by Piper Trace
She was in his face suddenly, her featureless presence revealed to a sharper focus. His eyesight was poor, but she came so close that even he could see the curiosity with which she studied him.
“Are you blind?” She waved a hand inches from his nose and he caught her wrist, reminding himself she was a petite girl when he felt his grip grow too tight with annoyance.
“Nooo.” He made the word two syllables, letting it drip with the contempt he had for the question. He released her arm but she didn’t step back.
“So, you’re Bishop Cole.” Her voice was surprisingly deep, not child-like at all, and he wondered if maybe she was getting over a cold, or perhaps she’d been crying. “Should I call you dad? Father?” She pursed her lips. “Or would you prefer daddy?” She blinked big, dark eyes at him, and her smirk held as much attitude as the punk rock tee-shirt she wore under her prep-school jacket.
Glaring down at her, he gritted his teeth until his jaw ached, not appreciating the disrespect she was showing him or her own father. “I am not your father,” he bit out.
“Oh, that’s right!” Her voice was schooled, prepped for the next zinger. “Since you’re the son he never had, I guess that makes you my brother.”
“That’s not remotely accurate, but then I’m sure you already know that, Penelope. I understand you’re very bright.” She didn’t respond and he was surprised when he felt compelled to fill the silence, hating that she made him uncomfortable. “I’m your guardian for the rest of the year. That’s all.” Technically, he was her guardian until she was eighteen, but trustee of her inheritance until she was nineteen, but he wasn’t going to point that out now.
A dark look flashed across her face and was gone as quickly as it came. Bishop wasn’t skilled at reading social cues, but he’d swear it was hurt or anger, or both.
They stared at each other, and as diminutive as she was, she held her ground, radiating an aura of determination. The sheer will he sensed in her made her seem like a presence even bigger than him.
She didn’t look much like her father. Her hair was pink, for one. Her eyes were a soft, dark color, but he’d have to move his face very close to hers to discern if her irises were dark blue or chocolate brown. She had an expressive face—plump lips, rounded cheeks, large eyes. Her perfume was not one he’d ever smelled before, subtle layers that were woody and vanilla, and something else he couldn’t place. Something exotic.
Her eyes seemed to miss nothing, darting up to his hair, around his face, and then down to his chest. She reached out and placed a small hand on his black tee shirt, over his heart. “I’m glad you’re not my new father. I didn’t expect you to be so hot. Just so you know,” she raised her eyes to his, “I’d totally be willing to call you daddy if you wanted to spank me for being naughty.” She fluttered her eyelashes up at him, as if she were merely engaging in harmless flirtation.
Whoa. What the fuck?
Bishop practically jumped backwards, as if her touch had burned him, and her lovely features faded out of focus with the distance. His only thought was: inappropriate. Her behavior was entirely inappropriate. He moved around her and behind the desk, putting the expanse of polished wood between them. A physical boundary. He hoped she wouldn’t climb over it.
She giggled, and he was pretty sure she was laughing at his skittish response to her.
“So.” Her voice was a purr. “Sex, sex, sex. Is that pretty much all you think about?” She crossed her arms and leaned over the desk toward him.
“I—” Bishop cleared his throat. “I’m sure you are well aware that the research I did with your father—the research I continue to do now—is focused on human sexuality.”
She came around to the side of the desk and pulled her butt up onto it, crossing her ankles and swinging her legs. She was close enough to be in focus again, and he was trapped in the corner. There was nowhere else he could go to get away from her unless he climbed over the desk.
“Will I hear lust-filled moans coming from the basement? Do you get personally involved in the experiments?”
He fisted his hands and braced them on the desktop, hoping to intimidate her into stopping this ridiculous and completely out-of-line kind of talk. This girl had a bad attitude and bad intentions. She was rude and clearly looking for trouble. “My work is not your concern, Miss Sullivan.”
