"Damn, I hate winter!" Matt Bayfield growled into the stiff headwind, holding the hood of his sweatsuit with one hand while tugging the zipper with the other.

Seven inches of snow covered the ground. Park crews had worked the entire morning and much of the afternoon to plow the roads and jogging paths. It was Saturday; he ran on Saturdays, Tuesdays and Thursdays. Unless the weather was too damn miserable. Today was cutting it close.

Matt turned and jogged along the southern edge of the park. At least the wind wouldn't be in his face. Kids on a nearby hill used sleds, plastic sheets and shovels to slide down the snowy incline. Their screams spoke of a pure joy he'd seldom experienced, certainly not as a child.

A mile out, the wind died down and he turned north by the soccer fields. The snow sparkled like a blanket of diamonds. The only evidence of civilization was a ski trail cutting diagonally across the blanket. Grudgingly, he admitted it was a pretty afternoon. Thankfully, he'd remembered his sunglasses or the bright reflection off the snow would have given him a headache.

His head already pounded, but not from the glare, nor from exertion. Why hadn't he called her? Why hadn't she called him? He'd said he'd call, but that didn't mean she couldn't, if she really wanted him.

That was part of the problem. Was she feeling guilty for suspecting him to be the rapist? He didn't want any thank-you fuck. "Oh sorry, I thought you were somebody else. Did I hurt you? Let me stroke your ego and your cock and everything will be okay." He didn't need that kind of charity.

A green SUV turned the corner sharply. Slush splattered Matt waist high. The driver pulled away without a backward glance. "Son of a bitch," Matt shouted. Had the bastard done that on purpose?

Another half mile and Matt swore his lungs were frozen and his breathing grew labored. He eased his pace. This was when what was healthy for you nearly killed you.  

What the hell was he going to do with Ms. Crane? He knew what he'd like to do: throttle her for disrupting the serenity of his life. Right. He pushed the hood off his head. There were a few other things he'd thought of doing to her, and she seemed more than willing.

Against his better judgment, Matt slowed to a walk to let his heart stop pounding. Was it pounding from the workout or from his erotic thoughts? Even if she was willing, truly willing and interested in a sexual romp with him - not out of some sense of owing him something - she was still a student. Well, she was a cop posing as a student. While he knew that, to rest of the campus she was a student, and if he let himself get involved with her he'd be judged as a professor screwing a student. Though at some point, once she apprehended the rapist, the truth would come out.

Why did that bother him so much? She'd never take a class from him. And she was a cop, for god's sake. She certainly could take care of herself.

So how many more days or weeks was he going to allow this internal debate to rage on? The debate was not going to resolve itself. What would her aunt say if she knew of his designs on her niece? Nancy Crane was everywhere: the niece of the president of the college and a cop. That had to be double trouble. Of course then he hadn't planned on a long stay at Blackthorn anyhow. But affair with the president's niece was hardly the way to obtain a glowing recommendation.  

Matt allowed himself to smile. Well, maybe from the niece, but not the aunt. So which was more important? He ran in place briefly and then resumed his jogging pace.  

Shielding his eyes from the sun, Matt made out two dark figures approaching. One was on skis; the other raced ahead of the skier. "Oh damn," he moaned, recognizing Malaki, who had come to a halt in the jogging path, blocking Matt's way. There was no question about the identity of the skier in the glistening red pants and jacket.  

To his surprise, Nancy Crane broke into a smile when she saw him scratching her dog. At least she wasn't going to throw ice-balls at him. There was still a chance he might get out of this entanglement alive.  

"Well, if it isn't the forgetful Professor Matthew Bayfield," Nancy said, sliding to a spiffy halt before him.  

Matt ignored the snow that splattered his legs. The cold weather, if anything, made the woman even more chipper. Her cheeks were rosy; her ebony hair hung in a ponytail, making her look even younger. She hardly puffed from the workout. Her lips didn't look cold at all. He knew they could warm him better than any expensive brandy.  

"I see you've adapted to winter quite nicely, Ms. Crane."  

"Why shouldn't I - I love winter!" Nancy beamed a broad smile at Bayfield. "You look a little ragged and done in, Bayfield. Don't you know this is a season for skiing, not jogging?"  

"Don't know how to ski. Not that it matters." Matt crossed his arms. Why was it important that she understand? "I've never thought about trying," he blurted out. "I seldom see a lone skier."  

"I'm alone," Nancy said, pouting slightly. "Well, I do have Mal." She cocked her head to the side. "Though I did think maybe I wouldn't be alone. There was some man who was going to get back to me. He was one hot kisser, but I guess that must have been all he had in him. All promise, but no delivery."