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“You must go again sometime. The Guilland family is old and storied in the area. I’m sure you would find your visit interesting.”
“Perhaps I will.” Why the next words fell out of his mouth, he would never know, but he heard himself say, quite suggestively, “Perhaps you would induce your family to give me a personal tour?”
She froze, simply stopped, as if everything about her—her heart, her pulse, her breath, her thoughts—simply switched off. Then, abruptly, she switched on again. She turned her head and stared through the glass wall at the busy patio and pool beyond, saying calmly, “I haven’t spoken to any member of my family in years. We...fell apart. Our connections just disappeared.”
“I am sorry,” Morgan murmured, assuming that she was one of the foster children he’d seen come through BCBC over his lengthy tenure there. Removed from their families for any number of reasons, they were often among the hardest working and the most motivated and successful students. They frequently required counseling and extra help, however.
“Tell me, Ms. Guilland, what are your goals, your plans?”
She lifted her chin. “I’m not entirely sure. I’d like to work with the homeless in some capacity, so I’m taking an advanced degree in social services.”
She slid from her chair and went to lean against the cold rock fireplace. He was surprised to find her taller than he’d expected, maybe five and a half feet. She made a pretty picture standing there against the rustic backdrop of pale, rough stone.
“You have a lovely home,” she said, smiling slightly as if to disguise the fact that she’d changed the subject.
Morgan chuckled, letting her get away with it. “I don’t live here. My aunts own the house, which was built in 1860. They’re triplets, by the way. My aunts, that is.”
“Triplets.” She shook her head. “I don’t think I knew that.”
She wouldn’t, of course, not being a local. Nodding, he smiled. “Hypatia, Magnolia and Odelia. They’ve lived here their whole lives and are universally adored, especially by the family.”
For the first time, Simone Guilland truly smiled, showing him a set of white, even teeth and pert apple cheeks. For just an instant, those cheeks struck a chord in him, a memory of a memory, something he couldn’t place. Then she whispered, “That’s lovely,” and he felt a flush of...something.
“They’re lovely,” he told her, feeling as thrilled as he did at the end of a race. “Kind, dear Christian ladies. They’ve made Chatam House a haven. I can’t tell you how many they’ve taken in.” He cleared his throat and rushed on. “Just recently they gave a home to the family of some longtime friends and household staff.”
“Oh?”
Naturally that would interest her, given her concern for the homeless. He mentally congratulated himself. He pointed through the glass to Hilda and Chester.
“The Worths have been with my aunts for, oh, twenty years or more. Hilda is the most amazing cook. Anyway, when Chester’s brother died recently, my aunts moved his widowed daughter and her children into the house. She married my cousin Phillip.” He chuckled again, thinking how often that sort of thing seemed to happen at Chatam House. “They started a business together, and—” He broke off, realizing that Simone had straightened away from the fireplace, a pained look on her face. “Is something wrong?”
“Died?” She put a hand to her temple. “Y-you’re saying that, um...Chester’s brother...”
“Are you all right?” Morgan asked, edging forward.
She shook her head as if to clear it. “Sorry. I—I seem to have bees in my head. Guess I should’ve eaten. Um, did...did I hear that correctly? He died?”
“Yes. Chester’s brother, Marshall, died,” Morgan muttered, moving closer.
She swallowed audibly. “And, ah, you said something about his daughter being a widow?”
“With three kids,” Morgan confirmed offhandedly, watching Simone as she swayed. “But not anymore. She married my cousin Phillip last month.”
Simone smiled slightly and nodded. “I see. Sorry. It’s...confusing.” Then her eyes simply rolled back in her head, and she melted like hot wax left too near a flame.
Morgan leaped forward, catching her in his arms before the back of her head could connect with the edge of the stone hearth. It was like catching smoke. She felt weightless, boneless.
Scooping her up, he rushed outside with her, shouting, “Need help here!”
People swarmed them. Going down on one knee, he dropped her on a quickly vacated chaise lounge. His aunts appeared at his elbows, and Chester handed him a towel that had been dipped in the pool.
