The First Time We Met: The Oxford Blue Series #1 (5 page)

‘Why have so many British men undergone frontal lobotomies?’

As he glares at me, his eyes hold something almost feral behind the drunken glaze, but I’m not scared. I’ve dealt with creeps like him before at Brown, frat boys
who thought they were God’s gift to women while secretly hating and fearing us. The only difference is his accent, but I don’t want us to turn into free entertainment for the evening and I can see Oscar, Chun and Isla twitching nervously, unsure whether to intervene.

‘If you don’t mind letting us past,
gentlemen
?’

‘Shall I, Gideon? Shall I let these totties past?’

Totties
? Is this the twenty-first century? I actually laugh at this.

Gideon sneers. ‘I don’t know, Piers.’

Losing patience, Immy pushes Gideon’s chest and my heart sinks as his eyes darken with fury.

I keep my voice calm. ‘Boys, I can appreciate that a request to move out of our way may take up a great deal of your brainpower, but I’d hoped you might have comprehended my meaning by now.’

‘You’re wasting your time, Piers. I crashed and burned with her on Saturday night. Leave it.’ Rupert’s arm is at Piers’s elbow, his voice bored. I
think
he’s trying to defuse the situation, but it’s not helping.

Piers’s face crumples in mock hurt. ‘Gideon and I had rather hoped Lauren would be keen to develop the Special Relationship back at our rooms. Now, it looks like I’m going to have to spend a long lonely night with only the thought of you boys to keep me warm. Boo hoo.’

Immy holds her hand to her ear. ‘Hear that? It’s the sound of the saddest song being played on the world’s smallest violin.’ She sniggers and in unison we try to push past Piers and Gideon, as Oscar leaps up from his seat, stung into action.

‘Stop being such a pair of tits. You heard them, now fuck off.’

It ought to be funny, this tiny little guy squaring up like a terrier taking on two pit bulls, but this is turning nasty and I hate seeing anyone bullied. With one hand, Gideon shoves Oscar back into the table and a bottle smashes. His glasses fall off and shatter on the tiles.

What happens next is all over so fast, I barely have time to breathe.

One second I’m inches from Piers’s face, the next someone grabs my arm and pulls me aside while the whole pub erupts in flying glass, a sickening crack and lots of hooting and girly screaming. When I look down, Piers is on his back at my feet, surrounded by shattered glass, blood pouring from his nose – with Alexander towering over him.

‘When a woman tells you to get out of her way, you obnoxious cunt, you get out of her way. Now is that clear?’ He barely raises his voice, but his words silence the bar. His shiny brogue prods Piers’ thigh. ‘Speak up, I can’t hear you.’

Piers burbles, propping himself up on an elbow as he stares at the red liquid trickling down his shirt from his bloodied nose. Bile rises to my throat at the sight of it.

‘You’ve broben by fucking node, you bastard.’

‘You should be grateful this girl didn’t kick you in your tiny balls.’ He reaches out his hand and pulls Piers roughly to his feet, shoving him at his mates. ‘Now get him out of here.’

You can almost smell the testosterone and feel the tension crackling in the air. Rupert and Oscar have quietly moved behind Alexander like the Three Musketeers
while Piers and his boorish friends bristle with hurt pride and venom. A couple of bar staff try to weave their way through the drinkers. We’ve become Oxford’s latest spectator sport. That’s what I hate the most: once again I’m the centre of attention when all I wanted to do was fit in here. Does it have to be so hard to blend in?

Piers clutches a handkerchief to his nose, as Gideon throws an ill-advised ‘You’re not worth it, you shit,’ at Alexander before bundling Piers out of the rear door of the pub. As for me, I’m shaking like a leaf inside, all indignation on the surface.

Rupert shakes his head. ‘For fuck’s sake, Alexander. Do you have to resort to willy-waving to impress a girl?’

‘You can piss off, Rupert. I didn’t see you stepping in.’

‘Why bother when you’d waded in like a tank battalion?’

Alexander brushes glass fragments from his rugby shirt as if they were cookie crumbs. ‘Why don’t you settle up for the damage with the bar staff? I’ll sort it out with you later.’

