Package Deal

By Kate Vale

Single mom Amanda Gardner begins her first academic appointment at private Buckley College in northwest Washington state, eager to begin a new life, pay off her school loans and become established in her career as an English professor. Two men complicate her life: Carlton Winslow, with whom Amanda must share and office; and, Marcus Dunbar, a journalism professor who befriends her and captivates her nine-year-old daughter, Cecelia.

Although Carlton is unpleasant to Amanda, he seems genuinely fond of Cecelia, who doesn't quite know how to tell her mother why she considers Carlton "icky."  The last thing Amanda wants is a romantic entanglement with Marcus, but she can't deny her attraction to the man and after Cecelia is hit by a car and badly injured, Marcus' investigation raises suspicions that Carlton may have had something to do with the accident.

Amanda is no longer sure who she can or should trust. Is Marcus even beyond suspicion? Is it possible that he or Carlton, or someone else Cecelia is too frightened to name, preys upon children? Amanda must get to the truth before she can give her heart to a man who claims he loves her and will cherish and protect her child.

• Language: English
• Publisher: North Cascades Press
• Release date: Jan 27, 2016
• ISBN: 9780985638924

Kate Vale

Kate Vale writes and publishes contemporary women’s fiction and contemporary romantic fiction. Most of her titles center in the Pacific Northwest or the Western United States.She has lived or visited nearly every state, several provinces in Canada and other countries, too. When she isn't writing, check her garden or look for her on nearby bike trails.

Book preview

Package Deal

Kate Vale

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2013 First Place Winner in the Mystery and Mayhem Award –

Romantic Suspense Category

Vale keeps us rapidly turning pages in this contemporary novel that is as suspenseful as it is romantic. – Chanticleer Book Reviews

Kate makes her characters come alive in realistic ways, and in Package Deal she carefully addresses so many of the issues families could encounter surrounding the difficult situation of another adult’s inappropriate behavior toward a child. We can feel the if only’s that worm into a parent’s brain when their child is hurt in any way... Vale weaves her words in a way that always makes me want to keep reading!

Published by North Cascades Press

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Copyright 2012 - Kathleen Auerbach

All rights reserved

ISBN: 978-0-9856389-2-4

Cover Artist: Dawné Dominique

Discover other titles by the author at: http://katevale.com

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Chapter 1

Cecelia Gardner followed her mother into her office. They’d already spent most of the last week running back and forth between home and the campus as her mother got ready for the school year. Cecelia was beginning to feel like this might be a cool place to hang out and do her homework if Mom wouldn’t let her stay home alone.

Cecelia, sit here, hon. Her mother motioned to the extra chair as she glanced at the man who shared the cramped office. He’d barely looked up when they entered.

I won’t be long, Carlton, and Cece knows to be quiet. I’m sure she won’t disturb you.

The man grunted, continuing to peer at the papers on his desk, not seeming to care that she was in the office.

Cecelia sat down, swinging her legs in the too-tall chair. She pulled her favorite book from her backpack and sighed. At least her mother hadn’t told her to do her homework.

What’s your name? The man looked over at her, a half-smile on his face.

Cecelia.

The man’s black hair was shiny, and his grey eyes squinted at her, reminding her of her best friend’s cat when it stared at her, never blinking.

I’m Professor Winslow. You must be Amanda’s daughter. He gave her a quick, sidelong grin. Your hair is all curls. Do you always keep it in pigtails?

Cecelia nodded.

My mom said she’d be right back.

I’m sure she will be. Is she in a meeting?

I think so. Then we’re going home.

How old are you? He straightened in his chair and then leaned closer.

Nine, going on ten. Next summer I’ll be ten.

What grade are you in? His chair slid in her direction.

She eyed the man briefly. Fourth. No more questions, she thought, as she shrank down in the chair and raised the book up to hide her face.

At the Campus School? I’ve met some of the teachers there. Do you like it? He placed a hand on the back of her chair. His breath reminded her of cigarettes. Nasty.

It’s a nice school. And I’m on the soccer team.

Good for you. Is this your first year—on the soccer team?

