Master Class: An Alpha Billionaire Romance (+ Bonus Book 'Silent Daughter 1') Page 3

  No, that’s not her.

  However, she is exactly the kind of woman I’m drawn to.

  She is a good girl, unobtrusive and demure. Dressed in dark colors, she lets her brown hair fall down over her slim shoulders, framing a delicate and pale face. It is the end of the summer, but she is one of the very few students in here who do not have the slightest tan. It makes her look younger than she probably is, and it makes her unusually dark eyes pop even more. They are too dark for her complexion and it takes a second look to realize that they are not black or brown, but blue.

  I don’t notice her until she raises her arm, drawing my attention to herself by force. I know what to expect even before she speaks. She wants to prove a point, and she wants me to know that she is not intimidated or enchanted by me, like most of her peers are.

  The look on her face says it all. It’s different from most other girls in this class. Her face is stern and focused. This is what makes her stand out from the crowd.

  The female crowd around her displays the same infatuation that I have become all too used to. I can see them left and right, their empty eyes hanging on to my every word. How boring. Infantile admiration is written all over their faces.

  But not on hers.

  She is pressing her small lips together as she waits to be called upon by me. I didn’t expect to be interrupted this early in the lecture, so she has the element of surprise going for her. That surprise soon fades when she starts speaking and proves my suspicions right.

  I thrive on seeing her eyebrows furl when I pick up her arrogant interjection and continue saying things she will hate. Calling on her again a few minutes later is just the icing on the cake.

  “Why don’t you just tell us, Mr. Portland,” she says with that snarky tone in her voice.

  I will remember this, and I won’t forget to punish her in some way or another.

  She refrains from any further interruptions during the lecture, but after I dismiss the class I notice that she is packing her things rather slowly. She lingers while most other students storm out of the auditorium and even longer while a handful come down to speak to me.

  They are mostly girls who are thanking me for this “enlightening” first lecture and one guy who asks whether there will be material for them to download as the semester progresses. I answer their questions and thank them for their remarks, but try to dismiss them as quickly as possible. It’s not only about me not having the time, or desire, to hang out with these spoiled kids, but mainly due to curiosity as to what she might have to say to me now that the lecture is over.

  The girl is standing a few feet away, keeping her distance while there are still other students around. Only when the last of them finally leaves does she dare to approach me.

  “Yes?” I ask before she can open her mouth. “Anything unclear, Miss?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes,” she says, now standing right next to me. I notice a little shiver when I lay my eyes on her, even though she tries her best to appear confident and calm.

  She is not. Her nervousness is obvious.

  Good. Very good.

  I sigh. “Well, how can I help you?”

  “I need credit for this class,” she says, crossing her arms in front of her small chest. “And I was wondering how you would go about that? Do we have an exam? A paper? You never mentioned anything and you never posted a syllabus, like our professors would.”

  I notice the special emphasis she put on her last few words. Like our professors would. She is trying to put me in my place, to remind me that I am not a scholar. I wouldn’t be surprised if she sees it below herself to be taught by me at all.

  However, her question is legitimate and deserves an answer. I am surprised that she is the first person to even ask about this.

  “There won’t be any grades or papers,” I say. “You’ll pass this class with standard attendance-”

  “That’s unusual,” she interrupts. “Normally, graduate students are not required to attend classes and we’re evaluated by-”

  “I know that,” I say, now interrupting her. “But you may have noticed that I like to do things a little different.”

  “Is this in agreement with the dean?” she wants to know.

  Now, she is starting to agitate me. I take a step closer to her, so close, that I can perceive her scent. It’s just her, no disruptive perfume that distracts from her natural scent. Clean and innocent, unobtrusive.

  She flinches, but doesn’t move away from me. Her breathing accelerates, her chest heaving under strong inhales and exhales. I love the effect I have on her, and her arrogant demeanor only adds to my excitement.

  This girl is in a lot more trouble than she could ever imagine.

  “Of course, this is in agreement with the dean,” I hiss. We are standing so close that she must feel my breath on her face as I speak.

  She looks up at me, her eyes narrow and attentive.

  “If you want a grade for this class - even though it is not required - you can arrange something with my teaching assistant,” I add. “Write some kind of silly essay or something. I really don’t care.”

  She nods. “Alright. I will do that then.”

  “Fine.”

  “I’m wondering, though,” she adds, taking a deep breath before she dares to continue. “You said you’ll give credit to students by standard attendance.”

  She pauses, looking up at me as if she is making sure I am listening to her. I beckon her to continue by raising one of my eyebrows, casting her an impatient look.

  “How do plan to check on that? Do you take attendance? I don’t think you did today…”

  This girl. It’s almost as if she is asking for punishment.

  “Why don’t you let that be my worry,” I tell her, and her eyes flicker. She is not very tall, barely reaching up to my chin as she stands before me in her ballerina flats. I can’t help but wonder what she would look like in heels. I bet she has never worn any before and couldn’t walk in them. It would be fun to watch her try.

  “You just worry about your own work,” I add. “And let me do my job.”

  “So, write a silly essay paper you mean?” she repeats my previous words.

