The First Time We Met: The Oxford Blue Series #1 (3 page)

‘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.

‘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 sure 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?’

‘So Professor Handy’s been at it already? I wish I’d known you were seeing him this morning – I’d have warned you first.’ Immy pulls a face as we queue for the coffee machine in the grad-student centre. She saw me as I walked out of Rafe’s rooms feeling as if I was about to spontaneously combust.

‘It was so hot in there I almost passed out and he kept patting my knee like I was a little girl. And then he
put his arm round me and asked me if I needed to lie down!’

‘The creep. As for hot, that’s probably because the bastard keeps his radiators on full when he does one-to-ones with female students. Unless they’re lesbians of course, though he has even been known to try and “convert” them.’

A thin trickle of brown liquid sputters into the cup. ‘You mean he hits on the students a lot? Surely he could be fired for that?’ I’d like to think Immy is wrong about Rafe’s intentions and that I misconstrued the signs; I want to keep my relationship with him totally professional. If he’s going to come on to me, I’ll have to deal with it somehow.

Immy collects her latte from the slot. ‘He
could
, but this is Wyckham, darling, and he’s more likely to get a rap on the knuckles and told not to get caught. The Master adores Rafe since he brought in that massive endowment from one of his old students. Besides, no one has actually complained to the college about him yet and some of the girls fancy him. And he’s a bit of a sleb since he did that series for BBC4.’

‘Really? I must have missed it on BBC America.’ I place a cup under the slot and press the button.

‘Lucky you. The whole thing was about the female nude in Renaissance Art, but it’s an excuse for perving at sixteenth-century tits if you ask me. Besides, the Master’s worse than anyone. When Rupert smashed a skylight in the library roof, he threatened to take him out into the quad and have him whipped.’

My jaw goes slack. ‘Now I
know
you’re joking!’

She raises an eyebrow. ‘About the whipping, yes, that sort of thing went out about three hundred years ago, but the Master
does
fancy Rupert. He told one of the postgrads that he’d love to give Rupes a good seeing-to, but he’s got no chance. Oh fuck, I forgot the sugar.’

While Immy fetches some sugar for her coffee, I sink into a sofa by the window that overlooks the quad and reflect on Immy’s warnings about Rafe and the Master. I’d have thought that Wyckham had shrugged off that decadent image decades ago, but it seems to be very much alive and well. It’s not only a culture-shock thing – it’s so alien to the way I’ve been brought up and my vision for my future. It would be naive of me to think I can dismiss my own background – and I wouldn’t want to – but Immy’s world, like Rupert’s and the cloister guy’s, well … it would be so easy to get seduced by it. And that’s so not what I’m here for.

Outside the leaves on the lime tree are turning wonderful shades of yellow, russet and brown. It’s a picture of peace and tranquillity that should calm my racing mind and remind me why I’m really here. The morning sunlight is soft as it falls on the college buildings, bathing them in a golden glow. I really should paint it, especially as I managed to unearth my watercolours from one of my bags yesterday afternoon. After Immy woke me up, we went out for brunch at Georgina’s in the Covered Market – along with half of the student body, it seemed, because we were queuing down the stairs for twenty minutes to get inside. When we finally
got a table, I got the chance to find out more about Immy’s family. Her younger brother, George, is at Marlborough and from the way she talks about him I can tell she loves him to bits even if he does drive her insane at times.

Although she’s been here two years and seems to have tons of friends, I’m not sure she’s got any really close girlfriends. Behind the jokey, party-girl facade, I think she lives on the edge, and her work worries really bother her. She’s told me she’ll probably move to London after her degree and see what’s going on there. Her parents bought her a flat in Chelsea as an investment and maybe she feels she owes it to them to do well, or at least complete her degree. I suspect she doesn’t ‘need’ to work.

I guess I don’t need to work either … My parents are in the fortunate position of being financially secure – you’d probably even say wealthy – but I can’t even
imagine
not wanting to have a career in art.

‘Hi, sorry about that. There was no sugar by the machine so I had to grab some from the buttery. Can’t stomach JCR caffeine without sugar.’ Immy flops on to the sofa.

My nose wrinkles up as my own coffee hits the back of my throat.

‘Cat’s piss?’

‘It’s better than Rafe’s tea. I don’t have Earl Grey very often, but, man, his version tasted weird.’

Immy rips open a packet of sugar and dumps it into
her cup. ‘That would have been the Rohypnol …’ she says.

‘Ah, that must have been it. Next time I’ll stick to water.’ I wince at the coffee again. ‘Immy, do you happen to know a good whole-foods store?’

‘Me? Are you kidding? Well, actually, there’s a big health-food place on the Plain. Oscar practically lives in there trying to starve himself to keep his weight down for rowing.’

I remember Oscar. He was the cox who’d heard of my dad. I liked him, but the thought of my unscheduled exit at the welcome dinner brings heat to my cheeks. Immy must have noticed because she’s nibbling her bottom lip with her teeth in that nervy way again.

‘Lauren … I know we talked about this yesterday, but I still feel bad about Rupert. Are you OK?’

‘Fine.’ I summon up my brightest smile even though I am so sick of saying this when I’m not fine, but I don’t want a reputation as a drama queen. ‘Why do you feel bad? He’s the one who stuck his hand up my dress.’

‘Please don’t judge him by Saturday. He can be a total twat, but he was completely hammered. None of that crowd is too bad when you get to know them, but I feel guilty because they are my friends. I introduced you to them and I should have warned you.’

‘You’re not responsible for your school friends.’

We’ve already had this conversation over our hot chocolate and croissants in Georgina’s yesterday. Turns out Rupes, Oscar et al were at Marlborough with Immy.
Not Freddie, though, he’s the latest in what sounds like a long line of faithful lapdogs.

‘Rupes is … Rupes, and if it’s any consolation, you could take it as a compliment that he’s singled you out. He’s always had a weakness for the blonde athletic look since we had a Californian housemistress in charge of our mixed house at school.’

Even allowing for the fact that I’m from the opposite side of the States, the idea of Rupes having an American wet dream over his housemistress makes me gag on my coffee even more.

‘I can see I haven’t convinced you. Look, a few of us were planning on going to the Turf tonight. Why don’t you give them another chance? Not every guy at Wyckham is a git.’

And how. Much to my irritation, with myself and him, the Cloister God has rarely been out of my mind and it’s been on the tip of my tongue to ask Immy who he might be. There can’t be many guys with that kind of presence – or that physique – at Wyckham and, if I described him, I’d bet my Wilson racket she’d know who he is and yet … there’s no way of asking about him that won’t instantly alert her to my unhealthy interest in him, and surely I’m bound to be unlucky enough to bump into him again sooner or later.

‘Please come. I promise you won’t be disappointed and the Turf is a bit of an Oxford institution. All medieval nooks and crannies and stuff. Not that I’m assuming that because you’re American you like old places. That would be a horrendous cliché.’