When Time Falls Still

To my children.

And to everyone who gives me the courage to keep on writing.

CHAPTER ONE

Damn it! Charlotte Girardet pounded her gloved fist against the steering wheel, the soft thud-thudding a dull echo of her frustrated fury.

Jerking the gear lever into drive, she pressed the gas pedal firmly one more time. The engine whined, but her boxy little SUV went nowhere.

The university parking lot stretched ahead of her, black asphalt hidden beneath more than a foot of snow. The few vehicles scattered about were blanketed in white. Flakes drifted thickly down, treacherously beautiful in the ghostly glow of the tall overhead lights cutting through the gloom of the November afternoon.

She’d managed to pull out of her parking slot, but was now stranded between the rows. Every turn of her tires only made the situation worse, polishing the snow into ice. Charlotte bared her teeth. Should have taken the all-wheel drive option, she muttered to the empty seat beside her. Of course, when she’d bought the vehicle she’d been living in Vancouver, where half this amount of snow meant everyone stayed home. Here in Northern British Columbia, most people took a storm like this in stride.

She wished she was like those people. Going inside to ask for help would be humiliating. It was sure to bring knowing grins, accompanied by condescending advice. Silly southerner, they would think, can’t deal with a little bit of snow. It burned her that they might be right. Were probably right. God, she hated feeling ignorant.

Maybe she could back her way out. She dropped the vehicle into reverse. For an instant she thought it was working, could feel the tires catching, but then the back end slipped sideways and she lost whatever inches she had gained.

Her chilled fingers tingled inside her thin leather gloves, and cold liquid trickled down the backs of her heels where snow had made its way inside her stylish ankle boots. She’d had to clear the buried windshield using only her hands, as she hadn’t thought she’d need a brush or ice scraper so early in the fall, and the damp had seeped into her bones. The heater, despite going full blast, hadn’t managed to cut through the cold interior. Tucking her hands under her thighs in a futile attempt to warm them, she scowled out the window.

In any other circumstance, she would have been thrilled with the scene before her. The snow was blue-white, the flakes large and fluffy, the texture perfect for making snowmen. Unfortunately, it wasn’t perfect for getting home without a fight.

Rat-a-tat-tat.

Oh! She jerked round, pulse scrambling. A beam of light sliced through the window, glaring in her eyes. All she could see was a large, black hulk.

Need help? asked a deep voice, muffled by the closed glass.

The dazzling brightness swung away, leaving spots before her eyes. She peered up, taking careful stock. The man outside was so tall he had to bend almost double to see through the window. He held a flashlight in one gloved hand, now directed upward under his chin, casting eerie shadows on his features. His head was covered in a snug black toque, incongruously spangled with glittering snowflakes. A scar cut through one thick blond eyebrow, and there was no way he had been born with a nose that crooked. A burnished gold beard did nothing to disguise a square jaw.

Surreptitiously, she reached for the door lock button, reassured by the solid sounding clunk.

Need help? he repeated. The flashlight tilted down and shone on the insignia stitched to the breast pocket of his parka. Campus security. Should be able to push you out.

****

Justice Cooper waited patiently for Professor Girardet to answer. He stood quiet and still, holding the light on his uniform badge, and watched as the fright faded from her face. He hadn’t meant to scare her, but knew his bulk and battle-scarred face was often unintentionally intimidating. Not that he wouldn’t use his size and looks as weapons when he needed to. This, however, wasn’t one of those times.

I appreciate the offer. Professor Girardet’s voice came through the glass tight and wired, not calm and confident as it did when she was lecturing. Justice attended her class on medieval poetry, but he always sat at the far back of the room, so he wasn’t surprised she hadn’t recognized him. The University of Northern British Columbia might be small, but it was still possible to lose yourself in the crowd if you wanted to. I’m sure I’ll manage just fine.

He doubted it. He’d watched her futile struggles as he’d trudged through the drifts toward her. Tired of talking through the glass, he motioned her to roll down the window. She did so reluctantly, shivering as the cold air whooshed in. She wore a useless little knit hat, a flat, white one that looked like a pancake, on her curly brown hair. Her dark eyes, now they’d lost their panicky look, were once again sharp with intelligence and more than a hint of temper. He suspected the colour in her cheeks wasn’t just from the cold. Smart people didn’t like admitting they didn’t know everything.

Keep your wheels straight. I’ll push from the back. Give it a little gas, then ease off, give it a little more. We have to rock it out.