  I nod. “Yes, exactly.”

  “You don’t seem to take this very seriously,” she states.

  I don’t understand why she is still here. Is she seriously trying to lecture me? Does she want me to bend her over my desk right here and now?

  “And you take it a bit too seriously, young lady,” I say. “Your ambition may be admirable, but a more pleasant attitude wouldn’t hurt.”

  Her eyes widen with indignation and she inhales sharply. Oh, I have upset the little Miss.

  She takes a step back, and as she does, I can instantly see her shoulders relax a little. My proximity caused her to tense up more than she would ever be willing to admit.

  How sweet. How delicious.

  “I’ll talk to your assistant about the paper,” she says, acting as if the last few words of our exchange have never happened. “Thank you.”

  With that, she abruptly turns around to leave.

  “What’s your name?” I ask.

  She stops and turns toward me, her eyebrows raised with worry. “Why do you want to know?”

  “I am your teacher, you are in my class, and I feel like you might be one of the few who will actually ask questions,” I say. “Wouldn’t it be nice if I could address you with your name every time I have to call on you?”

  She hesitates.

  “Besides,” I add. “It’s only polite to tell someone your name when you’re asked.”

  “Is it?” she wonders. “It could also be a good way for a teacher to take revenge by grading unfairly when they can put a name to a face they don’t like.”

  “I told you, I’m not grading you in anyway,” I say, chuckling and shaking my head. “Besides, who says I don’t like you?”

  There it is. She blushes. This uptight confused little creature blushes in front
of me.

  “I like you,” I say to worsen her embarrassment. “Students like you. It’s more fun to deal with someone like you than a doe-eyed admirer who won’t give me any backtalk. No challenge. Kind of boring, don’t you think?”

  Her cheeks and ears are glowing crimson red, and her lips part in an attempt to speak. She has never been seen as a rebel, as someone who talks back, someone who poses a challenge to her teachers. That is not who she is.

  This is new to her.

  “Harlington,” she says eventually, her voice thin and shaky, very unlike it was before. “Lana Harlington.”

  “Thank you, Miss Harlington,” I say, nodding toward her. “I am looking forward to being your teacher for this semester.”

  She nods, but doesn’t say anything. Instead of her mouth, it’s her eyes that move. They flutter like wings of a butterfly. She stares at me with those flickering lashes for a few moments, before she decides to turn around.

  My eyes are glued to her back as she walks away to leave the auditorium, shaking her slim hips dressed in a dark gray skirt that hides her perky ass.

  I am going to wrap my hands around those hips. And I am going to spank the hell out of that tight, little ass.

  Just you wait, Miss Harlington.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  LANA

  For as long as Celia and I have shared a room, I cannot remember the last time she asked me about my day. The way we pursue our college life is so different that there are times where we hardly see each other, let alone speak to one another.

  When I come home after a long day of classes and working at the library, Celia is usually about to get ready to go out or has already left, and when I get up in the morning, she is still fast asleep. She is smart and never picks a class that starts earlier than 10 in the morning, and even that time is a struggle for her.

  This evening, she is sitting at her desk, in the middle of fixing her makeup when I walk in. Normally, I wouldn’t get more than a simple ‘Hi’ from her, without even turning her head to look at me. Today, she stops what she’s doing as soon as I open the door, looking at me with expectant eyes. “So, how was it?”

  “How was what?” I ask, confused. “My day?”

  She sighs and rolls her eyes. “No, silly. Your lecture with Mr. Awesome!”

  I head over to my side of the room, throwing my bag onto my bed and let out an angry snort.

  “Mr. Full-of-himself is more like it,” I say. “He’s such a douche bag! I cannot believe the University lets him teach!”

  I sink down on the bed next to my bag and look over to Celia, who is eying me with an amused smile.

  “He’s not qualified at all,” I continue. “No syllabus, no grades, no exam, no papers. I feel like he’s going to spend the entire semester telling us about how great he is, and that’s it.”

  Celia grins. “Oh, that’s gonna make him even more popular, I bet!”

  “With those brainless fangirls? Sure!” I say. “But you know, some people actually want to learn something…”

  “Some people,” Celia interjects. “You, maybe.”

  “And the way he exposed me…,” I add, regretting it just a moment later as Celia’s eye light up with excitement.

  “Exposed you?” she asks.

  She leans over the backrest of her chair, looking at me with a coy smile. “What is that all about? Spill the beans!”

  “Don’t you have to be somewhere?” I ask, nodding toward the makeup brush in her hand.

  She waves me off. “Oh, don’t try to change the subject now! Tell me!”

  I sigh. Why did I even start this conversation? I could have just given her what she wants: tell her that Mr. Portland is as handsome as they say and that it’s nice to have some eye candy in class - or something along those lines. By telling her the truth, I will only end up as the bad guy of the story. I always do.

  But I have dug myself too deep, and I’m not quick-witted enough to come up with a good lie.

  I give her a short version of the events that happened during Mr. Portland’s introductory lecture, hoping that she’ll content herself with it and leave me alone for the night sooner rather than later.

  Of course, she doesn’t.

