Tainted Love (Sweetest Taboo #2) (13 page)

He laughed his deep, rich laugh, and I took a sip of my wine. I’d forgotten how incredibly attractive he was – larger than life and both brighter and darker than Tom. I’d spent the last two weeks of my life falling back in love with Tom, but here I was in this suave professor’s dining room, casually sipping wine on his plush leather couch and waiting for dinner to be served. I felt like a real adult, like someone to be taken seriously.

Professor Wellings, who I still couldn’t bring myself to refer to as ‘Marcus’, held up a finger and rose, walking into the kitchen to retrieve our dinner from his oven. I’d made one of my specialties for him – herb-crusted filet mignon, along with mashed potatoes and some seasoned and steamed greens. The meal went wonderfully with a nice bottle of aged merlot, in my experience, and it would set just the right tone for the evening. Being from a winemaking country and region, I’d grown up drinking red wine at dinner, and generally knew exactly what wine to pair with the food. In our culture, people began drinking red wine in their teens, and never thought twice about it.

I’d carried this tradition into my college years, and used my experience with wine to spice up my cooking.

I still wasn’t sure exactly how I’d been roped into making dinner, but I knew there was no way I would refuse. Professor Wellings was doing me a huge favor, after all, working with me on my thesis two nights in a row. I suppose I thought I owed it to him, to feed us while we discussed my thesis topic and developed a more robust outline. In exchange for my cooking, Professor Wellings had insisted that he be the one to get up and serve dinner. I’d laughed and accepted the compromise; if he was going to plate, it also meant he was going to do the dishes, and that was my least favorite part of cooking.

As he worked in the kitchen, I glanced around the room. It was a rich brownstone in the affluent part of town, and the wealth extended into the décor. I wasn’t sure, because I’d never asked, but the rumor around school was that he came from a wealthy family. I knew that university faculty made a comfortable living, but a young, single faculty member not yet tenured would never be able to afford a house in this part of the District. I knew from last year’s research that his family - owned racehorses – a rich man’s lifestyle, to be sure, but not one that necessarily made people rich.

What had the family done to garner so much wealth?

The interior around me was done in dark, rich cherry and mahogany woods, with red, green, and gold brocades and wall treatments. To me, the entire house looked like it had been dunked in the rich colors of coffee and wine. It was the perfect place to study history, philosophy, and English literature, and it wasn’t hard to imagine that it was the home of an accomplished academic.

Professor Wellings returned with two dishes in hand, and nodded toward the bottle of wine. “Care to pour us a couple more glasses? That merlot is quite smooth.”

I nodded and topped off the glasses, making sure his was fuller than mine. I generally had only one glass of wine with dinner, and this would make for my second. If we were going to be going over my thesis material, I didn’t want to be too buzzed – I’d learned the hard way that wine and academics didn’t mix, especially when I was dealing with a complicated, and extensive philosophical theory that was being forced into the literary sphere. Professor Wellings appeared in the doorway to the kitchen, two fully laden plates in hand. He grinned and then inhaled deeply.

“This smells amazing, Isabel. If it tastes as delicious as it smells, I might ask you to come and cook for me more often.”

I blushed and buried my nose in my wine glass, a nervous reaction I had acquired in my dealings with potentially romantic encounters. I wasn’t sure how to respond to that, and taking a long, fortifying sip of wine gave me a moment to collect myself. I was already starting to wonder what exactly this night was all about. It was feeling much more like a date than an advisor/student session.

***

I woke up the next morning with a fuzzy head and only vague images of what had happened the night before. As the memories started to come back, though, I panicked, jumping out of bed and scanning the surroundings quickly with my groggy eyes. 

Home. I was home. I sighed with relief and sank back into the bed, holding my aching head with both hands. I lay back down, the room spinning around me, and tried to put the pieces of what had happened last night back together. I’d had more wine than I intended, I could remember that much. Dinner had been delicious, as Marcus had confirmed, and had lasted long into the night. Before I knew it I’d had a third glass of wine, and then half of a fourth. Marcus had chuckled coolly as he refilled it again and again.

Suddenly my thoughts grounded to a halt. I was calling him
Marcus
, and it was the most natural thing in the world. When had that changed?

