An Oxford Scandal

by Maxine Barry

  Gideon eyed her uneasily. She was like a human dynamo. He got up and rinsed off his plate and cup.

  Laurel watched him with approval. Well, at least he was house-trained! She got up and sidled over to him. He was so tall. So slender. So silver. And he smelt good. Just standing next to him was a thrill.

  ‘Don’t worry. We’re being as tactful as we can. We’re doing a good job,’ she reassured him softly. ‘I don’t want to upset your friends — I know you have to live with these people. But we do have to get that chalice back, or your friends will be hurt even more.’ Surprised at her understanding, he looked down at her. She smiled. ‘You really think me a bit of an idiot, don’t you?’

  ‘No!’ he instantly denied. Her eyes were dark, like the darkest of chocolate. He swayed, leaning a little closer to her. She seemed to be pulling him down to her. How on earth did she do that?

  Laurel wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. ‘It’ll be all right, you know,’ she said softly, standing closer, their arms rubbing against each other now. ‘We’ll get to the bottom of all this and then . . .’

  Their lips met. Gideon felt his head implode. All thoughts of the outside world vanished. Everything in him was suddenly, in the wink of an eye, concentrated on this one moment, this one sensation.

  Sensation of woman.

  In his arms, warm, soft, pressing closer, always closer. The scent of her. The touch of her tongue, like velvet, exploring, forcing its way into his mouth and dragging out his soul.

  He heard a soft tiny moan of pleasure, but couldn’t tell whether it came from her or from himself.

  He felt her chest pressing hard against his, her nipples digging into his ribs. Her leg shifted, pushing against the hardness of his loins, which were stirring, aching, yearning towards the softness of her womanhood.

  He tried to take a breath, but couldn’t. He just inhaled more of her deeper into him. Her touch. Her smell. Her sound.

  He closed his eyes and felt himself sinking to the floor. Cold tiles against his back. Her weight on top of him. Laurel stretched out over him, luxuriating in touching every part she could. If only she could melt into him.

  Their kiss deepened, became ravaging, needing, raging.

  Her lips left his at last, but only to travel down his neck. She pressed her lips to the hollow at the base of his throat, causing him to take a deep gulp of air . . . desperately striving for common sense, but also fearing it. He didn’t want to be sensible. Not now. Not when she was touching him so intimately. He’d been too sensible for too long.

  Her hands were on his cheeks, lowering to trace the column of his taut neck, then down to explore the well-muscled contours of his chest. Down further, to press against his jeans, tenderly stroking the hard bulge there. He pulsated against her hand.

  Gideon had no doubt this time about who was groaning. His own deep voice, hoarse with pleasure, echoed back from the white kitchen walls.

  His eyes snapped open.

  He was lying on a kitchen floor, beneath a woman who was driving him insane with sexual desire. He should do something!

  Her hands pushed up his sweater, her fingers feverishly unbuttoning his shirt. A moment later, her soft hands were moving enticingly over his chest, causing him to writhe helplessly against the hard tiles.

  That was it. Enough. He must do something!

  As she leaned forward to press her lips to his chest, his silvery-gold head thrashed from side to side against the black-and-white tiles. He moaned. A needy, desperate sound of longing.

  ‘Laurel,’ he said her name. Tried to give it shape and definition. But he saw only sharp cheekbones, huge dark chocolate eyes, a warm, loud, accented voice. Beauty. Strength. Fire.

  Laurel’s questing fingers were at his belt buckle now. And, suddenly, he somehow found the strength to move, to snap the invisible chains that had seemed to hold him prisoner. He closed his fingers over hers, halting her in mid-motion.

  Her hot dark eyes looked up into his face, questioning.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he asked hoarsely.

  ‘Making love to you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I want to.’

  Gideon shook his head. ‘Not enough.’

  Laurel tensed, sensing a sudden trap. This love thing was new territory for her. Much as she might try to feign confidence, inside she was quivering. ‘What else do you want?’ she asked coldly. ‘You want me to say I love you?’ Because I do.

  But she was not going to be the first to say it. No way. She wasn’t that suicidal.

