The Second Time I Saw You: The Oxford Blue Series #2 (12 page)

Alexander gazes at me and for a moment I think he may explode with anger but then he reaches out and touches my cheek. It’s a gentle gesture, one that ought to be tender and calming; instead it makes the hairs stand up on the back of my neck. I joked with Immy about my addiction to him; at moments like this I believe it may actually be true. Yet I swore I would never be one of those girls, caught in a relationship I can’t leave, that I don’t want to leave.

‘We did say we would be honest with each other, so I won’t lie. I don’t like you seeing Scott, even as a friend. I’m jealous but I won’t try to stop you,’ he says gruffly.

‘That’s good to hear because I wouldn’t stop anyway. There’s nothing between us, and that’s exactly why I will keep seeing him. You don’t control me, Alexander Hunt. You never have and you never will.’

He gazes down at me, intimidating, intense … ‘You do know what happens when you speak to me like that, Lauren?’

‘It gives you a hard-on?’ I challenge.

My breath is snatched away as he sweeps me down on to the rug and pins me there. His face is above mine.

‘As I said before, I’m the one that’s here with you now and I’m going to make sure you know it.’

It turns out he’s only back in Oxford for a few days so I decide I’d better make the most of him being here. Later, after dinner – a steak grilled by Alexander – we’re drinking red wine by the fire while he sends some emails and I try to get stuck into something fascinating about the theory and methods of art history.

He holds up the empty bottle. ‘Shall I get some more wine?’ he asks.

He gets up but before he’s halfway out of his seat, his mobile rings. He mouths an expletive and I can tell from the instant tightening of his jaw that the caller is either from Falconbury or his regiment. I wonder if it’s the mysterious Mr Armitage again.

‘Relax. I think I know my way to the kitchen and I can handle a corkscrew.’ Leaving him to answer the call, I head for the wine rack in the kitchen. After I’ve peeled off the foil of a bottle of Nuits-Saint-Georges, I step on the foot pedal of the trash can to throw the foil inside. There are only two pieces of trash in there so far; Alexander’s kitchen is as neatly kept as if he were still at Sandhurst, although that may be mainly down to the cleaner. The lid bangs down but then I stop.

I open the trash can again. I wasn’t mistaken. There is an envelope on top of the empty meat carton and there is something odd about the writing on the
envelope. Something familiar about the thorny tendrils of the elaborate, flowing black script …

I reach into the inner liner and pick out the envelope between my forefinger and thumb. It’s a heavyweight cream affair with a deckle-edged seal, now smeared with blood from the steak carton. My mind goes back to the card attached to the flowers that Valentina sent to the general’s funeral.

Valentina sent this envelope; ergo Valentina sent Alexander a card. So what?

I lay the envelope on the countertop and pull out the cork from the bottle, laughing at my paranoia. So she sent him a sympathy card. Of course she did; what else would I expect?

In fact he’s made no attempt to hide it because it’s staring at me from the wooden letter rack a foot away on the counter. I know it’s from Valentina because the painting of Positano faces outwards, almost demanding to be seen.

The corkscrew abandoned, I pick out the card from the rack. I know I really shouldn’t open it but I can’t help myself. The same spiky handwriting fills both sides. ‘
Tesoro
, you are always in my thoughts. I am here for you now and always …’ After that, the general is mentioned, and something in relation to his death, so it’s clearly arrived since then. Then there is something that I can’t make out. My Italian is sketchy at best, and mostly confined to a lexicon relating to art, but even I can see the words ‘
Ti amo
…’ and the signature, of course, is Valentina’s.

It would not matter; it does not matter. She’s sent him a message of condolence, that much I might have expected, and yet … The envelope was still in the bin, clean and barely crumpled, and there was no address and no stamp which means he must have received it personally.

‘Having trouble with the corkscrew?’

With the card in my hand, I turn round to face Alexander.

He clocks it briefly, his eyes full of annoyance, and before he has chance to reply, I can’t help myself. ‘I knew I wasn’t mistaken. I
knew
it was her I saw in town this afternoon. Was she here before you called me?’ Oh shit, it just came out. I’ve made myself look like the jealous bitch that Valentina is. Now he’s going to laugh at me and say I’m living in fantasy land and I’m deluded. Please, let him say that and have an explanation why this handwritten letter is here.

‘Yes, she was here,’ he says calmly.

