"Leave me out of this, you two," Carly protested, lowering her feet to free the chair her mother appeared ready to appropriate.
"Coward," Tracy said with a grin, but she was already looking at Scanlon. "Hi. You must be the new coach."
"More like an interested observer." Leaning forward, he reached out a hand. "I'm Mitch."
"Uh, I'm Tracy. Mom's daughter. I mean, Carly's … Dr. Alderson's daughter."
Carly had to take a moment to fight down the sudden nausea. The resemblance between father and daughter was subtle, but it was there, nevertheless.
"Honey, I hate to sound like a nagging mom, but you're going to be late for school if you don't get a move on."
"That was where I was going until Grandmother all but barred the door."
Felicity shook her head. "I merely asked if there was some kind of costume party going on at school today."
Tracy reached over her mother's shoulder to filch a sip of her coffee. "Needs sugar," she muttered, tossing her hair back.
"You shouldn't be drinking it anyway," Carly muttered, too aware that Scanlon was taking in the scene with a look of amusement in his eyes.
"Fine, then I'll leave."
"Caroline!" Felicity protested. "Surely you don't approve of your daughter going out in public dressed like a ragamuffin."
"Mother, I hate to tell you this, but teenage girls in this day and age do not have the same dress code you had at her age."
Felicity turned to Mitch and arched her eyebrows inquiringly. "What's your opinion of the way today's young people are behaving?"
Mitch had been shoved into no-win situations before. Before he'd learned a few basics of diplomacy, he'd invariably chosen the wrong side and come out bleeding. Now he knew better. "Let me put it this way. When I was playing, there were times when the only option was to eat the ball and pray."
Felicity looked crestfallen. Carly had to work hard to keep from laughing. Tracy gave him a thumbs-up and a grin before running for the door.
Felicity shook her head. "I give up," she said, a hint of a smile in her voice.
Carly poured her mother a cup of coffee and slid it toward her. "Don't give away Grandmother Carter's pearls just yet, Mother. Sooner or later Tracy will grow into them."
"They're supposed to be yours first, then Tracy's."
"I'd rather see you wearing them for a long time to come."
Felicity looked pleased. "Oh, I intend to."
Smiling, Carly rose and pushed in her chair. Higher now, the sun was streaming through the tall windows behind her, framing her figure. What the robe hid, Mitch remembered with a private moment of purely male appreciation. When her gaze came to his, he saw ice forming over the smile she'd given her mother.
"If you'll excuse me, I'll get myself organized while you have breakfast, and then we'll get started."
He didn't bother to hide his surprise. "Started?"
"On a tour of the campus." A hint of a smile curled one corner of her pale mouth. Mitch sensed more challenge than warmth. "I assume you're interested in Bradenton's history?"
"Absolutely." Though he would rather learn more about hers.
"Good. It's my custom to give the tour myself. That way I can get to know a prospective employee and gauge his reaction to the campus at the same time."
"In other words, I'd better be on my best behavior."
"Exactly."
Mitch saw the glint in her eyes and grinned. "There's just one problem. I'm supposed to meet Coach at one."
She took that in stride. "No problem. I'll end the tour by then. I'll even drop you off at the stadium." Turning to her mother, she asked a question about ordering flowers for some kind of faculty tea. It was as smooth a dismissal as he'd ever received. Both impressed and amused, he relaxed against the back of the chair and enjoyed the play of sunlight over her face.
Most women he'd met were bang on predictable. The pretty ones knew it and used the power it gave them over men like currency. A smile in exchange for dinner. A kiss in return for an evening of flattery. Sex in return for a long list of things, most of which boiled down to one thing—money or marriage.
But Caroline Alderson didn't fit into that tidy slot, no matter how hard he tried to put her there. In spite of a gorgeous face and a knock 'em dead figure, she didn't appear to trade on either one. No, it was more than that, he thought, rubbing his freshly shaved chin. It was as though she were as open and honest as her daughter. And innocent, he realized with a jolt, though he knew that was impossible.
