Текст книги "The Lies That Bind"

Автор книги: Kate Carlisle

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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

Chapter 4

The following night, I arrived at BABA early, determined to pin down Layla first thing. I was still worried about her and I hadn’t slept well. I wondered what she would think about my idea of buying back the Oliver Twist. She might laugh in my face. Maybe I would just keep my mouth shut. Layla could ruin someone’s reputation with one perfectly tweezed eyebrow raised at just the right moment.

But I knew I couldn’t keep my mouth shut about the book.

I drove around the block twice before I found a parking place three blocks away. When I walked inside BABA, I found out why the area was so congested.

It was happy hour. The central gallery was packed with people partying, laughing, and drinking. A full bar was set up along the far wall and guests were grabbing wineglasses as fast as the two bartenders could fill them.

It was the kickoff cocktail party for BABA’s Twisted festival. I’d completely forgotten. This exclusive, by-invitation-only event was being held for BABA’s major donors, the movers and shakers who contributed so heavily to Layla’s coffers all year long.

I knew this event had been on the calendar for months, but it still seemed tacky to be throwing a party the night after someone was viciously attacked. I wondered, not for the first time, if Minka was still in the hospital or if they’d sent her home already.

The noise level was set at shrill, thanks to the rock music being piped through the sound system. Was it my imagination or was every man and woman in the room wearing black? They all looked artistic and wealthy and skinny. It was odd to be the most colorful person in the room in my navy jeans, white T-shirt, and moss green jacket.

I recognized some familiar faces. These were the San Francisco elite, the same people I’d seen barely two months ago at the Covington Library’s gala opening of the Winslow Exhibit. The night my old friend Abraham Karastovsky had been murdered.

It made sense that the same people who supported the Covington would be BABA patrons and donors. They were all book lovers. I just wished I’d remembered about the party tonight. I would’ve dressed a little better.

Looking around, I wondered how many people in this room knew a woman had been assaulted down the hall just twenty-four hours ago. My guess was not many.

I had no doubt that this was another subject about which Layla would prefer I kept my big mouth shut.

“Yoo-hoo, Brooklyn,” someone cried.

I turned in time to receive a fierce hug from Doris Bondurant, an old friend of Abraham’s.

“Doris,” I said, taking in the subtle scent of her Chanel No. 5. “It’s so good to see you.”

She grabbed hold of my hand. “How are you, my dear? I haven’t seen you since Abraham’s memorial service. A very unhappy day, I must say.”

“Yes, it was,” I said. “But it was wonderful to see you there.”

“He was a good friend.” She squeezed my hand tighter, then let it go. “And since then, I must admit I’ve been so distracted, I haven’t gotten around to giving you the books I want you to restore for me.”

“That’s okay,” I said. “Why don’t I call you next week and we can arrange a time to meet?”

“Good girl,” she said, patting my arm. “Now, what’s going on in your life?”

Doris was a petite, wizened but feisty eighty-year-old, with a grip stronger than a truck driver’s. She was one of the wealthiest women in the city, but down-to-earth and approachable, although I’d seen her pull the diva act when the situation warranted it. She laughed at my thirty-second recap of my excellent adventures in Scotland, then frowned as the lights dimmed behind me.

“Oh, dear, what is this now?” Doris murmured.

I turned and followed her gaze to the center of the gallery, where a pin spotlight was aimed at a podium and microphone setup.

Layla walked up to the podium, wearing a white off-the-shoulder spandex sex-kitten top with skintight black toreador-style pants. She wore all that with four-inch-spike-heeled black ankle boots. Her blond hair was piled high atop her head, except for several strands that had escaped to twirl coquettishly around her neck.

The crowd closed in, blocking our view.

“She’s too damn old to be dressed like that,” Doris groused. “And I’m too damn short. I can’t see a thing over this crowd. What’s going on, Brooklyn?”

I bit back a smile at her grumblings. “Looks like Layla is going to speak.”

