The First Time We Met: The Oxford Blue Series #1 (11 page)

Alexander washes in the vanity unit of my little closet and then dresses by the muted light of the bedside lamp. I am still naked, but he has pulled the cover over me to keep me warm and drawn the curtains to shut out the October evening. We could have stayed in bed all evening, but he’s told me he wants to take me out to dinner ‘to keep my strength up’, he says, and I think I may humour him. I watch him shrug his shorts and jeans on and pick his shirt up from the rug by my desk

‘Fuck.’

I feel a frisson of triumph as we both notice the missing button. It’s halfway down the front of his shirt so he can’t leave it open or tuck it in his trousers.

‘Call it a war trophy,’ I say.

‘If you’re going to wreck my clothes like this every time we have sex, I’ll need to bring a spare supply with me.’

That phrase ‘every time’ does exciting things to my body.

Giving up on the shirt, he shrugs and swivels my office chair round to face me. It’s one thing being naked while we’re making love, quite another to display myself in front of him while he watches. He sits up straight in the chair, forearms resting on the arms, legs spread apart, and says, ‘Your turn.’

Those eyes don’t leave me for a second as I push back the bed cover and rest my feet on the boards. The polished planks are cool and smooth beneath my soles. I lost my thigh-highs to him the second time we had sex and I spot them now, one draped over the waste bin, the other next to it.

‘Would you care to pass me my robe, please? It’s on the armchair.’

He folds his arms. ‘Not really.’

‘I have to take a shower and get changed. I can’t go to a restaurant in the nude.’

‘Mmm. Perhaps not, but I’d like to see it.’

I’m laughing, but I’m also fizzing and wet again. We will both die of hunger if one of us doesn’t get out of this room. ‘Maybe I can get my thigh-highs back, then?’

He frowns then breaks out in a grin. ‘Ah, you mean these?’ He gets out of his chair and retrieves them from the floor. ‘Thigh-highs? That’s a much better description than hold-ups. I like it and you can wear these, with my blessing.’

‘Why, thank you, sir.’

Once he’s back in my chair, he watches me as I roll the stockings up my legs.

‘Um. I need to put some fresh panties on before I go to the bathrooms.’

‘Why?’

‘Because …’

His blue eyes twinkle. ‘I’d rather you didn’t wear any at all.’

‘What?’

‘I’d like you to come out to dinner without any knickers on.’

My hesitation makes him smile. ‘It’s not a crime, Lauren, and only you and I will know about it.’

He pushes himself out of the chair. ‘You can wear a top, if you must, but only because I don’t want the rest of the male population seeing your incredible breasts.’

‘You are outrageous.’

‘Good. I’d hate to be predictable. And there’s something else. I want you to wear this.’

He picks up his jacket from the floor and reaches into an inside pocket in the silk lining. Light glimmers as he pulls out the Cartier necklace I rejected. He holds it up and the diamonds sparkle in the lamplight.

‘You kept it.’ My voice is quiet.

He comes over to me, kisses the back of my neck. I am still naked except for the black thigh-highs and in the mirror above the washbasin, I see a girl with flushed cheeks and tangled blonde hair whose eyes shine with sex and happiness.

‘You look like a Parisian courtesan,’ he whispers. ‘Will you accept the necklace now?’

‘It’s beautiful …’

‘I know that. I spent an hour choosing it myself.’

‘I’d love to accept it, not because it cost a lot of money but because you want me to have it. I can’t believe you didn’t return it to the store after I sent the courier away. Most men would have given up.’

His smile is slight and knowing. I should be annoyed at his nerve yet I’m only excited.

‘
Vincit qui patitur
’ he says quietly before kissing my neck.

‘What’s that? The family motto?’

‘Of course.’ His hands are on my breastbone, draping the necklace round my neck where the diamonds shimmer with a rosy fire.

‘Oh, of
course
. And what does that mean? “Live long and prosper”?’

He shoots me such a look. ‘You’re laughing at me, Lauren.’

‘I wouldn’t dare … but what
does
it mean?’

‘He conquers who endures.’ His mouth quirks in a smile as he fastens the clasp on the necklace. It lies perfectly across my décolletage as if it were made especially for me.

‘Wow. That’s one hell of a motto to live up to, but thank you for the necklace. You must know how much I love it.’ I turn round, resting my hands on his waist.

