Until Forever Read Free Page A

expression.
    “I’m not here so you can rehearse your script. The drama class is four doors down the hall if you missed it.”
    She marched back to her desk and sat down, picked up the top paper on the stack in front of her, and pretended to read through it. But she wasn’t reading it. She was waiting to hear the man leave. But she didn’t hear him cross the room, didn’t hear the door open and close. She was starting to feel uneasy again.
    She gave up ignoring him and glanced back. He was still there, but at least those disturbingly penetrating eyes weren’t on her now. He was staring about her room with something that looked like fascination, as if he’d never seen classroom desks and black-boards before, let alone large maps of the world and flashy posters of medieval knights.
    His eyes stopped on one of those posters and seemed to light up in recognition. “Who has such talent, to create such a likeness of Lord William?”
    In his questionable surprise, she detected adistinct foreign accent that she couldn’t quite place. She followed his gaze to a poster of a man photographed in the long robes of the tenth century. “Lord who?”
    Those blue eyes came back to her. “William the Bastard,” he said, his tone implying now that she shouldn’t have had to ask.
    There was only one William the Bastard who was renowned, the one who had changed the history of England, known also as William the Conquerer. How could anyone see a likeness between William as he had been depicted in the few tapestries that had survived from the eleventh century and that young poster hunk whose only resemblance was possibly in the brawn of his body…?
    Her brows snapped together. He was pulling her leg. Either that or trying out new lines that supported his character. She didn’t appreciate either.
    “Look, Mr.…?”
    He didn’t overlook the question in her tone this time. “I am named Thorn.”
    Roseleen stiffened. How many times had she heard the puns, “Your bush could use a few thorns, Rosie,” or “I’d like to be the thorn in your bush, Rose,” the crude, sexy innuendos of young boys that she’d thought she’d heard the last of after her college days.
    It occurred to her then that this man wasn’t a lost drama student. Someone had more than likely set him up to play a joke on her, and the only instigator that came to mind was Barry Horton. Perhaps it was his way of rubbing itin that he’d earned his professorship. And it made sense. The accent—Barry did associate with the few foreign teachers at Westerley and their friends. It probably made him feel sophisticated.
    The anger she’d felt in the dean’s office earlier returned in full force. That thief, that liar, that piece of—her father would be turning in his grave if he could read her thoughts. She squelched them, knowing that name-calling was beneath her. She couldn’t help the glare, however, that she turned on Barry’s idea of a joke.
    “Mr. Thorn—”
    “Nay, Thorn is my given name. Thorn Blooddrinker. Only you English put a mister before an honest name.”
    My God, he’d heard her talking to the sword and was using it to further his joke. Her embarrassment was now complete, because he’d likely be repeating what had happened here, word for word, to her ex-fiancé.
    “We Americans can settle for just mister, which I’m about to do. You can leave now, mister, and tell Mr. Horton that his little joke is as immature as he is.”
    “Thank you, lady. You are wise to send me back. Wiser still would be not to call me again.”
    She snorted to herself. She wasn’t even going to try to decipher those peculiar statements. She’d dismissed him. She proceeded to ignore him again, returning her gaze to the exam paper she was still holding. But shewould be calling for campus security if he wasn’t gone in the next two minutes.
    And then she started again when another crack of thunder sounded in the distance. Recalling what had happened before, she quickly