“I was afraid of that,” she said dolefully.

Two men flanked Layla, but both were in shadow. I couldn’t see their faces but she clutched their arms tightly and gazed up at each of them as though she knew them intimately. Then someone moved in front of me and I caught a glimpse of the man standing on Layla’s right side. He was tall and powerfully built, with a ruddy complexion and sandy hair. Now I had a better view of Layla, too. Lucky me. She moved close to the microphone and the crowd hushed.

“I’m tingling with excitement,” she said, her voice sultry as she rubbed up against the sandy-haired man. She pretended to shiver with delight, which made some of the crowd laugh and cheer.

“Oh, she’s impossible,” Doris murmured.

I wasn’t a prude, but I heartily agreed. I hated that she used sex to stir up the crowd, and I hated the crowd for sucking it up. She made everything sound so icky. These were book people. Weren’t they supposed to be smarter than the general public? I was severely disappointed in my people.

“It’s my extreme pleasure,” Layla continued, “to welcome to the Bay Area Book Arts Center the incomparable Gunther Schnaubel.”

As applause rang out, I had to admit I was excited. Gunther Schnaubel was the world-famous Austrian artist who’d been commissioned to create a series of lithographs to commemorate the Oliver Twist anniversary. The lithographs would be auctioned off at the big party on the last night of the two-week-long Twisted celebration. I hadn’t realized the artist himself would be on hand for the entire week. Maybe Layla had made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.

I didn’t want to go there. I was a Gunther fan, but if Layla kept rubbing up against him, I might change my mind.

Schnaubel acknowledged the applause with a brief smile and a wink for Layla, then waved to the audience. I couldn’t help but notice he had huge hands. It was an interesting contradiction that many male artists who did finely detailed work had such large hands. I’d once seen an exhibit of exquisite miniature portraits done in the Regency style, and when I met the artist, I stared dumbly at his large hands. A woman standing near me had winked and slyly confirmed that the man’s other parts matched in size.

In Gunther’s case, the theory appeared to be true, as well. He towered over Layla and looked to be made of solid muscle.

Meanwhile, Layla was still talking, explaining to the crowd how the silent auction would benefit the nonprofit Book Arts Center and also allow several scholarships to be given to underprivileged high school students who showed artistic promise.

She listed a few of the items that had been donated to the silent auction by both wealthy contributors and vendors who supplied paper and materials to BABA. Then she returned to the subject of Gunther Schnaubel.

“I don’t mean to gush, but if you could all see how beautiful Gunther’s . . . mm, lithographs are . . .” She cast another lascivious glance at his well-toned body. “Well, all I can say is . . . cha-ching!”

Over the roar of the delighted crowd, I could hear Doris make a tsk sound as she shook her head. I had to agree this was a “tsk-able” moment.

But Layla was on a roll. “And we’re doubly—no, triply honored that Gunther has agreed to conduct three short hands-on demonstrations of his patented lithographic technique, and attendees will walk away with your own piece of artwork. And I do mean ‘hands-on,’ ladies.”

The ladies and a few men tittered excitedly.

I checked my watch, then touched Doris’s arm. “I’d better try to get through the crowd. I have to teach a class tonight.”

“Good luck, dear,” she said, looking around at the wall of people. “This reminds me of the time we crossed the Serengeti. I believe I’d rather take my chances with the wildebeests.”

I laughed and promised to call her next week to discuss her books. As I inched my way through the crowd, Layla continued speaking, describing the highlights of the week, especially the closing night celebration. She named a celebrity chef who would prepare the menu, an award-winning winery owner who would select the wines, and the many spectacular items available to bid on at the silent auction that night.

“For instance,” Layla said, “just to whet your appetites, we have a first edition, 1922 quarto of James Joyce’s Ulysses; some lovely, rare Hemingway ephemera contributed by our own Zachariah Mason; and of course, the jewel in the crown and the raison d’etre of our Twisted festival, an exquisitely bound, extremely rare, 1838 first edition of Charles Dickens’s Oliver Twist.”

