by Pippa Croft
‘That was some view,’ I say, as he slides his arm back under my head.
‘Not as good as the one I have. God, I’ve missed these.’ He traces a circle around my nipples with his index finger. ‘Have I ever told you, they’re the best ones I’ve ever seen?’
‘Actually, you said they were the best in Oxford, or possibly the county.’
‘I’ve revised that opinion. On reflection, I think they’re definitely the best in England.’ My breathing quickens as he circles the other nipple with his tongue.
‘Why, thank you, your lordship.’
He pulls his mouth away from my breast and frowns at me. ‘Don’t say that.’
‘Why not? It’s true.’
‘Only at Falconbury. Nowhere else and totally banned here.’
I now wish I hadn’t teased him because the moment is over. He lies back and sighs.
‘How have things gone at Falconbury?’ I prop myself up on one elbow next to him.
‘I’ve got some stuff sorted but it’s only the start,’ he says.
‘And, um, how’s Emma?’ I ask, walking my fingers down his chest, as if the answer to my question isn’t really important. Even now my pulse picks up a little.
‘She’s back at school and seems OK but her housemistress and teachers are keeping a close eye on her.’
‘Good.’ Secretly, I’m hoping it’s a very close eye.
‘In fact, I spoke to her on the phone this morning when I got back here.’
I look down into his face. ‘This morning? I thought you didn’t arrive until late this afternoon.’
‘No, I left Falconbury straight after breakfast. I would have phoned you but I didn’t want to interrupt your work.’
‘Oh, OK. I had a tute anyway …’ I say, feeling super guilty because of my visit to Scott – and then annoyed that I feel guilty about it. I need to start dealing with the situation as I mean to go on. ‘Alexander, we both said we’d be honest with each other so I need you to know now that I saw Scott this afternoon.’
I hold my breath and he strokes my hair. ‘And?’
‘Immy and I went to lunch in the cafe opposite St Nick’s and we – I – decided to drop him a note.’ I’m not going to use the excuse that Immy wanted to meet Scott; Alexander is just going to have to deal with our friendship.
‘And do I get to know what this note was about?’ His voice is edged with tension now but I refuse to be drawn into a row.
I pull away from him and sit up. His jaw is tight as we face each other.
‘The note was an apology for not calling him over the holiday, but I needn’t have sent it because we – Immy and I – saw him at St Nick’s anyway. He’d just got back from rowing practice.’ I decide not to tell Alexander that we virtually stalked Scott to his room and dragged him out of bed.
Alexander gives me the intense look I suspect he reserves for some out-of-line squaddie, and my hackles rise.
‘I sure hope this isn’t going to turn into an interrogation.’
He snorts. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. As if I’d want to know why you went to visit another man …’ He leaves the next part unsaid, but I know what he means; he wants me all to himself.
‘Well, tough. Scott isn’t another man. He’s a good friend and one I intend to keep.’
‘A friend who’d sell his place in the Blues boat to get inside your knickers.’
‘Actually,’ I say, imitating Alexander’s cut-glass accent, ‘he’s not in the Blues boat yet, only in the squad, but I know he’ll make it.’
‘I’m sure he will. Mr Schulze won’t stop until he gets what he wants.’
‘Then you two have more in common than you think,’ I snap.
‘Wrong. I am the man who gets in your knickers.’
His arrogant smirk makes me want to hit him and I say the one thing guaranteed to piss him off. ‘Get over yourself, Lord fucking Falconbury. Sometimes I wonder why I have anything to do with you.’
‘What about the other times?’ His eyes glitter dangerously in the way that makes me bubble with a lethal combination of lust and anger.
‘I wonder a little less.’ My body, which ought to be sated, zings with desire for him, even though I hate the confrontation.
Alexander gazes at me and for a moment I think he may explode with anger but then he reaches out and touches my cheek. It’s a gentle gesture, one that ought to be tender and calming; instead it makes the hairs stand up on the back of my neck. I joked with Immy about my addiction to him; at moments like this I believe it may actually be true. Yet I swore I would never be one of those girls, caught in a relationship I can’t leave, that I don’t want to leave.
