The Second Time I Saw You: The Oxford Blue Series #2 (2 page)

Immy flicks her hair back, sips her chocolate, then says, ‘You’ll miss the sex.’

The vision of Alexander’s gorgeous mouth doing insanely filthy things to me slides into my mind and I shift uncomfortably in my seat. The times when things were good between the two of us – when we had fun, when we made love every day and the sparks flew between us like a bonfire – were incredible. I can’t deny I do miss them, and I spent too many nights over the vac reliving some of them.

My heart sinks a little. I may talk the talk, but I also need to walk the walk and resist any attempt of Alexander’s to lure me back. Not that he will, after his reaction at the end of last term. I’ll never forget the look of disappointment and anger on his face before he turned his back on me and marched away.

Aware that I’ve been slipping back into thoughts of him again, I harden my heart and my voice. ‘I want to put Alexander behind me.’

Immy raises her eyebrows. ‘I do hope that wasn’t a Freudian slip.’

Fortunately there’s a cushion to hand with which to bat Immy. After she’s fended me off, she looks serious again. ‘I still say that he’ll be round here in a flash the moment he sets foot in Oxford.’

‘You think?’ I pick at a loose thread on the cushion. ‘Have you … um … seen him around college since you got here?’

‘Not yet, which is funny because I came up on Friday morning to do some extra reading and there’s been no sign of him. I might have missed him or he could be at
his house, of course, although Rupert didn’t mention Alexander or the break-up when I saw him in the pub last night.’

I shrivel inside. Rupert was at the hunt ball and witnessed my champagne-fuelled ‘moment’ of vengeance on Alexander. The snake must be rubbing his clammy little hands together in glee if he knows that his cousin and I are history. He
must
know something is wrong because he was staying overnight at Falconbury the morning I rushed off.

It’s tough; what he thinks is nothing to me now. Guiltily, I remember my tutor’s warning words to me about not getting distracted by Alexander and his lifestyle. Professor Rafe is a grade-A creep but he marks my essays and, theoretically, he could kick me off my master’s course in Art History. I wouldn’t like to be at Rafe’s mercy in any sense of the word, so I must make sure my work’s top notch this term. With five long essays on the core subject and my optional topic, lectures, seminars and minipresentations,
and
a weekly Italian for Art Historians class, I have a lot to think about, without getting into Alexander’s dramas, not to mention Alexander’s bed.

Immy studies me intently, as if I’m some kind of interesting fossil she dug up on one of her Geography field trips. ‘Lauren, what exactly
did
happen at the end of last term because I don’t think I’m getting the whole story. If you want to keep this stuff private, then fine, but I’m sensing there’s an elephant in the room here.’

Oh, there so
is
an elephant in the room, and he comes in the shape of a gorgeous hunky rower called Scott Schulze. Should I tell Immy about him, or the disaster involving the three of us on the last day of term? Should I tell her that when Alexander saw Scott and me kissing in the street, he glared at me as if I’d knifed him through the heart or, worse, shot his dog?

‘Like I said, we bring out the worst in each other and things came to a head at the ball.’ I cringe when I think about how I behaved, flirting with Alexander’s friends in front of his family just to hurt him the way he’d hurt me. It was out of character for me and while I’ve been away from this hothouse I’ve realized that the way I acted is one more example of the fact that Alexander and I are a disaster together.

‘Careful, you’ve almost unravelled that cushion.’

Glancing down, I see the thread is wound around my finger but Immy’s voice softens. ‘
And …
?’ she asks.

‘And … Alexander may have seen me kissing another guy in the middle of Holywell Street.’

After what you could describe as a deafening silence, she exhales. ‘Oh dear. I can see how that might have pissed him off. Can I ask who this other guy is?’

‘Just a friend.’

‘Who snogged you in the street?’

‘It wasn’t a snog, just a kiss … It just kind of happened at the wrong moment.’

‘And now this “other guy” is on the scene. I suppose you’ve changed your Facebook status to complicated?’

