Actually, Bryce had thought it was hilarious at the time. Rich sorority girls turning tricks in pokey little Heyday for mall money. He had read the first of the series, but then he got caught up in a trial and missed the rest. He’d meant to go back and read it all, but in the end he hadn’t cared enough. Heyday was boring. Even underage prostitution and local politicos caught with their pants down couldn’t make it interesting.
And he certainly hadn’t remembered the reporter’s name. He would never have put it together with the Tyler Balfour who had turned up out of the blue in old Anderson McClintock’s will.
“Still…how did that become a big problem for the college? Surely a little bad publicity, a few rotten apples—”
Dilday shook his head. “You underestimate how sensitive these things are. College campuses are supposed to be like protected bubbles, where parents send their children to make a safe transition to adulthood. Whether it’s realistic or not, we have an obligation to provide a secure environment. When word got out that their daughters were getting involved in things like that…”
Bryce was finally catching on. “They began to pull them out.”
Dilday nodded. “Seventy-five the week the series was published. It tapered off after that, and some came back, but we’re still down a net total of eighty students. In a small campus like ours, that’s a lot.”
“But what does this have to do with me? Surely I can’t be held responsible for the sins of my brother. Half brother. Especially one I didn’t even know existed until about ten months ago.”
“It’s not a question of responsibility. I need you, that’s all. I need someone with credentials, which, after a law degree and eight years in the FBI, you’ve got in spades. I need someone who’s independently wealthy, who’s able to make do without a real salary. And most of all I need someone who has some panache, who might bring in a few extra students.”
“Panache?” Bryce crossed his ankle over his knee and lay the file folder on his lap. “That sounds like a euphemism for something. What?”
“You know what.” Dilday Merle gave him a straight look. “You are a celebrity right now, Bryce. You just shot somebody while you were defending a gorgeous actress, and you got knifed doing it. That’s exciting. They’re just kids. They’ll eat that stuff up with a spoon.”
Dilday’s main talent as a teacher had always been his down-to-earth clarity. And he was certainly being crystal clear right now. Bryce had to hand it to him—he wasn’t trying to do a smoke-and-mirrors dance about his motives.
“But it won’t work,” Bryce said. “Even if I wanted to teach your class, which I don’t, I won’t be in Heyday long enough. The term goes until, what, May? I wasn’t planning to stay here more than a month or two at most.”
“So stay longer. You own this place, or at least a third of it, right? Stick around a while. It won’t kill you. You’ll have plenty to do just straightening out your inheritance.”
Dilday was right, of course—wasn’t he always? In only a week, Bryce had discovered just how hopelessly tangled his ties were to Heyday. He had tenants and mortgagees, employees and sycophants and a couple of enemies. He even had someone trying to sue him over an illegal dumping that had supposedly fouled the soil twenty-five years ago when a dry cleaner had occupied one of his buildings.
Absently he opened the folder and scanned the contents. The absconding Dr. Douglas had put together a pretty good class, basic and easy to teach. All the major theories and paradigms were covered—subcultural, gender-based, social structure, social process, developmental, it was all there.
He remembered this stuff from school, and what he didn’t remember he could refresh easily. It looked so orderly, so pure and hopeful here on the page, all well-intentioned and academic. Nothing chaotic and bloody, unpredictable and heartbreaking. It might be a nice change of pace. It might help him remember why he’d gone into law in the first place.
And he would have something to bring to it. Something practical and concrete, based on his years of real-life work. It wasn’t just “panache.” It was experience.
He glanced up, wondering if Dilday could sense his weakening willpower.
“Just this one, Bryce,” the old man said. “I’m desperate. Classes start in three days. And it’s only a few months. It might be fun.”
Bryce looked up and smiled dryly. Who would have thought that Dilday Merle could, just for a minute, sound exactly like Lara Lynmore’s desperate lawyer?
“I give you my word of honor, I’ll be looking for someone to replace you,” Dilday said. “Please. Just until I can find somebody else.”
“You know,” Bryce said, wondering why he was such a bloody fool, but knowing he was going to say yes. “I’m pretty sure I’ve heard that line before.”
THREE DAYS LATER Bryce confronted his first classroom full of students. Thirty-eight of them. Dilday must be in heaven. Three days ago, there had been only twenty. But then the word went out that Bryce McClintock, notorious bad-ass and bodyguard to the stars, would be teaching it and, just as Dilday had predicted, enrollment had soared.
Bryce had expected the first day, at least, to be intimidating, but they looked like nice kids. Some of them weren’t even kids. At least two of the male students were in their late twenties, and that woman in the last row must be somebody’s grandmother. Bryce found himself curious. What were their stories? Why were they here? What were they hoping he could teach them?
The real surprise was that Ilsa, Kieran’s housekeeper, was one of his students, too. She had come up to him just before class and confided in her husky, accented whisper that Kieran had encouraged her to go back to school, so here she was.
Bryce had been friendly but carefully distant. It was actually kind of scary, when you thought about the number of ways in which beautiful Swedish coeds with ulterior motives could easily spell trouble for a young professor who was her boss’s brother.
Maybe he was being unfair. Maybe busty, beautiful Ilsa was a dedicated scholar. But somehow he doubted it.
The first half of the class had gone well. The kids seemed to hang on his every word. Only one boy had found the nerve to mention Lara Lynmore or Kenny Boggs.
“Mr. McClintock,” the kid said eagerly. “You shot that stalker, and you aren’t even like a professional bodyguard. That’s like, so awesome.”
“No, Mr.…” Bryce had scanned his roll sheet calmly. He’d known this question was coming, sooner or later. Maybe it was just as well to get it over with. “Mr. Winston. No, it wasn’t so awesome. It would have been awesome if I’d been able to protect my client without having to resort to killing anyone.”
“But—”
“No buts. Shooting is always a last resort. Always. That’s true for police officers, bodyguards, anyone. If you’re good at your job, you find ways to solve your problems without resorting to violence.”
The kid had subsided, smart enough to know he’d been chastised. But Bryce saw that young Mr. Winston’s bright eyes continued to follow him with an unmistakable hero-worship. How dumb could you get? This same excited teenager probably would have wet himself after one look at Kenny Boggs’s wound.
God. Kids.
He had decided to break the ice with a classic observation-training exercise. He had asked the students to look out the window for five minutes and mentally note as many details as possible about what they saw. People, scenery, cars, weather, whatever.
It was raining, which made the exercise more difficult, more gray and confusing. Most of the passers-by were bundled up in shapeless, hooded raincoats, and dashed through the quadrangle quickly, rushing for cover.
In about two minutes, by prior arrangement, Dilday Merle would come by, stop right outside Bryce’s window and stage an argument with a student. Afterward,