She’d never be a star English student writing comparative essays, but her effort, her spark of enjoyment and desire to learn had more than outweighed her inabilities.
Olivia Barrak would never be his type, not in a million years, not even if he’d never met Rae.
He stood and shoved composition books into his leather bag. “You know my policy on cheating, Miss Barrak, as well as the university’s.”
“But, Dr. Connagher, I wasn’t cheating! Honest!”
Dean Strobel knocked on his door and stuck her head in.
Good
, Conn thought, mentally relieved. He’d asked the front desk to notify the dean or any present professor if Miss Barrak came to his office again so he could have witnesses. She had the personality of a shark, and if she couldn’t win with her looks, she might attempt to sabotage his career. While he’d justifiably deserved to be fired for what he’d done to Rae behind his locked office door, he’d be damned before he let Olivia Barrak drive him from campus because he dared reject her advances.
Dean Strobel gave the student her infamous arched eyebrow stare that could whip even the most recalcitrant professor into sitting on yet another committee. “Miss Barrak, you were reported as cheating today on your mid-term.”
“No, ma’am, I wasn’t cheating. That’s why I came to Dr. Connagher’s office.”
“So you’re calling Dr. Connagher a liar?”
Conn kept his mouth shut. The dean knew very well what kind of student this was and could handle her. He didn’t need to be running off at the mouth, no matter how pissed off he was.
Simpering at him even with a witness to her behavior, Miss Barrak replied, “He’s mistaken.”
“Well, then, the resolution to this problem is simple. I will re-instate you into Freshman English—”
Olivia practically cooed and swayed back toward him. “Oh, thank you, Dean, I—”
“However.” Dean Strobel’s brutally cold voice froze Olivia in place and wiped the sultry smile off her face. “You will transfer to
my
class.”
Olivia paled and turned big cow eyes to him as though he would help by fighting for her honor. In all honesty, it was all he could do not to dance in celebration that he’d be free of her.
This girl was Trouble which he didn’t need, not with a former student back in his life.
“Dean, please reconsider! I’m certain that I’ll learn better with Dr. Connagher.”
“Are you insulting my teaching skills, Miss Barrak?” The girl babbled incoherently, nearly in tears, but Dean Strobel ignored her playacting. “Besides, your current grade with Dr.
Connagher is barely above fifty percent. Surely even I can teach you better than that.” Dean Strobel winked at him. “If you’re willing.”
The dean led the spluttering, whining student to her office to arrange for formal transfer.
Conn sagged on a huge sigh of relief. He might have a reputation for toughness in his upper-level classes, but nobody graded as hard and demanding as Dean Strobel. Olivia Barrak had met her match alright. She’d be lucky to come out of the class alive.
He felt a sudden overwhelming urge to see Rae, to hear her voice and confirm that she was still there. What if she disappeared on him again? Did she honestly still want him? Could they ever find a happy medium ground where they could both be happy, unafraid, and utterly fulfilled?
He locked his office door and quickly headed for his car. She was his for the night.
His.
Blood pumping, he tore out of the parking lot and drove to the gym for a long, hard workout.
No matter what it takes, I will not scare her away this time.
***
Stiff as a board, Rae stared at herself in the mirror while Miss Belle fussed and cooed, adjusting ribbons.
Ribbons.
Lots of fluffy gauzy stuff and silky satin material.
All white.
Miss Belle certainly knew her grandson’s taste in women’s clothing. The dress should have made her look like a little girl…but it was cut like a babydoll negligee. The gathered bodice tied with tiny ribbons, sheered gathers skimming down her waist and hips to fall short of her knees. Tiny little straps bared her shoulders, while most of the back was open.
“I can’t wear this. It looks like a nightgown.” A very sexy nightgown.
“That’s why the silk sheath is underneath, dear.” Miss Belle stepped back, tilting her head. “It’s perfect. Now for your hair—”
“I’m not going to fix myself up like a fake Barbie doll. I’m not changing myself for any man!”
