Текст книги "Playing with Trouble"

Автор книги: Chanel Cleeton

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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

Gray

She didn’t shy away when I called on her, took everything I gave her with an angry flash of her eyes that was my own brand of crack. So I pushed the boundaries even further, craving her reaction. I wanted more, wanted to know her.

I’d had glimpses of her. I knew she was serious. She didn’t wear sweats to class, didn’t pretend to take notes while she was really messaging on her computer. She had friends—I’d seen her joke around with the preppy guy who sat next to her and a blonde girl—but she was quiet. She seemed older than her classmates; maybe it was the way she carried herself.

I wanted to unravel her until she was lying at my feet.

“How old are you?”

Her eyes flickered with that expression I’d come to love, a cross between disdain and annoyance, her tone ice. Her only tell was the faint pink that spread across her cheeks.

“Did you seriously just ask me how old I was?”

I didn’t bother trying to hide my smile. “I did. And you’re avoiding the question.”

“It’s a rude question,” she snapped.

I shrugged, egged on by the temper she threw off. I was a twisted fuck, but I liked bantering with her. Liked the sparks that ignited between us every single time.

By the look in her eyes, so did she.

“Maybe I’m a rude guy,” I countered.

“I’ve picked up on that,” she muttered and her gaze did that fuck you look, and I shifted in my seat again.

Behind those pretty lips I wanted wrapped around my dick, she had razor-sharp teeth she wasn’t afraid to use.

“I’m twenty-three,” she answered with the same hauteur of a queen addressing a peasant. She gave me the words without abdicating an inch.

Hot as fuck.

Seven years. Not exactly dirty-old-man territory, but not small.

“You seem older.”

She blinked and her eyes widened. “Are you saying I look old?”

I’d never been good with social niceties, never had much patience for dancing around things. If I felt something, I said it. Anything else seemed like a waste of time.

“No, I’m saying you don’t act like you’re twenty-three.” I gestured toward her outfit. “Or dress like it.”

The pink on her cheeks turned to red. “Are you saying I dress like I’m old?”

Considering the number of Blair Reynolds–inspired hard-ons I’d had—including this one—I was definitely not saying that. But I wasn’t sure she was ready to handle hearing my feelings on the subject of how badly I wanted to get underneath her little skirts and the cardigans I fantasized about unbuttoning.

“Most of my students come to class dressed in jeans and flip-flops. Occasionally pajamas, after, I’m guessing, a hard night at the bar. Most of my students don’t wear pearls or carry Chanel bags.”

She made a choking noise. “So, apparently I dress like a grandmother now. Thanks.”

She wanted the truth? My gaze settled on the hem of her skirt, trailing it down to her legs. I swept over the lines of her body, admiring the view, giving her all the answer she needed.

I definitely didn’t think she looked like anything other than a fantasy. My fucking fantasy.

“Trust me, the last thing I think of when I look at you is my grandmother.” My voice sounded hoarse, strained, raw. I met her gaze again, the look on her face doing funny things to my chest. “I never meant to imply that you were old, just that you seemed more mature than the rest of the class. You don’t look like you screw around when I’m lecturing like some of your seatmates.”

I knew because I kept my eyes on her way more than I should.

Some of the red drained away, as though my confession had mollified her a bit. I tried to lighten the tension between us, to distract the part of me that couldn’t stop thinking about her legs.

“Speaking of, you might want to tell your friend that I can see the newspaper he tucks in front of his computer every day. I know he does the crossword puzzle in class.”

Surprise filled her pretty brown eyes and then her lips twitched, breaking through the lingering anger. “In his defense, it’s not every day.”

“Just most days.”

“Just most days,” she agreed with a smirk.

My breath caught at the playful tease and this new side of her.

In some ways, Blair reminded me of my ex-wife, Jessica. We’d met during law school. Jessica’s father was a judge, her mother a well-known society hostess. The first time she’d taken me home to meet her parents, I’d been afraid to touch anything, never more aware of the shit hole I’d grown up in—the cramped apartment over my father’s bar on the South Side.

I’d been dazzled by Jessica. She’d seemed like a chance at a different future, the perfect wife for my legal career. She just hadn’t been the perfect wife for me. It had turned out that as hard as it was for me to shake off my South Side background, it had been even harder for Jessica to ignore.

So yeah, I’d done the rich-girl thing. And been bitten in the ass for it. Didn’t need to do it again. No matter how hot her mouth was.

