Learning Curves - By Elyse Mady Page 0,66
be sitting before the Walters committee, answering their questions about her research and her academic goals and she was stoked.
In between bouts of sensual gluttony, she’d spent every remaining hour boning up on her presentation. She’d rehearsed her answers with Julia and Cassandra Sunday night. She’d met with her department chair again on Monday between classes, so they could nail down her closing statement, making it as note perfect as humanly possible. She’d even found a few minutes to steal away and shop for her new suit—its sharp tailoring hopefully conveying her serious professional qualifications even as its stylish cut and rich color reflected her newly discovered inner energies too.
And it was all thanks to Brandon, she thought smugly. Due to his talents and his faith and his amazing lovemaking she’d discovered the woman who’d lain dormant inside her for far too many years. With a confident flip of her hair, she walked into the reception area.
“Hello, Judy. Are Deans Kessler and Rose ready for me?” she asked the receptionist.
Looking up from her computer, the other woman shook her head. “Not yet. But they haven’t forgotten your big interview this afternoon, don’t you worry. They’re in with a student on a disciplinary matter but they should be done any minute. Why don’t you have a seat and I’ll let you know as soon as they’re free.”
Tucking her satchel beneath the waiting room chair, Leanne sat down and crossed her legs. Resisting the urge to take out her closing statement and rehearse it one last time, she had just picked up an information packet on travel opportunities overseas when the frosted glass door swung open to reveal Milton Kessler, Dean of Graduate Studies, her longtime mentor, Dean Rose and…
“Brandon?”
Leanne was stunned. What was he doing here? Judy said the dean was dealing with a disciplinary matter but what did that have to do with him? A swarm of apprehensive butterflies took flight and her confidence began to seep away.
Ignoring Leanne’s outburst, the dean spoke to Brandon. “Mr. Myles, you’ll need to speak with my secretary to schedule a date to appear before the Senate’s academic review committee. I’d like the matter resolved before the end of term.”
“Academic review committee?” Leanne gasped. Only the most serious cases were referred to that committee—plagiarism, criminal misconduct, fraud. There had to be a mistake. Somehow, somewhere, something had gone terribly wrong. She expected Brandon to protest or argue but he simply nodded as if the instructions were to be expected.
“I’ll do that today,” he agreed grimly.
“What are you talking about?” Leanne insisted. “I don’t understand what Brandon could be accused of that would merit this level of response.”
Dean Kessler turned and said, “Don’t worry, Leanne. This matter doesn’t concern you. We’ll be on our way to your interview shortly.”
She dropped her briefcase on the floor. It thudded and fell on its side.
The dean expected her to just walk away after dropping the bombshell that Brandon’s academic career hung in the balance? She looked at Brandon, hoping his expression would give her some clue, but his eyes were fixed on the carpeting at his feet.
“Surely there’s been some sort of a misunderstanding,” she said. “What about mediation? Or the university ombudsperson?”
The dean looked grim. “There’s no mistake, I’m afraid. We only learned of the infraction yesterday, when a concerned alumna contacted the department to share her suspicions. We met with Mr. Myles today and he’s admitted that the charges were true. He has violated two separate clauses of his fellowship funding agreement with the university.”
Funding agreement? This was about money? None of it made any sense.
“Are you saying this is about Brandon’s fellowship?” she pressed.
Every graduate student at Wellington received some degree of monetary support during their studies. It wasn’t much, but topped up by teaching assistantships, research grants and student loans, it made life as a student possible. The dean’s charges were serious but she couldn’t imagine Brandon doing anything underhanded with the money he received. And he lived so modestly—a shoebox apartment, no car, no fancy clothes or electronics.
“Brandon, what are they talking about?”
He stepped forward and touched her arm, the heat from his fingers traveling along her icy-cold body like a molten torch. From the corner of her eye, she saw Dean Kessler stiffen, his disapproving gaze taking in the intimate gesture.
“Leanne, don’t worry about this right now. About me. Focus on what you need to do today to win that prize,” Brandon said. But his words only confused her further and provided