She leaned against him weakly, wanting to give in yet knowing it wouldn’t be wise. She loved him. At some point in the last ten years she had come to that indisputable conclusion. He was no longer an idol, the subject of youthful imaginings. He was the man intended for her to love, and she wanted that love to be fulfilled.
But to him, she might only be a novelty. While she had lived an unhappy life, pining for him, thinking of him constantly, dreaming impossible dreams, manufacturing romantic situations in her mind that would never happen, he had been living a hectic, whirlwind life in Washington. Had he really thought of her then, or were his methods of getting her into bed just more sophisticated than Daryl’s had been?
She had constructed a new life for herself out of the
rubble of her shattered marriage. Her plans for the future were carefully laid out and going according to schedule. Should she let Grant Chapman into her life, he might upset that schedule, if not destroy her plans for the future altogether.
The pain of leaving his embrace was worse than having a dagger pierce her heart, but she gradually pushed against him until he relented and let her go. She turned and walked to the window, staring out at the twilit evening. She heard the rasp of his zipper as he lowered it to tuck his shirttail into his trousers before doing it up again. Her ears picked up the sound of his muted footsteps on the thick rug as he came to stand behind her.
“I was never Missy Lancaster’s lover.” He hadn’t touched her, yet his words caused her to spin around, her eyes wide.
“Grant,” she said dolefully, “that has nothing to do with us. I’m reluctant for us to … to … sleep together, but not because of what happened between you and that girl in Washington.”
The relaxing of the lines on either side of his mouth testified to his relief. But his eyes lost none of their intensity. “I’m glad, because there was nothing between Missy and me. At least not what everyone thought. To have told the unmitigated truth would have been to divulge a confidence I couldn’t break.” His hand came up to grip her shoulders. “Trust me, Shelley. I’m not lying about this.”
Her eyes roved his face. There was no disguising the anxiety there. “I believe you, Grant.”
He sighed and released his death grip on her shoulders. “Thank you for that.” He kissed her lightly on the lips. “Shall we go? I can’t jeopardize my position on this faculty by being late to the chancellor’s party.”
A short time later, they left the duplex. He had retrieved his sportcoat from upstairs and knotted a necktie under his shirt collar. Shelley had retreated to the half bath to freshen her makeup—which truly needed it now—and to brush her hair.
The chancellor lived on an estate owned by the university. Set on a hill, the house was an imposing colonial with six white columns across a broad front porch. Grant parked the Datsun at the foot of the hill and they started up the incline on foot.
His voice was deceptively innocent as he asked, “If the business in Washington wasn’t the reason, why did you stop me, Shelley?”
Her footsteps faltered on the gravel driveway. He clasped her elbow and urged her on. “I need more time,” she said in a low voice. “I need to know if what I’m feeling now is real or just an extension of what I felt for you ten years ago.”
That was a lie. She knew she loved him, always had, always would. But she didn’t want him to know that yet. “I’m not sure I want to get involved with anyone right now. I’ve had a difficult time getting my life together. Now that it looks like I might make something of it, I’m afraid to gamble.”
She stopped and faced him. “I haven’t changed much since high school. At least where morals are concerned. Sex isn’t a casual pastime to me. I couldn’t sleep with you one night, and the next day go blithely on my way as though nothing had happened.”
His eyes were lit with an internal flame that burned into hers. “I’m glad you feel that way. Because once I slept with you, I doubt I’d ever be able to let you go.”
Flabbergasted by what he’d said and the profound way he’d said it, she remained mesmerized by his eyes. Finally, forcing herself out of the trance, she said, “Besides we’re still teacher and student.”
He tossed his head back and let out a short laugh. “You can always fall back on that, can’t you?” She returned his grin as he steered her up the steps to the porch. “Come up with a better excuse, Shelley. Who the hell cares about that?”
Chancellor Martin did.
The cocktail—or rather wine—party was as stuffy and dull as Grant had predicted it would be. They were ceremoniously greeted by a receiving line as soon as the butler let them in the door. Chancellor Martin’s physical appearance was perfectly suited to his career as an academician. He was austere, gray-haired, high of brow, tall in stature. He handled his introduction to Shelley graciously enough, but she felt that his shrewd blue eyes were sizing her up.
His wife, a stout matron with gray hair a shade bluer than her husband’s, spoke to Grant and Shelley with an insincere smile carved onto her face. She seemed more interested in adjusting the cluster of diamonds pinned to her ample bosom than in them.
“Can you imagine Mrs. Martin writhing in the throes of passion?” Grant asked out of the corner of his mouth as they moved away. Shelley nearly dropped her glass of wine. She had accepted it from the silver tray another rented-for-the-evening butler was passing around. She was convulsed with silent laughter.
“Shut up,” Shelley ground out between her teeth as she tried to maintain a decorous mien. “You’re going to make me spill my wine and then I’ll have to have this blouse dry-cleaned, when otherwise I might get by with wearing it one more time.”
They mingled, and Shelley couldn’t help noticing that the women in the room, faculty members and spouses alike, gravitated to Grant like homing pigeons. She was sickened by their subtle questions, purposely drafted to lead him into a discussion of Missy Lancaster and her suicide. Deftly he managed to detour them to other topics.
The men in the room discussed the afternoon’s football game, the season in general and the team’s chances for a bowl game. Grant introduced Shelley without explaining who she was, but one of her former professors remembered her just the same. Shelley was sure that news of their student-teacher relationship was spreading through the room.
A half hour later Shelley and Grant found themselves in Chancellor Martin’s den. They were discussing the merits of backgammon over chess when the chancellor himself walked in.
“Ah, there you are, Mr. Chapman. I was hoping for a word with you.” He sounded friendly enough, but the way he closed the double doors to the room behind him filled Shelley with foreboding.
“We were just admiring this room,” Grant said congenially. “It’s beautiful, as is the rest of the house.”
“Yes, well,” he said, coughing unnecessarily, “as you know the university owns the house, but when I was appointed chancellor and we moved in, Marjorie redecorated it.”