Double Jeopardy. Terri Reed
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indelicate snort met her statement. “Don’t get attached. You’ll be leaving there soon.”
Anne sighed. “I know. Thanks for the reminder.” As if she could forget. “How soon?”
“Hard to say. The D.A. has you scheduled to testify right before closing arguments so you won’t have to come back to New Jersey until them.”
“How’s the trial going so far?”
“Slow. I’ll be in touch. And, hey…”
“Yes?”
“Everything’s going to be all right. You’ll get through this, you know You’re strong.”
The reassurance soothed some of Anne’s tension. If only she felt strong. “Thanks.”
“Call if anything else strange happens. You can always reach me at this number.”
“Will do.”
Anne clicked off and tried for some deep, calming breaths as she pulled her car into her parking space right in front of her building door.
Inside the safety of her studio apartment, Anne was greeted by a large white Persian cat with only one eye and a pink collar sporting a dangling, sparkly tiara charm.
Relaxing her voice, Anne said, “Hello, sugar.” She picked the cat up and snuggled her close. For a moment Princess allowed the contact before squirming to get away. Anne set the cat back on the floor with a sigh. Sometimes she wasn’t sure if the cat loved her or not.
A few days after moving to Boston she’d gone to the humane society looking for a guard dog and ended up with a cat. The minute she’d seen the feline, she fell in love with the ball of fluff named Princess and had brought her home.
Princess marched straight to her bowl, tail stuck in the air, and meowed.
“Ah, we’re hungry.” Anne opened a can of food and left Princess to her dinner.
Making her way over to the Murphy bed, Anne kicked off her shoes and stretched her toes. She hated heels, but the role she was playing required sensible pumps and the itchy dress suit. Thankfully bare legs were an acceptable style. The thought of nylons made her shudder.
She changed into soft cotton pajamas and crawled under the down comforter. Her mind wouldn’t quiet down however. Her thoughts kept churning through the morass of danger that lurked. Was Cam a student or a henchman for Raoul Domingo? Would one of them slit her throat as she slept? As she came out of the school building? Went to the grocery store? Would she ever feel safe?
And what of the professor? And how much she enjoyed being around him?
Thinking about Patrick was more productive than angsting about the threat she couldn’t control.
There was something very steady and reassuring about him that drew her in and made her wish he could see her as she really was.
But he might not be so nice to her then.
The social-status-conscious “associate” professor wouldn’t want to socialize with a woman who had barely passed high school and had grown up in a trailer in the backwoods.
She punched the pillow with a groan. The sooner she got his computer up and running, the sooner she could move on to another project and another professor before her time was up in Boston.
She couldn’t afford to get too chummy with anyone.
Or “attached.”
She was pretty sure she could keep from revealing her past, but she wasn’t sure that she could keep her lonely heart from wanting what she couldn’t have.
A friend. Love. A life without fear.
As one day turned in to two days of deleting, replacing and reformatting, Anne’s eyes stung with grit and fatigue stiffened the muscles in her neck and shoulders. She’d figured out how to convert the old computer software into a language the new software could easily and readily read, but just to be on the safe side she’d been reading through each file and would occasionally find a trouble spot that she had to manually correct.
Though the subject matter of economics wasn’t something she found interesting, she’d certainly learned a lot. There was one file that looked huge and she’d been saving it for last.
She glanced at the computer clock. She should be able to finish with the files and get the docking station set up before Patrick returned to his office.
She clicked to open the file, “Turned Up Side Down” expecting to see more charts, theories and statistics, but instead she found herself staring at a work of fiction.
A novel. Written by Patrick McClain.
Both curiosity and the desire to make sure the file hadn’t lost all of its formatting urged her to read.
Fascination kept her glued to the words.
Soon she was hooked into the story of a young boy who loses his father and must step into the role of man of the house.
She laughed at the antics of the boy and his siblings and fought tears of empathy for the characters. She reached the last page with a satisfied sigh, yet knew she’d seen some formatting issues but she’d been so engrossed in the story that she hadn’t wanted to stop reading to fix.
She’d have to read through it again. She rubbed at her eyes. It would be easier if she could read the words from a hard copy. She began printing off the book, while her mind raced with thoughts of the story and Patrick.
She realized she knew very little of his private life. Was this book autobiographical or purely fiction? If autobiographical, she was in deep trouble.
Weren’t damaged hearts notorious for falling for their like?
After his meeting with the department chair, Patrick headed to his office, expecting to find Anne waiting for him with his computer ready to go and trusting his files to be intact.
Instead he found his office door wide-open and Anne sitting in his chair, her fingers clicking on the keyboard. Off to the side his printer hummed as it rhythmically spat pages into the tray.
Patrick couldn’t help the little glow of approval in his gut for how hard the woman worked. A very admirable trait. She definitely had surpassed his expectations, her fashion choices notwithstanding.
Tonight, though, she wore another ill-fitting, conservative dress suit, and her spiked hair seemed especially…barbed. Her normally creamy complexion held a hint of makeup and beneath her dark lashes, circles of fatigue marred her delicate skin.
She glanced up. Her wary smile made him feel as if he’d walked in on something he shouldn’t have.
“Hello.” He stepped through the doorway and hovered near the desk.
“Uh—hi. I’m sorry, I had hoped to be done by now. This last file has been sticky.”
“No problem.” He glanced at the printer. “What’s this?”
“Your book.”
Distress grabbed his throat as he reached for the top page. He barely glanced at the words. His agitation increased until shock and rage choked him.
She was printing his book.
“How could you?”
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