‘That says nothing, like it always did and he’s not on the scene, we’re just …’

‘Good friends?’ Immy’s voice drips with irony. I don’t blame her because that phrase sounds so lame. It also happens to be true, at least for me. Scott may have other ideas, but I’m not going to fan the flames of Immy’s curiosity any further.

I had half expected to see Scott while we were both back in Washington but for most of the holidays he’s been in training with the Boat Race squad. I spoke to him once, briefly, just before he flew out to a rowing camp in France. He sounded about as excited as Scott can get but it sounded like torture to me. I told him I didn’t want to talk about what happened at the end of term. I don’t want to leap from one relationship into another, even though he does make me smile, is light-hearted and fun.

Fuck, that makes him sound perfect for me, which he is, but I’m not looking for perfect; I wasn’t looking for anyone. After Todd and I split up, I just wanted to
be
, but Alexander Hunt exploded into my life like a hand grenade and I’m done with picking up the pieces.

Immy’s watching me, chin on hand, and alarm bells go off in my head. There’s no way I’m going to convince her that Our Thing is over, but time will tell.

‘Are you going to tell me who this mystery man is?’

‘Just a friend. I swear it.’

I cross my heart and she watches me for a while
before saying, ‘If you ever need to share, I’m always here.’

‘I know and thanks for not pushing me. Now, do you mind if we change the subject? How was your skiing trip?’

She grins wickedly. ‘Sod the skiing, it’s the après-ski you really want to know about.’

While Immy went off to the library to finish her vac essay, I resolved to go somewhere where I wouldn’t be able to daydream. A few hours in the grad centre, surrounded by my fellow grad students, has focused my mind and the past couple of hours have been an Alexander-free zone.

When I step outside, it’s already going dark. Winter in Washington isn’t that different to here: it can be mild, or you can get heavy snowfalls, but it’s the lack of daylight here that really gets me down. It goes dark so early; and on a dull day it never really seems to get light at all. I pull my scarf higher, and quicken my steps. My restless night on the plane and the jetlag must be affecting me; I need a good night’s rest and everything will seem brighter in the morning.

The bright lights of the Lodge beckon and I drop by my pigeonhole, which is stuffed with invites from USSoc, the American students’ society, from the Department of History of Art, from the dance studio, from the Dean wanting me to go to drinks and the Student
Union reminding me about meetings and the Wyckham Bop. Add the requests to go to birthday celebrations, and I could be out every evening. I stuff the invites in my bag and smile. While I might not be able to go to everything, I’m determined to do as much as possible in my next two terms because far too much time was spent in Alexander’s bed last term.

The wind cuts to my bones as I walk back to my room, thanking my lucky stars that I’m not in Alexander’s bed now, or pressed against his naked body in the shower, soaked, hot, shaking with lust, his mouth coming down on my breast …

No. I will
not
do this. As if I can outrun the rogue thoughts, I hurry towards the archway that leads to my staircase. An R&B track pumps out from a room on the second floor, the bass line so loud it makes the wooden steps tremble. I take the stairs two at a time, full of fresh resolution to obliterate every trace of A. Hunt from my mind.

‘Lauren?’

A guy emerges from a door as I pass, raising his voice above the music. It’s the physicist who helped with my bags at the beginning of last term.

‘Had a good vac?’ he grins.

‘Great, thanks!’

‘Good. Um … just so you know, there’s a bloke outside your door. He’s been there over an hour. I think it’s …’

I’m already gone as he says the name I dread hearing.
Of course it’s Alexander. My pulse races and every instinct tells me to head straight back down the stairs again. How could I have thought he wouldn’t try to confront me after what happened with Scott? This is the man who told me he always wins and never stops until he gets what he wants.

I stiffen my resolve because
this
is the woman who spent the vac ready for this moment: it’s over, no matter what he throws at me.

My heart thumps against my ribcage as I reach my landing and see the dark figure resting against the wall outside my door.

Then he lifts his face to me.

