Tainted Love (Sweetest Taboo #2) (11 page)

On the first day of Philosophy class, he’d looked around, laughed, and launched into a story about his own first day of college, and what a mess he’d made of it. He’d gone on to tell us that we were going to be studying a lot of dead men and women who had changed the world after they ceased to exist by founding new ideas and theories, and that – if we were lucky – we’d learn a little bit about our own personal philosophies ourselves.

I developed a crush on him immediately.

It had taken me slightly longer to start talking to him, though, and our relationship had grown when I asked him to be my thesis advisor. Philosophy wasn’t my major, and it certainly wasn’t what I wanted to do with my life, but the good thing about an English major (which I was) and a publishing career (which I thought I wanted) was that I could have an advisor in any of the fine arts. Fortunately, Philosophy qualified as a fine art.

On the day we submitted our midterms, I’d gone to him and asked him to be my academic advisor. The position didn’t call for much – he would look at drafts of my thesis, which I was to begin working on during the second semester of my sophomore year, and give me guidance in regard to where to go next. In truth, I didn’t think I actually needed an advisor. I’d always known what I was doing and where I was going, and I didn’t really like other people hanging over my shoulder, trying to tell me how to write or structure essays or papers. But it was a requirement for the honors program I was enrolled in.

And it gave me an excellent chance to get to know Professor Wellings better.

Of course that had been midway through the second semester of my freshman year, so I’d only had ten weeks left on the East Coast, and a lot of that was taken up with writing papers and studying for finals. I’d visited his office during office hours once or twice to get paperwork filled out, and to chat about what I was going to focus on for my thesis, but it hadn’t gone much farther than that.

In class, it was a completely different story. I’d spend the class hour staring at him, dreaming of what it would be like to touch him, run my fingers through his hair, or feel his hands on my body. This had shocked me, in and of itself, since I hadn’t been interested in any other guy since Tom. Thinking about someone else that way had felt scandalous, even dangerous, and incredibly exciting. I hadn’t tried to stop it, though.

Before long, Professor Wellings had picked up on the fact that I was staring. He’d caught me at it several times, and turned away with a barely contained smile. The curve of his lips had driven me mad, though, and I’d started becoming braver. He liked that I was staring at him, I could tell. And if I was reading him correctly – which I thought I was – the interest was mutual. I’d started wearing tighter sweaters and jeans, and freshening my makeup before class. I did some research as well, looking through the university’s public files and profiles to find that he’d graduated from Harvard with a PhD, but had gone to Duke for his undergraduate studies. He was from Kentucky, where his family owned a large horse breeding business.

He’d been married at one point, but the profile I read said that he was long-since divorced, with the kids living with their mother somewhere in the south. I glossed over that part, figuring that he wouldn’t be living in DC if he still had close family to take care of in Kentucky.

He was sexy, highly educated and my thesis advisor, and he was beginning to glance my way more often than not during class. We spent several weeks exchanging intense glances during lectures, and then suddenly the semester was over and the professors disappeared from campus, going back to whatever they did during their free time. I’d sighed and gone about my life, figuring this was for the best. For the moment. Though it wasn’t strictly forbidden for a student to date a professor, it was certainly not a practice that was advocated. Particularly if the student was enrolled in the class taught by the professor.

Besides, I knew I’d see him again in the new academic year. He was still my advisor, after all, and that meant we’d be seeing a lot of each other. He’d called me before I left for home, and let me know that he was thinking about my project and about working with me to develop a solid outline and theoretical foundation for the thesis, and that he wanted to set up a meeting as soon as I got back to campus.

I think we’d both known exactly where it was heading, at that point.

Now that I was no longer a student in his class, I thought that things between us had the opportunity to progress more quickly. He was the most well educated and worldly person I’d ever met, and by far the most cultured. He’d been to every country in Europe for his studies, and was one of the only academics in the world to have seen some of Descartes’ original manuscripts. The original manuscripts, I mean – the ones that Descartes had actually touched and written himself. That was my Professor Wellings. A world-class academic respected and liked by everyone, one of the leading Descartes scholars in the world.

