The Case of the Sexy Shakespearean

by Tara Lain

  “Uh, Dr. Lewis, uh, Llewellyn, this coming Thursday, I and some of the other members of the history and English departments will be wining and dining several potential benefactors of our programs. These are wealthy patrons interested in supporting our research. I don’t have to tell you how important these patrons are. It’s so unusual to find people who want to fund something besides medical research or finding UFOs.” He laughed, though it sounded strained. “Uh, I’d like you to join us.”

  “W-what?” Llewellyn rose half out of his seat, then flopped back when the professor’s eyes widened in alarm. Van Pelt knew better. Llewellyn could manage classes when he had to, staff meetings occasionally, but fund-raising dinners? Dear God, the thought made him ill.

  Van Pelt held up a placating hand. “I know. I know. But one of the potential donors is a huge fan of your work and will only attend if you’ll be there. As you can imagine, we don’t want to, uh, trouble you with this, but we must ask. In fact, I strongly request that you make yourself available on Thursday night.”

  The shaking had already started in his belly. He sucked in his gut to try to control it. “N-no. Not w-wise.”

  Professor Van Pelt sighed loudly. “Jesus, Llewellyn, don’t you think I know that? I’ve had to hire two extra teaching assistants just to handle your damned classes, but this woman is important, and she absolutely insists she won’t attend unless you’re there and will speak to no one else. For the good of the department, I have to insist.” He stood, which clearly showed how upset he was since it showed off his barely five-foot-four height. “I’m sorry, but that’s final.”

  Llewellyn rose, not meeting the professor’s eyes, and walked to the office door.

  “I’ll email you the necessary information.”

  Llewellyn just kept walking all the way to the side door to the building. Taking deep inhales, he exited to the small porch and leaned over the railing, trying to catch his breath. It wasn’t just the stutter that made him a social mess. He’d entered college in his early teens, too smart and too awkward to make many friends. From there his studies kept him company, and people drifted further away in his awareness. Holding the world at bay meant he didn’t have to care so much what anyone thought. Damn, wish it worked better.

  He heard voices and looked up to see three men walking by on the sidewalk beside the building, all staring at him. One professor of English tittered behind his hand, a second teacher looked appalled, and the third man—the one with the unreadable expression—was the man who’d been dancing his perfect ass off the night before, one hundred and eighty-five miles away.

  Chapter Two

  “HEY, BOSS, you look like somebody set your tail on fire. Is everything okay?”

  “N-no.” Llewellyn leaned against the wall beside the door and tried to breathe. How can he be here? How? Dear God, will he recognize me? No, no, of course not. He didn’t even see me, and that was Ramon. We really don’t look alike. People see what they expect. He kept trying to get air into his lungs.

  “What’s wrong, sir? Can I help? You’re scaring me.”

  He looked at Maria. Holy God, seeing that guy had freaked him so totally, he’d forgotten all about his actual problem. “Uh, I-I have to g-go to a party.” He swallowed hard and pressed a hand to his mouth.

  She bounded out of her chair and grasped his arm. “Come on, let’s make you some tea.” She guided him toward the battered couch by the wall and pressed him down onto it. “Hang.” It only took her seconds at the coffee and tea bar she’d set up in the corner to return with a steaming cup of English Breakfast tea laced with milk and a dash of vanilla. Just the smell relaxed him. “Th-thanks.”

  She sat in the chair opposite the couch with a cup of her favorite coffee that filled the air with the rich scent of caramel. “So shoot. Who’s doing this to you?”

  “D-don’t want to th-think about it.”

  “Okay, but maybe I can help.”

  “S-some woman.”

  She made that great snorting sound again. “Can’t you just explain she’s barking up the wrong tree?”

  “N-not like that.” He laughed. “M-money.”

  “Whoa. I didn’t think you were that kind of guy, doctor.”

  For a second, the previous night flooded back—seeing the gorgeous young dancer, being asked if that’s what it took for him to be that kind of girl. He sucked in air. “She’s a d-donor. She wants to give m-money for research.”