‘We did say we would be honest with each other, so I won’t lie. I don’t like you seeing Scott, even as a friend. I’m jealous but I won’t try to stop you,’ he says gruffly.
‘That’s good to hear because I wouldn’t stop anyway. There’s nothing between us, and that’s exactly why I will keep seeing him. You don’t control me, Alexander Hunt. You never have and you never will.’
He gazes down at me, intimidating, intense … ‘You do know what happens when you speak to me like that, Lauren?’
‘It gives you a hard-on?’ I challenge.
My breath is snatched away as he sweeps me down on to the rug and pins me there. His face is above mine.
‘As I said before, I’m the one that’s here with you now and I’m going to make sure you know it.’
It turns out he’s only back in Oxford for a few days so I decide I’d better make the most of him being here. Later, after dinner – a steak grilled by Alexander – we’re drinking red wine by the fire while he sends some emails and I try to get stuck into something fascinating about the theory and methods of art history.
He holds up the empty bottle. ‘Shall I get some more wine?’ he asks.
He gets up but before he’s halfway out of his seat, his mobile rings. He mouths an expletive and I can tell from the instant tightening of his jaw that the caller is either from Falconbury or his regiment. I wonder if it’s the mysterious Mr Armitage again.
‘Relax. I think I know my way to the kitchen and I can handle a corkscrew.’ Leaving him to answer the call, I head for the wine rack in the kitchen. After I’ve peeled off the foil of a bottle of Nuits-Saint-Georges, I step on the foot pedal of the trash can to throw the foil inside. There are only two pieces of trash in there so far; Alexander’s kitchen is as neatly kept as if he were still at Sandhurst, although that may be mainly down to the cleaner. The lid bangs down but then I stop.
I open the trash can again. I wasn’t mistaken. There is an envelope on top of the empty meat carton and there is something odd about the writing on the envelope. Something familiar about the thorny tendrils of the elaborate, flowing black script …
I reach into the inner liner and pick out the envelope between my forefinger and thumb. It’s a heavyweight cream affair with a deckle-edged seal, now smeared with blood from the steak carton. My mind goes back to the card attached to the flowers that Valentina sent to the general’s funeral.
Valentina sent this envelope; ergo Valentina sent Alexander a card. So what?
I lay the envelope on the countertop and pull out the cork from the bottle, laughing at my paranoia. So she sent him a sympathy card. Of course she did; what else would I expect?
In fact he’s made no attempt to hide it because it’s staring at me from the wooden letter rack a foot away on the counter. I know it’s from Valentina because the painting of Positano faces outwards, almost demanding to be seen.
The corkscrew abandoned, I pick out the card from the rack. I know I really shouldn’t open it but I can’t help myself. The same spiky handwriting fills both sides. ‘Tesoro, you are always in my thoughts. I am here for you now and always …’ After that, the general is mentioned, and something in relation to his death, so it’s clearly arrived since then. Then there is something that I can’t make out. My Italian is sketchy at best, and mostly confined to a lexicon
relating to art, but even I can see the words ‘Ti amo …’ and the signature, of course, is Valentina’s.
It would not matter; it does not matter. She’s sent him a message of condolence, that much I might have expected, and yet … The envelope was still in the bin, clean and barely crumpled, and there was no address and no stamp which means he must have received it personally.
‘Having trouble with the corkscrew?’
With the card in my hand, I turn round to face Alexander.
He clocks it briefly, his eyes full of annoyance, and before he has chance to reply, I can’t help myself. ‘I knew I wasn’t mistaken. I knew it was her I saw in town this afternoon. Was she here before you called me?’ Oh shit, it just came out. I’ve made myself look like the jealous bitch that Valentina is. Now he’s going to laugh at me and say I’m living in fantasy land and I’m deluded. Please, let him say that and have an explanation why this handwritten letter is here.
‘Yes, she was here,’ he says calmly.
