Just One Taste Page 4

Showtime.

  “Dr. Wilkins?” Cornell repeated. “Was that you? I hate to be a bother, but I escorted the maintenance fellows over here with your belongings from the lab. Oh yes, thank you, you may put the boxes down. I know they’re heavy.”

  “My things!”

  Wilkins elbowed him aside and threw open the door. “Set the boxes over there, please. Finally, hallelujah, at last,” she said, hands clasped in gratitude.

  Cornell stepped back to let the boxes through, but there weren’t that many. The maintenance guys finished up and Cornell stuck his head in to beam at Wilkins ripping into her boxes as if they contained the lost Ark of the Covenant.

  Wes gave him a little wave, projecting as much sheepish guilt as possible. The pleased smile on Wally Cornell’s round face dimmed as he took in Wes and Lucille.

  “What … is this?” he asked, in his querulous way.

  “Oh, thank the Maker,” Wilkins crooned to something in one of her boxes. She was down on her hands and knees scrabbling around, and Wes wanted to thank her maker. Somebody sure went to some major trouble perfecting the curve of her pert little ass. If any of the teachers he’d encountered had looked like that from behind, he would’ve had a better high school attendance record.

  She sank back on her heels holding something small and squarish that she then squeezed, spurting a generous glob of clear gel into her palm.

  Hand sanitizer, Wes realized. That’s what she was so worked up about?

  Rubbing furiously, Wilkins sighed something that sounded an awful lot like the kind of satisfaction normally reserved for that first deep breath after a mind-melting orgasm. “That’s better. Now. What was that, President Cornell?”

  The prez looked ready to stomp his little foot. “I said, would you like to explain this?”

  He hadn’t, but okay. Wes didn’t like to quibble when the man was pointing right at Lucille.

  Wilkins waved an airy, sterilized hand. “That’s one of my students. And a dog.”

  “A dog!” Cornell was outraged. His whole head, much of it on view due to an unfortunate case of male pattern baldness, turned bright red.

  “Domesticated subspecies of the wolf,” Wilkins clarified. “Member of the Canidae family, of the order Carnivora. Beyond that, breed classifications are, by and large, unscientific and unreliable. This one, for example, doesn’t belong to any breed I’m familiar with.”

  “A mutt.” Cornell’s voice went up another octave. “On school grounds. This is outrageous, the rules are very clear. Students are not allowed to have pets on campus!”

  This was where it got dicey. If Wilkins was really as unfazed by Lucille’s cuteness, and Wes’s charm, as she seemed to be, he might be in real trouble.

  “She’s not a pet,” he said. When all else failed, start talking, his dad’s voice whispered in his ear. Keep going until you’re either out of the jam, or you’re tossed in a cell. “She’s a working dog. Like a service dog? Not a seeing-eye dog, I mean. Obviously. Ah …”

  “Obviously not,” Cornell sneered. “As if anyone would bother training a mutt to be a guide dog.”

  Wes checked to see how Wilkins was taking all this. She stood up and faced the president, an odd expression on her pretty face. “You keep emphasizing that word, mutt, as if you’d find the dog more acceptable if she were a purebred animal. Am I to understand your rules only apply to mixed-breed dogs?”

  Cornell sputtered but she didn’t give him a chance to respond. “Because that would be extremely illogical. Not only is it prohibitively difficult to determine true breed lines with any degree of accuracy, it’s also pointless to exclude mixed-breed animals.”

  “Why is that?” Wes asked, hope starting to beat in his chest like a drum.

  “Ever heard of heterosis? No? It’s a genetic phenomenon also known as ‘hybrid vigor.’ ” She paused. “Still nothing. Well, simply put, in deference to you, President Cornell, the mixing of breed bloodlines often results in a healthier animal with a longer natural life span. Purebred animals, on the other hand, are prone to all sorts of illnesses and conditions, even neuroses.” Her mouth turned down for a moment, and she muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “I should know.”

