"Plenty of critics love your work," she said, meeting his smile and raising him a wink. "I doubt you're injured by the criticism of one insignificant reviewer."
"Just because Bart's a hard-ass doesn't mean I am. I could be a shy man who reveres women, abhors violence, and spills copious tears over bad reviews."
But his words mocked her gently, and she knew he wasn't shy. "It's also possible the author and hero
are
alike. Maybe in more ways than the author is willing to admit?"
Stephen's eyebrows rose extravagantly, but before he could respond to this salvo, Jeff Slayton, grinning, cut in and raised a different question altogether.
"What are you doing when this is over?" Stephen whispered.
Viola's heart just about leapt out of her ribcage. "What? Why?"
"I like a spirited debate." He shot her a smile. "Come somewhere with me and have a coffee?"
"You're married," she objected.
He looked faintly puzzled. "No, I'm not." He pointed his thumb at his chest. "Single. Very much so."
Uh-oh. Headrush. He must have gotten divorced. This was so not good. She needed him to be unavailable. Off limits. Well and truly unfuckable. She did not need him suggesting they hang out.
It was still there, that magnetic pull. She knew it, and he was giving off the kind of vibes that meant he felt it, too.
"There's a reception when this is over," she reminded him. "You have to be there to sign your books and meet your fans."
"After that?" he said, keeping his voice low as the literary discussion continued around them. "Bart and I would like to get to know you better. But don't worry, there's nary a dungeon in sight."
She smiled, in spite of herself. But she wasn't going to accept his invitation. No way.
The reception in the fine arts building threatened to go on all evening. Stephen was mobbed by fans, many of whom had brought copies of his books for him to sign. He was gracious to them all, Viola noted from where she stood conversing with her colleagues. He seemed more relaxed than he had been during the discussion. He laughed easily and flirted with some of the bolder students.
He was single. She wished he hadn't told her that. She also wished she could make herself leave, as some of the other panelists already had.
She tried to concentrate on the ramblings of David Newstead, who was making the most of the opportunity to try out some of his theories on narrative techniques of the modern detective novel. David was a pleasant young man who had been asking Viola to go out with him ever since she had begun teaching at Whittacre in the fall. She always refused, but he continued to try, rather diffidently and never with much hope that she’d accept. Once or twice, feeling lonely, she had nearly said yes, but she wasn't attracted to David.
There was a certain irony in this. David was a nice guy. It would be impossible to imagine him ever creating an alter ego like Bartholomew Giles. So why did she feel not even the slightest twinge of lust when he was around? He wasn't bad-looking. He was slender and fit, and he had a lovely smile. Chemistry was an odd thing.
Jeff Slayton joined them, the organizer and history department chair, and Viola noted that unlike David, Jeff's lanky body did draw her. He had an indefinable roguish air about him—a bit like Stephen, if not quite so blatant—that piqued her interest and made her envision sultry nights getting naked. But Jeff had never asked her out.
She missed masculine company, and she particularly missed sex. But given the way her marriage had ended, she needed time to heal.
She'd been focusing on rebuilding her life, and things, at last, were getting better. She could laugh again, and she dearly loved to laugh. She could be happy. The last thing she needed was another domineering man in her life. She was so done with all that.
Stephen Silkwood had worked his way over to the wine table to refill his cup. He smiled at Viola, a good-humored grin that sent yet another unwanted zing through her. He was taller than she remembered—over six feet. His body was lean and lithe, and he moved with the grace of a dancer. Unlike his hero, Bartholomew Giles, Stephen was not brawny, but he conveyed the impression of masculine competence and strength.
Why did he have to be so wickedly hot? She couldn't seem to help cataloguing his physical attributes: the appealing contrast of his black hair against his fair skin; the easy way his long limbs flowed as he moved; the breadth of those fine shoulders in his slightly rumpled blue shirt, the taut belly, the firm ass. Okay, she couldn't actually see his ass or his belly, dammit...his pants weren't that tight, more's the pity. But she remembered what was underneath them all too well.
"This shouldn't take too much longer," he said, sipping his wine. "Maybe in about ten minutes or so you and I can excuse ourselves and make a dash for the exit."
