Romancing The Teacher

Romancing the

Teacher

Marie

Ferrarella

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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To Rocky,

for twelve years of

love and loyalty and

a bunch of sleepless nights.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter One

When he realized that the darkness was of his own making because his eyes were shut, Ian Malone struggled to pry them open.

The world was a blur.

Inch by inch, he became aware that the darkness that he now saw was the natural kind. It was the warm, cocooning darkness of night, not the hazy dark world of unconsciousness he had tumbled into what seemed like only a moment ago.

Not the netherworld either.

Damn.

His surroundings came into focus in almost comic slow motion. Snippets gradually telegraphed themselves through his brain. His fingers were no longer wrapped around the steering wheel of his car. In fact, he wasn’t in his car at all.

Somewhere in the distance was the ever-annoying sound of crickets looking for one another. Looking to mate. Looking for a family.

Good luck with that, he thought sarcastically.

Ian groaned as he tried to raise his head. He felt as if an anvil weighed it down, like what you saw in Saturday morning cartoons.

Did they still have Saturday morning cartoons? He’d stopped watching when he was ten. When he stopped being a kid.

His head was too heavy. He let it drop back down. It made contact with something damp. He was too out of it to care.

He became aware that someone was standing over him. Someone wide enough to block out what light was coming from the moon, breathing as if the smog was battling for possession of his windpipe—and winning. Whoever it was sounded a little like Darth Vader.

Or was that the grim reaper hovering over him, checking for signs of life? Finally there to collect his debt.

God, he hoped so.

“I’m not dead yet, am I?” Ian’s mouth felt like baked cotton as he formed the question. The traces of regret in his voice were punctuated with another groan.

The face glaring down at him was craggy and appeared worn. And annoyed. The man wore a uniform of some sort.

Black.

No, dark blue.

Of course, the police. It was a police uniform. Sooner or later, the police always came to the scene of an accident or a disaster, didn’t they? Sometimes they came too late, he thought. Like the other time.

The anvil shifted from his head to his chest, pressing down. But nothing was there.

The policeman leaning over him frowned in disgust as he shook his head. “No, you’re not dead yet. Better luck next time, buddy.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Ian said, biting back another groan. He continued to lay there. His head felt as if it would split in two. For all he knew, his body already had.

The officer straightened up, one hand braced against his spine as he examined the wreckage. His car was a mangled scrap of machinery intimately locked in an eternal waltz with the bark of a coral tree.

The officer took off his hat and scratched his balding head.

“You’d think a man who could afford a fine machine like that would have more sense than to go driving around with Johnnie Walker as a companion.”

But bottles of Johnnie Walker were far in Ian’s past. That had been his grandfather’s poison of choice, not his.

“It was vodka, not whiskey,” Ian corrected hoarsely. “And definitely not enough to get me in this state.” That had been the fault of his medication, he thought. Maybe he’d been a little careless, taking too much because of what day it was. These days, they had a medicine for everything. Everything but the guilt that came with each breath he took.

Because he could take a breath. And they couldn’t. Not for a very long time.

With effort, Ian pulled his elbows in against his body and propped himself into a semi-upright position on the lawn.

It wasn’t easy. The world around him alternated between pitch black and a fragmented cacophony of colors that swirled around his aching head. He didn’t know which he disliked more, the colors or the darkness. All he knew was that both made him incredibly dizzy.

Gingerly, he touched his fingers to his forehead and felt something thick and sticky. Dropping his hand back down to eye level, he looked at it and saw blood.

Blood.

Brenda, don’t die. Please don’t die! Don’t leave me here. Please!

The terrified high-pitched voice—his voice—echoed in his brain, taunting him. Reminding him.

Through sheer willpower, Ian managed to block it out.

The way he always did.

Until the next time.

Ian raised his head and looked up at the officer. The man’s dark blue shirt was straining against his girth. The third button from the top was about to pop, he noted vaguely.

Ever so slowly, the rest of his surroundings came into focus. And the chain of events that brought him here. Ian remembered the drive through the deserted campus back roads. He’d taken the route on purpose, lucid enough despite his grief and the inebriating mixture in his system, not to want to hurt anyone.

Except for himself.

A surge in his brain had him calling the sudden turn that sent him skidding. And the oncoming tree that had appeared out of nowhere.

He remembered nothing after that.

Dampness penetrated his consciousness as well as his trousers. Dew. What time was it? Three a.m.? Later? He didn’t know.

Ian scrubbed his hand over his face and winced as vivid pain swirled through him like a club covered in cacti spines. A thousand points along his body hurt at once.

“You pull me out?” he asked the policeman.

“Not me. You were out when I got here. Maybe you crawled out.”

A thin smile touched the policeman’s lips. “Looks like some part of you still wants to go on living.”

