He stretched to his side and yanked a chain, turning on a lamp next to him. I blinked several times in the newly lit bedroom. He wore a simple black sweater and jeans. His feet were bare. His unruly hair had more red in it in the dim light, his green eyes had more flecks of brown. It made him look more rugged than usual. More intense. His jawline added to the effect. It was lined with scruff, as if he hadn’t shaved since class yesterday morning, and, though I’d never had such an impulse before, I found myself wanting to run my hand across the fuzz. Wanted to know exactly what it felt like under my skin. Was it soft? Did it scratch? Who was the last woman to run her hand across his jaw? Did he love her?
“I know who you are, Sabrina Lind.” Donovan’s declaration shocked me back to the here and now. “Ninety-seven point three average. You’re here on a scholarship, so that matters. Never missed a day of class. Always sit in the front on the right side. Chad Lee cheats off your quizzes, but you don’t know that. Your essays are on the detailed side but are creative, and I respect that. I appreciated your response to the unfair firing of Peter Oiler at Winn-Dixie Stores, but your perspective on Ford’s decision not to modify the early versions of the Pinto was short-sighted.”
My jaw dropped. There was too much to react to. I chose the easiest to respond to first. “Ford’s decision killed people.”
“It made the company money. It’s called utilitarianism.” Even as he was heartless, his voice was smooth, like the fine scotch that I imagined lingered on his tongue.
I wondered briefly what it would taste like against my own tongue.
Just as quickly, I forced the thought out of my mind. “And I thought the class was called business ethics.” The case he referred to had bothered me a lot. In 1970, Ford had discovered a major error with the Pinto that would likely cause several hundred deaths and injuries. Instead of fixing it however, their cost-benefit analysis determined it would be cheaper to settle the presumed lawsuits. So they didn’t make the modifications.
“I think I’ve taught that ethics have to be personally defined.” Donovan sat back and crossed one ankle over his knee. He searched my face before taking another puff of his cigar. “The offer still stands.”
“What offer?” I blinked once before realizing which offer he meant. “Did you miss the part where you’re my teacher?” And why was I still standing here talking to the guy? I should have left by now. But I was glued in place, as fascinated with this discussion as I’d ever been with Weston King.
“I’m not actually your teacher. I’m the teacher’s assistant.” This was technically true. Mr. Velasquez officially taught the Monday, Wednesday, Friday class. But he only taught half of the time, and even when he did teach, Donovan still sat at his corner desk and graded papers or read or did whatever it was that he did while the rest of us listened to the lecture.
Apparently one of the things he did was watch us.
Or did he just watch me?
A string of goose bumps popped up along my skin at the thought. I hugged myself and rubbed my hands up and down my arms.
Donovan’s lip quirked up, as if he knew exactly the reaction he was having on me. “It’s not officially against school policy if I fraternize with students.”
I shook off a shiver. “By my own personal definition, it would be unethical.”
“And why is that?” His voice wasn’t just smooth, it was warm. Coaxing, even with its bitter edge.
“You grade my papers.”
“So?” His stare was direct. Intense.
And this conversation was ridiculous. I wasn’t considering it. Was I?
I glanced up, just to get my eyes away from him for one minute, and my gaze landed on a framed portrait on top of his fireplace. It was a picture of Donovan with a woman, both laughing as though they were caught candidly. It couldn’t have been taken too long ago—Donovan looked nearly the same age as he was now, but his hair was short and clean-cut. And I’d never seen the woman. Maybe she was someone waiting for him back home. Or someone he’d broken up with. Or someone he was cheating on by flirting with me.
I looked back at him and realized he’d caught me looking at the picture. “If I fooled around with you, my scores might be affected,” I said, answering his last question.
“If you don’t fool around with me, your scores might be affected.” His tone seemed hard now. Cold.
I smiled tightly and shifted my balance from the ball of one foot to the ball of the other, trying to decide if he was kidding.
His expression said he wasn’t.
I swallowed. “You’re an asshole.”
“Am I? You’re the one who came up here trying to get something from me.”
“What do you mean?” The conversation had totally gotten away from me, and wherever it had gone, I was sure I didn’t want to be there.
“You’re alone with me in my bedroom. What else am I supposed to think you’re after?”
A chill ran through me. The hair stood up on the back of my neck. The blood drained from my face.
Donovan set his drink down on the side table and leaned forward so his forearms rested on his thighs.
“Get out of here, Sabrina. This floor is off limits during our parties. Next time you attend one, maybe you’ll think about the ethics of obeying house rules.”
I turned around and dashed downstairs without hesitating another second.
Chapter 2
I grabbed my coat from the bedroom on the main floor where everyone stacked their jackets and ran outside, tying my belt around my waist while I bounded down the front steps of The Keep. I pulled my phone from my pocket and looked at the time. It was too late to risk walking back to my apartment alone. It wasn’t far, but this was campus territory, and I was a better-safe-than-sorry kind of girl. I used my app to arrange for an escort, put my phone away and then rubbed my hands together to keep warm.
It was a cold night. Fall set in right on time in Massachusetts. But like hell was I going back inside. I’d rather freeze.
Which was dumb. I was only punishing myself when I really wanted to punish Donovan. What the fuck was that anyway?
I replayed our entire conversation as I paced the front walk, trying to figure out exactly what had happened between us. All of it had been strange and borderline inappropriate, but there had been something else going on. Hadn’t there? Something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. I should never have engaged, wouldn’t have engaged in a hundred other similar situations, yet I’d been drawn to him. He’d drawn me to him. That’s the thing about Donovan Kincaid, the thing he was famous for—he was a known puppet master. He was a man who pulled the strings, and he’d pulled me to him.
Then why had he turned so icy at the end?
Obviously that was his game the entire time. He was messing with me. He caught me where I shouldn’t be, and he made me pay for it. I deserved it. Didn’t mean I liked it. And it definitely didn’t mean I liked Donovan.
I glanced up at his window and shivered. Was he standing there right now? Watching me through the glass?
I could almost see the flare of his cigar in the dark. Could almost feel his eyes crawling along my skin. Imagining it made me feel both warmer and colder all at once. Like I was less alone and more alone than ever.