For some reason, he’d said yes to my request for a thesis advisor. And he was showing some interest. Now I just had to get him to take the next step.

We’d left things up in the air the year before, neither of us talking about what we wanted, though I think we both knew.  I hadn’t thought about it much while I was with Tom, of course, but now that I was back at school, and in my apartment, far from the picturesque hotel room I’d shared with Tom, it all came flooding back. The way Professor Wellings’ hair had fallen across his face when he looked down at a book in his hands, the way his face flushed when he got passionate about something in class, the way his eyes stared into mine, like he was trying to read my thoughts…

I was going to a local coffee shop to meet him tonight, presumably to talk about my thesis, and to go over – no doubt – the reason that I’d missed out on the internship I’d landed. That was bound to be an awkward conversation, but I wasn’t thinking about it. Tonight was, after all, the night I’d been waiting for. The night that might just open the doors to something amazing between Marcus Wellings and I.

I dressed accordingly, going for a little casual black cotton dress that managed to walk the line between sexy librarian and appropriate college student, and paired it with the black ballet slippers I’d bought myself for my birthday the year before. A touch of black eyeliner, and some light pink lip gloss (my favorite), and I was ready to go. I darted out the door, calling to Susie that I wouldn’t be back until later, and ran downstairs to catch a taxi. We lived in one of the more popular areas of town, and there were always taxis sitting on the corners, waiting for passengers, so I had no trouble finding one. I ducked into the back seat, muttered the name of the coffee shop in Dupont Circle, and got down to being nervous about the night ahead.

I had my thesis paperwork in my purse, including an outline of what I thought I might write about. Susie hadn’t thought I could roll philosophy and publishing into one, but I’d worked on it for a week straight and I thought I could prove her wrong. As long as Professor Wellings approved, of course. Still, even if he didn’t, surely he’d give me feedback about what he thought I should do instead.

That wasn’t what I was nervous about, though. I was only in my second year, and had until the end of my junior year to perfect my honors thesis. My thesis wasn’t going to live or die by tonight’s discussion.

This would be the first time I saw Professor Wellings outside of campus, though, and this had my stomach doing flips. What would he be like outside of the classroom? Would he be impatient with me, and quick to get the meeting over with so he could enjoy the rest of his evening? Or would he linger, discussing the finer points of philosophy, the way I hoped he’d do? If it was the former, I would put the crush away and never think of it again, I resolved. I’d find a new advisor and forget all about this little mental affair I was having with him. If it was the latter…

Suddenly the cab jerked to a stop and we were there. I swallowed, wondering what was to come, and handed the cabbie a $10 for the ride, telling him to keep the change. When I opened the door, I was careful to put both feet out first, the way a lady would do, just in case Professor Wellings was nearby. As I slid from the cab, I was glad I’d thought of it; there he was sitting at a table on the café’s foliaged porch, watching every move I made. My stomach, which had already been doing flips, suddenly dropped right into my shoes, and I almost ducked back into the cab. Was I really doing this? Was I really sure that I wanted to do it?

I put my best face on, though, and walked toward him, smiling confidently.

He stood to greet me and reached out, taking both my hands in his and kissing me once on each cheek. “My dear, you look lovely,” he murmured. “And how nice to see you again. How was your visit home? How was your summer? I take it you’re ready to get back to work?” He smiled and gestured to a seat, sinking back into his own only after I was comfortably seated.

My legs were so wobbly that I barely made it to the chair before I collapsed. Get a hold of yourself, Izzy, I lectured to myself sternly. You’re acting like a crushing schoolgirl, and that’s never going to impress him.

I lifted my chin and smiled back. “I’m glad to be back, actually. Being at home means living with my parents, and that always makes me feel like an eight year old again. And of course, I’m happy to see you too, Professor Wellings.” My voice dropped on the last sentence, suggesting that I meant more than I was saying, and that smile was back at the corners of his mouth.