Her lips tightened, and then she gave a brisk nod. She pushed the button to roll the window up.

Keep it open, he said. So you can hear me. Once we get her going, don’t stop until you hit the road. The plow had made one pass of the ring road that circled the campus, clearing a narrow lane. If he could get her there she should be able to manage the rest.

He set his shoulder against the back of the SUV, on the driver’s side, bracing his feet in the slick snow. Go, he called out.

She fed the gas and he strained his legs, feeling the tension run up his thighs, into his back, through his arms. She released the gas, as he’d instructed, and the vehicle settled back into the rut, but the next time she accelerated he could feel the tires catch. Again, he shouted.

A few more back-and-forths and suddenly the SUV shot forward, skidding slightly. He watched with approval as she corrected the slide and kept her momentum until she reached the cleared roadway. Brake lights glowed as she pulled to a stop.

He followed her tracks, stomping in his heavy winter boots, clapping his thick gloves to rid them of damp snow. As he approached, the driver’s door opened and Professor Girardet stepped out.

She was a tall woman, slim despite the bulk of her black wool coat. Her dark-coloured trousers were tucked into low boots with high, narrow heels. She stood framed between the door and the body of the SUV and offered her hand. Thanks so much. I hate to admit it, but I probably wasn’t getting out of that on my own.

He clasped her hand briefly, conscious of the slenderness of her fingers even through the fabric separating them. You need winter tires.

Her chin lifted. I have all-seasons.

He shook his head. Not good enough.

Winters will cost me, what, a thousand dollars? I’m only here for one year. I just don’t see the point.

It wasn’t worth arguing about. He shrugged. She was a grown woman. She’d either figure it out or she wouldn’t. Drive safe.

He headed back toward the campus building, keeping an eye out for other stranded drivers. He’d spent the last hour pushing numerous vehicles out of the drifts, and it was a relief to see the lots were mainly empty. Maybe he’d actually make it back to the office this time. A cup of coffee, even the crud the guys in the office made, would go down just fine right about now.​

Inside the vestibule leading to the university’s main hall he knocked off the worst of the snow, brushing his jacket, peeling off his toque and slapping it against his thigh, stamping his feet. As he passed through the second set of doors, long, black mats squished damply beneath his steps, and then gave way to a polished concrete floor that arced in a wide, semi-circular path. Tall windows to his right revealed the wide-open outdoor space called the Agora. Only six weeks ago, students had been scattered over the brick courtyard, lazing on the green lawns. Now it was hidden beneath a smooth carpet of white, pools of light from outside lamps chasing purple shadows into dark corners.

The security office smelled of bad coffee, damp clothing, and overheated photocopier. Shawn McMorris glowered at the machine and gave it a frustrated slap. Damn thing’s jammed again. He raised his glare to Justice, who ignored him and poured a cup of coffee.

McMorris, squat and stocky, with prematurely thinning grey hair shaved closed to his skull, opened the paper tray and rooted around inside. Any more shit going on out there? he tossed over his shoulder as he pulled crumpled sheets from the innards.

A few more stuck, including Professor Girardet. Got everyone out okay. He switched the mug to his other hand, wrapping his chilled fingers around the warm ceramic.

Freakin’ in-tell-ect-u-als. McMorris slammed the drawer shut and grunted in satisfaction as chunking sounds indicated the machine was back in business. Go to school all their lives, don’t know nothing but books.

Justice lowered into his chair, settling his weight carefully as it creaked and groaned beneath him, and then swivelled to the computer monitor to begin writing up his end of shift report. The office was manned by at least two guards twenty-four hours a day, three hundred and sixty-five days a year, and he was just finishing up his fourth ten-hour shift. Three days off stretched ahead. He was looking forward to picking up Max on his way home and spending the weekend with his son.

McMorris sorted the pages he’d finally managed to print and began filing them away in the cabinets across from Justice. Professor Girardet’s one of our new ones, isn’t she? The tall, built one? Teaches in the English program?

Justice made a noise of agreement without taking his concentration from his keyboard. He found typing with both hands awkward, his big, blunt fingers tangling on the keys, so he had perfected his own one-handed system that rivalled most others for speed.

Aren’t you taking an English course this semester? Something fancy about poetry? McMorris didn’t wait for an answer. I don’t know, I just don’t get the deal why anyone would spend his time reading poems written by dead guys.

