Reflection (The Chrysalis Series) (4 page)

Chapter Four

‘Hi there.’ Bridget held out her hand to Connor and had to school her expression when her heart went berserk as his much larger hand engulfed hers. ‘You been waitin’ long?’

‘Nope, just a few minutes. But I was people-watching, which is always fun.’

He bent to gather up his backpack and Bridget took the opportunity to look her fill. He was dressed casually in jeans and a T-shirt. The late spring weather was just hot enough that a jacket wasn’t necessary in the midday sun. She’d left her own in the car. His sleekly muscled arms were set off nicely against the deep, midnight blue of his T-shirt. His dark brown hair was slightly wind-blown.

Her hand itched to touch him. Would his hair feel as soft as it looked? The trail of her thoughts caused her a moment’s pause since she didn’t usually spend time thinking about touching men, or wondering what they smell like or if his skin would be warm or cool to touch.

He caught her mid-stare when he straightened and the smile he sent her way was smug with a hint of heat. She flushed but refused to look away. Bridget was no coward … well, at least with most things. Lifting her chin, she met his gaze directly and saw his ice-grey eyes warm to charcoal as his grin widened.

With a nod in the direction of the door, he said, ‘Shall we?’

‘Thank you,’ she replied, tearing her gaze away from his and entering the shop.

Familiar smells of coffee and pastry, along with the sounds of conversation, set her at ease. Her friend Mona’s voice rang out as she made the rounds of the regulars, stopping by their tables and chatting with them about the weather, their families and such. With a deep breath, she put her awkwardness aside. This
wasn’t
a date. It was an apology. Nothing more.

They took their place at the end of the line and she studied the menu. She’d basically memorised it, given how much time she spent there, but it gave her some time to compose herself. Tasha, one of Mona’s baristas, was running the counter and the line was moving swiftly.

‘What’ll you have?’ she asked Connor when they reached the register.

He was standing a bit too close due to the line behind them and she was doing her best to ignore the heat of his body. Her mind was on board with that game plan. Her body, however, was not listening. Her womb clenched and she felt an uncomfortable rush of moisture between her legs. This was
so
not happening.

‘Hmmm.’ He rubbed his chin and she followed the movement of his fingers, imagining it was her he was rubbing. Her nipples tightened and she ripped her gaze away, beginning to dig into her handbag for her wallet. ‘I’ll just have the daily brew, black.’

‘That was an awful lot of thinking for “the daily brew, black”.’ She raised an eyebrow at him.

‘
That
was an awful lot of letting you get an eyeful, gorgeous.’

Those grey eyes laughed down at her and she felt the heat suffuse her body.

Crap!

She was in trouble. Every moment he spent with her intrigued him more. From her resistance to the obvious attraction between them to the cool way her mind worked, he wanted to know more. They shared a lot of interests. Their passion for running and physical activity, they both were rabid readers, loved movies and good food. Though the latter was something he didn’t get to enjoy very much. Meals for him were usually what he could microwave. It wasn’t that he couldn’t cook, he could hold his own. His grandmother had seen to that. His salary simply didn’t support gourmet meals in trendy restaurants, but he knew all the best diners and hole-in-the-wall joints in town.

‘I’m telling you, absinthe was a big part of the picture – pardon the pun – when it comes to the French impressionists,’ she said as she took a sip of her macchiato.

She drank froufrou coffee, but she looked damn good doing it. Her full lips were tinted a shade of copper that almost matched her hair. Her green eyes were lively and sparkling under thick lashes. She wore make-up sparingly, which he was glad of, since she was beautiful in her own right. She didn’t need help with her looks nor with that killer body. She was tiny, but she was perfectly formed. Large, full breasts, round hips, and a tiny waist. She was the image of fertility. And, as she licked a stray drop of coffee from her lip, the sight of her tongue sweeping along her lips had his cock jumping in his jeans and he was glad the table hid his reaction from her.

‘I agree with you, but I still say, chemically enhanced or not, that period was my favourite in art.’

‘Why?’

‘Because impressionist art makes the viewer part of the piece. The details are fuzzy, and that leaves it to you, the viewer to fill in the gaps. It’s like a piece of fiction that tells you the barest details about a character and you fill in the rest for yourself. In some ways that makes the story, or in the case of art, the painting, even more personal to you, because you’re investing in the piece in your own imagination.’

That he was even having this conversation was unusual for him. He tended to be a loner. His life hadn’t been the kind that lent itself to forming lasting friendships. His one friend, Marco, was back in his home state of Maryland. They kept in touch by email and phone, but Connor was basically alone here in Vermont. So, hanging out in coffee bars debating the merits of the French Impressionists over the surrealist art of which Bridget was a fan was not a part of his usual repertoire.