  Her words acted like a bucket of cold water. Gideon struggled up, coming to the surface, fighting clear the sensual sea of desire that was threatening to drown him.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ he snapped, scrambling to his feet, his body cursing him, his head jeeringly applauding his self-control. ‘We hardly know each other.’

  Laurel, too, rose shakily to her feet. Her body, still moist and warm and prepared for union, suddenly cooled and calmed and ached.

  ‘That’s true,’ she agreed coolly.

  Gideon walked to the sink and slowly leaned over it. He felt wretched. Stupid.

  Why couldn’t he just have accepted the sex and then forgotten it? Men did it all the time. He’d done it himself in the past.

  But with this woman, somehow he’d known it would be impossible. His subconscious must have known it all along.

  Hooray for his know-it-all subconscious, he thought sourly. ‘Look,’ he turned to her, running a hand across his pale, sweating, miserable face. His heart was still thundering. His skin could still feel the imprint of her fingers. He drew a ragged breath. ‘Let’s just keep this strictly business, all right?’

  Laurel smiled. ‘Fine by me,’ she lied, shrugging one shoulder nonchalantly.

  ‘Right. We’ll get to the bottom of all this and then we can part as friends,’ he pressed, not trusting her sudden compliance.

  Why wasn’t she spitting and trying to scratch his eyes out?

  Laurel smiled. In a pig’s eye, she thought inelegantly. Once they’d got to the bottom of all this then it was open season on Psychology dons, buddy!

  CHAPTER TEN

  Gideon drove north through the early afternoon traffic. Beside him, Laurel was ominously quiet.

  Gideon coughed nervously. In his mind’s eye, he could still see himself on her kitchen floor, his body on fire with passion and desire.

  How on earth was he supposed to get past that?

  Some psychologist he was.

  Of course, by far the best thing to do was to get themselves back on an even footing again. Act normal. He cleared his throat.

  ‘I suppose as soon as all this mess is cleared up, you’ll be going back to the States?’ he asked, with a determined effort at polite conversation.

  Laurel shrugged. ‘Not right away. I’d originally planned to take some time off but I’ll no doubt have to go to London soon and smooth some ruffled feathers down there. One of my uncles is having some trade union problems with one of his UK divisions. Then I have to go up to Scotland to “cultivate a bond”. One of my other uncle’s companies has just won a big ship-building contract. Not to build a super liner, of course,’ she carried on knowledgably. ‘Those contracts go to Sweden and other such places nowadays. But they’ve won a contract for yachts. You know, providing status symbols to the nouveau riche. Very profitable. Then I have to go over to France — another uncle has just bought a large perfume enterprise. I daresay they want to name a perfume after me, or get me to agree to an advertising campaign. But first they have to see if I’m beautiful enough.’

  She spoke so matter-of-factly that Gideon took his eyes off the road for just a scant second to glance across at her. She was looking out of the window with no visible expression of scorn on her face.

  ‘You’re serious, aren’t you?’ he said, with something approaching awe in his voice. How many women did he know who could be so detached about their appearance? Not many.

 
; Laurel, too, was struggling to act normal. Not because she wanted to forget that morning — hell, she could still feel him beneath her. For an iceman, he’d felt surprisingly warm. No, it would just make things easier to not imagine herself making love to him all the time.

  She dragged her thoughts back to the here and now. ‘Of course I’m serious,’ she said candidly. ‘A new perfume launch can cost millions and make millions more. Providing you get the packaging and promotion right. And glamorous women sell perfume — it’s sometimes as simple as that. Just think of all the famous movie queens who have their own fragrances. The French company want to make their takeover by an American company sound and look like a good thing. If they think I’m a glamorous enough American heiress figure who’ll appeal to the buying public, they’ll want to make use of me. At least, that’s what my uncle seems to think, although he didn’t say so in so many words.’

  Gideon sighed. ‘Just how many uncles do you have?’

  ‘Three. They all have a different slice of the Van Gilder pie.’

  ‘And your father?’

  ‘My father died not so long ago.’

  Gideon’s jaw clenched. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘So am I,’ Laurel said simply.

