“Okay,” he said
tightly. “I’ll pick you up.”
“I’ll drive myself.”
Aggravation and frustration formed a tangible aura around him. He was fairly bristling. “You know where I live.”
“Yes. See you at seven sharp, Mr. Chapman.”
She marched past him, opened the door and sailed out before she could give in to the impulse to bury her hands in his thick, unruly hair and beg him to kiss her.
“You’re right on time,” he said, answering her knock on his door the following evening.
“I promised to be.”
“Come in.” He was wearing a ragged pair of jeans and a sweat shirt with the sleeves cut out. His bare feet had been pushed into docksiders. Seeing him so casually attired made her heart pound and her hands go clammy, but she passed him coolly and entered the apartment.
She was dressed in a starched white shirt with a pleated front and a narrow black string tie. Her skirt was black wool. A prim ponytail contributed to the crisp and efficient look she knew it was essential to create. She regarded the mountains of paper littering his coffee table and floor with assumed distaste.
“Where should I start?”
He hung her cape on a rack near the door and indicated with a sweep of his hand that she should precede him into the room. “I’d like you to go through these three books—I’ll tell you the chapters—and cite instances when the Congress has overridden a presidential veto. Also note if the bill passed was eventually beneficial and list the reasons why. It’ll make a good exam question and if a student has read the material, he should be able to give several good examples.”
“Won’t I be taking the same exam?”
“You’ll get alternate questions.”
She nodded, not thinking about what was being said, not thinking of anything except how marvelous his eyes were.
He looked at her for a long while, tension emanating from him. His eyes drifted down to her mouth, but lingered only an instant before he said gruffly, “I’ll be working over here if you have any questions.”
For the rest of the evening they shared the room, but nothing else. He treated her with professional detachment. As she adjusted herself into a comfortable position on the sofa he turned on the stereo system, then went to the heaped table and began wading through his own stack of books.
After an hour or more he got up and stretched, raising his arms high over his head. Shelley happened to glance up and catch a glimpse of the skin between the hem of his sweat shirt and his low-riding jeans. His navel, thatched with the dark, silky hair her fingers remembered, took on a forbidden, erotic aspect when seen accidentally this way. The flagrant manner in which his threadbare jeans detailed his manhood made her heart thud painfully against her ribs.
Licking suddenly dry lips, she dragged her eyes back down to the page she was studying, though for the next few minutes the blurred words wouldn’t come into focus.
“Coke?” he called to her over the barroom doors.
“Yes. Please.” He came back into the room carrying two tall, iced glasses. He set one on a coaster on the coffee table. “Thank you,” she said crisply.
“You’re welcome,” he replied politely.
At precisely ten o’clock she put her pen in her purse, neatly stacked the pages on which she’d written the required information and stood up. She carried the papers to the table.
“All done, Shelley?” His eyes were watching the rapid rise and fall of her breasts.
“Yes, I’ve finished, but if my notes need clarification, I’ll be glad to explain them.” His bare arms looked beautiful in the soft lighting. The curvature of the smooth muscles was accented by light and shadow. She wanted to touch him, to lovingly caress him, much as a sculptor would admire the handiwork he had created out of clay.
“I’m sure they’re clear and concise.” He stood. “Do I pay you in cash?”
He was much too close and she retreated to the door. She avoided looking at him, pulling on her cape instead. “No. You can give me a check every two weeks or so.”
“Fine.”
The low huskiness of his voice just behind her was an attraction not to be resisted. Her chin grazed her shoulder as she looked up at him. “Good night.” Her hand was on the doorknob, but she hesitated in turning it. She wished he’d say something, do something, demand that they end this ridiculous farce. At that moment, when her body was screaming for her to relent, she would gladly have obeyed him and thrown away the last vestiges of circumspection. Why didn’t he reach for her, caress her, kiss her?
His expression was wooden, expressing nothing of the raging war inside him. His farewell was short and clipped. “Good night.”