She put down her coffee mug and tilted her head in the most adorable way as she considered him. He laughed and ran a hand through his hair. He wasn’t used to being under scrutiny. He preferred being the observer and, right now, he felt naked under her gaze. Like she was seeing something beyond the surface and he wasn’t sure if it was meeting with her approval or not. Most surprisingly, he found that it mattered if she approved.

‘You’re very passionate about this.’

A smartass rejoinder of “You haven’t seen what I’m passionate about” jumped to his lips, but he held back. This wasn’t the time for corny pick-up lines. Frankly, she was too classy a woman for pick-up lines in general.

‘I am.’ He cupped his own mug and stared down into the black brew as if it would grant him the anchor he needed when he suddenly felt so off kilter under her regard. ‘Art is the one area of my life that I’m completely at peace with. Watching an image come to life under my hands is like seeing a piece of my soul take form.’ He avoided her eyes as he took a sip of the now cold coffee. He snorted. ‘Corny, huh?’

‘No.’

His eyes shot to hers. There was no humour in them; he saw interest and empathy, but not humour.

‘That’s beautiful, actually. The only time I’m ever completely at peace is when I’m running. I get lost in the music and the run and I stop worrying. So I think it’s wonderful you have that calling and that passion.’

She’d leaned forward as she spoke, the vehemence in her voice adding an urgency that drew him like a magnet. When she placed her hand over his, a ribbon of heat trailed through his body. He didn’t think she realised she’d touched him because she jerked her hand back like she’d burned herself as soon as she noticed.

Throughout their date, she’d kept herself under rigid control. His attempts at flirtation had met with a wall, but he sensed it was discomfort not disinterest. He’d seen her flush, seen her pulse jump, seen her nipples harden, but she stayed cool and remote. He wanted to get under her skin and find out what was making her pull back. She was a woman in her prime and the riddle she presented was one he wanted to solve.

‘You in there?’

‘Sorry, my mind wandered.’

His pulse leaped as she smiled and said, ‘I asked if you’ve always been an artist.’

He looked away from her as his heart squeezed in his chest. This was not something he discussed. In general, it was something he tried to not even think about. It didn’t matter that 15 years had passed. He felt the pain like it was yesterday.

Obviously, sensing his distress, she touched his wrist and said, ‘Forget I asked. You don’t have to answer that.’

It was her touch that loosened his lips. She knew she was holding his wrist; she squeezed it gently, connecting with him. In that moment, he knew he’d bare his soul if it would keep her touching him.

Covering her hand with his own, he told her his story.

‘So, even though I have no formal training, I’ve always loved art. It’s been with me since I was a child. I like to think that they’d be proud.’ He was staring into his empty mug.

She didn’t know what moved her more, his story or his touch. Being the only survivor of a car crash that killed his parents was bad enough, but having it happen as a child, on the night you received an award for winning an art contest, was just a cruel twist of fate. His grandparents sounded like lovely people, taking him in, giving him a home and a family, but their death when he was a teenager was just another kick in the nuts. But the thing that pulled at her heart the most was him being thrown into foster care. The family sounded as if they’d treated him more like an extra set of hands, someone to help around the house like a servant. He didn’t seem bitter, but it said a lot that he’d left on his 18th birthday and hadn’t spoken to them since.

‘I bet they would. Have you ever shown your work?’

‘No.’

‘But you’re a photographer? That must be pretty fulfilling.’

‘Photography is its own pleasure, but it is nothing like painting.’ He didn’t look at her as he spoke. He seemed uncomfortable talking about this and she wondered how much it must hurt to have something you loved so deeply tied to such a tragic event.

Her hand was now clasped in his and she found she enjoyed holding his hand. There was a casual intimacy to it that she’d never experienced before, but that – after a few tense moments initially – she found she liked.

Just like she liked him.

She was uncomfortably aware of him, but she liked being with him and talking to him. She found she didn’t want the date to end, but end it must. A quick glance at her watch informed her she had just half an hour to get back to campus and prepare for her next class.

‘Do you have to?’

She grinned, knowing what he was asking. ‘Yes, I do. I have a class to teach.’

‘What if I said I wanted to see you again?’

She surprised herself by saying, ‘I’d say the right offer might sway me.’

‘How about a picnic? This weekend. I know a great spot. I’ve been wanting to get out there and snap some photos and paint. I’d love for you to be there. Hell, if you’d let me, I’d love to paint you.’

