Learning Curves - By Elyse Mady Page 0,16

the veggie samosas rise in her throat.

What if he spreads the news of our encounter around? The damning thought skittered into her brain before she could stop it. Because no matter how people claimed the rules had changed for female academics, gaining a reputation for dubious one-night stands was hardly going to endear her to any hiring committee looking for signs of intellectual commitment.

Despite the innocuous nature of his reply, his dark, smooth voice slithered across her skin like an unwitting caress and forced to her to abandon her increasingly frantic thoughts. His lips quirked in a crooked half-smile that hinted at, but didn’t reveal, the dimples she knew were there. Her nipples tightened at the sight of his mouth curved in undeniable sensual appeal.

Bad, bad nipples. Apparently they weren’t concerned with the vagaries of hiring committees, regardless of Leanne’s sensible admonitions.

Crossing her arms to hide the signs of her body’s eagerness, she waited to see how he would respond to the dean’s introduction.

“Actually, we’ve met, Dean Rose, but we’ve never been formally introduced. Of course, Leanne may not remember. It was a very brief meeting.” His eyes glinted with sharp humor, and he held out his hand, an unmistakable challenge on his face. Unable to avoid his gesture without appearing rude, Leanne put out her own hand in response.

When his agile fingers wrapped around her slender ones, she couldn’t help but remember the feel of them inside her. A warm flood of moisture followed as she considered not only where those fingers had been but what they’d done too.

“Of course I remember,” she said, angry at the breathless hitch in her voice but unable to avoid it. “Leanne Galloway.”

“Brandon Myles,” he said evenly. “I’m glad we finally have a chance to be properly introduced. Because I have to tell you, Leanne, I’ve been wondering who you were since the first time we met.”

Chapter Four

The security lights reflected an unearthly orange glow against the rain-soaked paths as Leanne hurried toward the university parking lot. Most of the day classes had finished and, as the early darkness deepened, only a handful of students darted between buildings, their shoulders hunched against the driving rain, their faces obscured by flimsy umbrellas and precarious newspapers.

Ducking beneath the portico next to the science building to escape the downpour, Leanne tried to reassure herself that she hadn’t run away from the Faculty Club. She needed to leave to tackle her marking. She’d like to think that she acquitted herself admirably after the shock of meeting Brandon had subsided. That she’d managed to hold her own and parry his seemingly innocuous inquiries with bland cocktail talk of her own. That she’d been aloof, dignified and oblivious to his myriad physical inducements.

Oh, who was she trying to kid? She’d acquitted herself with all the aplomb of a toddler for whom two-syllable words were still an impossible challenge. As for her body’s treacherous reactions? Well, after the mass defection of every body part from the neck down, there was no doubt whose side of the argument it lined up to support.

Even now, a dull ache throbbed low between her thighs and her breasts were full and sensitive. The friction of her wide book bag strap rubbing across one peaked nipple was enough to have her tearing her hair out. She felt wild, horny and incredibly frustrated.

And it was all his fault.

“Leanne!”

The hand that grabbed her shoulder startled her, and she whirled, instinctively seeking out the reassuring blue light that marked the nearest security phone. But the any relief evaporated when she saw who it was.

“Brandon.”

He was the last person on earth she wanted to see right now. Anger overcame her at his continued intrusion into her calm and ordered existence. Who the hell did he think he was, horning in on her life like this? Couldn’t he take a hint? She’d left the reception because she didn’t want to talk to him. She didn’t need to talk to him. They didn’t have anything to say.

“Look, I’m sorry.” He was drenched, wearing only a worn leather jacket against the November downpour. His hair was plastered against his skull, and beads of water sparkled on his impossibly long lashes. His flat nipples beaded against the cold, visible through his thin wool sweater. The acceleration of her heartbeat did nothing to endear him to Leanne at that moment. It only fueled her irrational spurt of guilt and lust.

“Sorry? What’s that supposed to mean?” She waved her hand, dismissing his apology. “Sorry you