Now was not the time to try to explain the way his gut felt when he read words first written centuries ago. In fact, never would be a good time to discuss his fascination with poetry with McMorris.

He hit Ctrl-P and headed to the printer. The door at the back of the room opened. Curtis Nielson, director of security, stepped through and stood four-square in the entrance, as if preparing to repel attackers.

You’re off in fifteen, aren’t you, Cooper? Where’s your report? A few inches shorter than Justice, Nielson was bulky and solid, his shoulders filling the door frame.

Justice pulled the still warm sheets from the tray and held them out. Nielson’s lips thinned. He took them with a disgruntled huff and read them over.

Ex-RCMP, Nielson was new to the security team, having taken the management job in September. When the position had come open several months earlier, Justice knew his colleagues had expected him to apply. So had his father, his ex-wife, and maybe even his son. No one had thought to ask him whether he wanted it or not.

The answer had been not. He was happy doing what he was doing, had no ambition to change his role. He still didn’t want the job. But that didn’t mean he had to like the man who now held it.

Nielson peered at Justice over the frames of his heavy black glasses, the overhead light glaring off the closely shaved skin of his bald head. Spent a lot of time pushing cars out today. You’d think people living up north would figure out how to handle a bit of snow.

As far as Justice knew, Nielson hadn’t been out of his office all day. And as it didn’t have a window, he wondered if his boss would still be calling it a bit of snow when he had to dig out his own vehicle.

Nielson rolled the report into a tube and gripped it at the end, like a club. You’re back on Tuesday at 7am.

Justice jerked his chin in a short nod. He hadn’t missed a shift in eight years and didn’t need reminding by a nit-picking, micro-managing control freak.

Nielson returned to his office, shutting the door firmly behind him. The atmosphere in the outer room slowly relaxed.

Do you think he’ll ever take the stick out of his ass, or is this as good as it gets? McMorris grumbled.

****

Charlotte leaned against the door with a sigh of relief. She had made it home without any further excitement, and didn’t have anywhere to go until Monday. The whole weekend stretched ahead of her—solitary, silent and hopefully productive.

She dumped her satchel and briefcase at the foot of the stairs leading to the second floor, tugged off her boots and placed them upside down on the heating vent to dry. The thin socks she wore went next. She bundled them into a damp ball and tossed them into the laundry room. The cuffs of her pants hung clammy against her ankles. She headed to the kitchen in her bare feet, desperate for a cup of tea.

The cell phone in the pocket of her blazer buzzed. She dug it out, saw her sister’s face grinning up at her from the screen. Connecting the call, she switched to speaker. How’s it going, Sonny? Sliding the phone onto the counter, she grabbed the electric kettle and filled it from the water cooler in the corner of the room.

Oh, you know. The usual madness. Sondra’s voice was tired but cheerful. I had to stop Anthony from sliding Andrea down the basement stairs in the laundry basket.

Charlotte dumped a couple spoonfuls of loose leaves into her tea press, smiling as she pictured her impish niece and nephew. I’m sure she was more than willing to give it a try.

I distracted them by suggesting they fill the basket with their stuffed animals and give them a ride. A delighted shriek cut through the last word. It’s working for now, so I thought I’d give you call, see how you’re surviving up in the great white north. I saw the weather report on the news.

White is definitely right, at least today. I could barely see well enough to drive home. The kettle clicked off and she filled the pot. Leaving the tea to steep, she found a box of crackers in the cupboard and rustled out a couple. I’m going to settle in for the next two days, do research, mark a few essays.

Isn’t that what you did last weekend? Maybe you should get out and have fun, meet new people.

The security guard’s rough, rugged face flashed across Charlotte’s mind. She didn’t think he was quite the person Sondra had in mind. Despite her current immersion into motherhood, her older sister was a brilliant corporate lawyer, and her husband, Thomas Huntsville, an equally brilliant attorney dealing with entertainment law. Before children, they had been a sophisticated urban couple mixing with Vancouver’s high society. Charlotte had once thought she’d make the same sort of match—refined, intelligent, with a partner who matched her intellectually and sexually. I’m not here to have fun. It’s just a one-year contract. I come in, I teach, I work on my book, I get out.

Doesn’t mean you can’t have a social life.

Charlotte depressed the plunger on the press and poured the steaming liquid into a brightly painted mug. I see people all the time. I teach two classes every day, have office hours with students, mingle with the other staff. It’s not like I’m stuck in a dark dungeon, studying by the dim light of a coal-oil lantern.

