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

  The tool allusion goes slightly over my head, but I detect it’s not complimentary. I knew the evening was going too well. Immy lets out a sigh. ‘We’ll have to try to pretend they’re not here.’

  As a statement, I know it is wildly optimistic as soon as it’s left her lips. In minutes the conversation descends to Neanderthal levels as Gideon and Piers start telling jokes about lighting their own farts, ‘epic chundering’ and initiation rituals that mostly seem to involve objects being pushed up other guys’ anuses – for ‘a laugh’ apparently. Maybe the chundering has something to do with the anal penetration … I don’t ask. When Immy whispers that one of them is studying politics and the other nuclear physics, I fear for the future of the free world.

  How did these boneheads ever get admitted to Oxford? Then again, how did Sarah Palin get to run for VP? Or Russell Crowe think it was a good idea to be Robin Hood? Whatever, these guys make Rupert look like an intellectual, and incidentally he appears to be ignoring me for now, which is about the best compliment he could ever pay me.

  As the noise levels in the pub and around our particular table rise to a new level, my Cartier tells me it’s ten thirty and I’m ready to bail out. Faculty classes start tomorrow at nine thirty and I don’t want to start the term looking and thinking like an extra from the Walking Dead. Will Immy be offended if I leave? She’s been so kind to me that I don’t want to abandon her. I glance at her, biting her nails since Freddie left to have an ‘essay crisis’.

  ‘Immy, I think I’m going to get back to college.’ I have to raise my voice above the shouting and raucous laughter. There’s movement at the end of the table as I catch the other girls’ eyes and they start to slip on their coats. ‘I don’t want to leave you here, but I can walk back with Chun and Isla if you want to stay.’

  ‘Oh … well, it’s not last orders for half an hour, but I suppose I ought to get back too, not that I’ll sleep much. I get the results of my Collections tomorrow.’ Immy pulls a face and I can’t tell whether she’s disappointed or relieved to have the excuse to leave.

  I throw her a sympathetic smile and cross my fingers inwardly. ‘I’m sure you’ll be just fine.’

  ‘I hope so. OK, shall we go?’

  Groans and whistles come from Gideon and Piers as we get up en masse. They’re standing at the end of the table, pints in their hands, alcohol stains down their shirts. Piers is swaying a little like he’s on the deck of a yacht. I don’t mind people enjoying themselves, truly, but why do some guys have to get completely wasted? Todd could be a total shit when he was drunk; actually he turned out to be a total shit when he wasn’t and I doubt Gideon and Piers would be any less offensive if they were sober.

  ‘Aww … The ladies are leaving.’ Their voices are slurred.

  ‘They need to be tucked up in bed by eleven.’ Rupert’s words seem general, but I suspect they’re directed at me.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind tucking them up,’ Gideon slurs.

  ‘Don’t leave this early, ladies. The night is young.’

  Immy rolls her eyes and tries to walk past Piers, then shrieks, ‘Hey!’

  My God, did he grope her ass?

  ‘Do you really have to be so predictable, Piers.’ Immy sounds brave, but I can tell from her stiff back that she hates him touching her.

  He edges closer, reeking of booze and cigarette smoke. ‘What’s your problem, Imogen? Don’t you like male attention?’

  ‘I have no problem with male attention; I do have a problem with gorillas.’

  ‘Oh, touch-y-y. You’re not a rug-muncher, are you?’

  ‘So your parents spent all that money on your education for you to come up with that gem?’ I ask.

  He snorts, spraying me with spittle. ‘Just a little joke. Why do so many American girls have to be so uptight?’

  ‘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.

  Chapter Four

  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?’

  A
lexander 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.

  Chapter Five

  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.
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  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.