At The Millionaire's Request. Teresa Southwick

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      “I didn’t start it. He did.” Lifting a finger, he pointed at Spike.

      “You were supposed to be gone, Sullivan,” she said to hardware face.

      “I was waiting for him to come back for his stuff.” The languid teen instantly jumped up and went for the ghoul, shoving the sub out of the way.

      Recovering quickly, she got between them and tried to break it up. “Knock it off, you two,” she grunted, pushing against ghoul’s chest.

      For all the attention they paid her, she might have been an ant between two chihuahuas. But the stubborn look on her face said she wasn’t giving up. And that’s when she got popped by a stray fist.

      Gavin grabbed ghoul by the neck of his black T-shirt and easily yanked him back. The physical intervention startled him long enough for Gavin to step between the two and sweep her out of the way with his arm.

      “Back off before you get hurt,” he ordered.

      “They’re my responsibility.”

      “The responsible thing to do would be to get help while I keep them from killing each other.”

      She nodded then picked up the phone on the wall and spoke to someone on the other end. Two minutes later the door opened and a beefy man who looked like campus security burst into the room and the teens froze. He took one look at the situation and shook his head.

      “Office,” he barked at the two combatants. “Now.”

      The two creeps glared at each other, breathing hard. Then Spike shot Gavin a drop-dead-bastard look before he sauntered out the door, every step broadcasting his message: screw you and every other adult on the planet. The ghoul followed in his cocky wake.

      “You okay?” the guard asked the teacher.

      “Fine,” she said, letting out a breath.

      Then the door closed and they were alone.

      She met Gavin’s gaze and her hand shook as she tucked a strand of silky blond hair behind her ear. “Thanks for your help.”

      “I’m glad I was here.”

      He studied her from head to toe, which didn’t take long as she barely reached his shoulder. Her hair was fine and straight, a center part sending the silken strands to frame her small face. Her too long bangs caught in the thick, dark lashes framing her big blue eyes—eyes that tilted up, catlike at the corners, which was the only striking thing about her. She was slender, delicate and almost fragile-looking.

      He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but when a woman was a man’s first, best hope, he wanted someone more…more something. Wings, a halo and the ability to walk on water would be a definite plus. He’d figured taller, too. Then he noticed the red mark just forming below her eye and anger surged through him all over again.

      He cupped her cheek in his palm and gently probed the area beginning to swell. “This needs ice. Are you really all right?”

      Her beautiful eyes widened as she quickly backed away. “I’m fine,” she said. “And grateful that you were here.” Then she stared at him. “Why are you here?”

      “I’m looking for M. J. Taylor.”

      “You found her. And you are?”

      “Gavin Spencer.”

      She looked puzzled. “The name doesn’t ring a bell. Do you have a student in one of my classes?”

      He wanted to ask if he looked old enough to have a child in high school but decided he didn’t want her to confirm it. What he’d been through with Sean had most certainly aged him. Instead he let his gaze wander over water stains in the acoustical ceiling and numerous desktop carvings in the thirty or so desks lined up in rows. This classroom was pretty grim.

      “The real question is, why are you here? From what I just saw, tax money would be better spent on pepper spray and self-defense lessons than books and computers.”

      She laughed and it was a lovely sound. The shadows disappeared from the depths of her blue eyes.

      “It’s really not that bad. I like working with teenagers. They’re funny and spontaneous. Today was just one of those days. An argument over a girl. Something happened at lunch.” One slender shoulder rose in a shrug. “Teenage passion mixed with an abundance of hormones is not a pretty sight. Most of the time those two are actually quite pleasant and bright,” she said, glancing at the door where the teenagers had disappeared.

      “You sub for them a lot?”

      “I’m a permanent substitute. I know. It’s an oxymoron. I’m taking over the class for a teacher who recently had a baby.”

      Suddenly the sparkle was gone and the shadows returned, and he wondered why.

      “What frightens me the most is that those two will be making the decisions about our welfare when we’re in our declining years,” he said.

      “One hopes not those two in particular,” she said, the corners of her lips curving up.

      “You should do that more often.”

      “What?”

      “Laugh. Smile.”

      Again the amusement disappeared and she was all seriousness. And sadness. “Training the next generation—our caretakers—is no laughing matter.”

      “So why do you do it?”

      “I have to make a living.”

      Everyone did. But he’d learned the hard way that if you had a lot of it, you became a target for the unscrupulous and morally challenged who wanted it. “You don’t have to make a living like this,” he said, glancing around again.

      “That’s presumptuous.” Her gaze narrowed warily as she studied him. “You never answered my question. Are you here about a student?”

      “I’m here because you’re a speech pathologist.”

      “How did you know that?” she asked sharply.

      “Dr. McKnight gave me your name.” Gavin saw recognition in her expression, which told him she knew the neurologist.

      “I was a speech therapist. Now I’m a teacher.”

      “A substitute,” he pointed out. “Why?”

      “I got burned out. This is less intense.”

      “Correct me if I’m wrong, but that fight was pretty intense.” He looked around her classroom, then met her gaze. “Playing referee is better than helping children?”

      “I believe I’m still helping children. But none of that is any of your business. So, Mr. Spencer, unless you have a student in my class that you want to discuss, I think we’re finished—”

      “I СКАЧАТЬ