I tore my gaze away from Blair and looked down at my desk. I twirled a pen in my hands, a nervous habit I seemed to have developed somewhere along the way. I’d never had nervous habits in Chicago, just bad ones—the worst being my shitty self-control.

The thing about having an addictive personality was that if you set a drink in front of an alcoholic, it was fucking hard to resist a taste.

And if Blair Reynolds were alcohol, she’d be a single malt Scotch.

Nothing about her screamed sex—it was more like a whisper. A whisper that wound its way through me, filling my ears, my head, my eyes. It was a whisper that tempted me when I’d always been drawn to the loud and obvious.

Thank god torts came as naturally to me as breathing; I spent a ridiculous amount of class time thinking about her, wondering about her, fantasizing about her. Turned out it was so much worse when what I wanted most was sitting right across from me.

I dropped the pen, my fingers curving into my palm as if that alone would keep me from reaching out and touching, from satisfying my curiosity about whether her skin was as soft and smooth as it looked.

Fuck.

“Are you ready to talk about the pro bono project?” she asked, her voice full of no small amount of censure.

I straightened in my chair and nodded.

She reached into her bag and pulled out a little blue notebook and a silver pen. “I thought we could volunteer with one of the local middle schools. I’ve talked to one that works with at-risk youth. The administration is interested in partnering with us to create a mentoring program.”

My ex-wife’s idea of charity had been serving on committees and throwing lavish parties to raise money for one of her pet projects. I’d figured Blair’s proposal would be in a similar vein—something where she didn’t have to get her hands dirty.

“Which school?”

“Greenwood Middle.”

“Where’s that?”

She mentioned an area of D.C. notorious for drugs and gang activity.

Part of what had made me a great trial attorney was my ability to read a jury.

I couldn’t get a read on her.

“Do you think that could work?” she asked, her voice hesitant, as if she were waiting for me to squash her plans.

Was I really that big of an asshole? I mean, yeah, I screwed with her a bit, but I couldn’t believe she actually thought I was so heartless that I would block a plan to help underprivileged kids. Hell, I’d been a product of one of those schools in Chicago. I knew firsthand how tough it was to claw your way out of the gutter.

“I think it’s a great idea,” I answered, surprising her, by the look on her face. “A lot of them have probably had negative run-ins with the legal system.”

I knew all about having a juvie record.

“This could be a chance for them to see that the deck isn’t always stacked against them. That sometimes the law is on their side. What’s the next step?”

“I’ll arrange a meeting with the school principal,” she answered. “I’ll try to go there in the next few days. I’d like to set it up as soon as possible so the program can launch before everyone is bogged down with studying for finals.”

“Are you going by yourself?”

Blair nodded.

The school she’d named was in one of the roughest parts of the city. I figured we’d team up the students to go over on the days they mentored at the school. But Blair going by herself?

“I’ll go with you.”

Her mouth tightened. “No.”

“I’m not letting you go by yourself. It isn’t safe. Let me know when you get the meeting set up and I’ll clear my schedule to take you.”

“Letting me?” Her voice was downright frosty as her anger simmered between us.

Fire and ice.

She was the ultimate contrast. She had a self-control about her that I envied, and at the same time, there was so much fire inside her pushing to get out. It blasted through her eyes, bubbled over in her voice. Her control slipped, inch by inch, and I wondered what it would be like when it finally fell away.

Magnificent. She would be magnificent.

Whoever got that side of her would be a lucky bastard. She was beautiful under normal circumstances, but when she was angry she was fucking gorgeous.

“I’ll take you,” I repeated.

Her eyes narrowed. “No.”

Blair

I said no, when what I wanted to say was, no fucking way. In traffic that could be a forty-five minute drive. Forty-five minutes in the car alone with him?

I’d either throttle him or jump him and neither one boded well for my legal education.

“I’ll go with you,” he said, his tone brooking no argument. “We can meet here and drive over together. Just email me the date. I’m responsible for this project. If something happens to one of my students, it’ll be my ass on the line.”

I hesitated, torn between not wanting to go anywhere with him, and realizing I’d picked a battle I couldn’t win. And the absolute worst part of it all? I was curious.

I always voted the party line, never went more than five miles over the speed limit, never drank more than two glasses of wine. And I wanted to fuck my professor with an intensity that bordered on madness.

It was a constant push and pull with him, and I wasn’t sure which way I wanted it to go.