That comment is sheathed in silky menace and Rupert curls his lip but does as he’s told, reduced to a hired lackey. I know what he’s thinking, what they’re all thinking – Immy, Oscar and the rest – as Alexander gestures to a corridor that leads to the pub bathrooms. The hubbub is rising again, but strangely enough everyone is giving us some space. I ought to walk out of here now, but I find myself doing the same as Piers and Gideon and Rupert.

That is, dancing to Alexander’s tune.

His voice is calm and oddly soothing as we face off in the corridor. ‘I’m sorry about that. Are you OK?’

I don’t need his apology because I’m not some shrinking Edwardian lady, but I’m also human and when Alexander touches my arm, the contact is electric. Then I spot the skinned knuckles and the spots of blood on his shirt.
He smacked a guy in the mouth for me
. Well, this isn’t the Stone Age and I don’t need to be presented with a sabre-toothed tiger and dragged by the hair to his cave. He’s just as bad as the rest of them.

I take a step back, as much to back off from the idea of being carried to his lair as to show him my indifference to his boxing skills. My back brushes the wood of the door.

‘You know, I – we really didn’t need rescuing,’ I say, refusing to be fazed by that intense gaze.

A ghost of a smile touches his lips. ‘Again?’

I know he’s referring to the cloister incident and the memory of it makes me prickle with indignation and lust all over again. Over his shoulder, Immy, Rupes et al have their eyes on stalks, desperate to check out what’s going on. Then Alexander shifts his position slightly so that his back is between me and them, shielding our conversation from view. He smells and looks incredible, and the bloodied shirt both repulses me and connects with some deep-rooted primeval need.

Suddenly I realize how skilfully I’ve been manoeuvred into place and my heart pitter-patters. Well, I’m not intimidated and I’m not impressed. So unimpressed, a jolt of desire for him shoots right through me.

‘Um, Alexander …’ Wow, that name sounds weird on my tongue, like I agreed to try a new food for the first time and I’m not sure I like it. I’ll have to take another bite to be sure. ‘Alexander, I do appreciate you thought you were helping me … us, but I didn’t ask you to hit that guy for me. We were in control of the situation.’

He shrugs and his mouth turns up at the corners. ‘Whatever you say.’

‘Please, don’t patronize me.’

‘I wouldn’t dream of patronizing you, Ms Cusack.’

‘How do you know my name?’

He taps his nose. ‘That’s on a need-to-know basis.’

‘OK. If you want to play it that way, it’s fine.
You
need to know this, though: thanks for saving me from Piers, but you were wasting your time. Now, if it’s OK with you,
Mister
Hunt, I’m going home.’

‘You can play it any way you like with me.’ Those ice-blue eyes slam down a challenge that’s laced with provocation. ‘And, as for going home, it’s a very long way to Washington.’

He looks so unbelievably sexy that momentarily he’s robbed me of words, but I snap to my senses. Alexander Hunt is trouble, in every single sense of the word, and I have to get away from him before I
can’t
get away from him. That built, lean frame is still blocking my way and the scent of fresh clean sweat and testosterone makes me twitch with desire.

‘I heard what happened over dinner last night, by the way. I hear that Rupert has finally met his match,’ he says.

‘I hope I never match Rupert in any respect.’

His eyes are bright with amusement. ‘I admire a woman who can hold her own and I so rarely meet one.’

‘I find that hard to believe. And now … um … if it’s OK with you, I’d really appreciate it if you could let me past.’

Static crackles in the air between us. Never mind the real fight I witnessed, we’re shadow-boxing with innuendo and the effect on me, at least, is as powerful as any aphrodisiac.

‘I never mind any reasonable request.’ He steps aside, his hand held out. The moment hangs in the air between us; if he asks me to stay, I won’t, because that is what this Alexander expects me to do. I’m not about to be manoeuvred or manipulated or intimidated by any guy, not even one who makes me tremble with lust.

‘Much obliged to you,’ I say, imitating his cut-glass accent. As I stroll past his open hand towards Immy and the girls, I have the satisfaction of glimpsing the frustration on his face, and this time it’s me who turns my back and walks away.

