The Professor (22 page)

He paced some more. Where was she? Her closest friend lived in the sorority house. The library would be closed. The thought of her walking to the Strip in the dark raised his anxiety several more notches. Unsure what he was doing, he got in his car and headed for Clinton.

The silent drive did little to ease his worries. Lisa was supposed to call him back if Meg returned. A small corner of his heart hoped she would reach out to him.

What could Didi have said to upset Meg so much? It had to be something about her past. Mick tapped his fingers across the steering wheel and gave the phone another glance.

Why wasn’t anyone looking for her? Forget about the Professor. There were plenty of assholes who thought nothing about taking advantage of a vulnerable woman. With that depressing observation, he pushed harder on the accelerator.

For a long time, Meg roamed the campus. Eventually, she found herself on the Quad with no memory of how she arrived there. Although she hadn’t seen her in years, she wished she could talk to Julie. Her best friend’s family had taken her in when her parents disowned her. Julie had stood beside her, even when the gossip crested in a nasty wave.

Sinking onto a bench, Meg gave in to the misery and let the memories trample her.

She’d tried to obey the rules. Steven had sworn he loved her. His kisses had grown deeper, his furtive hands bolder, introducing her to the pleasures of her body.
She’d always stopped at a carefully drawn line—until the night Steven dropped to one knee and asked her to marry him. Passion had exploded with the wonders of sexuality. In the days that followed, they couldn’t get enough of each other. Steven repeatedly pledged his love and devotion. Only once—that first time—was the sex unprotected.

Then the day her period should have begun came and went. She attributed its absence to stress. More weeks passed. She knew she was pregnant. Steven disappeared, taking his worthless promises with him. And her parents evicted her from their life.

For the first month of exile, she held up her head and maintained her silence. But as her pregnancy progressed, it became nearly impossible to endure the comments and the stares, as people she thought were her friends deserted her. Morning sickness racked her body and fatigue nearly leveled her. Fighting to stay awake in class and at her after-school job drained her dwindling resources. She lost rather than gained weight. Circles like bruises darkened her eyes.

Finally, Mrs. Hamilton took her hand and led her into the family room. “What are you going to do?” she asked.

Meg looked at her uncertainly, unsure what she was asking. Fear trickled in like freezing water. Until that moment, the Hamiltons hadn’t asked any questions, not even whether she was actually pregnant. Was Mrs. Hamilton saying she needed to make other arrangements? That she couldn’t live with them anymore? Was even her best friend going to abandon her?

“About the baby, honey. If you plan to have an abortion, you’re running out of time. If you want to give it up for adoption, you need to see a doctor. A lawyer will find a couple who will be overjoyed to raise it. But you can’t continue the way you’re going.”

Relief and panic arrived together. She could stay, but she had to voice another of the enormous truths that kept her awake at night. Stalling, she chewed her lip. Finally, in a small voice, she said, “I want to keep it.”

“Honey.” Mrs. Hamilton took both her hands. “I understand, but that’s not realistic. Don’t you want to go to college?”

Meg nodded. She’d talked to Chapel Hill about the change in her status to emancipated minor. The admissions office personnel were sympathetic, but they couldn’t change her grant package at this point. Money was already committed to other students. Student loans were available. If she wanted to defer and try again the following year, they offered, maybe additional funding could be arranged. The message was the same at all the other schools, except Whitman. Whitman’s alumni fund allowed them the flexibility to offer her a full scholarship.

“How will you do that with a baby?” Mrs. Hamilton asked. “I’m guessing on your due date, but it’ll be sometime next fall. Taking care of a baby alone will make studying nearly impossible. How will you pay for the birth? Or afford the baby? Its doctor, clothes, diapers.”

“I don’t know,” she whispered.

“Have you talked to the father?”

Tears sprang to her eyes.

“I take it that means yes. And he was a jerk about it.”

