Page 9 of Falling for Carla
One of her great-great-something grandfathers had been a founder of the British East India company. Never mind they were slavers and exploiters and colonists of the worst sort—that was an acceptable origin for family wealth. The fact that my dad worked his way up from breaking kneecaps to blowing up the occasional warehouse was not a respected manner of climbing the social ladder. One inherited wealth and then married more of it. One didn’t dirty one’s hands, or so Sienna had told me in this very pitying voice as she physically backed away and climbed off my bed where we’d been sitting and went swiftly back to her own side of the room.
Nothing killed a friendship like finding out my dad was a ruthless murderer not to mention a racketeer and a couple dozen other things that violated the RICO statutes. So why did it matter if this teacher in the last semester of my grad school career knew where I came from? It was simple. Or rather, it was complicated.
I had what Brenda would have called pants feelings for him. I had gone to sleep every night the last few weeks thinking of him, trying to resist slipping my fingers into my pajama shorts or reaching for my vibrator. Something about the guy revved my engine. I didn’t care what he thought of me as a student. I cared what he thought of me as a woman.
I went for older men. Always had. The first one was my bodyguard, and that hadn’t ended well when my dad found out. Anyway, this professor, this ex-LAPD detective could send waves of heat and chills through my body with the briefest glance. He’d never so much as shaken my hand. There were no heated looks, no secret touches. Nothing there except the fact that I fantasized about him, and now he knew I was, if not garbage, at least related to some pretty evil trash back in Brooklyn.
I didn’t like him thinking of me that way. Not that he thought of me at all. A man who taught hundreds of students a semester was hardly thinking about me as anything other than number thirty-four on his alphabetical roster for Crim 4. I might have been raised with money and no privacy or freedom, but I wasn’t under the impression that I was special. I might not come from a decent family, but I was going to prove myself once I was on the police force. That was what I had to focus on. Not what some sexy ex-cop I’d never see again after graduation might think of me.
Too bad it chafed every time the man looked my way, which he did all the damn time now, like he was trying to puzzle me out. I wanted to flip him off. To make it clear that his opinion meant nothing to me even if that was a lie. There was something in his eyes. Bewilderment or contempt, or something that was clearly not attraction. Which meant that I should be taking notes on the slide deck and not staring at him, I told myself.
As soon as class was over, I had decided I had to say something. I was fuming. I’d done everything reasonable to distance myself from the family business, even going against my family’s wishes to move across the country and pursue a criminal justice degree. Essentially, my actions flew in the face of their lifestyle. It was unfair that this man was judging me by my genetics, by an association with Giovanni Russo I couldn’t exactly have avoided.
When the last students finally filed out of the auditorium, I advanced to the front of the room. He was ejecting a USB drive and flicking the projector off. Making his own preparations to leave. I approached and he probably thought I had a question because he put on that kind of neutral-curious expression that teachers automatically do.
“So you know who I am,” I said, waiting for him to contradict me. He said nothing, just held my gaze steadily. I wanted to slap him. Or kiss him. Or both. “Or rather you know who my father is. Which means you think you know everything there is to know about me.”
I knew I sounded defiant. I was angry at once again being judged unfavorably for being my father’s daughter even though I’d never pretended to be anything else. I didn’t announce it to people, but I wasn’t in hiding under an assumed name with my dark, curly hair dyed.
“I didn’t assume that. I don’t form personal opinions about students or their relatives. And if I did, it wouldn’t be relevant to your course performance, which has been excellent,” he said, his tone clipped and more formal than I expected, considering how casually he spoke in class. He was distancing himself from me. Like Sienna had. Like the few guys I’d tried to date outside the business as a teenager. I sensed his recoil from me and hated him for it, hated my father for it.
I got control of my temper and continued, calmly but firmly. Not showing the passion or fury I felt roiling inside of me.
“I don’t have anything to do with my father’s and brother’s business. I moved all the way out here to get as far away from it as possible. So whatever you think you know about them, you don’t know shit about me.”
I whipped around and stalked out before he could reply. There was nothing he could say that wouldn’t make me feel worse. When I stepped out of the building and into the bright sunshine, I saw Brenda waiting for me. I tried to hide my mood, tried to give her a smile, but her eyebrows shot up, showing that she could tell I was pissed.
“Let’s get out of here,” I said.
“Professor Sexypants fall from grace this morning?” she teased.
“I don’t want to waste another minute thinking about that class or the asshole who teaches it,” I said, keeping my voice even and trying to sound light and carefree and failing.
As we walked to Brenda’s car, she gave me a crooked smile. “So what happened?” she asked.
“He knows who my family is. He was looking at me all through class like I had a secret bomb strapped to my chest and I was going to blow the whole place to hell. So after class was over I basically told him off.”
I gave kind of a sheepish smile and she squeezed my shoulders in a side hug. Brenda was so much more of a sister to me than anyone had ever been. Brenda had been here for me when I was a fish out of water, so lonely and so determined not to ask anyone for help.
“So what I’m saying is there’s a good chance I’m not going to ace this class after all,” I added ruefully.
CHAPTER 9
DRAKE
I licked the drip of barbecue sauce off my thumb and bit into my burger with the extra cheese and onion. It was good to be out, catch up on things with Rick, and have a beer. Everything had been too serious lately, what with having a descendant of the East Coast’s most feared Mafioso in one of my grad level courses and then dealing with the aftershock of her telling me off after class.
I was a cop for twenty years, and much tougher characters than her had tried to make me back down with intimidation, threats, and physical violence. Not one time in my police career had I been left speechless. But her cool, even voice had set me down so icily while there was a crackle of fiery rage in her eyes. My head was spinning, and I didn’t know how to respond. I wanted to grab her caveman style and kiss her.
What stopped me was both my professional ethics and the fact that she seemed like she might pull a knife on me if I grabbed her. She was fiery and ferocious, not the kind of woman you’d call a handful or feisty, but the kind you’d treat respectfully if you knew what was good for you.
“My class is full of frat boy hotshots again. The my-dad’s-a-lawyer type with their stupid pastel shirts,” Rick complained. “Remind me again that I do this to give back to the business community.”
“You’re doing this out of the goodness of your heart. It’s philanthropy. You donate your salary. I mean, you’re doing God’s work here,” I said. He looked at me with one eyebrow raised. “Did I oversell it?”
“Yeah. You oversold it. I’m not a saint. I’m a fortunate man, and I have the time to devote to shaping the next generation of entrepreneurs. So I shouldn’t consider quitting because this semester’s crop of wannabe-Bezos’ is a bunch of stuck up fools who think everything’s going to come easily to them.”
“Well, in fairness, everything up until now has. They’ve had new cars, college tuition, living expenses all handed to them by their parents. Women they don’t deserve are willing to go home with them. What in their lives has taught them they’re not entitled?” I asked.