“What happened?” Uncle Kent, his aunt Odelia’s rotund husband, asked as Morgan wiped Simone’s face with the wet towel.
“We were just talking and she fainted.”
A retired pharmacist, Kent knew a bit about medical matters, so when he told someone to get her a soft drink, something with sugar in it, Morgan simply added, “And put some food on a plate. She said she hadn’t eaten.”
Already rousing, she moaned. Morgan wiped the wet towel over her face again, taking away the makeup that had concealed the freckles across the bridge of her nose and the dark circles beneath those gorgeous eyes. Suddenly, Morgan wanted to shove away everyone else and hold her close. He told himself that she was just a kid, no more than twenty-one, probably, and a student, strictly off-limits for a professor. That was a line he had never crossed, one he had never even been tempted to cross, despite ample opportunity over the years. Until now. But why?
She had already proved herself untrustworthy, having dropped a class after the deadline and leaving her project teammates in the lurch. She had likely been a foster child and could well be anorexic, given her frailty and lack of eating. Moreover, she seemed to be a loner and something of a mystery, probably one of those kids with a tough past that she hadn’t quite left behind. He should have wanted to wash his hands of her, right then and there, but as her adviser and host he was responsible for her to a point, and until he was satisfied that she was well, he couldn’t relinquish supervision of her. More to the point, he didn’t want to.
It was that simple and, alas, that complicated.
* * *
Died. The word seemed to reverberate inside Simone’s skull, echoing so loudly that her eyeballs bounced. She blinked, realized immediately what had happened and opened her eyes to find herself face-to-face with the much too handsome Professor Chatam. He ran a hand through his damp, nut-brown hair, his cinnamon eyes crinkling as he smiled.
“Welcome back,” he said, sounding relieved. The smile cut grooves in his lean cheeks and flattened the fascinating cleft in his chin. Add a high, smooth forehead, the long, straight blade of his nose and a square jawline, and she could simply find nothing to dislike in that face.
Gulping, Simone sat up a little straighter and glanced around.
The kindly faces of three older women smiled down at her. All three had gently cleft chins. The one they called Hypatia wore a silk pantsuit, a string of pearls and pumps. To a pool party. Her silver hair had been swept into a sleek, sophisticated roll on the back of her head. Her sister Magnolia, on the other hand, wore trousers and rubber boots with a gardening smock, her steel-gray hair twisted into a grizzled braid. The third one—Odelia, Simone thought her name was—could have worked as a sideshow in a circus. The plumpest of the sisters, she wore her short, white hair in a froth of curls tied with a multicolored scarf that matched the rainbow print of the ruffled caftan. She accented this with stacks of bangles at her wrists and beads at her throat, as well as clusters of tiny rainbows that dangled from her earlobes.
“How are you?” asked the rainbow-festooned Odelia.
Simone managed to croak, “Fine.”
“Look at me,” Morgan Chatam commanded. Simone automatically bristled, but she fought back the impulse to snap and complied. “Have you fainted like this before?”
She considered lying but decided against it. She’d put such things behind her, so instead she nodded and cleared her throat. “I’m all right now.”
When she started to swing her legs to the side, however, he placed his hands on her shoulders and pinned her back against the chaise.
“Not until you answer a couple of questions.”
Her heart thunked with uncertainty. She hadn’t had a moment to think since she’d learned that her father had died, and this handsome man was making it difficult to order her thoughts. A plate of food hovered beside his head, and she glanced up at the familiar woman who held it. Had she been recognized, then? Now that it was too late? Simone had expected it upon her arrival, but when it hadn’t happened, she’d started to plan how to make herself known, then to realize that her father was dead...dead. She shivered uncontrollably.
“Is this the result of an eating disorder?” Morgan demanded. “Anorexia? Bulimia?”
Her brows jumped up, a short, almost silent laugh escaping her. “No.”
He considered, relaxed, dropped his hands and finally reached up for the plate of food. “You won’t mind eating this, then.”
She was hungry, so she didn’t argue. Taking the plate warily, she relaxed somewhat when Hilda, who happened to be her aunt by marriage, turned away without so much as a second glance. Not recognized, then. She supposed she had changed a good deal in the past nine, almost ten, years, and given the ravages of cancer... Simone sometimes wondered which was worse, the disease or the cure. She turned off the thought and smiled her thanks at those around her.
