CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 1 0
MYRA
A fateful meeting
WHAT HAPPENED TO Lisa was the talk of the Whitfield campus Thursday morning. Kristin informed everyone at lunch that Lisa's vitals had stabilized and she was being released from the hospital that afternoon. Toby picked her up and brought her back to her dorm room, where she was ordered to stay in bed for at least another day, though that didn't stop all her friends from going by to check on her after classes.
I begged off when Kristin asked me to go, figuring I didn't want to add to the parade of well-wishers, especially since the two of us weren't really that close. Instead, I grabbed one of my new journals and headed off campus to the coffeeshop in town to do some writing.
I had a great idea for a new story and had gotten so involved in writing it I lost track of time. When I glanced up from my journal, I was surprised to see it had grown dark outside and there was a whole new shift of people working the counter at the shop. I closed the journal and was preparing to head back to the dorm when I felt the hairs on my arms stand up.
"It must be a good story."
A man was standing by the table right in front of me. I raised my eyes and swallowed a gasp.
It was him.
Up close I could see his intense gray eyes reflected the light in the room like those of a cat, and right now they were focused entirely on me. He was the perfect combination of strength and beauty–classically sculpted bones, smooth pale skin with just a hint of a five o'clock shadow, full lush lips, and an aura of pure sensuality that sent an aching rush of warmth straight to my core.
I licked my suddenly dry lips and tried to speak but couldn't seem to find my voice. As if he knew this, his own lips curled up in a slow smile as he pulled out the chair before him and lowered himself into the seat, putting us at eye level.
From here I could see he appeared younger than I had first guessed, but there was a sense of age about him, like he had seen and experienced things beyond his years.
"What do you write about?" he asked.
I detected a slight accent in his speech and a depth to his buttery smooth voice that made it seem to wrap around me like a warm hug. I suddenly wanted more than anything to hear him speak again.
"I, uh…just stories I make up," I stammered, my throat as dry as my lips. I could feel my palms sweating and my heart sp eed up. I looked down; I couldn't think with those eyes focused on me. Why was he talking to me?
I was caught off guard when he reached a pale, long-fingered hand across the table and closed it on mine, sending more tremors rippling through my body. I swallowed the lump in my throat and looked up to meet his gaze while the heat I felt before intensified.
"Never doubt your talent," he said quietly as he squeezed my hand. "Or your beauty." He held the contact for a breathless moment before letting go and sitting back with the air of a man completely at ease in his surroundings.
I exhaled and tried to get control of my warring hormones while thinking of some way to respond to his comments. The fact that he had mentioned me and beauty in the same sentence left me at a loss for words. Surely he was just being nice, but what would be his motive? Why would he stop to talk to me? I couldn't work that out, but I also didn't want him to leave, so I blurted out the first thing that came into my head.
"Are you from here?" What a stupid question, I immediately berated myself.
He gave an elegant shrug, his gray eyes lighting with amusement. "For now. And you?"
I shook my head. "No. I've only been here a few weeks."
"Ah yes. The college."
"Are you a student…or a teacher?" I wondered about this last, since every time I'd seen him he was wearing a suit.
"Neither, I'm afraid, though I do enjoy meeting people from there." He leaned forward, his attention focused on me as if I was the only person in the room, and I squirmed under his scrutiny while my pulse raced and the heat between my thighs deepened. "What do you study there?"
"I'm an English major. "
"Hence the writing," he nodded.
"I just write for myself. It helps me, like a form of therapy."
"Therapy for the soul?"
I offered a half smile. "Something like that."
"You should smile more often. It lights up your face."
I felt myself blush; who was this guy, and why did he seem so enamored with me?
"I fear I'm keeping you," he said. "You were getting ready to go."
As uncomfortable as he made me, I didn't want the encounter to end. "That's okay. I was just heading back to my dorm."
"May I walk with you? A pretty girl alone after dark can be a temptation for the unscrupulous."
Pretty girl? He's just being polite, I told myself. "Sure, I guess."
I tried to hide the way my hand shook as I grabbed my journal and stood. He did likewise and indicated for me to precede him out the door.
Out on the street, he fell into step beside me, letting me set the pace. The evening foot traffic was starting to build, but there was none of the jostling for space I usually encountered. Everyone seemed to flow around him, as though he somehow commanded the sidewalk.
We walked in silence while I racked my brain trying to think of something to say that didn't make me sound like a child. The effect of his presence charged my nerves and warmed my skin despite the cool evening air, and I found myself wondering what it would feel like to have his arms around me, to taste his lips on mine. That's crazy, I scolded myself, thankful that the darkness hid the flush of embarrassment .
"You haven't told me your name," he said, pulling me out of my head.
"Myra," I replied, forcing myself to breathe. "And yours?"
"Julianus."
So now I had a name. "That's unusual. Is it Latin?"
He nodded. "My family was from Genoa."
That was the accent I'd heard. "I always wanted to visit Italy," I said wistfully.
"It's a beautiful country. Sometimes I miss it terribly."
"Why did you leave?"
He sighed, his eyes suddenly cloudy. "There was nothing left for me there."
We approached the gates of the campus and he waved a hand ahead of him, indicating our surroundings. "Did you know the college was the first structure here in town?"
The change of subject brought me back onto solid ground; anything to take the focus away from me. "I really don't know much about its history. I had a scholarship and picked it for its curriculum."
"It's quite an interesting story. The man who founded it, Aldous Whitfield, built it for his daughter, who he knew, because of the times, would not be able to gain admission into the larger schools." He looked down at me. "She, too, was a writer. A poet, actually. Sarah Whitfield."
"I don't believe I've ever heard of her."
He shook his head. "To be honest, she wasn't very good."
"You've read her work?"
"There's a small book of her poems in the town library. I must confess I read it out of curiosity." He grinned. "Her father must have loved her very much. "
I thought of my own father's love for my art and how disappointed he was when I gave it up. "A father's love is a strong bond."
"Yes, it is," he replied, his gaze suddenly far away, and I wondered if he was thinking of his own family back in Italy.
We had reached the quad, the entrance to my building straight ahead. "This is me," I said, looking up at him, suddenly shy again. There were so many questions I wanted to ask him, but I was too nervous to put them into words and I didn't want to appear desperate. Instead, I simply thanked him for walking me home.
He smiled, sending a tendril of heat through me. "It was my pleasure. I'm sure we will meet again."
I couldn't stop the way my pulse skittered at those words. Did he actually want to see me again, or was he just being polite? I pushed the doubt from my mind and nodded to him before turning and walking up the steps. I could feel his eyes upon me, but when I reached the door and turned to look back, he was already gone.