Page 37 of Forbidden Heroes

Three

Gideon

Under the teachings of my father, I learned two things early in life.

One: Money doesn’t make a man wise or buy him morals on any level. In fact, in most cases, money destroys them. But, I’m not here to serve as some prophet. We all have the right to our own mistakes. In hindsight, I’m sure my father wished he hadn’t learned that lesson the hard way because it cost him his life.

Only his mistakes have now become mine to bear.

I smooth the length of my shirt sleeve and fold the snow-white cuff back once and pin it closed with a gold cuff link.

I’m not the type of man to think this world doesn’t revolve around the number of digits sitting in a person’s bank account either. That would make me foolish, and I’m no one’s fool.

The second lesson was the hardest and one my father taught by example. I found you never know the caliber of a man until he wants his true self revealed. A lesson I had to learn in the hardest way possible. The day I discovered the depth of my father’s depravities is the day I stopped believing in damn near everything for a long time.

It’s because of him I like examining the human mind, seeing what makes people tick. You would be surprised by what goes on in the brain. That bubbly PTA mom isn’t as sweet and innocent as you may think with all her smiles and cute little sweaters and matching shoes. Trust me. We all live behind walls and curtains; I know I do.

That is until her. Beautiful, untouchable Rosalee Johnson.

She’s made me want to feel again, to trust, and it’s hard to break a habit I’ve harbored for close to twenty years. But, Jesus, help me, she is as beautiful on the inside as she is on the outside. Creamy skin, bright green eyes that can disarm an army, curvy round hips, and perfect tanned legs I can’t help but imagine wrapped around my head.

I’ve watched her over the last several months since taking over for Cobbs and can’t find a flaw anywhere near her. Which scares the shit out of me, honestly. There’s something about her that has me wanting to protect her from the world and drop to my knees between her thighs all at once.

And that’s only on the outside. I read her term paper on clinical depression last night and never have I seen a woman her age pen a case study so eloquently and in detail as though she’s lived it. She’s as brilliant as she is beautiful, and that makes my cock stir just as much.

Fuck, what does that make me? A damn pervert is what.

The combination of long silky, dark honey-gold hair, large emerald eyes, and a kind smile have become my weakness, and I’m not sure how to proceed.

As a psychologist in my own right and an occasional professor at UB when the mood strikes, I’ve heard all the excuses a person can come up with to explain away their poor judgments and bad decisions. It’s not big shocker not many like to own up to their actions or examine what drives them to step over a line they should not cross.

Or, crave what they can’t have.

And right now I’m bordering on being guilty of the same damn thing. Because when that little black card with gold calligraphy fell from her bag yesterday, I nearly fucking died. The idea of Rosalee, the good girl next door with the perfect smile, walking through the doors of a place like this had my heart stopping cold and my cock hardening into solid steel at the meaning.

I came here with one thought in mind. The beautiful and alluring Rosalee Johnson is to be auctioned off tonight, and like hell any other man will walk off with what belongs to me. I’ll purchase her and then promptly put her in a car and send her away from here.

A woman as innocent and inexperienced as Rosalee doesn’t belong in a place like this—a club where most people masquerade behind a good cause and think money buys favors and replaces morals.

I straighten my cuff links, making sure they are secure in their tiny openings. A task I’ve repeated about a hundred times in the last ten minutes as I stand in my private suite at the Lux.

I’m not sure how she came by an invite, but I have my suspicions. A woman willing to take the risk of being auctioned off to a stranger has few options left, and I plan on being there to take her hand when she steps off that stage.

Every day I walk into my class and see her sitting across from me, with a fuck-me smile and her sweet Georgia accent has my dick hard every time she opens her mouth. The thing is, I can’t have her. No one would want someone as damaged as me, and I’m not about to cross the lines that would put her in jeopardy of losing her scholarship or worse, mark her as anything less than the angel she is to me.

I’m stronger than to cave for a set of legs and pretty eyes, but there’s more to her than that, which is what has my dick craving her and my hands burning to hold her tight. I’m a skilled man with a past that has honed my skills in patience and restraint.

My mind should be on the events of the evening and the dignitaries I have arriving from out of country. I promised to serve as a personal escort of the establishment, but all I can think about is her.

When I returned to Blackthorne, I intended to be here a couple of weeks, check on my investments and the university with my name on it and then return to Europe and not come back for another long stint. Not that I don’t like Maine or Blackthorne University, but the bad memories drive me to spend most of my time in other parts of the world.

Rosalee changed that in one afternoon as I watched her pore over books in the campus library. She was like a swan among a flock of sparrows. Delicate and graceful.

I’m still not sure what overcame me, but that same day I announced taking over the psychology department for a short time so I could be near her. I tell myself it’s because I want to study her brilliance, but it’s more than that and I know it.

I finish situating my cufflinks and start on my bowtie, when my phone rings.

“Blackthorne.”

---