Moth to the Flame (4 page)

Once again her eyes strayed to the stranger in the doorway, and Emily, spinning around, suddenly laughed. ‘Oh. Right . . . er . . . ?'

‘Jared.'

‘Right, Jared. I forgot about you. Sorry, you must think I'm mad. When I bolted for the door like that. I mean, it's just that I knew no one should be in here, so I thought I'd come and investigate the noises.'

‘So I gathered.' He stepped further into the room, shutting the door behind him, and his
presence
suddenly filled the small room. He was much taller than Alicia, who at only five-feet-four found most people towering over her. He had masses of nut-brown hair, which framed his head in wave after wave of healthily shining richness. His eyes were of a similar rich darkness. Like melting chocolate. His chin had a slight cleft.

Alicia felt her breath catch. Emily gave a swift double-take, looking from Jared to Alicia then Jared again, and began to grin, her freckles glowing. ‘Alicia Norman, this is Jared . . . ?'

‘Cowan.'

‘Right. Jared just dropped by to ask if I'd be interested in helping him set up the Easter Play.'

Alicia blinked blankly. Seeing her confusion, Jared shrugged and smiled. ‘At the end of every Hilary Term the St Bede's Drama Group put on a play in the theatre. This year, for my sins, I've agreed to set it up. Somebody told me Emily here had had a bit of previous experience in theatre work, and since I needed all the help I could get . . .' He shrugged again, his eyes glued to Alicia's expressive face.

‘Oh,' Alicia said, and Jared saw her glance at her friend nervously. She was everything he'd expected of her, seen close up, and more, and he could feel his heart start to thump in his chest. He sternly told himself not to be ridiculous.

She
was way out of his league.

Jared had first spotted her last term, apparently along with the rest of the male population of St Bede's. It hadn't been hard to milk the grapevine for relevant details, and what he'd heard hadn't been encouraging. Her family was strictly top notch, with old money connections and literary pretensions. For a working-class boy from Bicester, whose elder brother was currently in jail for burglary, and whose parents were frankly bewildered by their younger offspring's foray into the world of academia, it had not encouraged Jared to make any moves in her direction. He didn't need anyone looking down her nose at him. Even a nose as shapely as hers.

He'd been walking across the croquet lawns when he'd first seen her—hurrying through Becket Arch, dressed in the black-and-white ensemble known as sub-fusc. She'd been on her way to the First Year Matriculation Photograph session, which traditionally took place in the Fellows' Garden. Even at a distance, the long black hair streaming out behind her had caught his attention. Her eyes, he noticed now, were china-blue, big and dark-lashed.

‘I did a few plays at my old school,' Emily was saying brightly. ‘The lead in the last one. You looking for a leading lady, Jared?' she teased, and Jared dragged his eyes away from Alicia. He looked vague for a moment, then he nodded.

‘Leading
lady, an assistant director, a writer, a props manager, painters, lighting engineers—you name it.'

Emily laughed. ‘Never mind. You've got a while. It'll come together. You've put notices up?'

Jared nodded. ‘I've got friends in the Engineering department who can help me with sound, lighting and so on, so that shouldn't be a problem.'

Emily, still shooting amused looks at her shell-shocked friend, suddenly snapped her fingers. ‘Don't tell me! You're the J. Cowan with those magical two letters after your name. The name I see every now and then on the notice boards'?'

Alicia glanced at her friend, wondering how she could burble on so blithely and brightly, no doubt impressing their handsome visitor with her effervescent personality, when all she could do was stand their in tongue-tied silence. Thinking how gorgeous he looked.

‘Two magic letters?' Jared echoed, puzzled.

‘Yes. E X. You are an Exhibitioner, aren't you?'

He looked slightly embarrassed for a moment, then nodded.

Alicia was even more impressed. Every year, each school—be it English, History or Engineering—awarded its top two pupils a Scholarship and an Exhibition.

Brains as well as so much male beauty. It
wasn't
fair that some people seemed to have it all. She shook her head in bemusement and finally slipped off her coat, revealing a cashmere jumper of finest pale blue wool, and expensively tailored navy blue slacks. A thick gold chain hung round her neck. She pulled the silk scarf from her head, and as she did so masses of raven-sheened black hair cascaded down around her shoulders, reaching almost to her waist.

