Page 26 of Marked By Moonlight

“Only—”

Claire looked up, hearing Maggie’s hesitation.

With a small, apologetic smile, Maggie admitted, “Younever have those days.” Sighing, she shook her head and stared into her cup before looking back up. “At least, never before.” Her voice softened to ask, “What’s going on, Claire?”

Claire sank into her chair and ran her hands over her face. “I don’t know, Maggie. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“Did you really face off with Ray Bailey?”

Claire released a humorless crack of laughter. “Yeah, I did.”

Maggie lowered herself into the desk nearest Claire’s. “You think that was smart?”

What could Claire say to that? How could she explain that she hadn’t stopped to think at all? Just acted. Folding her hands neatly in front of her, she went for honesty. “No.”

“A kid like that might want a little payback, Claire. He’s gotta save face.”

Oddly enough, that didn’t worry Claire. Not like it shouldhave. She wasn’t at all concerned about her own safety. What worried her was howshewould react if he did challenge her.

“School will be out soon,” Maggie murmured. “You got enough days saved up. Maybe you should take a leave. Come back in the fall. Refreshed.”

Claire studied her friend’s face before saying, “You think I should?”

“Yes.” Maggie nodded slowly. “I do.”

Claire drew a deep breath.

A day like today couldn’t be repeated. Her students deserved better than a teacher who could no longer control her temper. Snapping at students, taking on bullies… all without conscious thought. A stranger to herself, what guarantee did she have that it wouldn’t happen again? She couldn’t take the risk. Her job required patience and a cool head. Two things she sorely lacked lately.

Today marked the first time in her career she had incited fear in a student. The fright in Ray Bailey’s face replayed itself in her mind like a terrible car crash that she couldn’t shake.

She swiped at eyes that burned with unshed tears, hating to admit that she was so changed, that something was wrong with her, that maybe there was something to the ravings of Gideon March after all. That maybe the guy wasn’t totally crazy. The possibility rattled her. Because if he wasn’t crazy, then neither was her attraction to him.

CHAPTERSEVEN

Even the most aggressive dog knows when to turn tail and run.

—Man’s Best Friend: An Essential Guide to Dogs

Claire slid her key into the lock of her apartment door with practiced speed. In a flash, she was inside, the hard feel of the door at her back reassuring her, closing her off from the rest of the world, sealing her in. Her racing heart steadied. But not by much.

She hadn’t seen him, but she felt him, sensed him the whole drive home. Gideon March was close. Her nostrils flared, convinced she smelled the woodsy musk of him. But that was impossible. How could she smell the man when she could not even see him?

Whether he was out there or not, her gut told her she wasn’t rid of him. Too many days had passed since their last run-in.

Pushing off the door, she hurried into her bedroom and pulled her suitcase from beneath the bed. Shedding her work clothes, she slid on shorts and a T-shirt. Stuffing garments into her suitcase, she marveled at her impulsive actions, replaying the phone conversation with her mother moments before. As unpleasant as it had been, she had endured her mother’s fussing. When she explainedshe was taking a leave of absence from work, her mother supported the idea and readily agreed to Claire’s request to stay at the family lake house.

As she grabbed the needed toiletries off the bathroom counter, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the dresser mirror and jumped, for a second thinking a stranger stood there.

Wild, honey-hued hair. Flushed cheeks. Strange, glowing eyes. It would take time to get accustomed to the new Claire. Both inside and out. Ready to step out of the shadows, to explore her new self, she slammed her suitcase shut and zipped the top. She was almost out the door when she remembered the cat.

“Molly!” Dropping her suitcase, her gaze scanned the living room. “Here, kitty, kitty, kitty!” No response. Not surprising. Normally affectionate, the tabby had treated her with uncharacteristic hostility lately and spent most of her time hidden away.

Dropping to her hands and knees, Claire peered beneath the bed. As she suspected, her cat glared back with unblinking eyes, baring its fangs in a warning hiss.

“Come on, Molly. Enough. We gotta get out of here.”

The tabby responded with another hiss. She tried the serene, soothing voice she used to reason with an obstinate student—well, the voice she formerly used. “You can’t stay here. You’ll starve. I don’t know when I’ll be back.”

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