Chapter Nine
I don’t want to talk about my mother anymore, Dr. Montgomery,” Amanda said sternly.
Hank was watching her. “I don’t blame you. Terrible person she must be. Let’s talk about something pleasant, like when you’re getting married.”
“Soon,” she said, finishing the food on her plate.
“Cake?” he asked. “Or have you had enough?” His eyes were twinkling.
Amanda felt she should have refused the cake he offered but she didn’t.
“Let’s discuss something neutral,” he said. “Such as love and courtship and your wedding night with ol’ Taylor.”
Amanda choked.
“Lemonade?” he asked innocently, holding out a glass. “But I guess you know all about sex, what with a mother like yours and all the studying you’ve done. Tell me, does Taylor put lovemaking on your schedule or is it something he does spontaneously?”
“He doesn’t—” she said angrily, then stopped. “Taylor is a gentleman.”
“I’m sure he will be on your wedding night too. Did you ever think that as much as he likes educated women he’s going to be disappointed with a bride who knows so little about…shall we say, the physical side of marriage?”
“Taylor is my teacher and I’m sure he’ll teach me what I need to know.”
“So he’ll be your teacher even after you’re married? It won’t stop at the ceremony? Will you be given a schedule every day of the rest of your life?”
Amanda stood abruptly and glared down at him. “You are despicable, Dr. Montgomery.”
Hank sat with his eyes fixed on her legs—long, slim legs with those black silk stockings. “Amanda,” he whispered, putting his hand out to touch her calf.
But Amanda was already headed toward the pond to retrieve her still-damp dress. Within minutes she had it on and her wet hair pulled back into a tight knot. She walked back to the cloth where the food and Dr. Montgomery were sprawled. “I want to go home now,” she said as coldly as possible.
He looked up at her with angry eyes. “Home to the open arms of the man who loves you?”
“Dr. Montgomery, my life is none of your business. How can I make you understand that?”
In one rolling motion, he came to his feet to stand in front of her, his face close to hers. “I’ll understand when I see that it is your life. All I see now is a puppet, not a woman, and Taylor pulls your strings to make you do whatever he wants you to do.”
“That’s absurd! I control my own life. I—”
“Prove it!” Hank snapped. “Prove to me that Taylor wants you and not just your father’s ranch and I’ll leave you alone.”
She took a step backward. He had said, out loud, her most secret fear. “Of course he wants me,” she said in little more than a whisper. “Taylor loves me and he proves it every day. Every night he writes my schedule. He cares about what I eat, what I wear; he directs my learning, he—”
“Keeps his job,” Hank said, jaw clenched. “Your father can’t dismiss him as long as he’s still teaching you. You’re twenty-two years old, Amanda. When do you get to graduate? When do you get to cut your strings and be free?”
He was confusing her and making her angry at the same time. “You are making my head hurt, Dr. Montgomery. Please take me home.”
“Home to that automaton you say you love? My car has more feeling than Taylor Driscoll has.”
The confusion was beginning to leave Amanda and all that was left was anger. “What proof do you need?” she snapped at him. At that moment she felt she would do anything to make him stop antagonizing her. “Tell me what I need to do to prove to you that Taylor is the man I love.”
“Passion,” Hank said quickly. “The man is incapable of passion. Even if you marry him you’ll die an old maid. Make him prove he can cut the mustard.”
Her face turned red, embarrassment overriding anger. “I will ask him—”
“No, don’t ask him anything. Invite him to your room. Throw yourself at him. Sit on his lap and run your hands through his hair.”
Amanda stared at him for a moment, trying her best to visualize sitting in Taylor’s lap, but she couldn’t. She turned away from Dr. Montgomery and headed toward the car. “You are a frivolous man,” she said under her breath.