Blue Moon (Crimson Romance)

by Anne Bourne

  Abby bit her lip. She understood Kyle’s reaction, even agreed with him a little, though she’d never tell her students that. She reached for the hand of the female lead, who reclined on a tufted chaise, waiting for a neck bite that never came.

  The student picked up her parasol and slunk off the set. The male lead, playing a vampire, patted his exaggerated widow’s peak, shrugged, and exited stage left. Abby hoped he hadn’t paid too much for that haircut.

  “That vampire is a joke,” Kyle ranted after the students left.

  Abby’s frustration rose to the surface. She shook a finger at Kyle. “Don’t criticize my students. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. I need to go to Philly and hang around the Goth clubs for a night or two. Bet I could find a decent would-be vampire.”

  “I need a convincing thespian, not just someone who looks like a vampire.” Kyle slapped the script to his thigh. “Besides, we shouldn’t use actors from outside the college.” As head of the theater department, his word ruled.

  Abby sighed. “The holiday production is always a pain. Students are more focused on finals and going home for Christmas than trying out for a play. Even the actors I depend on most have begged out of this one.”

  Kyle patted Abby’s arm. Actually, a punch would be more accurate. “I know, and they’d usually jump through hoops for you.” Kyle’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “We’ve had luck with professors in the past. How about Malcolm McClellan?”

  The mere mention of the man’s name made Abby jerk with a shiver that radiated head to toe. “He’s intense enough, that’s for sure.” Also, broodingly sexy.

  “And according to coeds, handsome enough. Besides, he’s a Civil War re-enactor.”

  “You call that acting? Just because he can wield a rifle and gallop across a battlefield doesn’t mean he could play a bloodsucker.”

  “He obviously gets off on being macho.” Kyle looked her directly in the eyes. “That’s the kind of guy we’re looking for.”

  Abby’s hands went clammy. She didn’t want to look like a wuss in front of Kyle, so she balled her fists and steeled her resolve. “Oh, all right. I’ll go ask him. But if he says no, I’m on an all-out search for the scariest vampire I can find, which means going to a Goth club. It will kick the supporting cast performances up a notch if we have a good ghoul in the lead.”

  Abby scuffed out of the theater and blinked into the bright winter sky. She’d spent the morning painting sets, and though she’d rather not confront Dr. McClellan in jeans and an old sweater that had shrunk in the wash, she needed to get this over with.

  Snowflakes stuck to her eyelashes, and she pulled her blazer tighter around her as she strode across campus. At that moment, Abby longed to head in a different direction, maybe to the campus coffee shop for a mocha latte. She loved her job as associate professor in the theater department. She lived for the thrill of helping young actors hone their craft, but she dreaded the yearly challenge of finding a decent cast for the holiday production. And this year she had an additional burden; she’d written the play.

  As much as she didn’t want to talk to Dr. McClellan, she had to admit Kyle was right. The professor would make an ideal vampire. He was certainly physical perfection. Tall, broad shouldered, and narrow hipped, there wasn’t an ounce of anything but muscle on his imposing frame. His face was GQ chiseled, with a strong nose and full lips. But eye candy didn’t begin to describe him. His larger-than-life demeanor could fill a room. She’d taken a Civil War history class from him in her sophomore year, and in spite of the fact that he’d scared the poop out of her, he’d also inspired her.

  She recalled him striding around his classroom, weaving through the aisles of desks, painting word pictures of a battle. And then he would stop, planting his ice-blue eyes on a random student to inquire, “If you had been General Longstreet, would you have carried out Robert E. Lee’s orders?” You didn’t dare come to class unprepared. He put you there — in the midst of the conflict. You could almost smell the gun smoke and hear the cries of the men as he described the horrific realities of war like he’d been there. Because of his example, she’d decided to become a teacher. She’d also developed a serious crush on him.

  Right before commencement, she’d gone to his office to let him know that he’d made a difference in her life. He’d listened to her, his expression grave, and then he nodded toward the door. Not a word, just a dismissive nod. Shaken, she’d slunk from his office, vowing not to cross his path again. How could the man be so passionate about history, yet so cold to his students? So much for her crush.

