"Catriona MacTaggart," I said, my voice soft and almost breathless as I took his hand. "I just moved here from Scotland. To get my PhD."
"Ah, a grad student." He held onto my hand, his palm warm and his grip firm but not too tight. "What department are you in?"
For a second, I couldn't remember. "Archaeology."
"Me too." He moved his thumb over my skin, eliciting a warm tingle that spread over my whole body. "I'm not your adviser, that I'm sure of. I'd remember being assigned a Scots student."
"No, you're not my adviser. I haven't met her yet."
"Just set foot on campus, have you?"
"Aye."
He smiled again. "I do love the way Scots speak. Your accent is lovely."
"I like yours too." I felt idiotic the second I spoke the words, but I couldn't take them back. He heard what I said, even though I almost whispered it.
"Thank you," he said, tipping his head to the side as if considering me. "I hope we'll see each other again sometime. Even though I'm not your adviser, feel free to stop by my office anytime."
"I appreciate that." Sliding my hand free of his, I stood. "I need to go, or I'll be late for my first meeting with my adviser."
"Good luck, Catriona."
I walked away.
And glanced back at Alex five times before I lost sight of him.
I'd loved the way he said my name. If I'm completely honest with myself, I still love hearing him say it.
The doorknob jiggles, like Alex is about to open the door.
Bod an Donais, I'm still standing here staring at it.
And the thought of him catching me has spurred me to curse in my mind again, thinking my brother Rory's favorite Gaelic curse. Bod an Donais, or the devil's penis. It always sounded silly to me, but lately, I find myself muttering it or thinking it often.
I bolt down the hall as Alex opens the door.
Does he see me? Christ, I hope not. That's just what I need, for him to be smugly aware of the fact I've lingered outside his office door. Like I want to see him again. Like speaking to him, simply being in his presence, affects me.
Maybe it does, but he has no need to know about that.
Despite the time it took to confront Alex—a fruitless effort—I still arrive at the dean's office three minutes early. Gus Hooper greets me with a smile and a handshake.
"Welcome to Thensmore University," he says. "We're so pleased to have you here, Dr. MacTaggart."
"I'm pleased to be here," I say, only partially lying. I've looked forward to starting my new job, but not with Alex Thorne here. "I was surprised you chose me for the position, since my resume has been a wee bit slender for the past several years, but I'm honored to have this opportunity."
Hooper waves for me to take a seat and sits down behind his desk. "If Alex Thorne recommends you, I'm sure you'll be exceptional."
Though a chill washes through me, I manage to sit down instead of collapsing onto the chair. Yes, Alex got me this job. I learned that from the woman in human resources who helped me fill out the requisite paperwork. And yes, I fumed while filling out those forms. I fumed and fumed and fumed until I burst into Alex's office. Shouting at him let me expel all that steam.
Well, most of it.
"It was kind of Dr. Thorne to recommend me," I say, and now I am lying outright, like the British Bastard himself. A nasty little part of me wants to mention that Alex had been fired from his job here last year, thanks to his affair with a wealthy donor's ex-wife. The man used his influence to get Alex kicked out. That won't matter anymore. According to Logan, ever since Alex retrieved three stolen Babylonian tablets and returned them to the university, no one cares about his indiscretions.
Except Alex didn't retrieve the tablets. Logan and his wife, Serena, did. I still can't fathom why my cousin let Alex take the credit for it.
"We're so grateful," Gus Hooper says, "that you could fill this position for us on such short notice. Dr. Edwards left so suddenly, it was a huge shock and left a gaping hole in our curriculum."
Three weeks ago, Gus rang me out of the blue to offer me a position here as an assistant professor. I assumed he'd chosen me because no one else would take the job with so little notice. How was I to know Alex had schemed to make it happen? He'd probably kidnapped the professor who quit and forced her to write a resignation letter.
No. More likely, he'd paid her off.
I half listen while Gus Hooper gives me the standard spiel about the university, how wonderful it is, how the faculty are like one big family, et cetera. But my brain keeps torturing me with memories of Alex. The old Alex. The one I'd loved, the one I'd moved in with after knowing him for a month, the one I'd hoped would ask me to marry him. He never had.
Of course not. I'd been nothing but his patsy.
Hooper finishes his spiel, clasping his hands on the desktop. "Now, about your housing situation…"
"What about it?"
"There's been a slight hiccup." He glances down at his hands, then looks at me again. "Faculty housing is all filled up."
"I'm sure I can find something off campus. Or I can stay at the hotel a bit longer."
"Uh…" He looks down at his hands again. "I'm afraid there aren't any rentals available in town either, or in the surrounding area. And we had booked your room at the hotel for one night only. It's no longer available."
"What about another hotel?"
He shakes his head. "We do have another option, but it's a little unorthodox."
Every hair on my body shivers and stands at attention. I have a sinking feeling I know what will come out of Dean Hooper's mouth next.
He sits up straighter. "A member of the faculty has offered to take you in until something else becomes available."
Those hairs, already stiff, now tingle—but not in a pleasant way. "Which faculty member?"
"Alex Thorne."
Bod an Donais. That bleeding ersehole has planned this. Somehow. I don't know what machinations he used to make this happen, but I'm dead certain he did.
"He lives in a great old mansion," Hooper tells me. "Fifteen bedrooms or something like that. I understand you two have met before, so you know he's a nice guy, very personable."
Nice guy? How can anyone call him that after he was fired for sleeping with a donor's ex-wife? But oh, aye, Alex knows how to be very personable.
Hooper eyes me with a guilty expression. "I know this isn't what you were promised. I'm sorry about that, but I hear Alex's house is really something."
"You've never seen it?"
"No, he doesn't do much entertaining at home."
Of course not. Alex probably keeps the mummified bodies of anyone who gets in his way stashed in those fifteen bedrooms.
I groan inwardly, so Gus Hooper can't hear it. No, Alex isn't a murderer. A liar, a cheat, a con—aye, he's all those things. But not a murderer.