A dry, humorless laugh melded with the night noises around Ian. Nearby there was the sound of something rustling in the ground cover, as if a possum was scurrying away from the scene of the crime.

That’s right, run. Run for your life. I’d run with you if I could.

“News to me,” Ian muttered. He never wished for life, not for himself. For the others. For them he’d prayed, until he’d realized that the prayers came too late. That they were dead even as he laid there next to them, pinned down and helpless.

Hands splayed on the ground on either side of him, Ian attempted to push himself up to his feet. Every bone in his body screamed in protest, telling him to lay back down.

“Why don’t you just stay put?” It wasn’t a suggestion coming from the officer, but an order. “I’m going to call this in and get another squad car on the scene.”

Because his limbs were made out of recycled gelatin, Ian remained where he was.

“Reinforcements?” A cynical smile curved his mouth. He never thought of himself as dangerous, although Ryan had once described him that way. But then, his publicist was afraid of his own shadow. “Why? I promise not to resist arrest.” He couldn’t even if he wanted to, Ian thought.

“You sound pretty coherent for a drunk,” Officer Holtz commented.

“Practice,” Ian replied. In truth, there were more pills in him than alcohol, and maybe he was a little dangerous. Reckless even. Most nights—because nights were when it was the hardest—he could keep a lid on it, could go on. But tonight the pain had won and all he wanted to do was still it. Make it stop.

But it was still there. The physical pain would go away. This never did, no matter what face he showed to the world.

There was a street lamp not too far away and Ian could make out the officer more clearly now. His face was redder than it had been a moment ago.

“Think you’re immortal?” the officer jeered.

“I’m really hoping not.” His voice was so calm, Ian could see that he had rattled the man.

“Wipe that damn smile off your face,” Officer Holtz ordered. “Calling this in is procedure.”

Ian gave up attempting to stand. He needed to wait until his limbs could support him. Or maybe until his head stopped bleeding.

Very gingerly, Ian laid back on the damp grass, his head spinning madly like a top off its axis. Oblivion poked long, scratchy black fingers out of the darkness to grab hold of him.

Ian laughed shortly. “Wouldn’t want to mess with procedure.”

It was the last thing he said before the abyss swallowed him up.

“What the hell were you thinking?”

Marcus Wyman’s question reverberated about the small, clean square room within the police station where lawyers were allowed to talk to their clients in private. Anger swelled in his voice and glowed in his small, brown eyes as he regarded his client and friend.

Ten feet away, on the other side of the door, a guard stood at the ready, waiting for the minutes of their allotted time to be over.

Ian leaned back in his chair, tottering slightly on the two back legs. He sat on the far end of the rectangular table. His face was turned from his lawyer as he stared out the window.

That side of the building overlooked a large parking lot that was landscaped with ficus trees that some gardener had shaped like beach umbrellas, an example of city life attempting to appear rustic. City life would win out in the end.

The bad always ate the good, Ian mused, detached.

When he finally responded to Marcus, he sounded oddly hollow. “As a matter of fact, I was trying not to think.”

Marcus was a short, stocky man with the nervous habit of massaging his chest, moved restlessly around a room. The man knit his thoughts together in a slow, plodding fashion until they emerged into a complete, meticulously constructed whole. He claimed his nervous habit helped him think. Graying at the temples, his mouth lost in a perpetual frown, it was sometimes hard for people to believe that he was only a year older than Ian.

Having Ian for a friend, he claimed, had aged him.

They’d known each other for close to twenty years, since Ian was eleven, and Marcus liked to think of himself as Ian’s one true friend, even though, any so-called in-depth article would claim that Ian Malone—otherwise known as B. D. Brendan, the bestselling author of fifteen science-fiction novels—had a squadron of friends.

Hangers-on were all they were and Ian knew it. His dark good looks, bad-boy reputation and razor-sharp wit lured people, especially women, by the legions. Ian attracted crowds wherever he went. But within his dark, somber soul, Ian Malone was very much alone. Deliberately so.

His friend, Marcus knew, was punishing himself. Punishing himself for something he’d had no control over, no hand in planning. Fate had spared him while taking his parents and his older sister in a devastating earthquake two decades ago. And he never forgave himself for surviving, never stopped asking why he wound up being the one to live while they had died.

Knowing all that, there were still times when Marcus wanted to take the much taller Ian by the shoulders and shake him until he came around. This afternoon was one of those times.

He’d been unceremoniously woken out of a deep sleep at five this morning. Ian, calling from the city jail. He’d been on the case since six.

Ignoring Ian’s reply, he went on to make his point. “I had to pull a lot of strings, but I think I’ve managed to keep this out of the newspapers.”

He was talking to the back of Ian’s head and it annoyed him. Worried about Ian, he’d snapped at his wife as he hurried out of the house and had skipped breakfast entirely. Neither of which put him in a very good mood.

