An Oxford Scandal

by Maxine Barry

  Gideon glanced across at her, surprised by the venom in her voice.

  ‘Martha? Martha’s been in Oxford for years. Longer than I have. She’s got a good solid background. She wrote a blinder of a DPhil thesis and has been a member of one of the city’s oldest colleges for years. She seems secure enough. Besides, I’ve never heard of her needing money. She hasn’t got any expensive hidden vices that I know about.’

  And you’d know, wouldn’t you? Laurel thought spitefully, her lips twisting. ‘A bit protective of her, aren’t you?’ she mocked.

  Gideon frowned. ‘Martha? No, not particularly. Why?’

  Laurel flushed. ‘Nothing,’ she muttered.

  Gideon turned on one elbow, the better to look at her. An odd expression suddenly crossed his face. Half smile, half disbelief.

  ‘You’re jealous!’ he said incredulously.

  ‘I am not!’ Laurel flared, slamming down her brandy glass and falling to her knees beside him. ‘I just found it sickening, watching her flirt with you in a public place, that’s all. Restaurants are for eating food. Not undressing men with your eyes,’ she snorted primly.

  Gideon laughed. ‘Oh that! Martha’s a born flirt. She does it with all men.’

  Laurel growled. His laughter was doing odd things to her insides. He had such white strong teeth. Such a deep-timbred laugh, it seemed to roll and echo through the walls of her stomach.

  Suddenly all laughter fled. Gideon looked at her, saw her eyes darken, and shook his head. ‘Laurel . . .’ he warned, but his voice had lost all its power.

  She pushed him back on to the rug, moving over him. ‘I thought we agreed,’ he began weakly.

  ‘So I lied,’ she said huskily. And kissed him. Her hands moved between them, seeking the buttons of his shirt and ripping them apart. His flesh felt warm from the fire, but now it began to burn with a different heat altogether.

  Her lips left his. He breathed out tremulously. ‘Laurel.’

  She dipped her mouth to the indentation between his throat and chest and kissed and licked there. He swallowed hard, his eyes feathering closed. ‘Laurel,’ he said again. A moan. A wonderment.

  She pushed the flaps of his shirt off his shoulders, revealing a firm chest scattered with fine silvery hairs. Her fingers ran across his skin, caressing and pinching, and she growled in response to the way he twitched at her touch.

  Her mouth moved along the fine contours of his shoulders to nibble on his earlobe, before moving down his rib cage, lower, lower, until her tongue burrowed into his navel.

  Gideon moaned, his legs jerking in spasms of response. ‘Please,’ he said. But by now he had no idea what he was pleading for.

  Laurel moved her hand against the bulge in his jeans and pressed hard. She could feel him move beneath her, throbbing like an animal stirred from hibernation.

  Gideon groaned, a long, drawn-out moan of near-pain. Feverishly, she dealt with his belt buckle and zip. Before he could even gather a thought, she pulled off his boots and stripped him naked, yanking off his jeans as if she hated them.

  She kissed his kneecap.

  Gideon gasped. This wasn’t possible. Since when was a kneecap an erogenous zone? Then she moved up his thigh, kissing and nibbling his jumping tendons, and he realised that with this woman, his whole body was an erogenous zone.

  And it was time to find out if the same held true with her!

  Laurel yelped in surprise as she suddenly found herself flat on her back, his silver head looming over her. His mouth on hers was a marauder, chasing out her tongue, battling it, winning, always winning.

  She felt her own clothes melting away, felt his hands on her flesh, long-fingered, sensitive and . . .

  She sighed. A long, drawn-out breath of pleasure as he placed his palms over her breasts and slowly, gently squeezed. Through a daze, she saw his silver head lower, then felt the hot, moist, thrusting touch of his tongue around her nipple.

  She growled. And suddenly moved her legs apart, lifting and hooking them around the small of his back.

  Gideon grunted in surprise. For a long second, he resisted the pressure of her strong limbs. Then his body lowered to hers, joined with her, fitting them together like two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.

  Laurel’s eyes widened as she felt him enter her. He filled her, stretched and caressed her, demanding yet delivering. She felt her muscles clench around him. Above her, she saw his eyes widen. Dazzle. Then soften.

