You Made Me Love You

by Neesa Hart

  Dedication

  For Dr. Ronald Childs and Dr. Kathleen French, for keeping me on my toes while I wrote this book. And for my on-line and real-time friends, my fellow Avon Ladies—thanks for answering questions of any sort at any time, day or night!

  Epigraph

  “God, I’m on fire for you . . .”

  Liza turned the key in the lock and pushed open the door. Eli wasted no time.

  She had the briefest of moments to observe his expression before he shoved the door with his foot, braced his back against it, and pulled her into his arms.

  Liza managed a slight gasp, then found herself engulfed in a storm. His kiss stole her breath. Nothing had prepared her for the intensity of it. The electricity that shimmered between them had never seemed this overwhelming. The actualization of that energy and the sensation of having his lips on hers, she realized before she lost the ability to think anything at all, swallowed her whole . . .

  Contents

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  About the Author

  Also by Neesa Hart

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  1

  At least she should be thankful for missing the tornado.

  Only Eli Liontakis, Liza mused, as she watched him wrap up a lecture to the World Health Congress, had sufficient charisma to convince the board of visitors at Breeland to allow her absence during the orientation for the summer program. That afternoon, while she sat in the cool confines of the ballroom of the Marriott Marquis, five hundred girls, ages 10 to 18, were arriving at Breeland Academy in the small town of Terrance, Georgia. The temperature there, she knew, topped 100 degrees. The humidity made it feel like 110. For years, the staff at Breeland had referred to the harrowing business of getting the students settled and oriented as the tornado. And here she was, the assistant administrator of the summer program, in the plush surroundings of a hotel ballroom, listening to the current superstar of medical research charm an international audience of health professionals.

  He was expounding on a point, explaining in riveting terms the strides he was making in the lab. She studied him through narrowed eyes and pushed aside a sliver of trepidation. Charisma didn’t begin to describe the man’s impact. Every eye in the room studied him with avid attention. Not, she admitted, that she could blame them. He was positively mesmerizing. Despite the pictures she’d seen of him, he still looked taller than she’d expected. Too tall. His hair—shoulder length and kept in a neat queue at his nape—was too black. His shoulders were too broad, his face too angularly attractive. The suit he wore emphasized a lean torso and slim hips that tapered to long legs. Despite his size, however, he moved with a grace that her dancer’s eye admired. With a sweep of a tanned, elegant hand, or the intense look in his leonine eyes, he had hypnotized his audience. Was it any wonder the press had taken to calling him The King of the Jungle?

  Over the past year, Eli had rocketed to relative stardom when his research on cell-life and chemical alteration began to attract global notice. If preliminary reports proved true, Liontakis’ research would likely lead to the first major breakthrough in cancer treatment and prevention since the advent of radiation.

  With his good looks, his personable speaking style, and his incredible facility of framing extremely complex scientific ideas in everyday language, his name had become a household word. Interest in science, chemistry, and pharmaceutical research was peaking in his wake. His style and energy had breathed new life into a languishing field, and his specialty, biochemical research, had started the hottest academic trend since Freud’s ego and id. One well-known critic had said, “Liontakis has done for chemistry what Elvis did for the back beat.”

  Almost overnight, Eli and test tubes full of potential miracles had become icons. When his picture appeared on the cover of a magazine, it was a guaranteed runaway sell-out. Women everywhere seemed to adore his slight accent, his cultured manners, and the edge of barbarism that said all the attention had tamed him merely for a moment. Every talk show, news magazine, and network in America was clamoring for a piece of him. A Nobel prize nomination, and eventual award, seemed a foregone conclusion.

  Liza had persuaded Breeland to invite him months before the media firestorm had begun. At the time, she’d believed that his relative youth—he was just 34—and his energetic lecture style would appeal to the students. She’d once heard him speak at a national teacher’s symposium. Impressed with his accessibility and creative approach to a normally dry subject, Liza had felt he’d make an excellent addition to the summer teaching staff.

  The students, she knew, would benefit from exposure to a scientist so versatile and talented. But, and this was surprising, he accepted the invitation after his meteoric rise to fame had him gracing the cover of Time magazine.

  For personal reasons he’d discussed only with Anna, he’d agreed to spend the summer at Breeland and delayed responding to offers from several major research facilities. Anna had told Liza that Liontakis’ ten-year-old daughter had played a major role in the choice he’d made. He’d also insisted that Liza fly to New York to accompany him and the girl on their trip to Breeland.

  As she watched him now, Liza decided it was an unqualified blessing that he’d chosen not to arrive at Breeland on orientation day. The last thing the staff or students needed during the tornado was another element of chaos. And Eli Liontakis, she’d learned, spread chaos like Jack Frost spread ice.

  As he wrapped up his speech, Liza mentally chided herself to get a grip. She had a job to do. Eli Liontakis was Breeland’s star attraction for this year’s summer program. And Liza cared too much about the program, its students, and Breeland to let her personal feelings stand in the way of making him feel welcome.

