Killer Curves Page 5

  “Sloane—”

  “Let it go, Fallon,” she murmured, gentling the command with a squeeze of her friend’s shoulder. “I get you’re worried, and I appreciate it and love you for it. But I’m going to be okay.” She rose from her chair. “I have to go. I have to pick up my car, and I have an open house for new students on Monday to prepare for. You’ll let me know what you find, Shane?”

  “Of course,” he said, also standing. “We’ll get started right away.”

  “I’ll walk you out,” Fallon offered.

  “I’ll do it,” Ciaran interceded, already moving forward.

  “Not necessary,” Sloane gritted out between clenched teeth.

  “It’s not a problem,” he returned, opening the office door.

  “It is for me,” she snapped, then tried to soften the sharp tone with a polite smile. Too bad it came off as more of a snarl. “I mean, surely you have more important things to do.”

  “Not really.”

  They stared at one another, a Mexican standoff without guns. Well, she was armed. If looks could kill…

  The corner of his mouth quirked. The duchess fascinated him. But the passionate woman beneath the elegant veneer…she made his dick harden until it resembled a damn steel pipe.

  Made him wonder what that passion looked like when a mouth teased and licked her pussy, sucked on her clit. No, not “a mouth.” His. He lowered his gaze down the walking wet dream masquerading as a body, settling on the area where her thighs would connect with her torso. The spot where half his fantasies focused. Lust snaked through his veins, an answering tribal beat taking up in his dick. In his perverted mind, when he parted her pretty legs and exposed her pink, swollen flesh, he discovered the sugar and cinnamon flavor was concentrated in her folds. In the thick, wet sweetness that coated her sex.

  That comprised only half his imaginings, though.

  The other part had him sinking inside her. Being surrounded, squeezed, milked by her. Being held by her.

  As he studied the defiance in her glare, he indulged in the ultimate fantasy. Forgetfulness. Peace.

  Redemption.

  He balked, recoiling from the bright, warm illusion. He clung to the cold, the dark. Not because he relished the pain and loneliness. But because he’d earned it.

  “Soooo, I’m going to go out on a limb and guess that you two do know each other.” Fallon’s dry observation snapped him free of his demons.

  “I have a call to make,” he said, voice hard, abrupt. He had to get out of the office, away from her. Away from the temptation she represented. Yet, before escaping, he turned to Shane. “You’ll keep me posted?”

  Shane nodded. “I will.”

  “Good.” With a sharp dip of his chin in Sloane’s direction, he stalked out, heading for his own office where he could hunker down, regroup.

  Still… Too bad he couldn’t dodge the suspicion that he was only slapping a Band-Aid on a bleeding wound.

  He might’ve won this round by walking away from Sloane, but the battle was far from over.

  Chapter Four

  “Good-night.” Sloane smiled, following the last pair of parents to the door of her classroom. They stepped out, disappearing into the hall, carting the last of her hope for a new, different school year with them.

  She sighed, slipping her heels from her feet. Her toes sank into the thick carpet—one of the perks of working at a prestigious school. No tiled floors for the wealthy, elite students of Kennedy-Lewis Preparatory Academy. Only the best amenities, technology, and accommodations. But hey, their parents paid for the privilege of not having their darlings mingle with the dirty masses.

  “God.” She groaned. I’m getting on my own nerves.

  “Well, hello, Ms. Barrett,” a voice drawled.

  Damn. From the insolent tone and disrespectful way he stressed the Ms., as if emphasizing her single status, she knew exactly who’d addressed her.

  Turning toward her classroom door, she schooled her features into a cool mask and rose. “Hello, Drake.”

  Her former student could’ve graced the cover of a fashion magazine, his handsome face and impeccable clothing a photographer’s dream. Too bad they hid a meanness that exceeded simple spoiled entitlement. Drake Morriston was rotten on the inside. He’d taken great delight in tormenting his classmates by ruining reputations, intimidating them with his size and social influence. And though it hadn’t been proven, she suspected he’d been behind the horrific social media barrage that had made a former student attempt suicide. If she’d met Drake on a dark street, she would cross the road and run with mace in hand.