I stopped in my tracks, wincing at her announcement. Even though I’d made her think I would play along with whatever lie she wanted to put out there, it was grating to hear her actually announce the lie to a crowd of this size. For a moment, I had the worst urge to walk right up and call her bluff. Of course, I would be kissing my job good-bye, but it was more than my job at stake. If I defied Layla, I could kiss my reputation good-bye, as well.

I hated her for that.

There was another round of applause; then Layla held up her finger and the noise died down quickly. “And I know some of you will be enchanted by a naughty little 1887 British photography journal that contains scandalous nude photographs of members of Parliament cavorting with the ladies of Queen Victoria’s court. That’s right. We’re not calling our festival Twisted for nothing, and I expect you all to be extremely generous with your bidding.”

The crowd’s laughs and whistles seemed to energize her and she licked her lips. More cheers and hoots rang out. Everyone seemed excited and happy.

Well, almost everyone. I happened to catch Naomi and Karalee rolling their eyes at each other in obvious distaste. I couldn’t blame them, but they probably needed a reminder to be more discreet around this crowd.

And didn’t that make me sound like Sister Mary Responsibility? Sometimes I really hated my inner disciplinarian.

Looking around for a way to move past the tight-knit group in front of me, I spotted my three librarian students near the front door. They appeared stranded and confused, until Marianne spotted me waving. She waved back and I knew they would make it through the crowd eventually.

Skirting yet another group of partygoers, I listened as Layla’s speech drew to a close. She thanked a few of the biggest benefactors, then introduced Alice Fairchild.

“Alice, are you out there?” Layla glanced out at the audience, looking for her protégée. “Alice is BABA’s newly appointed assistant director, and I’m thrilled to have her with us. Alice?”

I scanned the space but couldn’t see her. Maybe she was in the ladies’ room.

“Yes, I’m here,” Alice called finally, sounding resigned.

I craned my neck and spied her standing next to a ficus tree in the corner. I wondered if she’d thought about hiding behind it. She sounded so stressed, I had to smile in sympathy. Was there some medication she could take to calm her nerves?

“Alice is just a bit shy,” Layla said, her tone surprisingly maternal. “But I’m confident she’ll do a fantastic job.”

As the crowd applauded politely, I eased my way around the last group standing between me and the south hall. From here, I turned to watch Layla wrap up her speech. And that’s when I saw Cynthia Hardesty dragging her husband, Tom, into one of the empty classrooms. She looked angry enough to spit nails and he looked clueless as she shoved the door closed. Had she caught him drooling over Layla again?

As I watched Layla from this vantage point in the hall, I could finally see the other man standing at Layla’s left side, as he turned to survey the crowd.

I gasped.

The crowd burst into applause just then, so no one heard me wheezing as I rushed into my classroom, slammed the door, and sagged into a chair.

I couldn’t catch my breath. My ears buzzed and my stomach wrenched dangerously. I was going to be sick. I needed to move, get away, but I was frozen in place. I began to panic and had to fight not to pass out.

I knew the man standing next to Layla Fontaine. Or I thought I did. Now I wasn’t so sure. They were standing so close to each other that Layla’s hawklike talons had embedded themselves in his thousand-dollar coat sleeve. They were so close that she had slipped her leg between his. So close that, as I watched, she’d reached out and groped his excellent butt.

The man with the excellent butt was Derek Stone.

Chapter 5

Yes, that Derek Stone. Was there any other?

God, he looked good. He appeared even taller than I remembered and his dark hair had grown a bit in the last four weeks. Four weeks and three days, to be exact. That’s how long it had been since I’d seen him at the Edinburgh Book Fair.

Despite our best intentions, nothing of a physically romantic nature had happened between us that last night in Edinburgh. There was simply too much else going on. My parents were there, along with my best friend, Robin. I’d just won a prestigious award. And I’d been held hostage by a vicious killer earlier that afternoon. The police had wrapped up a double-murder investigation. Talk about distractions.