For the next few heartbeats, I half wonder whether the figure isn’t Alexander after all. Because the guy slumped against the wall outside my door isn’t the arrogant guy I last saw blocking the pavement in the street, the unshakeable, implacable man that other people had to go around. This man looks shapeless and beaten, a sack of bones in a black Crombie overcoat.

My hand freezes on the banister. ‘Alexander?’

His eyes are red-rimmed as if he’s been crying.

My stomach clenches. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘It’s my father. He’s dead.’

No matter what I thought about General Hunt, and no matter what I think about Alexander now, seeing him in this state makes my stomach churn. I touch the arm of his coat and he flinches.

‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come here.’ He gets up, raking his hand through his hair.

‘Yes, you
should
.’

What am I saying? It’s just the instinct to comfort another human being who’s in pain. Standing beside him, with my arms wrapped around my chest, I don’t know whether to touch him or stay well clear.

‘Lauren …’ His voice is so full of every kind of misery it physically hurts to hear it.

‘Please. Just come inside.’

After I’ve closed the door behind him, he occupies the middle of my room, rubbing his hand over his mouth over and over, as if he’s stuck at a crossroads and doesn’t know which way to turn.

‘When did it happen?
How?
’

‘Last Saturday at Falconbury. He was thrown from his horse while he was hunting.’ His voice is hollow, like a grand room now empty of furniture.

‘Oh Jesus.’

‘He broke his neck; the doctors said it was instant.’

‘That’s some consolation, isn’t it? I can’t imagine your father paralysed or dependent on other people.’ I cringe as soon as the words leave my mouth.

‘No, but … if he hadn’t gone so suddenly, we might …’ He stops, and I see him swallow. ‘The way I left him … before he went out with the hunt, we’d had another row.’

He steps forward and his arms tighten around me, in an embrace so fierce the breath is almost squeezed from my body. After a couple of seconds, his hold on me slackens a little but he rests his forehead on the top of my head, as if he doesn’t want me to see his face.

‘Alexander, I’m so sorry. What can I do?’ I ask helplessly. Although I already know what the answer will be, his reaction stuns me with its ferocity. In seconds, he’s ripped off his coat and dragged me on to the bed. He’s above me, his mouth hard against mine, his body crushing me into the mattress. He wants to obliterate his pain and despite myself I want him just as desperately. Six weeks of pent-up desire and tension are unleashed and any resistance leaves me as we roll around the bed, clutching at each other like we’re drowning. I grip his back, gouging the muscles with my fingers, not caring if I hurt him. He shoves his hand up inside my sweater and he drags my bra down and cups my breast in his roughened palm.

When I arch my hips to meet him, he scoops my bottom upwards and crushes me on to his erection. Then
we’re both fumbling at the other’s jeans, me hurting my fingers on the fly buttons, him wrenching at my zipper as if he wants to tear my jeans in two.

‘I’ll do it.’

I pull off my boots and strip my jeans and underwear off while he kicks off his shoes and pulls off his trousers and boxers, almost tripping over in his haste to rip off the clothes. His shirt follows, pulled over his head before he’s even got all the buttons undone. It’s like our first time in its haste except it’s not: this is desperate, frantic and essential. My inner muscles clench painfully when I see how hard and thick and desperate he is for me but then he’s on the bed, kneeling either side of my legs, trapping me. We hold each other’s gaze for a few seconds, before he leans down and runs his tongue right through the centre of me.

I almost take his head off as I buck my hips up and waves of sensation course through me.

He lifts his head and there’s desperation on his face, and relief too. He plants his hands either side of my head and works his hips between my legs. As he enters me, I wrap my legs around his butt and urge him deep, deep inside me. Six weeks of emptiness are filled up in one swift thrust, and I cry out, unable to stop myself.

The headboard bangs the wall as Alexander drives into me hard, and my nails bury deep into his flesh. It’s been so long – too long – since I had him inside me and the intensity is almost painful but I want it, I
need
it, and I squeeze my eyes shut so tightly as I come that stars
pop out in front of me. I’m still coming down from my orgasm, still milking him as his body goes rigid and he groans in agonized release.