She shook her head. No. But I don’t know all the other girls yet.

I saw some soccer players on the field the other day. One girl had bright red hair. Is she on your team?

That’s Gloria. Her dad is our coach.

I see you’re a reader. He placed his hand over the spine of the book, his fingers, stained yellow, splaying across the words. What are you reading?

"It’s my book—Misty of Chincoteague." She pulled it closer when he slid his big chair closer and continued to stare at her.

You have very pretty eyes—blue, like the sky. Has anyone ever told you that? The man’s beard reminded her of sandpaper, like what she’d touched in class when they were studying different textures.

She shook her head and opened the book again, wanting to get back to the story. If only she could move her chair away so he couldn’t touch her book, but there wasn’t enough room. Something about the way he watched her made her uncomfortable. She wished he would stop talking to her, stop asking her questions.

But the man moved his chair closer so that it bumped hers. She didn’t like that he smelled bad. His big hand with dark hairs on his fingers traced the air just above her knee.

Your hair smells nice.

Cecelia pulled down her skirt, tucked her feet under her, and scooted as far away from him as she could, wishing she could leave the room. But she didn’t know where her mother was and she’d been told to stay in the office.

Where did you get that scar on your leg?

I fell down—when I was playing soccer, she answered, her voice a near-whisper, her heart thudding like a drum in her chest.

The doorknob rattled. The man abruptly repositioned his chair in front of his big computer.

Yes, I’ll drop it off on my way out.

Her mother’s voice carried through the door, to Cecelia’s relief. When she opened it, Cecelia smiled at her mother, and looked over at the man in the big chair. He was fiddling with his tie, and the skin under his right eye was twitching.

Cecelia lowered her feet to the floor. Can we go home now?

In a minute, Cece. Her mother reached for her briefcase as she glanced in the man’s direction. He stared down at his papers and resumed typing.

Come on, Mom. Cecelia slid out of the little chair, keeping her mother between herself and the man. She pulled on her mother’s hand, eager to get away from the man’s prying eyes and bad breath.

~ ~ ~

Amanda Gardner fingered her grandmother’s filigree heart on its chain at her throat, her anxiety heightened by Carlton’s unpleasantness. Why couldn’t he be nicer? Today, as she strode out of the English department of Buckley College on her way to the student union, she was nearly jumping out of her skin. So much rested on the coming fall quarter. Like maybe her entire life?

Her grandmother. Now there was a woman who never seemed afraid. I have to be more like her—brave, not so afraid of the unknown. Leaving Iowa and moving west had been an adventure of sorts. No storms in the middle of the Atlantic to worry about, just the one flat tire halfway through Nebraska. I just need to do my job and make friends among the faculty. Except for her officemate, Carlton Winslow, they seemed very nice. When would she feel comfortable, on campus, in Shoreville, Washington, so far from her home in southern Minnesota? Was it simple bad luck she was sharing an office with a man whose mood seemed so dark whenever she was present, who insisted on taking up most of the space in their office?

Just get out of my hair, Amanda. I’ve got work to do. He’d turned his back on her and begun moving her files from the second drawer of their shared cabinet to the bottom drawer, as if he owned the top two sections.

But his words to her when she left made her wonder. He’d complimented her on nine-year-old Cecelia’s picture that adorned their shared desk. Actually, it was her daughter he’d complimented. Right before he made clear he considered their shared space his office.

Maybe he’ll loosen up. Be nicer, more accommodating. It’s his first year, too.

Amanda crossed the campus, nodding to a group of students and their parents as they passed. Up ahead she saw one of the instructors she’d met at the dean’s new faculty gathering. He was talking with another man, tall, with sandy hair. When they entered the science building, she saw them in profile. That journalism guy, the tall one—he’d passed out questionnaires for everyone to fill out. Questions she hadn’t answered yet, she realized with a guilty jolt. Marcus Dunbar. He had blue eyes—just like Dylan’s.

Stop that! she berated herself. The last thing she needed was to compare men to Cecelia’s father.