The next morning, Derek and I met for coffee; then he was called to Holyroodhouse Palace and I took off for the airport.

That was the last I saw of him. I’d thought at the time it was all for the best. Yes, he was far and away the most appealing man I’d ever met, but why would I get involved with someone I might never see again? It was a good question, one I spent many long nights arguing over once I was home. The plain fact was, I’d missed him every day. I missed his dry sense of humor and his intelligence, and I missed the way I felt with his arms wrapped around me. Would it have been so wrong to spend one night together, even if we never saw each other again?

And now, here he was in San Francisco, without any advanced warning. He couldn’t call? He couldn’t write? His e-mail wasn’t working? Not that he owed me anything, but I thought we’d become . . . close. Close what? I couldn’t say. Friends? Buddies? Lovers? No, unfortunately, not lovers. Not yet anyway. And seeing him snuggled up next to Layla just now, I was pretty darned sure we never would be.

I buried my head in my hands. I refused to cry, but I was sad, really sad. And I could feel another headache blooming.

What was he doing here? Besides being fondled and rubbed and drooled over by Layla Fontaine, of course?

Derek Stone and Layla Fontaine?

“Oh, God, no.” My insides did a loop de loop and I groaned out loud. Just saying their names together made me want to hurl my lunch. They obviously knew each other. So what was my favorite British security agent doing with someone like Layla? She was poison; couldn’t he see it?

I didn’t want to think about it. But I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t get the picture out of my head, of her pressing up against him.

Now I knew how Alice felt with her sensitive nerves. I wasn’t sure if my own would survive the night. And my heart wasn’t doing so well, either.

I stood and paced. I knew I’d have to confront Derek eventually. I mean, he was here. At BABA. And the thought of him being here with Layla was more than I could bear. I would have to quit my class. It was completely depressing. And confusing. And infuriating.

“Damn it.” I slammed my fist against the counter. Yes, I was furious. I was also in pain. It hurt to slam body parts against hard surfaces. But I was so angry. Angry at Derek, who hadn’t had the decency to call me, not once, since I had left Edinburgh. And angry at Layla, who even on a good day was not exactly on my list of favorite people.

I let out a little shriek and perused the room. This was an impossible situation. My students would be here shortly. I had to get ready for class.

I gripped the edge of the worktable and tried to steady myself. I refused to panic, but it had been a long time since I’d felt this edgy and desperate.

No, I had to take that back. I’d felt almost exactly this way a few brief weeks ago, when I was accused of murder. For the second time.

Frankly, this felt worse. Last time, I knew I hadn’t murdered anyone, so I was confident the truth would be revealed eventually. This was different. This was hideous. This was jealousy. And it sucked. It hurt. It made me feel stupid. It made me want to find that hole in the ozone and crawl through it and disappear. Or better yet, I could shove Derek through it and solve all my problems.

The door opened and I whipped around, half expecting Derek to walk in. But thank God, it was only Cynthia, Gina, and Whitney. I was ridiculously disappointed. Idiot.

“Hi, Brooklyn,” Gina said merrily. “Cool party, isn’t it?”

“I thought I saw you come in,” Cynthia said, dropping her bag and jacket on her seat. Her hair was askew and her sweater and shirt were pulled up in back. I wondered if she’d gone a few rounds with her husband in the other classroom.

“I was going to run out and grab a glass of wine,” Whitney said. “But if you’re ready to start class, we’re ready, too.”

As Cynthia rearranged her clothing, she took a good look at me and frowned. “Are you okay?”

“Oh, sure,” I said lightly. “I felt a little sick to my stomach but I’m fine. Probably something I ate.”

“Wow,” Gina said, taking notice for the first time. “You really don’t look good.”

“What every woman longs to hear,” I said, forcing a smile. “I’m fine. I should go wash my hands.”

