The First Time We Met: The Oxford Blue Series #1 Read online

  So that’s how you silence a table full of braying toffs in one second flat, but I almost wish I hadn’t because, a, it’s not quite true and, b, this is the kind of bragging I despise.

  Immy’s eyes are as wide as saucers. ‘Oh. My. God. You mean you really know Obama?’

  Warmth rises to my cheeks and I’m half wishing I hadn’t gone down this route, but Rupes did ask for it. ‘Well … my father does. He’s a Democrat senator and my mother and I have met the president a couple of times.’

  ‘What’s your father’s name?’ a tiny little guy opposite pipes up. I think Immy said he was a cox for the rowing Eight.

  ‘Bill Cusack. I don’t expect you’ll have heard of him.’

  The cox beams. ‘I certainly have. I’m doing PPE,’ he says proudly. I have no clue what PPE is but I sense an ally. ‘He supported Obama’s latest gun-control bill,’ he adds as the others stare at us. ‘And he’s a massive advocate of Obamacare.’

  I reach out to my new ally with a smile. ‘That’s my father.’

  ‘You didn’t say your dad was a politician,’ Immy whispers.

  ‘Well, it can be a conversation stopper.’

  ‘I think it’s really cool – and you’ve managed to shut Rupes up. Well done. He’s not that bad, you know, not all the time. And I think you’ve made an impression with him.’

  Right now, I’d like to make an impression with my foot on Rupes’ butt, but Immy’s right about one thing: he’s gone quiet, which has given him more opportunity to drain the bottle of port. Finally, as the conversation moves on to what people did in the vac, I feel the tension in my muscles ease and hope I might get through the evening after all. Immy persuades me to try a glass of port and I rather like it. Kind of sweet yet tart, like cherry pie.

  What the …?

  Rupert’s hand is on my knee. My skin crawls and nausea rises in my throat as his clammy fingers slide up my thigh. Then I feel his breath against my ear. ‘I may have died and gone to heaven. A Yank who’s beautiful, bright and well-connected, even if it is to a Democrat dynasty. You’re a triple threat, Laurel.’

  He belches and the alcohol fumes almost knock me out. I try to edge away, but we’re so packed into the bench, I can’t get out of his reach. I should knee him in the balls but I don’t want to draw any more attention to myself. Oh my God, his fingers have reached the hem of my panties. That’s it. I’ve had it with the lot of them.

  I leap to my feet and my elbow ‘accidentally on purpose’ knocks the port glass flying into his lap.

  ‘Fucking hell!’ A ruby stain spreads over Rupert’s crotch as I scramble off the bench.

  Immy’s mouth is open in shock. ‘Lauren, what’s the matter?’

  ‘Ask your douche of a friend!’

  Rupert leaps up with a roar. ‘For fuck’s sake, I only bought these from Jack Wills this morning!’

  ‘If this Jack Wills is as big an asshole as you are then I’m glad I spilled wine down his pants.’ It comes out as a shriek and the whole hall has fallen quiet, but I don’t care any more.

  Immy stares at him with contempt. ‘You total shit, Rupert. Please, Lauren, wait …’

  Any other time, I’d appreciate the sympathy, but I throw off her hand on my arm because moisture is pricking the back of my eyes and I refuse to cry in front of these people. ‘Just leave me, please.’

  By the time I get out of the hall, the tears are pouring down my cheeks. I tried, I really did, but apart from Immy and a few others, they’re a bunch of snobs and creeps, Rupert most of all. Why did I think this was a good idea?

  Leaning against a wall, I gulp in the cool air and it helps a little, but it’s raining again and my dress is getting soaked. I’ve only been here a day and I already hate the weather and the people. So much for my big dreams of sophisticated independence when I can’t even handle a welcome dinner!

  In my head, Todd’s laughing at me, clucking his tongue with his ‘Poor little Lauren, I told you you’d be better off staying home.’

  No. I will not give up so easily. The Cusacks don’t quit. My father taught me that and, after knowing the mountain he climbed to achieve what he has, I know I can handle a pack of snobby Brits.

