Forbidden: A Student Teacher Romance

by Amanda Heartley

  I nodded at the food in his hands. “Didn’t you just do that?”

  He wrinkled his nose before promptly dropping my entire order of shrimp lo mein and egg drop soup into the trash. “A proper dinner,” he said, wiping his hands clean as if he’d just changed the oil in an eighteen-wheeler.

  “Hey!” I said, standing up to retrieve my meal. “I was looking forward to that.”

  “Trust me,” he said, intercepting me with a slight shift to the left. “What I have in mind is far superior to Chow’s happy hour special.”

  I paused, our bodies close as we strategized over who might reach the trash can first. I finally relented, leaning my hip against the desk and giving in. It had been a long two days in South Beach, with far less sleep than I needed—or was used to. My company was in the crapper, my last remaining models were getting antsy, I was looking at a quick sale or bankruptcy, and frankly the smell of greasy Chinese food was turning my stomach.

  “Carla Richmond,” I said with a weary sigh and an extended hand.

  The mystery man brightened and took it in a warm, tender grip. “Deacon Manchester,” he said, and suddenly my hand grew limp and cold in his.

  “So we meet at last?” I asked, slipping my hand from his and backing up an appropriate amount of paces.

  His eyes looked knowing, even apologetic. “I’m only sorry it took us so long to meet at all.”

  I peered back at the founder and CEO of Florida Faces, the architect of my current misery. I knew him by reputation, of course, but had never met him personally. And any time I might have seen his face—handsome and chiseled though it was—in a magazine profile or online puff piece, I had promptly turned the page or clicked away out of disgust or, perhaps, personal jealousy.

  Now here he was, in the flesh—and in my office. “You have a lot of nerve, coming here.”

  He nodded, leaning against my desk as well. “Oh, Carla, I’ve come here many times,” he confessed. “I just never had the courage to walk in the door.”

  “You?” I clucked. “Lacking courage? That’s a laugh. After all, you’ve been mighty brave up to this point, sabotaging my company and all.”

  Rather than challenge me or deny it, his face looked chagrined. “Yes, Carla, perhaps I’ve been a bit… over ambitious… about our friendly competition. That’s why I’d like to take you to Balthazar tonight and discuss… the future.”

  I should have kneed him in the groin, or at least kicked him in the shin. Should have huffed and puffed and screamed him right out of my office. But I was desperate. He’d clearly been interested in Miami Models for the last few months, and made no secret of his intentions to poach my best and brightest models during that time.

  He was clearly here for a reason, I needed to eat and as long as I’d lived in South Beach, I’d never been able to get into Balthazar’s, the invitation-only five-star restaurant on top of the nearby Hildebrand Hotel.

  “I should say ‘no,’ of course,” I sighed, reaching for my purse as he watched me cautiously.

  “But?” he asked as we stood in the middle of my office, at a temporary stalemate.

  “But why shouldn’t the architect of my destruction buy me an expensive dinner at the town’s hottest restaurant?”

  He smiled. “Don’t think of me as someone out to get you, Carla,” he murmured, following me from the inner office through the outer reception area and onto the sidewalk in front of the building. “Think of me as someone here to offer you salvation.”

  Salvation. I smirked at the word, so dramatic and yet so welcome. I’d never been one for wheeling and dealing, for negotiation or back door politics. And yet desperation had made me brave in ways I’d never been before. Like my stepfather, Roy, who was going to have to learn to walk, talk and hold a spoon all over again, I too, was treading new water—even swimming with sharks.

  A man like Deacon Manchester didn’t make house calls for no reason. If he was in my office at the close of day, he was there for a specific purpose. Whether it was to ruin me or, as he put it, to “save” me, I owed him—and myself—an hour or two of my evening to lay it on the line. If I didn’t like what he had to offer, at the very least I’d get a free meal out of it. And if he was good for his word, I might get much, much more.

  After all, I could use a little salvation, and it didn’t hurt that it was wrapped up in such an appealing, handsome package…

  Chapter 36

  Kellan

  “The Cottages, huh?”