Sondra laughed. That’s not quite what I was envisioning, but I get your point. A high-pitched squabble pealed through the speaker. That’s my cue. Take care of yourself.

You, too. Say hi to everyone for me.

When the connection ended, silence settled into the kitchen. Not the welcoming silence that had greeted her when she’d first stepped in the door. This quiet seemed edgy, empty. Charlotte rolled her shoulders, shrugging off the fancy. Carrying her mug, she collected her bags and headed upstairs to the small second bedroom she used as an office.

She had a lot she wanted to accomplish this weekend. It was time to get to work.

CHAPTER TWO

"While you might expect religious poetry of this age to be written in Latin, it may come as a surprise that much of the secular poetry was also written in Latin, not English. Charlotte surveyed the room before her. The faces looking back at her wore the typical mix of expressions—engaged, apathetic, entirely distracted—the same expressions that had confronted teachers since Socrates. In medieval times, Latin was the language of the educated. Anyone with something to say would use it, in the knowledge it could be universally understood. Students would have used it to write the Facebook posts and Twitter tweets of the time—bawdy songs, drinking ballads, and poetic satire."

A ripple of interest rolled through the room, and Charlotte felt the atmosphere brighten. Monday classes often suffered from ennui, and three-hour long lectures on Monday evenings could be even more deadly, for both students and professors. She nurtured the faint shift, pleased when a lively discussion blossomed.

Comments and observations ranged freely, and she allowed them to continue without interference. Released from leading the conversation, her attention was caught by a large, still shape in a far corner of the room. The man sat alone, taking up more than his fair share of a table meant for two. His blond hair was cropped close to his head, his full beard neatly trimmed. He wore a plaid collared shirt, open at the neck to reveal a white cotton t-shirt underneath. Even without his uniform, he was easy to recognize as the security guard who had helped her last Friday.

What was he doing in her classroom? She would have noticed if he’d arrived part way through the lesson, so he must have been there for more than two hours already. What purpose could he have for attending?

A student’s direct question re-focused her attention, but her awareness of the guard’s presence niggled away at the back of her brain for the remainder of the session.

If anyone’s interested, we can continue this in the online chatroom, she offered as students gathered their belongings. Otherwise, I’ll see you all next Monday.

The room emptied. As she closed her laptop and slid it into its case, she cast a surreptitious glance toward the desk where the security guard was sitting. He had unfolded from his chair and was shrugging into a sheepskin leather jacket.

The loose sleeve of her blouse caught the corner of a folder of notes on the edge of the desk and scattered pages across the floor. For crying out loud, she muttered. She crouched down and began gathering them up.

A large shadow blotted out her own where it lay over the strewn-about papers. Charlotte jerked her head up. The security guard hunkered next to her, his battered face disturbingly close. Here, he said, his low voice rough.

Thanks. She took the pages he offered and straightened to her full height.

He stood as well. Got home okay? he asked.

Yes, thank you. She had to look up to meet his eyes. At five-ten, she wasn’t used to feeling physically overwhelmed by too many people. But this man was at least six inches taller than her, with wide, solid shoulders and a tapered but muscular torso. She took a small step away.

Buy winter tires?

She narrowed her eyes. No.

You want to be safe, you need winter tires.

I appreciate your concern, Mr.—

It’s Justice. Justice Cooper.

—Mr. Cooper, but it is not necessary. His eyes were blue, a deep, greyish blue. They regarded her steadily. She tucked the pile of papers into her satchel. Surely you didn’t spend three hours in my class simply to check up on whether I followed your instructions.

He smiled, the movement of his lips so slight she almost didn’t see it. But it was obvious in his eyes, which crinkled at the corners. I’m one of your students. I’ve been in the class since September.

No, you haven’t. Her response was automatic. I would have noticed you before.

The grin in his eyes deepened. Flustered, she clarified her comment. I mean, I would have recognized your name. I haven’t seen it on any assignments.

I don’t do the assignments. I’m auditing. His voice rumbled in the deserted room. Footsteps echoed in from the hallway, and then faded away.

Charlotte became aware of their isolation. The last classes of the day were over, and the lonely pall of a large institution settling for the night drifted down. The subtle scent of spicy aftershave and warm male teased her nostrils. Her belly tightened. Hurriedly she hooked the strap of her satchel across her body, gripped the handle of her laptop case and headed for the door.