  “Getting ready for another school year, Ms. Barrett? Another year of”—he grinned—“wasting on the vine.”

  She didn’t respond. Engaging him would only encourage him, and that’s what he sought. A response to his taunting. Not that it stopped him from poking at the wound. And it was a wound. How he’d discovered her single status, she didn’t know, but she also didn’t put anything past him.

  “You know…” He strolled into the room as if he owned it. Well, that was the library his parents had endowed, not this building. “My parents are urging Mr. Cole to fire you. But I convinced them to let you have this sad, pathetic job. I mean, I’m a legacy, and someone as insignificant as you won’t keep me out of Harvard. But if we took this position away from you, what else would you have? You already have so little.” He scanned her from head to her bare feet, a sneer tipping the corner of his mouth, his opinion of her appearance clear. “No fiancé, no family, and now you’ve obviously pissed somebody off enough that your house has been broken into and vandalized?” He tsked. “Yeah, it would be cruel of us to take this away.”

  Rage, hurt, and humiliation crowded into her chest. By sheer will, she remained standing when her knees trembled. By the power of self-preservation she kept her hands hanging loosely at her sides, when they itched to curl into fists and swing at this little punk. By the force of her pride, she held the stinging moisture in check, when she wanted to tear up at his spiteful insults.

  Inhaling a deep, quiet breath, she laser-beamed in on the one thing he’d said that sounded incriminating to her. “How did you know about the break-in, Drake?”

  His eyes widened in mock innocence. “Word gets around, Ms. Barrett. The school grapevine is a fast and reliable thing. While I may have graduated, I still have eyes and ears here.”

  She nodded. Slowly, without removing her eyes from him, she patted her desk for her cell phone. After a couple of seconds, she picked it up.

  Drake snorted. “Calling 911?”

  “No,” she said, tone calm as she swept a thumb across the screen. “I’m recording this conversation so I will have proof of your harassment.” She pressed her video app. “Okay, go ahead. As you were saying?”

  The sneer on his mouth deepened, but it was his flat gaze, not unlike a snake, that had her gripping the phone tighter. Finally, he dipped his chin and slid his hands in the pockets of his perfectly creased pants.

  “You have a wonderful evening, Ms. Barrett. And keep safe.” He pivoted and exited the room, leaving the echo of her pounding heart in her ears. Logic insisted she was safe in this school that hadn’t emptied out yet. But…there was something unsettling about Drake Morriston.

  Exhaling, she dropped into her chair once more. The visit from him had only verified what she’d been experiencing for a while now. For two years, this restlessness had been growing inside her. No. “Restlessness” was the wrong word. Something larger, wider, hungrier than mere restlessness spread in her chest like a sink hole. Not that every student at the school was spoiled and entitled—or sadistic like Drake. Actually, the majority of them were exuberant, fun-loving, smart teens and, she enjoyed them. It wasn’t their fault she didn’t feel…needed.

  The joy that had filled her like a hot air balloon after her college graduation, lifting her higher and higher into the sky, into a welcoming, bright future, had seeped away like a slow leak. Her dream had been t
o watch a child’s eyes light up with understanding. To forge a new educational path in a well-worn field instead of aimlessly treading the same road over and over again until she herself wanted to weep with frustration. To leave a positive mark on a child’s life.

  Walking into the school this afternoon, preparing to meet the parents of incoming and returning students, she’d hoped—prayed—she would find that joy again. That excitement and anticipation. But she’d encountered nothing but the mourning. Honed even sharper because of the fragile, futile hope.

  Hooking the straps of her shoes over a finger, she strode to her desk and dropped into the chair. She reached for the copies of the syllabi and curriculum she’d handed out earlier. For a long moment, her hands hovered above the stack before shifting direction seemingly of their own volition. As if her fingers were detached from her brain, they changed course and headed toward her messenger bag and removed a folder. A folder she’d been carrying around for weeks.

  She placed the white and green file on her desk and warily flipped it open as if it contained a coiled snake—or a beautifully wrapped gift. Though she removed the sheaf of papers, she didn’t need to read them. The words were branded into her memory from the countless number of times she’d repeated this very action in the weeks since she’d received the folder.

