The Magic of Love Series

by Margaret Locke

  Here, she’d been indoors—at Cat’s, then in a vehicle, then a loud, enclosed shopping center, then an even louder restaurant, now at Matthew’s. Did people never spend time out of doors in this century?

  “And I should like to see the University.”

  “The Grounds are amazing. Even after five years, I try to stop and appreciate the Lawn and Academical Village whenever I’m there. Which isn’t often; I’m mostly in Rice, of course.”

  She didn’t know the places to which he referred but nodded. According to Eliza, the American president Thomas Jefferson had founded the University not long after Amara’s own time. “Old for the United States,” Eliza had said with a chuckle. “But not for you, I know.”

  “I teach until eleven, then have office hours until two. You okay exploring without me?”

  She snorted. An inappropriate response, perhaps, but something in his tone provoked her. Yes, she would be fine. She didn’t need him. It’s a big world out there, another part of her said. You saw a mere fraction yesterday, and it set you on your last nerve. Be careful what you reject. “I shall be fine, and shall return to you at the appointed hour.”

  “Bring your phone in case you need to call or anything.”

  “Phone?” Her brow wrinkled. She’d brought Eliza’s phone forward with her, but left it at the bookstore. Cat had promised to charge it, whatever that entailed.

  “Oh, that’s right. You don’t have a phone, do you?”

  She crossed her arms over her belly. “I do, but it is with Cat.”

  He picked up something from his desk. “Here,” he said, handing her a rectangle larger than Eliza’s phone but smaller than his computer as he stood up. “That tablet’s got 4G, so you can text if you need to. My info’s in it.” He grabbed his own computer, tucking it under an arm. “Ready?”

  Amara nodded. Should she tell him she had no clue what he was talking about? Perhaps, but she didn’t wish to delay him when he was obviously in a hurry. And she didn’t wish to arouse more suspicion. She’d carry the machine around; it might help her blend in more.

  He walked to the door, whipping it open before looking for her over his shoulder. She followed him down the stairs, marveling over everything that had happened in the last few days, over the fact she was about to visit a university ... dressed in less clothing than a courtesan would wear. Self-consciously, she tugged at the skirt. If he turned around on the stairs, he’d likely get a full view up her legs.

  That thought should have been much more horrifying than it was.

  Chapter 11

  Amara ambled around the wide green expanse, not wanting to leave. The solid, white columns, the long black window shutters, the whole atmosphere of this central area reminded her enough of her century that homesickness unfurled through her.

  She strolled along the colonnades, passing numerous doors. Once, a young woman exited one, giving Amara a glimpse of a bed inside. Students lived here? A number of young men and women milled about on the grass-covered lawn between the sets of buildings. One or two greeted her but made no further conversation before returning to their books or telephones.

  She wanted to explore the large building she’d overheard someone call the Rotunda, but it was covered in metal pipes and poles—for renovations, the same stranger had said.

  A waist-high box with a screen on its top stood to one side of the Rotunda. As Amara neared, a woman pressed her fingers to it, and the pictures and words on the screen changed. Aha! It worked like Eliza’s telephone. After the woman left, Amara remained, reading about the Rotunda’s history before meandering across the short-trimmed grass, admiring the tall majestic trees. Did the students realize what a treasure this lawn was, how serene, how beautiful? Though a variety of sounds, especially of traffic, echoed in the distance, it was quieter than at the mall or near Matthew’s office, and Amara was grateful. She was tired of all the foreign noises. Though London was hardly a haven of silence, at least its cadences were familiar.

  An older gentleman entered one of the larger buildings interspersed among the single-person rooms. Amara paused before crossing to it. Could she go in, too? She’d tried to access a different such building, but it had been locked. Peering through the window, her breath caught at the furnishings, furnishings more similar to her era than anything else she’d seen.

  She had to go in.

  A shiny plaque near the door caught her eye. Colonnade Club, it read. Cautiously, she turned the knob and stepped inside. No one stopped her or asked her to leave. In fact, she was completely alone. Her eyes soaked in the area around her, her ears relishing the silence.

