d discovered for one night. She liked both sides of him. It didn’t matter. Even if she ended up back on Weston’s campus, he didn’t have anything to do with the graduate program, and she’d never have to see him.

Unless she wanted to. The thought bloomed in her mind. They wouldn’t be student and teacher anymore.

No. He obviously didn’t think of her in any sexual way. He’d been dry as a bone in their meeting the day before. He’d obviously forgotten all about it. Which was just what she’d do. As soon as she found her stupid car.

Aidan pulled into his narrow, cracking-cement driveway outside the dilapidated wood frame house he rented from the university. It sat smack in the middle of so-called Prof Row, with nothing to recommend it except its sensational commute. He could leave his front door and be sitting in his office after a leisurely nine-minute walk. Longer on snowy days.

After a grueling day of mandatory department socializing and a long and, honestly, boring seminar on Mannerism he’d hosted, he’d escaped into Weston Village for a blessedly solitary meal at the greasiest spoon in town, a dark dive situated beside the train tracks. It reminded him somewhat of the pubs back home, and he’d happily tucked away an overcooked steak, mealy baked potato, and a pint of lager.

He was due at the green for commencement mid-morning, and between now and then he intended to sleep as much as possible. Unless he was devilishly unlucky, sleep was the only place Bree Ross’s angel face and beguiling sundresses wouldn’t haunt him. He had barely been able to focus on anything since the moment she’d materialized as an unwelcome apparition outside his office. It had taken him weeks, months, to get over the guilt from having sex with her a single time.

When the haze of his powerful orgasm had worn off, he’d worried he’d ruined her life, the older man in a position of power pushing himself on a student. He’d vowed never to find himself in such a situation. His father, a professor of poetry at University of Edinburgh, was a brilliant man, but he’d never been able to pass up the nubile young things that traipsed through his classroom, offering him more than their minds for molding. His father’s womanizing had led to his parents’ divorce, and Aidan had lost all respect for his father once he realized how he’d used his position to get women into bed with him.