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What the hell should I tell him? I shake my head. The truth. I had no idea he worked here.
My temples throb with the beginnings of a migraine. The issue is more about what he’s going to do about Saturday. A man like him could have a pick of beautiful women.
Why would he risk his career to carry on an affair with a student?
I knock, but there’s no answer.
Knock again, and still he doesn’t respond.
“Professor Segul?” My voice trembles on the first and last syllable.
Again, he doesn’t answer.
This has to be the room. All the others are already occupied and old Professor Eckhart is still in intensive care. I pull down the handle, push open the door to find the office empty, but the jacket Marius wore this morning hangs on a mahogany coat stand.
There’s no way he had enough time to come up here, take off his jacket, and move to another room.
I step inside, my gaze fixed on the open laptop sitting on the desk, and let the door click shut behind me.
Strong arms grab me from behind and pull me into a firm chest. It has to be him. Nobody else smells like mahogany and leather and sandalwood. Before I can even gasp, he clamps his hand over my mouth.
“What is the meaning of this?” he hisses in my ear.
The hard and fast beat of his heart reverberates across my back. But it’s nothing compared to the rapid staccato of my pulse.
“Let go of me,” I try to say, but the words are muffled.
“Who sent you?” he hisses.
I shake my head.
His chuckle is as wicked as it is dark, and all the assumptions I made about him return to full force. There’s no way he’s an academic from the London School of Finance. He’s exactly like the dangerous men who work with Dad.
“Do. Not. Lie. To. Me.”
Each word carries the weight of a deadly threat.
I shake my head once more, breathing so fast that dark spots dance along the edges of my vision. My knees wobble, and my body wants to crumple to the parquet. The only thing keeping me upright is the strength of his grip.
He loosens the hand around my mouth. Just enough for me to speak but not scream.
“Please,” I whisper. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Why did you approach me on Saturday?” he asks.
Hysterical laughter fills my chest. Why else would a woman approach a well-dressed man who’s insanely hot?
I force out the words, “Not because you’re a lecturer at my university if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Answer my question.”
“You looked like…”
I dart my gaze across the wood-paneled study, letting it settle on the window. Outside, students stroll in the sunshine, oblivious that one of the faculty is turning feral.
How the hell will I complete that sentence without sounding like a gold digger or a slut?
“Go on,” he growls.