Even fully dressed, the man had a body any woman would drool over. His neatly pressed slacks fit him perfectly. His spotless, white golf shirt emphasized his tan and well-developed pecs. She decided he must lift weights to build those muscles, or run in his off hours—something other than pushing a pencil or pounding a laptop.

Except she hadn’t taken this job to ogle men. Her first teaching appointment was critical, the key to establishing herself in her chosen field, providing for her daughter and paying off her student loans. She’d accepted the job at Buckley College—so far from home, her mother kept reminding her—to work, not look for a man. Although that’s exactly what her mother kept pushing her to do.

Amanda entered the student union and looked around. Spotting two of the other English faculty members, Scott and Jim, she headed for their table.

Glad you made it, Amanda. Coffee or tea? Scott moved his briefcase off her seat. Where’s your officemate? We invited him, too. But he’s not exactly the friendly sort, is he?

Amanda shrugged. He was filing when I left. But he’d acted more put out than busy when she’d reminded him of the invitation.

Jim grinned as he rubbed the top of his balding head. What was with the full-name bull when he introduced himself at the faculty meeting? Did you see how his cheek kept twitching when he answered Greg’s questions? He needs to chill. Wanna bet he demands that his students call him ‘Professor’ even though technically he’s not entitled?

Scott reached for the sugar canister. How much work does he have to do with classes almost a month away? I’m surprised Greg hired Winslow. His dissertation isn’t even finished.

You know Greg didn’t have much choice—after Harvey died, Jim said. Poor guy. One week sick and the next week gone. Greg had to fill the position so we wouldn’t be short-handed.

Amanda’s glance bounced from one to the other of her colleagues. That’s terrible. I don’t believe I met Harvey when I interviewed.

You’d have liked him. But I think we’ve got a winner in you, Amanda, Jim’s expression was friendly, admiring. Those magazine articles you submitted when you interviewed? Nice style, breezy but factual. Kind of halfway between literary and journalistic. I think the students are going to like working with you. Maybe you’ll snag some of the better journalism students for our department.

Thanks, she replied, encouraged by Jim’s praise. I’d like to think we’ll attract motivated students.

Scott nodded. I doubt Leonard will be happy about that. I was talking with Marc Dunbar the other day. He said the old man is bent on building the journalism department so they’ll have more majors than we do.

Let him try. Amanda’s got a figure the male students will like. That’s a bonus for us, don’t you think? Jim sat back in his chair, then glanced at her before looking over at Scott. Sorry, Amanda. Not very PC, am I? Hope you’re not offended.

She shrugged. No harm done.

Jimbo, we’re supposed to be thinking in terms of academics, like how Amanda here has already charmed JJ into working with her. Scott raised his glass in her direction. You asked for pointers at our faculty meeting, something we’d expect from a newbie. I’m not so sure about Winslow. He probably needs more help than you do, but he didn’t ask. And I wasn’t impressed with him—too casually dressed, not very forthcoming with what he’s doing, that sort of thing.

Scott turned back to her, his gaze dropping to her left hand for a fraction of a second, as if checking for a ring.

Tell us more about yourself, Amanda. You were pretty quiet in the meeting. Didn’t Beatrice say you have a daughter? But you’re not married, right? Scott asked.

Amanda creased her brow, then opened her mouth to speak.

Come on, Scott interrupted. Don’t look at me like that. I’m happily married—just like Jim here. I was just thinking of some of the other faculty—the single ones.

Anyone in particular come to mind? She recovered enough to give him a brief smile.

For sure not Winslow. Talk about a cold fish with a big ego. He’s not married—that I know for sure.

The three of them continued to chat while finishing their coffee. Amanda returned to her office. Carlton had insisted on taking nearly all of the bookshelf space. She debated asking the secretary if the bookshelf in the conference room was available for her books. The oversized desk—big enough for two, Beatrice, the department secretary, had said when it was moved into the office—took up nearly all the free space, leaving little room for the extra chair she expected students to use during office hours, or maybe herself if Carl occupied the larger chair. He had already centered his monster desktop computer facing the larger chair. An equally bulky printer sat closer to the window out of which she could see part of the mountain range in the distance. She sighed. If he was going to use the office daily—in order to finish his dissertation—it was going to be a long year. But this was not the time to ask for special favors, not at the beginning of the term. I’ll just have to see how we can work things out.