  I wipe my hand over my eyes and hope my nose isn’t snotty like a little girl’s. I have to get back to my room and calm down, but I know I’ll be soaked if I run there in this deluge. A few yards away I spot an archway and some steps leading down to what I think are the college cloisters. Maybe I can shelter in there until this downpour eases.

  I run towards them and I skitter under the arch, but my heel slips on the wet steps and I miss my footing. Tumbling through the air, I let out a shriek before my breath is knocked from me as I slam into a solid object.

  Curses echo around the cloister, mine and another’s, and by some miracle I’m not splattered over the flagstones yet, thanks to two hands gripping my upper arms like a vice.

  ‘Christ! What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’

  I have no breath left after hitting that chest. It’s as solid as the stone walls around me.

  ‘Getting … the hell … out of this … place.’

  My chest still heaves as I look up into two ice-blue eyes glaring down at me under eyebrows bunched together in a frown.

  ‘Fine, but could you possibly manage to get the hell out of it without breaking other people’s necks?’

  My breath leaves my body again as that voice curls round me like silk and resonates in my chest like the deepest note of the piano. His voice alone is enough to turn my mind to mush. My smart, Ivy League-educated, supposedly critical mind …

  ‘Get over it. You look fine to me,’ I say, pushing away his arms.

  In spite of my words, my pulse rate spikes as I take in the dark brown hair and those quarterback shoulders. I know him. He’s the guy from the Range Rover.

  He can’t be that much older than me, but there’s something behind those eyes that makes me think he’s lived much longer and seen so much more than I ever have or will. He glares down at me as if I’ve committed a crime.

  ‘You’ve been crying,’ he says.

  ‘No, I have not.’ But damn, my hand brushes over my cheek as I deny the obvious.

  ‘Yes, you have. Your eyes look red and your face is wet.’

  ‘So my contacts are irritating. Is there a law against it?’

  His nostrils flare slightly. ‘Of course not. Wait.’ He pulls a clean white square from the pocket of his suit and his voice softens. ‘May I? There’s a lash in the corner of your eye. I don’t want to smudge your mascara any more than it already is. Tilt your head up, please.’

  It may be a request, but the way he says it there’s no room for negotiation. I tilt and my heart thumps like a road drill. Reaching out, he dabs at the tear tracks on my cheek with his handkerchief. I know I ought to feel patronized but it’s such an unexpectedly tender gesture from this granite-hewn guy that I don’t want to stop him. As his fingers brush across my damp skin, there’s a tightening low in my belly that I can’t mistake for anger or nerves. As he touches me, my skin prickles all over and not in a bad way.

  ‘Just relax,’ he orders, and I’m in no position to disobey with my gaze turned skyward. I feel the cool of metal softly graze my cheek and realize he has a ring on his little finger. This close, he smells of freshly laundered linen. No cologne, no booze, just cool and clean and composed.

  ‘That’s it.’

  There’s a moment where I don’t think I will ever be able to move again, then I glance down and the eyelash is the tiniest thing on the tip of his little finger. And there’s the ring. A gold signet ring like my grandfather used to wear.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘A pleasure.’ His expression doesn’t match his words, but he adds, ‘That didn’t hurt a bit, did it?’

  If he says it doesn’t hurt, I guess it doesn’t. And it really didn’t and, damn it, my nipples have decided to stand to attention. He must know that too because the wind is blowing through the
cloisters and has pasted my damp dress to my body like shrink wrap. I feel naked before him and throw my arms around my chest, not that it’s any kind of protection from a gaze that seems to penetrate my flesh and bones.

  A smile flickers over his face and for that brief second his austerely handsome profile is transfused with warmth. My God, he is beautiful. Scary but divine. What is he doing here at Wyckham?

  ‘Don’t look so scared. I don’t bite.’

  My brain is blasted with thoughts of what that mouth could do to me … what am I thinking? Either I’m still jet-lagged or the dinner port was laced. Nothing else could account for my wild swings in reaction to this man.

  ‘I have to go.’ My voice sounds small and unconvincing, even to me.