She shifted sideways toward him and casually leaned on one arm. With her other hand, she traced invisible circles into the gleaming wood with her index finger, as if she really didn’t care much about the conversation, but was merely being curious.
“But you do study female orgasms, right?” She looked up at him through her lashes when he didn’t answer. “I only ask because I’m very good with science. Do you give them the orgasms, Professor, or are they self-induced?”
He felt like he was grinding his teeth down to nothing, but his glare didn’t stop her.
“Do you teach women how to touch themselves? Will you teach me how to touch myself, Professor?”
A whooshing sound pounded through his ears as his blood pressure rose with every crass, improper question the girl asked. He let his facial expression answer for him. Bishop didn’t touch the women he studied. He wouldn’t touch the women, even if such a thing was allowed.
Bishop hadn’t touched a woman in any sexual manner in five years, and his reasoning was far beyond anything this brat of a girl could comprehend.
Perhaps swayed by the look of menace he was giving her, she thankfully changed the subject. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-six,” he bit out through clenched teeth.
She made a non-committal noise and sat forward, shifting her butt on the desk. A butt clad in tight, black pants of some sort, he noticed.
“You look older.” She said. “In a good way, though.”
With relief, he suddenly remembered he had something for her. Anything to change the subject. From a top desk drawer, he extracted the manila envelope the estate attorney had given him and held it out to the girl. “Speaking of being older, here’s your birthday present from your father.”
Penelope gingerly pulled the envelope from his hand as if it were a summons to appear in court and not a check for an enormous amount of money.
“Does he always give you a thousand dollars for your birthday?” He forced a smile. “Generous.” He was sure this girl appreciated nothing Professor Sullivan did for her.
“Generous? Not really.” She shoved the envelope into the bag sitting next to her on the desk as if she was ashamed of it. As if it contained blackmail pictures, or a parcel full of bribe money. “If you added up the amount of money it would’ve cost dear old Dad to visit me at least once a year,” she smoothed the top of her bag, “maybe on my birthday, maybe Christmas, this thousand bucks is a bargain for him.”
Her voice had changed. The edge that was there before, sharpening the barbs she threw at Bishop, was gone. He straightened. He didn’t have time to worry about the psyche of a spoiled seventeen-year-old girl with a chip on her shoulder. He had work to do in the lab.
“One more thing,” he told her, relieved that he’d soon have his duties complete and would be able to escape from the girl. He opened a wooden cigar box on the desk and extracted a small ring box. He held it out to her.
For a moment, she looked charmingly gobsmacked. She glanced up at him with wide eyes, and then back down, finally reaching out and taking the box almost shyly. She pulled it open and her face took on a dreamy quality so genuine, Bishop almost laughed. Not completely the world-hardened chick she tried to portray, was she?
Her lips parted as the studied the ring, momentarily rapt. Bishop felt a small tug at his heart. Penelope put up such a crude, impudent front, that Bishop was surprised at how good it made him feel to please the unpredictable girl. Maybe he wouldn’t make such a terrible guardian after all.
“It’s your grandmother’s ring,” he told her, softly. “Your father left it for you.”
She blinked at Bishop, as if
processing the words, and he could see the moment when she understood what she was holding, and why. Just that quickly, her attitude recovered, and the wall he’d gotten a peek around came slamming back down.
“Oh gosh!” she squealed, too loudly. “Granny’s ring! Oh, how I remember admiring it when I held Grandmama’s hand and we took all those walks together.” She fluttered her eyes, sarcasm evident in her melodrama.
“So, then I guess you won’t be thrilled about the box of family photos in the downstairs closet.” Bishop responded dryly.
Penelope snapped the ring box closed. “I never met anyone in my father’s family, including my grandmother. I’m not even sure she knew I existed. That box might as well be a filled with pictures of strangers.”
“Well, from what you just said, it is filled with pictures of strangers, but it’s there if you want it.”
Penelope scowled and made a noise of disgust. She actually looked hurt.