She collected her papers, nodded in Carl’s direction when he glanced briefly at her, and headed out the door of the department, rubbing the head of the Shakespeare sculpture as she left, a sculpture the chairman had acquired on a long-ago European trip. It held a place of honor at the entrance to the department. Everyone rubbed Will’s head for good luck, according to Beatrice. Let’s hope I don’t need it.

Chapter 2

Marcus sat on the porch swing, enjoying the cool evening breeze as the moon rose above the tree line. He reached for his phone to call the new faculty members who had not yet returned his questionnaire. Only two left, both in the English department. No one answered when he called Carl Winslow’s place. A message would have to do.

Now for the other one. Amanda Gardner. The woman wore her dark hair in a chic pixie cut. At the dean’s house he had spotted her immediately in a colorful vest over a white blouse with puffy sleeves, and a short skirt that showed off her trim legs. She seemed shy. Her gaze had slid away from his face when she’d asked for more time to study the questions before returning his sheet. Her dark hair framed a high-cheekboned, slim face. A silver chain half-hidden by the cut of her blouse had winked in the lamplight.

Beautiful, he mused. What kind of brains are behind that beauty? Greg Hillier wasn’t one to be swayed by appearances. Marcus thought back to a recent general faculty meeting when the Australian-born chair of the English department had harangued others about the importance of the qualities that mattered. I’ll bet this is her first post-grad position.

She didn’t seem at all like the full-figured music professor, also new, whose affectations in pronouncing her name had prompted smiles from the others. Eugenie Freeman reminded him of Felicity, the way she had come on to him, not waiting for him to make the first move. Felicity’s actions had implied she was ready to settle down, something he very much wanted—a wife and family, his own home. Instead, she’d broken his heart.

He had the home now, but no one to enjoy it with him. Felicity with the bright-red hair, whose temper was as volatile as her ringlets were long. She had accepted his love as if she was entitled, but never really gave back to him—except in bed, where they’d got on great. Is Eugenie another Felicity? No more assuming a woman had the same goals as he. Fun in bed was one thing, but he wanted more: mutually desired friendship, a permanent relationship, a future together.

He remembered Amanda’s questions, asked quietly as her wide brown eyes gazed back at him. Those slightly parted lips. He had wanted to kiss those lips and pull her curves close, surprising himself at the intensity of his reaction. Maybe it was the perfume she wore, a subtle scent that evoked cinnamon and vanilla, as if she had emerged from a cozy kitchen.

An owl hooted in the woods behind the house.

Who, indeed? Marcus murmured, as he looked through the information the dean had provided. No mention of a husband there. He wondered if she’d enjoy dinner and a movie. It had been a while since he’d had much of a social life.

He thought back to the woman he’d met while on his sabbatical at the Library of Congress. She’d been willing, but there was no spark. It had taken only two casual lunch conversations and a walk along the Potomac for him to realize that neither their interests nor their personalities meshed. Would it be different with Amanda?

He glanced at the information sheet again—Amanda, from Iowa City. Amanda, with soulful brown eyes that reminded him of milk chocolate. Amanda, who had dressed simply, but with elegance, for that meeting with the other newcomers. Amanda, who looked like she was going to be a much-needed addition to the English department. The only other female there had to be nearing sixty. He ran his fingers through his shaggy hair. He was overdue for a haircut. Had Amanda noticed?

The owl hooted again.

What do you think, Mr. Owl? Did she notice me at all? He punched in her number, and waited while the phone rang.

Hello?

He sat up straighter, as if she could see him. Is this Amanda Gardner?

It is. May I ask who’s calling?

Marc Dunbar. I was wondering if we might meet tomorrow for our interview—for the article on new faculty.

Oh. Yes, but I have a meeting with my chairman in the afternoon. After that, I’m free.

Her voice had just the right combination of interest and politeness.

Great. Why don’t I meet you at your office? We can walk over to the coffee shop and talk there.