‘I hoped you would. Thank you for accepting it and, please, never think that I’m trying to buy you again.’ He trails a finger down my spine, resting his palm over one butt cheek.

‘I’ll try not to.’ Standing on tiptoes, I kiss him.

‘Much as it pains me to say this, you’d better get dressed or we may well be found by your scout in three weeks’ time, dead of starvation.’

‘But with smiles on our faces?’

He gives my bottom a sharp slap.

‘Ow. That’s outrageous and sexist!’

‘It is, but I don’t give a toss. Now get dressed, please, before I do something genuinely outrageous.’

In the end, I decide on a sapphire-blue silky top I bought last season but haven’t had the chance to wear yet, teamed with my favourite black mini. It’s a bit of a risk when I’m also going
sans
panties, but what the hell. While I’ve freshened up, brushed out my bed-head hair and applied a little mascara and gloss, Alexander has evidently made a few phone calls because a silver Bentley Continental with tinted windows is waiting for us on the street outside the Lodge.

‘Is this your car?’

Alexander smiles. ‘Not mine, strictly speaking, but I do have the use of it. Now, please get in before I cancel dinner and take you straight back to bed.’

Twenty minutes later, the driver, who needs no direction, opens the doors for us outside a manor house deep in the Oxfordshire countryside. Its honeyed stone facade seems vaguely familiar to me though I’ve never been here before. Alexander takes my hand and we walk up the gravelled path to the front door, then I see the name:
Le Manoir
.

‘I’ve seen this place before, on TV. It’s owned by a French chef.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Don’t tell me you know him.’

‘Not personally, no.’

The door opens and a hostess greets us. ‘Good evening, Mr Hunt, sir. Miss Cusack.’

He flashes her a smile that has her virtually melting on to the flagstones. ‘Hello, Sarah.’

‘So you don’t know Monsieur Blanc but you know
the place well enough to get a table at an hour’s notice,’ I murmur as Sarah leads us into the restaurant. Alexander squeezes my hand and whispers back.

‘I called in a favour.’

There’s an ice bucket on a stand next to our table, which overlooks the moonlit gardens. Alexander pulls back my seat for me and I descend elegantly on to the chair. There’s only the mini between me and the leather seat, and that makes me feel a dangerous combination of vulnerable and wanton.

Magically, a waiter appears. ‘Shall I serve the champagne, sir?’ he asks.

Alexander nods while the waiter extracts the bottle from the ice bucket.

‘Is your seat comfortable?’ His hand rests on my knee beneath the white tablecloth. I squirm a little, my bottom slipping against the chair. His fingers climb a little higher while the waiter’s back is turned.

‘Yes. Thank you.’ I have that feeling, when you’re itching to say something intimate and/or inappropriate to your dinner companion, but you’re perched on your chair, trying to pretend you’re as demure as a nun.

His hand creeps higher to the top of my thigh-highs as the cork pops gently from the bottle. The waiter hovers beside us, holding the bottle wrapped in a white napkin. I lick my lips.

‘Would you like to taste it, sir?’ the waiter asks.

‘Taste it? Of course I do, unless Lauren wants to taste it for me.
Do
you want to taste it, Lauren?’

I smile demurely. ‘Oh, I always want to taste it, Alexander.’ Oh my, can you get arrested for coming in the middle of a Michelin-starred restaurant?

Taking the flute, I raise it to my lips. Alexander’s hand is gone now and he’s sitting opposite me, his expression as innocent as a baby. Bubbles burst against my palate, tickling my tongue. It’s Dom Perignon and is every bit as divine as I’d expected; however I may not have noticed if my glass had held rocket fuel because my brain is full of the image of Alexander’s dark head between my legs, tasting
me
.

‘That’s fine,’ I say, putting down my flute.

The waiter tops our glasses up and Alexander nods. ‘Thank you, we’ll look after ourselves from now on.’

‘I don’t know how you dare do that,’ I say after the waiter has gone, the imprint of Alexander’s fingertips still burning into my skin. ‘What if he’d noticed?’

He shrugs. ‘He didn’t.’

He sips his Dom but I’m left toying with the stem of my glass, mind working overtime. I’m here with Alexander at last, we’ve had sex and we’re hopefully going to have a whole lot more. All the turmoil of the past two weeks has led to me giving in to him in the end. His face is briefly anxious and he reaches out and touches my arm.

‘Still no regrets?’