  After graduation from Gettysburg and her subsequent master’s from NYU, she accepted a position in the theater department at her alma mater. She’d seen the professor on rare occasions at faculty functions, where they’d briefly locked eyes, but he kept to himself most of the time. Now, as she traversed the quad to the history building, her feet dragged as though chained to cannon balls. She hoped she’d be able to make her request without breaking out in a cold sweat.

  Rather than ride the elevator to the third floor, she forced herself up the stairs, practicing what she planned to say with each step. Opening the door from the stairwell, she looked down the hall, lined with the offices of tenured professors. Taking off her blazer and draping it over her arm, she sucked in a deep breath and reminded herself that Dr. McClellan was just a man. He put his pants on one leg at a time. Scratch that. The image of him getting dressed gave her heart a jolt that was not conducive to calming her nerves.

  She rapped gently on the door that read “Malcolm H. McClellan, Ph.D.”

  Hearing what sounded like an agitated “Entrez,” she eased the door open. The professor did not look up from his desk. “Essays are due Friday. No excuses.”

  He wore a black turtleneck, sleeves pushed up to the elbows revealing muscled forearms. His artistic hands rested on a stack of papers.

  “I’m not a student, Dr. McClellan. I’m a professor. Perhaps you remember me?” Abby folded her arms, but then dropped them and settled for clasping her hands in front of her — less confrontational.

  “So I see. Yes, I remember you.” His intense gaze scanned her head to toe. Did she detect a hint of appreciation? “Turn around.”

  “Excuse me?” Was she being dismissed before she had a chance to say anything?

  He laughed. “I just want to see if the orange paint you’re wearing is just on the front of your jeans or whether you’re entertaining onlookers from every direction.”

  Abby looked down. The left leg of her jeans had a streak of paint from thigh to knee. Rather than turn around, though, she looked over her shoulder and arched her back to check the rear view. One hip pocket sported an orange handprint. Lovely. Then she realized her posture made her breasts jut forward at the professor, and she overcompensated by wrapping her arms across her chest. I’m behaving like an idiot. Without waiting for an invitation, which might not be forthcoming, she plunked into the wooden chair opposite his desk. “I’ve seen worse,” she said.

  “Worse what?” He arched one eyebrow.

  Worse what, my patootie. “Worse paint damage,” Abby said. Good time to change the subject. “I believe the last time I saw you, you were charging down Seminary Ridge.”

  Professor McClellan arched the other eyebrow. “That’s Cemetery Ridge, Miss Potter. I’d expect better from someone who received an ‘A’ in my class.” He half smiled. “Is it still Miss Potter?”

  “I’m surprised you remember my grade, professor.” And my name. “And yes, it’s still Miss.” Abby said “miss” a bit too loudly. A frisson of anxiety skittered up her spine; or was it excitement?

  “Call me Malcolm. We’re on equal footing now.”

  Hardly. “All right, uh, Malcolm.” She nearly choked on his name. “Let’s get down to business, shall we?” She cleared her throat. “I’m in charge of the ann
ual holiday production, and this year we’re doing a play called Vampire Train. I know the legend of the Stonewall Jackson has been written to death, pardon the pun, but I’ve always been fascinated by the notion that there were more than ghosts on that train. So, some may think the subject’s a bit morose for the holidays, but my play includes a vampire.”

  Professor McClellan, who had seemed only mildly interested in her spiel, rose from his chair and rounded his desk. He perched on the corner, directly in front of Abby, his long legs spread straight out and crossed at the ankles. Planting his hands on either side of his hips, he leaned forward. His piercing eyes practically burned a hole in her forehead. “What do you know of vampires, Abby?”

  Whoa, he called me Abby. “Enough to write a play?” She hadn’t meant it to sound like a question. She’d read a lot about vampires in preparation for the play. She almost wished they were real. There was something mighty sexy about that neck-biting business.

  “I think not.” He straightened to his full John Wayne height, and his already baritone voice lowered an octave. “Why did you come to me?”