"Fine, then I'll rely on you to take care of everything," he heard her say.
Felicity smiled sweetly at her daughter. "Yes, dear. I won't let you down."
Carly nodded. "Better not, or I'll tell Coach you have a crush on him."
With that she turned on her heels and headed for the house, leaving her mother with her mouth agape and Mitch chuckling to himself.
Damn, but he was looking forward to spending time alone with Bradenton's self-contained, self-assured and downright-sexy-in-spite-of-herself president.
* * *
The mansion's garage had space for three vehicles. One space contained a dark blue sedan, the next a four-wheel drive utility. In the third was an old green MG roadster with the top down. He had a feeling he knew which one was Caroline Alderson's before she led him straight to the classic.
"Sure you wouldn't rather take my car?" he asked, watching her dig into her purse for her keys.
"Don't worry, it's safe."
"That's not the problem. It's the size. British cars aren't made for someone my height."
She opened the driver's door and tossed her purse and briefcase into the well behind the seat. "You drive a Jag."
"A Jag sedan." Partial to sports cars himself, the Jag was the first car he'd ever owned with an automatic transmission, the only kind that would accommodate hand controls.
Mitch sized up the tiny bucket seats and the low-slung chassis, figured he had nothing to lose but his dignity and shrugged. "I think I can get in okay. Getting out might not be that easy."
"Can I help?"
He gave her a sideways glance. "Yeah. Promise you won't laugh if I fall on my can." Releasing a crutch, he managed to get the passenger door open without banging his shins. He stowed his crutches next to her case, then, unlocking the braces, lowered himself onto the seat and lifted his legs inside. He found the seat adjustment and managed to shove himself back a few inches.
"What is this baby, anyway? A TC?"
"No, a TD. His name is Nigel. I found him sunning himself in a junkyard by the Providence River when I was teaching at Brown, and he's been mad at me ever since."
He slammed the door and felt the little car shake. Considering its age, the damn thing had probably been made out of melted down World War II fighter planes. "I thought all cars were considered female."
"Not this one," she said, slipping behind the wheel. "He's too unreliable."
Carly flipped down the visor and moved her seat forward an inch. There wasn't much room to spare when both seats were occupied. Only a few inches separated his shoulder from hers. Grateful for the shift lever between them, she put on her sunglasses and stuck the key in the ignition.
"Don't forget your seat belt," she said, fastening her own. It was a lap belt, added on long after the little car had left England.
He cocked one eyebrow. "Is that an order or a warning?"
"Oregon law."
"Sorry to hear it." He snugged the belt around his flat middle, looking very much like a man going to the gallows.
She worked the throttle, pressed the starter, and the old engine roared to life. Glancing in the mirror, she reached for the gear shift. Her hand brushed his thigh, and she felt him jerk.
"Don't worry. I'm a very good driver."
Mitch kept his opinion to himself. It wasn't so much a question of tact as it was a moment of distraction. It was just his bad luck her hand brushed the one spot on his thigh that had almost normal feeling. More bad
luck that he hadn't been touched by a woman who smelled this good in a long string of lonely months.
"So? Where to first?"
"East quad," she said, revving the motor. "Almost all the buildings there are original, drafty floors, leaking pipes and all."
She concentrated on backing out of the garage, then shifted into first and wheeled around, all in one smooth motion. By the time she'd worked her way through the gears and was cruising in high, Mitch had decided he liked her style. Fast in the straightaways, controlled in the curves. A woman who took chances, but not foolish ones. And she knew her own limits.
When she downshifted through a particularly wicked curve with the skill of a pro, he allowed himself to relax. She, on the other hand, seemed preoccupied. It showed in the tension in her fingers where they gripped the leather-wrapped wheel and in the stiff line of her slim shoulders.