I’ve never understood the point of auditing. Her heels clicked loudly. If you’re going to attend the class, why not do the work and get the credit?

I don’t care about the credit. I just want to learn. He pushed open the door at the end of the hall and held it wide. Her shoulder brushed his arm as she passed through.

Refusing to be unnerved by his nearness, she continued the conversation. You’d learn more if you did the assignments. You don’t take part in the discussions, either.

I learn enough. And I like to listen. He spoke with a quiet firmness, neither defensive nor placating.

The halls leading to the Administration Building were empty, except for a security guard doing his rounds. Charlotte swept past without a second glance. She heard Justice offer a quiet greeting, but she was too irritated with him to observe social niceties.

They reached the elevator. Well, goodnight. I’ll see you next week.

Are you working much longer?

She looked over her shoulder. He loomed large behind her. Not frightening, just very—there. I have to grab a couple of things from my office and then I’ll be heading home.

I’ll stay with you.

I’m on the third floor. There’s no need for you to come up.

You shouldn’t walk to the parking lot alone at this time of night. He pushed the elevator button and motioned her inside when the doors slid open.

Short of refusing to get in, there wasn’t much she could do. She waited impatiently while the car slid upward and strode out the doors without giving Justice another look. When they reached the open space just outside her office where Natasha Szpendyk, the administrative assistant she shared with a couple of other professors, had her desk, she tried again. I might be longer than I thought. Please, don’t stay on my account.

Take your time. I’ll wait here. He leaned against the wall and crossed his arms, the leather of his jacket creaking.

I’m sure you have things of your own to do. She frowned in exasperation. Don’t let me take up any more of your evening.

It’s no problem.

She stared at him, baffled by his amiable persistence. He avoided her eyes, studying the bulletin board across the way, papered in tattered notices for Roommate Wanted and Undergrads Unite!

With a mild curse, she strode into her office.

****

Justice had barely finished reading the poster promoting 5 Days of Homelessness before Charlotte flounced out of her office and down the hall. He followed, hiding his amusement. She would probably insist she had never flounced in her life, but it was the first word that came to mind at the sight of her tip-tilted nose and squared-off shoulders.

There’s really no need for this. I walk to my car alone every night. Her thigh-length black coat swirled about her hips as she entered the elevator. The red scarf around her neck matched the colour in her cheeks, and her pancake hat once again sat frivolously on her curly dark hair.

You shouldn’t. The thought of Charlotte walking without an escort through a dark, deserted parking lot irked him. Not that the university was a particularly dangerous place. But why take unnecessary risks?

I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself. The doors opened and she stepped out.

Sometimes words weren’t enough. He clasped her wrist and spun her around so her back was to the wall.

What the hell are you doing? Temper flared her nostrils. Let me go.

Make me.

Her eyes widened. He held her loosely, his fingers circling strong yet delicate bones. Her skin was soft and cool. Under his fingertips, her pulse thudded rapidly.

For God’s sake. She tugged with force, but he easily kept his hold. Exactly what are you trying to prove?

You may be capable. I’m stronger. He was all for women’s equality, but reality was reality. He was six inches taller and thirty pounds heavier. Did she really think she could win?

I’ll be sure to avoid meeting you late at night, then. She renewed her efforts to get free, her eyes sparking with frustration. Trapped between him and the wall, and hampered by the laptop case she still carried, she could do little but wriggle.

The layers of winter clothing between them did nothing to disguise soft breasts rubbing against him, taut legs struggling to get leverage. He was so close her light scent teased his nose. His body reacted instinctively, his arousal distracting and disturbing.

Her expression changed a fraction of an instant before her knee jerked upward. It gave him just enough warning so he could turn his hip to protect his groin. His quick move reversed their positions, throwing her off balance and bringing her fully against him, his back to the wall. He wrapped one arm about her waist to support her.

Nice try. Next time, don’t telegraph your move, he said.

Her cheeks flushed and she squirmed. He knew the instant she became aware of his erection. She froze, staring at him with wide eyes.

He released her immediately and stepped back. His hands felt huge and clumsy, club-like. He shoved them into his jacket pockets. Sorry. I was just making a point. The distress in her face had him dropping his gaze, unable to meet her eyes.

Slender muscles in her throat flexed as she swallowed. Fine. You’ve made it. You’re bigger and meaner. She walked backward a few steps. I’m going to my car now. Alone. She turned and strode