  The audience began to applaud, and Liza slipped out the back door for their scheduled rendezvous. She pressed a hand to her stomach as a coil of tension began to tighten. Soon, she reminded herself, he’d be at Breeland. He’d be on her territory. Then she’d feel in control again.

  She waited in the impressive atrium while he made his way through a crowd of admirers. He stopped occasionally to extend a hand in greeting, or answer a proffered question, but he made his way steadily, inexorably toward her. When he finally reached her, he didn’t even stop walking. His long fingers linked beneath her elbow and he steered her toward the door. “Ms. Kincaid?”

  “Yes.” She resisted the urge to wrench her elbow free of his imprisoning grip.

  “Forgive me,” he muttered, as he eased her into the revolving door. She stepped onto the sidewalk, where the blast of humidity shocked her skin after the chill of the hotel. He emerged behind her. “I’m not trying to hustle you.”

  “No?” A bellman jerked open the door of a limo, and Eli ushered her inside. She heard someone call his name from the hotel entrance, but he dived in after her.

  When the door slammed shut, the bellman slapped the hood with the flat of his hand. The car glided into traffic, and Eli leaned back against the leather seat across from her with a soft sigh. “No. I’m not. But if we didn’t get out of there before the crowd really broke, it would have taken the rest of the afternoon.”

  She felt a little disarmed by his easy grace. In the confines of the car, she was unprepared f
or the impact of his undivided attention. “I understand,” she said quietly.

  That made him laugh. “No, you don’t. You think I’m a pompous ass for making you come up here.”

  That voice, with its slight Greek accent, Liza thought, ought to be registered as a lethal weapon, and the way he purred his “r’s” lent the rich timbre of his tone a certain sensuality that women seemed to find irresistible. “Are you?” she finally blurted out.

  “A pompous ass? Lord, I hope not. Maybe you’ll forgive me once you’ve met my daughter.”

  Probably, she thought. “Her name is Grace,” Liza said.

  His smile was disarming. “Yes. You’ll like her and she’ll like you.” He jerked at his tie until the elegant silk unknotted. “I’m counting on that.”

  Liza watched his fingers coil the tie and drop it into his suit pocket. He’d be a lot easier to handle if he’d wear a lab jacket and a pocket protector like any good nerd. “What makes you so sure?”

  His broad shoulders lifted in a shrug. “Call it a hunch. The same kind of hunch that sends me off to the lab looking for answers.” He’d opened the top two buttons of his shirt. “How much has Anna Forian told you about Grace?”

  “Enough to make me agree to come here in the midst of orientation.”

  He had the grace to wince. “The timing was lousy, wasn’t it?”

  “The worst. At Breeland, we call orientation the tornado,” she described. “Did Anna explain the difference between the summer program and our academic year schedules?”

  “Yes.” He rested a tanned hand on the snow white front of his shirt. “You have residential students during the usual school year, and a full-time faculty. Breeland is one of the most highly acclaimed private girls’ schools in the country.”

  Liza nodded. “Yes.”

  “And during the summer, you run an enrichment program of sorts. You accept girls from different social and economic backgrounds for an academic program designed to expose them to a variety of different disciplines. It’s like camp for smart kids.”

  “Sort of.” She couldn’t keep the pride from her voice. Breeland’s summer program tradition spanned decades. Liza always felt the weight and significance of being a part of something incredibly meaningful whenever she discussed it. “Our goal is to give students who may never have had this kind of opportunity an introduction to a large variety of disciplines. Because of the tight transition we have between the end of our regular term and the start of the summer program, all our summer students and faculty arrive at the same time. That’s why we call it the tornado. We have two days to get them settled into the dorms and into the program. All the stuff the girls think they can’t live without goes in, and all the furniture in the dorms gets rearranged and reassigned to accommodate them. Two opposing forces collide on one hot day, and—”

  “Tornado.” His lips twitched into a near smile.

  And at the first glimpse of it, her irritation began to evaporate. Who in the world could resist that damnably sensual smile and—did she dare call it a dimple—the slight slash at the corner of his mouth? She nodded.

  A couple of seconds of silence ticked between them. Liza gazed out the window of the limo as it inched its way along Park Avenue. She sensed him watching her but didn’t dare meet his gaze. Finally he combed long fingers through his dark hair and broke the spell. “I’m sure you had a thousand things demanding your attention today. I hope you understand that I would never have requested that you come here had it not been for Grace.”

  That, she supposed, was probably as close to an apology as she was going to get. His ten-year-old daughter, she knew from her discussions with Anna, was the center of his life. Eli hoped, or so he’d told Anna, that a few months on the relatively secluded campus would help her recover from the recent death of her mother.

  The raw note in his voice swayed her as little else could. She looked at him again, and saw the pain in his gaze. “Anna told me about Grace,” she informed him gently. “I hope you’ll find what you’re looking for at Breeland.”

  After a brief pause, he nodded. “So do I.”