  I glanced up from my menu, squinting my eyes in the dingy light of The Half Shell, the raw bar just down the block from my still rented room. The waitress was pretty, young and oozed the kind of sensuality you often only saw on a photo shoot—for porn, that is.

  “Pardon?” I asked.

  She waved her open waitress pad toward my T-shirt. “I see you’re staying at The Cottages,” she reiterated. Her voice was soft and husky, to match her smoky brown eyes.

  I followed her pad down to the logo on my crisp new T-shirt. I’d run out of clean clothes and had resorted to picking up a few odds and ends in the hotel gift shop, a soft, salmon colored souvenir T-shirt being one of them. I could still feel the collar, stiff and new, poking into my neck.

  “Oh, yeah,” I blushed, feeling overdressed in the local raw bar. “I’m staying there until I can find something more permanent.”

  “Nice places,” she said, leaning a narrow hip against my table for two. “They’ve got a great view.”

  “You’ve stayed there?” I asked, figuring her for a local, born and bred like Carla. I mean, why else would someone work at the Half Shell Raw Bar in Siesta Key?

  She winked saucily and leaned in a little closer, her breasts small and perky beneath her faded blue Half Shell T-shirt. “Only with very special customers,” she said, the implication as clear as the leer on her pretty, young face.

  I chuckled and leaned back, clinging to my menu as if for shelter. “Oh?” I said, like a clueless old grandfather suddenly in on the joke. “Oh!”

  She laughed heartily and said, “I like it when you blush. Your face matches the color of your T-shirt.” I had nothing to say after that, nor did she, apparently. Straightening up slightly, she announced, “I’m Penelope, and I’ll be taking care of you tonight. Can I take your drink order?”

  “Got any Bloody Mary’s back there?” I asked, nodding toward the half-empty bar.

  She nodded. “You’re in luck. They’re part of our happy hour special.”

  She turned without another word, scribbling something on her notepad and flashing me a glance at her small, ripe derriere—barely hidden behind white denim short-shorts—and drifted away to tap in my order at a computer terminal at the nearest waitress station.

  I sighed for days gone by and glanced at the menu. It had a surprisingly vast array of offerings for a local oyster shack, from bacon wrapped scallops and smoked fish dip to raw oysters to steamed clams and more. Amazingly, after over two weeks in town, it was my first foray into the dining options of tiny Siesta Key, Florida.

  Ever since Carla and I had arrived in town, under separate cover and in the middle of the night, we’d had our boots on the ground struggling to keep vigil over her stepfather and provide much-needed support for her mother. At first, that had meant endless nights at the hospital, or cleaning out her mother’s house or even paying her bills.

  Then, once Roy was transferred out of ICU with a better prognosis, it had meant taking over his charter fishing business and getting the house ready for his inevitable return. Even now, running Roy’s boat out once a day and getting in late afternoon or early evening, it left little time for luxuries like dates or dining out.

  But tonight, with Carla in South Beach and a late client call for the next day’s boat trip, I felt restless—and worse—lonely, in my tiny rented cottage by the sea. I’d seen the blinking neon road sign for the Half Shell a dozen or more times driving home after a long day at the marina, and had finally decided it was close enough to my rented
cottage to walk to.

  Penelope returned, bearing a Bloody Mary in each hand. “Are you joining me?” I flirted out of habit, not really meaning me.

  “I wish!” she gushed. “No, it’s happy hour—two for one.”

  “Oh goodness,” I murmured as she set the drinks down in oversized plastic Half Shell cups. “I’ll never be able to drink both of those.”

  She waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, you’re a big boy. I’m sure you’ll find a way.”

  Her tone was both mocking and encouraging, both teasing and suggestive, and I felt a small ripple in the pit of my stomach. Not only had Carla and I been too busy to go out on “dates” while caring for her ailing parents in Siesta Key, but we’d been too busy to do much of anything else, either—including sleeping together.

  Where we’d often gone twice a night back in South Beach, now we were lucky to go twice a week, and even then I was sore and sunburned from a day at sea and Carla was distracted and depressed about her family, making our hot times lukewarm at best.