“This is exactly what I need.” She picked up the burger and bit into it. “Mmm.” After chewing and swallowing, she touched her fingertips to the corners of her mouth and said, “I prefer my cheeseburgers with mayonnaise.”
Chuckling, Morgan Chatam pushed up to his full height. “Mayo coming up.”
“And a napkin, please.”
“And a napkin.”
While he went off to fetch those things for her, she turned to sit sideways on the chaise. Her uncle Chester handed her a soft drink, nodding and moving off without so much as a glimmer of identification. Simone felt a pang of disappointment, but perhaps it was for the best. She couldn’t think of that now. The Chatam ladies stayed with her until Morgan returned with his own meal in hand. As they moved off, he sat down beside her, placed his drink on the ground and handed her a plastic knife, indicating the glob of white on his plate.
“Mayonnaise.” While she slathered the condiment onto her hamburger bun, he plucked paper napkins from a pocket and dropped several into her lap. “And napkins.”
“I thank you.” She bowed her head at him, adding, “And I apologize. I forget to eat, and I don’t always get as much sleep as I should.”
“And that’s all it is?”
“It’s certainly not an eating disorder,” she said with a wry chuckle, adding, “It probably didn’t help that I walked over here in the heat.”
“In that case,” he said, “I’ll be driving you home.”
“Oh, that’s not nece—”
“I’ll be driving you home,” he repeated, making it clear that the matter was not open for discussion.
She subsided at once, but it rankled. At twenty-six, Simone had been on her own for almost a decade. If anyone could claim the title of “adult,” then she could. She certainly wasn’t proud of being the black sheep of the family. She had run away from home at the tender—and stupid—age of sixteen, but she had survived. It had been a near thing at times, and she wasn’t always proud of how she had managed, but no one at the college needed to know that. Her family was another matter.
She’d intended to confess all to her dad and hope, trust, that he could forgive her. He’d been good like that, always willing to extend another chance. Her mother had seen that as weakness, and to her shame, Simone had, too, but she’d learned otherwise over the years. Now that it didn’t matter.
Grief loomed. She shoved it away. She had no right to it. Later, she would decide what to do.
After eating most of the food she’d been given, she shook her head and handed over the plate. “That’s all I can manage.”
Morgan Chatam stacked the plate atop his empty one and set both on the end of the chaise. “Good enough. Perhaps you’d like to go inside where it’s cool now and rest for a bit.”
“That sounds great.”
She got to her feet, as steady as could be. He lifted a hand and she preceded him back to the house, saying, “About that cousin of yours, the one who married the widow...”
“Phillip? What about him?”
“You said something about a business.”
“That’s right. Smartphone apps.”
Simone couldn’t help smiling. Yes, that sounded like her sister, Carissa. Tom, Carissa’s husband—first husband—had studied computer science, and Carissa had always been fascinated by the subject. Poor Tom. It was hard to believe that he, too, had died.
“And do they live around here? Phillip and...his wife?”
“They do. They bought a house and set up an office less than a mile away.”
“That’s nice.”
She and Carissa had never been the closest of sisters, but Simone was glad to know that Carissa was doing well. Now that their dad was gone and Carissa had married into the Chatam family, however, she wasn’t likely to want her black sheep little sister around, especially if her full history should be uncovered. And it surely would be. The Guillands, her in-laws, had uncovered it quite easily.
After that, nothing could convince them that she was good enough for their precious son. “A diseased street kid” who could not even give them the grandchild they so desperately wanted was not a fit wife for the Guilland family heir. Simone didn’t really blame them for having her marriage to their son annulled, any more than she would blame her sister for turning away from her in shame. So why even give Carissa the chance? Why put Carissa through that?
It seemed to Simone that even her dreams of home and reconciliation had died.
Chapter Two
Morgan reached around Simone to open the sunroom door. “Let me show you someplace comfortable to wait out of the heat.”
“All right.”
