He lifted his thumb up for a moment and then turned it down. If she had an injury, they’d deal with that first. She gave him a thumbs-up in return and gestured to the person lying on the floor. Colin now recognized her as the middle-aged woman who’d given him a library tour on his first day of teaching on campus.
“Hurt?” Colin said, though of course neither of them could hear each other.
The younger woman leaned over and touched two fingers to the back of the librarian’s skull. Her fingers came away wet and red. Tears filled her eyes and he resisted the urge to let his emotions take over and offer comfort. His sympathy went out to her, but calling emergency services took priority.
He dialed 911 and repeated their location and the nature of the emergency five times, since he couldn’t hear the person on the other end to know if anyone had even picked up yet. Finally, he ended with a simple instruction. “Three subjects hit by stun grenade, hearing lost. Repeat, I cannot hear. If you have received this message, please redial this number after I hang up.”
He hung up and waited, counting the seconds until his phone lit up. When it did, he released the breath he’d been holding, thanked the person on the other end and turned his attention back to the two women. And here he’d thought teaching criminology classes in a small college would be a break from the exhausting Secret Service life. This was the exact thing he’d come here to get away from after making a career-ending mistake two years ago. Last spring, he’d realized staying in Washington, DC, wasn’t doing him any favors. He needed to move on and forget about the ache of being dismissed—and the regret of making a mistake that had caused the woman he loved to be killed, thanks to his inability to separate his heart from his job.
How did he not know the name of the woman in front of him? Shouldn’t he have seen her around by now? Gwyn Ponth was quite small, so far as local colleges went.
She checked the other woman’s pulse, and a second wave of relief flooded through his veins when her worried frown eased. Gently, he helped her to roll the librarian onto her back. She remained unconscious, breath labored but steady, and Colin checked around her head for the source of the blood matting her hair. It appeared to be a superficial wound, much to his great relief. The librarian would feel terrible for a few weeks and likely suffer frustrating headaches, but she’d live.
It was then that Colin noticed the younger woman’s tremble, tears of fright slipping down her cheeks despite the resolve set in her jaw. Her long hair fell in curtains on each side of her face, and from this angle, her delicate features carried an intriguing, ethereal symmetry.
An errant tear escaped its prison and slipped down the side of her right cheek. Without thinking, Colin reached out to wipe it away. Surprise swept through him as he brushed his thumb across her cheek toward her hair. Where he’d expected smooth skin, he felt the tight, bumpy dryness of skin damage—burn scarring? Some other injury?
Instantly, she gasped and knocked his hand away with enough force to sting. The motion revealed too-shiny, reddish scarring from the outside corner of her eye down to the midcenter of her jaw. Her hair had covered it completely.
She scrambled to her feet and leaned against the far side of the hall, where she stayed until the paramedics and police arrived on scene. Once they could both hear again, he’d apologize properly.
And find out if she knew of anybody who might want her or the librarian dead.
The next morning, Ginny arrived at work a half hour early, despite the department head’s insistence that she take the rest of the week off. Her hearing was still a little muffled, but nothing that she needed to lie in bed over. One of the Language and Culture Department’s teaching assistants had been assigned to take over her classes for the week—and she’d sent the lesson plans in early this morning—but Ginny had a meeting scheduled for today that nothing short of forced hospitalization could keep her from. Unfortunately for Donna, the head librarian’s injury had been more serious, and she was still hospitalized. The doctors had allowed Ginny to go home after getting checked over last night.
As Ginny checked her work email, the memory of finding Donna lying bleeding on the floor was replaced by that of the shocked visage of the handsome man who’d accosted her in the library and helped her after the stun grenade. All that, and she hadn’t even learned his name.
Curious, she loaded up the Gwyn Ponth website and scrolled through to the faculty page. “All right. Who are you?”
“I’m not sure who you’re actually looking for on there, but I’m Colin Tapping. A little farther down the page, though.”
Alarmed, Ginny spun in her chair. The man from last night stood in her office doorway, arms crossed. “Uh...hello?”
He glanced around the shoe box–sized office. “I’ve owned refrigerators larger than this.”
“I spend most of my time in the library or teaching, and they give the best offices to tenured professors.” She stood, matching his stance. “But I doubt you’re here to talk about office space.”
He extended his hand and she reluctantly accepted, feeling an unpleasant gnawing of anxiety in the pit of her stomach. He’d touched her scarred face when trying to wipe away a tear last night. In the process, he’d unknowingly brushed aside the hair she always wore down to cover up the disfigurement her cheek had suffered in a car crash twenty years ago. That crash had effectively ended what her mother had thought would be a lucrative and fame-driven modeling career for her daughter. Her mother had never hidden her desire to live vicariously through her daughter’s success, after her own career had tanked years prior. Her mother had never said it outright, but Ginny had always suspected she was the cause of her mother’s career tanking. After all, an unexpected pregnancy in an early marriage would certainly complicate a modeling career.
“I’m Colin Tapping. Teaching in the Criminology Department this semester.” His handshake was firm and strong. “Though not for the rest of the week. I assume the college insisted the same for you?”
“As you can see, it didn’t stick. I’m Ginny Anderson, specialist in ancient languages and history. I don’t recall seeing you at the faculty briefing before the semester began.”
He pulled his hand back from hers and leaned against the door frame. His eyes flicked to the side of her face and back, but not fast enough to escape her notice. She felt her cheeks grow warm and she touched her hair, making sure it covered the scar. After the car crash, Ginny’s mother had let her know, in no uncertain terms, that Ginny’s beauty—which her mother had bitterly pointed out at a family gathering was her daughter’s only true redeeming quality—had been unequivocally lost forever, and thusly she would never really amount to much.
Ginny didn’t talk to her mother much anymore, but she’d worked hard to make a career for herself teaching and studying ancient history and linguistics. She’d become a specialist in ancient languages, and this morning’s meeting with the local history museum’s curator would bring her one step closer to securing a future at the college. A tenure-track position was up for grabs this year, and if she proved herself valuable enough to the college’s reputation to earn it, she’d be placed on the list of teachers eligible for a permanent tenure position after a few years of hard work. While there were at least six part-time professors vying for tenure track within the department, rumor had it the department head was leaning toward securing someone with a wide range of specializations in both language and history. Ginny shared this qualification with one other professor in the department, though she hadn’t yet formally