Beauty And The Brain. Elizabeth Bevarly
difference did it make if his social life had lain dormant for some time? Who needed romantic entanglements when they had a brain like his? As far as he was concerned, the heart, as an organ, was highly overrated, in spite of its necessity for sustaining life.
After all, what good was living if you couldn’t experience life at its fullest? And how could you experience life at its fullest unless you had the intellectual capacity to appreciate it? Any scientist worth his NaCl would tell you that the head, not the heart, was where the greatest stimulation occurred.
Willis popped open the back door on the Montero and wondered what to unload first—boxes of books, cartons of astronomical charts or stacks of scientific data he’d been collecting for the last fifteen years. So intent was he on his decision that he didn’t hear Rosemary come up behind him. What alerted him to her arrival was the light fragrance of something soft and fresh and sweet, an aroma that immediately carried him backward in time fifteen years.
Whatever Rosemary sprayed on herself now, she’d been using it for at least a decade and a half. And it wreaked all kinds of havoc with both Willis’s olfactory senses and his carnal ones—just as it had when he was a teenager. In spite of the antagonism that had erupted between the two of them whenever they were close, he’d always thought Rosemary March smelled wonderful. When he spun around to face her, he found her shrugging into a navy blue blazer and eyeing him with trepidation.
“Need any help?” she asked, her voice actually civil.
He nodded toward her attire. “You’re not exactly dressed to be unloading boxes.”
She straightened her collar, and again, he was assaulted by her delicate scent. “If you can wait until this afternoon, I can give you a hand with that. I’m only working a half day today.”
He shook his head. “That’s okay. Most of it’s probably too heavy for you.”
She frowned at him. “Oh, so now I’m not only stupid, but I’m weak, too—is that it?”
He closed his eyes and sighed heavily, and wondered if there would ever be a time when the two of them could converse without every word being misconstrued as an insult. “No,” he told her. “That wasn’t what I meant at all. These boxes are loaded with books and other instruments that are bulky and heavy. Too heavy for you.” As an afterthought, he added, “Thanks anyway.”
As if she needed to prove something to him, however, she pushed past him and reached for one of the boxes nearest the door. He started to reach for it, too, but something in her posture warned him off. Rosemary hefted the carton into her hands, staggered some under its weight, then moved awkwardly toward the grass.
As she bent to place it on the ground, however, she began to teeter forward. And Willis, recognizing the box as the one holding a number of glass lenses that were irreplaceable—at least in Endicott—quickly moved to her side to take it from her. She glared at him when he did, but he set it effortlessly on the ground.
“It’s very expensive, very specialized, very scientific equipment,” he told her.
Her eyes widened in obviously feigned admiration. “Ooo, very scientific, huh? Like what? Like Magic Rocks and Sea Monkeys and stuff?”
He ignored the question. “It’s equipment I wouldn’t be able to replace with a simple trip down to Buck’s hardware store.”
“Fine,” she bit out. “Forget I offered. Jeez, Willis, I was just trying to be nice. But don’t worry—I won’t be stupid enough to do that again.”
She started to stalk off, and impulsively, he followed her, reaching out to snag her wrist with loosely curled fingers before he even realized what he was doing. Rosemary spun around with the force of a cyclone and jerked her hand back, cradling it in her other as if she had been burned. The look in her eyes when she met his gaze very nearly overwhelmed him, so brimming with anger and sadness was it, that Willis took a step backward in defense.
“Don’t you ever do that again,” she told him, backing away from him as she did.
“What?” he asked, genuinely confused. “All I did was take your hand.”
“That’s exactly what I mean.”
“But—”
“Just stay away from me, Willis,” she said, backing up a few more steps.
“What, you can’t even stand my touch?” he snarled. He shook his head in confusion, his own anger swelling to life now. “Hey, you were the one who came up to me, not the other way around,” he reminded her.
“Yeah, and it was a pretty dumb thing to do, too.” She took another step backward, her eyes clouding even more.
“Rosemary...” he began, taking an experimental step forward.
Why he bothered he couldn’t imagine. He’d never made an effort to smooth out the feathers he ruffled on her before. But there was something in her eyes now that hadn’t been there fifteen years ago when he’d challenged her. Back in high school, Rosemary had always fought him with every ounce of indignation she possessed. Now, however, it was almost as if she were giving up when the battle hadn’t even begun.
And before he could say whatever it was he had intended to tell her—which, frankly, he couldn’t remember now—she turned her back on him and began stalking once more toward her garage.
“I have to go to work,” she announced stiffly.
As he stood there watching her mutely, she unfolded the doors on the aged garage and, in no time at all, was backing out of the driveway in a shiny red convertible that Willis found in no way surprising. That was Rosemary. All flash, no substance. Great body, but no head at all. Impulsive, spontaneous, breezy, fun-loving. Everything he wasn’t. Everything he tried to avoid.
Yet everything he’d always ended up looking for in another woman, and had never been able to find.
Dammit.
Rosemary March had ruined him for other women, and he hadn’t even had the opportunity to experience her. In spite of the fact that she was the last kind of female he should be attracted to, she’d been the first one he’d had a crush on, the first one he’d lusted after, however stupid it had been for him to want her.
And somehow, that had defined his taste in women for the rest of his life. Although he’d tried to establish relationships with good, solid, intelligent women—attractive women at that, and women who appreciated what he had to offer intellectually, women who likewise challenged his own IQ—he suddenly realized that he was doomed to want spirit and fluff, instead. Like Rosemary March.
As he watched the little red sports car with the gorgeous brunette at the wheel disappear around the corner with far more speed than was prudent, Willis realized something else, too. It wasn’t that he was destined to spend his life wanting women like Rosemary March. No, he was condemned to spend his life wanting her. Specifically. Ironically. Erotically. Eternally.
Dammit.
A woman who had nothing to offer him beyond the physical, who would challenge him in none of the intellectual ways he wanted and needed to be challenged. A woman he could certainly be satisfied with sexually, but who would do nothing to fulfill his other, metaphysical, needs. A woman who would make his daily life hell because he would constantly be tied in knots wanting more than she could ever hope to give him.
A woman who would never even like him, let alone love him, he reminded himself. So what was he getting all worked up about anyway? It wasn’t like Rosemary would ever return any overture he might make. Thanks to some of the things he’d said and done to her fifteen years ago, she would despise him for the rest of her life. Worrying about a future with her was pointless, because he didn’t have a hope in hell of having a future with her. Not that he truly wanted one anyway.
He expelled a restless breath and scrubbed a hand viciously through his hair, then turned back to the task at hand. He had a lot of unloading to do, he reminded himself, and a lot of unpacking, too. And not just