I try to stay calm while fighting a cocktail of emotions: anger, jealousy, confusion. All the kind of feelings that I never thought I would feel, that I hate feeling and only have ever felt since I met Alexander.
He folds his arms. ‘Before you jump to conclusions, she simply dropped by to offer her condolences.’
‘Well, hey, that’s one name for it.’
He takes a step into the kitchen. ‘She came to the house, I made her a coffee and she left. The cleaner was here most of the time. If you want to interview her under oath, I can try to persuade her.’
‘Why should I care anyway?’
‘I was going to tell you.’
‘Were you? What was she doing in Oxford? Don’t tell me she came all this way in her private jet just to offer you her “condolences”?’ I bracket the word with my fingers.
‘You clearly think I’m more important than I actually am. She’s in London to buy some paintings and got her driver to bring her. She stayed here about an hour and then she left.’ His voice is ice cool yet I can feel the impatience bristling from every pore. ‘Lauren, I seem to recall us having a conversation about being honest with each other.’
‘So do I.’
‘Which is why I’m glad – but not happy – you told me you’d seen Scott. Believe me, I have enough on my plate at the moment without taking any kind of drama from Valentina. I told her I’m trying to persuade you to make a go of it with me and she’s accepted it. That’s an end of things, as far as I’m concerned.’
While I can’t imagine Valentina ever accepting that Alexander has moved on from her, I don’t want to start another row with Alexander because neither of us needs the hassle now. Yet she must be up to something. Taking a mental deep breath, I decide to act as peacemaker. My father would be proud.
‘OK, let’s forget Valentina. Was your call from home? Is Emma OK?’ I ask.
‘Actually, it was the regiment, but don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere for a while.’
‘Good,’ I murmur.
‘But I have heard from Emma today. She seems to be coping well. In fact she asked if you wanted to go to an exhibition at the V&A with her.’ He seems a little embarrassed but goes on, ‘You two seem to get on so well and I thought you might be able to use it for research. I want things to go well this term. It may be difficult but, after the start we’ve had, it would be good if things quietened down. I can’t promise to be here as much as I’d like but we should make the most of …’
‘Which exhibition? The “British Drawings” or the “Malay Silver”?’
‘Neither. I believe it’s called “Club to Catwalk”. Some fashion thing or other.’
I burst out laughing. ‘I saw it and I was thinking of going anyway but, Alexander, surely you’re simply desperate to see that yourself? All those eighties and nineties outfits, Betty Jackson, John Galliano. I heard they had some of Adam Ant’s costumes …’
He comes towards me and holds my arms lightly. ‘Frankly, I’d rather be bayoneted.’
I can’t help but smile. ‘Now, now, I only asked you to go and see them, not wear them. Though I think you’d look great in legwarmers and a frilly shirt.’
He shakes his head. ‘Lauren, you’re asking for a serious …’
He stops, but I’m fizzing from the sensual threat in his eyes. A bizarre image slides into my mind and sends a jolt of desire right through me. I see myself standing naked in the kitchen with my hands tied behind my back with a black silk ribbon. My face fires up instantly and I rub my clammy palms on my jeans.
Alexander’s eyes laser into me, then he smiles briefly. The bastard. I know he’s guessed I was thinking something pretty kinky and I blush even more.
‘So you will go with Emma?’ he says coolly, while I take two fresh glasses out of the glass-fronted wall cabinet. ‘We can go to the Ivy for lunch afterwards if you like. I need to meet my legal people anyway.’
My voice sounds shaky to me. ‘OK. Yes, I’d love to. When do you want to go?’
‘Emma has an exeat next weekend and the exhibition closes soon, so is next Saturday OK?’
I throw him a smile and start to fill the glasses. ‘It’s fine, but will we get a table at the Ivy at such short notice? I thought they were booked up for months ahead.’
‘I’m sure they’ll squeeze us in.’ I turn to push the cork back in the bottle when his palm lands on my behind. He strokes my butt cheek deliciously and I close my eyes.
‘I thought you wanted more wine …’
‘I need other things more.’