Receiving no response, no sign that he’d even been heard, Marcus raised his voice. “And I think I can get the standard sentence commuted.” Even first-time offenses for DUIs were strict. The courts had made it known that this wasn’t something to be viewed lightly. Licenses were immediately suspended, stiff fines and penalties imposed. Not to mention the threat of jail time. “Ian, are you even listening to me?” he asked impatiently.

Ian had heard every word. He remained exactly where he was, staring out the window. “Do you know what yesterday was, Marc?”

Marcus sighed and moved his hand over the everwidening expanse of his head. Up until four years ago, his hair was as black and as thick as Ian’s. But then nature decided to take back what it had so generously given and now there was only a fringe around his ears to mark where his hair had once been.

“The day you wrecked your Porsche?” Marcus guessed wearily.

“No.” Ian paused, as if it physically hurt to utter the words. “It was the twenty-first anniversary.”

Marcus stiffened.

“I forgot,” Marcus admitted, his voice small, apologetic. Had he remembered, and knowing what his friend could be capable of, he would have spent the day with Ian.

Ian exhaled. The small huff of warm breath clouded the window pane. “I didn’t.”

Crossing to him, Marcus placed his hand on Ian’s shoulder. Despite his girth, Marcus was a gentle man and compassion was his hallmark. His wife referred to him as a giant teddy bear. He was the only one, outside of Ian’s grandparents, who knew the story. Even so, Marcus always suspected that there was more to it, that Ian had kept back a piece of his grief to torture himself with.

“Ian,” Marcus began softly, “you have to let it go sometime. Don’t you think that twenty-one years is long enough to wear a hair shirt?”

There was an anger raging within him, but Ian kept it tightly wrapped. Marcus didn’t deserve to be lashed out at. He meant well and only tried to help. But Marcus didn’t understand what it was like. What it meant to be buried alive, to have the people you loved dead all around you.

Ian moved his shoulder so that Marcus was forced to drop his hand. As he did, he could feel Ian’s smoky-blue eyes boring into him.

“No,” Ian replied. The word was uttered softly, but there was no missing the underlying passion beneath the word.

Marcus suppressed a sigh. Returning to his end of the table, he slowly ran his hands over the sides of the expensive briefcase Ian had given him when he’d passed his bar exam. At the time, Ian had scarcely been able to afford to pay rent on his rundown studio apartment. But by hocking the gold watch his grandfather had given him, Ian had gotten the money together to buy him the camel-colored leather briefcase. Whenever he lost his temper with Ian, Marcus always looked at the briefcase.

And cooled off.

“Look, this is your first offense, thank God—” Quitting while he was ahead, Marcus didn’t ask if there had been other times, times when his friend managed to avoid detection. What he didn’t know wouldn’t keep him up at night.

“There’s a reason for that,” Ian said.

He’d never driven under the influence before. When the need to blot out the world overwhelmed him, he’d always drowned his grief at home, alone. Away from prying eyes. Last night represented a crack in his control. And he didn’t like it.

Marcus didn’t wait for him to elaborate. “I think things can be worked out.” He wanted to suggest rehab or a psychiatrist. Neither suggestion would fly with Ian because Ian couldn’t admit to the world that there was a weakness underneath his armor. “We’ve drawn a reasonable judge. The Honorable Sally Houghton. Word is that she has a strong mothering instinct. Just straighten up, look contrite and remember to flash that thousand-watt smile of yours.” He snapped his briefcase closed again. “It appears as if your guardian angel is still looking out for you.”

Ian chuckled. He could do without guardian angels who saw fit to prolong his suffering. “Yeah.”

The word was uttered entirely without feeling.

Then, to Marcus’s overwhelming relief, Ian turned around from the window and gave him just the barest of smiles. The one Marcus knew could melt stones at fifty paces and hard-hearted female judges’ hearts at ten. And Houghton was a softy. That gave them a definite edge and more than a fighting chance. Ian had a magnetic personality when he wasn’t sparring with the ghosts from his past.

Maybe this whole incident was even to the good. Ian might finally put this behind him and get on with the business of living.

And maybe, Marcus thought as he signaled for the guard to unlock the door, while he had been in here talking to Ian, pigs had actually learned how to fly.

Chapter Two

There were times when Lisa Kittridge wondered what she was doing here. And why for the last eighteen months she continued to return to Providence Shelter, week after week, when she really didn’t have to. At least, not because of some court order, the way so many others who passed through here did.

God knew it wasn’t because time hung heavily on her hands. Absolutely every moment of her day was accounted for, what with thirty-one energetic third graders to teach and a five-year-old and a mother to care for.