“Balderdash. Getting dressed up is not changing yourself. This is your chance to do something nice for yourself.” Miss Belle yanked the ponytail holder out of her still-damp hair from her earlier shower and Rae yelped as the old lady attacked with a hairbrush. “Don’t stand there and tell me you never in your life wanted to dress up like a princess. This is your chance.”
“If he wants a princess he can forget it.”
“He wants
you
, Rae Lynn.” In moments, Miss Belle had her hair brushed out. A few well-placed pins with crystal heads, and Rae didn’t even recognize herself. “Look at yourself, sweetheart. It is you. You can be the woman you always wanted to be, whatever that means to you, and he’ll embrace you, fully, wholly, without any restrictions.”
Dabbing at her eyes proudly, Miss Belle beamed at her in the mirror. “And if not, I’ll give you the parasol I used to keep handy to club some sense into Colonel Healy, God rest his soul.”
Oh, yeah, Rae knew the crazy old lady would have a loaded parasol somewhere.
The lights flickered.
“I think I need to call an electrician in.” Forgetting the dreamy vision in the mirror, Rae cast a worried glance up at the light fixture. It was at least fifty years old. “Did you actually hit your husband?”
“Only a few times. I assure you, he deserved it.” Miss Belle shot a glare over the corner of her shoulder. “Didn’t you, honey?”
Pipes rattled and groaned in the wall.
“And a plumber,” Rae whispered. “Um, Miss Belle, I was meaning to talk to you about some very strange things that happened today…”
“Don’t worry about Colonel Healy. He’s harmless, for the most part. His bark always was worse than his bite.”
“He’s still around, then? Like a…a…”
The doorbell rang. Miss Belle cocked her head, listening, and alarm flickered across her face. She whirled and rushed for the stairs, Rae on her heels. They hurried downstairs and Miss Belle threw open the door. “What happened?”
Sobbing, Samantha threw herself into the old lady’s arms. “Oh, Miss Belle, it’s so awful! Bill is dead and I think…I think I killed him!”
It took several starts, another pot of tea, and lots of soothing before Samantha got out her story.
“Last night was terrible. I was angry at him for bothering you, and we fought. He can be so mean and nasty when he wants to be. So today, I was home, of course, and I wanted to try some recipes. He came in all sugar and nice like he could make up for being a jerk, loaded down with presents we can’t afford. You know he hasn’t worked in months, so I have no idea where he got the money.
“Then he asked me to bake him some of those brownies he loves so much. He’s diabetic, Miss Belle, you know that. I shouldn’t have made them. I know he drinks, he forgets to take his medicine, but I was so tired of our fights. I made them just to shut him up.”
Her voice sounded so fragile, her eyes huge in her tear-stained face. “I even put extra sugar in them and lots of chocolate. Then I took a whole plateful to him. He sat there eating brownies all afternoon and drinking beer. I left to pick up the kids, and…and…”
Samantha trembled. “When I came back, he was dead. I called the ambulance but it was too late. I killed him with brownies!” A fervent hardness flickered in her eyes that surprised Rae. “And I’m glad.” Then the cook burst into tears again and buried her face against the old woman’s shoulder. “I didn’t know where else to go!”
Sick to her stomach, Rae stood in the silly white dress wondering if in a few years, she would have been driven to kill Richard to get rid of him. If she hadn’t finally resorted to divorce, would she have done something as drastic? Yeah, she decided, remembering the rage that had pulsed in her when he’d hit her. If she’d had a gun in the house, she’d have shot him right there in her kitchen.
What was it about kitchens and domestic disturbances, anyway?
Miss Belle patted the other woman on the back soothingly. “Of course you’re glad, Samantha. He saved you the trouble of having to divorce his ass by croaking.” She tilted the woman’s face up to her and wiped her tears. “Now you go home to those precious children.
Don’t say a word. If the police question you, tell the truth. You made brownies, left to get the children, came home, and found him.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s the truth, isn’t it?” Miss Belle smiled that shark smile again that gave Rae chills.
“You did not kill your husband, Samantha, not knowingly with deliberate malice. Colonel Healy assures me someone else is the culprit.”