  ‘Laurel,’ he said. Firm. Sure. Contented.

  Laurel watched his face contort as they began to dance together. Her legs tightened on him, her heels digging into his buttocks, allowing him no chance of escape.

  All trace of the tall, cold, imperious man disappeared. In his place was her lover, his brow beading with sweat, his icy-blue eyes softening into pools of molten desire. His lean jaw fell open as he breathed in great gasping gulps of air.

  And she knew her own face must bear the same intense concentration of sensation and desire.

  Love and lust.

  Greed and generosity.

  She felt her body spiralling out of control. Her sweat-damp hair flying around her face as she thrashed her head from side to side.

  ‘Gideon!’ she wailed, bucking under him, the tendons in her neck straining as she arched her back and her fingernails raked across his shoulders.

  Gideon screamed. There was no other word for the sound he made as he felt his body melt and flow into the hot waiting pool of her womanhood.

  He collapsed against her, the echo of her own scream ringing in his ears.

  Laurel raised her hands to accept him as he fell against her. Her fingers tenderly brushed away the hair from his temples.

  Her breasts rose and fell heavily. His head, resting against her, moved up and down in time to her breathing.

  Melting the iceman had been wonderful.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  ‘Is this the place?’ Laurel asked, slipping off her seatbelt and looking at the tiny but charming little terraced cottage in front of her.

  ‘It is,’ Gideon agreed, getting out and coming around to open her door for her. As she alighted, his eyes fell to her legs, noting the dimple in her knees.

  He didn’t look away.

  Laurel straightened, catching the name of the street. ‘Magpie Lane. Cute names you British give things. Were there magpies here once?’ she asked, turning to him, catching him quickly looking up.

  Gideon smiled and shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Ask a historian. If you’ve got six hours to spare.’

  Laurel held out her hands in a gesture of defeat. ‘No way. I’m getting used to the way your cronies work. I ask if there were magpies here once, and I’ll probably be told a legendary story to do with some king eight hundred years ago. Or a terrible baker who did awful things with birds back in 1602. And it was all to do with socio-economic atrocities committed by a rebel government who . . .’ She went on to do a great imitation of a British drone, capable of going on and on for hours. ‘No thanks!’ she laughed.

  They had come to the home of the don who’d been taking pictures of the party on the fateful night.

  ‘This guy’s not an historian, is he?’ Laurel whispered nervously, as they walked up the path and Gideon lifted the polished brass door knocker and rapped it twice.

  ‘No. Worse. He’s an economist. Whatever you do, don’t mention Denis Healey.’

  Laurel blinked. ‘Who’s Dennis . . . ooh!’

  The last because the door was opening, and she’d suddenly discovered Gideon’s bony elbow digging into her ribs.

  ‘Hello, George.’

  ‘Gideon!’

  The man in front of them was just how Laurel remembered him from the party — small, neat and dapper, with a cap of rather oily-looking black hair and a wayward moustache. He was dressed in an argyle sweater and jeans.

  Laurel blinked.

  ‘This is a surprise. And Miss Van Gilder too. Thank you for bringing her to see me, Gideon. Do come in.’

  S
omewhat gingerly they entered the tiny cottage, and were shown to a neat little sitting room. Their host quickly returned from the kitchen with a tray of tea and crumpets.

  Gideon glanced at the clock. It was nearly four. Laurel shook her head. It really was true — everything stopped for tea in this country.

  Or at least it did in Oxford.

  Or in Oxford dons’ houses.

  ‘So, how are you enjoying our city of dreaming spires, m’dear?’ the little man asked, and Laurel, realising with a start that he was talking to her, swallowed her tea (and a desire to tell him she wasn’t anyone’s ‘dear’) and smiled.

  ‘Fine. I was wondering, er . . .’

  ‘George Fairbairn, m’dear. Everyone calls me George. Except my wife — she calls me Georgie.’

  Laurel bit her lip — hard — and avoided Gideon’s eye. ‘Er, George. I was wondering if you’d had the pictures you took at the party developed yet,’ she plunged right in. After Gideon’s warning, she could imagine them being stuck here for hours, gossiping about anything and nothing.

