Wakefield College 01 - Where It May Lead

by Janice Kay Johnson

  “So. I was wondering.” Slick. Really slick. Get on with it, he ordered himself. “Any chance I could talk you into having dinner with me?”

  Madison blinked. “Do you mean...tonight?”

  Tonight, tomorrow night, every night. Startled by the instant thought, he cleared his throat again. “Tonight would be good. Or tomorrow night.” He hesitated. “Unless you’re too busy getting ready for this weekend.”

  She scrutinized him for a slightly unnerving moment. Then her expression melted into another sunbeam of a smile. “I would love to have dinner with you tonight, Troy. As long as we make it casual. I can hardly wait to change out of this suit.”

  “Yeah, I can see why.”

  He had noticed that she was glowing. In fact, tendrils of her dark hair looked damp enough around her face to be sticking to her skin.

  He smiled. “You could have said something. I wouldn’t have minded if you’d ditched the jacket.”

  “I’m more anxious to rip off the stockings.” She rolled her eyes. “I had meetings this morning. Otherwise I wouldn’t have bothered.”

  Troy definitely liked the idea of her ripping off the stockings. Better yet, he’d be glad to do it for her.

  Down, boy.

  “Casual works for me.”

  She suggested they meet at the restaurant; he threw out the idea of Bannister’s, housed in an old brick building downtown and known for everything from pizza and burgers to quiche and the best damn fettuccini Alfredo he’d ever had. Madison agreed, and he left before he did something stupid. Like kiss her.

  He was grinning as he took the stairs two at a time, as if he was twenty years old again. She’d said yes. He felt young. Half-aroused, too, a common state for twenty-year-old guys.

  He would definitely be kissing her tonight.

  * * *

  MADISON STOOD JUST inside the outer office and listened to the thud of Detective Troyer’s feet as he took the stairs with the same enthusiasm most of the students did. She made a face. He might be in a hurry because it was so blasted hot up here.

  She glanced at her watch and squeaked. She’d spent a lot longer talking to Troy than she’d expected to devote to the police department liaison, and the president of the college expected her in his office five minutes from now.

  She grabbed her handbag and hurried to the ladies’ restroom on her floor. There she carefully splashed her face with cold water, then patted it dry with a paper towel. Whatever makeup she’d started the day wearing was history, but she didn’t want to be beet-red when she sat down with her boss. In the depths of her purse she found an elastic band and, after brushing her hair, devised a simple knot on the back of her head that got the hair off her neck while looking reasonably classy.

  Despite the need to hurry, she paused and looked at herself in the mirror. Her eyes, she couldn’t help noticing, sparkled with excitement. Truthfully, she was almost vibrating with it. She didn’t think she’d ever reacted to a man quite the way she had to John Troyer.

  She would have been crushed if he’d nodded politely and left without expressing any personal interest in her.

  She permitted herself one small squeal and a bounce before resuming her dignity. She returned to her office to stow her bag then started down the stairs to the first floor. It wasn’t the meeting she was thinking about on her way. It was Troy.

  He was so much more physical than any man she’d been involved with. Not that he was huge and beefy; he wasn’t, though he was a good deal taller than her. Maybe six feet, she guessed. Broad-shouldered, with muscles she couldn’t help but notice. A man’s muscles. Troy wasn’t as lean as a runner. He was more solid than that. She suspected he could still move plenty fast, and would have no trouble restraining most suspects once he caught them.

  His hair was a medium shade of brown that the summer sun had lightened and streaked. By midwinter, it would probably darken. His hint of stubble had definitely been darker. His eyes, a charcoal-gray, had captivated her from the moment they met hers. Gray eyes should be clear, like blue ones, right? His didn’t have any hint of other colors that would make them hazel, but they were somehow smoky, as if they hid secrets.