Leaning back, he stretched an arm along the back of her seat and told himself to enjoy the scenery. Without California smog tainting his senses, everything seemed brighter and fresher, especially the air. Oregon was also mostly green, he decided as they approached a small pond populated with very fat, very noisy ducks. A goodly number of mallards were mixed with the white ones. He saw a few geese in the crowd, too.
"Looks like a popular place," he said, watching a fat Canada goose suddenly take to the air with an ease he envied.
"We're on their route," she said, glancing right. "In the fall the water's covered with them. Bradenton is an official wildlife preserve."
"Shouldn't they all be back north by now?"
"They should, but we always seem to end up with a few breeding pairs year 'round."
"Must like it here."
"What can I say? Bradenton's a great place."
"Not that you're prejudiced."
She shook her head. "Nope. Not a bit." She checked her mirror, then zoomed past a campus maintenance truck, tapping the horn as she passed. Rounding a curve, they came upon a group of cyclists taking a break on the grassy shoulder. Slowing, she waved, and the students waved back, some shouting greetings.
"Around here, it's not really spring until the bikes come out," she said, shifting up.
"I almost signed with the Bills because I wanted to know what it was like to live in a place with more than one season. Who knows? Maybe I'll finally find out."
There were a lot of things Carly didn't want him to find out about. The changing of the seasons wasn't included.
"That's Grayson Hall ahead," she said as they rounded a gentle curve. "Bradenton's founder, Artemus Alderson, named it after his wife's family."
"Your grandfather?"
"Great-grandfather. He was a self-educated logger who dreamed of educating others. Bradenton is the result of that dream."
"Sounds like an interesting man."
"He was."
Dutifully, Mitch swung his gaze right and saw another building with turrets. On the walkway out front, he spotted a handful of students, most of them on the far side of thirty, which interested him. "A lot of older students, I see."
She shrugged an elegant shoulder. "The mind never grows too old for more knowledge."
Smiling slightly, he lifted his gaze to the rooflines of the buildings. "Looks like you have a problem with moss up here."
"Consider it our version of California smog."
Leaving the shade of the overarching canopy of branches, the little car shot into the sunshine. Squinting, he took aviator sunglasses from his shirt pocket and put them on.
"What's the enrollment at Bradenton, anyway?"
"Just under seven thousand. Nothing to compare with UCLA."
The number he'd heard was 6,810. Up considerably in the last few years. "Not in numbers, maybe, but the people I talked to had great things to say about the graduates."
She shot him a quick glance, and he decided he liked the way the wind ruffled her hair. "You checked us out?"
"I made a few calls, yeah. I've been blindsided too many times by offers that sounded great but weren't."
"I hope that isn't meant as a criticism of Coach."
Pleased that she was clearly ready to defend the old man, he found himself wanting to probe deeper for the emotion he sensed cooking beneath the calm.
"I have a great deal of respect for Coach. I just wanted to make sure someone else wasn't using him to get to me."
Downshifting, she narrowed her gaze. "Who might that someone be, exactly?"
"Last time it was a reporter for one of the tabloids. When he couldn't get my doctors to tell him if I could still have sex, he paid a lady I'd taken out a few times in the past to try to renew old acquaintances. Seems she was supposed to seduce me for pay."
"That's sick."
"Yeah, but it's also part of the game the way it's played today."
"Not at Bradenton." She kept her gaze straight ahead, watching the road, while he watched her. Sunlight was in her hair where the wind feathered the silky strands away from her face. Though she'd been lovely in the lamplight last night, the sun's rays seemed to bring out a hidden sparkle, along with a subtle fragility that surprised him.
"That smaller building is Bandon Hall," she explained with a quick wave of her left hand "Next to it is the Science Building, and behind that is Language Arts. We've recently added a master's program in Mandarin Chinese. By this time next year we should have five candidates ready to take their orals."
"I don't suppose any of those five candidates can kick a fifty-yard field goal?"
