Past Imperfect. Crystal Green
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she’d left the little Thai restaurant without another word to him, slipping on her knit cap and walking out of the place with a dignity Ian could only wish for. Or maybe he was getting soft in his skills, just as his new editor had muttered last week.
Remorse. Emotional second-guessing. Hell, his job didn’t allow him those sorts of perks. Nope. His profession—damn, that was sure a noble word for digging up crud and slinging it over a page just to make a buck—demanded that he chase Rachel down again.
Yet, frankly, he had the sneaking suspicion that she knew something about the “mysterious benefactor” of Saunders University, so he had every reason to pursue the matter, anyway.
A looming clock tower struck eight times, the bells ringing through the cool air. Ian fixed his gaze on Lumley Hall, the maple-shrouded red-brick building where Professor Gilbert Harrison’s hearing would be held. Students wearing scarves and nosy frowns were loitering outside, and Ian’s reporter sense prodded him to ask a few questions, just to establish the tone for today’s proceedings.
Were these kids here to support the professor? Or did they, like the administration, have an ax to grind?
Somehow Ian doubted they did, based on the information he’d gotten so far. Everyone seemed to love Gilbert Harrison—except for the old stodgies in charge.
While passing one of many bike racks that dotted the campus, Ian scanned the crowds again, locking in on a single person who stood outside of the hall.
Rachel James, the one-time queen of the campus.
Although she was clearly included in a cluster of friends, she was standing on the fringes, arms crossed over a long, camel-colored coat that had seen better days. Her black hair fell to her shoulders in a cloud of rough curls, and she had a wool scarf wrapped over the bottom half of her face, hiding the full lips Ian had entertained more than a few wicked thoughts about.
He took a couple of seconds to appreciate her, this serene woman who obviously had so much more going on beneath the surface than she would reveal. He could tell by the troubled depths of her almond-shaped brown eyes, by the way they often reflected a level of sadness that he wanted to understand.
Damn, he thought, ambling closer to her. It was all pretty interesting, this new side he was discovering about himself. He didn’t really stick around women long enough to develop anything beyond the superficial warmth of a morning-after glow, not that his job allowed him to do more than that, anyway. Still, he always seemed to find willing-enough partners who understood what they were both getting into.
Would a woman like Rachel James…?
What? Agree to eat local cuisine, drink some wine and come back to his hotel every night until he checked out and moved on to the next assignment, the next affair? Not likely. Not someone sweet and earthy like her.
It didn’t matter, though. She was only a misguided tickle to his sex drive, encouraged by any number of things: the slam-in-the-gut rush of the first time he’d identified his beautiful source on campus and talked with her, going beyond their all business phone conversations. The willingness she’d shown to talk to him further—albeit secretly—even though her friends weren’t nearly so accommodating. The way she watched him—as if she expected more of him than muckraking.
How could one assessing look from her make him reevaluate the growing compromises of his job, the sleazy need to uncover scandal, the negativity that his editor emphasized more every week?
Wiping away a twinge of guilt that was recurring far too much lately, Ian boldly approached Rachel, donning his give-me-some-info facade once again: the persuasive smile, the relaxed frame of his body.
“Morning,” he said, nodding at her, then at all her friends.
They gave him an assessing glance, said hello, then discreetly—and not rudely—huddled into themselves, closing their circle against him.
But Rachel didn’t step into it. Instead, she tugged the scarf off her face and subtly gestured to a spot beneath a lone oak tree, indicating with an angry gaze that he should meet her there.
Well, he thought. Looks like she’s still a bit put out by yesterday’s impromptu interview.
A thrust of desire heated Ian’s belly as he followed in the wake of her jasmine perfume. She had his libido’s number, with that smooth, light brown complexion, those long eyebrows winging over dark, liquid eyes, those high cheekbones and lush mouth. Even though she had the delicate features of an exotic pixie, he could sense a woman’s blood—hot and alive—pulsing under her skin.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
He glanced around, as if flummoxed. “I heard there’s a trial going on.”
“A closed trial.”
Ian’s journalistic ambition kicked awake. “Not according to the president of the college board of directors. Alex Broadstreet invited the press.”
She merely stared at him for a moment. Her eyes resembled open wounds that bled dark frustration.
His first instinct was to touch her, to let her know that she’d get through this all right. But Ian checked his guts, reminding himself that he’d only be asking for trouble.
“Broadstreet can’t do that,” she finally said. “He can’t bring a private hearing to the public.”
Ian made a mental note to get hold of the campus’s conduct-hearing guidelines. But since Broadstreet was the Grand Poo-Bah in charge, Ian suspected he could mold the rules to his own advantage pretty easily.
When Ian glanced at her again, the pain hadn’t gone away. It was too much to stand.
“Rachel.” He battled with himself, then reached out to casually tug on the lapel of her coat, thinking it wasn’t much of a come-on and, therefore, nothing to worry about. “Broadstreet is doing it, whether you like it or not.”
“Damn him.” She huffed out an exasperated breath, then absently caressed the patch of worn wool he’d touched. “He’s bound and determined to do anything to disgrace Gilbert. This isn’t right.”
For a moment, neither of them spoke. She was still holding the tips of her fingers against the material, her head tilted, eyes wide with so many questions he couldn’t answer. It was as if, among other things, he’d bewildered her with his halfway playful gesture.
Strangely embarrassed for some reason, Ian took a step back.
Out of self-preservation, he once again assumed the role of unbiased reporter, even though there was a niggling poke of ethics in his gut that was agreeing with Rachel.
In an effort to fully distance himself, he said, “Can I quote you on your disgust regarding the hearing’s parameters?”
He couldn’t have chosen a colder thing to say.
She shot him a look—the kind every man feels sorry about receiving—then started walking back to her friends. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t grown used to this sort of reaction. In his line of work, he didn’t exactly endear himself to people.
So why did this particular brush-off sting?
He watched as she situated herself in back of Jane Jackson, Gilbert’s secretary. Next to Jane stood her fiancé, Smith Parker, a campus maintenance worker. Ian suspected that the two, along with Rachel and Sandra Westport, had investigated Gilbert’s situation themselves on the quiet.
As Rachel whispered into the redheaded Jane’s ear, Ian was interrupted by the arrival of Joe his photographer.
“Ready to do some damage?” asked the short, squat shutterbug.
Ian tried not to flinch, especially with Rachel standing only yards away. Somehow, she made him too conscious of what his editor had instructed him to do: sell more papers with salacious details.
“If damage involves the truth,” he said through a clenched jaw, “then I want it.”
Joe