He backtracked, feeling completely over his head with this girl and hoping every interaction with her wasn’t this excruciatingly awkward.
“Sorry.” He looked down and cleared his throat. “That was unnecessary.”
She didn’t answer, but just stared at him, making him increasingly uncomfortable. God only knew what could come out of her mouth next. Bishop wasn’t enjoying this interruption to his day. Time to cut it off. “I assume Ann showed you to your room? Is there anything else you need from me?”
His ward’s mood seemed to cloud again, but she hopped off the desk and grabbed her bag, stepping away and fading out of focus. “Nope. I don’t need anything from you.”
Her voice was as icy as her disposition, and he wondered if it was her general demeanor, a reaction to her father dying, or if Bishop himself had inspired it.
“Yes, Ann showed me to my room. A guest room in my own father’s house.” She sighed in an exaggerated fashion. “That’s just sad, don’t you think?”
Bishop bristled. Things between her father and her seemed rough, but Bishop had her beat hands-down when it came to sad father tales.
She didn’t seem to notice his lack of response. “But then it’s not my father’s house anymore, is it? I guess that makes me officially homeless.”
“Penelope,” he sighed. “You are always welcome here.” Bishop rubbed his forehead and then flexed his hands, eager to get away from the nearly palpable discomfort he felt in the room and get back to his data. His reliable data that rarely made him feel inept. “If there’s nothing else you need, I’d like to get back to the lab.”
He made a concerted effort not to touch her as he stepped around her to head for the door and escape.
“Just one more thing,” she called, grabbing his arm.
He turned back around, resisting the urge to jerk his bicep from her small grip. She came close, as if she instinctively knew where to stand so he could see her clearly.
And that distance was closer than he wanted her to be.
She’d returned to her fuck-off body language, her chest pressed forward and her arms crossed tightly in front of her. “I looked up what a guardian is, and the one definition that I can’t get out of my head said that a guardian is a ‘keeper’. I thought that was interesting, because my dad didn’t want me around, yet he made you my keeper.”
She tilted her head, her eyes flashing and her tone biting, but there was something different in her voice now. Or maybe it was the way she paused just for a moment and bit her bottom lip before she asked her last question. “My father gave me to you like he gave you all of this.” She gestured to the larger part of the library with her chin, but Bishop knew she really meant the whole estate. “So now that you’ve met me, what do you think? Do you think you might want to keep me, Professor Cole?”
That’s it. He couldn’t discern her meaning behind the question and, more importantly, he had no interest to. The meeting was over. An hour before, Bishop had been wary about being Penelope’s guardian, now he was a hundred times warier of the girl herself.
Why couldn’t she have been a studious bookworm? The kind of girl he might be able to relate to, as a mentor, maybe even a friend? Not this foul-mouthed Lolita-wannabee with anger issues. Since the rude awakening he’d received from his own father when he was seventeen, he’d grown adept at spotting signals of danger, and this girl was triggering every primal warning his body could produce.
He couldn’t mentor this girl. He was worried about even being in the same room as this girl.
*****
Penelope
“You’re trying to make me uncomfortable, Miss Sullivan, and I just don’t have time for games.” Bishop turned and strode toward the door. Halfway there, he paused as if he’d forgotten something, then spoke without turning to look at her. “I’m sorry you’re home under these circumstances. Your father meant a great deal to me.”
Tears pricked at her eyes. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?” Her words bit at the air between them, her anger suddenly raw because of his dismissal.
He shifted a half turn, and she could see his profile. She read pain there, but she didn’t think it was borne from empathy for her, or even from grief at the loss of his mentor, her father. Though she had no way of knowing, something instinctual in her told her this pain was his own, and the heaviness in his eyes told her he’d carried it for a long time.
Tightness steeled his jawline, weariness creased his forehead, and sadness drew his gaze down. She saw her father in him—stoic, controlled, unemotional. So, seeing him looking also somehow vulnerable plucked at her heart, much to her dismay.