He led her through the sunroom and down a darkened back hallway to a large room filled with comfy overstuffed furniture and a large flat-screen TV.
“The family parlor,” he said. “There are video games, if you’re interested.”
She cut a glance at him, quipping, “That’s not what I expected to hear. Then again, you’re not exactly the typical college professor.”
He laughed. “You just haven’t seen me in my tweed jacket with the suede patches on the elbows.”
She smiled at that. “Sounds rather old school. Seems to me that college professors these days are either eccentric or ultraprofessional types.”
“Well, history professors are a different breed.”
“Yes, but you don’t fit that mold, either.”
He grinned and for some reason that he couldn’t explain even to himself, he prodded her for a personal opinion. “No?” He spread his arms then folded them. “How would you label me, then? Be kind, now.”
She narrowed her eyes at him, obviously trying to size him up, and he was aware of his heartbeat beginning to accelerate. “If I didn’t know and had to guess, I’d say...race car driver.”
His jaw dropped, but he quickly snapped it shut again. She had to be putting him on, of course. His predilections were well-known around campus.
“That’s funny.” He laughed, but it sounded forced even to his own ears. “But it’s motorcycles. Not race cars.”
“You’re kidding.”
He didn’t appreciate her attempt to play stupid. Oddly disappointed, he turned and walked out. Everyone knew that speed was his greatest weakness, his great indulgence. Sports cars, motorcycles, fast boats, even roller coasters were his idea of FUN, writ large and in capital letters. Some of his family gave him a hard time about it, but he was skillful, careful and respectful of the laws, saving his true exploits for the racetrack. Next to moving fast, he liked tinkering and kept a fleet of vehicles, one for every purpose. More than one young miss had tried to use his fascination with horsepower to spark a more personal fascination. That this one appeared to take the opposite approach somehow unnerved him.
Then again, everything about her unnerved him, and he couldn’t quite figure out why. He’d been struck by the sight of her sitting alone at that table in the sunroom. Then, when she’d passed out, dropping right into his arms...he’d never quite experienced anything like that. It hadn’t been panic, really, or even shock; it was more...a heightened awareness, a deep physical connection overlaid by concern for her well-being and something else he could only describe as possessiveness. He didn’t like it. He didn’t like it at all, but something about Simone Guilland drew him. Hopefully, she hadn’t noticed.
He kept an eye on her, wandering in and out of the house regularly. She didn’t move from the couch. A few others went inside and joined her, making use of the video games he’d spoken of earlier. She chatted with them and cheered them on as they played, her husky voice seeming to deepen with use until the sound of it flayed his skin like velvet lashings and set his nerves on edge.
The party began to break up about dusk, as it was meant to. As usual, many hands made short work of the cleanup. Morgan could always count on his faculty in the History Department to pitch in and help. With Hilda and Chester overseeing everything, they were finished in no time at all. Still, dark had descended by the time he escorted Simone out to the two-seater parked beneath the porte cochere on the west end of the house. He’d treated himself to the Valencia-orange convertible when he’d made department chair last year. The BMW Z4 was a sharp, fast, classy bit of self-indulgence for which he refused to feel guilty. He worked hard, after all, tithed religiously, gave generously and spent what was left as he pleased. Simone dropped down into the passenger seat, her eyebrows rising, and fastened her safety belt as he strode around the front end to take his place behind the steering wheel.
“Am I going to regret this?” she asked cheekily.
He couldn’t help grinning as he put the transmission in gear. “Nope. I am, if I do say so myself, an excellent driver.”
“Modest, too,” she quipped, then she laughed outright at his look of dismay. He found himself laughing with her. He was rather proud of his driving skills.
After backing out, he drove the sports car sedately down the looping drive and south through town the dozen or so blocks to the university district. She directed him to a three-story boardinghouse on the north edge of the university campus. It was a ramshackle place, some forty or fifty years old. Once a dignified family home, it had long ago devolved to seedy, its large, airy rooms broken into small cells with common bathrooms on each story and a central living space and utilitarian kitchen on the ground floor. The yard had been paved over to provide parking, and bicycles and skateboards crowded the warped porch.