  He folds his arms and even the beautifully cut suit can’t hide those guns. What the hell is he studying here? He’s different to the other students. Like he stands up straighter, like he has an inner calm. Rupert’s gang have got chutzpah in spades, but this guy seems to have an inner confidence that runs through him like a seam of rock, rather than clipped on like a showy facade.

  ‘You’ve said that already. Are you going to carry out your threat or are you all mouth?’

  There’s no answer to that question and, anyway, the chimes of the chapel clock ring out and the guy lifts his wrist to check his watch, his mouth twitching in irritation. ‘Now I have to go. Don’t kill anyone on your way back to New York.’

  It must be a sign for me too, because alarm bells are going off loud and fast in my head and my body.

  His footsteps ring out on the flagstones as he strides off and I get that monumental rear view for the second time today. He can’t just go like that, not with my every sense leaping around like popcorn in a pan. I don’t even know who he is.

  ‘I’m not from New York!’ I call after him.

  ‘Boston, then,’ he throws back.

  But he’s still putting the yards between us. He must look back at me but I have a horrible feeling that this guy backs down for no one.

  My next shout bounces off the walls. ‘Not Boston!’

  Still he carries on walking, his footsteps ringing out in the cloister gallery. Then he stops and the quiet is so palpable I can almost taste it.

  He turns round and walks back towards me.

  Trying not to exhale in relief and triumph, I throw my arms around my damp and shivering body in triumph. He’s close enough now for me to look right into those mesmeric blue eyes.

  ‘It’s Washington,’ I murmur through dry lips. ‘I’m from Washington.’

  His mouth twitches in a concession to a smile as he gazes down at me, and there’s a heartbeat where I think he may kiss me. Is it possible to melt through solid stone? I wonder.

  ‘Congratulations,’ he says, ‘and you might find it useful to know that you aren’t wearing contacts.’

  And that is it. Turning on his heel, he marches away faster than before and I know there will be no third chance. That magnificent back disappears through the arch at the other end of the cloisters and I’m alone, with only the chilly autumn wind slicing through my dress and the memory of his fingers against my face.

  What am I thinking? He’s as sexy as hell, yes, but as I come back to earth I’m angry with myself for reacting to him so powerfully. As if to reinforce that fact, I hear footsteps as Immy and Freddie hurry down the long cloister gallery, their faces concerned. I try to dismiss the guy from my mind but all I know is this: for the second time in twenty-four hours, my world just changed for ever.

  Chapter Three

  ‘Well, Lauren, I’m absolutely delighted to have you here at Wyckham.’

  Professor Rafe Stanford, my tutor for the next year, peers at me over his steel-rimmed glasses. The first thing that strikes me about him is how young he looks, almost boyish, even though I know he’s well past thirty. His smile is wide, almost too big for his lean face, but at least he seems friendly. It’s my first meeting with him and this time it’s not a proper tutorial, more a ‘get acquainted’ session.

  It’s Monday morning and I’ve calmed down a notch since my encounter with Granite Guns in the cloisters on Saturday evening, though the memory of that ice-chip gaze and his touch on my cheek kept me awake until the chapel clock chimed midnight. I never thought I’d sleep again until I woke up Sunday noon with the sun streaming through my window and Immy hammering on my door, asking if I was still alive.

  ‘Tea or coffee?’ asks Professor Rafe. ‘I’d offer you a glass of wine, but the sun’s a long way from the yardarm, isn’t it?’

  ‘Um … I suppose it is. Tea would be good.’

  ‘Darjeeling or Earl Grey? I have some of those dreadful fruit-flavoured things too, if you really must. Some Americans seem to like them.’

  What I’d really rather have is a glass of iced water in view of the fact that it’s inexplicably now a warm, sunny day outside, however, ‘Earl Grey would be good, thanks.’

  As the professor pours boiling water on to a tea bag, I take a sneaky survey of his rooms. There seems to be only one room, actually, but it’s a lot larger than mine and the walls are lined with a collection of art-history books that I’d kill to own. More books are piled on occasional tables, in the corners and at the sides of his desk. There’s a deep-buttoned leather sofa and two tub chairs, both cracked with wear, one of which I’m perched on.