  I hadn’t thought about it much until this very moment, sitting in a dingy raw bar while a barely legal temptress flirted with me via Bloody Marys. “Thought any more about dinner,” she purred, leaning her hip dangerously close to my drinking hand.

  I could feel the heat wash off of her in waves, dangerous and throbbing and available. I could just as easily picture a night in which I downed the two drinks, then two more, and felt brave—and reckless—enough to walk Penelope back to my place for a night of what I hadn’t been getting from Carla.

  She seemed to sense it and, as I considered the open menu on my table for two, leaned over provocatively to point at items she thought I might like. She smelled like nicotine and girly perfume, bubble gum and sex and it was so intoxicating I immediately sat up and grinned.

  “It all sounds great,” I said, closing my menu definitively and forcing her to stand, waitress pad at the ready. “But I think I’ll just grab a fried shrimp basket—to go.”

  “Oh?” she teased, putting her pad away and crossing her hands over her chest. “You don’t like the service here?”

  Our eyes met and I held the suggestive glance far too long. “I think I like it a little too much,” I said, reaching for my wallet and handing her enough cash for the drinks and dinner. “That’s why I better be a good boy and scoot on home before I do something I’ll regret.”

  She winked and, ignoring the rejection, leaned even closer. “I could always call off early and make a special ‘to go’ delivery to your cottage?”

  I blushed and gushed, “Oh, gosh, no. I’ll just sip my drinks until it’s ready. But thanks anyway.”

  At last, the words seemed to sink in and Penelope turned, abruptly, keying in the order and then promptly disappearing into the kitchen. I sipped my drinks, far too strong and spicy, until a busboy delivered a white plastic “Thank You” bag bearing my dinner order.

  “Penelope asked me to bring you this,” he said, almost bashfully, as if she’d told him the whole, sordid tale. “She hopes you have a great night.”

  I sighed, almost relieved. “I will now,” I muttered to myself, leaving the change on the table and making an abrupt departure before I could say—or do—anything I’d regret.

  Chapter 37

  Carla

  The view was breathtaking, and not just because we were on top of a hotel, overlooking the glittering jewel at the tip of the Florida coastline that was South Beach.

  Deacon looked as if he was a part of the scenery, chiseled and glittering and handsome in the twinkling lights that were strung through the towering topiaries that dotted the balcony overlooking 360-Degrees of prime South Beach real estate.

  The rooftop restaurant felt like our living room, perhaps because Deacon had rented it out for the night—just for us. An attentive staff—consisting of a maître’d, wine steward, busboy, waiter, food runner, chef and pastry chef—stood at attention as we sipped wine and picked at parmesan encrusted fried Brussels sprouts.

  The wine was as priceless as the view, and from the minute he’d pulled out my chair, Deacon had been nothing but charming. I allowed him to be—as eager to hear what he had to say as I was for the next course. It came the minute we finished the last delectable Brussels sprout: grilled romaine leafs drizzled with a delicate balsamic glaze.

  I savored it while Deacon seemed to savor me. “I wonder why you never modeled yourself,” he said at one point, nearly making me spit out my wine—which was too dry and robust to waste.

  “I wonder why you never went into politics,” I countered. “You’ve certainly got the knack for bullshit.”

  He laughed heartily, creating merry dimples in his cheeks and a twinkle in both dark eyes. “That I do,” he confessed as the dinner course arrived, beef Carpaccio wrapped around fried asparagus spears and drizzled with a fragrant champagne sauce.

  Conversation stalled momentarily, our mouths full of savory rare beef and perfectly crisp vegetables with just the right amount of sauce, washed down with wine that seemed to be never ending. Perhaps that’s why I avoided the topic of business until after dessert—savory parfaits of blueberry and cheesecake puree.

  “So why did you invite me up to this rooftop vista?” I asked after Deacon had paid our tab and tipped everyone extra to leave us alone. We stood near the railing overlooking the ocean, the ocean breeze soft and gentle against my flushed face.

  I wasn’t sure if it was the dry, delicate wine, the fancy dinner, the twinkling lights, the gentle breeze or the company, but I felt particularly vulnerable at that moment.

  Deacon seemed to sense it. “Can’t a grown man ask a beautiful woman out on a date?”