He took her hand again and rubbed the back of it with his thumb. The movement was both hypnotic and erotic and she felt it deep in her body.

Before she could chicken out, she agreed, giving him her number and entering his into her phone. Walking out together, she held out her hand for him to shake. Rather than shake it, he took it in his palm and kissed the back of her hand.

‘Till Saturday. I’ll pick you up at one. Text me your address.’

‘No!’ Her voice was sharper than she’d intended and his eyebrows shot up. ‘Sorry.’ She rushed to fill in the shocked silence. ‘I don’t allow men I’ve just met to come to my home. Even to pick me up. How about I meet you here and I’ll follow you.’

‘You’re not even going to ride with me?’

‘No. Not this time. I don’t know you well enough.’

Curious grey eyes searched her face. She faced him resolutely despite the flush creeping along her skin and her desire to hide from the dawning knowledge in his eyes. Her own were burning, and the longer he studied her, the more scared she became that she’d burst into tears.

She opened her mouth to call the whole thing off only to be stopped short when he quietly said, ‘OK. I’ll meet you on Saturday, but not here. Let’s meet at the library. It’s closer to the end of town and we’ll be headed out that way anyway.’

‘No, here.’

Again, with the scrutiny.

‘Here so that your friend sees us together and there’s a trail back to me if anything happens to you?’

She almost squirmed at his insight, but she refused to back down and said only, ‘Yup.’

‘OK. I’ll see you here on Saturday. One o’clock.’

Another quick kiss was dropped on the hand he’d never relinquished and then he tossed his backpack up on his shoulder, winked at her, and walked away.

She flopped on the bench outside the café as hot tears trickled down her cheeks. She really should just cancel. All the fun and camaraderie had been sucked out of their date at the reminder of her inability to simply be with a man in an unreserved fashion. He probably thought she was some kind of paranoid freak.

Sadly, he was right. 

Chapter Five

Bridget stared at her iPhone in shocked dismay. He was refusing to let her cancel their date. She’d called him the night before and left him a voicemail when he hadn’t picked up, saying that after some thought she’d decided to pass on the picnic. She’d had a moment of regret, but she’d let it go.

Fixing herself a light dinner of crab salad and toast, she snuggled on the couch with Daisy and completely missed every minute of her favourite programme as she’d rationalised her actions over and over. She’d spent the better part of her adult years alone and she was no lonelier than the next person. Right? She had a full and satisfying life with friends and activities. She loved her career. Loved her dog. Loved –

A quick glance at Daisy, who was eyeing her with one ear cocked and a look that said “Who are you trying to convince?”, and she’d given up and gone to bed. At no time had she ever once considered that he’d refuse.
Could
a person refuse to let a date be cancelled?

Well, apparently he thought he could. She’d turned her mobile phone back on after class and seen the voicemail indicator. Checking it had turned up a few messages regarding work, then she’d heard Connor’s voice. Unlike some people who sound differently over the phone, that deep, growly tone of his came through exactly the same as it did in person. It set her pulse racing exactly the same

way too. His message, however, had left her dumbfounded.

‘Sorry, Bridget,’ he’d said. She could almost hear him smirking. ‘I know what you’re trying to do and you’re not getting away that easily. I will haunt that coffee shop until you show up. I remember where you jog too. So we can do this the easy way or the hard way. You can make me suffer the indignity of haunting you like a stalker or you can show up at one o’clock like we agreed and let me show you one of my favourite spots on the planet.’

There had been a long pause and she’d almost disconnected. When he’d resumed speaking, the smirk was gone and he sounded earnest instead.

‘Bridget. I understand your caution. I respect it. I’ll even give your friend, Mona, my social security number and driver’s licence, just don’t stand me up. Please.’

He’d disconnected at that point.

She had no idea how to react. He thought he understood, but he had no real idea. He thought it was the typical caution of a single woman with a new man. He had no idea what he was really getting into.

She smiled at his offer to give Mona his personal info. Little did he know that Mona was already his biggest fan. She’d joined them briefly during their coffee date and they’d had a discussion on the merits of Colombian coffee versus Robusta. Something Bridget hadn’t even realised existed. Coffee was just coffee to her, meant to be drunk with lots of cream and sugar.

Connor, however, took his very seriously. He gave Mona credit for not skimping. She only sold Arabica coffee, which they both agreed was more richly flavoured, and didn’t sell out to simply give patrons a bigger caffeine shot. She thanked him and quite loudly informed Bridget he was a keeper before laughing at her friend’s embarrassment and moving on to other customers and the duties of running her cafe.