So much for being fresh into classes. I only had a few hours’ sleep after last night’s encounter with Alex so there was no chance of me missing my first seminar at the faculty; I was awake at six a.m. Somehow, I managed to get back to my room last night without too much interrogation from Immy. It was still pouring down so we had to run, and Freddie made a booty-call to Immy so I headed straight for my room.

I don’t need any more drama on my first day.

This morning we had an ice-breaker meeting with the other master’s students on my course, then it was a full-on intro to the course, punctuated by lunch. There’s a wholefoods cafe near the faculty where I grabbed a quinoa salad with some of the other grad students. Then it was back to work.

We get three exam essays at the start of Trinity term – but as that’s not until next June I won’t start stressing about it yet. This term ‘all’ I have to worry about is two extended essays on my specialist subject.

Whichever way you look at it, I’ve more than enough on my plate, so what do I go and do? Waste far too much time and energy trying to fathom out Alexander Hunt.

I step out of the Faculty of Art History into the weak rays of afternoon sun shining on the facades
around me. In contrast to the austere grandeur of the colleges, the faculty is a sixties building shoehorned into the narrow streets near the centre of town, yet it encapsulates all that I love about Oxford. Where else would you get a brand-new bar and sixties brick building next to a Victorian church and a medieval college? Even the names are like something from a novel. I mean, Penny Farthing Place?

I grab a photo of the street name on my iPhone, wondering if I can work it in as part of a collage.

Back at college I resist the urge to collapse on to my bed and, instead, pull on some running shorts, a tee and my Nikes and head out into the streets. I’m not the serious kind of runner who runs till she throws up and beats herself up if she doesn’t get a PB every time. I’m more the ‘plug in the headphones, have I managed twenty minutes yet?’ kind. I’m in dire need of a workout because my head is reeling with new experiences, and my feelings in respect of Alexander Hunt are so conflicted that not even Kofi Annan could reconcile them.

Immy told me that the Parks are a great place to run – not that she ever does – so that’s where I go, jogging through the iron gate and into this lush expanse of meadowland. Narrow paths criss-cross the lawns and I take the one that leads down to the river, a blur of green all around me. I thread my way under the willow trees, now turning yellow, batting away tiny bugs as the ‘
yeah yeah yeahs
’ jostle for space in my head with the Gustav Holst I downloaded after I noticed the blue plaque on his house next to the Turf.

I know I’m running too fast too soon and will pay for it, but I’m high as a kite on new experiences, both Oxford- and Alexander-induced. A glance at my watch gives me the excuse to stop and take a breather. I’ve been out twenty minutes already and I need to get back, shower and change for dinner. It looks like I can run a little further through the parks past some nets I think are for cricket, and back along the street to Wyckham.

Ten minutes later, perspiration running down my neck, I put in a burst of speed in the final sprint towards college, miss my footing on the kerb and crash to the sidewalk.

I. Am. Not. Going. To. Cry.

Not out here in the street, even though my elbow feels like the skin has been taken off it and my ankle is throbbing so hard I may throw up. Except I have to get up because I’m lying in the road like one of the speed bumps they have everywhere here in Oxford. A bike swerves to miss me as I try to get to my feet and fall back again. Crawling back on to the sidewalk is my only option, but even that hurts. My butt must have taken some of the force because that’s aching like crazy too.

The worst thing of all is that people are coming to help.

‘Are you all right? That was a nasty fall.’ An elderly lady, in a velour tracksuit, peers down at me.

‘I’m …’
sick of saying fine
. ‘I’ll be OK.’ Turning my grimace into a brave smile, I make another failed attempt to get up.

‘Let me give you a hand. That’s a nasty graze on your elbow.’

It probably is, but I’m more concerned about my ankle, which doesn’t seem to want to function any more. I don’t think it will support my weight, that’s for sure, and I don’t want to grab this lady’s hand and bring her down on top of me.

‘Here. Put your arm around me.’

I know that voice and it isn’t the old lady’s. Before I can protest, before I even know I don’t want to protest, Alexander’s hand is in mine, pulling me to my feet. His arm is firm round my back as I balance on one foot. Why does he have to come along now?

‘I’ll take care of this now.’ He throws a smile at the old lady, a smile like he’s never given me or anyone so far, and my heart does a triple Salchow. Is this smiling guy the real Alexander? Or simply the public version?

