Love of Her Lives (3 page)

The feel of her was distant and disturbingly faint. All he knew of her studies was that they encompassed a branch of philosophy that examined the mind. Now he knew two things: she was not attending class that day, and he’d been a fool to trust Finn.

Two men stopped near him in front of room 1077. A middle–aged man, dressed in a crisp black jacket, spoke to a lad with short, clipped hair wearing an oversized shirt and breeches that hung dangerously low on his hips. Teacher and student, he gleaned from overhearing.

“ … a fungal species that is pathogenic to plants,” said the professor. “We’ll begin the lab work on Monday, Derek, 8
A.M.
; I’d like to have you on board.”

“Cool. I’m interested in how temperature affects fungi, so this will work out. Thanks, Professor Smythe. I gotta get to class, so I’ll meet you in your lab on Monday morning.”

As the professor entered room 1077, Calum watched him drape his jacket over a chair, take papers from what looked to be a modern carpet bag to arrange on a dais, and then exit the room. An idea formulated in his mind. While students appeared to dress with no care at all, he imagined professors would respect their profession by dressing conventionally. The jacket would give him the scholarly touch he needed, and that bag would add credibility. While he typically didn’t condone theft, his woman’s life was at stake, so he would borrow the jacket and see it returned to the university later.

With a glance up and down the hallway, he slipped into the room and snatched both the jacket and the bag. To be as accommodating as possible to Professor Smythe, he emptied the bag of its contents except for a sheath of paper and writing tools. Those he would use when he approached Bethia. He hoped she would not tap into subconscious memories of their last life together and the horrific fight that led to her sudden death, but that she would remember the love bond between them and welcome him into her life.

He remembered Finn’s warning. Calum must not use his will to influence Bethia. Free will was a sticky thing — no bending, no loop holes, no interference in any way. He intended to heed the warning.

Outside the university, he stood on the smooth stone path and took a moment to acclimatize. Odours assailed him. Not familiar city smells. Despite the stream of humanity overflowing the walkways, the air held no natural scents. Where was the earth, the grasses, the creatures? He’d followed the progress of the automobile, so he wasn’t surprised to see them on the streets, but the speed at which they travelled astonished him, and their stench had him longing for a civilisation setback.

However, this was no time to pine for a mountain beneath his feet. Who knew what trouble Bethia might get into while he was diverted?

His attention was drawn by a woman waving her arm. “Taxi, here please.” She hollered at a passing automobile that pulled to a stop against the curb. Calum watched as the woman climbed in behind the driver and issued an address. It didn’t take him long to catch the gist of this service.

A roil of dread curdled his belly as if Bethia was in danger. What if he was already too late?

An auto with a taxi sign approached. He stepped off the curb to halt the vehicle. It screeched to a stop with the driver waving his fist.

“Good day, sir.” He opened the door and slipped in beside the driver.

“What crazy thing you do. Are you an insane man? I almost run you down.” The taxi man’s brown eyes blinked repeatedly in a chestnut face that showed little composure.

“Calm yourself. My reflexes are sharp. Carry on, now. We must make way to Ashbury immediately.”

The woods darkened as the sun vanished behind a cloud. Beth’s mouth went dry. She looked over her shoulder to see a quarterback–like guy walking on the trail that ran along the river. The criminal that banked in the woods?

Truly it would be a wild coincidence for the guy who’d buried the backpack to come along just as she dug it up.

With the backpack slung over her shoulder, she hurried toward her house with her ears tuned to his footsteps. Halfway up the yard, she spared a glance over her shoulder.

What a ridiculous imagination she had. The guy didn’t stray from the trail or seem to notice her.

Safe inside, she tipped the pack to empty the contents onto her kitchen table. Out slipped one large cash–filled Ziploc followed by one sandwich–sized, marijuana–filled Ziploc. Nothing in the pockets, except … oh, this was interesting. One business card —
Chantal Desjardins, RE/MAX Alliance, Quebec City.
A real estate agent. Odd.