“Please dear, I’m no longer your professor so please just call me Marcus.” His tone was innocent but his smile communicated otherwise. “I’ve ordered you an iced mint mocha and some biscotti, I think the mint mocha is your favorite,” he said, sliding his chair closer to mine. “It should be here momentarily. In the meantime, let’s get down to business.”

My heart jumped. Had he been thinking the same thing I was? Was he going to suggest that we stop beating around the bush and talk about what we actually wanted? With the next sentence, though, my hopes fell.

“This thesis of yours, have you thought about it at all?” he asked. He reached down to his brown leather satchel and pulled out a stack of papers. “I have some ideas, but I wanted to hear yours first. I’ve never been a thesis advisor before, and I’m not sure how to go about it.” He smiled sheepishly, and I grinned.

“I have thought about it, actually,” I answered. “Though I’ve never written a thesis before, so I will rely on you for the expert guidance on thesis formulation and development.”

He lifted one eyebrow at this remark, but didn’t respond, and I pressed on. “What I’m thinking, Marcus, is that I’m going to write about both philosophy and the art of publishing, as they pertain to each other. That way I get to combine two of my…passions…into one paper, so to speak.”

He hummed in thought and leaned closer to me, inviting me to go on. I adjusted slightly for his closeness – his shoulder was touching mine, now, and I could have reached out and kissed him if I’d wanted to – and tried to get my mind under control. This was not the time to think about kissing him. This was the time to impress him with my mind. It was one of my best attributes, and had been what drew Tom to me in the first place, I knew. If I played my cards right, it could bring Professor Wellings closer to me as well.

“See,” I started breathlessly, “Aristotle, Plato, and the like – those great philosophers we all know so well, though we might not always understand them – started as orators. They were speaking in the public square, debating on the stairs of the library, that sort of thing. They were free-styling their philosophy, so to speak, refining it through their arguments and discourse. But when it actually counted – when they had it down, and wanted to take it to people outside their own circles – they realized they needed to make it more formal. They needed to put it into a format that would last. They turned to the written word, instead of the oral, and that led to their words appearing as writings. Then as flyers, or volumes, or what-have-you -”

I stuttered to a stop, my fervor over the project getting sidetracked by what Professor Wellings was doing. As he sat, listening to me, he was running his fingers slowly along his lower lip, nodding at what I was saying, his eyes burning with understanding. I didn’t know if he meant for it to happen, but it was incredibly sensual.

And very distracting.

“I, well…” I started again, trying to get my mind in order, “I just think it’s such an interesting aspect, that even these great philosophers had to change their spots once they wanted to go down in history. Once they -”

“Once they knew they wanted to be remembered,” he finished, nodding. “Really impressive. Good work, Isabel. I see where you’re going with that, and I think you’re on the right track.” He paused, looking at me closely, and I had to work to sit still. “You know, I wasn’t sure what to expect, but I suppose I should have known you’d come up with something original and insightful. You’re much keener than most people your age. More… sophisticated.”

I gulped, wondering if he knew what kind of effect he was having on me. My heart was hammering away at my ribs, making it difficult to breathe, and I was grasping the armrests of the chair as tightly as I could. I’d hoped that he’d approve of my idea, but I couldn’t escape the feeling that he was talking about something much more than just Aristotle’s use of the written word.

Then suddenly it was over. He glanced at his watch and pursed his lips, shaking his head, then jumped up. “I’m afraid I can’t stay any longer, Isabel,” he mumbled. “I have some things I have to take care of, and tonight is the only night I am free to attend to these matters. Unfortunately we’re going to have to stop here and schedule another date.”

I paused for a moment, trying to take this in, then nodded smartly. “Of course,” I answered. “I’m throwing a dinner party tonight, so I should get home and start cooking.” I stood up and held out my hand, wondering if I’d been imagining the whole thing. “Thanks so much for taking the time to meet with me, Professor. I’ll go ahead and prepare a more complete outline and make it available for your review and feedback when we meet again.”