I caved with a grimace I didn’t bother trying to hide. “Fine. I’ll let you know.” I grabbed my bag. “I should get going. I have con law in ten minutes.”

“With Myers?”

I nodded, surprised he showed any interest in my schedule at all. And then he shocked me even more.

“How’s that going?”

Professor Myers was elderly and eccentric as hell, and half the time his lectures were a rambling mess no one could make sense of. He once actually fell asleep while one of my classmates was answering his question. And considering he was one of the country’s preeminent con law scholars, I wasn’t sure how Hannover had managed to hire him, just that they let him rule the classroom as though it was his own private kingdom. Humble wasn’t anywhere in his vocabulary. And still—

“He doesn’t make us stand.”

His lips curved all the way, revealing the kind of smile that could yank a girl’s heart out of her chest and have her underwear hitting the floor.

“Fair point.”

I stood up, the need to get the hell out suddenly eclipsing all else. “I’ll let you know about the visit.”

I turned and headed for his office door, when all of a sudden, his voice called me back.

“I’ll see you tonight.”

I turned, slowly, like a marionette under his command. My brain heard the words, but couldn’t process how they related to me.

There was that smile again, even more blinding than before.

“I’m assuming you’ll be at your mother’s party.” His hands—god, he had beautiful hands—lifted a creamy invitation from his desk.

I could only stare, horror flooding me. Now there would be two men I needed to avoid at this thing.

“Blair?”

The way he said my name, my first name, had my nipples tightening.

Fuck.

“Yes?”

He nodded toward the door with a jerk of his head and that same taunting smile. “You don’t want to be late for con law.”

I blinked, pulling myself out of my stupor. “Right.”

I broke the connection and walked out of the room, doing everything I could to resist the urge to look back. The weight of his gaze followed me until the door closed between us, the wood a shield I desperately needed.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

I reached into my bag, pulled out my cell, and shot off a quick text before I headed to my next class.

I need to buy a dress.

Chapter Four

Two of the infamous Reynolds sisters were seen shopping at a boutique in Georgetown today. You can say whatever you’d like about Senator Reynolds, but he certainly has beautiful offspring. Miss Kate Reynolds was conspicuously absent.

—Capital Confessions blog

Blair

“So what are we looking for?” my half sister, Jackie, asked as we walked into the Georgetown boutique.

I was supposed to wear this green silk gown my mother had picked out for me tonight. It was elegant, conservative, appropriate. Boring as hell. I’d actually liked the dress when she’d chosen it. But that was before. Before the wedding that never happened, before I found out my fiancé was actually gay, before I caught him cheating with his best man. Before I became the punch line of a national joke. Before I knew Professor Canter would be in attendance tonight.

“Something that doesn’t make me want to stab myself in the eye.”

Jackie would have died before wearing the green dress. It was poufy and had some floral ruffle thing that made me look like I had a tail dragging behind me. Kate had joked that I resembled a dragon that was missing its scales. That wasn’t far off.

“Why the change?”

I hesitated, not sure what answer to give. Because I’m lusting after my professor, seemed kind of dirty and totally out of character. And I wasn’t lusting after him, exactly. I mean, yeah, I guess in a technical sense of the word I was, but it wasn’t like I thought anything would happen between us.

But it was something. And that something meant I didn’t want to show up wearing an outfit my grandmother might have worn, especially after our conversation in his office today.

“I just felt like a change.”

Jackie’s gaze met mine and I saw a flash of sympathy, which I both appreciated and hated. I loved that I had another sister now, loved that we cared about each other, but I was so sick of being poor Blair. Fed up with the whispers, the pitying looks, the pats on the arm. It wasn’t in my personality to be someone people felt sorry for, and it left a bitter taste in my mouth I couldn’t expel. For all that my father and I had our disagreements, he’d taught me one lesson I’d not forgotten—the Reynolds family held their heads high and never showed any weakness. No matter how everything looked on the inside.

Jackie smiled, a determined gleam in her eyes. “We’ll have to find you something fabulous, then.”

I grinned. “Please. Lately, I need all of the fabulous I can get.”

In the weeks after my engagement ended, I’d struggled to find my stride. I hadn’t been wearing sweatpants and eating cartons of ice cream in a ratty bathrobe and unwashed hair, but it had been close. Too close. I was mostly back to normal now, but sometimes a girl just needed a great dress.

Jackie walked over to the racks and flipped through the clothes until she held up a pretty yellow sheath. “What about this one?”

