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One look in the direction of his rather plump body and pristinely groomed fur told her what she’d known well beforehand: This tom did not wage any battles.
It all was unsettling, but just as with the numerous phone calls and threatening emails from an assortment of the concerned public, parents, alumni, former teachers, and other busybodies, nothing would stop Magdalene from her mission. At least her cell phone was still safe from the anonymous stranger. She wondered how long it would last. The caller always ended up finding her new number. Which was another matter altogether.
Magdalene reached out and pointed out the figures concerning the Russian language program on the spreadsheet. Sam’s scent—lily of the valley, fresh cut grass and sunshine—enveloped her in a caress, and she couldn’t help but inhale deeper. Her inability to keep Sam out of her thoughts, or her showers, was not helping.
Sam had stayed behind after one of the committee meetings to ask her about the budget, her eyes wide and curious, and Magdalene took it for what it was–an honest attempt to understand, to find common ground. And so she gave in. First, to the questions about facts and figures, arrangements regarding professors, and funding distribution. Then to the scent and the sensation of Sam’s body heat, so close to hers.
Leaning over the table, their faces were so near, and when their eyes met and locked, seconds ticked by, punctuated by heartbeats and heat rising up her neck, the connection that was always just under the surface sparked to life. Gunpowder and flame.
Sam licked her lips, and Magdalene’s stomach tightened with want as she lowered her eyes, following the movement of Sam’s tongue. She knew her gulp was audible, and she realized that Sam would be aware of exactly what she was thinking. About all the wickedly amazing and amazingly wicked things Sam had done to her using that tongue. And she had done so many of them. As many as she could into the space of those hours in Manhattan.
Another gulp, this one from Sam, drew Magdalene’s attention to the long column of Sam’s neck, where once upon a time, marks had bloomed like peony petals, fresh and rich, left by Magdalene’s mouth. The air in the room grew heavy, filled with lust, all antagonism left at the door for just this one moment when their memories were no longer warring with their reality.
Magdalene felt like she was starving. Hungry and bruised at the same time, skin sensitive, and uncomfortable in her own clothes. The collar on her blouse was too tight, her fingers tingled to loosen it, or better yet to reach for Sam. She should not touch. Their lines of demarcation were so precisely drawn. It had taken her weeks to get over caressing Sam’s face in her room that night. She knew she shouldn’t even think any of this.
Like a romance heroine, she changed her mind in what seemed like the space of one inhalation, and as oxygen filled her burning lungs, she became a mere spectator watching her hand caress Sam’s cheekbone, thumb brushing once, twice, before the fingers delved into the short hairs at the base of Sam’s neck… A spot she knew was particularly sensitive.
Her answer was a moan. Sam’s eyes closed, mouth open in abandon, inches of thick, charged air between them. All Magdalene had to do was tug at the silk in her grip and their lips would finally meet.
In true Dragons’ fashion—because nobody could have nice things on this godforsaken island—the moment was broken by a commotion coming from outside. The roaring in Magdalene’s ears was deafening, and as she hastily let go, her ring caught in Sam’s hair. Throwing Sam an awkward and apologetic look for the pain, Magdalene closed her eyes and counted to ten.
At six, she opened them to see George all but stumble into the office, arms full of another grotesque arrangement of mutilated flowers.
The ambient noise spiked, filling the room with shouts, gasps and subsequent vitriol. George was pissed and didn’t care who knew it, whereas Sam froze, her shock palpable.
Well, that cleared that up. Not that Magdalene had ever suspected Sam, especially after the incident with Lily. That face, those eyes… They may be reluctant to believe that Magdalene wanted the best for the school—and why would they, since Magdalene herself had no idea what she wanted to do to this damned pile of rocks and stones or whether there’d even be a school by the time she was done—but Sam wasn’t a liar.
Lust mixed with sadness and shock lived in those features now, and Magdalene, as always, read them like an open book. Still, it was comforting to know that no matter what was happening, Sam seemed to not have anything to do with it.
George’s shouts pulled Magdalene out of her musings. “This is a disgrace! The third one this week alone. Not to mention the dead rat we found in your rooms earlier. Maggie, this has got to stop.”
Sam’s eyes widened even more as she looked between the two of them. Undeterred by Sam’s perplexed countenance, George deposited the wilted roses on the table right on top of the spreadsheet they’d been leaning over.
Sam all but leaped over the chair to get to the flowers, but Magdalene just shrugged and waved away the entire thing. She really just wanted all of it gone so she could get on with her day and with her job. She was also just a touch grateful that they were interrupted, because she had been sinking fast and wasn’t entirely certain how she felt about it.
“The Old Dragonettes have been making their feelings known about some of the reforms I have announced. Let’s just say they are less than pleased. And even less civil in their retaliatory tactics. Dead flowers, dead rodents—”
“And what, they’ve been sending you rotting bouquets as a warning?” Sam’s outrage was rather endearing, all things considered. “This is harassment!”
Magdalene shrugged. “No more than Orla accosting me every day over breakfast to push me to rush my decision about scholarships or the English curriculum. This is just a bit more gruesomely poetic than the constant bickering, don’t you think?”
“No, I don’t think there’s anything remotely poetic about this. At least Orla has the guts to tell you she hates your ideas to your face. This is cowardly!”
“Ah, so it’s okay, as long as the insults are signed and delivered in person?” Magdalene knew her laughter held no merriment, but she didn’t hold it back.
“No, neither is okay, but Orla is being upfront. And what’s this about a rat?” Sam crossed her arms defensively, but her eyes were wide, concern obvious in their ashen depths.
“Nothing. If anyone thinks that a poor imitation of The Godfather horse’s-head-on-the-bed scene is going to intimidate me or keep me from doing the job they hired me to do, they are sadly mistaken.”
“Somebody put a dead rat in your bed? Headmistress, we need to call the police!” Disarming as the outrage may be, Sam was shaking with obvious fury now, and Magdalene’s treacherous, desirous heart was weak, powerless where Sam was concerned, wanting to wrap her up in her arms and tell her everything would be all right. She wasn’t sure it would be. Nothing ever really was on this damned island, but for Sam’s sake, she wanted to make such assurances.
God, what was happening to her?
The uncharacteristic gentleness irked her. Her stomach now churning with anger at herself and at Sam’s unwavering loyalty to people who really did not deserve it, Magdalene went for a blow below the belt, testing Sam’s loyalties one final time.
“For all we know, it is Orla who has been putting dead critters in my bed, Professor Threadneedle. Have you thought of that? I knew I would end up regretting keeping her on staff even with a probationary period.”
Sam actually recoiled. “I don’t believe that for a second. Orla is one of the most upfront and honest people in the world.”