Beth put the business card aside, glanced out her kitchen window, and removed a pack of bills from the baggie. A fan through the stack revealed twenty dollar bills. She counted out two hundred bills and did the math — $4,000. Ten similar stacks were nestled together. A quick calculation meant she had $40,000 on her kitchen table.

Lucky thing her father had planted the fear of God in her when she was young. She pictured His divine pen poised to besmirch her good record if she dared take one crisp bill. Way to go, Dad. Besides, she had her own money, lottery girl — $1,472,000, a life–changing win.

Shocking how fast money goes.

The police station sat out on the highway at the other side of town. She read the clock on the microwave. Ten thirty. Given that she needed to leave the house soon to pick up lunches for her Meals on the Move clients, she’d have to drop the backpack off afterward. Volunteers were hard to come by, and the elderly shut–ins depended on her for their meals.

As Beth stuffed the money and drugs back in place, the doorbell rang. She scooted down the centre hall, opened the door, and nearly gasped.

A man stood on her porch, not just an everyday man, but an incredibly stunning one who oozed vitality at first glance. Why she would gasp at the sight of him, she didn’t know. Their eyes met. His lips parted into a slow smile under eyes of boundless blue, a rich summer-sky blue, the kind that drew your eyes up to take notice.

He pulled in a long breath. “Bethia.” The name slid off his tongue like a sensual whisper that floated into her ear. The stunning smile he shot her was laced with such confidence; she paused for a second before answering. No one had ever called her Bethia. “Not exactly, no.”

“You are Beth Stewart.” His voice was deep, husky, and rich in substance drawn from a far–off place. Celtic origins, for sure. Strands of his shoulder–length, crème–caramel hair, brushed his cheekbones. A quick flick of his head removed the length of hair from his face. The gesture looked oddly familiar, but she supposed the motion was common enough for a man with long hair.

“I am Calum Cunningham, a professor from the university.” He offered his hand which she shook, keenly aware when his thumb brushed against the sensitive centre of her palm. With a gentle twist of his wrist, he pulled her hand to his lips and laid a kiss on her skin that dispersed like a soothing caress through her mind. Giving her head a little shake helped to dispel his charm.

“Ah, well the name Bethia means life. As life goes, there are many paths to choose, Beth, and if you’ve a care to stay out of harm’s way, you must be sure to choose well.”

Okay, that was a strange thing to say. “Actually, Beth comes from Elizabeth. I was named for my great–grandmother, but thanks for the sage advice. What can I do for you, professor?”

He leaned back on one heel, unruffled by her sarcasm or the look of irritation she’d sent him. Instead, his beautiful lips formed another rousing smile that reached clear to those eyes of blue. “‘Tis a fine name for a lovely lass. I’m visiting summer students to conduct a study on risk–taking behaviour.”

He still held her hand. In his right hand a clipboard rested against his thigh. “May I come inside and ask you a few questions?” He gazed at her mouth, at her hair, and then scrutinized her from top to bottom. Geez, this man had a way about him — a way of bewitching a woman, fully confident of her surrender — no mistaking the sensual heat of an attempted conquest there.

He had to be kidding.

She pulled her hand free and probably should have shut the door in his inappropriate face, but she couldn’t help giving him a taste of his own ogling.

She ogled him right back. The man was built like a warrior, tall, wide in the shoulders with a chest broad enough for a woman to spend the afternoon exploring. Warrior? That was an odd association to pop into her mind, as if you couldn’t go anywhere these days without bumping into a warrior. Whether he was a university professor or not remained to be seen, but he definitely looked good in those jeans and mocha turtleneck.

His fingers drummed the curve of an impressive biceps as he regarded her, regarding him. She took her time scanning the square jaw and feline angles of his face, but this guy was no tabby cat. Tabbies weren’t warriors. He was cut from the mountains — solid muscle, graceful lines, and eyes smooth as still water.

“No, Professor Cunningham, you may not come inside.”

He shot her a satisfied smile and leaned down to pull a pen from the pocket of the briefcase at his feet. “Very good. I’m glad to know you’re a sensible lass.” He lowered his head toward hers. “Never let strangers into your home.”

“So I’ve been told.”