I shake my head firmly. The shiver that runs through me at the thought of his hands on my body gives me my answer. ‘No.’

‘Good. I hope you don’t mind me calling the car.
I wanted to take you somewhere special for our first proper date together.’

‘Of course not. It’s totally gorgeous here.’

‘I like it too, not that I get the chance to come here very often.’ This makes me wonder who else he has brought here, and Immy’s Valentina comment springs to mind, but I push it away. It’s over between Alexander and his ex. Immy told me and, more important, so has Alexander. Maybe he’s had meals here with his father or friends. Maybe his mother brought him here, though he was so young when she died that I somehow doubt it. There are so many questions I want to ask about his family and his past, let alone his present, yet everything is so new between us.

He opens a menu and hands it to me. ‘Hungry?’

‘Mmm, ravenous.’

After we’ve made our choices from the menu and the waiter has left us alone again, Alexander says. ‘So, now we’ve had sex, I suppose we’d better get to know each other a little better.’

I laugh. ‘I’m surprised you need to ask me. You already seemed to know who I was at the pub. Incidentally, I still don’t approve of you breaking that guy’s nose. How did they not press charges?’

‘Firstly, you’ll be pleased to know it wasn’t broken, only extremely painful for a day or so. Secondly, they’re lucky the bar staff didn’t call the porters or they might have been sent down. I hear they’ve already been in trouble for harassing women at their own colleges. One more strike and they’ll be out.’

‘And you? What if you’d been reported to college?’

He shrugs. ‘I can’t say I’m quaking in my boots at the thought of being hauled before the Master.’

That figures. I have to agree the Master would hardly hold much terror for a guy who’s – allegedly – in special forces. ‘So you wouldn’t care if you got sent down?’ I tease him.

‘I’d rather it didn’t happen, but I expect I’d survive. What about you?’

‘Me? I can’t think of any reason why I might be sent down but I’d die of shame if I was.’

‘Why?’

He’s so direct, so challenging, far worse than a tutorial with Professor Rafe. ‘Because I don’t want to fail.’

There’s a flicker of something in his expression: recognition, empathy? I’m not sure. ‘Or let down your parents?’ he offers.

‘No. I don’t want to let
myself
down. Like I told you, they didn’t want me to come here to do my master’s, in fact they couldn’t see any reason why I even had to leave the States. I think my father also worries about me … but he has no need. I wanted to come here to have the best tutors, and the galleries and museums on my doorstep. In fact, I’m going to the V&A tomorrow with some people from my seminar group.’

He frowns.

‘Something wrong?’

‘No. That sounds … thrilling.’

‘You aren’t convincing me you’re an art lover.’

He feigns a hurt expression. ‘On the contrary, I love
art. In fact, I think the V&A has a couple of watercolours on long-term loan from Falconbury right now. A Turner and a Ruskin. You might want to go and take a look while you’re there.’

I am aware my mouth is open as the waiter brings our starters. Alexander picks up his spoon. ‘Please. Don’t let your velouté get cold.’

The food is beyond delicious, but I have to pass on dessert and cheese, no matter how much of an appetite I worked up earlier today.

We’ve talked a little about Falconbury, although he doesn’t seem keen to go into detail. He’s far happier to talk about Sandhurst and hear about my life in Washington. Alexander knows who my father is and he’s very well informed on Dad’s views on issues like gun control and the US economy. I’m not sure I agree with all his comments and I tell him so. At times, he can be forthright almost to the point of rudeness, but I can hold my own, and this is my territory.

Besides, I’ve realized I thrive on the tension and verbal foreplay between us. It makes me feel alive. With Todd, I think he thought I was there to tag along. Towards the end of our relationship, I felt as if I only existed to fuel his self-esteem, while he existed to erode mine. He wasn’t a bad guy inside, only a hollow one. Whereas I sense a core of solid steel in Alexander – one that’s wired up for electricity if necessary – that excites and disturbs me.

Squashing down the reservations that have begun to nag at the back of my mind again, I sip the last of the Pouilly-Fumé we’d ordered to go with the sole we both
had for entrées. It’s a clean, crisp, elegant drink that may match the food but is the opposite of the thoughts I’m having while he sits opposite me. Alexander is on to dessert, having related an outrageous story from his Sandhurst days that I’m still not sure whether I should believe. He looks more relaxed than I’ve ever seen him, apart from when we had sex, so I decide to seize the chance to ask about his family.