Probably about the time he took you upstairs to his room, a voice in my head reminded. I gasped at the thought. The voice was right, though, I remembered marching upstairs to his bedroom after dinner, led by Marcus, who had taken my hand tenderly and then carried me toward his oversized bed. It must have been a King or even a California King sized bed! A stab of pain went through my heart at the image. I’d agreed, I remembered, and followed willingly. But I’d been drunk at the time, very drunk, and certainly not in any shape to make grave decisions like that.

Once we were in bed, though, it had been amazing. Slow and tender and beautiful, colored with the haze of wine and the glow of candles on the nightstands. Marcus was a tender, careful and expert lover, making certain that I received my pleasure before taking his own. He’d whispered beautiful words in my ear as we made love, telling me how perfect I was, how much smarter I was than the other girls my age, and how beautiful my body was. I couldn’t remember all of it, but what I could remember was truly remarkable.

He hadn’t wanted me spending the night at his house, I vaguely remembered. He’d insisted that we get up immediately afterward, mentioning the penalties if he was found sleeping with a student, and had driven me back to my apartment in haste. And he’d left me at the curb with a kiss and a promise to talk again soon. I frowned at that. I’d gotten home safely, and I was thankful for that, but the night certainly hadn’t gone the way I had anticipated. I’d had a crush on the man, but I’d never meant to sleep with him. Sleeping with a professor was against the rules of the university, and besides, it was –

The thought dropped suddenly into a black abyss. Sleeping with a professor. Tom. Oh God! All the warm and fuzzy feelings from the previous evening suddenly disappeared, and I reached for my phone, desperate to get in touch with him.

As soon as I had the phone in my hand, though, I dropped it again. I couldn’t call him. Not yet. Not right now. I had no idea what I’d say, and I was positive that Tom would recognize the guilt in my voice. Barely two nights away from Tom, and I’d already screwed things up. I hadn’t been certain that I wanted to be with Tom – permanently – but that didn’t give me the right to sleep with someone else. Even if that other man was a suave, urbane professor of philosophy that I was incredibly attracted too.

I dropped back into bed, feeling sick to my stomach and wondered desperately what I was going to do when all of the sudden, my phone began to vibrate on my nightstand. Who would be calling this early, I thought. Marcus? I snatched the phone up in my hands and looked at the screen – unknown number. Maybe Marcus was calling me from home or from his office at school? His cell phone number was already saved in my phone, so if anything, he was using a different phone to call me this morning. He probably wanted to see if I got home okay last night, or just wanted to check up on me – a sweet gesture indeed.

“Hello,” I said sleepily into the phone, putting on a dreamy tone for effect.

“Isabel?” Tom’s voice asked desperately. Why oh why did my phone register an unknown number when it was Tom calling? I was not prepared to talk with Tom; this was such bad timing.

“Izzy, are you still there?” Tom asked, groping for a response. There was no way out of this. Even though my first impulse was to hang up, I couldn’t just hang up on him. But what could I say? I wanted my plush comforter to swallow me up. I wanted to disappear into the warmth and safety of my bed.

Out of nowhere I began to sob, gentle sobs that communicated grief. The phone was still in my hand, next to my ear, and I was just sobbing. Hearing Tom’s voice on the other end of the phone opened up the flood gates of emotions, of guilt, of betrayal…

“Izzy, talk to me! What’s happened? What have you done? Why have you not called me?” Tom’s voice was frantic, desperate, his tone expressing deep concern. I was unable to find my voice. I couldn’t speak. I just quietly sobbed into the phone while Tom listened and continued to question and demand answers from me. “Isabel, why are you crying? If you have nothing to say to me then just listen. Listen to what I have to say to you! This is really hard to say, Isabel, but you’ve hurt me one too many times. You’ve been ignoring my phone calls and now that I have you on the line you won’t talk to me. You’re just crying, but yet you have nothing to say. Something has happened and you don’t want to tell me, and I’ve been shut out completely for the last two days. I hate to say it, but this is the straw that broke the camel’s back. Isabel, you’re going to have to live with this because there are consequences for your actions, I can’t continue like this. It’s obvious to me that you’re seeing someone at school. I had that feeling a few weeks ago, when you took that phone call outside at the B&B while we were having breakfast. I just don’t trust you anymore, and I’m not even sure I ever really did. You know, Isabel, all I have ever done is love you. I have done nothing but treat you with the utmost respect, and I have been totally honest with you. But it’s clear that I can’t expect the same from you. You say you will do things, and then you don’t. You say you feel a certain way, but then your actions contradict your words. I’ve called you so many times in the last two days, I can’t even count the times and you haven’t returned any of my calls. Where have you been? What have you been up to that you can’t answer or return my calls? Who are you seeing?”