  ‘And where did he fit into the Van Gilder pie?’

  ‘He owned it.’

  Gideon swallowed. ‘Oh.’ It was hard for him to imagine so much wealth.

  ‘Or at least he appeared to own it. Which, in America, amounts to the same thing,’ Laurel amended. ‘He was the visible fountainhead — the smiling face of Van Gilder Enterprises.’

  Briefly, she explained how her father was the playboy with a heart, the charity worker, the handsome man-about-town.

  ‘Didn’t he find that role a bit . . .’ Gideon struggled for the right word, unable to find one that wouldn’t sound patronising.

  ‘Empty?’ Laurel supplied dryly. ‘Sometimes. But then, he brought in the contracts that his younger brothers converted into dollars. He played golf with the senators and industrialists who greased the machinery that allowed Van Gilder Enterprises to get the zoning they needed, etc. What my father did was every bit as important as what my uncles do.’

  ‘But who’s going to do that now?’

  ‘I am.’

  Gideon felt the car swerve a little and grimly fought for control. He pulled up in front of the block of flats and switched off the engine, turning to look at her more fully.

  ‘That’s a lot of responsibility,’ he said softly.

  Laurel shrugged one shoulder. ‘He left me the shares. He left me the legacy. This is one little rich American heiress who’s going to have to work for her multi-millions.’

  Gideon heard just a touch of anxiety in her voice. Hell, if he’d been in her position, there’d be more than a touch of it in his own voice! Suddenly he began to see this affair from her point of view.

  Laurel caught the look in his eye. ‘What?’ she asked softly.

  Gideon shook his head. ‘Nothing. It’s just . . . presenting the Van Gilder chair. It was your first public appearance as the new Van Gilder figurehead, wasn’t it?’

  Laurel’s lips twisted. ‘Yes. And look what a flying start I’m off to.’

  Gideon sighed. ‘I had no idea it meant so much to you. I thought you were just being pushy.’

  Laurel laughed. ‘Gee, thanks. But it’s my job to handle the publicity, which is why I have to see this through. If I can’t do something as simple as hand out an academic award without fluffing it . . .’

  ‘Hey, hey,’ he said softly. ‘It isn’t your fault that some thief took the chalice. So far, the papers haven’t even mentioned the Van Gilder chair, except to give the usual little dry piece about it.’

  ‘I know. But it can all blow up in my face,’ Laurel said anxiously. And then, totally out of the blue, she blurted out miserably, ‘I miss my father. I miss him so much!’

  Gideon nodded. ‘I know. Grieving takes time. A lot of it. I know just how you feel.’

  Laurel looked at him closely, remembering all that Daphne had revealed to her about Gideon’s life when they were at the party. ‘You do?’ she enquired gently, wanting to see if he would open up to her.

  Gideon looked at her steadily. ‘Yes, I do. I lost both my parents in an accident when I was a student at St Bede’s. One moment I was a nineteen-year-old with a family and a home to go to. The next — it was all gone.’

  Laurel didn’t know how she could have coped if she’d lost her mother too. And her home. She bit her lip. ‘I’m so sorry, Gideon. Is that why St Bede’s is so important to you?’

  Gideon blinked. Funny, he hadn’t thought about it like that. And it was so obvious really. A psychological classic. Lose one family, seek out another. He smiled ruefully. ‘I suppose so.’

  Laurel sniffed back the tears that were threatening to swamp her. ‘I must confess, I thought you were just another stuck-up Brit. One who lived in an Oxford college as a way of showing the world what a wonderful, clever, privileged, superior person he was.’

  Gideon shifted uncomfortably in his seat. ‘I had no idea that I came across like that.’

  ‘You don’t. Not really,’ she said quickly. ‘It’s just that I saw the whole package and didn’t think to look beyond it. I’m sorry. I’m sure you love St Bede’s just as much as I love my own home.’

  Gideon thought back to the moment when he’d walked into the breakfast room yesterday. Or was it the day before? Time seemed to have lost its axis somehow. He remembered how odd the room had looked. How out of place he’d felt.