  “Is that what this is?” I teased, suddenly entranced. “A date? Because I must tell you I’m spoken for, and in a very intense way.”

  “Is that right?” Deacon purred, inching closer as we leaned against the railing high atop balmy South Beach. “And would that be by the handsome young man who disrupted my catwalk a month or two ago?”

  I blushed at the memory, not sure why. After all, I should have been kneeing this guy in the crotch. Not only had he stolen away my personal assistant, but Kellan as well—at least temporarily. To make up for his departure, Deacon had next hand-picked and defrocked most of my models, leaving half a dozen behind—and my business in shambles. So why was I still here?

  “It would be,” I purred back, figuring the best way to catch a spider was to play the fly. (If only I was playing!) “But more than that, I thought we were here to talk business, not pleasure.”

  “We will,” he said, imperceptibly inching closer. “But don’t you find pleasure so much… more… pleasurable?”

  He moved closer with every syllable. Or, at least, the upper half of his body did. Or maybe I did. I told myself our lips met because of the wine, the evening, the romantic setting, the balmy climate or my lack of sleep—and I hoped it was so.

  Either way, our lips did meet, and the kiss was quick, powerful and intense. I pulled away, reluctantly. Or was that how I’d kissed him—reluctantly? I was reluctant about everything, and yet here I was, face to face with another man, while Kellan toiled away in Siesta Key, ferrying my father’s clients out to sea every day, sweating under the hot sun, his hands covered in fish guts. All for me.

  And how did I repay him? By kissing my biggest competitor?

  I stood abruptly, nearly bonking his nose with our faces so close in the balmy heat. “I… this was a mistake,” I murmured, drifting from his side. He reached for me, a moment too slow, but caught up to me in the alcove as I waited for the elevator. “I… I’m sorry, Carla,” he murmured, almost convincing. “I just couldn’t help myself.”

  “Me too, apparently,” I huffed as the elevator arrived, the doors dinged open and we entered. “But I can now, and I must. I’m sorry, Deacon. I shouldn’t have come tonight, and I certainly shouldn’t have kissed you.”

  He nodded, solemnly, or perhaps just thoughtfully. Like a shark, he seemed to
always be moving, even when standing still. “Walk you back to your office?” he offered, unconvincingly, as we stood outside the hotel lobby downstairs.

  I shook my head. “I’ll be leaving tomorrow afternoon,” I told him, baiting the hook. “If you have any… business… to discuss, I suggest you do it before then.”

  “Where will I find you?” he asked, staying put as I turned to leave.

  “Same place you did tonight,” I called over my shoulder before turning around and mumbling beneath my breath, “trying to save my business.”

  Chapter 38

  Kellan

  I waved to Roy through the floor to ceiling windows in the sunroom of the Sunshine Rehabilitation Center. It was late afternoon and, with the fishing clients done for the day, I was helping Carla by bringing her stepfather to his daily rehab appointment.

  Heather, his physical therapist, preferred when I stayed out of the rehab room, and I was all too happy to avoid the grunts and groans and occasional whimpers that accompanied Roy’s struggles to learn how to walk again.

  Peering at him now through the clear glass window, I could see the sweat on his furrowed brow, the determined look in his eye, the cut of his grizzled chin and the veins in his wiry, atrophied arms as he struggled to take two steps while hoisted between two parallel bars about waist-high.

  I sighed and turned, avoiding the scene and my heart heavy as I sent Carla another wave of questions marks—“?????”—in a vain attempt to get a response. It had been nearly 48-hours and I hadn’t heard a peep beyond her first “I’m here safe” tweet when she’d first gotten into town.

  I trusted her, implicitly, but it wasn’t like her not to respond the minute I texted. Often she responded before I even texted, anticipating what I might be thinking or even thinking about thinking.

  Now… nothing?

  I paced the length of the rehab center walkway, a scenic enough view dotted with swaying palms and rolling dunes. Like most properties in Siesta Key, the Sunshine Rehabilitation Center was prime oceanfront property, which I supposed brought some relief to the patients who were put through their paces nearly every other day.