Meg dropped her head so her hair swung forward, hiding her face. “He doesn’t want anything to do with it. He’s telling everyone the baby isn’t his.”

Mrs. Hamilton bristled with anger. “We can fix his little wagon. I made an appointment for you with my ob-gyn. You think about it some more, Meg. Think about the life you want for your child, what’s best for it. It’s your decision. If you decide to have it, something will work out. You don’t have to marry him—” she clearly knew Steven was the father, “—but a paternity test will force him to help support it.”

“Her,” she said softly. “I hope it’s a girl.” She pressed her hands against the tiny life inside her. “I’ll love her.”

She wanted the child so much—someone to love who would truly love her in return.

“Oh, honey. I know you will.” Mrs. Hamilton hugged her. She wanted to stay there the rest of her life. In the days that followed, Mrs. Hamilton became the mother she’d dreamed of having. She managed Meg’s diet, and the morning sickness eased. Together, they read books about pregnancy and fetal development. She acted as if Meg were having her grandchild.

As graduation neared and her pregnancy approached the end of the fourth month, a small bulge appeared in her slender abdomen. Two days before the end of school, she woke to wrenching cramps. Three hours later, Mrs. Hamilton held her hand as she bled onto a hospital examination table and miscarried the child she so desperately wanted.

A dark form appeared on the Quad, but Meg barely noticed. She was still in a hospital room, where part of her was dying. The form moved closer and became a man. She tried to rouse herself. “Who’s there?”

The man came toward her.

She shouldn’t be out here, alone. It could be dangerous. She tried to care, but couldn’t shake the lethargy from the evening’s emotional firestorm.

“Meg?”

The voice registered. Warm hands settled on her shoulders and gently kneaded the knots. “Lisa said she thought you might be out here.”

She waited, not trusting her voice.

“She was kinda excited when I called. Actually, she was screaming at some girl. I got the impression it concerned you.”

Again, she didn’t answer.

“Want to talk about it?” Mick asked.

Meg shook her head. Lisa had stuck up for her. Her eyes filled with tears. Mick came looking for her. Maybe she wasn’t alone after all.

He moved around the bench, and sat beside her. “I’m a good listener.”

“I can’t.” Tears thickened her voice and her mouth trembled. She covered it with a hand.
Don’t think about it,
she told herself.
Put it back in its cage and close the door
.

“Whatever it is, it’ll be okay.” His arm moved around her shoulders.

Nothing will ever be okay.
She’d reached out once to what she thought was love. She knew now it was simply an attempt to flee an abusive home. She’d mistaken lust for love, an escape route for a relationship. She’d merely traded one abusive man for another. One betrayal for another. In the process, she’d been damaged beyond repair. Mick deserved someone who had something to offer him. There was nothing behind her facade he could possibly want.

He kissed her temple. “I’m not going anywhere.”

At his words, her tears overflowed.

There in Mick’s arms, she cried for the devastating abandonment and losses—of innocence, of love, and of the child she might have had—until she had no more tears. Finally, she sniffed and ran her forearm over her cheeks, blotting her eyes with her sweatshirt. Exhausted, she buried her face in his shoulder.

He pushed back the tumbled curls and gently pressed his lips to her skin. “Sh-h,” he murmured. He slowly rocked her, like a small boat riding the swells in a sheltered harbor while a storm raged beyond the breakwater.

Gradually she became aware of the solid warmth that was Mick. At some point, he’d pulled her into his lap. His arms surrounded her, shutting out the world. There was only Mick. She felt safe and warm and cherished. Taking a deep breath, she inhaled his scent. It flew straight past her brain and lodged in her heart.

Silently, they watched stars twinkle, an occasional jet and a leaf falling from a tree. Eventually, he stirred. “Better?”

She thought for a moment, then shook her head. It was done. There was no changing the past. But it would never be better.

“It might get better if you talked about it.”

She blinked back fresh tears. “Having you think less of me won’t make it better.”