I look forward to it.

So did he, imagining her smile.

~ ~ ~

When Amanda returned from her meeting, Marcus was waiting for her outside her office. They strolled across campus to the local Starbucks.

Tell me about the college, something other than what was in the brochure I was sent. Those eyes of his—so intense—so blue—just like Cece’s.

Let’s see. You know it was founded by Jeremiah Buckley. He thought its position on the highest hill in the town would attract students. There was some talk that he ran a speakeasy during the twenties, though there’s nothing in writing about that. He chuckled. Maybe the lumber business was just boring enough for him to want a more interesting hobby.

Perhaps. She stumbled as she skirted a cluster of students crossing in front of them, one arm brushing against Marcus. His hand slid under her elbow and then across the small of her back to steady her until she pulled away just out of reach.

I guess you’ve seen what a great view the campus has of the bay and the islands—

And the mountains to the west, too. She grinned. The view was one of the first things I noticed when I interviewed.

Most people say that, he replied. Rumor—and some of the early letters on display at the historical society—report that the first instructors lived with townspeople who had extra rooms. Now most of the faculty are like the dean. They live down the hill from campus and along some of the streets with views of the bay or the mountains. Where do you live?

I’m renting a house about five blocks away—close enough to walk.

When they arrived at the coffee shop, he held a chair for her then pulled a small notepad from his jacket pocket. Tell me about your thesis. You said it was a biography?

No, it was about writing biographies—the research that goes into them, and how to make facts interesting.

And this is your first faculty appointment. He jotted quick notes.

Yes. After more than six years of grad school poverty, I’m thrilled to be making a decent salary—what my daughter calls a real job. She laughed. I’ve got loans to pay off.

You have a kid? He looked surprised.

She nodded.

You’re married?

She shook her head. Does that matter for your article?

He gazed back at her. Sorry. Too personal. Not important for the article. His pen slipped out of his hand and he followed its route to the floor with his eyes.

Before he could resume writing, she asked, What do you do besides teach journalism classes?

He smiled. I’m working on a book about Ernie Pyle.

Oh. So you write things other than class assignments. A biography?

No. I’m examining his role as a war correspondent. I view it more as an historical review—how he changed war reporting. Would you be willing to look over the draft and tell me if there are any holes?

I’d be happy to. If you expand the work to include his pre-war and post-war experiences, you might have a second book. A chance to get to know you. As a colleague, a friend, maybe more than a friend? She gave herself a mental smack. No. That’s not why I’m here.

Maybe—after I finish what I’ve already started. He paused, a wry grin playing about the corners of his mouth. "You know, I’m supposed to be interviewing you."

She smoothed the napkin in her lap and blinked at him, liking that his voice seemed to surround her with its warmth. Isn’t turnabout fair play?

He laughed. Why not?

They chatted for another half-hour about her teaching philosophy and his goals for publication before he closed his notebook. After I put this piece together, if I have any follow-up questions, I’ll give you a call, if that’s all right.

Sure. She sipped the last of her coffee.

He seemed to hesitate, and then asked, If you don’t think it’s too personal a question, what is that necklace you’re wearing? I noticed it at the dean’s party.

She touched the chain and pulled up the heart to show him. It was my grandmother’s. I consider it my talisman.

Her grandmother. Her fearless grandmother, so tiny, but so brave. You have her dark hair and high cheekbones, her father used to say. Like a model. That had always made her blush. She preferred to think of her grandmother braving storms at sea, the ship nearly foundering when she left the Shetland Islands with her new husband. Amanda could almost hear the dear woman’s lilting voice and see her sparkling eyes. Her courage must have commanded respect from all who shared the voyage with her.

She stroked the front of the heart as she held it to the light. I wear it all the time. Silly, right?

Not at all. You must be close to her.

She nodded. More than anyone else in my family. My mother never got along with her, and she and I don’t often see eye-to-eye. But before Grandmama died—at ninety-one—if I was looking for someone to be in my corner, to cheer me on, she was always there for me.

I envy you. Marcus cleared his throat. My folks died when I was in my teens.