The timbre of his voice changes. It’s deeper and rougher. Without turning me round, he starts to unzip my jeans. I push away the bottle and let my head drift to one side. His lips brush my neck and he kisses my throat. I close my eyes, while his fingers slip inside the fly of my jeans and press down on me through the fabric of my underwear. He smells of the Creed aftershave he keeps in his bathroom and the scent of arousal. Or is that my arousal? I try to turn my head but he pushes my cheek away.
‘Don’t look at me.’
His command is like an electric shock. I grip the countertop, half fearful, half eager to know and feel what he has in store for me.
‘Eyes front,’ he whispers, dropping butterfly kisses on the side of my neck that counter the harsh command. He reaches round to hold his finger to my lips. ‘And no talking.’
I may not be able to talk but I sure as hell can moan and whimper as he returns his hands to my jeans and tugs them down my thighs, along with my knickers. As he slips his hand between my legs from behind, I want to turn around, I want to know what he’s going to do next, but I dare not. I close my eyes. Every sound is magnified in the big kitchen: our breathing, his boots on the tiles and the sound of him unbuckling his belt.
The muscles of his thighs are iron hard against my behind, and I can’t resist wiggling my tush against him. I also can’t resist reaching back to touch him, wanting to feel how hard I’ve made him but his fingers close over mine and return them to the countertop.
‘And no touching, either.’
I bite back a retort, deciding to play along with him, amazed at how much I’m enjoying the game. At how wet I am, and –
My knuckles whiten on the edge of the counter as my panties are ripped down further and he parts the cheeks of my butt with his fingers. My breathing quickens and my palms are slippery. I try to focus on the espresso machine, my face distorted in the chrome like some weird fairground mirror. He nudges his cock between my cheeks and my body tenses.
Then, suddenly, he’s kissing the back of my neck, telling me I’m hot and gorgeous and I drive him wild. Gently, he scoops his hands under my bottom and pushes into me, filling me to the hilt. All the tension in my body is released with a cry of relief and insane pleasure. I was so wound up, so on edge, that the pleasure of him inside me now is intensely good.
‘You bastard. You wicked, evil bastard.’
‘Thanks,’ he says, nuzzling my neck, nipping my shoulder, then resuming
the rhythm of his thrusts until we both come, him not long after me, his groan of release echoing through the kitchen. Boy, am I glad the walls are thick.
It is the calm after the storm, Alexander taps away on his laptop while I flick through the pages of a book on Van Eyck. I must confess my mind is not wholly occupied by what may have happened to the stolen panel of the Adoration of the Mystic Lamb, but by Valentina, and Emma and our trip to the V&A. Of course I want to see the exhibition; who wouldn’t? However, I’m also uneasy about keeping Emma’s secret, about seeing her with Alexander present and possibly being dragged further into the intrigue. One Hunt sibling drama is more than enough for me.
I have wondered if I should tell Alexander – and after our honesty pledge, maybe now is the time, but I’m really not sure that it extends to other people’s secrets. If I’d been Emma at seventeen, I’d have been furious that my parents – let alone a brother, if I had one – would try to control who I dated. And maybe she’s not even seeing him any more, I tell myself. Then again, even on a short acquaintance, I know Henry Favell is not a nice guy; hell, even Rupert thinks he’s a scumbag.
‘Alexander?’
He glances up from the screen and I notice the dark circles under his eyes and the line deepens between his brows before he manages a tight smile. ‘Sorry. What?’
‘I just wondered if you’d like a coffee?’
‘Thanks. That would be good.’ His eyes return to the screen and he carries on tap tapping away. My confession dies in my throat; he has so much on his plate, I can’t bear to add to it. All I can do is keep my fingers crossed.
A few days later, my grip tightens on my racket bag as Professor Rafe stops me halfway round the quad. He’s really rocking the hipster-don look today, having ditched the cords for dark-red chinos and added a baby-blue scarf to the tweed jacket.
‘Ah, Lauren. I’m so glad I bumped into you.’