“Do you want me to go with you?”

“No. I’ll go in a minute. I just want to make sure everyone gets here.”

“Honey, we’re all big kids,” Cynthia said. “We’ll be fine on our own for a few minutes.”

“Yes, Brooklyn,” Gina said. “Go wash your face.”

The truth was, I didn’t want to leave the room for fear of running into Derek. But they were all watching me, so I threw them a grateful smile and escaped, racing to the ladies’ room without seeing anyone.

As I washed my hands, I stared at myself in the mirror. Except for being a little pale, I looked fine. A little shell-shocked, maybe, but if you looked beyond the blank-eyed stare and the deathly pallor, I looked the same as always. That was my story, anyway. I pinched my cheeks a few times to get some color back. It wasn’t working.

I placed a cold paper towel on my forehead and closed my eyes. I would get through this. Hell, there was a good chance I might not run into Derek at all. He didn’t know I was working here, although he’d be pretty stupid not to. And he wasn’t a stupid man. Except when it came to his taste in women, apparently. Layla was a stupid choice, just my opinion.

But that didn’t matter. The point was, he hadn’t cared enough to call me and say he was coming to town.

“So, it was nice while it lasted,” I whispered. But it was over now. If I was being perfectly honest, it had never started, not really. Yes, we’d had a flirtation, a few kisses. A lot of kisses, actually, and some intense moments. He was a really great kisser. Lucky me. But now he was with Layla, and lucky her. If she was what he wanted, then who needed him? Not me. No way.

Oh, that was such a lie.

As I dried my hands, I tried my mother’s old trick of smiling at myself in the mirror. If you stared long enough at yourself grinning like a loon, you could make yourself laugh. It always worked to cheer me up.

I wasn’t cheered. I could barely manage more than a trembling sneer. When my eyes began to tear, I looked away and carefully blinked until the moisture evaporated. Then I tried on a neutral smile.

“That’ll have to do,” I muttered philosophically. In a year or so, I’d look back on this time and laugh at myself for making yet another horrible choice in men.

I tossed the paper towel in the trash and shoved the door open.

“Hello, Brooklyn.”

Derek leaned casually against the wall directly opposite the restroom. He looked like an advertisement for tall, dark, and dangerous men. Oh, and dashing. I couldn’t forget dashing.

I lost my breath for just a second, but I refused to faint. Refused to look even more stupid than I felt.

“Oh, hello, Derek,” I said, marveling that my voice was so steady. “Isn’t this a pleasant surprise?”

He pushed away from the wall and pulled me into his arms. I almost groaned.

“I was hoping I’d be lucky enough to see you here tonight.” His breath played havoc with the sensitive skin under my ear. “Then I saw you in the crowd and knew I must be lucky indeed.”

So much for avoiding him.

I shuddered; I couldn’t help it. The sound of his deep voice combined with his languid British accent caused chaos to run unchecked through my body. His unique musky scent of leather with hints of citrus and rain forest was intoxicating. The slight brush of his lips against my ear was nearly orgasmic.

And I was pathetic.

I carefully backed away from him and plastered a smile on my face. “Yes, aren’t we lucky? What a pleasant surprise. How are you, Derek?”

He winced. “I should’ve called, but I—”

“Don’t be silly,” I said, waving his words away. “You don’t owe me any—”

He gripped my arms. “Brooklyn, I honestly didn’t know I’d be coming until I got on the plane.”

“Well, there you go,” I said. “It couldn’t be helped.”

“You’re angry,” he said, studying me. “I don’t blame you.”

“Me? Angry?” Did I sound as shrill as I felt? “Just because you came to town without calling me? That’s ridiculous. It’s nothing.”

“It’s everything,” he said, gently brushing my hair back from my face. “I’ve hurt you. I’m a damned fool.”

I tried to laugh. “No way. It’s all—”

“It’s not all right.” He frowned. “How can I make it up to you?”