I’m sorry to hear that. How difficult must that have been?

But I have an older brother, Mike—who got stuck with me after—after the accident.

The accident?

My folks were killed when their car went off the road in a spring storm.

She nodded. Around here?

In Omaha. Nebraska.

Not far from where I’m from. Worthington, Minnesota. What does Mike do?

He’s a cop. He and his wife kept me from going off the deep end after my folks died.

You’re lucky to have a brother like that.

He inclined his head toward her. So, what do you think of Buckley?

Well, now that my daughter is settled in school—

You don’t look old enough to have a school-age child.

The way he looked at her suggested he actually was interested, not like the other single men she’d known who didn’t seem to like children or care about them. Cecelia with saucer-sized blue eyes and blond curls that reverted to unruly within minutes of being brushed into submission. Cecelia was like Amanda’s grandmother, eager to greet each new day, looking forward to meeting new people, finding new books at the library that she wanted to read, playing soccer again. Amanda made herself a mental note to call the soccer coach—the one who taught at Campus School. Cecelia thought she was old enough to stay home by herself without a babysitter. Another thing for her to-do list. Talk to Janet, next door, about watching her if I can’t be home.

She’s nine and loves being at the Campus School. So I think things are going to work out just fine. And I’m looking forward to getting to know the area better.

He leaned closer to her. Just so you know, no personal stuff—things like family—will be in the article. It’s irrelevant to our intent.

He folded a napkin several times, and set it under the nearby fork before picking up his coffee cup and signaling for a refill as he turned his gaze briefly away from her. Minutes later, he started to rise, signaling the end of the interview.

May I ask you a question? she said.

He sat down and gave her a short nod.

How are the other interviews going?

He grinned. Pretty well. I’m getting ready to start the series soon.

The blonde music instructor, Eugenie? I can’t seem to remember her last name. She seemed very nice.

Marcus laughed. No need to remember her name. She’ll tell you who she is. She needs to learn to take herself less seriously. Once I got past her I’m-the-one-the-one-the-one attitude, she was fine. Even the new guy in chemistry did his best to make his research sound interesting—although it was so complicated I had trouble understanding all the nuances. The hard sciences are not my strong suit. He paused. That leaves your colleague, Carl. What can you tell me about him? He hasn’t returned any of my calls.

She pressed her lips into a thin line, remembering how he’d practically ordered her out of the office earlier that week. Please don’t call him a colleague, even if we do share an office.

Marcus looked at her. Is there a problem?

If you mean does he hog the space—always wanting to use it? Yes, that’s a problem. If you mean is he easy to work with? No. And, he’s not exactly pleasant to be around. I’ve taken most of my things home because he seems to think he’s the only one entitled to use our shared space. I’ve had to remind him that I have office hours, too.

Have you talked with your chairman?

Not yet. I wanted to see if I could solve the issue myself—and working from home has, mostly, taken care of that. I’m the most junior faculty member. I don’t want to ask for favors, especially not this early in the quarter. But I need to be available so the students can reach me when they come in for help.

Talk to your chair. I know Greg Hillier. He cares about his faculty. He’ll want to know if Carl is giving you trouble.

You’d better not call him Carl if you want him to call you back. He insists on being called ‘Professor’ by the students. And he told me ... all of us ... at our first faculty meeting to use his full name.

Sounds like a blowhard to me. Talk to Greg. He’ll make sure he shares. Marcus smiled as he stood up. Maybe he was an only child and never learned to play well with others.

Or maybe he’d never been taught manners.

After walking back with Marcus across campus, Amanda headed toward her department. What was it about him that appealed to her? She wanted to know more. Maybe JJ would fill her in. She seemed to know everyone. As she entered the office, she rubbed Shakespeare’s head on the sculpture positioned on a stand near the outer door of the department then turned and entered Beatrice’s office.

Is Greg available? she asked the older woman.

Let me tell him you’d like to see him.

Minutes later, Beatrice ushered her into the chairman’s office.

Amanda! I’ve been meaning to come by and see how things are going. Do you like your classes? The Australian gentleman known for his exquisite manners, leonine mane