  The interior gave her the sense of a London townhouse. Not exactly, of course—the layout and furniture differed, but the excitement at finding a place so reminiscent of home fired her blood.

  Ascending a set of stairs, she discovered a small library in which someone was working, with papers spread out across a massive table, fingers pushing away at the computer in front of her. Everyone had those. As the gray-haired woman looked up, Amara said, “I am sorry, I did not mean to disturb you.” Perhaps she wasn’t supposed to be here. Was it a private residence?

  “No problem.” The woman pointed toward a door in the corner. “If you haven’t seen the view from the balcony, you should.”

  Amara thanked her and crossed to the door. No one was on the balcony. She sank into a chair next to a narrow table, her eyes taking in the richness around her. Other parts of town might be loud and garish, but this—this was truly spectacular.

  She still clutched Matthew’s tablet. She hadn’t done anything with it, didn’t know how to do anything with it. She pushed a button on the side, and the screen sprang to life. After a moment, a chime sounded, and words appeared on it:

  Feels weird texting my own personal account. Hope all is well—MG

  He could send her a direct message whilst she was walking about? She’d spent hours writing letters by hand, had passed days waiting for the post to arrive. How different communication was here.

  She rubbed a finger across the screen and it changed, showing his message on top but the alphabet in jumbled order at the bottom. Carefully, she pressed a letter, and it appeared on the screen. She added more.

  jI qm well. The univrrsity is breath-takking. Amaara Mattersley

  She did not know how to correct the errors, so she left them. At least the send button was obvious. Within seconds, the machine chimed again.

  Good to hear from you. Was worried. Meet me at Rice at 2?

  He’d been worried? A tiny thrill shot through her. A man other than a relation was worried about her. Not that she should read too much into that. Not that she should want to. She sent him a second message.

  Rhat is fin.e I may need instruvton on this machinw. Amara Matttersley

  The machine chimed nearly instantly. How fast could the man write? Her efforts took time.

  Your wish is my command, my lady.

  She giggled at his words, suddenly picturing Matthew as a genie in a bottle like she’d read in Arabian Nights. Having Matthew Goodson at her beck and call held appeal.

  Setting the machine on her lap, she looked out again, enjoying the crisp breeze and awe-inspiring view. If only life could feel this peaceful all the time. After a few more minutes, she rose with a sigh. According to the tablet’s clock, it was time to meet Matthew. She’d return to this place as often as she could, though. It connected her to home, to things familiar. A minor connection, but one she would take.

  Matt checked the time again. 2:08. She was late. He hated when people were late. He tapped his fingers on his desk. She’s okay, though, right?

  Of course, she was okay. Why wouldn’t she be? It’s not like the University of Virginia campus was a threatening place, especially in broad daylight. She hadn’t answered his last text, though—the one he’d sent five minutes ago. Was she lost? Ignoring him?

  He sighed before reaching for his coffee. Why did he feel so protective of her? Sure, Ben had asked him f
or help, but this was something else, something different, something deeper. Maybe it was because she seemed so sheltered. Naïve. Yes, that reason made sense, given Cat’s account of Amara’s unusual upbringing.

  Voices echoed in the hallway. “Yes, ma’am, his office is right this way. I’d be happy to show you.” Grant, his teaching assistant.

  A moment later, the TA and Amara stepped into his office. Grant’s eyes never left her, a stupid, toothy grin plastered across his face. She gave the upstart a smile and thanked him. Something sparked in Matt. He wanted her to smile at him like that.

  Grant’s grin widened. “Let me know if there’s anything else I can do for you. In fact, here’s my number, in case you need it.”

  The man—boy, really, given he was all of, what, twenty-four?—yanked a piece of scratch paper from the pile Matt had on his desk and wrote down his digits, handing the paper to Amara.