  “Hey, that’s great from a financial perspective, but can’t you just meet her here in this office, like one-on-one? I can serve her tea and shit.”

  Wow. Could that work? “I d-don’t know.”

  “How about I go ask Dr. Van Pelt?”

  He nodded and smiled.

  “Be right back.” She turned, stopped, walked over and grabbed the teapot, poured him a full cup, then set it back on the warmer. “No worries, boss. We got this,” she said as she ran out the door.

  Oh man, from her lips to Van Pelt’s ears. He sipped his tea. Okay, second problem. Why was that guy from the club in San Jose walking by his building? The men he was with were both in the English department. Could it really be just a coincidence? But damn, there were plenty of gay and gay-friendly clubs and bars in San Luis Obispo. People who drove hours just to go to a club had something to hide—he ought to know. He took a deep breath. I’ll probably never see the guy again. That made him a little sad, which was stupid, but something about the gorgeous stranger made Llewellyn’s nerves tingle—in a good way for once.

  Taking his tea, Llewellyn walked back to his desk and settled in for a few hours of total immersion. Research. God, he adored it. While some scholars considered him a dilettante since he jumped from project to project, he loved delving into the archeological and historical mysteries of the ages and revealing new thinking in each. His current fascination was the real fate of Edward V of England and Richard of Shrewsbury, the famed princes in the Tower. Did the much-maligned Richard III really murder them? Funny how he felt kind of sorry for Richard who, recent DNA research suggested, might have come from a male line illegitimate to the throne. Llewellyn knew about illegitimacy and being an outsider. Of course, the princes might deserve more of his sympathy.

  He went back to his search engine to look for more obscure comments and references on the case. Even when they were wacko, those kinds of comments could lead to interesting sources. The so-called fan from the previous night flashed in his mind. Maybe I should pay more attention to his theories. Nah. Leaning forward, he stared at the screen. The word Rondell caught his eyes. He took a breath and clicked immediately.

  Well, hell, his least favorite so-called journalist.

  Octavia Otto—probably a pen name—was the owner and sometime investigative journalist for the online news source the Daily Phoenix. While her news outlet was generally well regarded, the blog had a Digging for Dirt section readers loved. That segment sold more subscriptions to the Phoenix than all the other sections combined. One of Octavia’s favorite topics? Who is Ramon Rondell really?

  That day’s tidbit was that no two pictures of the elusive Rondell ever seemed to show the same person and asked what Rondell had to hide. Damn.

  “Uh, boss?”

  One glance up at Maria and he cringed even more.

  She shook her head. “I’m so sorry. I tried, but Van Pelt says they want this rich woman to attend the dinner, not just meet with you. Something about giving everyone a crack at her.” She walked in and sat on his rickety guest chair, which he didn’t remove because something more comfortable might encourage guests. “I even asked him if I could come with you, but he said no. Reservations and all that. I’m not senior enough. Damn, boss, I tried. This is so shitty.”

  Hard to describe the level of shittiness—especially since he’d take a half hour to get the word out. “Thanks. Th-thanks for trying.”

  She leaned forward. “I don’t want to sound like some freaking self-help guru, but you can do this. Hell, you’re smarter than any of
them, more successful, and I’ll even bet you look better in your underwear.”

  He barked out a laugh.

  She grinned. “You know how they tell public speakers to picture their audience members in their underwear?”

  “I-I got it.” He sighed. “So, wh-who is this w-w-woman?”

  “Her name’s Anne de Vere.”

  He shrugged. Still, it was an interesting historical name. He forced his eyes back to his screen, but all the fun had leached from the interviews with scholars investigating the recently uncovered body that was almost certainly Richard III.

  Maria rose and left his office, casting one sympathetic look over her shoulder as she departed. He wiped a hand across his face and let his forehead fall to the desk. Nothing was interesting enough to make him want to have dinner with ten people.

  IS IT better to be late or early? Thursday night, Llewellyn paced a block away from the Faculty Club, as he’d been doing for the previous fifteen minutes, unable to force himself to walk in. Coward!