"Possibly, although I doubt it." She hesitated, then surprised him with a grin that stole a good portion of his breath. "All five are female."
"Hey, a field goal's three points, no matter who kicks it."
"That's true enough." For an instant her soft lips had actually curved a little before they'd firmed. He wondered what it would be like to feel that softness pressed against his skin. It was a thought he didn't dare pursue.
For the next half hour she drove them from quad to quad, until all the buildings began to look alike. "And this is the stadium, newly spiffed up and ready for the crowds," she said, slowing to a snail's pace when it came into sight. "The painters still have the seats to finish and a little work to do in the visitors' locker room, but they tell me they'll be done in plenty of time for football season."
Braking, she pulled to the side and turned off the engine. He glanced around him, taking in the neat appearance of the grounds and the well-tended look to the buildings. The place had a lot of class.
"Well, what do you think of Bradenton so far?" Carly asked briskly, turning toward him. The ride had stirred her hair into a tousled cap that softened the sophisticated image, and her cheeks were brushed with color. But it was the sultry sweetness of her lips that held his gaze lingering a beat too long for his own good.
"I think my foster mother would love this place," he said dryly, glancing toward the turreted bell tower.
That threw her, but she recovered quickly. "Your foster mother?"
"Yeah. Arietta Williams. She pastors a church in Watts. When she's not reading her Bible or writing sermons, she's got her nose stuck in one of those gothic romances." He grinned, and she had to work hard not to let herself be charmed. "Even talked me into reading one or two while I was in the hospital."
"Did you enjoy them?"
"Enough that I didn't mind the ribbing I took from the nurses when they caught me reading after lights out." His grin was just shy of embarrassed, and Carly wondered how many times he'd used that same grin to charm and seduce. Her stomach rebelled.
"I'm sure you didn't mind the extra attention."
He shrugged. "Actually, there were a lot of times when I would have killed to have five minutes alone, with absolutely no one around. In the hospital, there's no such thing as privacy."
"Sounds a great deal like Alderson House."
Watching her, he saw a gentle smile play over her mouth for a moment before her lips set into the same firm line. He felt a stirring, stronger now, and found
himself wondering about the current man in her life.
The campanile in the main quad struck the quarter hour, and within seconds the doors to nearby buildings opened, spilling students onto the sidewalks. Severed called out greetings as they passed. One, a well-built kid of about nineteen or twenty with the look of a weight trainer, stopped by the driver's side.
"Dr. Alderson, long time no see." He shifted his stack of books from his right hip to his left and stuck out his right hand.
Smiling, she took the hand he offered and gave it a firm shake. "How's it going, Ian?"
"No sweat. Got me straight Cs so far this semester." No more than mildly curious, he flicked a gaze Mitch's way. "How's it going?" he asked halfheartedly.
"Can't complain." Mitch sized him up as running back material, or possibly a quarterback. Good legs, chest wide enough to develop decent wind, the loose-hipped walk of a runner.
The boy's gaze shifted away, then snapped back. Frowning, he narrowed his eyes for a long moment, then trained them on Carly. "Tell me that's not Mitch Scanlon," he said in an awestruck tone that had her laughing out loud.
"Okay, if that's what you want, but I'm afraid that wouldn't be the truth."
Swallowing hard, Ian reached past her to offer Mitch his hand. "It's a real honor to meet you, sir. Really."
"Thanks." The kid had a good firm grip, and he looked a man in the eye when he shook his hand.
"Coach Gianfracco has films of just about every game you ever played. That play-off game against the Chiefs, the one in the snowstorm? Man, that was some Hail Mary pass you made. Every time I see it, it gets better."
Mitch grinned. He still got high thinking of the euphoria he'd felt when that sucker connected. "J.C. Cobb was a great receiver. Most of the credit for that play goes to him, as he never fails to remind me whenever we bump into each other."
"Coach said you used to practice throwing five, six hours a day. He said guys used to call out a seat number and you could hit it on the first try."
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