‘What are you thinking about, Ross? Me, I hope.’ The low, elegant voice of her boss and Dean of the School of Sciences, Dale Whittier, scraped across her skin like nails. She instantly tensed as he continued, ‘We do have your tenure review at the end of the semester, after all.’

Jerking her head around to face him, she controlled her instinctive shudder. From the moment he’d come onboard at Pinewood, he’d made subtle insinuations to her that skipped just to the edge of harassment but never quite crossed over. He’d hover a tad too close. Brush her in ways that if she addressed them would make her look over-reactive and paranoid.

To look at him, one would never suspect him of something as low as sexual harassment. He was handsome in a distinguished sort of way. Tall and lean, with salt and pepper hair. He dressed like the academic he was with lots of tweed and sweaters paired with cords, but he was never lacking in female company. Their department mixers often saw him with one beautiful female or another.

Rumours abounded of affairs with students as well as faculty members. He certainly wasn’t so lacking in companionship as to make him desperate. Still, he rankled her. She was always left feeling as if she had a trail of slime over her body wherever his eyes had been. And they were everywhere, including her chest at this very moment. His scrutiny made her want to cover herself from his sight.

‘Did you need to speak with me, Dean?’

She’d learned to be very careful in how she interacted with him. Remarks like “Did you need me?” or “Do you need to see me?” – simple things she would have said to anyone else – had been met one too many times with “Yes, very much so” and a lingering, implication-filled silence.

She’d learned to give him no openings.

His icy blue eyes met hers and she controlled the need to look away from him. You didn’t show weakness to predators. Ever.

‘Yes, Ross. I wanted to let you know I’ve called a staff meeting Monday morning at 8 a.m. I expect you there.’

‘What’s happened?’ she asked, her curiosity getting the better of her.

‘Just show up, Ross.’ He raked her over one last time before turning and leaving her alone.

Feeling like she needed a shower, Bridget ran through all the reasons she stayed here at Pinewood when she felt like a mouse in the lion’s den. Sure, she was only weeks away from gaining tenure, but was it really worth it when Dean Whittier was so repulsive despite the pretty package? Yes. She loved teaching chemistry, loved her students and the life she’d built, but how many more veiled suggestions could she really take?

‘Professor Ross?’ Her mental debate was thrust aside, however, at Skyler’s timid greeting.

Lurching to her feet, she rushed to Skyler, practically pulling the girl into her office. She was dishevelled and looked stunned. Her blonde hair was falling out of the elastic band she’d used to pull it back and her brown eyes were almost vacant.

‘Are you OK? Talk to me, sugar.’

Skyler fell into the visitor chair that Bridget guided her toward.

‘Skyler?’ Bridget knelt beside her and took her student’s hand. It was ice cold.

For several moments, she just sat there staring over Bridget’s shoulder and then it was like a veil fell down over her face. It hardened and her eyes snapped to Bridget’s.

‘Professor Ross, I need to know if I can take the mid-term on a different day. I’ll take it early if necessary.’

‘Why?’ Bridget stood and moved to lean against her desk. Her Spidey senses were jangling a mile a minute and she knew in her gut there was more going on here, but it was up to Skyler to confide in her.

She looked directly into Bridget’s eyes, replying, ‘I have a medical appointment I can’t change.’

‘Skyler.’ Bridget’s tone was sharp. ‘You can be honest with me.’

A wave of pain flowed across Skyler’s face, distorting her features, but she schooled them quickly.

‘I am, Professor.’ Her words were tinted with a bitterness that made them crack.

At a loss, Bridget said, ‘Bring me confirmation of the appointment and you can take the mid-term the day before.’

‘That’s fine.’

‘Very well. I’ll see you at 10 a.m. Don’t be late.’

Skyler sat for several more moments before her eyes welled with tears. She nodded once and then left without another word.

Bridget watched her leave with a sinking feeling in her stomach.

Skyler Brooks couldn’t believe she’d allowed this to happen. So much for a genius level IQ. She’d been as dumb as a fence-post and now she was stuck between the proverbial rock and hard place.

It
so
had not been worth it either. Sure, he’d been attractive and suave. He’d said all the right things and gotten into her head. But the sex had been mediocre at best. Could she be any more cliché?

A man with an ego that big had no room for anyone else in his bed. Initially, she’d been so flattered by his attention she’d practically thrown herself at him. Now, she couldn’t get far enough away.