She didn’t have the capacity to deal with these mixed emotions in her current state, so instead, she defaulted to fury. Fury at him for taking what should have been hers, and fury at herself for thinking even one weak thought toward this man who’d been so unceremoniously shoved into her life without her consultation.
“You had what was mine.” She whispered the words like a curse, not actually expecting him to hear, but he turned full around to face her, his eyes shrouded with some emotion she couldn’t read.
“Take the house, Penelope. It should be yours. I only ask that you let me keep working in the lab. It’s the only place set up for me, and it’s all I need.”
Penelope laughed, a harsh, bitter sound. “I don’t mean the house.” She fought to keep the tremor out of her voice. “I mean what you had with him. That should have been mine. You can’t give me that.”
She hadn’t wanted to be emotional, but the fatigue of the day caught up with her, so she fled the room ahead of her tears. As she swept past him, she felt him touch her arm. Not a grab, just a small pressure that seemed like a plea to wait, but she was gone.
Pounding up the stairs, she hurled herself toward the guest suite to which she’d been assigned. When she got there, she banged the heavy door closed behind her and leaned against it, blinking back the moisture in her eyes and bringing into focus the luxurious, but neutral, bedroom meant for visitors. Transient people, who, like herself, didn’t belong there.
As her heart slowed from her dash up the stairs, guilt boiled in her gut. She’d really wanted to hate that guy, but she didn’t. It wasn’t Bishop’s fault her dad was an asshole. And even though the guy hadn’t exactly been warm toward her, at least he hadn’t treated her like a poor, orphaned child.
And then there was the thing with his eyes. He had some visual issue. He wasn’t blind, clearly, but something… It seemed as if he hadn’t been able to see her when he’d first come into the room.
Her thoughts moved from his eyes to his face, and then his body. His eyesight was compromised, but there was certainly nothing wrong with him physically. He was handsome in a way that hushed a room. The kind of guy the girls at her school would have squealed over and whispered about in high-pitched adulation, complete with pantomimed swooning.
When she’d touched his chest, and later, his bicep, she couldn’t miss how hard his muscles were under his shirt. He was tall, with messy, tousle
d hair the color of the shiny chestnut floors in her boarding school’s dorms. She knew that color by heart.
For hundreds of hours, she’d stared at that floor, arms wrapped around her knees as she listened to music between the wall and her bed, out of sight. She followed the same routine at the beginning of every school year: attend class, and then wait out the free time, especially in the early days of each semester when there was more socializing than work. She had no interest in hearing about her classmates’ summers, filled with their families.
And right there was the crux of why she couldn’t hate Bishop. When she’d studied his eyes, trying to discern what was wrong with his vision, she’d seen something unexpected. A sadness in him that went beyond losing his mentor. His shadowed eyes held a loneliness and vulnerability that she’d seen in her own mirror too many days of her life. Hell, she was pretty much an expert on that kind of loneliness. The kind that a thousand friends couldn’t make go away. The kind that held you down in bed at night until you cried, and made you fight it just to get out of bed in the morning.
Still, she’d been angry enough to try to stir him up. She felt a small pang of guilt for that. He’d been so obviously uncomfortable around her that she’d tried to torture him. Tried to make him as sorry to meet her as she was to meet him.
Mentally, she shook off the guilt. He deserved at least that little bit of antagonization, given that she now had to get his permission to live her life until she turned eighteen.
After being forced by her father to be on her own for so long, the idea that he’d now put some strange man in charge of her made her eye twitch.
With effort, she peeled herself from the door, her energy drained. The small weekend bag she’d brought sat in the middle of the king-sized bed, waiting on her to unpack the few things inside. It wouldn’t be a long stay. A hot bath, a good book, one night’s sleep and a funeral. Then she’d be headed back to school and, honestly, she’d never have a reason to return here again.