  The way he’d said “Come to me” made Abby’s knees tremble, and she found herself inching toward him. She took a deep breath, and blurted out her request. “I thought, or rather, the head of the theater department thought, though I had to agree, reluctantly, well, not entirely reluctantly, that you would possibly, no probably, oh hell, definitely, make a good vampire.”

  He rubbed his gorgeous cleft chin. “Interesting concept.”

  While he contemplated, she jumped in. “I’m hoping to use this play as the springboard for a couple of student set designers to get jobs in New York when they graduate. In this economy, theater jobs are hard to find.” Had she appealed to his sense of fairness?

  “I’m quite busy — ”

  She trudged on. “The better the cast is, the better the production will be. You’d be doing it for the students.”

  He shook his head. “I’m afraid — ”

  “Think of how inspiring it would be for them.”

  He upped the volume. “I don’t want to set a precedent.”

  This was becoming a pissing match, and she could tell from his tone that he wasn’t going to budge. “Oh, forget it. I can find someone at a Goth club in Philly. You know, a vampire wannabe.”

  “You shouldn’t go to one of those places alone. Unsavory characters hang out there. You wouldn’t want to be bitten by someone unscrupulous.”

  What did he mean by that? “I can handle myself.”

  “I’m sure you can.” His expression didn’t match his words. “When do you suppose you’ll make this trip?”

  “Do you want to go with me?” No, I didn’t say that. “I’ll probably head there tonight. But don’t do me any favors.”

  “As you’ll recall, Abby, there was a coed murdered here several years ago. I simply don’t want the college to experience any untoward publicity.”

  “Oh, right. This is about the college.” Abby’s eyes wandered around the professor’s office, and then returned to a rock on his desk, probably from Little Round Top. “I guess you’ve played a lot of Civil War heroes.” Maybe I can show him I remembered something from his class. “My favorite was Colonel Chamberlain. What he did on Little Round Top with that slew of soldiers from Maine was amazing.”

  “Slew?” He huffed. “Is that somewhere between a brigade and a regiment, Abby? The next time you refer to Colonel Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain, you might remember it was the 20th Maine Volunteer Infantry Regiment.”

  So much for saving face. “I’ll be going, now.” She got up from her chair and smoothed her jeans down. “Thank you, Malcolm.” She turned, and with as much bravado as she could muster, knowing an orange handprint decorated her butt, walked slowly out of his office. She stopped at the door and said over her shoulder, “You know, Christmas is coming. It would be nice if you cut the students some slack on the essay deadline. It is all about the students, isn’t it, Malcolm?”

  • • •

  Malcolm leaned back in his chair. His heartbeat thrummed, which was odd. It typically beat so slowly that any doctor would have declared him dead. Of course, dead he was. Feeling the beat of his heart was disquieting, yet exciting. He stared at the door Abby had just closed and listened to her footsteps fade down the hall. Humans wouldn’t have heard the soft pad of her boots on carpet, but he had no problem detecting each step. Her stomping helped. He pinched the bridge of his nose.

  Had he remembered her? How could he forget?

  She’d always sat in the front row of his class, glued to him with those soulful hazel eyes. Other coeds regarded him lustfully, but she hung on his words. She seemed genuinely interested in what he was trying to convey, not simply entranced by his veneer. He knew she was special, which is why he’d avoided her. The last thing he needed was human entanglement. Once she left the college after her graduation, he thought he was safe from her allure. He could still see her blowing those golden blonde bangs out of her eyes as she labored over a quiz. He’d repressed the image of her pert nose, peachy skin, and bouncy breasts. But damn if she didn’t come back to Gettysburg to teach, and inadvertently, to haunt him.

  And now he had no choice; he had to rescue her. He’d been unable to save Sarah those many years ago, when duty to country trumped family, but he could keep Abby out of harm’s way. She’d probably go to that Goth club decked out like a fang-banger with no idea of the danger she was in. So, there’d be no compartmentalizing this time. He’d have to see her again. And then what? Act in her play? He could feel his resolve melting like the November snow. For the first time since Sarah died, he considered the prospect of companionship … and passion.

  In the mood for more Crimson Romance?

  Check out Wicked Paradise

  by Erin Richards

  at CrimsonRomance.com.

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