  Georgie looked the type.

  ‘She means the prize-giving at St Bede’s,’ Gideon said helpfully as George looked puzzled.

  ‘Oh, those. Yes, of course. I’ve got them somewhere — now where did I put them? Oh, of course. Just a moment.’

  He shot off the chair and went out into the hall, and Gideon leaned closer to Laurel. ‘George is a serial socialiser. He’s probably been to ten other parties since ours. And I’m not exaggerating!’

  ‘Good on Georgie,’ Laurel hissed back, and Gideon only just succeeded in hiding his grin as George returned with a big pack of photos.

  ‘Here they are. They came out quite well, even if I have to blow my own trumpet. I was trying out a new flash system.’

  And before they could reign him in, he was off.

  Both his visitors let his stream of explanation wash over them as they examined the photographs.

  Laurel, of course, looked exquisite, just as Gideon remembered. But it soon became clear George had reason to boast of his prowess because the photos were excellent. Sin-Jun, Rex, all their suspects, as well as strangers to them both, had been caught on film for all eternity, perfectly lit and candid.

  But in not one of them was the door to the Senior Common Room open, giving an illicit glimpse of someone outside stealing the chalice.

  Of course, neither had expected that. Miracles might have been attributed to the chalice in the past, but neither of them had been expecting divine intervention during this particular quest. Still, it would have been nice if the photos had given just a hint of help.

  ‘Dr Ngabe looks almost regal in this one,’ Gideon murmured, handing over a picture of the African woman in her bright traditional robe.

  ‘Your Martha looks a little worse for drink in this one,’ Laurel couldn’t help but point out with a twinge of satisfaction, as she handed a photo of her own over.

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t keep harping on about her,’ Gideon said back, then glanced up as he realised George had finally stopped speaking.

  ‘Looking for anything nice in particular?’ the little man asked brightly, his bird-keen eyes looking from one to the other speculatively.

  Gideon flushed, almost guessing what he was thinking. Only lovers carped on like they’d been doing.

  Well, they were lovers!

  He smiled at the thought, then noticed that George was waiting for a reply and floundered.

  ‘Yes,’ Laurel, sensing his unease, leaped into the breach. ‘We were hoping to find one of us together. To commemorate the first night we met.’

  George beamed. Obviously, he was on to something here. Romances were always his favourite form of gossip. (Politics and economics, of course, were, in George’s book, far too serious a subject to ever be classed as mere chit-chat!)

  ‘Let me see. I think, yes, here’s one,’ he said, relieving Gideon of half his pile and pulling one out.

  George had caught them, Gideon realised at once, during their brief argument. He was glowering down at Laurel and she was glaring up at him.

  ‘Er, an interesting composition,’ George said tactfully. Anything less lovey-dovey was hard to imagine.

  Laurel, however, swooped in. ‘Perfect,’ she said with a mischievous grin. ‘I think it captures the mood of the moment just right. Don’t you, darling?’

  Gideon’s eyes widened as he shot her a killing look.

  ‘If you say so. Sweetheart,’ he gritted back. And glanced, resignedly, at George. Come tomorrow it would be all over town that he and Laurel were an item.

  Strangely, though, the thought didn’t dismay him as much as he’d thought it might.

  ‘Oh, here’s one of Dr Ollenbach. A nice piece, isn’t it?’ George said. Then, aware of two pairs of eyes looking at him incredulously, he blurted out, ‘The pendant, I mean. A real diamond. I’m a bit of a jewellery buff, you see. My dear lady wife does so like gems.’

  And he sighed. Rather unhappily, Laurel felt, and hid yet another grin.

  She took the picture from George and looked at it. He was right — the pendant was small but, even in a photograph, she could tell that the diamond drop was real.

  Absently, she passed the photograph over.

  And Gideon froze.

  He stared down at the photograph for a long time, until first Laurel and then George noticed his preoccupation.

  ‘What is it?’ Laurel asked softly.

  Gideon started, then shook his head and hand the picture back to Laurel. ‘Oh. Er, nothing. Look, George, it was really good of you to let us have a look through the pictures. Are you sure you don’t mind us having this one?’ he asked, nodding to the photograph Laurel clutched possessively in her hand and getting up.

