Free A Hideous Beauty by Jack Cavanaugh Page A

stepped from between the rows of metal shelves. Brilliant black hair fell to her shoulders and swayed with each step. Her attire separated her from the other female students whose standard uniform seemed to be jeans and a sweatshirt. She wore stylish, black slacks and a silky, red-and-whiteblouse with splashes of color that suggested flowers. She moved to the professor’s side and looked as though she belonged there.
    â€œMiss Ling,” the professor said, “this young man would like to make an appointment with me for today.”
    She glanced at me and shook her head. “I’m sorry, Professor,” she said. “You have no time available today.”
    â€œYou’re Professor Forsythe?” I asked.
    The man with the broad shoulders still hadn’t moved. He sat hunched over. His head down. He acted as though we weren’t there.
    â€œProfessor, I apologize,” I said, this time to the man in the wheelchair, “but it’s urgent I speak to you. I’m flying to Washington, D.C., tonight.”
    â€œD.C.? Do you live there?”
    â€œI have an apartment there. Don’t use it much.” I stretched out my hand to him. “Grant Austin.”
    Some men feel at a disadvantage shaking a man’s hand from a seated position. Not this man. Seated, he was a presence to be reckoned with. He had a prominent nose, intelligent, sky-blue eyes, and an easy smile. He spoke with the slightest hint of a Scottish brogue. “You’re a lobbyist?” he asked.
    â€œHe’s a writer,” Miss Ling said.
    Our heads turned toward her in tandem.
    â€œYou know Mr. Austin?” the professor asked.
    â€œOf him,” she said.
    â€œAre you acquainted with his work?” the professor asked.
    â€œYou’ve read my book?”
    She spoke to the professor. “He’s written a biography of the president. It won the Pulitzer.”
    The professor was delighted. “The sitting president? Do we have it?”
    Without so much as a glance at me, Miss Ling went to find the book.
    Leaning toward the man hunched at the table, Professor Forsythe said softly, “I suppose we can continue this tomorrow?”
    The man said not a word. He shoved back his chair and rose to impressive height. His broad shoulders seemed to unfold even broader. His bearing was powerful, knocking me back a step.
    To the professor, he confirmed, “Tomorrow.”
    Turning to leave, he looked at me for the first time. His face registered surprise; then, anger and distaste. He paused. His eyes turned hard as marble, like those of a Greek statue. His mouth twisted with such deep loathing I felt a strong compulsion to apologize, though I didn’t know for what.
    The moment passed and he strode away.
    His reaction to me hadn’t gone unnoticed. The professor was intrigued. “Who did you say you are?” he asked.
    Miss Ling returned with my book. She handed it to the professor, who examined the cover, front and back. He compared me to my publicity photo with a chuckle. He scanned the copy on the dust-cover flaps, the table of contents, and the first few pages. After that, he began thumbing.
    â€œHave you read it?” he asked without looking up.
    â€œYes,” Miss Ling replied.
    â€œAnd?”
    Miss Ling shot a nervous glance in my direction. “It won the Pulitzer.”
    The professor lowered the book “That’s not what I asked.”
    I sensed a bad review coming. If she liked the book she wouldn’t have hesitated to say so.
    â€œPedantic,” she replied. “Contrived. A public relations piece.”
    â€œWhat?” I cried. That was the second time in as many days someone called my writing pedantic. I liked it even less thesecond time around. I rose to my book’s defense. “Miss Ling, I’ll have you know—”
    My book hit the table, cutting short my rebuttal. “Miss Ling . . .” the professor said.
    On cue she