“Wh—where would you want to work?”
“The most logical place is my duplex. All the texts are there. They’re too heavy for you to carry around. I have an excellent filing system for exams, etcetera.”
She was shaking her head. “That would be insane, Grant.” Rather than tell him she couldn’t bear sharing that cozy room with him, she used an excuse. “If Chancellor Martin ever found out—”
“I’d tell him I needed an assistant, which is the truth, and that you are my best student, which is also the truth.”
She faced him with as much composure as she could. “I’m sure it would be preferable if this assistant you need so much were a male student.”
For the first time, the corners of his mouth tilted into a ghost of a smile. “Preferable for whom?” He coaxed a shadowy smile from her, too, before he said with soft earnestness, “I’ve missed you, Shelley.”
“Don’t,” she choked, lowering her eyes again and shaking her head. She cursed the tears she felt pooling in her eyes. “Please, don’t. Don’t make it harder than it is.”
“You’re making it harder than it is. I told you we were on your timetable, but I can’t stand this state of limbo any longer.”
“You’ve ignored me for almost three weeks,” she cried with wounded feminine pride. “I might just as well have been dead.”
“Oh no, Shelley. I was all too aware of you. Perversely I hoped you were suffering as much as I. Each night I lay in bed thinking of you, your smell, your feel, your taste.”
“No …”
“I want you so bad I ache.” He stepped forward and placed his hands on her shoulders. “Shelley—” The door opened.
“Mr. Chap—Well excuse me,” the coed drawled insinuatingly. Indolently she leaned against the opened door, a sly look narrowing her eyes.
Shelley dashed the tears from her cheeks and turned toward the window. She folded her arms across her waist in a defensive gesture.
“What is it, Miss Zimmerman?” Grant asked tersely.
Not one to be intimidated, the girl met his stern expression with an insolent smile. “Nothing. It can wait. Later,” she said and walked out the door, firmly closing it behind her.
For a tension-laden moment neither moved, then Grant came toward her. “Shelley, I’m sor—”
She whirled around to face him. “Why don’t you ask her to be your assistant? She seems more than willing to do anything for you.”
The surprised look on his face gave her a feeling of satisfaction but didn’t begin to abate her anger. Irrationally she was taking out her self-directed fury on him. She was no better than the others throwing themselves at him, craving his touch. How many hearts was he dangling along? That she could be one of a harem enraged her. “I’m sure your Miss Zimmerman or someone like her is just dying to spend long evenings with you poring over your dusty textbooks.”
Grant had a hard time keeping his own temper in check. She could tell by the way his jaw was working and the way he held his arms stiffly at his sides. “She’s not ‘my’ Miss Zimmerman. What the hell does she have to do with anything anyway? She’s a silly little coed. So? Give me some credit, Shelley,” he said with exasperation. “Now, are you going to help me or not?”
It was a challenge, bold and uncompromising. She had to meet it head-on. “Yes, I’ll help you. I’ll do your research and I’ll grade for you. But this is strictly a business arrangement.”
“Very well.”
“I mean it. Strictly business.”
“I understand.”
They were both lying and they both knew it. This face-off had nothing to do with business, but it suited their purpose at the time to pretend that it did.
“What are you going to pay me?”
He muttered a curse beneath his breath and shoved his hands into the pockets of his slacks, pulling the cloth taut over his hips. She averted her eyes. “How does twenty dollars a week sound? Two nights a week.”
“I like the sound of forty dollars a week better. Twenty dollars a night, three hours maximum, seven to ten.”
“Agreed,” he growled. “I’ll expect you tonight.”
“I have an economics quiz I need to study for tonight. You can expect me tomorrow night.”