by Ivy Fox
“There isn’t much to tell,” I reply pleasantly, hoping he takes the hint and brings us back to the conversation at hand.
“Why so modest, Emma? A woman like you with all her accomplishments shouldn’t be so humble in her achievements.”
“I’m not. I just don’t really enjoy talking about myself.”
“Hmm. I can relate.”
Shit.
But I want you to talk.
I need you to.
If I want him to be forthcoming about his past, I have to bite the bullet and be somewhat transparent with my own. To a small degree, that is.
“But ask away. What do you want to know?”
“The only thing I know about you aside from your academic career is that you’re from Boston. Any family there?”
“No. The only family I had left died five years ago.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that.” He gives me a forlorn look, brushing his hand over mine once again.
“It’s quite alright.”
“So nothing ties you to Boston? No friends or ex-boyfriends?” he asks inquisitively.
I shake my head, slipping my hand away from his with the excuse of fixing my napkin.
“Good to know.”
No matter how charming he’s trying to be, it’s completely wasted on me.
Yes, Montgomery Ryland is quite charismatic if I let myself go there. With his dirty blond hair and big blue eyes, he is definitely appealing to the eye. Even if sometimes what he says rubs me the wrong way, I have to admit he is quite handsome. Still, my body doesn’t respond to him as he might wish. Maybe I’m broken, but when I look at him, all I see is a job, nothing else.
“Tell me a bit about Boston. I’ve been there a few times for some conventions, but I never really ventured into the city.”
For the remainder of our lunch, we talk about my birthplace, but not once do I give him any real personal details about my childhood or how I lived before coming to work for him.
“You sound like you miss it,” he says, as he orders us two cappuccinos.
“I do. It’s the city I was brought up in, and it holds my most cherished memories.”
“And Asheville hasn’t given you any yet?”
Smoldering green eyes in an empty alleyway suddenly flash before me.
“I don’t live in Asheville, now do I?” I reply, praying that Montgomery mistakes the blush that crept up my cheeks as a reaction to his company.
“Yes. Why is that?”
“Now, dean, you know my salary. If I wanted to live in the Northside, I’d have to ask for a raise, and living in the Southside doesn’t seem like a clever thing to do for a single woman like me. Charlotte is quiet and calm, and it doesn’t have such a division between the rich and the poor.”
“Yes, of course.”
We drink our coffee, filling the time with talk about school and other mundane things. What I really want is for him to fess up more about the Richfields, but I guess I need to have a few more of these ‘so-called dates’ to get him to relax and be more forthcoming.
When I tell him that I should be getting back to school or risk being tardy for my class, he pays for lunch and then accompanies me back to my car. When I feel his hand on my back, my knee jerk reaction is to flinch away. But since I need a second date with this man, I let it slide.
“I had a lovely time,” he coos once we’ve reached my car.
“Me, too.”
When I see him lean in for a kiss, I turn my face so his lips land on my cheek.
“Thank you for a lovely lunch. I look forward to doing it again,” I state quickly, hoping it’s enough to take the sting away.
“I’ll call you and set that up.” He smiles broadly. “Maybe next time we can do dinner instead?”
“That sounds great. I’d like that very much.”
Although I’m not looking forward to having dinner with my boss, to get the information I need sacrifices have to be made. I need to be patient. And if Montgomery doesn’t pan out, I still have Colt.
I don’t know why I genuinely smile at the thought of my mercurial student or why he came to mind when the dean asked me if I had made any memories here.
But one thing I am certain of—when all of this is done and over with, Colt Turner will definitely be hard to forget.
Chapter 12
Colt
For the first time in what seems like forever, I wake up with a purpose.
Today, I need to dazzle Emma with a tour of this cold-ass mausoleum of a home. I’m hoping that she’ll be enchanted enough with it to slip some tiny detail about the book she’s writing or—more importantly—whatever intel she was able to get about The Society.
It’s been two days since I convinced her to take me on as an assistant, and so far, I haven’t gotten the answers I need from the evasive professor, but only a small insight into her work, which happens to be a tell-all novel about secret societies. The irony isn’t lost on me how Emma has been slaving away for the past four years to prove such organizations are real and that the first assistant she takes on to help her in her mission winds up being living proof one of them truly exists.
Not that I’ll ever tell her.
True to her word, she’s put me to work and let me fact check her findings on the Freemasons, the Illuminati, and the Invisible College. And although her detailed research has me blown away with ironclad proof of their existence, the true thorn in my backside hasn’t been mentioned once. It also doesn’t help that the one library book that holds something regarding our blackmailers, she’s made sure to keep hidden away from my greedy hands.
To say that I’m frustrated is an understatement. With any other woman, I’d have the information by now. All I would have to do was give out a few earth-shattering orgasms, and that would have been the end of it. She’d be fessing up every last secret she’d ever had and even some she had forgotten about.
Emma Harper, however, is in a class of her own.
She won’t be easily fooled or persuaded just because I flash my toothpaste-commercial smile at her.
No.
She’s different from all the others.
Most of the Northside women I’ve screwed senseless needed a spark in their dull lives and were eager enough to have me satisfy their cravings for excitement.