  ‘No, of course not. Going so soon?’ he asked, obviously disappointed.

  ‘Yes. We have an appointment. With the principal,’ Gideon added firmly as George was obviously about to demur.

  ‘Oh yes, I see,’ he muttered at once. Interviews with principals were obviously not something to be trifled with, Laurel thought with a pang of tenderness.

  No doubt about it, Oxford — and its academic way of life — was beginning to find a place in her affections.

  Containing her impatience only with the greatest of effort, she followed Gideon out and then hopped from foot to foot with frustration as George kept them talking on the doorstep.

  Eventually they got away and, at the gate, Laurel could stand it no longer.

  ‘What?’ she demanded. ‘What is it?’

  ‘In the car,’ Gideon said, looking around at the passing pedestrians nervously. ‘I’ve been an idiot. A first-class dolt.’

  Laurel snorted. Now that she couldn’t believe.

  ‘OK, so what have you been an idiot about?’ she pressed once they’d buckled up and Gideon had turned the engine on. The low throaty purr of the Morgan gave them an obliging amount of privacy as he leaned towards her.

  ‘What was the first thing we established about the theft of the chalice?’ he asked, to her annoyance.

  Why did men find it so hard to come to the point? she wondered.

  ‘That it must have been one of the shortlisted candidates who pinched it,’ she hazarded impatiently.

  ‘Yes, but apart from that?’ And when she continued to look puzzled and irked, he prompted, ‘That it had to be a spur-of-the-moment thing, right?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘So, if it was spur of the moment . . . how did the thief manage to cut a hole in the glass? Do you usually go to parties with a burglary gadget in your handbag?’ he demanded.

  ‘No. So what . . .’ Suddenly her eyes widened. ‘Diamonds cut glass,’ she said, catching on instantly.

  ‘Right. Dr Ngabe was wearing beads, I noticed from the photos, and Martha was wearing pearls.’

  ‘Very observant of you,’ she huffed.

  ‘Laurel! Damn it, woman, keep your mind focused. Don’t you get it? Now we know who did it.’

&
nbsp; Laurel nodded slowly. She leaned back in her chair and sighed. ‘I wish it hadn’t been the fellow American,’ she said, somewhat irrelevantly.

  Gideon shook his head. ‘They have to be in really deep financial trouble for her to do something so desperate. I wonder if a hundred grand will even be enough.’

  ‘I doubt they’d get that. Even from a good fence—’ Laurel said, then broke off, an appalled look on her face. She suddenly reached up and smacked the palm of her hand against her forehead. ‘What a twit I am. You talk about you being dim!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A fence. Can you see either Dr Ollenbach or that husband of hers even knowing a fence?’ she challenged.

  ‘No,’ Gideon said promptly. Then his eyes widened. ‘So how are they going to sell it?’

  Laurel grinned. ‘Only one way, buddy boy. Only one way.’

  * * *

  In their house on Five Mile Drive, Dr Felicity Ollenbach sat in her chair and stared at the Augentine chalice. Her husband, still reeling from the shock, sat beside her. Numbly he pointed at the small silver receptacle.

  ‘And you’re telling me that that’s really worth over a hundred grand?’ he asked, his voice suitably awed.

  ‘Yes,’ Felicity said flatly.

  She stared at the chalice in almost the same disbelief as her husband.

  Even after all these days, she could still hardly believe she’d stolen it. She just didn’t know what had come over her.

  That night she’d been totally on edge, right from the beginning. Even though winning the Van Gilder chair wouldn’t have been enough to keep them solvent for long, it would have given them breathing space.

  And the promise of added income.

  On the strength of winning it, she might even have managed to get another book accepted with a sizeable advance.

  Her stomach had been tied in knots as she’d sat down to dinner in St Bede’s Hall. It had been impossible to eat a thing. Indeed, she’d even had to force herself to keep from staring at Laurel Van Gilder like a child in a sweet shop, so badly did she need the woman to announce her own name.

  When Laurel had stood up to deliver her speech and present the chair, she’d clenched her fists and wished, wished so hard, like a child making a wish when watching a falling star, that the Van Gilder woman would say her name.