The Second Time I Saw You: The Oxford Blue Series #2 Read online

  Pippa Croft

  THE SECOND TIME I SAW YOU

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Acknowledgements

  Follow Penguin

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  THE SECOND TIME I SAW YOU

  Pippa Croft is the pen name of an award-winning romantic novelist. After studying English at Oxford, she worked as a copywriter and journalist before writing her debut novel, which won the RNA’s New Writers’ award and was later made into a TV movie. She lives in a village in the heart of England with her husband and daughter.

  To Charlotte, with much love

  Chapter One

  Hilary Term

  It’s dark. The kind of darkness you can scoop up in your hands or pull over your skin like a velvet cloth. Outside, the chapel clock chimes the first stroke of midnight, and after it, the other bells of Oxford join in, near and far, out of synch with each other. The chilly night air kisses my skin and the room smells of books and instant coffee and dusty radiators.

  I can’t move but I’m not dreaming, I just choose not to. I choose to lie here, naked on top of the duvet on my single bed, knowing Alexander is somewhere in the room. Maybe he’s yards away, maybe only inches. He once told me that he could do that if he wanted to: break into my room and stand by my bed – and walk out again – and that I’d never know he’d even been there. He told me he was trained to do it and I told him he was talking bullshit, yet I remember the ironic tilt of his mouth as I laughed in his face.

  The air shimmers a little. To my left, possibly a foot or so away, his voice cuts through the darkness.

  ‘I want you,’ he says. ‘You drive me insane but I’m never going to let you go.’

  And I say, ‘Go screw yourself, Alexander.’

  And he says, ‘No, I’m going to screw you, Ms Cusack.’

  I laugh but every nerve ending, inside and out, is waiting – no, screaming – for the moment when he touches me.

  I lick my lips before I can reply. ‘You can try, Mr Hunt, you can try.’

  The mattress dips, the bed creaks, and his weight is next to me, over me, on me. His mouth comes down on mine in the darkness. I could stop him, any time I wanted to; I could end this thing between us but I choose not to.

  ‘Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. We will shortly be landing at Heathrow Airport, where the local time is just after eight a.m. Can you please return your seats to the upright position and ensure your seat belts are securely fastened ready for landing.’

  I lift the eye mask off my face and screw my eyes shut again as the light coming through the cabin windows blinds me. At home, my mother will be dead to the world under her down comforter. Even my father will be next to her by now, snatching a few hours’ rest before he heads to the White House or some senate committee meeting. Around me, the other Business Class passengers are adjusting their watches to GMT and frowning because we’re running late.

  ‘Sweet dreams?’

  The stewardess flashes me a smile that’s way too bright. I sure hope I haven’t been acting out my fantasy as I dozed in the flat bed because that would take a lot of explaining. As for my dreams, I already consigned those to where they belong: to the boxes marked ‘Big Mistake’ and ‘Don’t Go There’ and ‘How the Hell Did I Ever Let That Happen?’

  And yet …

  And yet nothing, Lauren.

  ‘Can I get you anything?’

  ‘No, thank you, but I think I’ll go freshen up before we land.’

  ‘I’m afraid there’s no time now. The seat-belt signs are on and we’ll be on the stand very soon.’ She tosses me an apologetic smile and hands me a wrapped mint by way of consolation for having to cross my legs for the next half-hour.

  Rubbing some life back into my limbs, I pull off the cashmere blanket and push the button to raise the flat bed. So much for arriving in England looking fresh and relaxed. I planned on changing my crumpled Chloé pants in the washroom and slapping on an extra layer of NARS moisturizer. Now, I guess, I’ll have to settle for arriving looking more like the girl in Degas’s L’Absinthe than Blake Lively.

  A couple of hours later, the limo reaches the centre of the city. Predictably, my father asked that Roger, his UK driver, be allowed to collect me from the airport again and it seemed a small concession to make. My parents have finally been forced to accept that I can look after myself and that my choice to study my History of Art master’s at Oxford was the right one for me. After spending a term away from home in what Granny loves to call ‘foreign parts’, I haven’t been abducted, arrested or died of starvation.