I try to stay calm while fighting a cocktail of emotions: anger, jealousy, confusion. All the kind of feelings that I never thought I would feel, that I hate feeling and only have ever felt since I met Alexander.

He folds his arms. ‘Before you jump to conclusions, she simply dropped by to offer her condolences.’

‘Well, hey, that’s one name for it.’

He takes a step into the kitchen. ‘She came to the house, I made her a coffee and she left. The cleaner was
here most of the time. If you want to interview her under oath, I can try to persuade her.’

‘Why should I care anyway?’

‘I was going to tell you.’

‘Were you? What was she doing in Oxford? Don’t tell me she came all this way in her private jet just to offer you her “condolences”?’ I bracket the word with my fingers.

‘You clearly think I’m more important than I actually am. She’s in London to buy some paintings and got her driver to bring her. She stayed here about an hour and then she left.’ His voice is ice cool yet I can feel the impatience bristling from every pore. ‘Lauren, I seem to recall us having a conversation about being honest with each other.’

‘So do I.’

‘Which is why I’m glad – but not happy – you told me you’d seen Scott. Believe me, I have enough on my plate at the moment without taking any kind of drama from Valentina. I told her I’m trying to persuade you to make a go of it with me and she’s accepted it. That’s an end of things, as far as I’m concerned.’

While I can’t imagine Valentina ever accepting that Alexander has moved on from her, I don’t want to start another row with Alexander because neither of us needs the hassle now. Yet she must be up to something. Taking a mental deep breath, I decide to act as peacemaker. My father would be proud.

‘OK, let’s forget Valentina. Was your call from home? Is Emma OK?’ I ask.

‘Actually, it was the regiment, but don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere for a while.’

‘Good,’ I murmur.

‘But I have heard from Emma today. She seems to be coping well. In fact she asked if you wanted to go to an exhibition at the V&A with her.’ He seems a little embarrassed but goes on, ‘You two seem to get on so well and I thought you might be able to use it for research. I want things to go well this term. It may be difficult but, after the start we’ve had, it would be good if things quietened down. I can’t promise to be here as much as I’d like but we should make the most of …’

‘Which exhibition? The “British Drawings” or the “Malay Silver”?’

‘Neither. I believe it’s called “Club to Catwalk”. Some fashion thing or other.’

I burst out laughing. ‘I saw it and I was thinking of going anyway but, Alexander, surely you’re simply desperate to see that yourself? All those eighties and nineties outfits, Betty Jackson, John Galliano. I heard they had some of Adam Ant’s costumes …’

He comes towards me and holds my arms lightly. ‘Frankly, I’d rather be bayoneted.’

I can’t help but smile. ‘Now, now, I only asked you to go and see them, not wear them. Though I think you’d look great in legwarmers and a frilly shirt.’

He shakes his head. ‘Lauren, you’re asking for a serious …’

He stops, but I’m fizzing from the sensual threat in his eyes. A bizarre image slides into my mind and sends a jolt of desire right through me. I see myself standing naked in the kitchen with my hands tied behind my back with a black silk ribbon. My face fires up instantly and I rub my clammy palms on my jeans.

Alexander’s eyes laser into me, then he smiles briefly. The bastard. I know he’s guessed I was thinking something pretty kinky and I blush even more.

‘So you will go with Emma?’ he says coolly, while I take two fresh glasses out of the glass-fronted wall cabinet. ‘We can go to the Ivy for lunch afterwards if you like. I need to meet my legal people anyway.’

My voice sounds shaky to me. ‘OK. Yes, I’d love to. When do you want to go?’

‘Emma has an exeat next weekend and the exhibition closes soon, so is next Saturday OK?’

I throw him a smile and start to fill the glasses. ‘It’s fine, but will we get a table at the Ivy at such short notice? I thought they were booked up for months ahead.’

‘I’m sure they’ll squeeze us in.’ I turn to push the cork back in the bottle when his palm lands on my behind. He strokes my butt cheek deliciously and I close my eyes.

‘I thought you wanted more wine …’

‘I need other things more.’

The timbre of his voice changes. It’s deeper and rougher. Without turning me round, he starts to unzip my jeans. I push away the bottle and let my head drift to one side. His lips brush my neck and he kisses my throat. I close my eyes, while his fingers slip inside the fly of my jeans and press down on me through the fabric of my underwear. He smells of the Creed aftershave he keeps in his bathroom and the scent of arousal. Or is that my arousal? I try to turn my head but he pushes my cheek away.