  “Oh, Lana,” she says when I’m done. She is shaking her head and laughing at me. “You’re unbelievable!”

  I draw in a stuttered gasp. “What? Why? Those were legitimate questions!”

  Celia winks at me.

  “Sure they might be,” she agrees. “But that doesn’t mean you have to ask them the way you did! And scolding him for not doing things like a real professor - really?!”

  “That’s not exactly what I said,” I try to defend myself.

  “But it’s what you implied!” Celia insists. “And he knows that!”

  She leans in a little closer to me and narrows her eyes, throwing me a covert glance.

  “Besides,” she says in a soft voice. “I know what you’re like. You don’t exactly adhere to polite behavior when you think it’s time to lecture someone.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, huffing.

  “You know exactly what I mean,” Celia says, moving away from me and turning around to continue painting her face for whatever she has planned tonight.

  “I bet he’s pretty mad at you now, which can’t be good for your grade,” she assumes while applying some eye shadow.

  “Well, remember, he’s not going to grade us,” I remind her. “It’s probably best that he doesn’t. He’s not qualified whatsoever.”

  Celia rolls her eyes. “Yeah, and I’m sure you made sure he’s aware of that.”

  “He doesn’t need me to tell him,” I say. “But you might be right… I should have been nicer and a bit more careful.”

  Celia’s eyebrows arch up in surprise. “What makes you say that?”

  “When I was about to leave, he asked for my name,” I explain. “And he had this brooding look on his face. Very odd. Scary.”

  “Uh oh,” she says, chuckling. “Seems like he’s taken note of you, girl. Not surprisingly.”

  I don’t add anything to that. My eyes fall down on my lap, where I’m nervously playing with my fingers, turning around the only piece of jewelry I wear on a regular basis - a black ceramic ring. My face softens every time I look at it. It was supposed to be a lucky charm for something I wanted a long time ago, and has been my companion for close to ten years. In a way, it has become a reminder of terrible neglect, but I refuse to look at it that way.

  “You know that doesn’t have to be a bad thing,” Celia says, thinking that I’m worried.

  I look up at her with a quizzical expression, meeting her eyes in her makeup mirror.

  “That he’s taken note of you,” she explains. “It doesn’t have to be a bad thing. Maybe he’s impressed with your attitude or something. Who knows.”

  “Yeah, maybe,” I say. “He said he liked me.”

  “What?!” Celia exclaims, abruptly turning around to me. “He said he likes you?! And you’re just telling me now?”

  I sigh. Why did I have to blurt that out? I made it sound as if he declared his love for me or something. How silly.

  And where are these sharp palpitations coming from? Why does my heart do these silly jumps every time I recall that moment? “I like you.” Those words coming from his mouth had a sting-like quality, as if he was poking straight into my insides. I don’t know how to process that feeling. Did it feel good? Bad?

  It certainly doesn’t feel familiar.

  “He said something along those lines,” I admit, avoiding Celia’s amused smirk. “After I accused him of wanting to take revenge on me.”

  Celia bursts out with laughter.

  “You dirty girl!” she asserts. “Flirting with the hottest guest lecturer this school has ever seen. I knew there was a little bad girl behind all that rigid exterior of yours!”

  I huff, shaking my head. “I wasn’t flirting with him!”

  Celia casts me a saucy sm
irk, before she turns her back to me to finish her makeup for the night.

  “Sure you were,” she insists. “I have a feeling you’re quite smitten with him-”

  “I’m not!” I object, sounding like a defiant child.

  “I was gonna add that you wouldn’t admit it,” she concludes.

  She checks herself one last time, grimacing toward her reflection and putting a few lose strands of her hair into place that she secures with hairspray before she jumps up from her chair.

  “I gotta go,” she announces. “Give you some time to dream about Mr. Perfect.”

  “I thought he was Mr. Awesome?” I ask.

  She winks at me. “Whatever you prefer. See ya!”

  Celia is out the door before I get a chance to reply anything to her final words. I exhale loudly and lean back against the wall, my feet dangling off the edge of the bed.

  I don’t think I could ever admit it to Celia’s face, but she may be right about some things she said. Of course, I didn’t flirt with Mr. Portland. He may not be a real professor but at least for this semester and for this class, he is a teacher. My teacher.

  But there is just something about him.

  Obviously, he is handsome as hell. It’s that obvious kind of gorgeous that hits you right in the face. I would be an idiot not to admit it. Tall, dark and mysterious. What woman wouldn’t like that?

  Yet, that’s not it.

  It’s the way he looked at me. That intense gaze. There was some sincere interest behind his stare. His eyes found mine again and again during the lecture, even after I stopped interrupting him with my disruptive comments. At first I thought he was just checking to see whether I’d raise my arm again. That thought filled me with pride, because it made me feel powerful, almost as if he was scared of me.

  But after a while I began to realize that he was glimpsing at me for other reasons.

  He wasn’t checking for confirmation or making sure that I wouldn’t have anything to object. He was just looking at me. Just like that. As if it was something he enjoyed doing.

  I told myself that the reason why I stayed behind after class was for me to ask him about his nonexistent syllabus, but I knew I was lying to myself.