ridiculous speech, Alba had found her voice again. “Yes, you’re right,” she said, biting each word between her teeth. “We didn’t write it jointly. I wrote it. And you copied every word.”
“I did nothing of the sort.” Dr. Skinner laughed.
“You did,” Alba said, barely audible. “You did.”
“Are you certain of that?”
“Of course I am. I’ve got, I’ve got . . .”
“What?” Her supervisor leaned across the desk. “You’ve got what?”
“My . . . Give me my notes back,” Alba begged. “Give them back.” For the first time in her career she deeply regretted resisting technology. If she’d written it all up on a computer instead of only on paper, she’d now have backups, files, proof.
“I’m afraid I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’ll go to the dean,” Alba mumbled.
“By all means.” Dr. Skinner gave a wry smile. “An excellent idea. In fact, I’m having lunch with the dean this afternoon. Would you like to join us?”
“I don’t believe . . . How could you steal from me?” Alba felt tears pricking. In a moment they’d be spilling down her cheeks. And if she could do nothing else, Alba wouldn’t allow that. She wouldn’t let Dr. Skinner see her broken.
“I’m getting a little tired of this now,” Dr. Skinner sighed. “And if you insist on this behavior, it’ll be impossible for me to keep supervising you.”
“How can you say that?” Alba asked. “I, I . . .” I did it all for you, I didn’t ask for anything, and I loved you, I love you.
“Well, we need to reconsider our situation, don’t we? I don’t think this is quite working, wouldn’t you agree?”
“What?” Alba gaped. “What do you—”
“Us. This.” Dr. Skinner gave a small shrug. “I think it is time to part ways.”
“But my MPhil, my . . . what am I supposed to do?”
“You could find another supervisor, dependent on my recommendation, of course. Which, after your accusation, I’m afraid I couldn’t possibly give you.” Dr. Skinner turned away to shuffle through papers, as though it was already over and they had never known or meant a single thing to each other.
“You, you . . .” Alba shook, unable to get the words out. “I, I, I . . .” But she couldn’t find words that came within a thousand degrees of how she felt.
So instead she turned and fled.
—
It’s been a week since Blake and Carmen worked the same shift. He’s arranged it that way, taking a little time out to focus exclusively on Greer. But now he’s ready to get back in the game. Having waited until after closing time on Greer’s day off, and sending everyone else home, he finds her in the wine cellar.
“Hey, sugar.” He grins from the doorway. “How’s it going?”
Carmen just shrugs and lifts another box onto her pile for re-stocking.
“Look, I’m sorry it’s been a while. I had some personal stuff to sort out. But now it’s done I’d love to see you again.”
Carmen looks up at him: the green eyes, the blond curls, the creamy complexion: white swan to Tiago’s raven, perfect for erasing his black imprint from her body and soul. But she can play this game, too, and contrition is called for. Groveling.
“I don’t think so.” Carmen turns away.
“Look, I know I don’t deserve it.” Blake steps toward her. “But give me another chance. It won’t happen again. You have my word.”
Carmen raises an eyebrow. “And how do I know you are worth it?”
Blake tries to gauge whether she’s just toying with him. But he can’t read her. Unlike Greer, she seems to be able to see through his smile and into his cold, dark heart. “Try me and see,” he says. “I’m well worth it.”
Carmen holds Blake’s gaze, then steps forward to kiss him. For a second he’s too shocked to respond but, quickly recovering, he presses his chest against hers and kisses her back, strong and deep and desperate.
“Ow!” Blake steps back, his finger to his lip where she bit him.
“Desculpa.” Carmen laughs. “I not mean to hurt you, at least not like that.” She gives him a wicked smile. She wants to scratch him, to tear at his skin and draw blood. She’s full of fire and fight. All she can think of now is Tiago, how much he hurt her, how much she wanted to hurt him. Fury burns through her body, lighting up the tips of her fingers as though she’s been ignited and could singe his skin. “I want to—”
“Yes,” he whispers,