Jane Air Read online

  “I’m not here for books.”

  I adjust my glasses and turn towards him. “Then what are you here for?”

  “I’m here for you.”

  Well.

  Wasn’t expecting that.

  “Excuse me?”

  He pushed himself back from my desk, my ancient chair creaking slightly under his movements.

  “Considering your criminal behavior, I figure you owe me a favor.”

  “A favor?”

  This is ridiculous. Fully dressed, in my own office for heaven’s sake, and I still can’t form a sentence around this man.

  “I never called the police.” He moves closer, walking towards me.

  “Thank you.”

  “But I still could,” he grins, only a few feet from me now, and I finally understand the word wolfish.

  “Wha-” I back up, despite the feel of the shelves against my back.

  “Unless you help me.”

  “Are you blackmailing me?” I lean back farther, or try to. There’s nowhere for me to go.

  “Yes.” He’s closer to me now, the size of him seems to swallow the remaining air in my stuffy office. Even the overhead light dims against the shadow of his shoulders.

  I almost laugh. It’s so ridiculous. Blackmailed in my office. Threatened with arrest.

  This is not a typical day.

  I can imagine the newspaper headline: Professor caught naked, stalking new neighbor.

  There it is again. The splash of cold water. Because, as unusual as it is to be threatened with a prison sentence, the reality is I have a job, a reputation, and a life. And no one, not even someone as sinfully tempting as this man, gets to take it away from me.

  I take in a deep breath and wish I didn’t notice the way his eyes flicker downwards. I swear I feel the heat of his breath on my breasts.

  “I wouldn’t have thought a man like you needed to coerce women into sex.”

  He grins, the son of a bitch. He thinks this is hilarious.

  After all, it’s not his life he’s ruining.

  Of course, a small voice in my mind says, you could go along with it.

  This time my eyes flicker down, across the sinew of his neck. I swear I see an outline of muscle on his chest.

  It’s hardly the worst punishment.

  And I did trespass…

  “I never coerce anyone,” he smiles down at me. “Least of all women.”

  Please try to coerce me, I can’t help thinking. Just a little bit.

  “Then what-”

  “I need a tutor,” he stands back. The smile wider.

  “A tutor?”

  “For a role,” he clears his throat. “I need to research classical heroes. And I hear you’re the best in the business.”

  I stare. Mouth open.

  And then I almost laugh.

  It’s too pathetic.

  Here I am, ready to throw myself at a man.

  He’s already seen me naked.

  He’s already had his hands over…quite a bit of me.

  He even has the power to throw me in jail, possibly.

  And what does he want?

  A teacher.

  Of literature.

  For work.

  If I could disappear, if I could wave a wand and trade my soul for the power to be anywhere but right in front of him, I would.

  The mortification rolls through me, as if I thought he wanted me for anything other than…work. And books. And textual analysis.

  The things I’m actually good at.

  I remember his hands on me in the woods, the feel of his fingers on my breast is burned on my skin even now, days later.

  But that was probably typical for him. Fun flirtation. Touching a willing woman.

  Just another day in the office.

  “I don’t…tutor.” I can barely get the words out. Between the horniness, humiliation, and copy of Pride and Prejudice stabbing me in my back, I don’t think I have ever been more uncomfortable.

  “I’ll pay you.”

  “I thought you were blackmailing me?”

  He shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. But I do need your help.”

  He’s moved back now, deftly dodging my stacks of books with a grace I have never managed, in my office or anywhere else.

  “What help?” I can’t help but gawk. This is more surprising than when I thought he wanted sex.

  Disappointing too, but that’s neither here nor there.

  He shrugs again. “I need to understand heroes.”

  “But,” I pause, not sure I understand what he’s asking. “Don’t you play heroes? In your movies?”

  He shakes his head. “Not those kinds of heroes. I mean literary characters.”

  “But you don’t make literary movies.”

  He backs up again, lips thinning and I realize how rude my comment was.

  “I just mean-”

  “Either you help me, or I call the cops.”

  My jaw must be practically on the floor because he laughs again, gently punching the side of my arm like an older brother.

  “Come on. It’ll be fun.” He smiles and I have to admit, all threats and blackmail aside, that smile could make a woman do anything. “You don’t have any classes this summer, right?”

  “Well, no, but-”

  “And your research trip was canceled, so you’re not going anywhere, right?

  “How did you know-”

  Cynthia.

  “I need to learn and you love to teach.”

  “You-”

  “Plus,” he opens his eyes wider and pushes his lower lip ever so slightly out in a delectable, but still surprisingly masculine pout. “You’re my only friend in this town.”

  “I am not your friend,” I say, finally, managing a sentence.

  “That’s right,” He grins and turns towards the door. “You’re my teacher.”

  “Can’t you-” I’m so flustered I can barely speak. I’ve never gone from bewildered to horny to mad to bewildered again in such a short space of time. “Can’t you hire someone?”

  “I just did,” he grins, opening the door and waving a small piece of paper, which I realize is my business card, complete with cellphone number and email address.

  The door shuts behind him and I’m still standing against my shelves, books digging into my back and blocking my path to my desk.