Not that Susan Kittridge actually needed looking after, despite the bullet to the hip that had taken her off the police force and brought a cane into her life. Her mother was one of the most independent women Lisa knew. But every so often, Susan’s soul would dip into that black place that beckoned everyone, that place that called for surrender and apathy. During those times, Lisa was her mother’s cheering section, drawing on the endless supply of optimism that she’d somehow been blessed with.

Optimism that saw her through her own hard times.

Optimism she felt obliged to share here at the homeless shelter, to pay back a little for the personal happiness she had in her own life. Working at the shelter also accomplished something else. It made her too busy to think about Matt. Very much.

But then, there were days like today, when her cheerfulness seemed to go down several levels. She worked harder then. Longer.

Her work wasn’t excessively difficult. Not that she minded hard work. She thrived on it, her late father liked to boast. And if all that was required of her to help out here was a strong back and endless energy, then working at the shelter would have been a piece of cake.

But it wasn’t all. There was more. A great deal more.

Every so often, the hurt she found herself facing grew to such proportions that it became too much for her to endure emotionally. Looking into the faces of the children sometimes tore at her heart so badly she didn’t think she could recover, certainly not enough to come back.

But she always did.

She’d initially volunteered at Providence Shelter in order to make a difference in these people’s lives. Instead, the people she interacted with had made a difference in hers. They made her humbler. More grateful. And more determined than ever to help.

Help people such as the little girl on the cot.

Lisa had walked into the long, communal sleeping area with an armload of fresh bedding that needed to be distributed. She saw the girl immediately—there was no one else in the room and the little girl was a new face. A new, frightened face.

She was sitting on the cot, her thin arms braced on either side of her equally thin body, dangling her spindly legs as if that were her only source of entertainment, the only thing she had any command over.

As Lisa came closer, the little girl looked up suddenly, suspicion and fear leaping into her wide, gray eyes.

Oh God, no child should have to look like that, Lisa thought. Her son was around this girl’s age.

The mother in her ached for the little girl. For all the little girls and boys who’d found themselves within the walls of homeless shelters because of some cruel twist of fate.

Very carefully, Lisa laid down the bedding she was holding and smiled at the little girl. “Hi, what’s your name?”

The wide eyes continued to stare at her. There was no answer.

Lisa sat down on one edge of the cot. The girl quickly moved to the opposite corner, like a field mouse frightened away by the vibration of footsteps.

“You don’t talk to strangers,” Lisa guessed. The little girl nodded solemnly, never taking her eyes away. “That’s very good. You shouldn’t. I’ve got a little boy just your age and that’s what I tell him, too.” She smiled warmly at the child. “My name is Lisa,” she told her. “I’m a volunteer here.” Lisa extended her hand toward the small fingers that were clutched together in the little girl’s lap. “I help out here at Providence when I can.”

Lisa had an overwhelming desire to wash away the smudges on the small, thin face and brush the tangles out of the thick, brown hair. But first she had to win the girl’s trust and, depending on what the child had been through and what she had seen, that might not be very easy.

“If you need anything,” she told the girl, “just ask me.”

The small hands remained clasped together.

Lisa rose to her feet. She didn’t want the child to feel crowded or pressured in any way. “Remember, if you need anything, my name’s Lisa.”

Picking up the bedding, she began to distribute the folded, freshly laundered sheets. She’d just placed the last one down when she heard a small voice behind her say, “Daddy.”

Lisa turned around, not completely certain whether she’d actually heard the word or imagined it. “Did you say something, honey?”

“Daddy,” the girl whispered again in the same soft, timid voice.

Lisa’s mind raced. Either the little girl was telling her that she was afraid of her father—so many women and children here had been abused—or that she wanted her father. She couldn’t tell by the girl’s expression, which had not changed. Lisa took a chance and focused on the fact that she had used the word “need” when she’d spoken to the little girl.

“Do you want me to find your daddy for you?”

The dark head bobbed up and down. “Yes.”

Was the man here somewhere at the shelter? Or had he abandoned his family before they ever found their way to this place? She needed more input, but right now, there was no one else to ask for details. “Can you tell me what your daddy looks like, honey?”

Before the little girl could answer, a tall, thin woman with premature lines etched into her face entered the room. She looked relieved to see the little girl sitting there. And then she looked angry.

Crossing to her, the woman wrapped her arms protectively around the child’s shoulders and pulled her to her feet. She pressed the girl to her, as if to absorb her. Or at the very least, keep her out of harm’s way.

“There’s no sense in you looking for him,” the woman snapped at Lisa. Her anger at the invasion, at being stripped of everything, even pride, pulsated in the air between them like barely harnessed electricity. “Monica’s daddy left us almost two years ago. Couldn’t stand watching us do without anymore. Like leaving helped.” Bitterness twisted the woman’s pinched mouth. “He’s the reason we’re here. Monica thinks he’ll come back even though I keep telling her he won’t.”