“It’s not necessary.” I straightened my shoulders and smiled with purpose. “So, how are you? I didn’t realize you knew Layla.”

Oh, God, I didn’t really say that. I just prayed I sounded nonchalant.

“We’ve met,” he said flatly. “But I don’t know her.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Oh, really?”

“Yes, really. I hardly know the woman.”

“Huh. It didn’t look that way from where I was standing.” Ack! What was wrong with me?

“Ah,” he said, and a slow smile appeared.

“Ah?” So much for nonchalance. I was livid. “What’s ‘ah’ supposed to mean?”

As his grin widened, I wanted to bite my own tongue off. And smack him. Hard. And maybe punch him in the nose.

“It means, my darling, that—”

“Excuse me, please,” a woman cried.

I turned and saw Alice running down the hall toward us. Derek yanked me out of her path just in time. She whipped past and disappeared behind the ladies’ room door. Whatever was wrong with her, I could relate.

“Well, it’s been great running into you, Derek.” I patted his chest, a tad more forcefully than necessary as I tried really hard to be affable. “But I have a class to teach, so—”

He grabbed my hand. “Easy, darling.”

“Sorry.” I pulled my hand away.

“I want to see you.”

“That would be nice,” I said in a vague, noncommittal way. Damn, I was good. “I’m pretty busy, but if you’re hanging around BABA some evening, we might—”

“Brooklyn, please,” he said, his voice edgy with frustration. “Look, I didn’t expect to include myself in this assignment.”

I paused. “You’re here on assignment?”

“Yes.”

“What’s the assignment?”

He paused as well, then finally said, “I trust you to keep this to yourself.”

“Of course I will.”

He waved away the statement. “Yes, of course you will. You’re as trustworthy as anyone I know.” He took a step closer and bent to whisper in my ear. “Gunther Schnaubel has received death threats. My team is guarding him.”

“He’s in danger? Here?”

“Yes.”

I looked around, instantly on guard. Then I remembered Minka. “Are we all in danger?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?” I gave him a brief rundown of the attack on Minka. Although, I thought, there were any number of reasons someone might want to take Minka out, none of which had anything to do with Gunther. “The police warned us to be alert and not walk outside alone.”

“That’s always a good idea,” he said, ever the security expert. “But Gunther’s threats came from an extremely jealous husband. I doubt the man would come here and start attacking women.”

“So much for that theory,” I said, disappointed that we still had no clue as to who had attacked Minka. “But I can’t believe you brought an entire team here just to guard one artist.”

“Unfortunately, that one artist was caught in flagrante delicto with the daughter of the prime minister of a small European nation that I’m not at liberty to name. It’s grown quite political and sordid and I wouldn’t be surprised if they sent one of their army battalions to do him in.”

“Oh, I see.” I didn’t, but I also didn’t have time to force the issue. I was late for class. Besides, I was still angry. Yes, he hadn’t known he was coming to San Francisco until he was on the plane. But what was his excuse for not calling during the rest of the four weeks? And didn’t that make me sound like a shrew? “I’ve got to go.”

“Wait.” His jaw clenched. “Damn it, Brooklyn, I wasn’t going to come to San Francisco.”

I frowned. “You said that already.”

“Yes, I guess I did.” He began to pace in front of me, gesticulating as he explained in a loud whisper, “Gunther Schnaubel is a royal pain. He doesn’t follow the rules. He’s asking for trouble and he’s going to get himself killed if he’s not more careful.”

“So you needed all your men here.”

“Exactly.” He looked relieved. “I knew you’d understand.”

“Of course.” Even though I didn’t. I mean, I understood why he was here, but I didn’t understand why he hadn’t called. Oh, I suppose I could’ve called him, but the strategy of calling men never seemed to work for me. I guess I was an old-fashioned girl when it came to that sort of thing. But none of it mattered right now. I had a class to teach.

“I’m glad we talked.” I checked my watch. “Now I really have to get back to my class.”