The lady seems relieved. ‘I’ll let this young man look after you. I’m late for my salsa class.’

‘Thanks anyway,’ I say as she hurries off. I could be bloody-minded and throw off his arm, but I’m in no position to flounce off anywhere. My ankle really hurts and my elbow’s skinned raw and pin-pricked with tiny spots of blood.

‘Careful.’ His grip on my arm tightens as I wince and, despite the pain, I’m aware of the tickle of the hairs on his bare forearms brushing against my flesh.

‘I’ll be OK. It’s not far to college.’

‘With a sprained ankle?’

‘I think it’s just twisted.’ I grab him for support as I try to place my sole on the sidewalk and half collapse.

‘If you’re hell bent on limping back to college, at least let me strap it up for you.’

‘Really, I’m …’

He raises both eyebrows, and I realize I’ve gripped his arm so tightly, there are nail marks.

‘Thanks, but how are we going to get back to Wyckham?’ I have visions of us arriving in the Lodge like we’ve been tied together on some freshers’ pub crawl.

‘We’re not going back to Wyckham. I live here.’ I follow his finger to a house across the street, the centre of an elegant stone-built terrace that I took for a university building.

‘Oh, I see.’

‘Come inside and let’s take a look at you.’

From the kitchen across the hall, there are dull thuds as drawers open and close. I’m lying on Alexander’s sofa, wearing Alexander’s rugby shirt, with my injured foot propped up on Alexander’s silk cushion. After I’d limped up the steps on his arm, he left me in the sitting room with a bag of frozen peas round my ankle while he fetched some tape.

As I sip the iced water he brought me, I hear the chirrup of a cell phone and his deep voice answering ‘Hunt’. Even though it’s wrong, I strain my ears to hear what he’s saying, but the kitchen door slams.

So this is Alexander Hunt’s lair and I have to admit it looks remarkably civilized for a caveman’s. Of course,
he has to live somewhere, but I’d assumed it would be at Wyckham. Is this his place or rented? If he’s only here for a year doing his master’s, I guess it’s rented? Judging by the cornice mouldings, picture rails and ornate ceiling roses, the house is mid- to late-Victorian. The decor is a mix of contemporary – all beech wood and plain lines, though nothing too self-consciously cool – combined with funky rugs on the bare boards. There’s an eclectic mix of modern prints on the walls, but nothing stand-out, and no family photos from what I can see from my sofa, so I assume it’s not his own place, or definitely not his own stuff.

It’s still his
home
, though, and I’m alone with him in it.

‘Sorry about that. I knew I had some tape somewhere …’

The glass is halfway to my lips as he enters the room. Now it’s his turn to pause as we stare at each other across the room. In his hands are a pair of scissors and some blue sticky tape. My throat dries up. Now that I’m not in agony, my senses have space and time to react to him properly. He has on chinos, a shirt with the sleeves rolled back and shiny shoes, all of which fit him like they were made for him, which, now I know his background, they probably were.

He is even taller than I remember, six-two at least, and lean yet built. If he’s in the army, then of course he’s going to be fit, but, still, he looks hot.

He also recovers faster than I do.

‘May I?’ he asks in that clipped voice that’s a notch up from being rude. Am I totally misreading the signals
here or is there static crackling between us as he sits on the end of the sofa, without waiting for my reply.

He lifts my foot from the cushion and into his lap. I cringe at the mud smear and wet patch on his silk cushion and am horribly conscious of my bare legs.

‘I’m sorry, I meant to take off my Nikes.’

‘I’ll do it.’ His glance is brief, his voice curt and the tension between us is as taut as a high wire. Does he regret asking me inside? Does he feel the sparks arcing between us – or from me to him? Does he want to jump off the sofa and run away, like I do, because he’s so frightened of what might happen and how he might feel if it does?

He’s unlaced my shoe and he’s gently easing it off my foot. Despite his care, my foot is sore, but I’m too transfixed by the strong fingers encircling my ankle to mind. His nails are short, square and clean, but his fingers are a little calloused.

‘OK?’

‘Mmm.’ As he slides my sock over my foot, I am so glad I got a pedi before I left Washington.

‘This may hurt a bit.’