  Based on his observation, if he walked in right now, he’d be among the first to arrive, which meant chitchat and horrible social interaction, which he hated. If he waited, he could miss some of that but would have to enter to the stares and judgment of all the people present, while trying to keep from making a fool of himself in front of everyone. There was no good time to walk into that room.

  Voices from the next block made him look up. Van Pelt walked beside his wretched teaching assistant, Harley Grove, a weaselly young man better at politics than history and, apparently, a truly boring teacher. Why Van Pelt loved him and yet refused to let Llewellyn promote Maria from research assistant to teaching assistant, he wasn’t sure. That was a lie. Van Pelt was inherently suspicious of women and more so if they didn’t have blonde ringlets.

  On Van Pelt’s other side was an attractive, auburn-haired woman Llewellyn had never seen before. The mysterious donor? Van Pelt spoke animatedly, but she barely looked up. Something about her suggested she didn’t suffer fools gladly. That was either good or bad for him, but probably now was the time to find out. When she discovered the giant L on his forehead, he just might get to leave early.

  With as close to resolve as he got in such situations, he walked into the Faculty Club.

  A tall, thin maître d’ smiled. “Can I help you, sir?”

  “V-Van Pelt.” Llewellyn pointed toward the disappearing backs of Van Pelt and his companions.

  “Oh yes. Very good. I’ll have the waiter take you to the table as soon as he returns.” He looked back at his reservation list, dismissing Llewellyn, which was damned fine with him. He walked over to the darkest corner and waited.

  The door opened and two professors from the English department walked in. The short, gray-haired one—Murphy might have been his name—was one of those he’d seen on the sidewalk with the gorgeous guy. He longed to ask who Beautiful Butt was, but he wouldn’t have even if he could have gotten out the words.

  The two men spoke to the maître d’, who pointed to Llewellyn—who froze.

  They turned, and the one who’d seen him gasping for air looked halfway between amused and appalled. The other man, younger, taller, and very pleasant-looking, smiled and stuck out his hand. “Hi. You’re Dr. Lewis, aren’t you?”

  Llewellyn nodded and gave the man’s hand a pump.

  “I’m George Stanley. I’m the English lit guy.”

  Llewellyn swallowed. Where was that damned waiter? “P-pleased to m-meet you.”

  Stanley’s smile never wavered. The other man wasn’t so cool. He stared at his own shoes, then stuck out a hand like he was undertaking a heinous act. “Murphy. World lit.”

  Llewellyn nodded and shook. “His-history.”

  “Oh, of course we know who you are, Dr. Lewis. Honored.” Stanley gave him such a warm grin, it killed a butterfly or two.

  “Gentlemen, Horace will take you to your table now.” The maître d’ handed menus to a gray-haired waiter, and Llewellyn and the other two men fell in behind him. All the way to the table in a smallish private dining room, he kept breathing deeply, like he was getting ready to go underwater. Yeah, drown.

  Van Pelt was seated next to Harley on one side and the red-haired woman on the other. She looked up expectantly. Though two other professors, Shaklee Morse and Ty Anderson, sat on the woman’s other side, a chair had been left conspicuously open beside her.

  Van Pelt half rose. “Dr. Lewis, please sit here. Anne de Vere, may I present Dr. Llewellyn Lewis, our renowned researcher.”

  She smiled warmly—she really was quite pretty—and extended her hand. When he took it, she covered his hand with her other one. “I’m so excited to meet you, Dr. Lewis.” Her eyes had a very manic sparkle.

  “L-Llewellyn.”

  For a second she looked startled, then nodded with a still-pleasant expression.

  He sat, but his whole body felt cold. Like most people who knew him only from reputation, Anne de Vere was likely expecting Indiana Jones, not Elmer Fudd. Dear God, is there any way to leave? Very tempting.

  Van Pelt cleared his throat. “Uh, Dr. Lewis, I’d also like you to meet Mr. and Mrs. Alonzo Echevarria, who are valued supporters of the university.” He pointed to an unlikely looking couple seated across from Llewellyn—a pudgy, florid man of perhaps sixty and an opulently endowed, substantially younger, dark-haired woman.