  As his footsteps fade down the hallway, I hear Cynthia’s enthusiastic greeting and his low response.

  I close my eyes and inhale the soft smell of him, a mix of cognac, leather, and something deep, earthy, and male.

  God.

  There goes the neighborhood.

  6

  Jane

  “You’re what?” Kate is staring at me, wine glass in hand, eyes narrowed.

  I know this face.

  This is her she’s nuts face.

  It is usually reserved for Penelope, when she serves salad and tells us the tomatoes were grown in her “homemade” fertilizer, or Jessica, when we post her bail after another protest.

  I’ve never actually seen it directed towards me.

  “I’m tutoring him.”

  Her head tilts further to one side. Wine remains in the glass. Eyes narrow until she is staring at me through slits.

  “What’s he like?” Christine asks from her perch on one of Jessica’s barstools.

  Gorgeous.

  So much much better in person than on film.

  “Really irritating,” I press my lips together.

  “Is he handsome?” Jessica asks from behind the counter where she is laying out bowls for our Taco Tuesday.

  God, yes.

  I shrug. It’s an overly practiced movement, stiff and unnatural. Anyone else would be flagged as an instant liar, but I shrug so often when people ask me whether or not someone is attractive, they probably think it’s genuine.

  “I told you he wasn’t that good looking,” Kate takes a sip of her Cabernet.

  You’re an idiot.

  “Y
eah.” Another stiff, liar’s shrug.

  You’re right.

  He isn’t good looking.

  He’s stunning. And smells like earth and woods and sex. And tastes like…

  Well, I don’t know. I mean, it’s not like I’ve thought about that.

  Ok, who are we kidding? Of course I’ve thought about that.

  Dory smiles. “Is he nice?”

  I hope not.

  I hope he’s very, very bad.

  “Nope.” This time, I don’t have to lie. “He is pushy and rude.”

  “Hollywood,” Jessica shakes her head.

  “Why are you doing this again?” Kate leans forward, sliding her empty glass towards the bowl of sliced lettuce. Penelope, who is busy dicing tomatoes and sending me death glares, slides it back towards her.

  “To help him.”

  She peers closer.

  Damn. She might be on to me.

  “But you just said he was pushy and rude and not hot.”

  “So?”

  “SO?” Kate throws her hands in the air. “What is this? You’re not some 14 year old fan girl obsessed with those stupid movies-”

  Penelope makes a low sound in her throat and for a minute I think she is actually growling.

  “-And you rarely tolerate bad behavior. Especially from privileged jerks.”

  “I don’t think she said he was a privileged jerk,” Christine looks between Kate and me, rising to the defense of the man in question.

  “Thank you, Christine.” I nod in her direction.

  “What? No.” Kate shakes her head. “No. No. No. Don’t do that. Don’t redirect. Let’s stay on point.” She leans forward again, forearms on the table. Blocking Jessica’s attempts to fill the smallest of our taco bowls with salsa.

  “We are on point,” I laugh. “You asked me how my week was and I told you I am tutoring David Jacobs. That is my point.”

  Penelope’s chopping increases in speed and sound. We all turn to her and notice that she has effectively made juice from the tomatoes on the cutting board.

  “Honey,” Dory reaches past her and slides the dripping board towards Christine who takes it with a sympathetic smile. “Why don’t you give me the knife?”

  “One more time-”

  “For Christ’s sake, Kate!” Jessica bursts out, slapping the bowl of sliced chicken on the counter. “David Jacobs has moved to Midnight. He is researching a role, because he is an actor. He asked Jane to help him with his research because Jane is a researcher. Why is this so hard for you to understand?”

  Kate huffs. Rebuffed. I smile at Jessica. She salutes me with her chicken knife.

  “The whole thing just seems a bit-”

  “Unfair?” Penelope finally speaks, hand shaking as she jerks the cork out the freshly opened bottle of wine.

  “Absurd?” She pours, stuffing the bottle so far into her glass we hear it clink on the bottom.

  “Outrageous?”

  The wine comes out in great gulps and we stand in silence, wondering if she’ll be able to fit the entire bottle in the glass.

  It is a big glass.

  “Honey, would you like me to-” Dory reaches over but Penelope jerks her arm away, setting the bottle and its remaining half inch of contents back on the countertop.

  “MONSTROUSLY UNJUST?” She glares at me over the rim of the wine glass, practically shouting that last bit, and begins chugging her wine like she’s worried we’ll take it away from her.

  Which we may, frankly, if she keeps this up.

  “Well,” I look to the others, hoping for backup, “he wants to study classic romantic literature. That is my expertise.”

  Penelope puts down the glass, taking a deep breath, and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. She shakes her head, lips purple.

  “I bet you don’t even know his star sign.”

  I make eye contact with Kate and bite the inside of my mouth to stop myself from snorting.

  “Uh…Aquarius?”

  Kate covers her laugh with a cough and Jessica hides her grin as she unwraps the taco shells.

  “Jane. Jane. Jane.” Penelope shakes her head, her eyes horrified and pitying at once.