All this crying was nearly as humiliating as the conversation he thought he wanted to have. “Mick,” she looked up at him. “Trust me. You don’t want to get involved with me.”

His face was inches from hers. “Too late,” he whispered. “I’m here. I’m not leaving.”

The words echoed in the vast emptiness inside her.
I’m not leaving.

Her fingers touched his face, hesitantly exploring the plane of his cheek, the arch of his brow. He was so handsome. So strong. And he loved her. It made no sense, but she knew it as surely as if he’d planted sparklers spelling the words in the sky above them.

Her mouth lifted to his and kissed him, and then there was only need. She was lost in it. Needed his love. Wanted his love. Hungered for him. Her body was on fire and Mick was the fuel. She wanted him to break through the fortress of her will. His arms tightened around her.

She couldn’t get close enough. Her fingers slid across his shoulders and twined into his hair.

More. She wanted more.

She pressed her body against his. He was so strong, so real.

No, no, no,
yelled the censors in her head.
You can’t do this.

She tried to ignore them. Mick. Mick was who she wanted. Loving him, kissing him, sharing with him was the right thing to do. Her heart pounded in her chest. She felt his answering need.

Stop,
shrieked her defenses.
You. Can’t. Do. This.

Meg wrenched out of Mick’s embrace. “Stop.”

She buried her face in her hands. “I can’t. I can’t.” A shudder spasmed through her.

“Meg.” His voice was thick, and he swallowed, trying to clear it. He needed a minute to restart his brain, but he wasn’t going to get it. He closed a hand over hers, pulling them from her face. “It’s okay.”

“I shouldn’t have done that.”

She tried to twist away, but he moved, holding her close. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” he said. “It’s not your fault.”

“I shouldn’t have kissed you.”

“I wanted you to. God, I’m thrilled you did. But it’s okay that you needed to stop. I understand.”

She quit struggling, but didn’t turn to face him. “You deserve better than this. I didn’t mean to lead you on. I’m not one of those women who gets an ego lift from being a tease.”

He wasn’t surprised when guilt laced her voice. Guessing correctly didn’t make him happy. “Is that what he said?” He couldn’t contain the surge of anger.

She cautiously examined him from the corner of her eye. “What? Who?”

He took a deep breath, trying to regain control, and softened his approach. “Did he try to blame you? Meg, sweetheart, no matter what the circumstances, you always have the right to say no.”

Wearing a bewildered expression, she twisted in his lap. “What are you talking about?”

He reached for her hands, but she shook them loose. “I understand if you don’t feel comfortable talking to me, but I wish you’d talk to someone.”

She silently waited for him to explain.

He focused on the shrubbery behind her, willing himself to stay calm.
Damn
. He hoped he was making the right decision. Finally, he looked directly at her. “Were you sexually assaulted?”

For a moment, she stared, incredulous. Then she scrambled off his lap. “You think I was raped?”

She gaped at him, appalled. “Is that why it isn’t my fault? Just cry ‘rape’ and that makes it okay? Oh, God, Mick, I’m not Didi. I take full responsibility for what I did. And if I hadn’t done it, none of the rest would’ve happened.”

He surged to his feet. “Then tell me why you’re so afraid.”

“Afraid?” Backing away, she shook her head. “What do you know about fear?”

He followed her. “Explain it to me.”

“You don’t get anything about me, do you?” Her fingers were on her head, as if trying to keep it from exploding. “God, I’m such a fool, thinking you were different.”

“You aren’t making sense.”

She whirled to face him, her hands flung out to the sides. “Is this plain enough? I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to remember it. Just leave me alone.”

He moved closer. “I care too much about you.”

“How can you say that? You don’t know anything about me.”

“We can change that. Let me know you. What could possibly be so awful you
can’t tell me? I love you. Nothing’s going to change that.”

“Love?” She threw the word at him. “Don’t confuse lust with love. I did once. I won’t make that mistake again.”