Emily watched Jared like a hawk, not missing the slight paling around his lips, the reflexive widening of his eyes, the sudden tenseness of his body. Oh yes! Emily fought back a sense of excitement. He was smitten! But he was also looking extremely wary.

It was not really surprising. The first day they'd met, Emily herself had been totally taken in by Alicia's chic clothes and unconscious air of breeding, and had thought dismally to herself that it was just her luck to be given a posh, stuck-up, literary toff from Stratford-upon-Avon for a neighbour. But as early as the second day, that opinion had been totally revised. Alicia might look like one thing, but was, underneath, totally another. Now, as she watched Jared Cowan take a few mental steps back, she cursed silently.

What her friend needed was a man in her life. A new start, not just in Oxford, but in her very way of thinking. And Jared Cowan was definitely attracted.

‘Well,
I won't keep you any longer,' Jared said casually. ‘Once I've got the production side lined up, I'll get back to you . . .'

‘Hey, wait a minute,' Emily all but grabbed him as he turned to move away. ‘We haven't even got anything settled yet. And if you're to have a play up and running by Easter we have to get cracking.' And so do I, she thought gleefully. Getting these two together was going to be a cinch, once she got them over the first major hurdle. ‘What play is it?' she asked, deliberately walking over to the bed and bouncing down on it. She looked all set to stay till dinner time, when everyone dined in Hall at six sharp, and Alicia for one, resigned herself to the inevitable.

‘I don't know yet. I was hoping to get one specially written, but so far no-one I've asked has seemed too keen,' Jared admitted ruefully. ‘But the library's stocked to the gills with Elizabethan dramas, so . . .'

Emily wrinkled her nose. ‘Boring!' she interrupted, then shot up. ‘I know! Alicia can write us one. Her brother must have taught her a thing or two about what makes for a good play. And didn't you tell me that you always wanted to write murder mysteries?' she shot at her friend, who was gaping at her, open-mouthed and appalled.

‘Emily!' she squeaked. ‘I can't write a play.'

Jared found his heart sinking at Alicia's protest, then he told himself it was probably
for
the best. What, after all, did he have in common with a woman like her?

According to the gossip in the Junior Common Room, Alicia Norman was proving to be surprisingly elusive. Even the more upper-crust amongst them had met with little success when it came to bedding her. She'd turned down every date and overture she'd been offered. It had surprised a lot of the male contingent at St Bede's. Now, here he was, in the same room with her, and he could see why no man could possibly be good enough for her. She had it all—wealth, a powerful family, and her entry into the literary world she seemed to crave so much. What could a man who wanted to build bridges and dams in all the remote corners of the world possibly offer her?

‘Of course you can write a play!' Emily scoffed. ‘What's to stop you?'

Alicia wished that Emily wouldn't do this. To Emily, nothing was impossible. To Alicia, the world felt like a minefield, to be negotiated with care and caution, so that she didn't get blown up. ‘I've never written a play before in my life!' Alicia tried to explain. She glanced nervously at Jared Cowan, who was watching her with a slightly puzzled expression in his deep, compelling, dark brown eyes. She blinked, wondering if she was imagining the sensation of being pulled into those dark, dreamy depths.

‘If you want to be a thriller writer, you're
going
to have write a novel for the first time at some point,' Emily pointed out with unerring logic.

Alicia sighed. ‘But Emily, that's just a dream. I might love reading them, and solving the puzzle of the whodunit, taking in the atmosphere of classic country-house murders, but I could no more write one than fly to the moon.' Her frustration was palpable.

Emily's face took on a bull-dog like expression. ‘Oh? And why not? You've certainly got the talent for it. I've read those short-stories of yours, remember?'

Alicia felt as if she could strangle her. It wasn't like Emily to be so dense. ‘And what do you think my aunt would say? Or Dad? Or Neville? They'd have a fit! A Norman, writing something so commercial as a whodunit! See sense, Emily.'

