Free Bayview Heights Trilogy by Kathryn Shay

midnight. “I want to talk to you.
Let me in before you freeze to death.”
    She was about to object to his peremptory
tone when she remembered her promise to Seth just minutes ago. She
said nothing until he was inside and the door was closed. To get a
grip on her irritation, she excused herself to dress and flew up
the stairs. As she donned an old mismatched sweatshirt and pants,
she tried to quell her reaction to having him in her house.
    Filling the doorway, he’d looked powerful in
the navy wool coat that covered his suit. Geez, didn’t the guy ever
change into something casual? Of course, when you looked that good
in...
    Stop it, she told herself. He’s not your
type.
    Not quite true
. She took a deep
breath. All right, so she found him attractive. So what? It didn’t
mean anything. God, she didn’t even like the guy.
    Pulling on socks, she admitted to herself how
she’d begun to gravitate toward him earlier until he’d gotten the
call about Johnny.
    Johnny...
    He won’t turn me against you
. The
promise gave her perspective. She couldn’t afford to fall victim to
Lansing’s charm. Too much was at stake here. She might have to let
him into her classroom, but she sure as hell didn’t have to let him
into her life. Heading to the closet for her sneakers, she
unwrapped her hair and towel-dried it quickly. She was in control
now, just as she’d been since she left this godforsaken town
eighteen years ago.
    Mitch paced her living room, taking note of
the eclectic decor. Framed posters of art shows from New York City
galleries covered the walls. An enlarged photo of a pair of ballet
shoes advertised the Bolshoi Ballet. Another
contradiction—Cassandra Smith loved the arts. Taking stock of the
rest of the room, he noted her sofas and chairs were sturdy and
slightly worn, but looked comfortable. The two couches flanked an
old stone fireplace on the far wall. Crossing to it, he studied the
rows of books on either side, struggling to keep himself from
thinking about how she’d looked when she answered the door, wet
from a shower or bath.
The Complete Works of Shakespeare
.
A bath, he’d bet.
A Room of One’s Own
by Virginia Woolf.
Her high cheekbones were accented by the towel around her head.
Grisham’s
The Pelican Brief
and
The Firm
. Her
gray eyes were tumultuous. Lawrence’s
Lady Chatterley’s
Lover
. Against his will, he remembered how her breasts thrust
against the terry cloth; when the blast of cold air hit her, it had
made her nipples pout visibly.
    Warm—too warm—he turned from the bookcase,
shrugged off his coat and adjusted his trousers. He shouldn’t be
thinking about her this way. He
wouldn’t
think about her
this way. He had to prepare for the battle that he knew was
coming.
    “Captain.”
    He pivoted to face her. She looked only
slightly less tempting in plain sweats. But her hair was still damp
and it gave him a jolt as he pictured her under the water as it
sluiced over. “Ms. Smith.”
    “Sit down.” She studied him for a minute, and
the conflicting emotions on her face were like a neon sign. “I’ve
got coffee,” she finally said with a touch of resignation in her
tone.
    “Are we going to be civilized about
this?”
    “About this we are,” she said. “Would you
like some?”
    He nodded. While she was gone, he dropped
onto the cushiony sofa and stared at the dead coals in the
fireplace. The grate looked well used. When she returned, she
handed him a mug. He took it and read its lettering. “Those who
can, do. Those who can’t, teach.” But the saying was crossed off in
bold red lines and replaced by “Those who can, teach others
how.”
    He smiled.
    “I guessed you like it black.”
    “How did you know?”
    “You’re a tough guy.”
    “I am.” He glanced at her cup. “Yours is
black, too, right?”
    “Yup.” She sipped. “Why are you here?”
    Sighing, he sank back onto the couch and
crossed his left ankle over his knee. He silenced his first
response,
I was worried