  She shivered a little, possibly because the temperature had plummeted as she descended two floors in Mem, but more likely it was another symptom of her excitement. Only a few more hours and she’d see him again. Find out if they had anything at all in common beyond the fact that both their fathers had been English majors at Wakefield College. Madison frowned, trying to remember what his father’s profession had been. Hers was a very successful businessman with an MBA from Harvard. He was snob enough she had no doubt he’d look at John Troyer with disdain. Dad wouldn’t be able to imagine why she might want to date a cop. Her father admired success, defined by wealth or acclaim. She had never been able to envision him as an English major, of all things. She didn’t even think he read novels anymore.

  To heck with whether Dad would approve, she thought in a moment of defiance. She was sometimes uncomfortably aware of how much her father’s approval meant to her. She would be very glad to quit caring. She never earned his unqualified approval anyway. Madison often asked herself why she bothered trying.

  With some exhilaration, she discovered that she didn’t give a flying you-know-what whether Dad would like Troy or not. She liked him, and that was what mattered.

  More than liked him.

  Delight rose inside her in a tide that made her want to skip. Only long practice and the fact that one of the assistant directors of Financial Aid was coming down the hall toward her kept her steps sedate. She smiled at Kyle Matthews and opened the door to the president’s outer office.

  * * *

  MADISON CROSSED HER arms on the tabletop. She and Troy had been seated upstairs in the loft at Bannister’s, which was busy tonight. A group of students sat nearby, but half the tables were taken by townies. She hardly noticed—all she saw was Troy, lounging comfortably across the table from her. His gaze hadn’t left her since they sat down.

  “You didn’t go to Wakefield,” she said.

  Troy’s smile held satisfaction. “You tried to look me up.”

  She hoped the warmth she felt in her cheeks didn’t show. “I hope you didn’t look me up.”

  “In law enforcement databases?” He grinned and relaxed back in his chair, his big hand wrapped around a glass of beer. “Checking out women that way is discouraged.” He paused. “Would I have found you?”

  She made a face. “I’m afraid so. I’ve been known to drive a little too fast.”

  “Ah.” There was amusement rather than disapproval in his eyes. “Not good for your insurance rates.”

  “No.” She sighed. “My premium shot way up after the second ticket.”

  “How many tickets have you had?”

  “Only two—well, two recent ones, but both were in the past year.” Her face was heating. “You know how empty the highway is past the Tri-Cities.”

  His mouth twitched. “Not empty enough, apparently.”

  Remembered annoyance made her frown. “The state patrol officers are really good at hiding.”

  “Yeah, that’s one of the things taught in police academies.”

  “Seriously?”

  He laughed. “No. You learn your first year when you’re partnered with an experienced officer who passes on the collective wisdom of whatever police force you’ve joined.”

  “Well, it’s ridiculous,” Madison said indignantly. “I don’t speed when it’s not safe. I never do in town, for example. But, honestly, when the highway is straight for miles on miles and there’s hardly any traffic, seventy or, well, seventy-five is perfectly safe.” Or maybe eighty.

  Although there was still a trace of humor in his eyes, he’d quit smiling. “See, anyone in law enforcement has worked traffic accidents. They’re really ugly. Once you’ve scraped a kid off the pavement or used the Jaws of Life to pry a body out of a flattened car, your idea of ‘safe’ driving changes. Seventy-five miles
an hour on a two-lane highway that is pretty damn narrow isn’t safe.”

  The pictures he’d drawn were all too vivid. She winced. “You’ve made your point.”

  “Good.”

  “Back to you,” she said hastily. “Didn’t your dad try to talk you into going to Wakefield?”

  “Sure he did.” He contemplated his beer, the set of his mouth wry. “I told him I’d rather go to a community college in North Dakota. Why would I want to stay in the most boring town in America? I wanted excitement. I wanted to live a little.”

  Madison chuckled. “Did he understand?”

  “Yeah, I think he actually did, which didn’t mean he wasn’t disappointed.” His face had relaxed. “You get the family pressure, too?”

  “My father simply assumed I’d be going to Wakefield. There was never even any discussion. It never occurred to me to dig in my heels.” She rarely admitted as much to anyone. She was embarrassed to have been so docile and ashamed when she wondered whether she would still be.

  “A good girl who drives too fast,” Troy mused. He took a swallow of his beer, his eyes never leaving hers.