Tom paused, exasperated. He didn’t expect a monologue. He probably expected me to jump in and defend myself at some point, but I didn’t. I just sat slumped in my bed, hair in my face, tears rolling silently down my cheeks, feeling dejected and demoralized about what I had done, what I had put Tom through. But I still couldn’t speak.

“I just need you to be completely honest with me, Isabel,” Tom continued, his voice breaking now, “I have loved you…I have loved you with all of my heart. But now, I’m not even sure I care to hear what you have to say. You always make excuses, you spin things but I think you know as well as I do that it’s just your spin. Isabel, I’ve had enough. I’m going to do my best to just forget you. I don’t want to, but what else can I do? I have to move on with my life. You’re with someone in D.C., someone you failed to tell me about when you were back home with me. It’s so clear to me now and you’re not the person I thought you were, and to make it worse, you aren’t even speaking up to deny it. I hope you’ll be happy with him and that you’ll be a little more faithful to him than you were to me…” Tom’s voice cracked, he was the one sobbing now.

The sound of Tom’s grief stirred my resolve to defend myself and mend what sounded like Tom’s broken heart, if I could even mend it at all. He was right, he had done nothing to deserve such indifferent treatment from me. The tears were still rolling down my cheeks, but my throat was clear and my voice was ready to be heard.

“Oh baby, I’m so sorry to have upset you so much. I felt so terrible about not returning your calls and not even calling you when I landed in D.C. It wasn’t my intention, I swear! You have to know that I’m not up to anything. I swear, Tom. I’ve just been totally slammed with stuff since returning to school. I’ve got the hours at the bookshop, then registration, my apartment to organize, all of the pre-class assignments and readings to finish up before next week. It’s just been crazy hectic, that’s why I haven’t had a chance to return any of your calls. As soon as I heard your voice on the line, I realized how much I’ve neglected you since leaving California, and it made me so sad I just started to cry. Tom, please believe me, there’s nothing going on,” I pleaded, hoping my words were convincing.

Silence.

“Tom, please tell me you still love me. Please tell me you’ll forgive me for being so aloof and for not being sensitive to your needs. You know what it’s like in college, time just escapes you. And I’ve had all sorts of meetings with my advisor about my honors thesis, so that’s taken up so much of my time. Every time you seem to call I’m in a meeting with Professor Wellings so I can’t pick up the phone. By the time the meeting is over, I’m rushing on the metro to make it back home in time to incorporate his recommendations into my draft outline and then I just completely forget to return your call. Baby, you have to believe me. I’d never do anything to hurt you!” I hated lying to Tom, especially when he had always been willing to tell me what I believed to be the truth. I hated lying, period. But I couldn’t stand the thought of him hurting because of something I’d done. I didn’t mean to sleep with Professor Wellings. It wasn’t something I sought out to do. I just thought some innocent flirting would be fun.

I heard Tom sniffle on the other end of the line, then he cleared his throat. “Isabel, I just don’t know what to believe anymore. If I was knee deep in work and really busy, I’d still take five minutes out of my day to call you, to tell you I’d arrived safely, to tell you I was thinking about you. You’re honestly telling me that you were just too busy to even make an effort, I’m sorry Isabel, but I don’t buy it!” Tom’s tone was incredulous.

I had to be more convincing. “Sweetheart,” I began with a soft and loving tone, “I realize it’s an awful excuse, too busy to even call. And you’re right, it’s no excuse at all. I had every intention of calling you and then I’d get sidetracked, super busy and then forget. By the time I was in bed, I was wiped out and fading. That doesn’t mean I don’t love you, or wasn’t thinking about you. I’ve just been exhausted since returning, with so much going on. I am so sorry, baby. I promise to be more thoughtful. If I can’t call you, I’ll send you e-mails when I’m on my computer doing classwork, so at least you know that I’m fine, that we’re good, and that I’m just busy with school and work stuff. Please forgive me, Tom. I didn’t mean to be so inconsiderate and now that I know how much this hurts you, I won’t forget to return your calls again. I promise.”