  “I don’t see how that’s relevant, Dr. Wilkins,” Cornell blustered. Evidently, her neat little dig about his intelligence had skimmed right over his bald head. “The point is, this student has broken the rules, and here at the Academy of Culinary Arts, that merits punishment.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Wilkins said. Her strong little chin tilted up, and her blue eyes sparked with something that made her look righteously pissed. “No rules have been broken. I’ve read your bylaws, you see, and article fourteen-point-one mentions only that students are not allowed to bring or keep a pet on campus.”

  Wes raised his brows at her, and she gave him a little shrug. “Eidetic memory. I see something, I remember it.”

  President Dickhead wasn’t having any of it. “Exactly so, Dr. Wilkins. The rules are clear.”

  “They are,” she agreed. “Insofar as they pertain to students. Faculty, on the other hand, is another matter.”

  This was awesome, like having an out-of-body experience where his astral projection was watching a fast-paced tennis match. Wes’s attention swung back to Cornell, whose color had upgraded to puce.

  “You don’t mean to suggest …”

  “I’m not suggesting anything.” She was supremely calm in the face of the prick’s mounting fury. “I’m stating a fact. The dog belongs to me.”

  Wes laughed. He couldn’t help it.

  This was turning out even better than he’d planned.

  Time for phase two …

  “And as of this morning, I’m a member of the faculty.” Rosemary didn’t look at Murphy. She couldn’t risk it, and anyway, she wanted to keep her eyes on the short man currently fuming in front of them.

  The way Wally Cornell shook with impotent rage was really quite satisfying to watch.

  She couldn’t stand his sort of snobbery, looking down on someone else for circumstances they couldn’t control. It was abominable, not to mention illogical.

  “You can’t expect me to believe you are the owner of this, this, this … mongrel. This student already as good as admitted it belonged to him! Give me your name, young man.”

  “Wes Murphy.” He shot Rosemary a look she didn’t have time to decode. “And I guess I act kind of proprietary about Lucille, here, because I take care of her for Dr. Wilkins.”

  The poor president looked befuddled. “Wait. You’re a dog-sitter? Not a student?”

  “Culinary student, in my second-to-last academic rotation before externship.” Wes dashed Cornell’s hopes for a satisfactory and face-saving conclusion to this altercation. “Definitely a student. And I wouldn’t say I’m a dog-sitter.” He paused thoughtfully, long enough to have Rosemary looking at him in alarm. “More of a … research assistant.”

  Wait. What? All hands on deck! Time to make the jump to hyperspace!

  This charade had officially gone too far. It was time to eject President Cornell from her office and get the situation under control.

  “So kind of you to drop by, President Cornell,” Rosemary said, a touch too loudly. “But as you can see, I have a lot to do, unpacking and so forth, so if you don’t mind …”

  “I most certainly do mind,” the little man sputtered. “This is the first I’m hearing about a research assistant. If you’d only said you needed one, I could’ve raised enough funds to include it in the budget, but as it is …”

  Rosemary tried hard not to look at Wes, who laughed and spread his hands. “Did I say ‘research assistant’? I meant … well, actually, it’s more like Doc Wilkins is assisting me. With my research for my final project.”

  Cornell squinted until he looked as if he’d gotten a face full of sulfuric acid fumes. “Final projects aren’t due until the end of the second year of the program, after the externship.”

  “I wanted
to get a jump on mine,” Wes said easily. “Complicated stuff. Going to require lots and lots of chemistry and background knowledge of the type only Professor Wilkins can provide.”

  Cornell turned his squint on her. “I wasn’t aware you were willing to serve as a final project advisor.”

  “I’m not. Mr. Murphy is an exception.” She made her voice as firm as she could. Better nip this in the bud before she found herself advising twenty stressed-out students on their final projects. She had enough stress of her own to deal with. “His project is vitally interesting, from a scientific standpoint. I couldn’t resist the chance to help guide and mold his experimental procedures and research.”

  Cornell, finally ready to accept that he wasn’t going to get to expel anyone today, nodded and turned to leave. Behind his back, Wes stuck both his thumbs in the air and looked impressed. Rosemary tried not to be proud of having mastered the art of deceit, but couldn’t quite manage it. She’d always been accomplishment-oriented.

  At the door, Cornell paused. “I’ll look forward to reviewing the results of your study. What’s the subject of this fascinating final project, anyway?”