  “That was a long time ago. I was seventeen when I sent my application to Wakefield.” Excuses, excuses.

  “Would you tell Daddy, ‘Hell no,’ now?”

  “The trouble is, I had a fabulous time during my four years here. Look at me.” She spread out her arms. She’d worn a snug-fitting, jewel-necked Wakefield College T tonight. “I loved it so much, I came racing back as soon as there was a suitable job opening.”

  “Yeah, I guess that was an unfair question.” He smiled, his eyes lingering on the words Wakefield College—or perhaps on her breasts, outlined by the forest-green cotton knit. He looked up, the smile having become crooked. “Truth is, I was thinking just today that I’m a little sorry I didn’t stay here for my four years. I had an okay education, but it might not have been the equal of what I’d have gotten here. I went to UW,” he told her, “and for an undergrad it’s a completely different experience than a student gets at a small school.” He grinned. “Dad might have been smarter to sneer at the idea of me applying to Wakefield. Tell me I couldn’t get in. Or that I belonged at a state school.”

  “A little reverse psychology.”

  He laughed. “Teenagers are dumb enough for it to work.”

  “True enough.” She couldn’t remember smiling so much, or feeling such a fizz that never subsided. “You notice I don’t work in Admissions. I work with adults.”

  “I noticed today how young the students look. Maybe we see ourselves as eternally young, but I couldn’t help realizing I’m not as young as I used to be.”

  He looked so disconcerted, she couldn’t help laughing at him. “Kind of like finding your first gray hair?”

  “Something like that.”

  His lips were clean-cut, not too full or too thin. They were more expressive than his eyes. It was hard not to look at his mouth and imagine how it would feel covering hers.

  Hoping he hadn’t noticed she was staring, she took a hasty sip. “How old are you?”

  “Thirty-two. You?”

  “Thirty-one.”

  Their meals came, a curry chicken crepe for her, a burger with bleu cheese for him. Conversation never lagged as they ate. She told him about grad school at Duke, about her first jobs in college administration.

  “I had a student job in Admissions here at Wakefield,” she said, remembering. “I loved every minute of it. I didn’t realize I’d already decided what I wanted to do with my life by the time I graduated, but I had. I started out at Carleton College in Minnesota in Financial Aid. I was so cold all winter, I started job hunting by spring. After that I worked in Admissions at a small college in Northern California then moved into Development. Begging for donations wasn’t quite my thing either, but I was getting warmer.”

  His lips quirked. “In more ways than one.”

  “No kidding. When I saw the opening here, I knew it was perfect.” She leaned forward. “I love the idea of helping alumni feel connected—of giving them opportunities, either here or close to home, to immerse themselves in the kind of intense educational experience they knew at Wakefield. And, yes, to help the college by ensuring those same alumni maintain a financial commitment.”

  He nodded as if unsurprised, at which she was able to relax a little, relieved he hadn’t made a joke out of her passion. She hadn’t intended to speak so strongly.

  Madison made an attempt to prod him into talking about why he’d gone into law enforcement. “Is it a family thing?”

  “As in, my dad, a cop?” He laughed. “Not a chance. He was a banker. He actually grew up on a wheat farm outside town. His father was disappointed he didn’t want to take over the farm. Like with a lot of the other wheat farms around here, times got tougher and eventually the land was sold.”

  “Is it growing grapes now?”

  “Yep. It’s part of the Frenchman Lake Vineyard & Winery. It feels strange to drive by. I’ll think ‘Grandma and Grandad’s place is right around this bend,’ only it’s not. Yeah, the house is still there, but nothing looks the same.” He shrugged. “Even Grandad eventually admitted that Dad was smart to find another way to make a living.”

  “Did Dad ever decide you were smart to do something else?”

  His lashes veiled his eyes. “He never put it quite that way, but he claimed to be proud of me. He and Mom were a lot happier when I left the Seattle P.D. for Frenchman Lake, though. Not only because I’d be close to them.”

  “Because they thought you’d be safer,” she said gently.

  “Parents.”

