Risqué Business. Tawny Weber

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      When Delaney opened her mouth to retort, Mindy shook her head. “With someone else actually in the room with you.”

      Damn. She clamped her lips closed.

      “What good is another department-store makeup fiasco?” she asked instead. She’d tried that once in her teens and discovered being invisible was much preferable to being mocked.

      “No, you need something much bigger.” Mindy leaned over to push the magazine into her hands.

      Delaney glanced at the cover, then at the dog-eared page. Risqué? “A makeover contest? You’re kidding, right?”

      “Not at all. It’s a killer deal. Complete makeover. Hair, makeup, completely new wardrobe. Not some cheesy thing, either, it’s custom created just for you. They even teach the winners how to maintain her new look.”

      “Why on earth would I want to do this?”

      “It’s your shot. You win, you’ll see what a difference it makes.”

      Delaney tossed the magazine back on the desk with a roll of her eyes. “What’s the point? I hardly think something as shallow as eye shadow and hairspray will cure my problems.”

      Mindy pulled a face, then shrugged. Delaney felt bad for hurting the other woman’s feelings. Before she could apologize, Mindy slipped the magazine into her drawer. The alarm on her desk squawked a reminder.

      “He’s leaving in ten minutes. If you want to see him, you’d better go in now,” Mindy reminded her.

      Frowning, Delaney nodded her thanks, scooped up the tote and squared her shoulders.

      She strode through the heavy doors, lifted her chin and took a deep breath. She’d originally intended to hint around that she’d appreciate his backing on her application. Now she’d have to be more direct. For once, she had to stand up for herself.

      Of course, it would help if her father actually looked at her. Delaney cleared her throat, but he still didn’t glance up from the papers he was signing.

      “I need your help,” Delaney stated quietly.

      He lifted a finger, gesturing for her to wait. Preferably in silence.

      She clutched the strap of her bag so hard the canvas hurt her fingers. She wished she had the nerve to throw it across the room, but years of lectures on why losing control never paid off flashed through her head. Temper, temper. Maybe if she recited that often enough, she’d stop imagining how good it might be to let loose and let him know exactly how she felt. But, as with most things nonacademic, imagining was the only way she’d experience the pleasure. Her mother had always been able to soothe away her temper, but once she’d gone, Delaney was on her own. Once, only once, she’d let her temper fly with her father. She’d been ten. He’d sent her away to boarding school as a result.

      She glared at the top of his balding head. Tufts of red hair stuck out like chicken fluff. Didn’t it just figure that along with his brilliant mind, she’d inherited the man’s long, lanky body and god-awful hair? Where he came across as scholarly and authoritative, Delaney just looked like a carrot-topped Olive Oyl. Except given her miserable luck with men, instead of fighting over her, Popeye and Bluto would probably run off with each other.

      “What kind of help?” Randolph Conner, Dean of Rosewood College and Delaney’s only living relative, asked in a distracted tone when he finally glanced at her.

      “Support,” she informed him. “You know I applied for the assistant’s position. Apparently Professor Belkin is changing the job requirements.”

      “He’s merely expanding the job description,” Dean Conner—as he preferred everyone, including his only daughter, to address him—said. He still didn’t bother looking at her, so Delaney didn’t bother hiding her angry expression. “Professor Belkin, as head of the English department, feels we need a strong, dynamic person in the position.”

      Frustration surged through her. For all the faculty noticed—her father included—she really was invisible. Delaney thrust out her chin and did the unthinkable—she questioned his motives.

      “Is it because she’s so attractive?” she asked.

      “Wha…?” Dean Conner shot her a frown, his brows drawn together like a pair of bright red caterpillars. Finally, a reaction. “Who? Professor Tate? How does her appearance factor into anything? Who cares about all that physical fluff?”

      And he meant it. A single parent, Randolph Conner had raised Delaney to value intelligence. Intellect, he deemed, was much more meaningful than something as fleeting and nebulous as society’s current definition of beauty.

      Of course, since most of the rest of society hadn’t been raised with the same standard, that left Delaney at a slight disadvantage. She ground her teeth in frustration. And now it looked like brains weren’t enough, either.

      “Professor Tate is the woman who was just here, right?” Delaney took a deep breath and, despite the clenching in her gut, confronted him. “My qualifications, to say nothing of my seniority, are stronger.”

      Her father sighed, his deep, put-upon sigh that let her know she was wasting his valuable time. He used the same sigh when she’d wanted to learn how to ride a bike, had asked permission to go to school activities or wanted to get a pet. That sigh was so effective she still couldn’t ride a bike and had the social skills of a pimply-faced twelve-year-old girl who’d been deprived of the love of a puppy.

      “Delaney, you’re missing the point. We need fresh blood in the English department. New ideas and a strong program.”

      She just stared. He obviously wasn’t going to back her proposal. But she needed to hear it from him.

      “Will you support my application?” she asked, her throat tight.

      “As I said, we need fresh blood. Bright, energetic people who will bring excitement to the program. You’re one of our most brilliant professors, Delaney. A strong benefit to the department.” He fiddled with some papers on his desk, then met her eyes. He had that irritated “it’s for your own good” look on his face. Her stomach did a somersault. “As a matter of fact, at Professor Belkin’s recommendation, this next semester we’re going to experiment with taking some of the classes to the Internet. We’d like you to handle them.”

      He handed her a course outline for the summer semester. She didn’t have a single nonvirtual class.

      Her breath caught in her chest and she abruptly sank into a chair. Tears, rarely allowed to surface, filled her eyes. She took the few seconds needed to gather control, knowing her father would prefer she delay her response rather than show any form of emotion he might have to acknowledge.

      “If I’m such a benefit, why’d I just get demoted?” Not what she’d intended to say, but she found she didn’t regret her outburst. After all, maybe if she spoke up for once, he’d listen to her.

      Before he could put into words the irritation clear on his face, she jumped up to pace the room, the paper clenched in her fist. “Oh, sure, you can claim it’s not an official demotion. But what the hell would you call it when my classes are suddenly all via cyberspace?”

      If not for her brains, nobody СКАЧАТЬ