him again for almost a month? Maybe he was smiling because he didn't find her attractive. She wasn't his type. Didn't like red hair, green eyes. Maybe her tweed suit was too severe, too dykish. He probably liked them soft and pliable. No, she'd done her research on him at the news station, and on his wife, Annie. She was beautiful and tough, smart as they come, but with a no-bull approach. Hell, the two of them would probably be great pals. Under different circumstances.
But why even think such thoughts? She hadn't come down here to steal a husband away, or even start an affair. She had her own boyfriend-there's that awkward high school word again-lover back in Santa Monica. And they were pretty damn happy together. All things considered. She'd just wanted to, well, see Eric Ravensmith again, if for no other reason but to get him out of her mind.
He was leaning forward now, his hand reaching out for her face. My God, Trace, my God. What to do? She hadn't expected anything to happen. Her heart swelled in her chest like an inflatable raft trapped in a cupboard.
'Hold still,' he said, his fingertips touching her lips. 'Got it!' He pulled his fingers back and showed her a fleck of blue paint from her gnarled pencil. 'Bad habit, chewing pencils,' he laughed. 'I used to suck on pens in high school until I got a mouth full of ink one day.' He flicked the paint chip from his finger.
Just great! Now he was comparing her to a high school kid. Terrific. Change the subject, quickly. 'That's quite a nice stereo system you've got here. Aren't you afraid someone will steal it? I hear thefts on college campuses are way up. I think we did a special report on that last month at the station.'
Eric shrugged. 'I keep the office locked when I'm not here. But I'm not worried. Besides, I do a lot of my grading here and I need some music to help get me through their turgid prose.'
She nodded at the cassettes scattered on the desk. 'Mozart, I bet. Vivaldi, Beethoven, and the rest.'
'I didn't know I was so transparent.'
'You college professors are all alike,' she said, getting her confidence back. 'Classics or nothing.'
'Well, you're partially right.' He swiveled around and popped the top cassette into the player. The small speakers on the bookshelves came alive with music.
'Please remember how I feel about you,' the Beatles sang, 'I could never really live without you/So come on back to me…'
'The classics,' Eric said.
Tracy reddened. 'What about the other tapes?'
'More Beatles. That's all I ever play, except occasionally the Supremes. And don't ask me why. I'm purposely avoiding analyzing it in case I don't like the answer.'
She laughed, her nervousness forgotten. 'I don't blame you. Sounds serious.'
'Latent rock 'n' roller probably.' He turned the volume down a little, stealing a glance at his watch. He still had to get to L.A. and back before the rush hour traffic. And buy those guns. 'So, what's this mysterious business you mentioned, Ms. Ammes?'
'Tracy. Well, I only work part time at Channel 7, but in the past six years I've covered quite a few sensational trials for them, sketching everyone from the Hillside Strangler to the Magic Mountain Maniac. Anyway, some New York publisher was in town during the Dirk Fallows trial, saw my stuff on TV, and contacted me about publishing a book of my trial sketches.'
'Ah, fame and fortune.'
'I wish. The money's so-so and as for fame, I don't think Andrew Wyeth need worry just yet. But it's a start.'
'What can I do for you?'
'I wanted to use some drawings of you in the book so I came down to get your permission.' She started rooting through her purse. 'I've got a release slip here somewhere if you don't mind signing.'
'Sure, no problem. But I thought that since it was a public trial you didn't need our permission.'
She reddened again. Shot down your big excuse, Trace. 'Yes, that's true. But the publisher just wanted to cover all the bases. You know how nervous they get about lawsuits and such.' She plucked the folded paper from her purse, smoothed it on the top of his desk and slid it across to him.
She watched him read it, his finger, the one that touched her lips, sliding absently along his scar. When his head was tilted just so, it caught the fluorescent light and seemed to almost flash. He grabbed a pen from his drawer and, with a sudden flourish, signed the form. He was smiling as he handed it back to her. 'Good luck.'
'Thanks,' she said. Then added, just so he wouldn't mistake the innocence of her motives, 'My boyfriend thinks he can get me a job doing storyboards on this movie he's working on.'
'Oh?'
'Yes, he builds special effects models.' And smells like glue a lot. 'He's worked on most of the major sci-fi films of the past three years.'
'Great. Is that what you want to do?'
'When I grow up, you mean?' she said sharply. 'I'm twenty-eight.'
'No, I just meant is that the direction you want your career to move in? Movies?'
Tracy shrugged. 'The money's good.' She saw him glance at the clock again and stood up. 'Well, I guess I'd better get back on the freeway. Thanks for your time and for your permission. I didn't mean to snap at you before. It's just that I get a little sensitive about why I'm twenty-eight and still hustling for a career.'
'Twenty-eight is still young. You've got plenty of time.'
She laughed. 'Somehow I knew you'd say that.'
'I'm still so transparent, huh?'
'Oh no, I'm not falling into that trap again. Forget I said anything.' She held out her hand. He took it in his and shook. It was a friendly shake, nothing more. No extra squeeze or lingering touch. But somehow she wasn't disappointed anymore. She liked him, and under the right circumstances might even fall out-of-her-mind in love with him. But for now, she was pleased with herself for having the guts to come down and see him just because she'd felt the urge. Now she could go back to Barry and his glue and settle in for another few months. Maybe she'd even make Barry his favorite dinner tonight. Stir-fried eggplant.
'I'll look for your book,' Eric said as he held the door open for her.
'I'll send you a copy.'
'Autographed?'
'You bet.'
'Bye.'
He watched her walk down the hall, her athletic body twitching under the tight skirt. What his dad would have called a looker. Almost as beautiful as Annie. But not quite. No one ever was. He thought of Annie now, her long, thick hair always in their way when they kissed, getting in their mouths. He smiled, felt a longing ignite in his thighs, spread up along his groin. Shook it off.
First things first.
He snatched up his briefcase, turned off the cassette player, flicked the light switch, and locked his office door. If he hurried, he'd still make his meeting in L.A. on time. It had taken a few calls to set up, but finally an old army buddy he'd known before his Night Shift duty came through with a dealer. A couple cops who were responsible for transporting guns were pilfering a few and selling them on the side. The price was outrageous, the morality dubious, but none of that mattered to Eric. All he cared about now was protecting his family.
He half-jogged down the hall, nodding to familiar students that drifted through. Three graduate students were grouped around the bulletin board looking at the meager teaching job announcements. None of them were smiling.
He passed the open office door of George Donato, one of the best teachers Eric had ever seen. George always left his door open so he could flag down the pretty girls. His reputation as a scholar was almost equal to his reputation as a womanizer. He was a good friend to both Eric and Annie, despite Annie's attempts to fix him up with her friends.
'Hey, Eric,' George called as Eric zipped by.
'Gotta run, George. Talk to you later.'
'What about poker next week? You and Annie available? I need the money.'
'Sure, where's the game?'
'Your place.'
