Chapter 12

CHAPTER 12

LIZZIE

" M s. Larkin, are you paying attention?"

"Yes, Professor Handleson."

No, Professor Handleson.

I was too busy reliving the amazing, mind-blowing date I had last night with Mr. Perfect. I didn't think I slept a wink last night. I just kept lying in bed, thinking about Richard. I still couldn't quite wrap my mind around all the crazy details of our date. From the designer dress to the gorgeous and outrageously expensive brooch to the amazing meal and then of course… everything that followed.

I should have felt guilty and perhaps a little ashamed of my wanton behavior. I mean, I did give a man a blowjob in the middle of a restaurant. Sure, he had paid all the patrons to be there and look the other way, but I didn't know that at the time. As if that wasn't bad enough, I still blushed to think about stripping off my clothes and displaying myself on the table like a second dessert.

When I thought about it, I could still feel the hard wood along my back. The soft linen tablecloth balled up in my fists and the sepia-colored lights twirling and twinkling around me as if I were floating in a glass of champagne.

Then of course there was the feel of his tongue on my body. The expert touch of his fingers as they once more drove me to the edge and back. My nipples hardened as I relived every intense detail in my mind.

No, Professor Handleson, I was definitely not paying attention.

With a sigh, I tried to focus. It was only my second day of class and I really wanted to make a good impression. Daydreaming was not going to cut it.

"Begin pinning your patterns. By the end of class, you should have it cut out and sewn so that you are ready to begin distressing the fabric next class."

We were studying Les Misérables ' costuming, essentially learning how to make a dress look old, filthy, and shabby. According to Professor Handleson you had to earn the privilege of sewing the more beautiful gowns you saw on the period dramas of the BBC. While I certainly didn't expect to be sewing replicas of Downtown Abbey costumes our first week, it hadn't occurred to me that I would have to be excited for creating a dress that looked like it had been dragged through a sewer.

Once more my thoughts wandered to the Vampire's Wife dress Richard bought me. A portion of the hem was torn as well as one of the sleeves but I would definitely be able to repair it easily enough. Looking down at my left shoulder, his diamond bird pin winked back up at me. Wearing black denim with patent leather flats and a soft heather gray sweater gave my outfit a very vintage Audrey Hepburn look, which I loved. Everyone assumed it was just a cool piece of costume jewelry, which of course I let them keep thinking, but I knew the truth.

I had been completely enthralled with Richard before I knew he had insane money and if he never gave me another dress or piece of jewelry, I would still be equally transfixed by him. That being said, I loved receiving the gifts, not just for what they were but for what they represented. Surely, he hadn't given every woman he dated such extravagant, thoughtful gifts?

My brow furrowed at the thought of him dating another woman. We hadn't really talked about it. We had only been on two dates, one if you didn't count the randomness of our first date. A man like him probably had a string of women, in multiple countries. My stomach twisted. I didn't want to share him. Didn't want to think about him playing our games with another woman.

Boy, did I have it bad! And I had only known the man for forty-eight hours. Couldn't imagine how loony tunes I would be for him if this lasted more than a few weeks.

Looking down at the dark screen on my phone, there were still no texts from him. I had finally remembered to ask him his phone number last night. I still remembered my shock when he pulled his mobile from his suit pocket. It really was extraordinary that during our entire date he hadn't taken his phone out once, not even to glance at it quickly.

Surely a man worth billions, who owned probably hundreds of companies, would have people trying to reach him at all hours of the day. Whether or not there were other women, it made me feel special that he never looked at his phone when he was with me. I bet those imaginary other women couldn't say that.

He had warned me he hated mobile phones and only used them when absolutely necessary. So, I guessed I shouldn't have been expecting him to text me like a besotted teenager. All the same, it would have been nice if he at least answered my thank you text from last night.

Unable to resist, I tapped my phone, lighting it up. I tapped the text icon. It couldn't hurt to double-check.

Me: Thank you again for my beautiful present. Dinner was amazing. Especially dessert. ;) —Lizzie

Nothing. No response.

I had labored over that text for an hour last night, trying to strike the right casual tone. Maybe I shouldn't have signed off as Lizzie? He had made it clear he preferred to call me Elizabeth. At first it felt strange, but I loved the sound of my name on his lips. His use of my formal name also helped me feel a bit older and sophisticated. A man like Richard wouldn't date a young actress named Lizzie, but he would date a future fashion designer named Elizabeth.

Maybe I shouldn't have started by thanking him for the brooch? Had that made me sound like the gift was my top priority?

He probably thinks I'm a gold digger now. Dammit.

I shouldn't have included the winking emoji. It made me look immature. I imagined the femme fatales he was probably dating would have died before texting a man like Richard a winking emoji.

Picking up my phone, I fired off a quick text.

Me: Nothing. Nothing! Nooooottthhhinnngggg!!

Jane: Jeez! He's a busy guy + he's like forty. They don't text.

Me: :(

Jane: ;)

Me: Do you think my text was lame?

Jane: Nope.

Me: *sigh*

Jane: Tell Professor Hands I said hi.

Tossing my phone in my messenger bag, I tried for the hundredth time to focus on my classwork. After finishing pinning the peasant blouse pattern to my fabric, I got out my shears to begin cutting.

"Take care not to bunch the fabric," came a voice over my shoulder. Looking up, I took in my teacher's bland expression. Everything about him was bland… and brown, from his hair to his eye color to his shirt. Unfortunately, his bland expression belied the hand currently resting on my lower back, dangerously close to my ass.

He made sure he was facing away from the class and was certainly acting as if it were an unconscious gesture, but I knew better. Professor Hands.