Jared, who'd been listening avidly, suddenly realised what her problem was. Neville Norman was a famous drama critic, an expert on George Bernard Shaw, Joe Orton, and Bacon. Her father owned a big literary magazine dedicated to fostering English Literature, and her aunt . . . ? Hadn't he overheard some disgruntled Theologian talking about a feminist writer whose surname was Norman? No wonder Alicia would feel a bit wary, coming from that august family, of penning something so plebeian as a murder mystery. But Jared loved murder mysteries.
And
his favourites, too, were the old classics.

‘Alicia! For pity's sake! We're in a new millennium now!' Emily said scornfully, and Alicia blushed, feeling utterly humiliated. She knew that, compared to someone like Emily, she must seem like a veritable rabbit. But Emily hadn't grown up in a family where the written word was sacred. When other little girls had been read tales of Beatrix Potter or gone with Alice through the Looking Glass, Graeme Norman had read to his daughter Melville, Thackeray, Chaucer and Wordsworth.

Emily, seeing the shy, hurt tide of colour wash over Alicia's delicate skin, could have kicked herself for her thoughtlessness. ‘Oh hell, Alicia, I'm sorry,' she said contritely, getting off the bed and coming to her side, giving her drooping shoulders a comforting bear hug. ‘But sometimes I could shake you. You'd write great murder mysteries. And if you really want to do it, surely your family will understand?'

Alicia gave her a speaking look. Emily laughed. OK, so they wouldn't. But she wasn't about to give up. She looked across at Jared, who was once more looking at Alicia with that puzzled look in his eye. She understood it at once, of course. He's already beginning to see that, with Alicia, what you saw was definitely not what you got. Which boded well. Some men could be so dense.

Jared
was indeed wondering why someone who seemed to have it all, sounded as lost as he had sometimes felt himself.

All his life, he'd had a fascination for engineering, ever since his first construction kit at the age of eight. His father worked in a shoe shop. His mother was a Home Help. His brother, unemployed since he'd left school, had simply fallen into thieving, along with several of his mates. Jared, doing so well in Mathematics and the Sciences at school, had always been the cuckoo in the Cowan nest. Going on to Oxford had only made him even more of an outsider. Oh, his parents had been overjoyed, fearing he might go the same way as Kevin, and grateful that he'd channelled his energies into his studies. But they didn't understand him. It had never occurred to him that Alicia Norman, with her beauty, upper-class superiority, wealth and influence, could be in a similar position.

‘Look, there's no reason you can't help Jared here out of a jam, is there?' Emily asked craftily. ‘We can at least toss a few ideas around. Get him started? Hmm?'

Alicia shot Jared an agonised look. His dark eyes softened, and he wanted to respond instantly to that unspoken appeal for help. But then his eyes flicked across to Emily. And some strange, silent communication seemed to pass between them.

Jared took a deep breath. One part of his
mind
warned him he was walking straight into quicksand. Another part cheered him on. ‘Well, I would be grateful for a bit of help,' he began cautiously. ‘And a contemporary, original play would be . . . well, a bit of a feather in everyone's cap. Including yours. Your tutors would be pleased.'

‘See? And who wouldn't want to keep Dr Lacey happy. What a hunk he is!' Emily crowed. ‘I've always envied you being taught by him, Alicia.'

Emily steered her to her desk and dragged out some paper.

‘Well?' Alicia said helplessly. ‘What am I supposed to do now? I can't just snap my fingers and come up with a plot!'

Jared moved to take the other chair beside the desk. He turned it around, straddling it so that the back of the chair was facing him, dangled his arms over the back of it, and then ran one hand through his shock of thick, dark hair, causing Alicia to catch her breath. He was wearing an old shirt that was frayed at the cuffs, and jeans so faded they were almost white. He was so unlike the men she was used to.

‘I'm no expert,' Jared began softly, ‘but aren't some things in murder mysteries pretty basic?'

Alicia was fascinated by his voice. It held no nasal upper crust drawl. No pretentiousness. No accent at all, in fact. It was just a wonderful
voice—strong,
male, warm.

‘We need a killer, don't we?' Jared said, watching her closely. Partly because he was wary now of scaring her, sensing her sensitivity and vulnerability. And partly because he could look at those china-blue eyes all day long. For the rest of his life, in fact . . .