  I did, however, fall for the most unsuitable man in Oxford, but that’s something they’re never going to know about. The six weeks I’ve been away from Alexander Hunt have been the Christmas gift I didn’t ask for – but needed so much more than clothes or candy.

  It’s over and while I’m not normally superstitious, I’ll take it as a good omen that pockets of watery blue sky peer out from among the clouds as we drive down the road past the University Parks towards Wyckham College. The branches are bare now, and on the shady side of the street their spiky fingers are tinged with frost. We pass the boathouse and through the iron railings I see the sun glinting on the river and the punts chained up on the slipway. The last time I saw this place, I was laughing and shivering as Alexander smashed the ice in the bottom of one of the boats, so he could punt us upriver to the pub.

  Has it really been two months since we floated back downstream, him lost in some dark and distant place again, me wrapped in his coat, thinking that was the only way I’d ever get inside his skin?

  Roger slots the limo into a parking space outside the Porters’ Lodge. The very first time I saw Alexander he was doing battle for a parking space – and winning, of course. Alexander always wins at everything, except perhaps this time.

  ‘Do you want a hand with your bags, Miss Cusack?’

  ‘No, thanks,’ I say firmly. This term, I won’t even waste my time trying to get Roger to call me Lauren. I’ve learned not to waste my time on battles that can’t be won and before he’s even pocketed my tip, I’m out of the door and grabbing my two bags from the trunk. The rest of the mountain of luggage I brought from Washington is locked away in the closet in my room.

  ‘Bye and thanks again. See you at the end of term.’

  I want to laugh at Roger’s face as he reaches the trunk too late to do his duty. ‘Miffed’ is the word Immy might use, but no matter, I’m already on my way towards the Lodge. I’d forgotten quite how spectacular the Jacobean architecture is and the dark-gold stone seems to soak up the sunlight, lifting my mood. When I first arrived here, this place was alien to me but now, while it’s not quite ‘home’, it comes with a familiarity that takes the edge off its austere grandeur.

  As for the people hurrying in and out of the Lodge, wrapped in scarves and padded coats, I recognize most of them by sight and some well enough to say more than ‘Happy New Year’ to. They’re all intent on getting their stuff into college from their parents’ cars, or picking up schedules and mail from the pigeonholes. Everyone looks
as if they’re here to work, even if it won’t last beyond First Week, and that makes me more determined to make the most of my final two terms here at Wyckham.

  A few people nod as I schlep my bags around the Front Quad to my staircase and a couple stop briefly to ask if I had a good Christmas vac. My room is under the battlements on the top floor and despite my attempts to stay in shape over the holidays, I’m out of breath by the time I reach the third floor. The landing is silent as I drop my bags outside my door and delve into my jacket pocket for my key.

  ‘Yay!!! You’re back!’

  The door opposite mine is flung open and its occupant leaps on me with a huge hug. ‘Hey, I tried to keep away but I guess I just couldn’t help myself.’

  Laughing, Immy lets me go just before I pass out from lack of oxygen. I laugh but, to my horror and disgust, find tears pricking the back of my eyes. So I haven’t been here five minutes and I’m about to blub? It’s ridiculous.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘It’s bloody freezing here,’ I joke, making a terrible hash of her English accent.

  ‘Don’t you have snow on the East Coast?’

  ‘Sure we have snow, but generally nothing like New York and the skies are so much clearer at home. Does it have to be so gloomy here?’

  She laughs. ‘We aim to please but I’ve got something to warm you up in my room. You get inside and I’ll be back in a sec.’

  I open my room and wrinkle my nose at the aroma: not coffee nor books but a cocktail of cleaning products. I hear the sound of a kettle being filled in the tiny kitchen at the end of our landing and dump my luggage by the desk. Outside the window, across the quad, the statues of the college founders stare sternly back at me.

  ‘Yuk.’

  I turn to find Immy pulling a face and carrying two mugs, with steam rising from them. ‘My place reeked too. Had to throw open the windows. Shall I undo one of yours while you take your coat off ?’

  ‘Great.’

  Ten minutes later, I’m sitting on my bed, cradling a mug of hot chocolate and Bailey’s, Immy’s ‘welcome home’ treat.