  Matt’s mouth quirked up as her brow furrowed. She took the number but immediately looked to him, not the kid. “Thank you,” she said, her voice laced with hesitation.

  Grant’s grin faltered as he looked at Matt. “Oh. Sorry,” he said, swallowing. “I thought she—” He turned to Amara. “I thought you were just a student. I—”

  Matt chuckled, holding up his hands. “No harm, no foul. Ms. Mattersley and I are acquaintances, that is all.”

  He’d said that as much for himself as for Grant, wanting to dull the stab of jealousy spearing his chest. Amara was nothing to him. It was fine if someone else hit on her. And Lord knew male CS grad students would hit on anybody; females were still a rare commodity in the department, though thankfully their numbers were rising.

  Grant nodded but scooted out the door, his chagrined expression proving he thought he’d stepped on his professor’s turf.

  Amara’s expression was more unreadable. She gave him a stiff nod, then handed over the tablet.

  A snicker escaped. “You’re a worse typist than I am.” Damn, why had he said that? He’d meant to tease, but it’d come out more like an insult.

  Surprisingly, she laughed. “I assume ‘typist’ relates to putting words on that.” She gestured toward the tablet. “In which case, yes. I am.”

  She was adorable when she laughed. That dimple showed, and her nose crinkled up in the cutest fashion. Matt wanted to press a kiss to it. He immediately banished the thought. Acquaintances only.

  “What do you call that?” She motioned to the desktop computer in front of him.

  He frowned. “The computer?”

  “Oh, it’s the same word as for the folding ones?” She pointed to the laptop on the edge of the desk.

  “Uh, yeah. Though people generally call those laptops.” He was thoroughly confused. The woman was acting as if computers were entirely new to her.

  “Might you show me how one uses it?”

  “You’ve never used a computer? For real?” His tone was unnecessarily sharp, he knew, but something didn’t add up.

  She swallowed, twisting her fingers together, distinctly ill at ease. “As Cat said, my upbringing was very ... different.” Her lips pulled into a false smile.

  He shook his head. Cat had told him Amara’s exposure to technology was limited, but never having experienced computers at all, in this day and age? Something niggled at the back of his neck, unease taking hold and squeezing.

  “No kidding. It’s hard for me to fathom as a computer science professor.” Pausing, he tapped a finger against his mouth. “Though I suppose that makes me the perfect person to instruct you, doesn’t it?” Where had that come from?

  Her eyes lit up. “Please? I’d be very grateful. It’s hard when everything feels so unfamiliar and foreign.” She broke off, her thumbs dancing around each other.

  “Sure, no problem.” It wasn’t like he was busy, or had a paper due in two days, or had a massive pile of exams to grade. “You figured out texting, even with a few typos. I’m sure you’ll be a quick study.”

  “Texting? This is what it is called, sending those instantaneous messages?”

  “Yup.” He pulled up a chair next to his own and patted the seat. “Sit down. I don’t have to be anywhere for a while; let’s learn.”

  He’d planned on driving home and letting her do her thing while he got back to work. Instead, he found himself looking forward to the next hour or so, even as the strangeness of the situation pricked at his conscience. The satisfaction seeping through him surely was only because he was doing what he loved to do—teach. It had nothing to do with having an excuse to spend more time in Amara’s company. Nope, not at all.

  Though her head spun with the information Matthew hurled at her, Amara remained intensely aware of the man to her side, his pleasant scent tickling her nose as his fingers flew over the keyboard. The images on the screen changed with ever-increasing pace, but she said nothing, listening as he talked about things called Google and CNN and email and Facebook.

  “Facebook,” she murmured, the name stirring a memory of Eliza calling out the word when she’d been lost in delirium.

  Matthew smirked. “Heard of that one, at least, huh? Who hasn’t? Though they say mostly older people use it now. The kids have moved on to Snapchat and Instagram.”

  More names she didn’t know.

  He tapped something on the keyboard, and a new page popped up, one with a picture of his smiling face in the corner. “Here’s my Facebook profile,” he said, “though I don’t do much on it—it’s mostly to appease my sister.”