"I didn't accept your invitation," she said, somewhat taken aback.
Say yes! her treacherous innards were clamoring.
"I'm your guest. Isn't it your duty to entertain me?"
"Let me introduce you to David Newstead." She beckoned David over. "He's a professor of modern literature and a great admirer of yours. David, Mr. Silkwood wants to talk to you about the symbolism of murder."
David's face lit up and he offered his hand enthusiastically. Stephen shook it, shooting a nasty look at Viola over David's head. Laughing, she slipped away. Time to make her escape.
She didn't succeed as quickly as she'd hoped, though, since one of her students waylaid her to beg an extension for a paper that was due on Monday. Jeff Slayton also corralled her before she could make her way out. "You're not leaving, are you? I've hardly had any chance to talk to you."
She pulled him aside, saying, with a nod in Silkwood's direction, "You told me he wasn't coming today."
"He changed his mind." Jeff looked amused. "What's the problem? I thought the two of you hit it off well."
She recalled what Stephen had said about Jeff's being an old friend of his, and a suspicion flashed. "Wait. You weren't trying to set him up with me, were you?"
Jeff grinned, looking mischievous now. "Why would I do that? Set you up with that oaf? No way. At least, not until you've given me a chance with you first."
Whoa. Were her pheromones particularly active today? Jeff had never hit on her before. She didn't usually go for blonds, but he was one of the few good-looking professors she'd met on campus. On a warm spring day about a week ago, she had watched with a certain fascination as he had practiced his fencing in the courtyard with no shirt on. Very definite eye candy.
I have got to get out of here, she thought. "Goodnight, Jeff," she said, laughing, and ducking out of his reach and bee-lining it for the exit before anybody else could stop her.
Standing beside the plate glass windows in the foyer, she waited for the elevator to take her down to the ground floor. Outside, a spring thunderstorm was growling. Flashes of lightning revealed the budding leaves of the huge oak trees that guarded the campus. The orange-globed lanterns along the brick sidewalk six floors below shone like beacons. Viola slipped on her windbreaker and flipped up the collar. It was just beginning to rain.
Overhead, the lights flickered off, then came back on again. The electricity often went out in this building during storms. It was a nuisance.
The elevator doors glided open, and she heard footsteps rapidly crossing the polished tile floor behind her. "Hold it," someone said, and she automatically pressed the open door button.
Stephen Silkwood joined her in the elevator.
"Trying to escape me, Professor?"
Viola was aware of a ridiculous blush rising over her features. "It's late. I need to get home."
He leaned lazily against the interior wall of the elevator and said, "You can take your finger off the button now, Ms. Bennett. Nobody else is coming. It's just you and me."
Feeling foolish, Viola pressed the ground floor button, and the elevator started down. They regarded each other. She tried her best to ignore his sex godliness, but this was difficult in the small confines of the elevator.
He cocked his head a little to one side, looking puzzled. "You remind me of someone. We haven't met before, have we? I'm sure I'd remember if we had."
A knot of pique formed inside her. "Just how good
is
your memory?"
"Well, I remember your nasty book review almost word for word. Serves me right, I suppose. It's a bad idea to read one's reviews. They usually make me squirm."
"You don't look like the squirming sort."
He smiled, his eyes skimming her body in a way that made her regret that remark. There was something too provocative about the idea of squirming. "Hey, I'm sensitive, like all writers. If we get nine good reviews and one bad, it’s the bad one we obsess about. My books are my children and I'm protective of them."
His words made her wince. She hadn't meant to hurt his feelings. Her dad, she recalled, hated bad reviews, and still took them personally, even after many years in the business of writing novels. But surely, bad reviews came with the territory. If you were an author, it was just one of those things you had to swallow.
She tried to rally: "So you're protective of the vicious Bartholomew Giles?"
"Absolutely. He's my creation, and I'm fond of him, nasty misogynistic rogue though he is."
He had just finished speaking when the soft panel lighting in the elevator went out and their downward motion came to a halt somewhere between the second and the first floor.