Emma, on the other hand, doesn’t need me to bring meaning to her life.
She already has it.
Her work gives her all the passion that she needs, which is new for me since I’ve never been passionate about anything in my life.
Even though the sexual tension between us is undeniable, Emma never seems to acknowledge it for more than a quick, vulnerable minute, too consumed with the work at hand to be sidetracked by a little thing like desire or lust. If I didn’t have such a high opinion of myself, my ego would have definitely taken a hit with the way she focuses so obsessively over her work that, at times, she forgets I’m sitting right beside her.
So if sex isn’t the key to unlock all her secrets, I’m banking that knowledge is. The Richfield family library has been visited enough times over the years by great historians for me to know that it’s in high demand as the library to visit.
Hopefully, Emma’s guarded nature will change after today, but for that to happen, I have to ask the ice queen herself if she doesn’t mind me bringing a playdate home. Since breakfast is the only meal this family has together, it’s as good an opportunity as any to bring the subject up.
I walk downstairs to the dining room with that one purpose in mind, unsurprised to see everyone there already. I greet my pain in the ass sisters and parents with a curt nod and grab the chair next to my baby sister, Abby, who throws me one of her brilliant smiles. I might as well enjoy them while they last since it’s only a matter of time before my mother snuffs the sweet rebellion out of her. Right now, she still loves my ass, but once my mother is through with her, she’ll see me as nothing but a disappointment to our family, just like Mer and Irene do.
“Morning, dear brother.”
“Morning, shortstop.”
I smile widely at her, playfully pulling on the end of her ponytail. Once I’ve settled into my seat, I pour some coffee into my mug, eyeing my mother at the head of the table to establish what mood the ice queen is in today—Antarctica-glacial or just your run-of-the-mill walk-in freezer cold.
“You sure came in late last night. Hot date?” Irene instigates, always ready to stir the pot in front of our mother while pretending to look innocent spreading jam on her toast.
“And how would you know that? Aren’t good girls supposed to go to bed early on school nights?” I wink roguishly, not taking the bait she threw at me.
“If their irritating brothers let them sleep, then yes. You’re the one who woke me up. I heard your obnoxious car pull in around midnight.”
“First off, my Bugatti isn’t obnoxious. It’s a monster. And secondly, I suggested picking another bedroom in this house that isn’t so close to our driveway, otherwise your beauty sleep is going to get interrupted a lot in the upcoming weeks.”
“What’s going to be happening a lot?” Meredith asks from across the table, obviously eavesdropping on our conversation.
“You butting in on other people’s discussions. Oh, wait. No. You already do that, don’t you?”
“Funny,” she groans.
“I thought so.” I smile widely, always happy to get on Meredith’s shitlist so early in the day.
When my mother doesn’t once acknowledge my little spat with her favorite offspring, I think this is my shot to do what I came for.
“I’m bringing someone to the house today, FYI.”
Like fuck, I’m going to ask my mother for permission to bring anyone over here. But if I don’t want her to be a total bitch to Emma when she meets her, I at least need to make the effort of pretending to ask for permission for appearance’s sake.
“Can’t you take your hoochie mommas somewhere else? Do we really need to deal with your hookups in our own home?” Irene declares with a disgusted sneer, trying to sound older than her seventeen years of age, in an attempt to win some brownie points with mommy dearest.
“Your brother didn’t say he was bringing a girl home, Irene. In fact, to my knowledge, he never has. So I’d be more careful with your accusations, sweetheart,” my father interjects with a serious tone.
“Sorry, Daddy,” Irene stammers, bowing her head to her plate to hide her red cheeks.
Although both Meredith and Irene love nothing more than to suck up to our mother, when it comes to our father, all my sisters are big-time daddy’s girls. One strong word from our mother might cause them discomfort, but if it comes from our father, then they don’t know what to do with themselves. I guess it has to do with the fact that my mother’s stern discipline is to be expected. Not so much when it comes from the one parent that actually pretends to have a beating heart.
Like them, I used to think my father hung the moon and stars in the sky. For most of my childhood, he had been my hero, and there was nothing anyone could say that would make me think differently. But that all changed when I saw with my very eyes who my father really was.
He wasn’t a hero.
He was just another piece of trash husband who couldn’t keep it in his pants.
“Is it Lincoln who is coming over?” my mother’s voice rings out for the first time since I came into the room.
“No.”
“I see. I haven’t seen much of him lately.”
And by lately, what she really means is that she hasn’t put eyes on my cousin since her sister’s funeral. Save for sending a few business-like emails and texts concerning the Richfield Foundation, my mother has avoided Lincoln like the plague. Her only nephew suffered like crazy over his mother’s death for months, and yet my mother kept a wide berth between the two of them, not once reaching out to console him in his moment of grief.
And these two assholes, ladies and gentlemen, are my parents.
Is it any wonder that I have the asshole gene with them as my progenitors?
“So, who are you bringing over? Is it a girlfriend?” Abby asks jovially, her bright green eyes glimmering with romantic notions only a fifteen-year-old girl could have.
