“Moreover, you will refrain from making personal remarks about my other students, especially Miss Mitchell. Is that clear?”
“Clear.”
Now Christa was beginning to seethe a little, but she kept her reaction to herself. She placed all the blame on Julia. She wanted to drive Julia out of the program. She simply wasn’t sure how to do that. Yet.
“Finally, anything you hear from me about another student or person connected with the university will be deemed to be confidential, and you will not repeat it or else you will find yourself another dissertation director. Do you think you are intelligent enough to comply with these very simple instructions?”
“Yes, Professor.” She bristled slightly at his condescension, but truth be told, she found his grumpiness sexy. She wanted to tease it out of him. To seduce him into doing unspeakable things to her, to—
“Any more abuse directed toward MA students will be brought to the attention of Professor Martin, the department chair. I believe you are well aware of the regulations governing the behavior of graduate students. I don’t need to remind you about the prohibitions against hazing, do I?”
“But I wasn’t hazing Julia, I was—”
“No sniveling. And I doubt that Miss Mitchell gave you permission to use her first name. You will address her properly or not at all.”
Christa bowed her head. Threats of the sort he was making were not sexy. She’d worked very hard to get into the PhD program at the University of Toronto, and she wasn’t about to let it all slip through her fingers. Not for some pathetic little bitch who had something cooking with the Professor’s research assistant.
Gabriel saw her reaction but said nothing, slowly sipping his espresso. He felt no remorse and was beginning to wonder what else he could do to make her cry.
“I’m confident you are well aware of the university’s policies governing harassment. Those policies work both ways. Professors can file a complaint if they believe they are being harassed by a student. If you cross the line with me, I’ll drag you to the Dean’s Office so quickly your head will spin. Do you understand?”
Christa lifted her chin and gazed at him with wide, frightened eyes. “But we—I thought—”
“But nothing!” Gabriel snapped. “Unless you’re delusional, you’ll realize that there is no we. I won’t repeat myself. You know where you stand.”
He glanced at Julia and Paul one last time. “Now that we have dispensed with today’s pleasantries, I’d like to tell you what I thought about your last dissertation proposal. It was rubbish. In the first place, your thesis is derivative. In the second, you’ve made no attempt to provide a literature review that comes close to being adequate. If you cannot amend your proposal to address these issues, you will need to find another director. If you choose to submit a revised proposal, you will need to do so within two weeks. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a meeting that is actually worth my time. Good afternoon.”
Gabriel departed Starbucks abruptly, leaving a rather shell-shocked Christa staring off into space.
She heard part of his speech, of course, but her mind was focused on other things. First, she was going to do something to get back at Julia. She didn’t know what and she didn’t know when. But she was going to shank that bitch (metaphorically speaking) and cut her (also metaphorically speaking).
Second, she was going to rewrite her dissertation proposal and hopefully win Professor Emerson’s academic approval.
Third, she was going to redouble her efforts at seduction. Now that she had seen Professor Emerson angry, there was nothing she desired more than to see him angry with her—while naked. She was going to change his mind. She was going to break through his harsh exterior. She was going to see him kneeling before her, begging for her, and then…
Clearly, the four-inch heels and the Bordelle lingerie weren’t enough. Christa was going to head over to Holt Renfrew, and she was going to buy herself a new dress. Something European. Something sexy. Something by Versace.
Then she was going to Lobby to set her third scheme in motion…
Chapter 4
In the penthouse of a boutique hotel in Florence, clothes had been tossed haphazardly across a sitting room floor, trailing like breadcrumbs from the doorway toward a wall that was no longer blank. Groans and obvious rhythms floated in the air, wafting over a man’s fine handmade shoes, a black bra, a tailored suit tossed wantonly over a coffee table, a taffeta dress puddled into a Santorini-blue pool…
If one were a detective, one would notice that the lady’s panties and shoes were missing.