  The information on Boston’s newest charter school. The five-year charter had already been awarded, and the school would open the following year. Meanwhile, teachers were being hired, curriculum and teaching methods being planned. And Sloane wanted to be in on it. Forget that, she yearned to be in on it. The freedom, the opportunity to cause change. This school, situated in inner-city Roxbury, veered as far from Kennedy-Lewis Prep as champagne differed from Kool-Aid. The pay would be less, the prestige would be nil, and the environment rougher. She would be stepping out into the unknown, by herself…alone.

  God, she wanted in.

  But leaving the cloistered, cushy position at Kennedy-Lewis would mean disappointing her parents…again. For most twenty-six-year-olds, this wouldn’t be a big deal. But when her life had been one frustration and let down after another, she hated heaping one more to the steaming pile. Her parents’ wishes for her to mirror Chelsea’s life—beautiful, bubbly, married, two gorgeous children, a perfect hostess. Not shy, single, childless, shackled to her job. And, oh yes, a size fourteen instead of a four. They believed this pampered existence would bring her happiness and fulfilment—even though it obviously hadn’t worked out for Chelsea. Her father hadn’t understood her choices, but he’d supported her. And had been excited when he’d called her to announce he’d tugged on his connections to procure her the job at Kennedy-Lewis. Her usually reserved father had been excited he could do something to encourage and help her in a dream he might not have agreed with but aided. Leaving would be like kicking dirt on his show of support.

  Still…Sloane drew in a breath and closed the folder, tracing the slightly raised letters on the front. Still, did she wake up one morning ten years from now, filled with bitterness over how her life had turned out? Did she allow what was her passion to become her burden, her albatross?

  Shaking her head, she replaced the file in her bag and returned to the little bit of work left on her desk. Or she would have if her cell hadn’t rang out. She grinned, already reaching for the phone and cutting off Tom Jones mid-croon.

  “Hi, Uncle Matt,” she greeted her godfather and father’s oldest and best friend, pleasure a warm glow in her chest and banishing the guilt-filled shadows as well as the residual dregs of uneasiness from Drake’s unexpected visit. “Shouldn’t you and Aunt Grace be preparing for the Hamptons?”

  Matthew Daniels’ rusty chuckle echoed in her ear, and her smile grew. Hearing his laughter was like winning a medal since joy from the man she loved like a second father was so rare these days. Four months ago, he’d lost his only son, Matthew Daniels II, to suicide. He’d only been several years older than Sloane, and though they hadn’t been very close, he’d always been a kind, quiet man. Like his father.

  “I’m just staying out of the way. After thirty-five years of marriage, I’ve learned it’s much easier this way.” His soft snort had her laughing. “Just as I’ve learned when I’m ordered to do something, I do it.”

  Sloane groaned. “Who? Aunt Grace or my mother?”

  “Your mother with your aunt aiding and abetting. Mallory wanted me to call and make sure you’re coming this weekend. Although with that jackass Phillip coming as well, I wouldn’t blame you if you decided to skip it,” he grumbled.

  Even as exasperation welled up inside her, love for her godfather tempered the frustration. “It’s okay. Dad has a relationship with him, so I understand.” Like hell. “Uncle Matt, you promised…”

  Matthew grunted. “I won’t say anything, but I still think you should let John and Mallory know what a jackass he is.”

  It’d been in a moment of weakness a couple of days after Phillip left that she’d confided in Matthew about the true nature of their relationship. Angered, he’d encouraged her to talk to her parents, but fresh in her head had been Phillip’s mocking laughter and taunt that they would blame her for being unable to hold on to a man…again. That she was the fat, ugly daughter they would end up having to pay someone to marry. Though common sense argued her parents loved her, shame, hurt, and embarrassment had kept her mouth shut.

  “I will, or at least I’ll try. But their anniversary party isn’t the time or place.” God, she could just imagine the conniption fit her mother would throw if Sloane dared to interject unpleasantness in their special weekend. Between the break-in and Phillip, there was plenty of unpleasantness to go around. “And you can assure Mother that I will be there Thursday on time and ready to play the shiny, happy family.”

