Out of Time 01 - Out of Time

third glass of Scotch, or, quite possibly, it was the way that idiot Andrews was looking at Elizabeth. Blatantly appreciating her figure—the curve of her small waist, the way her auburn hair shone like burnished copper. The look in his eyes was positively salacious.
    Simon closed his briefcase with more force than necessary and tried to look away. He frowned at the familiar way Elizabeth touched the young man’s forearm. Not that he was jealous. That would be patently absurd. Simon simply didn’t suffer fools gladly, even by proxy. His mood soured as Elizabeth said something undoubtedly utterly charming and won a laugh from the hulking imbecile. Simon gritted his teeth and waited impatiently for the scene to come to an end. Elizabeth smiled one last time and headed back down the stairs. He glared at her in greeting and gestured brusquely that they should leave.
    His mood still sour, Simon opened the classroom door and held it for her. Elizabeth smiled her thanks and walked out into the corridor. He followed her out, moving quickly down the crowded hall, keeping his strides long, forcing her to almost jog to keep up. After a few moments of tense silence, he stopped abruptly and turned to glare down at her.
    “I don’t need a nursemaid, Miss West.”
    Elizabeth cocked her head to the side and frowned. “That’s debatable, but I wasn’t—”
    Simon arched an eyebrow in disbelief, challenging her to deny it.
    “All right, I was.”
    Simon snorted.
    “But you’ve got to admit you were in rare form, even for you.”
    “Your point?”
    “That a little browbeating goes a long way. Lance is a good guy. He was just showing off.”
    “For your benefit, I suppose?” Simon said and instantly wished he could take the words back.
    Elizabeth laughed. “Hardly. I’m not exactly his type,” she said with a rueful, lopsided smile.
    He felt an odd urge to comfort her, to tell her Andrews was a simpleton, but the words died in his throat. How did she do that? One moment she was forthright and confident, challenging him; and the next shy and achingly vulnerable.
    “Besides,” she added. “It’d be unethical to date a student.”
    That was something he’d told himself daily. He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Yes, quite right. Well, we have work to do. Shall we?” he said and gestured down the hall.
    “No rest for the wicked,” she said with a grin and started down the corridor.
    Simon watched her disappear into the mass of students and took a deep breath. The scent of her perfume lingered in the air. “None indeed.”
    * * *
    Elizabeth set down her pen and massaged her cramping fingers. She could swear she did more work correcting the papers than the students did writing them. And the tiny desk lamp that passed for light in the room was making her eyes cross.
    It had taken Professor Cross a year to acquiesce to her request for an actual desk in his office. At first, he’d done everything he could to keep her out of what she liked to call his inner sanctum. He kept the room dark. Suitable, he’d said, for their work. The room was tiny, another testament to the lack of enthusiasm on the part of the Board. He’d been a professor there for nearly ten years and had labored in obscurity. Although, he seemed just as pleased that they left him alone.
    Grant money was scarce, if not non-existent, and so he used his own money to further their research. For all the good it did. It seemed the latest get rich quick scheme in the former Soviet Union was the illegal export of so-called occult artifacts—a lock of genuine Baba Yaga hair or, her personal favorite, werewolf droppings. Capitalism at its best. For all the money spent, not one thing had been authentic. But Professor Cross was undeterred, and so their research trudged on.
    Elizabeth rubbed her eyes and stole a glimpse of him in the reflection of the glass covering the Bosch print on the wall, the only decoration in an otherwise impersonal office. He really did look tired. More than that, he looked worried. Bent over his desk, one hand wrapped around his head casting a shadow over his face.
    “You look like hell,” she said.
    Simon’s eyes snapped up to meet hers. “Thank you,” he said tartly.
    “I just meant... Are you all right?”
    Elizabeth steeled herself for his curt reply, but something stopped him. He looked at her and the hard light in his green eyes softened. “I’m fine,” he said. “Thank you.”
    Then, as quickly as it had