  She lets out a long-suffering sigh and looks towards the ceiling. “He’s a scorpio.”

  7

  David

  I realize too late that I still don’t have any furniture. Well, not here anyways. Angelo left me a message this morning, telling me he had sent a script overnight. Of course, I had left him a message with my assistant, asking him to check with Angelo about the furniture movers, since he had promised he would arrange everything without the press catching wind of anything. Conveniently, in his voicemail, Angelo did not mention the press, the movers, my still-furnished house in L.A., or my decidedly unfurnished house in Maine.

  I sigh.

  It occurs to me that Angelo isn’t planning to let me stay here.

  Or still thinks I’m going to change my mind.

  I turn on the tap and fill my travel mug, one of the few items I had remembered to stuff in my carry-on when I got on the plane.

  Angelo is probably thinking what everyone back on the West Coast is thinking.

  He’ll be back.

  I take a sip, marveling at the taste of drinking water straight from a faucet, unfiltered and unboiled but without that city, chlorine flavor.

  It’s hard not to smile. I don’t think I’ve ever had strong thoughts on tap water before. I pause as I refill.

  Is that because I can’t remember the last time I drank tap water?

  The doorbell rings and I turn the faucet. Walking down the hallway, I can see the outline of my pretty new teacher through the panes of glass along the door.

  I open the door, and have to force myself to make eye contact, when every instinct tells me to sweep south, to appreciate her soft curves and ample angles. Even her size is perfect, just tall enough to tuck under my chin, breasts firm against my belly.

  Breasts sliding lower, across the button of my jeans.

  Lower, across my-

  “Can I come in?” Her voice is brisk and professional. Almost stern, like a librarian reprimanding a schoolboy for his overdue fees.

  Librarian, huh?

  Once the image is in my head, I can’t shake it. I back up, keeping my arm on the door so she has to slide sideways into the entrance to avoid touching me.

  I know I’m staring but the thought of her, all prim and proper…

  Hair tucked up in a bun.

  Pencil skirt.

  Heels and stockings and a button sweater.

  Everything on the floor in a heap. Her bent over the desk, me behind her, about to-

  “So where do you want to do this?”

  Anywhere.

  “What?” I cough slightly, hoping my ogling isn’t too obvious. She’s looking directly at me. No wandering glances. No feminine appreciation.

  Damn.

  “Where do you want to work?” She looks around. “Do you have a table, or…” she waves her hand slightly. “A desk?”

  “No.” I smile, feeling simultaneously stupid and delighted.

  No, I do not have a table.

  No, I do not have a desk.

  Yes, that will probably make literature studies a bit more difficult.

  But I do have you.

  Right here.

  In my house.

  I called her last week, only a day or two after I had left her office, the smell of her hair and her skin still in my nose. I enjoyed teasing her, standing so close I could feel the heat radiating off of her, could see the way her eyes responded to my voice, her face so close to mine I swear I could feel the taste of her on my tongue.

  Her shock and outrage at my appearance.

  Her indignation when I took a cookie from her not-so-secret stash on her desk.

  If only she knew what else I wanted to take from her.

  And give to her.

  And do to her.

  Before she caught me in her office
last week, before I heard her keychain outside the door and the sound of the young assistant’s frantic explanation, I was standing in the center of the room.

  My little forest elf liked books.

  A lot.

  They were everywhere. Stacks and piles and boxes, all opened, all stuffed full of books. Shelves with books lined up horizontally and vertically. Ancient, dusty hardcovers. I took a few and cracked them open, amused as tiny puffs of dust sprouted beneath my nose. Others were new, crisp, some still wrapped in plastic, beneath sticky notes reading Review due or Respond to Ted.

  It had put a frown on my face.

  Who the hell was Ted?

  And why was he giving her gifts?

  Fuck Ted.

  I pull myself back to the present, where my nymph is standing, fully dressed this time, unfortunately, and looking at me with that stern, silent librarian face. That face that makes me want to say obscene things about the Dewey Decimal system and pull her into a dark corner, bury my face between her thighs until she forgets all about Ted.

  “Then why aren’t we meeting in my office?” She asks, exasperated. It takes me a minute to understand the context of her question, so deep am I in my filthy library thoughts.

  Right.

  No table.

  I gesture with my hand, encouraging her to walk towards what would be the main sitting room, if there were any place to sit.

  “Because your office,” I can’t help but say, hoping she can’t see my smile, “is full of shit.”

  Another huff. She’s walking behind me but I can feel her indignation.

  “My office is full of books. Not shit.” There is a slight pause. “It is…a bit messy.”

  I grin at that, leading her through the sitting room and towards the far end of the house, into the massive, empty room.

  Swinging the double doors open, we both walk through. There’s no furniture in here either, but at least we have the enormous, sixty-foot window to look through.

  Outside, the sun shines sharp and clean across the trees and grass, the shades of green reflecting off the window and casting crystalline dances along the marble flooring.

  “You’re quite the minimalist,” She says behind me. I turn and she is gazing upwards, taking in the enormous chandelier. It twinkles in the sunlight, the crystals catching the hues of yellow and blue and green from outside.