Free The Edge by Catherine Coulter Page B

though her suit was too long and a dull shade of olive green, it simply didn’t matter. She’d look great in a potato sack. Her hair was made up of many shades of brown, from dark brown to a lighter brown to an ash blond. It was all coiled up and smashed close to her head with lots of clips, but I could tell that it was long and thick. Lovely hair. I wanted to throw all those clips in the wastebasketunder her desk. I understood how Paul had taken one look at her and lost his head. But why had he said she was plain? Had he said it so she’d hold no interest for me? So I’d dismiss her?
    Actually, Laura Scott looked restrained, very professional, particularly with her hair scraped back like that, and she shimmered. I leaned against the English history section again. Shimmered? Jesus, I was losing it. Was her unremarkable presentation to the world calculated? To keep men in line around her? Well, it evidently hadn’t worked with Paul.
    It wasn’t working with me. I said to myself three times: She and Paul betrayed Jilly. I said it a fourth time to make sure it got through.
    I waited until the high school student in his low-slung jeans disappeared behind an orange shelf, a magazine in his hand.
    I approached her slowly and said, “High school students today—sometimes I just want to grab their jeans and give them a good yank. It wouldn’t take much. That boy you were speaking to, I think if he coughed his jeans would be around his knees.”
    Her face was smooth and young and she didn’t change expression for about three seconds. She just stared at me blankly, bland as rice pudding, as if she hadn’t heard me. Then she looked to where the boy was leaning down to pick another magazine off the shelf, the crotch of his pants literally between his knees. She looked back up at me and after another three seconds, to my surprise, she threw back her head and laughed, a big full laugh. That laugh broke through the silence like a drum roll.
    The Middle Eastern guy at the circulation desk looked over, his mouth opening, his surprise evident even from across the room.
    What was coming out of her mouth wasn’t at all a nondescript laugh. It was full and deep and delightful. I smiled at her and stuck out my hand. “Hello, my name’s Ford MacDougal. I’m new in town, just started teaching at Willamette University. Political science, primarily Europe, nineteenth century. I just wanted to see what sorts of public resources the students had off-campus. I like the orange shelves and the turquoise carpeting.”
    “Hello. Is it Mr. or Dr.?”
    “Oh, it’s Dr. MacDougal, but I’ve always thought that sounded phony, at least off campus. To me, a doctor means doing proctology exams. I can’t handle that thought. I’d much rather talk about the Latvian drug wars.”
    Again, she didn’t move, didn’t change expression for a good three seconds. Then she opened her mouth and a short ribald laugh came out. This time, she clapped her hands over her mouth and just stared up at me. She got herself together. “I’m sorry,” she said, nearly gasping with the effort not to laugh. “I’m not like this, normally. I’m really very serious. I never laugh.” She cleared her throat, straightened her suit lapels, and said, “Very well, I’ll just call you Mr. MacDougal. My name’s Laura Scott. I’m the head reference librarian here.”
    “You’ve got a great laugh,” I said as we shook hands. She was strong, her hands narrow, her fingers long, nails well manicured.
    “How long have you worked here?”
    “Nearly six months. I’m originally from New York, came out here to go to Willamette. I graduated with a degree in library science. This is my first job here on the West Coast. The only bad thing about working here is the less-than-princely salary they pay me. It barely keeps me in cat food for Grubster—he’s my sweetheart alley cat.There’s Nolan too. He’s got quite an appetite. Oh, he’s my bird.”
    I’d heard every word