My breath comes in short bursts, like I’ve been running a hundred-yard dash, and my bare ass is squashed against the wall. Alexander is breathing hard too, his chest rising and falling rapidly, the hair between his pecs sheened in sweat.

His eyes are still shut because he can’t bear to open them and remember why he’s here and what has happened to him. I don’t want him to come back to the real world either; I want to stay here and just be. I want to savour for ever the physical pleasure and forget the drama and the angst. All I cared about when he leaped on me was that I wanted his body on mine – in mine – as savagely as he did. I’ve missed the sex and I’ve missed the intensity and that already scares me.

Minutes have passed and neither of us has moved or spoken. The air has begun to chill my body and then I feel him stroking my hair. It should be a tender gesture but I get the feeling he doesn’t know or perhaps care what or who he’s touching. I just happened to be here.

‘Lauren …’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘We forgot something.’

I hold my breath momentarily, then exhale. ‘Should I be worried?’

‘Not from my point of view. There’s been no one since you.’

‘Ditto.’

He shifts on to his back and rolls me on top of him so we’re face to face. While I was away, I convinced myself that I’d imagined the raw sexuality and power of the man. Now he’s here, there’s no denying the way he makes me feel physically.

‘That’s the only piece of good news I’ve had since I last saw you,’ he says and I know exactly what he means.

‘Alexander, I’m so sorry about your father. And I know this will be the last thing on your mind just now but so you know, what you saw in the street the morning after the ball was a mistake. I was upset, I’d had no sleep and it really wasn’t what it looked like …’ I say, cursing myself even as the words come out. What happened to my well-rehearsed dismissal, the no-hard-feelings smile? The things I’d vowed I’d say and do when we met again?

‘I can’t think about that now,’ he says distractedly, but his face has darkened, obviously reminded of the way we parted. I have the feeling that kiss is going to haunt us all for a long time.

‘I didn’t mean or want it to happen,’ I try again. ‘Scott’s a friend … and does any of it matter now?’ I shiver. I’m getting no response to any of my gabbling and his real feelings are impossible to judge. I’m cold and I know that the gulf between us
does
matter, and has only been temporarily put into context by his father’s death. But he really doesn’t seem to want to discuss it, and part of me is relieved.

‘Hold on.’ He reaches down and drags the bedcover over us. The warmth and hardness of his body is intoxicating and deceptive, as he pulls me tighter against him.

‘Have I ever told you how good I am at fucking things up?’ With my cheek on his chest, I can’t see his expression and perhaps that’s what he wants, so I stay still, as his voice continues into the air. ‘I don’t think a day went by when my father and I didn’t blame one another for something and now it’s too late to do a fucking thing about it.’

‘Do you want to tell me about it?’

‘Dad rode out with the hunt on the estate as usual. Apparently, he tried to jump a high hedge near the priory copse but the horse refused and threw him. He …’ I hear the pause, louder than words. ‘He hit the gatepost and broke his neck.’

I shudder.

‘I should be used to death by now; Christ knows I’ve seen men snuffed out before – more than once – but I can’t believe it. Maybe it’s because I wasn’t there when it actually happened and I should have been. I was supposed to be going out on the hunt with him; the field was one of the few places where we actually shared any kind of consensus on anything. But I didn’t go.’

Finally he loosens his hold on me so I can shift my head to see his face.

‘Why not?’ I ask, sensing he needs to have the question asked, and to answer it.

‘Because … because we had an almighty row. Emma was in a state about going back to school. She and Dad had another set-to about what she was going to do at university. I made some excuse about having to stay in and write my exam essay but really I wanted to talk to her while Dad was safely out of the house. I was going to take her into Henley to do some shopping and as we walked to the car, Helen ran up to us and told me there’d been an accident.’

I picture the normally unshakeable Helen’s face. She and her husband Robert are housekeeper and butler to the Hunts and devoted to the family. ‘She must be in pieces. All the staff must be so shocked.’