His smile enchanted, like he kept a secret just behind it she might like to know. He was enchanting all right, subtle enough not to be overdone, but she saw through that tactic. This guy was one of those raw, masculine, Tarzan types who could throw a girl over his shoulder like she was lunch.

After a quick notation, he let the clipboard rest against his thigh again. “This study examines two opposing schools of thought. I would appreciate your honest opinion. Some people believe those who take risks are motivated by nothing other than a death wish, while others believe partaking in perilous undertakings make a person feel more alive. Consider both theories for a moment please and then tell me what you think?”

Perilous undertakings? As in the retrieval of the Roots backpack on her kitchen table? Well, sometimes people had to take risks for the good of others, although her father didn’t seem to think she need be one of those people. “I think, Professor Cunningham, if you risk nothing, you fail to grow. The degree of risk is also a factor. What might be considered risky to one person could be a walk in the park for another. For instance, I skydive, yet I don’t consider myself a person who takes unnecessary risks.”

As he glanced skyward, a look of puzzlement crossed his face then quickly melted into a frown. “Diving from the sky? I can’t imagine why a lass would need do such a thing. Unless the lass has a death wish. What then, would you consider a necessary risk, Beth?” Her name slid off his tongue with a lilting brogue that settled in her as a silky reminiscence of bedtime and firelight and orange blossom honey. Sweet, but she couldn’t fathom where the feeling had come from.

“Ask the fireman who takes necessary risks for the good of others if he has a death wish.”

“I’m not interested in firemen. It’s your safety that concerns me.”

As if she needed another caretaker. Since she’d become a homeowner, her father and brother dispensed endless play–it–safe lectures. And they wondered why she’d moved so far from the family nest.

His gaze narrowed in behind her. This guy likely had perfect vision, not to mention a clear visual to that backpack on her table. She didn’t miss the way his eyes widened before his gaze settled back on her. A shiver of foreboding raised gooseflesh on her neck.

She took a step back and gripped the door. “I’m sorry, but I have things to do. If you’d like to leave your questionnaire with me, I’ll fill it in and return it to your office.”

“Beth, where did you find the black satchel on your table?” The question invaded her mind. She actually felt it touch her cerebrum, like a push into her brain. The oddest sensation.

“Buried just inside the property line in my backyard.” The sound of her immediate response surprised her. Why had she answered him? The backpack was none of his business.

“Get the satchel and bring it to me now.”

“Wait right here, I’ll get it.”
Don’t ask questions. Trust him implicitly. Stay out of trouble, mind your own business and don’t get involved in other people’s affairs where you have a way of digging yourself into a mire of trouble.
These thoughts drove her down her hallway to the table where she snatched the bag by the strap and zipped it shut.

Give it to him immediately.

Bits of soil scattered like dust as she drew the bag off the table.

“That’s a good lass.”

Did she detect a condescending tone? She stiffened.
No one tells me what to do.

The odd sense of detachment wavered as she stood in her hallway facing the empty doorway. Where was the warrior?

Taking a few steps back, she peeked into her living room — empty. Outside, she saw no sign of Professor Cunningham on the porch or on the driveway or on the street.

An unexpected melancholy fluttered in her heart. The sexy, warrior professor had vanished.

Beth closed her front door and dropped the backpack on the floor. Was she truly hearing voices? And why had she purred like a pussycat in heat at the sight of that warrior? Not warrior, she corrected,
professor
.

Had she imagined the voice inside her head? She had a sudden recollection of an abnormal psychology lecture. No, there was nothing abnormal about her psychology. Her life? Possibly. Could it be that the impending boyfriend breakup, the mysterious treasure hunt, the tropical home renovation, and volunteer work — amidst studying for an upcoming midterm exam and writing a final paper — was too much? No wonder she was hearing voices. She made a mental note to consider a few serious life changes.

Truly, she should count her blessings. Other people were not so blessed, as she well knew from her experience with Meals on the Move.

With that thought, she headed to the kitchen to check the time as she needed to pick up lunches soon. The elderly got ornery if their meals were late. Her mood lightened as she imagined lunch being the main event in their day. She played a small part in brightening people’s lives.