She had to stop and grab the wall, collecting herself as a wave of nausea so deep it almost knocked her to her knees ran through her. Leaning against the painted cinderblocks, she took several long, deep breaths. Saliva welled in her mouth and she tasted a bilious tang. She would be damned if she’d puke in the middle of the hallway. Swallowing frantically, she bolted for the nearest ladies’ room.

Throwing open the door, she threw her backpack to the ground and flung herself into one of the stalls just in time. Fortunately for her, there was nothing in her stomach to bring up, having already brought up the salad she’d had for lunch before Professor Ross’s class. Her entire diaphragm clenched and held as she heaved and heaved, bringing up nothing but bile. By the time the spasms stopped, she was panting from the exertion. Hot tears sprang to her eyes as she hugged the cool porcelain, waiting to ensure no more would be coming up.

She’d confronted him, told him she was pregnant. She’d expected it would force him to finally let her go. He wasn’t the sort who would want a child.

Nothing had prepared her for his response.

Rather than abandon her as she’d hoped, he’d picked up the phone and coolly arranged for her to have an abortion. There’d been no more emotion in his voice than if he’d been ordering lunch or hiring a rental car. When he’d hung up the phone, he looked at her with such disdain her skin had crawled.

‘You
will
take care of this inconvenience. Do you understand?’ His voice, once so provocative, was hard enough to cut glass.

She’d gaped at him, at a complete loss.

‘Do you understand me, Skyler?’

‘You can’t force me to do this. What if I want to keep it?’

He’d stood then and moved over to where she sat slumped in the chair closest to the door. Leaning over her shoulder, he’d been close enough that she could smell the tang of coffee on his breath and the scent of his cologne. He’d grabbed her breast and squeezed hard, forcing her to arch. She cried out and he only squeezed harder.

‘You don’t get it yet, you little slut, do you?’ He’d grabbed her ponytail and pulled her head back so that their eyes met. ‘You’re nothing but a piece of pussy to me, but I’ll not have you ruining that pussy as long as I feel like using it. Nor will I have you trapping me with a brat. You
will
keep that appointment or I will make you wish you’d never been fucking born.’

Squatting in the stall of the ladies’ room, Skyler began to laugh. Shows what he knew. She already wished she’d never been born.

Gathering herself, she stood on wobbly knees. She flushed and waited for a few more deep breaths before lurching to the sink. Her skin was flushed and her eyes were red-rimmed and swollen from crying. She looked like hell and felt worse.

After splashing cold water on her face, she ripped several paper towels out of the dispenser and blotted before balling them up and shoving them into the trash can. One more deep breath and she turned and shrieked.

‘Professor Ross!’ Her heart raced a mile a minute. She hadn’t heard the professor come in. She’d probably been too busy crying.

Professor Ross was leaning against the door to the restroom. She held Skyler’s backpack in her hand. A small frown crinkled her brow. Other than that she was the picture of calm. Skyler had always admired her. She was sexy and classy and funny and she always had a nice word for her students.

So many times she’d watched in awe as the professor had made complex chemical ideas sound fun and interesting. Skyler considered her a mentor and role model. Right now, though, she was the last person Skyler wanted to see.

‘Skyler, sugar,’ she drawled the way she did in that light Southern twang that made her sound like the classiest phone sex operator out there. ‘You wanna tell me what’s going on?’

‘Professor. No disrespect –’ Skyler held up a hand as if to ward the professor off ‘– but, no I don’t.’

‘Are you pregnant?’

Skyler didn’t deny it, but she didn’t feign outrage either. She was too damn tired.

‘Professor, that’s really none of your business.’

‘Skyler, I just want to help. Please talk to me.’

More tears welled in Skyler’s eyes and she could feel her lips wobble, but she wasn’t going to cry now. Her tears wouldn’t solve anything.

‘You can’t help me, Professor. No one can.’

Squaring her shoulders, Skyler walked to Professor Ross and held out her hand for her backpack. The professor hesitated; concern shone out of her green eyes, but she ultimately gave Skyler the pack and moved aside.

Skyler felt like a true shit for her attitude, but what could Professor Ross do for her? He was her boss, after all.

Bridget watched Skyler retreat down the hallway. She moved like she had the world on her shoulders. If the girl was pregnant, this wouldn’t be the first time it had happened to one of her students. She only hoped whoever had knocked her up would step up and be responsible. She had a very bad feeling, however, that this “unchangeable appointment” was an abortion.

Not that Bridget was passing judgment. It was between each person’s conscience and God whether they took that route or not, but the risks were so high if Skyler didn’t take care of this the right way.

After all, she should know. Unconsciously, Bridget rested a hand on her lower abdomen. Yes, she should definitely know.