“But—”
“Go home and take care of your children,” Miss Belle repeated. “Don’t come here again until after the funeral. I have some investigations to do. I’ll see you in a few days.”
Standing on the porch with the old woman, Rae watched Samantha drive away, calmer now that she had allies on her side with a clear plan. The old lady waved and sighed, turning back inside. “Let’s hope I can figure out who really killed him before the grand opening. I refuse to give up the best cook in Missouri to the police, even if she were guilty!”
Dear Dr. Connagher:
Remember how I said in my last letter I felt like I was having an affair with you, even
though I haven’t seen you in…two years now? Nearly three. Has it truly been so long?
I committed adultery with you in my mind last night, and the guilt is eating away at me.
As you probably suspect—if you were truly reading these letters—my marriage to
Richard is rocky at best. We fight a lot. I’m starting to realize there’s a huge difference
between “control”
—as in, “I like control, Rae,” as you said in your office—
and “controlling”.
He’s a subtle bastard when he manipulates me. Most of the time I don’t even realize it
until later. More guilt. More shame. Why don’t I stand up for myself? If it truly bothers me,
why not say something? But it’s the little things that weigh on me. I feel selfish and childish
when I complain he doesn’t listen to me: my opinions, my objections, my preferences. Not to
mention my preferences in the bedroom.
The whole reason I left you was my fear that I’d let you do anything you wanted to me,
even if it hurt, simply because that’s what you wanted. Yet in nearly two full years of marriage,
Richard has never made me feel like you did in your office that day.
Not once.
In efforts to “spice things up”, we decided to explore “fantasies”. I agreed to live out his
fantasy. I let him tie me up and blindfold me. And do you know what happened next?
I giggled.
Seriously, it was funny, like a joke. I wasn’t scared or intimated, let alone turned on.
How could he think to pull off some kind of dominant role like that? Did he really think I’d feel
trapped, out of control, scared? Of him? Needless to say, the little fantasy scene didn’t go so
well after that.
Lying awake in the darkness, I remembered that day in your office. What it felt like to be
held face down on your desk, truly trapped, where whatever happened was totally out of my
control. I was powerless against you, and not because of any bonds you used.
I let myself picture it. Tied up, blindfolded, helpless for you.
My heart pounded, I broke out in a sweat, blood rushing in my ears, muscles tightening,
clenching. Oh, yeah, turned on, definitely, for you, only for you. Despite the years and distance
between us, I felt closer to you that moment than my pissed-off husband lying a few feet away.
In my mind, I let you do anything, everything you wanted. I loved it. I needed it. I cried and
moaned in my sleep, and I cried when I woke up because it was all a dream.
This morning, Richard left for work without saying a word to me. And here I am, writing
you. I’ve come to a terrible realization, Conn. I guess I like control too, but only when you’re
the one with the bonds.
I realized something else, just now as I type this. Richard never asked me what my
fantasy was so he could make it happen for me. And that tells it all, doesn’t it.
He couldn’t give it to me anyway, because my fantasy is you.
~ Rae
Conn stared at her without saying a word. She tried to read his reaction, but his face was locked down hard. He was gorgeous, as always, dressed all in black. Instead of a suit, though, he’d gone with black jeans, thick black boots, topped with a black leather jacket that made her shiver.
He looked grim, hard and controlled, even a little threatening.
Her heartbeat sped up and she licked her lips. “Miss Belle went shopping.”
His mouth curved slightly. “So I see. Are you ready?”
His voice was low and soft, not angry. Did he hate this outfit? It was short and sexy, too, just like that mini-skirt he’d spanked her for wearing. She shivered and closed her eyes a moment. How long would it take him to verify whether or not she had anything on beneath this flimsy little dress? “Bye, Miss Belle!”
“Have a wonderful time, Rae Lynn,” Miss Belle called from the study, where she’d retreated to begin her “investigations”. What the old lady thought she could do for her possibly murderous cook—no matter how justified—Rae had no idea. “Don’t forget the bet!”