  “If you had kids, would you want them to follow in your footsteps?”

  He frowned, and she saw that he was taking her question seriously. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “I tend to feel pretty protective of anyone I care about. That might be a struggle for me.”

  She almost hesitated to ask again. Maybe he didn’t want to tell her why he’d become a cop. Or maybe she wouldn’t like his answer. He could like the power trip, having the right to swagger around carrying a gun. Or what if he was an adrenaline junkie?

  Well, it couldn’t be that, or he wouldn’t have quit his big-city job to come home to small-town policing, would he?

  He was definitely hesitating about telling her, though. He set down his burger at last and leaned back in his chair. “It was something that happened when I was at the UW. I saw a homeless guy get beaten to death.”

  She made an involuntary sound.

  “I was walking home from a party late one night. I’d had a couple of beers, but I didn’t have more than a buzz. I’m not much of a drinker,” he said matter-of-factly.

  Madison nodded. She’d noticed how he was nursing the one beer along.

  “I saw this flurry of motion up ahead, maybe a block and a half away. At first I was only curious. I was within a block when I got a bad feeling. I started walking faster. I saw a couple of guys kicking something in the doorway of a closed business down the street. Next thing I knew I was running.” Tension imbued his voice. “They saw me coming and took off. I might have caught them if I’d kept after them, but I stopped to see what that was in the recessed doorway.”

  “And he was already dead.”

  “Yeah. Jesus. It was sickening. I was naive as hell, but even I knew it was too late to try to resuscitate him. I called 911 and waited for the cops.”

  “Did they ever make an arrest?”

  His mouth twisted. “No. That upset me.” Clearly an understatement. “It sort of ate at me. Eventually I decided I could have caught the sons of bitches. I went straight to the police academy after graduation.”

  “What did you major in?” Madison asked, her curiosity irresistible.

  The question seemed to erase his dark mood. He reached for his burger again. “Guess.”

  “Hmm.” She mulled over the possibilities, studying him. “Psychology.”

  “Not even close.”

 
Her eyes widened. “English?”

  That earned her a bark of laughter. “Not a chance.”

  “Biology.” Head shake. “German.” A laugh. “Oh, for Pete’s sake. Computer Science. Horticulture. Political Science.” More head shakes and a whole lot of amusement. She threw up her hands. “I give up.”

  “Art.”

  She was the one to laugh this time. “Were you serious? Or was it part of your rebellious phase?”

  “Oh, probably a little of one, a little of the other. Dad couldn’t say much, though. After all, he was an English major. What’s more useless than that?”

  “Not much, if you look at it in practical terms.”

  His gaze sharpened. “Don’t tell me you were an English major.”

  “No, Psych. I envisioned myself doing counseling, except I never seriously pursued that route.” She frowned. “Wait. You’re not off the hook. Tell me about you as an artist.”

  He grimaced. “There’s not much to tell. I wasn’t going to take the art world by storm. I do still work with clay, mostly as a hobby. I have a wheel and kiln in my garage. It’s how I relax.”

  “That’s fascinating. What do you do with your pieces?”

  He shrugged, looking uncomfortable. “Mostly, give ’em away. These days, I’m selling some. I’m not doing anything artsy. I do vases and bowls, plates.” He shifted under her stare. “Lately I’ve been experimenting with teapots.”

  “Teapots.”

  “I don’t like the way you say that.”

  Madison laughed. “I was expressing astonishment. It’s the dichotomy. Tough cop who goes home and glazes a teapot.”

  He scowled. “This is why I don’t tell people.”

  “I think it’s wonderful,” she said honestly. “It makes me like you even better than I already did.”

  After a minute, one corner of his mouth lifted. “Then I’m good with having told you.”

  “Did I mention that I don’t have a single artistic bone in my body?”

  His chuckle was a bass rumble. “No, you didn’t. What do you do for fun? Or to reduce stress?”

  “A lot of days I swim half a mile before I go home. I listen to music—I love jazz. I can’t carry a tune, though.” She loved his smile. “I cook, although only when I’m in the mood.”