  Llewellyn nodded and shook Mr. Echevarria’s hand, a slightly aggressive experience, but didn’t try to speak. His wife, who gazed at Llewellyn like she was guessing his weight, didn’t offer a hand. Hers was busy with her martini glass.

  Anne de Vere leaned toward him. “Dr. Lewis, I’m very anxious to speak to you—”

  Some rustling, footsteps, and voices made them all look up. Heart-stop city, as Maria would say.

  Chapter Three

  THE OTHER English professor Llewellyn had seen on the sidewalk outside his building came into the private dining room, followed by the gorgeous dancer from the club in San Jose. Llewellyn sucked a breath—and he wasn’t the only one. Next to him, Anne de Vere made a funny little gasping sound, and Mrs. Echevarria practically threw herself across the table; the guy was just that beautiful. Llewellyn might follow suit—or might run out the door. Choices. Who are you, beautiful boy, and what are you doing here? He called the guy a boy, but he was probably only a few years younger than Llewellyn’s twenty-seven. Prodigies being what they were, Llewellyn had completed his PhD at twenty and had been compiling published research ever since.

  The English professor and the beautiful guy were both laughing, and the prof had to pull himself together to address the group, all of whom stared with degrees of avid interest. “So sorry to be late. Had trouble parking.” He raised a hand. “Hi, everyone. I’m Justin Rhule, and this is my new graduate assistant, Blaise Arthur.”

  Llewellyn’s head came up. “B-Blaise? Arthur?”

  The man’s eye connected with Llewellyn’s—brilliant blue and more than warm. He grinned. “I should know that wouldn’t get past you, Dr. Lewis. My parents have a sense of humor.”

  Llewellyn’s stomach lurched. He knows who I am?

  George Stanley laughed. “Of course, I’m embarrassed that a mere historical genius had to think of it first.”

  Llewellyn smiled. Stanley did have a lovely way about him.

  Echevarria popped a small crease between his brows. “I’m afraid I don’t understand the joke.”

  “You’re not alone.” Van Pelt raised a judgmental brow. “Share, please.”

  Blaise Arthur said, “Forgive us for being obscure. Blaise was a figure in Arthurian legend. Some say he was the teacher of Merlin, and others that he was the chronicler of the Arthurian tales as recounted by Merlin. Nonetheless, my parents couldn’t resist naming their Arthur baby Blaise.”

  Anne de Vere clapped her hands. “Charming.” She looked around the table. The only empty chair stood at the end of the long rectangle. “Please, come and sit here, Mr. Arthur.” She actually stoo
d and pulled an extra chair from near the wall over to the table and proceeded to scoot her own chair closer to Llewellyn, then slid the extra seat between herself and Van Pelt. Van Pelt looked startled, Dr. Rhule gaped, and Mrs. Echevarria appeared to be contemplating murder.

  Blaise smiled directly at Anne and walked around the table with the same poetic grace he’d shown on the dance floor. Without a single demur, he gave her a small bow. “Thank you so much.” His eyes flicked up to Llewellyn’s—setting off an electric spark in Llewellyn’s belly—and he sat in the offered chair.

  Van Pelt cleared his throat. “So you’re new to the English department, Mr. Arthur?”

  “Yes, sir. I just came south from my home near Palo Alto in response to the offer of the teaching assistantship.”

  “And where did you do your undergraduate studies?”

  “Stanford, sir.”

  Van Pelt’s eyebrow rose. Both the prestige—and the cost—of the university should have garnered some appreciation from him.

  Dr. Rhule leaned in from his far distant seat. “Blaise’s uncle is a Middlemark alumnus, so we were very anxious to have him—along with his academic accomplishments, of course.”

  Blaise shrugged charmingly. “I’m afraid my academic status pales at this table.”

  The waiters arrived, suppressing conversation, although Llewellyn would happily have watched Blaise’s lips as he spoke for many hours. Stupid, yes, but at least he now understood that Blaise being in a bar in San Jose made sense without any nefarious or threatening motives. The bar would have been on his way from Palo Alto to San Luis—more or less. Being gay would have been inspiration enough for a small detour. Of course, his being gay was the most interesting part.