‘It’ll be – ow!’

He glances up, his mouth tilting slightly, then resumes his exam of my foot as I try not to dig my nails too hard into the sofa cushion. Underlying the pain, I’m in heaven and hell as his fingertips prod my sole and swollen joint.

‘Ideally, you should keep the ice on it for half an hour before I strap it, but this should keep it more stable and comfortable.’

Half an hour. In here with him? I’ll self-combust.

He holds up the tape. ‘This is vet tape. We use it for the horses, but there’s nothing like it for sports injuries.’

OK. I suppose I can cope with being treated like a pony in this instance. He rolls the vet tape round my lower calf and the ball of my foot. I find it hard to tear my eyes away from his fingers as he does it, then I become conscious that his hands have come to rest on my ankle.

‘Do you do a lot of running?’ he asks.

‘Does it look like it?’ My attempt at Brit self-deprecation was a bad idea because he has a wicked gleam in his eye as he secures the tape.

‘I won’t answer that.’

‘I run a little at home, to keep fit but mainly to de-stress,’ I say, shifting my bottom on the sofa. Suddenly, I can’t keep still.

He tears off the tape and he could move away now that his job is done. Instead, he strokes the blade of my foot almost idly and his mouth quirks in a smile. ‘And are you stressed now?’

The touch of those strong fingers up and down my foot is more erotic than sex itself and he asks me if I’m
stressed
?

‘Um … No, I’m doing just fine.’

He looks at me intensely, as if he’s daring me to glance away first. ‘Are you sure because you seem a little flustered. Maybe it’s delayed shock. You did hit the ground
very
hard back there.’

I try not to gasp as he probes my ankle, gently but firmly.

‘Can you feel that?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you sure?’ He massages the sole of my foot. ‘I’m only checking that you’ve still got feeling down there, of course.’

‘Trust me, I can feel it.’ I’m unable to tear my eyes away from that arrogantly handsome face. He runs his fingers lightly along my sole. I don’t believe in reflexology but something definitely connected a lot higher up just then.

‘I had my first day of classes today,’ I blurt out, frantically trying to change the subject.

‘And how was that for you?’ His mouth twitches into a smile as I brace my hands on the sofa cushion.

‘Pretty full-on, but amazing … They sure throw you in at the deep end here …’

His eyes are still on mine as his hands move to my calf, kneading the sore muscle. I am struggling not to take off into orbit from the sofa.

He strokes my calf gently with his fingertips. ‘And do you find yourself out of your depth often?’

‘I …
um … er …’ I can’t think of a single answer to that question. ‘I had to decide on my specialist area,’ I say in desperation. He rests my foot on the cushion again and gives me the Alexander Hunt deep penetrating gaze. ‘Really? And what
is
your specialist area, Lauren?’

Please. Do not say my name
. Hearing those syllables in that cut-glass accent, no matter how much I’ve scorned his aristocratic credentials, is driving me insane. ‘I … um … it’s called Women, Art and Culture in Early Modern Europe.’

He raises his eyebrows. ‘Really? That must be
very
stimulating.’

His fingertips skate over the tape to where my flesh is bare. I hitch a breath as they make little circles on my shin. This is not a necessary part of the treatment. This is beyond the call of duty.

‘More than you could ever imagine …’ My head drifts back against the sofa arm and I can’t help but slip a little lower down the couch.

His hand glides over my knee and stops in the middle of my thigh. His palm is warm and a little rough. I can’t help shifting my hips as his hand moves higher to the skin below the hem of my shorts. I have no need of his shirt now, the temperature seems to have risen by ten degrees in a few minutes.

‘How about this?’ His voice is lower, as if he senses the deep, matching sensation spreading through my core.

‘That’s … ah … very … stimulating too.’

‘Purely in an intellectual way, of course?’

Now I am glad of his rugby shirt because my nipples are prodding my tank top.

‘Of course …’

‘How about this, then?’ There’s a raw edge to his tone as he slips his fingers under the edge of my running shorts. I try not to moan out loud as he slides his hand ever higher, playing with the lace of my panties. Any second now, I know he will slip his finger under the edge of them. With my eyes closed, I slide even
further down the leather sofa until my bottom butts against the solidity of his thighs.