“We’re not finished here.”

“No, of course not. But I do have to go.”

The bathroom door flew open, and Alice stepped out into the hall. “Oh,” she said, and looked from me to Derek, then back to me. “You’re still here.”

“I’ll just be another minute,” I said, feeling my cheeks redden. “Can you tell everyone?”

“Sure can,” she said, smiling as she walked away.

“What time is your class over?” Derek asked.

“Ten o’clock.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

“You don’t—”

“I do.”

I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. That first rush of fury was draining away as I looked at him. After all, we weren’t a couple. We were kissing buddies. Occasionally. Not exactly a declaration of couplehood. “This is crazy, Derek. You don’t owe me an explanation. We’re not—”

“Christ.” He raked his hand through his hair in aggravation. “I hate this.”

“Oo-kay.” I wasn’t clear on what it was he hated.

“I don’t apologize,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Why should you?”

“There,” he said, pointing at me. “Right there. You’re doing it again.”

I looked at him sideways. “Doing what?”

“Making me feel like I ran over your dog.”

“I don’t have a dog.” I was completely lost now. “What are you talking about?”

He laughed. “You’re right. I’ve gone insane. But it’s your fault.”

“Mine?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t drag me into this,” I protested.

He laughed again. “Damn it, I’ve missed you. I didn’t want to. I was determined not to see you again.”

“Well, thank you. That’s really flattering. I’m so happy we had this conversation.” I folded my arms across my chest. “And guess what? You don’t have to see me again.”

“Ah, but it seems I do.” He urged me back into his arms and I almost whimpered. It wasn’t fair. He kissed my neck, kissed my shoulder. “Damn it, you’re even more lovely than I remembered. What was I thinking?”

“I have no idea.”

He laughed, and the sound went a long way to refresh my spirit. “God, you’ll be the death of me. Go teach your class. I’ll be waiting.”

Breathless, I rushed off, but made the mistake of turning around. He stood in the same spot, watching me, his eyes as dark as cobalt, his lips twisting sardonically. It was disconcerting and a complete turn-on. Part of me wanted to rush back and kiss him and another part of me wanted to slap him silly.

I couldn’t believe I’d mentioned Layla to him. For one thing, I sounded like a jealous cat. But also, I was annoyed with myself for revealing what I was angry about. Women were never supposed to tell a guy what was actually bothering them, right? It was in the Official Rule Book. If a guy doesn’t know what’s bothering you, then why should you tell him?

I jogged down the hall but slowed when I heard two women arguing in one of the empty classrooms near mine.

“Keep your hands off my husband.”

“Honey, it’s not my hands you have to worry about.”

“I know what you’re doing, and it stops now.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah, really,” she said, then lowered her voice to add, “Or you’ll be sorry.”

“Oh, threats?” The woman laughed and I realized it was Layla. Her voice dripped with cynical delight.

“Yeah. Hands off, or you’re a dead woman.”

The door was thrown open and I pressed myself back against the wall. It was my ridiculous attempt to hide in plain sight, but it didn’t matter because Cynthia Hardesty never looked my way. Layla followed a moment later, twirling a loose strand of hair around her fingers as she strolled leisurely back to the party.

As I walked into my classroom, I considered the scene I’d just overheard. I couldn’t let Cynthia know I’d witnessed the argument, but I had the strongest urge to console her. I could feel her pain, having just experienced a meltdown over the possibility of Layla and Derek together.

I took a moment and mentally shoved Derek Stone into a box so I could conduct the class without going bonkers.

Within the first half hour, the party sounds from Layla’s happy hour bash dwindled. Eventually all was quiet and my students were able to concentrate on practicing the kettle stitch they’d learned the night before.

This was only the second evening of class but the group was already beginning to meld nicely. As everyone worked, the personalities of some of the students rose to the fore. I’d like to think we were all getting used to each other’s quirks and foibles, but some were more easy to acclimate to than others.