The Diplomat's Tutor

Chapter 7: The Open Window

Malia lounged on the daybed under the open window, enjoying the cool breeze trickling in, tickling her neck, and songbirds chirping on a branch. A notebook rested on her lap as she reviewed the lesson plan she was designing for Mr. Dunn.

She wondered absently if Mr. Taylor was still standing outside her closed door. Was he guarding her?

The growing rumble of an engine fought for Malia's attention. She imagined a sports car revving in the street and waited for it to fade, but the growl grew.

Malia rose and peeked through the window. The estate's entryway gates spread, and an angular man wearing a helmet and black leather jacket rode his motorcycle through. Both the man and the machine cut sleek figures. The machine's seat was ruby red, its body obsidian black, its engine chrome with thick, tubular piping.

Goosebumps rose along Malia's body. She could feel the machine's vibration through the air and imagined her bare thighs pressing against it.

The figure dismounted and started lifting his helmet.

Malia leaned further out to catch a glimpse of his eyes. Somehow she doubted it was him. What kind of diplomat rides a motorcycle? This man's aura, dark and dangerous, conflicted with the old-world elegance of the home.

She leaned, building her courage, preparing to call out to introduce herself.

Her foot slipped and she fell halfway out the window.

Malia screamed. Her body twisted and her back slammed against the exterior wall. Her calves hooked around the windowsill, and she pushed her heels against the inside wall.

Outside, her arms flailed wildly, searching for something to grab. “Help!" she yelled. “I'm going to fall!"

She heard the crunch of gravel. “Stop flailing your arms," a voice said calmly.

Malia looked down. Charles Dunn's green eyes were looking up at her. He was standing directly below.

His face was symmetrical, beautiful yet rugged, with a morning's coat of virile stubble.

“What?" she shouted.

“I said stop flailing your arms."

“Are you kidding me? Aren't you going to help?"

“No," he said.

Malia could feel her legs slowly slipping. “No? Why the hell not?"

“Because you're not going to fall."

“How do you know that?"

“I can see it in your face."

The windowsill was digging into the flesh of her leg, and the pain was growing worse, burning now. “If I fall and break my neck, I am going to haunt you—"

“Do a sit-up."

“What? A sit-up?"

“Yeah. It's the only way."

She took in a deep breath and used all her strength to curl her body up.

“Now reach up and grab the branch above you," he said.

She grabbed it.

“Pull."

She pulled. The branch broke and her legs slipped. She started to plummet. She screamed again.

He leaped up the tree, grabbed her hand, yanked her, and curled her in the crook of his bicep. She grabbed onto his back.

“I've got you," he said. There was a soothing quality to his voice now; husky, low, at ease. His body felt warm. She grew aware of her skin pressing against his, and their bodies shrinking and expanding as they breathed.

“I… I…" she stammered.

“Yeah, you fell out of the window."

“Right," she said and laughed. “And you're Mr. Dunn.“

His stare overwhelmed her, and she looked away. “Who are you?" he asked.

“Malia Peele. Your tutor." She squirmed to shake his hand. He took it. “I was just teaching you the value of staying alert, you know. You passed. A grade."

He chuckled, and she laughed too, in relief. Then she felt a wetness on her hand and looked at it, gasping at the blood.

“Oh," he said, wiping his hand. “You're fine. It's my blood. See?" He showed her his hand. A gash on his finger, where it had been rubbed raw, trickled red.

“You cut it on the tree."

“No, it was from earlier. I did it—"

His expression shifted. He'd gone somewhere deep in his head, had nearly revealed something to her, she felt, maybe because of the shock of the moment—but then he remembered himself; she let it go.

“Hey, Mr. Taylor," Charles said, and Malia turned to see the affable blonde man standing in the room with grave concern on his face.

“Blondie," she said. “Care to join us? There's a sturdy branch over here with your name on it."

The trio laughed. Mr. Taylor reached for her, and she took his hand. Charles helped. “Have you got her?" he asked. Mr. Taylor nodded as he brought Malia into the room. On her feet again, she turned back to the window and started to speak: “Thank you, Mr.—

He had vanished. Faint footsteps fell on the gravel. The glimpse of his body disappeared.

“He left," she said to Mr. Taylor, who nodded. He closed the window and exited the room.

She looked down at the tree branch where she had been dangling moments before, then washed her hands in the bathroom, staring at the white bowl, at his red blood mixing with the clear running water and swirling away down the drain.

She returned to the chaise lounge and opened a textbook on Aeonian history, hoping the flow of information would wash away her embarrassment as the water had with his blood.