He was handling this all wrong. He needed to calm her down. Cautiously, he approached her, as if she were a cornered wild animal. “Talk to me, Meg.”

She backed away, hands extended in front, as if to ward him off. “Is that your answer to everything? ‘Talk to me.’ And then what? What happens when you’re done exploring the mystery of Meg and you walk away?”

“I won’t.”

“Don’t say things you don’t mean, make promises you can’t keep.” A tear rolled down her cheek.

“I keep my word, I always have.” He moved closer, but she stepped back.

“Is that all this is to you? A challenge? A big mystery? Another chance to save the day?”

“Of course not.”
Where is all this coming from?

The tear reached her chin and she swiped at it angrily. “I’ll walk away if you don’t. I won’t let you screw up my life any more than it already is. I won’t screw up yours.”

“You’re not screwing up anything.” He reached for her, but she retreated again. “Don’t shut me out. I can’t change the past…”

“Don’t.” She turned away from him.

“Meg…”

“Leave me alone, Mick,” she sobbed, and kept walking. “Just leave me alone.”

Mick stared after her, appalled. What had he been thinking? He knew better than to confront a victim.

Meg’s stubborn back retreated into the dark.

He threw up his hands in frustration. “Dammit.”

He’d just screwed up royally. Not only did he have
no
idea what was going on, he’d driven Meg even
further
away. He took a step, then stopped. She was too upset to be rational right now. He’d give her thirty—no, make that fifteen—minutes to cool down, but then they were
going
to talk this through.

Twenty minutes later, he stood in front of Meg’s building, tired, worried and out of ideas. He’d followed her, at a discreet distance, just to be sure she was okay, so he knew she was inside.

For all the good it did him.

The apartment house was quiet. Only a few lights shone from the upper windows. How had he managed to foul things up so badly? And what set her off in the first place? Wringing the answers out of her wouldn’t solve anything, but he was desperate enough to try.

He crossed the lawn, climbed the stairs and pressed her buzzer beside the outer door.

Nothing happened.

He waited. A minute crawled past.

“Dammit.” He knew she was home. She knew he knew it. He pressed her buzzer again.

The door didn’t release. The intercom didn’t squawk. Starting at the top, he methodically pressed each of the six buzzers. Someone,
he didn’t know or care who, pressed the door release. Mick jerked open the front door and stalked into the foyer.

At the foot of the stairs, he stopped. What was he going to do? Pound on her door? Yell through the keyhole? That wouldn’t solve anything. It certainly wasn’t the way to get her to open up and trust him. And given the way his day was going, the neighbors would call the local police department and he’d never climb out of the resulting hole.

Blowing out a disgusted breath, he slumped against the foyer wall. Whatever was going on, he couldn’t fix it tonight, but dammit, Meg was
going
to talk to him.

Soon.

And in depth.

He glanced up the stairwell. He’d find her tomorrow if he had to camp outside her office or her classroom.

He could leave a message, though. He pulled out his notebook and stared at the blank page. What could he say that would get through to her, but wouldn’t embarrass her further if anyone else read it? Something she said kept echoing in his head.
Don’t confuse love with lust.
Somehow that was the key to whatever was bothering her.

He thought another minute, then wrote:
I know the difference. Love, Mick.

He crossed the foyer and tried to slip the note into her mailbox. The box fit flush against the metal plate. He wanted to bang his head against the wall. This wasn’t supposed to be this difficult.

Another idea occurred to him. He left Meg’s building, crossed the street and parking lot, and walked into the Chi Zeta house.

The desk attendant looked up when he entered. “I’m sorry, sir. It’s after-hours.”

He recognized her from earlier that evening and clearly, she knew who he was. She sounded anything but sorry. If fact, she seemed to be enjoying the drama.

He gritted his teeth and lifted the folded note. “Do you have an envelope?”

The young woman pulled one from under the counter. “Will this do?”

“Thanks. I’d like to leave this for Meg Connolly. Please make sure she gets it.”