Carissa had married into the Chatam family, however, she wasn’t likely to want her black sheep little sister around, especially if her full history should be uncovered. And it surely would be. The Guillands, her in-laws, had uncovered it quite easily.
After that, nothing could convince them that she was good enough for their precious son. “A diseased street kid” who could not even give them the grandchild they so desperately wanted was not a fit wife for the Guilland family heir. Simone didn’t really blame them for having her marriage to their son annulled, any more than she would blame her sister for turning away from her in shame. So why even give Carissa the chance? Why put Carissa through that?
It seemed to Simone that even her dreams of home and reconciliation had died.
Chapter Two
Morgan reached around Simone to open the sunroom door. “Let me show you someplace comfortable to wait out of the heat.”
“All right.”
He led her through the sunroom and down a darkened back hallway to a large room filled with comfy overstuffed furniture and a large flat-screen TV.
“The family parlor,” he said. “There are video games, if you’re interested.”
She cut a glance at him, quipping, “That’s not what I expected to hear. Then again, you’re not exactly the typical college professor.”
He laughed. “You just haven’t seen me in my tweed jacket with the suede patches on the elbows.”
She smiled at that. “Sounds rather old school. Seems to me that college professors these days are either eccentric or ultraprofessional types.”
“Well, history professors are a different breed.”
“Yes, but you don’t fit that mold, either.”
He grinned and for some reason that he couldn’t explain even to himself, he prodded her for a personal opinion. “No?” He spread his arms then folded them. “How would you label me, then? Be kind, now.”
She narrowed her eyes at him, obviously trying to size him up, and he was aware of his heartbeat beginning to accelerate. “If I didn’t know and had to guess, I’d say...race car driver.”
His jaw dropped, but he quickly snapped it shut again. She had to be putting him on, of course. His predilections were well-known around campus.
“That’s funny.” He laughed, but it sounded forced even to his own ears. “But it’s motorcycles. Not race cars.”
“You’re kidding.”
He didn’t appreciate her attempt to play stupid. Oddly disappointed, he turned and walked out. Everyone knew that speed was his greatest weakness, his great indulgence. Sports cars, motorcycles, fast boats, even roller coasters were his idea of FUN, writ large and in capital letters. Some of his family gave him a hard time about it, but he was skillful, careful and respectful of the laws, saving his true exploits for the racetrack. Next to moving fast, he liked tinkering and kept a fleet of vehicles, one for every purpose. More than one young miss had tried to use his fascination with horsepower to spark a more personal fascination. That this one appeared to take the opposite approach somehow unnerved him.
Then again, everything about her unnerved him, and he couldn’t quite figure out why. He’d been struck by the sight of her sitting alone at that table in the sunroom. Then, when she’d passed out, dropping right into his arms...he’d never quite experienced anything like that. It hadn’t been panic, really, or even shock; it was more...a heightened awareness, a deep physical connection overlaid by concern for her well-being and something else he could only describe as possessiveness. He didn’t like it. He didn’t like it at all, but something about Simone Guilland drew him. Hopefully, she hadn’t noticed.
He kept an eye on her, wandering in and out of the house regularly. She didn’t move from the couch. A few others went inside and joined her, making use of the video games he’d spoken of earlier. She chatted with them and cheered them on as they played, her husky voice seeming to deepen with use until the sound of it flayed his skin like velvet lashings and set his nerves on edge.
The party began to break up about dusk, as it was meant to. As usual, many hands made short work of the cleanup. Morgan could always count on his faculty in the History Department to pitch in and help. With Hilda and Chester overseeing everything, they were finished in no time at all. Still, dark had descended by the time he escorted Simone out to the two-seater parked beneath the porte cochere on the west end of the house. He’d treated himself to the Valencia-orange convertible when he’d made department chair last year. The BMW Z4 was a sharp, fast, classy bit of self-indulgence for which he refused to feel guilty. He worked hard, after all, tithed religiously, gave generously and spent what was left as he pleased. Simone dropped down into the passenger seat, her eyebrows rising, and fastened her safety belt as he strode around the front end to take his place behind the steering wheel.
“Am I going to regret this?” she asked cheekily.
He couldn’t help grinning as he put the transmission in gear. “Nope. I am, if I do say so myself, an excellent driver.”
“Modest, too,” she quipped, then she laughed outright at his look of dismay. He found himself laughing with her. He was rather proud of his driving skills.
After backing out, he drove the sports car sedately down the looping drive and south through town the dozen or so blocks to the university district. She directed him to a three-story boardinghouse on the north edge of the university campus. It was a ramshackle place, some forty or fifty years old. Once a dignified family home, it had long ago devolved to seedy, its large, airy rooms broken into small cells with common bathrooms on each story and a central living space and utilitarian kitchen on the ground floor. The yard had been paved over to provide parking, and bicycles and skateboards crowded the warped porch.
Morgan had been inside many times. While single men and women were never allowed to share living space in buildings on campus, the school had no control over off-campus housing. Typically, these three-story boardinghouses hosted men on the top story and women on the middle one, with the bottom floor reserved for common rooms. These places tended to be loud and run-down and catered to the poorest students living on the smallest of stipends. Just now, loud music poured from the building.
“We have a resident praise band,” she said wryly, explaining the music.
“No wonder you haven’t been getting much sleep.”
She shrugged. “They’re good people, and this is all I can afford on my wages.”
Morgan hated to think of quiet, physically fragile Simone here. However spunky she might be, he sensed shadows and sadness in her, trouble and need. It was his job to help her, if he could. That’s what faculty advisers at Buffalo Creek Bible College did. He’d had his share of troubled students. Christian colleges were not immune from the ills of society; perhaps the effects were mitigated somewhat, but the world was still the world, and Christians still had to cope with it. If she had been raised through the foster care system, as he suspected, he might be able to find resources for her of which she was unaware.
“Where do you work?”
“At the Campus Gate Coffee House.”
He knew it well. The proprietors were friends, and he ate breakfast there at least