  Photos flew by, some of Taylor, and more of Matthew. In one, he had his arm slung around a blonde beauty. Amara started. That was not something that had occurred to her. Was he courting someone? Surely not; Cat would not have written Mr. Goodson into her story if he were married or promised to someone else. That set her at ease.

  She grimaced. She shouldn’t want to be set at ease, and yet ... A sigh escaped. This was so confusing. She was fiercely attracted to Matthew Goodson. There was no denying it. And it vexed her sorely.

  “Do you wanna try?” He stood up and gestured to his seat.

  As she switched over to his chair, the heat radiating from it caught her by surprise. It was warm where his body had been, and his scent lingered. It was like being enveloped by him, but not.

  “What should I do?”

  He shrugged. “Whatever you want. Try searching for things in the box up there.”

  Amara hesitated, her tongue darting out between her lips as she contemplated. Finally, she typed in Clarehaven and hit return, as he’d instructed. To her surprise and delight, a picture of her home appeared on the screen. The house itself looked the same, but outer buildings had been added or torn down, and some of the foliage was different. It disconcerted her.

  “Magnificent house.”

  She jumped at Matthew’s voice. She’d forgotten he was there, so immersed was she in staring at the screen.

  He leaned forward in his chair. “How’d you find that?”

  She didn’t answer. What could she say? This was my home, two hundred years ago? She tried to breathe, but the air wouldn’t come. Did family still live there? Not that they’d be family now, so many generations removed. Her heart raced.

  Never had she felt so much empathy for her sister-in-law.

  Amara clutched her knees with her hands. Eliza had done it. Eliza had gone two centuries into the past and not only survived but thrived. Amara could do this, too.

  She clicked onto a different page, then another, not caring what flashed on the screen, just wanting to distance herself from the image of Clarehaven. Suddenly, a guttural moan echoed from the screen, and Amara shrieked at the pictures before her eyes. A man and a woman, unclothed, were engaging in acts too indelicate to mention. Her hands flew over her eyes, but the images seared into her brain.

  “Oh my God, what?” Matthew leapt up, leaning across her as he did something to the computer. The noises stopped and the pictures disappeared. “So much for firewalls,” he muttered.

  Amara peeked
at him through her fingers. His cheeks were as fiery red as hers must be. Thank God he hadn’t acted as if it were normal to see people engaging in unmentionable intimacies right there on a screen. It wasn’t normal, was it?

  “Welcome to the Internet,” he said, smoothing his hands down the front of his legs. “Porn everywhere.” After a moment, he touched her shoulder. “I’m sorry; clearly that upset you.”

  “It didn’t you?” Her gaze met his, visions of what she’d seen dancing in her head. Suddenly they mutated, and it was Matthew’s body covering hers as they moved together in unison. Her breath quickened and her pulse raced. She couldn’t tear her eyes from his. Did he sense it, too, this bizarre connection? Did he—was he—picturing the same things as she?

  Matt counted to ten, then twenty, willing himself under control. Not that he regularly sought out porn, but the images on the screen combined with the closeness of Amara Mattersley, the smell of her skin, the curve of her neck, those intoxicating eyes—well, he was a mess of physical desire at the moment. The woman on the screen had almost the same shade of hair as Amara. It wasn’t too much a stretch to picture himself engaging in those same acts with the exquisite woman next to him.

  His groin pulsed, and he sat down quickly, lest Amara witness his reaction to the events of the previous few minutes. How embarrassing. How ... erotic. What would she do if he locked the door to his office, if he moved back to his chair, pressed his lips to hers, delved deep into her mouth? Would she respond? She had before. Temptation called, but he shook his head, bidding his body to settle.

  She looked like a deer caught in headlights. Clearly, the sexual scenes had had the opposite effect on her. Not that he blamed her. Porn was ... porn. It wasn’t real intimacy, though reacting physically was within the bounds of reason, right? He was a man, after all.