“Sorry to burst whatever teenage dream you’ve got going in that head of yours, shortstop, but it’s not a girlfriend. In fact, it’s my ethics professor.”
By the sound of silverware hitting her plate, my remark has definitely grabbed my mother’s attention.
“Do you mean Emma Harper?”
“One and the same.”
“I’ve heard she’s very pretty. Young, too,” my mother adds, taking a sip of her orange juice as her scrutinizing gaze tries to read me.
“Is she? I hadn’t noticed.”
“No? Then you seem to be the only one. I’ve heard Montgomery Ryland is quite enamored with her… intellect.”
Motherfucker.
I knew there had to be a reason for that prick to be calling Emma the other night. I try to relax my clenched jaw, so my mother doesn’t see how her comment hit its target. She wants a reaction out of me to see what my true intentions are in regards to the good professor, and like hell will I roll out the red carpet to my inner thoughts for her.
“Seems awfully unprofessional to have her over, don’t you think? When I attended Richfield, not once did I ever bring a college professor home with me. But then again, I’m not you.” The less-than-subtle accusation proffered by Meredith has me fisting my hands under the table.
Do I want to fuck Emma?
Yes. Yes, I do.
Do I want my whole family to think that the only reason any professor could be interested in visiting our home is because I’m fucking her every which way till Sunday?
No. No, I fucking do not.
My older sister thinking that Emma could be easily corrupted by my charm would be laughable if it weren’t intended as an insult to humiliate me. In their eyes, I have no worth—nothing that will bring honor to the Richfield name. Fucking half of Asheville is proof enough that I only know how to do one thing, and knowing how to fuck isn’t exactly on their list of honorable accomplishments.
“If you must know, Professor Harper has taken me on as her assistant. She’s writing a book on American history and heard that our home library has books on the subject. Being that we Richfields are known to be hospitable as fuck, I insisted on her visit.”
The whole table grows so quiet I can almost hear the sound of their jaws dropping onto their plates while looking at me as if I’ve grown two heads all of a sudden. “What are you all staring at?” I ask defensively, still tense from my sister’s remark.
“Don’t mind us, son. It’s that your news just surprised us. That’s all,” my father explains, a sly smirk planted on his lips. “You have to admit academia has never interested you before.”
“Or anything else for that matter,” my mother interrupts critically.
“But,” my father continues on, “if your professor has found a way to excite you on any topic, then I’m all for it.”
I brush his prideful remark to the side and snap my attention to the actual person who calls the shots in this house.
“So is that a yes or what? Can I give her the tour and use the library for a few days?”
My father looks over to my oddly pensive mother, the proud gleam in his eyes unnerving me so much that my knee keeps repeatedly bouncing up and down like I’ve got restless leg syndrome or something.
“I don’t see the harm. What do you think, dear?”
“If your father doesn’t see an issue with it, then neither do I.”
“Good. That’s all I needed to hear,” I retort abrasively, immediately getting up from my seat to leave before I give them any reason to withdraw their approval or have to endure my father’s prideful stares a minute longer.
But before I’m able to make my quick exit, the cheating bastard halts my steps with his next remark.
“I look forward
to meeting this professor of yours, son. Anyone who can spark such enthusiasm from you is definitely worth meeting.”
Not if I can help it, asshole.
When I arrive back at Richfield, my previous foul disposition improves immensely with the knowledge that I’m about to turn the imperturbable professor into putty in my hands. Again I have to remind myself that this woman is unique, and therefore, my usual approach won’t work on her. Emma has made it clear that she wants nothing to do with me. Too bad for her. I’ve always been a sucker for a good challenge.
When I see Easton and Stone walking up the steep flight of stairs to the ethics’ hall, I call out their names and rush to catch up with them. It’s safe to say that the pep in my step doesn’t go unnoticed by the exceedingly perceptive duo.
“Did hell freeze over, or is that an actual smile I see on your face?”
“I hope your good mood means what I think it means,” Easton adds on to Stone’s snarky comment.
“If you’re asking if I’m closer to finding out who the fuckers are that are trying to ruin our lives, then yes. Yes, I am.”
“Thank Christ,” he belts out, relieved, patting my back as I’ve just solved all his problems.
Maybe I’m overselling this, but failure has never been in my vocabulary. If you show no weakness, then there isn’t any to exploit. Mommy dearest taught me that trick when I was still in diapers. But I don’t need to fake my confidence. My plan is solid. I might not be able to sweep Emma off her feet with my charm, but I will gain her trust. I just need enough of it for her to tell me everything she knows about The Society. And once that’s done, I’ll get rid of her just as they ordered me to. One call to the dean should do it.
Montgomery Ryland is quite enamored with her.
Hmm.
That fucker might be a problem.
Not that I’m too thrilled with the idea of firing Emma either, but if that’s what The Society wants, then my hands are tied. Her lack of fawning all over my dick might have me intrigued, but not enough that I would trade my freedom for her to keep her job. And if Ryland gets in my way, then I’ll just have to remind him of his place. He loves the prestige that comes with being the dean of an Ivy League University like Richfield too much to have it threatened.