  Rosemary’s self-congratulatory giddiness fizzed away like carbon dioxide reacting with water to form a dilute solution of carbonic acid in a glass of lager.

  She stared at Wes, speechless. Those green-gold eyes blinked back at her, and she actually saw the idea take shape deep within them—they narrowed a fraction, which was accompanied by the slight arch of the scarred eyebrow and a minute curl of his well-shaped upper lip. He looked … wicked. And happy about it.

  “Aphrodisiacs,” Wes said, gaze never wavering from her face. “Together, Dr. Wilkins and I are going to prove which ones are a load of hooey.” He grinned, slow and devastating. “And which ones work like a charm.”

  Chapter 4

  The lab was still and quiet, no chemicals bubbling, no machines whirring. The air was heavy with the earthy scents of sweat and sex. Moonlight filtered through the tall, narrow windows, highlighting the smooth, bare limbs splayed upon the central table.

  A sigh. A rustle of movement, the sensual slide of skin against skin. The whisper of wet heat was the only warning before a scorching, ravenous mouth descended over a small, taut nipple. More sighs, then a moan, the temperature in the room skyrocketing as the bodies on the table writhed in glorious, messy harmony.

  “I’ve never felt like this before.” Between kisses, tongues pushing hard and deep, bodies moving together.

  “I know.” Sexy purr of a voice, shivers cascading as it moved closer to brush the words against the shell of an ear. “It’s the pon farr.”

  “What?”

  His eyes glowed warm and green-gold in the cool moonlight. “The mating cycle of the Vulcans is upon you, but I won’t let you experience the lingering death, Dr. Wilkins. If we mate, I can save you.”

  Rosemary sat up, heedless of her nakedness in her haste to touch her own ears. Yes! They were pointed, like a Vulcan’s! It was a dream come true!

  Oh. Wait.

  With a sigh, Rosemary opened her eyes and blinked sleepily into the darkness, glad there was no one there to witness her skin glowing bright red with embarrassment. Her blush felt hot enough to set off radioactivity alerts.

  “Hi,” she said to the featureless black of her room. “My name is Dr. Rosemary Wilkins, and I have Star Trek sex dreams.”

  The sad part was, even in a fake confession to an empty room she couldn’t bring herself to admit the worst of it.

  Memories of dark hair falling into bright hazel eyes, kissing that smile as broad shoulders held a strong body above her—oh no, the pon farr wasn’t close to the worst of it.

  Because Rosemary knew exactly who her dream “mate” was.

  Wes Murphy. The ridiculously sexy, rule-breaking student who was now her research assistant.

  She groaned, pulled the pillow over her head, and recited chemical formulae until she fell back into a restless sleep.

  “Knock knock. Dr. Wilkins?”

  Wes shouldered open the door to the chemistry lab, struggling not to drop his heavy armload.

  Dr. Rosemary Wilkins crossed her arms over her small, high breasts and gave Wes a look that lowered his core body temperature by at least five degrees.

  He couldn’t help it, though. The sliver of T-shirt flirting out from beneath her white lab coat made him smile. He squinted; as best he could make out, the shirt appeared to feature the mathematical sign for pi floating on a blue background, surrounded by clouds. It took him a second, but he finally got it.

  Heh. Pi in the sky.

  “Well, hello there, Dr. Wilkins. Nice day, isn’t it?”

  “What?”

  She blinked at him as if she barely recognized his face. Wes tried not to be offended.

  “Remember me? Your research partner? I’m here to start setting up our experiment,” he said, putting down the big, rectangular cooler.

  The confusion cleared from her pretty blue eyes and she colored up as if he were searing her sweet cheeks with a hot skillet.

  “Right! Of course, I’m sorry. I was engrossed in my … doesn’t matter. Yes. Aphrodisiacs! I’ve actually done a little preliminary research into the subject.”

  “Fascinating,” Wes murmured, sauntering around the lab table.

  Rosemary—he’d decided he liked thinking of her as “Rosemary”—jittered as he got closer. She actually backed off a few steps, only stopping when Wes did. “I want to make something very clear.” She held up a finger. “I’m studying the chemical effect of nutritive substances on the human body—I don’t have time to get sidetracked into mythical hoo-hah like aphrodisiacs.”