"Well, well," Stephen's voice was smooth and calm in the blackness. "We have a minor malfunction."
Viola stabbed at the buttons in the dark. The elevator did not move, but she heard a click from above and an emergency light came on to illuminate the interior. Stephen was looking amused.
"Did you do this on purpose? You'd be surprised the lengths some people go to spend a few minutes alone with a published author."
"You, Mr. Silkwood, have an enormous ego."
"You, Professor, have no sense of humor."
That wasn’t true, blast him. Her sense of humor was just fine when she wasn’t being assaulted by unruly sexual feelings for an oblivious old flame. Again, she pressed the buttons on the control panel, but the elevator did not respond. She tried the red alarm button, expecting to be jarred by a buzzer or a bell, but it too was dead. She cursed and banged the panel with the heel of her hand.
"No need to brutalize it," he said cheerfully. "What's the matter—claustrophobia?"
"You enjoy being trapped in an elevator?"
"That depends. I can imagine circumstances where it could be a pleasant experience."
She flushed, aware that he was taking stock of her body with a kind of predatory ease. His lazy, confident smile reminded her that here was a man who would make the most of any situation, whether it was a stuck elevator or a slippery windsurfing board.
Oh God. This was definitely not the time for that memory to surge in her again, but her brain was so undisciplined. After embracing her in the water, Stephen had grabbed the windsurfing gear and beached it. Then he'd urged her out of the water and pulled her down in the warm sand, where he had caressed her eager young body into ecstasy.
Standing stiffly there in the dimness of the elevator, Viola could almost feel the slant of the hot summer sun on her skin and hear the rhythmic lapping of the waves. Stephen's hands had roamed over her, sliding from her drenched hair to her throat, then down to her breasts beneath her bikini top.
She'd helped him unhook the top, gasping as he'd aroused her with light fiery touches. His fingers had moved lower on her body, exploring, leaving burning impressions on her salty skin as he sought the warmth of her thighs and the inner edge of her bikini briefs. His kisses became more passionate, his mouth drinking her in. He whispered endearments, sex words, love words, promises—words that turned into heated urgings.
She'd been a virgin, and despite the desire he'd unleashed, she was wary of the urgency that was driving them both. She resisted when he tried to strip off her bikini bottom and join their bodies there in the damp sand.
He had not insisted; in fact, he had come quickly to his senses when she’d confessed that she’d never done it. "It’s okay, there are other things we can do," he’d said. "I want to give you pleasure. Will you trust me?"
"Yes," she’d said, relying on instinct alone. Relaxing, she gave herself up to the fever again while he showed her those other things, and more. They’d spent the rest of the afternoon sharing pleasure, first on the beach and later in the dark of her father’s boathouse.
When he wasn’t teaching her all the varied and creative things two people could do instead of fucking, he’d held her close and told her that those moments in her arms were timeless, and that he would always treasure them. He hadn't mentioned that he had a fiancée.
Timeless indeed. For weeks afterward she had loved him with a restless fever, daring any fantasy. But she'd never heard from him again. She’d been a passing amusement. If she hadn't been so young and foolish at the time, she'd have forgotten him just as efficiently as he had forgotten her.
"Do you have any clever ideas about how to get us out of here?"
He shrugged his angular shoulders. "If it's a power failure, it'll be fixed presently. I suggest we take it easy and wait."
Viola jerked out her cell phone and studied the screen. No signal. That happened far too often on this end of the campus, and the storm probably wasn't helping. "Nothing," she groused. "How about yours?"
He removed a phone from his pants’ pocket and checked it. "Nope." He shoved it back in his pants, looking smug. She could swear he was enjoying this.
"Shit," she muttered, looking around the small elevator car in frustration.
"
Are
you claustrophobic?" he asked again. This time he sounded concerned.
"I don't know. I'm just—" she hesitated, not quite sure how to describe what was making her so frantic "—Edgy."
"Nothing to be afraid of," he said lightly. "You, Professor, are a bright, beautiful woman, and I'm a minor celebrity pursued by detective fiction groupies. A lot of folks would love to be stuck in here with either of us."