I shook my head. “Definitely more you than me. It would look amazing with your coloring.”

On the surface, it was hard to tell we were sisters—well, half sisters. Jackie was a leggy blonde with a beach tan and blue eyes. I was a few inches shorter, my hair a dark brown, my skin pale. We both took after our respective mothers with little of our father in us.

“Can I help you ladies?” The saleswoman asked, walking toward us. She froze and her eyes widened with recognition.

I flashed her my campaign smile, my voice firm, slipping the Blair Reynolds mask on, the move nearly as familiar to me as breathing.

“We’re fine. Thank you.”

We’d both gotten our fair share of publicity lately—mostly thanks to the horrible Capital Confessions blog. My notoriety had started at birth as a result of my father’s position in the Senate and my mother’s political and social ties, exploded with my failed engagement to a man whose social pedigree matched mine, only to be revitalized when the world discovered my father had engaged in an extramarital affair and had an illegitimate daughter.

Jackie’s face was splashed all over the tabloids when Capital Confessions released a video of her having sex in an elevator with her now-fiancé, Will Clayton, who was running for the Virginia Senate, and the subsequent news that she was the illegitimate child of one of the U.S. Senate’s most revered members.

We were still getting to know each other, but I liked her a lot. To say our new relationship was a sore point with both my parents was the understatement of the year.

“What about this one?” Jackie held up a black dress.

I grinned. “That one would probably kill my mother. It’s gorgeous, but not me. I don’t want to completely erase who I was; I just want to be the new and improved version. Blair 2.0.”

Jackie turned back, flipping through the racks. She whirled around, a triumphant smile on her face, holding out a red gown, and honestly, I fell a little bit in love.

I never wore red. My mother thought it was too showy—which was her way of saying “vulgar,” without actually saying the word. And I’d listened. I’d never been the girl who wanted all eyes on me when I walked into a room. I got enough shit from people wanting to get to my father through me; I didn’t need to drum up my own attention. Especially now. And yet . . .

It was my first official social appearance after my engagement had ended. I didn’t want to be boring Blair, in another dress like all the other ones I’d worn before. I didn’t want to fit into the family mold, or be the backdrop for my father’s never-ending political campaign. I wanted something special, something that would give me the confidence I needed to get through a night I was already dreading. And even though I knew I shouldn’t care that Professor Canter was coming tonight, I wanted to wear something he would notice. Something classy, but sexy.

This was the dress.

We went back to the changing rooms together, talking about accessories and shoes.

In a lot of ways, we couldn’t have been more different—she was so loud and confident, funny and sharp. I was quieter, more reserved. But I loved how free I felt around Jackie. She hadn’t known me before everything fell apart with Thom, so I didn’t feel the need to fake it around her, to pretend I was someone I couldn’t be anymore.

I slipped the dress on while Jackie chatted about Will’s bid for the Virginia Senate; she worked for his campaign manager and was heavily involved in getting him elected. This close to the election, I was lucky she’d had time to hang out. Between school and the campaign, we did our best to see each other as often as possible.

When I’d finished changing, I took a deep breath and stepped out of the dressing room. “Okay, be honest. What do you think?”

For a moment she didn’t speak, and I wondered if I’d misjudged the whole thing, and then Jackie grinned. “That’s the dress. You look amazing.”

I stared at myself in the mirror, unable to keep a smile off of my face.

It was strapless and cut lower than anything I normally would have worn, but still appropriate. It hugged my torso and flared out with a red silk skirt. It was perfect. Absolutely perfect.

If I was going to end my self-imposed social exile, then I’d just found the dress that would give me the balls to do it. And if it came with the added bonus of giving me the extra spark I needed to see Professor Canter, even better.

*   *   *

“What are you wearing?”

My mother walked over, a glass of champagne in her hand, a death laser shooting from her eyes.

I leaned forward and gave her an air kiss, ignoring the glare with my name on it. Twenty-three years had provided me with a missile defense system that included avoiding the death stare. Most of the time.

“I think it’s Valentino,” I answered.

“Very funny.”

No one would ever accuse my mother of having a sense of humor.

“What happened to the green dress?”

“I hated the green dress. Kate said I looked like a dragon in the green dress.”

My mother made as much of a face as her plastic surgeon would allow. “Because your sister is really the arbiter of fashion. Please.”