  “So why did you help me out with Cornell?” Wes thought he knew, but he was very curious to see what she’d say.

  “I shouldn’t have. It was a lie, and I hate lies.”

  “For a good cause, though,” Wes pointed out.

  She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. A lie is a lie is a lie. As a scientist, I’m dedicated to the truth.”

  “Then why—?”

  She pursed her pink lips. “Like many heads of school administration, President Cornell has let the power of being in charge of his little universe go to his head and turn him into a petty dictator. Not only that, he’s mentally negligible and has no true interest in knowledge; he recruited me heavily so he could use my name to raise the academy’s profile and secure donations for research. His only concern is the eventual monetary gain the school stands to make. I have no respect for him. And I didn’t like the way he spoke about your dog.”

  Wes blinked. That was way more information than he’d expected. “Wow. Do you always say exactly what you mean?”

  She knitted her brows, those so-blue eyes going opaque with confusion. “Why would I ever say something other than what I mean?”

  “To get along. To do well. To fit in.”

  “Those things are irrelevant. Besides, I have an IQ of a hundred and eighty. There are relatively few people for me to ‘fit in’ with.”

  Wes’s bullshit meter exploded. “No way.”

  She frowned at him. “I agree, the intelligence quotient test is flawed and inaccurate, but I assure you, I did score a one-eighty on it.”

  “Not that,” Wes said. “The other bit. About how you don’t care about fitting in.”

  No one, but no one, was that secure. In Wes’s experience, every single interaction was about figuring out which parts of yourself to hide and which parts to reveal so as not to get called out and shunted to the outskirts of the group.

  Just like with a good shallot-and-mustard vinaigrette, blending was imperative. Always.

  “Oh!” Her eyes widened like blue saucers. “No, that part’s true, too. It’s illogical and impractical to be overly concerned with the good opinion of others. The only true measure of success is the attainment of one’s personal goals.”

  She sounded as if she were reciting something she’d been told repeatedly. Starting to ge
t righteously ticked, Wes asked, “Where’d you get that pearl of wisdom? Star Trek?”

  Wilkins stiffened. “For your information, Star Trek presents a highly intelligent, forward-thinking universe of characters and morals—if more people lived their lives according to the precepts set forth by the Federation, the world would be a better place.”

  Wes held up his hands in surrender. They were getting off-track. “So. You’re helping me get one over on Cornell. And meanwhile, you’re supposed to be researching how food makes people feel? Sounds to me like aphrodisiacs are right in line with that.”

  “Yes, but I’m doing real science,” she said cuttingly. “Aphrodisiacs are anecdotal nonsense. The FDA ruled on them more than twenty-five years ago, and they found no correlation between sex drive and any over-the-counter remedies, including popular so-called aphrodisiacs like truffles, ginseng, almonds, and so on.”

  “That’s because there’ve never been any reputable, conclusive tests done,” Wes argued. He’d looked into it. Know enough about your background story to be able to riff on it. That was one of the best lessons Pops ever taught him.

  Rosemary cocked her head, eyes going vague in a way that told Wes she was considering what he’d said. “I suppose that’s true.”

  Sensing that grudging acceptance was the best he could hope for at this point, Wes smiled winningly and said, “Great! Want a snack? I brought oysters.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him.

  Wes held up his hands in surrender. “Kidding! Not about the oysters, I mean, I did bring them. But they’re for the experiment.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  Wes cocked his head at her chilly, blank stare. “You know. Oysters? Most potent of all aphrodisiacs?”

  She arched one brow, eyes flaring with annoyance, and Wes hid a grin. He liked how fiery she got when he ticked her off.

  “Of course I’ve heard that,” she said. “I was simply astounded that you would begin with such an incredibly pedestrian example. And such an easily disproven one, as well. Most of the educated world now agrees that oysters are associated with sexual feelings due to their relationship to the coining of the very term ‘aphrodisiac’ along with the story of Aphrodite rising from the spray of sea foam in an oyster shell. The sea foam, of course, being a metaphor for Zeus’s ejaculate.”