"Mike Stearns, how in the world did you manage to attend college?" Melissa demanded.
"I didn't graduate," he pointed out, defensively.
"You didn't flunk out the first semester, either. God knows how." Accusingly, her long, elegant forefinger tapped the tome lying on Mike's desk. "You still haven't finished it?"
"It's boring," he whined. "Why can't this guy write like Barracuda? That book was pretty good."
"Barra-clough. And `this guy' is actually a pretty good writer himself, for an historian. But Cipolla edited this volume, he didn't write it." In a slightly milder tone of voice, she added: "Academic anthologies are heavier going than single-author books, I'll admit. There's still no excuse for not having finished it."
Mike slouched in his chair, feeling like a seventeen-year-old again. Which meant, under the circumstances, resentful.
"You're not my schoolmarm any more," he pouted. "And I'm not a kid."
"Yes, that's true. On both counts." Ignoring the lack of an invitation, she sat in the chair facing him in his office. "What you are is the leader of a beleaguered new tiny little nation, which is depending on you for its salvation. And I'm one of your advisers. Which means you don't even have the excuse of being a seventeen-year-old twit."
Mike seized the armrests of his chair in a firm grip—he was a very strong man—and glared fiercely out the window.
Then . . .
Said nothing.
"Well, that's good," Melissa continued. "At least you've stopped whimpering. For a moment there, I thought I was going to have to wipe your chin."
A scowl was added to the glare. "Do you know what your students used to call you?"
"Used to call me? Don't be insulting. They're still calling me those things, unless I'm slipping. Lessee . . ."
She began counting off on her fingers. "`Schoolmarm from Hell' and `Melissa the Hun' have usually been the terms used by the better-brought-up students. From there, manners fly south for the winter. `The Bitch from Below' has always been popular, of course. The alliteration's pretty irresistible. But I think my personal favorite is `She-Creature from the Black Lagoon,' although it never made a lot of sense to me. Is there a lagoon anywhere in West Virginia?"
A wince got added to the glare and the scowl. "Well . . . that one's pretty low. A couple of guys in school—never mind who—came up with it one night when they were sneaking some drinks out by the water treatment plant."
Melissa burst into laughter.
Mike couldn't help but grin. "Like I said, low. All right, Melissa. I'll finish the damn thing. But—!" He levered himself upright in the chair. "I will also tell you this. We're not going to find any answers in those books."
"Well, of course not. But they do help frame the questions."
A grunt was as much as Mike would allow in the way of acknowledgement. Not because he disagreed with Melissa, but simply because he really, really, really detested that damn book. Reading a collection of scholarly articles on the economic history of Europe made watching paint dry seem like a form of wild entertainment.
"We'll get our answers in practice, by getting our hands dirty," he stated firmly, feeling a bit pompous as he did so.
"Oh, how charmingly pompous," said Melissa.
Mike winced again. "Well, yeah. But it's still true."
"Of course it is. I've learned a lot just watching the merry-go-round Birdie Newhouse is on. I'd be laughing my head off, except I feel sorry for Mary Lee."
"Ain't that the truth?" he chuckled. "I like Birdie well enough, but he can be a real pain the butt when he decides to be a pain in the butt. Fortunately, it all seems to be working out okay."
"For the moment," Melissa cautioned. "Don't get your hopes up."
"Do you ever order eggs sunny-side up?"
"Don't be ridiculous. Eggs are scrambled, Mike. Eggs are always scrambled."