‘I’ve never seen Helen like that but I had to leave her with Emma while Robert drove me to see Dad. You know, I kept asking him why the air ambulance hadn’t been scrambled and when I got there, I realized why: because there was no point. There were so many people around him … Jesus, so many fucking people for no fucking reason.’

There’s no point in me speaking either, or offering any comfort because I don’t know how to do that. I also feel irrationally guilty because, while I’m physically sickened by the thought that Alexander and Emma have lost both their parents so young, I’m also grateful I’m not in their situation. I’m glad it wasn’t me approached by some terrified servant with the worst news anyone can ever hear and that it wasn’t me racing
to the hospital behind my father’s ambulance, knowing it was too late.

Despite the tensions still simmering between us, my instinct is to put my misgivings aside for now and do what I can to help Alexander. If the only comfort I can offer is physical, then who am I to hold back?

‘I don’t know what to say.’ I curl myself around him, wrapping my leg over his.

He strokes my arm, idly. ‘Maybe I shouldn’t feel this way, because I lost my father a long time ago. We’d never been that close and after my mother died, we might as well have lived on different continents. I just thought …’

I say nothing in the pause that follows, waiting for him to continue.

‘I thought that we still had time to resolve our differences. I kept hoping that things might change one day, or we’d come to an understanding. Maybe he might have realized that my mother’s accident wasn’t my fault.’

‘Maybe he already knew that. He just didn’t know how to say it.’

He laughs bitterly. ‘Now we’ll never know, will we?’ He shifts and pushes himself upright, abruptly. ‘I have to get dressed and get back to Falconbury.’

‘So soon?’

‘Yes. Emma needs me and there’s still so much to do: funeral arrangements, a ton of bloody legal stuff …’

‘Have you got people to help you?’

‘Plenty. The staff, solicitors, but as an executor of Dad’s estate, I have to make the decisions. Jesus … What are we all going to do?’

He sits on the edge of the bed, and rakes his hands viciously through his hair like he wants to rip the responsibility from his head.

‘I know. I’m so sorry, Alexander. For everything.’

He turns to me, with an intensity in his eyes that almost scares me. I don’t know what he’s about to say but his face changes, taking on the armour that usually protects the man inside.

‘It can’t be helped now. It can only be dealt with.’

He gets up, and pulls on his clothes. We dress in silence but my mind is a whirl of conflicting emotions, thoughts … so many, all powerless to help him.

His phone rings as he shrugs on his coat and he frowns at the screen. ‘Hunt.’

From his face and the few words on his side, I get that he’s had more bad news.

‘What?’ I ask as he clicks off the phone and exhales heavily.

‘That was Helen, worried about Emma. She’s locked herself in her room with Benny, apparently, and won’t accept anything to eat … Obviously the staff are concerned. Not to mention the bloody dog must be crossing his legs. Shit.’

‘Poor Emma. I know she and your father didn’t get on but she must be totally devastated.’

‘She’s not stopped crying. Despite their differences,
she worshipped Dad. She had more chance of getting through to him than I did. Can you believe he told me he might possibly allow her to go to Saint Martins after all, as long as she settled down at school and got good A levels? He mentioned it to me just before he went out hunting, and I think he hoped she’d get good grades and maybe take a gap year and go up to Oxford after all, like he wanted. I nearly fell off my chair and he promised to discuss it with Emma when he got back.’

‘And Emma didn’t know he’d changed his mind?’

‘No, and it’s too late now. Too late to change anything.’ He snatches up his car keys from the desk and shoves them and his hands in his pockets. I’ve seen this defensive gesture before, when he saw me in the street, kissing Scott …
being kissed by
Scott.

‘Alexander, be careful …’ I hate the thought of him making the dark and lonely drive back to Falconbury in his current frame of mind, even though I know he has to go. He looks at me, a battle raging behind his eyes, then he says:

‘Lauren, come to the funeral with me.’

This I never expected; this I don’t know how to deal with. ‘I … I … don’t …’