  He continued to watch her with disarming intensity. Liza found herself wishing she’d worn something other than the orange and red linen sundress that protected her from the heat, but not from his inspection. A full suit of armor might have been a good choice. “To tell you the truth,” she said, when she could no longer stand the silence, “I’m not exactly sure what you want me to do now that I’m here.”

  “We won’t need much of your time,” he assured her. “I just want you to meet Grace and let her get the feel of you. It’s going to be crucial that she trust you.”

  She blinked. “Excuse me?”

  He inclined his head in a slight nod, worthy, she thought, of The King of the Jungle. “She has to trust you if this is going to work. Grace will be studying dance with you.”

  Her breath returned in a gulp. “Oh. Dance. Yes, Anna told me.”

  “My daughter likes to dance. You’ll be her teacher while she’s at Breeland.”

  “I’m not sure you understand, Dr. Liontakis. During the regular school year, I teach several classes, but my responsibilities are different for the summer program. Because I work with Anna as the assistant administrator, I have more general interaction with the girls.”

  “But you teach one class.”

  “Sometimes.”

  “This year you’re going to.”

  She was beginning to understand why his critics called him tenacious. “It’s currently on the schedule, yes, but—”

  “And Grace is going to be in it.”

  She drew a steadying breath. “Not necessarily. I’m teaching this particular class because it gives me a more hands-on role with the students. When I took this job for the summer program, I told the board that my first love was teaching. I didn’t want to spend so much time filling out state-mandated paperwork that I lost my contact with our students.”

  His mouth quirked up at the corner. “I feel the same way about funding applications for research. I’d rather handle the chemicals. Let someone else find the money.”

  The limo, she noted, had wedged itself into an impossibly tight space between a delivery truck and a taxicab. The late afternoon congestion meant their laborious trip toward Eli’s apartment on Central Park could take an hour. By the time they got there, her nerves would be stripped raw. She folded her hands in her lap and continued. “But as much as I love the classroom, I do have other responsibilities. That’s why there are six teachers in the department besides me. Depending on your daughter’s experience, her skill level—”

  He shook his head, any sign of benevolence in his expression gone. “You,” he said with implacable calm. “I want you.”

  Oh dear. Liza swallowed. This wasn’t going to be easy. This powerfully intelligent man was very used to having his own way. As was she. When two opposing forces collide, she mused . . . “We’ll have to see,” she said evasively.

  He’d been idly playing with an air-conditioning vent, but turned the full force of his attention on her. “We’ll do more than see, Ms. Kincaid. I want to be very clear on this point. I want you to teach Grace.”

  Liza frowned. “I’m flattered, but—”

  “Don’t be.”

  Her eyebrows lifted. “What?”

  “Don’t be. I didn’t say it to flatter you. I said it because it’s true. Grace needs you.”

  “I wasn’t aware that—”

  “I’m not going to argue about this. I’m sorry if Anna Forian didn’t make this clear to you before you left Breeland, but this is an all-or-nothing deal. I want you.”

  “It’s good to want things,” she quipped. “Builds character.”

  Something dangerously seductive flared in his gaze—something that reminded her why women went wild over him. “You know, I’ve always admired women with quick tongues.”

  At the deliberately suggestive comment, she ground her teeth. “And I’ve never admired arrogan
t men.”

  “I’m not arrogant, I’m determined.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding. Aren’t you the man who said, ‘I will be the Albert Einstein of the twenty-first century’?”

  His full lips curved in a tantalizing arc. Why in the hell, she wondered, couldn’t she manage to keep her gaze from the firm contours of that mouth? “Absolutely not,” he denied.

  “You did too. I saw the interview where you flaunted yourself in front of sixteen million viewers.”

  “I said ‘Louis Pasteur.’ Einstein was a physicist.” Abruptly, he shifted positions on the seat so his knee pressed against her thigh. “And I never flaunt.”

  He never flaunted. There should have been something funny about that comment. All he had to do was walk across a room to flaunt. “If you say so.”

  “Despite what you might think, Ms. Kincaid, I don’t enjoy the media attention that comes with my job. It’s necessary, but not particularly entertaining.” He sounded bitter.

  She had a brief memory of the chaos in the hotel lobby and felt a wince of regret. His ex-wife had died recently, leaving his daughter in a state of emotional trauma. Liza had learned most of the details, as had the rest of the country, from tabloid newspapers. She could well imagine the toll that had taken on him. “Sorry. That was uncalled for.”

  He shook his head. “No, it wasn’t. I know my assistant, Martin Wilkins, has been in touch with you about some of my requests.”

  Requests, she thought wryly, was a gentle word for the list of demands Martin had faxed her. “Yes.”

  “He’s not the most accommodating guy in the world.”

  “You could say that.”

  “It’s his job to look after me—and he’d die for Grace. He can be a little demanding, but he does it because he cares about us.”

  That much was obvious. Even in her most heated conversations with the irascible Martin Wilkins, the man’s devotion to his employer and Grace was unmistakable. “I know that.”

  “Still, I’m sure he’s made your life difficult.”

  “Some.”