I ignored the dig, because really, Kate could give a shit what people thought about her clothing choices. Still. I knew my parents were angry with her for pulling away from the family, but how could they act like she wasn’t one of us? Like she didn’t matter? I struggled to temper the anger building inside me.

“If I ever get a job working as a character for children’s birthday parties, it’ll be useful, but until then, the green dress will stay buried in the back of my closet. Or I can give it to charity.” Actually, that wasn’t a bad idea. I could do some kind of auction, donate the proceeds.

Her lips pursed like she’d swallowed bad seafood. “That dress is very showy.”

I tried to fight the smile, but my mouth won.

“Are you trying to say I look vulgar?”

The look on her face suggested I’d just screamed “fuck” in church.

“I saw the mention in Capital Confessions,” she snapped, her voice lowering, two angry red spots of color filling her cheeks. “I know this is her influence.”

That one hit its mark. Jackie was the elephant in the room and I had no clue how to deal with it. On one hand, I hated the way my parents had treated her, was ashamed that my father had failed to take care of her as a child or acknowledge his responsibility toward her until his hand had been forced. On the other hand, Jackie was a constant reminder of his infidelity. And while I wondered how much she’d known, or how much she cared, at the end of the day, she was my mother, and I knew how it felt to be cheated on and humiliated better than anyone.

The difference between us was that I’d fled in a Vera Wang wedding gown, and she’d stood beside my father at a podium, dressed in an impeccable Chanel tweed suit, pearls, and a blank smile, while he confessed his sins.

I grabbed a flute of champagne from a tray as a server passed by, fighting to keep a polite smile on my face. The party hadn’t even started, and I was already miserable. I desperately wished Kate were here with me.

“Have you been drinking tonight, Blair?”

“I just got here, so no. But I am planning on it. Especially since the Wyatts are coming.”

My mother stiffened, centuries of New England breeding bringing her spine into a ramrod-straight position. “Thom’s coming as well.”

Motherfucker.

It took every ounce of decorum that had been drummed into me to limit my reaction to a slight tremor running through my hand holding the champagne glass. The frothy liquid swayed like a drunken sailor, but stayed put.

“You will not make a scene.”

The smile died along with whatever hope I’d had for this evening to be tolerable. “Of course not.” I tried to keep the sarcasm out of my voice; by the look on her face, I’d failed. Apparently, my manners had fled along with my fiancé.

“I don’t know what’s going on with you lately, Blair, but tonight is very important for your father. We cannot afford another scandal. I expect you to behave accordingly.”

I bit back everything I really wanted to say.

The thing that pissed me off most was that none of the drama over the past few months had been my fault. My father’s penis had gotten him in trouble twenty-one years ago. Just like Thom’s got him in trouble a few months ago.

I wasn’t the one who’d cheated on our wedding day. I didn’t lie or hurt anyone. And yet she looked at me now like I was another problem she had to contain—like me wearing a red dress was a step away from doing lines of coke or streaking in front of the paparazzi. It was bullshit. Absolute bullshit. If she hadn’t wanted drama tonight, then she shouldn’t have invited the Wyatts, and she definitely shouldn’t have invited Thom.

How did she think this little reunion was supposed to go down? I hadn’t seen him since our wedding day, hadn’t taken his calls, had no idea how I was supposed to react. I didn’t think Emily Post covered situations like ours.

Maybe that was what I should do with my life—write a modern etiquette book for socially awkward moments.

Engagement ended at the altar? Caught your fiancé in flagrante delicto with his best man on your wedding day? Smile politely when you see him next, and if conversation is awkward, discuss something neutral like the weather.

“Blair. Are you listening?”

Not even a little bit.

“Sorry. What?”

“I asked if you knew him.”

“Knew who?”

My mother inclined her head toward the bar. “He’s a professor at Hannover. New to D.C.” Her nose wrinkled as though a bad odor lingered in the air. “He’s from Chicago, and I don’t know anything about his family, but apparently he’s done well for himself. Your father’s campaign manager suggested we invite him. Go talk to him. He looks awkward standing over there alone.”

I heard Chicago and everything after that disappeared as I followed her gaze across the room.

I shouldn’t have been able to recognize someone by the back of their shoulders, the shape of their head, a patch of dark, dark hair. It was sad that I did. But after nearly two months of watching him in class, of staring at him while he wrote on the board, I did recognize him. And then he turned, and the full weight of Graydon Canter in a tuxedo hit me like a truck, and I lost my head and maybe the last vestiges of my self-restraint.