  “I’ll make sure to relay your assurance without the sarcasm,” Matthew drawled.

  Sloane laughed. “I appreciate it.”

  After several more minutes where she promised to come to dinner the following week, she ended the call and finished up the work on her desk. A half hour later, she shut off the light in her classroom and shut the door behind her. Hiking her messenger bag and purse straps higher on her shoulder, she strode down the silent, abandoned halls. Damn it. She’d lost track of time. Being one of the last people to leave the building had not been on her agenda. Since the lights were still on, a janitor and maybe even the principal probably lurked somewhere. The rational logic didn’t stop her from speeding up, the echo of her shoes clacking on the hardwood floor bouncing back at her like a shout in a wide cave.

  She burst through the front entrance like the hounds of hell were nipping at the heels of her knock-off Manolo Blahniks. The cool night air closed around her, and she inhaled, then released the breath on an embarrassed chuckle. Jesus, next thing she would be imagining a machete-wielding, hockey-masked maniac stalking her through the campus. Although she was walking by herself to her car in a nearly deserted parking lot. After all the events of the past few days—weeks—that alone had to nominate her for some kind of Darwin Award.

  With a relieved sigh she couldn’t quite swallow, she reached her car, hitting the valet key to electronically unlock the doors. A quick glance at the ground revealed she wouldn’t have to call the tow truck once again. Her tires were all in working, inflated order. Oh goody. She was already in better condition than she’d been on Friday.

  Jerking open the passenger door, she dropped her bags, binder, and a couple of text books onto the seat. Calling herself about five kinds of paranoid, she glanced in the back seat, scanning it for anything hulking and darker than the shadows, before shutting the door and hurrying around the tail of the car. The same unease that had trickled down her spine when she’d approached her vandalized home days ago now skated over her skin. She snorted. Get it together, she berated herself, gripping the driver’s door handle. You’re a grown woman on the grounds of a school, not some air-headed teenager in a horror mov—

  A palm slapped over her mouth.
Pain and terror ripped the breath from her throat. On reflex, she tried to inhale through her mouth, clawing at the big hand cutting off her air flow. Ashes. Grease. She gagged on the dirty, oily taste coating the flesh pressed to her lips. For an instant she started sliding toward unconsciousness before primal instinct kicked in. She sucked in a breath through her nose. The black creeping edges started to retreat, and she screamed, or tried to with a hand covering her mouth.

  The muffled cry reverberated in her head, the desperate, panicked roar almost blocking out her assailant’s “Shut it, bitch.”

  Ruthless fingers manacled her wrists and jerked her arms behind her back, but her mouth remained covered. Two attackers. Oh God. Her stomach bottomed out, then filled to the brim with dread and a hopelessness that almost buckled her knees. For a second, as her hands were bound at the base of her spine, she gave up. Two against one. Jesus, she was gone…

  Hell no. Hell. No.

  She yelled, jerked, twisted. Fire raced up her arms and pulsed in her shoulders like an open wound. But she didn’t stop. She lunged forward, not caring that with her hands bound, that she would likely face-plant. Get away. Run. Scream. The mantra ran through her mind on a frantic loop.

  “Shit, man,” the one covering her mouth from behind snapped. “Knock her the fuck out so we can get her in the car and get the hell out of here.”

  “Well, hold her, then,” the other assailant ordered.

  A large pair of black boots filled her vision. And she fought harder. If they hit her, if she blacked out, she was dead. Every 48 Hours: Hard Evidence episode about kidnapped women she’d ever seen ran through her brain in warp speed. Once the victim was carried to a second, likely more remote location, her chances of survival plummeted. She couldn’t die. Couldn’t…

  She leaned her head forward…and snapped it back. Pain exploded at the back of her skull.

  “Fuck!” came an agonized howl from behind her. The hand covering her mouth disappeared, and she gasped in a breath. Nausea churned in her belly and scalded a path up her chest to the back of her throat, but she fought it down. She stumbled forward, her shoulder bumping into the chest of the attacker in front of her.