Just as I twisted my hips in a subtle gesture to dislodge his hand, although I would have vastly preferred just hauling off and slapping him, I heard the dark, rich tones of the voice that now haunted my dreams.

"My apologies for interrupting your class, Professor Handleson."

No!

Turning quickly, I dropped my shears. They landed handle up on my boot toe. Not as bad as the sharp end but it still hurt. Blinking several times as I hopped on one foot, I still could not believe, or didn't want to believe, what I was seeing.

Richard was here, inside my school.

Leaning against the doorframe, he looked impossibly handsome in a dark wool, double-breasted overcoat and black Fedora.

"Is that this season's Casentino Ulster coat from Rubinacci?"

Grimacing, I didn't even try to hide my annoyance as I glared at Karen across the classroom. Annoyed she knew not only it was a Victorian-style Ulster coat but who the designer was and yes, more than a little annoyed at the appreciative tone of her voice as she inspected Richard.

Back off, Karen. He's mine.

"I'm sorry. We are in the middle of class, who are you?"

"Richard Payne the Third, Duke of Winterbourne."

There was a collective gasp across the classroom.

Professor Handleson straightened and hurriedly shifted between the various sewing tables to the front of the classroom.

"Your Grace, it is an honor. I have long admired the meticulous bespoke tailoring of your suits."

Richard pointedly looked down at Handleson's outstretched hand and then back up at him without extending his own. Stepping past my professor, he took off his hat and methodically unbuttoned his coat. Shrugging out of it, he slung it over Handleson's desk, toppling a mug full of scissors and pens and scattering a pile of papers.

Leaning against the desk, he crossed his arms over his chest and looked down. We all watched in suspended animation, waiting to see his next move. Richard took a deep breath and without even bothering to look up, he demanded, "Leave."

Several students exchanged confused glances while a select few began to grab their belongings.

Looking up, Richard pierced the room with a hard cobalt gaze. "Now," he barked.

The entire room burst into a hive of activity. Students quickly snatching up the fabric from our current project and shoving it into purses and backpacks. A few daring souls tried to secretly grab a photo of Richard on their phones. For all the bustle, it was strangely silent, as if no one dared speak, not even my teacher to refute Richard's command.

Richard turned his head, pinning Handleson to the spot. Sensing this was my moment, I reached behind me for the peasant blouse I had just begun to cut out, at the same time slowly bending my knees to retrieve my messenger bag off the floor.

It was obvious Richard was angry. No, not just angry. Furious.

Even from across the room, I could see the tense line of his shoulders inside his navy and hunter green chalk stripe suit. The stern set of his jaw and the furrowed brow were also a dead giveaway.

Keeping my eyes downcast, I tried to blend in with the other fleeing students.

"Not you, Elizabeth." His tone was quiet and horrifyingly controlled.

My shoulders hunched up as I stopped in my tracks.

Handleson finally found his tongue. Throwing his chest out in a rather pathetic attempt to look intimidating, he sputtered, "See here. What right do you have barging in here and ordering my students about?" He looked like one of those little birds that tweak and flutter around a lion.

Trying to become as invisible as possible, I shrank down into one of the now vacant seats in the back.

Immediately homing in on my small movement, Richard's gaze swung to mine. The hunter spotting its vulnerable prey.

My throat went dry as he slowly straightened and walked toward me. My head dropped low, hiding my face behind my hair. It was childish and immature but I couldn't help it.

His polished leather loafers came into view as I stared at the linoleum floor.

Clutching my bag close to my middle, I waited for him to speak first. I had no idea what he was angry about, I just desperately hoped it wasn't at me.

A single strong finger slipped beneath my chin and forced my head up. He was already significantly taller than me but looking up at him from my seated position was tantamount to staring at a massive granite statue from flat on the ground. Granite was a good term for the stony look on his face. It was as if he was keeping his face deceptively passive by force of will alone.

He pushed back a strand of hair that had fallen over my right eye. Tucking it behind my ear, he said, "What made you think you could touch what was mine?"

My eyebrows shot up. What? I didn't understand. It was then I realized he wasn't talking to me.

"Answer me, Handleson."

Placing his hands on his hips, Professor Handleson stammered, "There was no… it's close quarters… it might have seemed to the untrained eye…."

Pulling my messenger bag from my clutches, Richard set it aside, out of my reach, and placed both hands on my shoulders, lifting me till I was standing before him like an errant child.

Gesturing with his head, he said, "Just outside that door is a man in my employ named Harris, I want you to go with him."

"Go with him? I can't. I have another class."

"Elizabeth, that wasn't a request."

My mouth opened in shock at his stern tone.

My mistake was not moving to obey.

Slipping his hand around my neck, he pulled me in close. The edge of his emerald green silk pocket square flicked at my nose. I could smell his sandalwood aftershave and just a hint of tobacco. Not stale and acrid like cigarette smoke; richer and spicier, like a cigar. I could easily imagine him having spent his afternoon lunch in some swanky men's club smoking while discussing world affairs with other billionaire tycoons.

Leaning in, he murmured into my ear, his breath warm with a hint of peppermint, "Don't make me punish you here."

My hands began to shake as the blood in my veins went cold. Punish me?

Not daring to ask him to return my messenger bag, I backed away, one step then two, afraid to take my eyes off him. It wasn't until I reached the door that I turned and fumbled with the knob before escaping to the cool interior of the hall.

A man dressed all in black with a bowler hat covering a slightly pock-marked face with a visibly misshapen nose stepped forward.

"Ms. Larkin, if you would come with me."

Seeing no choice in the matter, I silently nodded.

As I followed Harris down the fluorescent-lit hallway, there was the unmistakable sound of shattering glass from within my classroom.