  ‘I wonder . . .’ he mused, making her look at him curiously. Could it possibly be time to move on? Had he become trapped in St Bede’s like a well-kept fly preserved in amber? If he had to cope in the real world, in Laurel’s cut-throat world, just how well would he fare?

  Suddenly, he felt restricted. Before he’d become determined to be a teacher, he’d had other worthy ideals and ambitions — as befitted the very young and naive.

  He’d started off as an undergraduate intending to go into the field of practising psychology. And not just tending to the common neuroses of the rich either, but serious, meaningful work with the mentally ill. What had happened to that idealistic dream?

  He shook his head. One thing at a time. Find the chalice first. Then have a mid-life crisis!

  He noticed that Laurel was looking at him quizzically. He sighed. ‘You’ve got me doubting myself,’ he said honestly.

  And doubting his own assessment of her too. A spoiled rich brat?

  Somehow, he didn’t think so. Not anymore. She had her problems, just like he did.

  Laurel, too, felt as if they’d just crossed a bridge. She wasn’t quite sure how, but she knew instinctively that they were no longer two people on a collision course, but two people in a relationship.

  A relationship. What a scary word that was!

  Laurel sighed deeply and wearily brushed the long hair off her face. It was at times like these that she missed having her father to talk to. To advise her. To tell her that everything was going to be all right.

  Ridiculous, of course. She was a grown woman, for heaven’s sake.

  Gideon looked briefly across at her, a worried frown creasing his brow. He, too, wanted to brush the hair from her face, perhaps stroke her cheek, and say something profound.

  Something to help.

  Instead he said helplessly, ‘You look tired. I hope you’re getting enough sleep.’

  Laurel gave a harsh laugh. ‘Hardly, with all this going on. I’m beginning to wonder if we’re ever going to get out of this mess,’ she added drearily. And wondered if she was talking about the missing chalice — or something else entirely.

  Gideon glanced at the nearly deserted road, slowed his speed even more, then reached across to give her hand a quick squeeze before picking up speed again. It was, in many ways, a clumsy gesture, but a curiously and deeply touching one also. Laurel felt absurdly comforted and just a little amused.

 
‘Don’t worry. Things will work out,’ he said, wondering if he could possibly sound more trite if he tried. ‘With you around calling the shots, they wouldn’t dare do anything else.’

  ‘Huh, don’t you believe it,’ Laurel laughed. ‘I don’t know where you’ve got this idea from that I’ve got life all pegged.’

  Gideon grinned widely. ‘No, I can’t think where I got it from either. Perhaps it’s the way you always expect to get what you want — and indeed do. Or the way you seem able to take life by the throat and shake it — just like a terrier with a rat.’

  ‘Thanks a lot! Are you calling me a dog?’ she teased.

  Gideon laughed. ‘Certainly not. And if I were, you’d be a French poodle with a diamond collar, dyed fashionably pink and groomed in the very latest pom-poms.’

  ‘Oh shut up. I’d be a little shivering ball of fluff looking for a kind master.’

  ‘Oh yeah. I’d bet you’ve never been a shivering little ball of fluff in your entire life,’ he scoffed.

  And although she knew he was having fun with her, something about the certainty in his voice cut her on the raw.

  ‘Then you’d be wrong,’ she said flatly. ‘I’ve had my share of fear and disappointment, believe me. Once, when I fell off a swing in the school playground when I was five, I broke my leg. But I was so shocked and it hurt so much that I couldn’t even call out to my friends for help. They just went right on playing all around me, while I tried to pretend nothing was the matter. It wasn’t until the teacher called us in and I didn’t even move that he came over and found out what had happened. I was taken to the hospital but, although it was only an hour or so before they located my mother and she came to get me, it felt like years, believe me.’

  Gideon’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. He knew just how damaging childhood traumas could be. He wouldn’t be surprised if she still had nightmares about it, even now.

  ‘I bet you had all the doctors and nurses jumping through hoops though,’ he challenged her softly.

  Laurel grinned. ‘Well, just a little bit. Then there was . . .’ she hesitated for a fraction of a second, wondering if she really wanted to do this, then plunged on grimly, ‘. . . my first love.’