  There’s also a bed, which, judging by the rumpled covers, has seen some use overnight. The prof is a little rumpled too in his battered cords and wrinkled check shirt. When he pushes his black hair back from his temples, there are glimpses of silver-grey.

  ‘Here you are. Apologies for the mug.’

  I probably wouldn’t have even noticed the mug he handed me unless he’d drawn attention to the picture on it, but now it’s impossible to ignore. It’s one of the Austrian painter Egon Schiele’s nude self-portraits. I’m not a great Schiele fan and I have to say he doesn’t look too happy with his face screwed up, his legs apart and his penis hanging down like a limp flag. Well, it’s certainly different, though I can’t say I’d like to take my tea out of it every day.

  The prof plumps for a seat on the sofa and gives an encouraging smile. It’s not the greatest Earl Grey I’ve ever had, but that’s fine and it gives me something to do with my hands. He stretches his arm along the back of the sofa and crosses one leg over the other.

  ‘Your essay and references from Brown were really very impressive.’

  Without warning, an image of the guy from the cloisters slides into my mind.

  ‘Is your tea all right?’

  I deposit the mug hastily on the side table, blowing on my burning fingers. ‘Oh yes, thank you.’

  I’m not sure whether I’m thanking him for the tea, the compliment or for bringing my mind back to the reason I’m here: to have the benefit of a world-famous tutor’s undivided attention. In addition to the seminar programme at the History of Art faculty, Professor Rafe had told me he’d be giving me lots of one-to-ones when he called to say I’d got the place.

  ‘So, have you decided on the subject of your optional course and dissertation topic yet?’

  I have, but I’m a little apprehensive about voicing them. Professor Rafe seems charming, but I still get the feeling he’s going to take me apart piece by piece at some point, like a tiger dismembering a gazelle. I try to remind myself that this is a good thing and what I’ve paid out tens of thousands of dollars for.

  ‘Um. I’ve been considering a variety of options.’

  ‘You don’t have to decide right now, of course. I was simply interested to hear what turns you on. Academically speaking, of course.’ He flashes me a smile to let me know he’s joking. I think.

  ‘Let me know later today if you can, so I can prepare my tutorial plan for you. I expect you know that the first term is a taught programme. I’m going to focus on giving you a rigorous training in methodology so you can go and do further research.’ He peers at me over his glasses again. ‘That is, if you’re su
re you’d be suited to an academic career. Not everyone wants to hide him- or herself away in a dusty institution and, I must say, it would probably be a waste in your case. That is, you probably have far more interesting options open to you.’

  ‘I had thought of curating a gallery …’ Perspiration breaks out on the small of my back. Immy told me that boilers get fired up at Wyckham on the first day of term, whether it’s frosty or still seventy degrees outside. It must be eighty in here, at least, and Rafe’s face is quite shiny.

  ‘There you are, then. Now, shall we make a date for our first proper tutorial? Then you can tell me your final choice of course and I can notify the course leader.’

  We spend the next twenty minutes talking about the course and my interests. I’d forgotten quite how indulgent it is to spend so long discussing my subject with someone who’s as passionate about it as me, and far more knowledgeable. Rafe is exactly what I’d hoped for intellectually. I could even grow to like the cord trousers and tweed jacket, but does he really need the elbow patches? Maybe he does, if he spends most of his time poring over documents on his ancient-looking desk. He must have chosen the darkest corner of Wyckham for his rooms.

  And why does it have to be so damn hot in here? The radiators ought to be glowing; they’re pumping out so much heat I can barely breathe. I’ve already taken off my jacket and I’d love to get rid of my sweater but I only have a tank on underneath and, besides, there’s no way I’m going to take anything off in front of Professor Rafe. Not that he’d say anything, he’s probably too polite, but … Whoa, the room just turned in front of my eyes.

  ‘Are you feeling unwell, Lauren?’ Rafe leans forward, his eyes full of concern. At least I think it’s concern because my eyesight isn’t functioning that well right now.

  I shake my head, and then regret it as that light-headed feeling seizes me again. ‘No … No … I’m OK.’

  ‘I’m worried about you. You look rather pale and it is very warm in here. Maybe you have a temperature? Can I get you a glass of water? Or perhaps you ought to take off your sweater?’