‘
Don’t
look at me.’

His command is like an electric shock. I grip the countertop, half fearful, half eager to know and feel what he has in store for me.

‘Eyes front,’ he whispers, dropping butterfly kisses on the side of my neck that counter the harsh command. He reaches round to hold his finger to my lips. ‘And
no
talking.’

I may not be able to talk but I sure as hell can moan and whimper as he returns his hands to my jeans and tugs them down my thighs, along with my knickers. As he slips his hand between my legs from behind, I want to turn around, I want to know what he’s going to do next, but I dare not. I close my eyes. Every sound is magnified in the big kitchen: our breathing, his boots on the tiles and the sound of him unbuckling his belt.

The muscles of his thighs are iron hard against my behind, and I can’t resist wiggling my tush against him. I also can’t resist reaching back to touch him, wanting
to feel how hard I’ve made him but his fingers close over mine and return them to the countertop.

‘
And
no touching, either.’

I bite back a retort, deciding to play along with him, amazed at how much I’m enjoying the game. At how wet I am, and –

My knuckles whiten on the edge of the counter as my panties are ripped down further and he parts the cheeks of my butt with his fingers. My breathing quickens and my palms are slippery. I try to focus on the espresso machine, my face distorted in the chrome like some weird fairground mirror. He nudges his cock between my cheeks and my body tenses.

Then, suddenly, he’s kissing the back of my neck, telling me I’m hot and gorgeous and I drive him wild. Gently, he scoops his hands under my bottom and pushes into me, filling me to the hilt. All the tension in my body is released with a cry of relief and insane pleasure. I was so wound up, so on edge, that the pleasure of him inside me now is intensely good.

‘You bastard. You wicked, evil bastard.’

‘Thanks,’ he says, nuzzling my neck, nipping my shoulder, then resuming the rhythm of his thrusts until we both come, him not long after me, his groan of release echoing through the kitchen. Boy, am I glad the walls are thick.

It is the calm after the storm, Alexander taps away on his laptop while I flick through the pages of a book on
Van Eyck. I must confess my mind is not wholly occupied by what may have happened to the stolen panel of the
Adoration of the Mystic Lamb
, but by Valentina, and Emma and our trip to the V&A. Of course I want to see the exhibition; who wouldn’t? However, I’m also uneasy about keeping Emma’s secret, about seeing her with Alexander present and possibly being dragged further into the intrigue. One Hunt sibling drama is more than enough for me.

I have wondered if I should tell Alexander – and after our honesty pledge, maybe now is the time,
but
I’m really not sure that it extends to other people’s secrets. If I’d been Emma at seventeen, I’d have been furious that my parents – let alone a brother, if I had one – would try to control who I dated. And maybe she’s not even seeing him any more, I tell myself. Then again, even on a short acquaintance, I know Henry Favell is not a nice guy; hell, even
Rupert
thinks he’s a scumbag.

‘Alexander?’

He glances up from the screen and I notice the dark circles under his eyes and the line deepens between his brows before he manages a tight smile. ‘Sorry. What?’

‘I just wondered if you’d like a coffee?’

‘Thanks. That would be good.’ His eyes return to the screen and he carries on tap tapping away. My confession dies in my throat; he has so much on his plate, I can’t bear to add to it. All I can do is keep my fingers crossed.

A few days later, my grip tightens on my racket bag as Professor Rafe stops me halfway round the quad. He’s really rocking the hipster-don look today, having ditched the cords for dark-red chinos and added a baby-blue scarf to the tweed jacket.

‘Ah, Lauren. I’m so glad I bumped into you.’

‘Oh, hi, Professor Rafe.’

‘Nice to see you’re enjoying yourself.’ He glances at the racket bag on my shoulder. Why, oh, why does he have to ‘bump into me’ when I’m on my way back from a game with Immy, instead of when I’m hard at work in the Sackler Library or the Bod?

‘Oxford has so many distractions, doesn’t it?’ He peers at my tennis outfit from over his geeky wire-rimmed specs in a way he thinks is intimidating yet sexy. Mercifully I have on my Lululemon tracksuit over my tee and shorts. He seems jaunty, so maybe he’s been shagging the ‘female friend’ he mentioned to me at the end of last term; it would make a change from hitting on his students.