Page 39 of Sinister Games

Me: :(

Jane: ;)

Me: Do you think my text was lame?

Jane: Nope.

Me: *sigh*

Jane: Tell Professor Hands I said hi.

Tossingmy phone in my messenger bag, I tried for the hundredth time to focus on my classwork. After finishing pinning the peasant blouse pattern to my fabric, I got out my shears to begin cutting.

“Take care not to bunch the fabric,” came a voice over my shoulder. Looking up, I took in my teacher’s bland expression. Everything about him was bland… and brown, from his hair to his eye color to his shirt. Unfortunately, his bland expression belied the hand currently resting on my lower back, dangerously close to my ass.

He made sure he was facing away from the class and was certainly acting as if it were an unconscious gesture, but I knew better. Professor Hands.

Just as I twisted my hips in a subtle gesture to dislodge his hand, although I would have vastly preferred just hauling off and slapping him, I heard the dark, rich tones of the voice that now haunted my dreams.

“My apologies for interrupting your class, Professor Handleson.”

No!

Turning quickly, I dropped my shears. They landed handle up on my boot toe. Not as bad as the sharp end but it still hurt. Blinking several times as I hopped on one foot, I still could not believe, or didn’t want to believe, what I was seeing.

Richard was here, inside my school.

Leaning against the doorframe, he looked impossibly handsome in a dark wool, double-breasted overcoat and black Fedora.

“Is that this season’s Casentino Ulster coat from Rubinacci?”

Grimacing, I didn’t even try to hide my annoyance as I glared at Karen across the classroom. Annoyed she knew not only it was a Victorian-style Ulster coat but who the designer was and yes, more than a little annoyed at the appreciative tone of her voice as she inspected Richard.

Back off, Karen. He’s mine.

“I’m sorry. We are in the middle of class, who are you?”

“Richard Payne the Third, Duke of Winterbourne.”

There was a collective gasp across the classroom.

Professor Handleson straightened and hurriedly shifted between the various sewing tables to the front of the classroom.

“Your Grace, it is an honor. I have long admired the meticulous bespoke tailoring of your suits.”

Richard pointedly looked down at Handleson’s outstretched hand and then back up at him without extending his own. Stepping past my professor, he took off his hat and methodically unbuttoned his coat. Shrugging out of it, he slung it over Handleson’s desk, toppling a mug full of scissors and pens and scattering a pile of papers.

Leaning against the desk, he crossed his arms over his chest and looked down. We all watched in suspended animation, waiting to see his next move. Richard took a deep breath and without even bothering to look up, he demanded, “Leave.”

Several students exchanged confused glances while a select few began to grab their belongings.

Looking up, Richard pierced the room with a hard cobalt gaze. “Now,” he barked.

The entire room burst into a hive of activity. Students quickly snatching up the fabric from our current project and shoving it into purses and backpacks. A few daring souls tried to secretly grab a photo of Richard on their phones. For all the bustle, it was strangely silent, as if no one dared speak, not even my teacher to refute Richard’s command.

Richard turned his head, pinning Handleson to the spot. Sensing this was my moment, I reached behind me for the peasant blouse I had just begun to cut out, at the same time slowly bending my knees to retrieve my messenger bag off the floor.

It was obvious Richard was angry. No, not just angry. Furious.

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