  ‘How was your vac? Did you manage to have a good Christmas despite you-know-what?’ She lowers her voice when she refers to the brief conversation we had on Skype over the vacation about my break-up with Alexander. Maybe she thinks I might burst into tears at the mention of him, but she ought to know me better than that. I genuinely have no intention of shedding a single tear more over Alexander.

  ‘The vac was awesome; I hadn’t realized how much I missed my family, even the grandparents – not that I’d tell them, of course – and it was so great to catch up with my old college friends from Brown.’ My response, by now, is well rehearsed and sounds it. I’m not sure it will convince anyone, let alone Immy, who has a nose like a bloodhound for bullshit. I blow on my chocolate and steam rises in front of my face. ‘How about you?’

  ‘Oh, it was pretty good, considering. Once I knew George was on the mend from his op, I managed to get away to Verbier for a few days with Skandar.’

  ‘Wow, that’s almost long term.’ Immy is famous for hopping in and out of relationships but Skandar, a gorgeous Viking-hotty-slash-tennis-Blue, has lasted a whole two months.

  ‘Isn’t it?’ She rolls her eyes. ‘I almost had to restrain my mother from trawling the Philip Treacy website. But enough of me, what I want to know is have you seen him since you got back?’

  ‘Him?’ I wrinkle my brow. ‘You mean Professor Rafe?’

  ‘You know exactly who I mean. I couldn’t believe it when you told me about you and Alexander. I am so sorry I wasn’t here when you got back from Falconbury. I assume that’s when it happened?’

  I nod because I don’t want to tell even Immy the exact circumstances of the break-up. ‘I think a brother with appendicitis takes priority over my love life. Is George still doing well? Sounded like it from your emails.’

  ‘Oh, he’s fine now. I can tell from the way he’s back to being a total pain in the arse, and he’s milked every moment of his “near-death experience”. But forget George, I want to know when you’re going to get back with Alexander.’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Not a chance.’

  Her eyes widen. ‘Really? I’m sure he’ll have something to say about that. I can’t believe he hasn’t flown over to Washington to demand you take him back.’

  ‘He didn’t even call.’ I swallow down my chocolate and regret it as it’s still too hot and I burn my tongue. Do I wish he’d called? Part of me does, but this makes me even more annoyed. There’s no point, anyway.

  ‘Didn’t even phone? What the fuck went on at the ball, Lauren, because this row must have been catastrophic to cause you to split up …’ She pauses, eyeing me suspiciously. ‘His cow of an ex wasn’t there, was she?’

  ‘Oh yes, Valentina was very much there.’

  ‘Shit. I’ve only met her a couple of times but she seemed to assume I was pond-life and therefore beneath her notice.’

  ‘Unfortunately, she decided I was definitely worthy of her notice. She was all over Alexander from the moment she got to Falconbury and she’s made it very clear she wants him back.’

  Immy snorts chocolate over my duvet but I don’t mind. ‘Cheeky cow! What does Alexander have to say about that?’

  ‘He swore she means nothing to him any more, but I don’t care. I can’t blame the split on her; the differences between us run a lot deeper.’

  ‘Don’t tell me you’re fazed by the whole culture/class thing! You’re the sophisticated politician’s daughter.’

  ‘Am I?’ I grimace. ‘You said yourself that I’d probably want to kill most of the Falconbury hangers-on by the time I left and if there’d been a sword to hand, I might have. They’re obsessed with tradition, most of them are blatant snobs and General Hunt was so frosty to me, I’m surprised the port didn’t freeze in our glasses. Even so, it’s more than that. Alexander and I – we seem to bring out the worst in each other and I don’t think that’s healthy.’

  She wrinkles her nose. ‘Well, he can be an awkward bastard, I’ll agree, but I did think he seemed happier last term than I’d ever seen him. He must be under a lot of pressure, having to keep disappearing off to places with the army.’

  ‘I suppose so, but I’ve given up trying to understand his moods and he certainly wouldn’t want me to feel sorry for him.’ I hesitate, realizing how well I know Alexander in some ways – and how little in others. Well, that’s how it’s going to stay so I lift my chin and add, ‘I spent far too much of last term trying to understand him and I realized that it was sucking my time here away.’

  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.