Dark Blue: Study in Seduction, Book 1 (11 page)

Those fears seemed founded when she arrived for her next group tutorial on John Donne. She’d got there just after Emma had knocked Alex’s door and heard him call “Come,” and desire had flooded her again.

Emma swept through the door, composed and confident. In the sunny light of a late spring morning, the tub chairs were just places to sit, the desk a place of work, not sensual torment. Yet her bottom and clit must have some kind of residual memory, because they both started to tingle.

“Hello, Professor Lemaitre,” said Emma cheerily.

“Morning, Emma. And Carla. How are you?”

How was she? Was this an enquiry about her physical health or the gibbering wreck he’d left after his “lesson”?

“Fine, thanks,” she muttered.

“I’m pleased to hear it. Take a seat.”

She would not sit on the beanbag this time. She needed the solidity of a chair beneath her, so she chose a stool by the window. Happily, Gideon was late and got the beanbag.

Alex made coffee for them all, another new experience, and as he handed it round, Carla could see he was amused by their amazement and their attempts not to grimace at his lethal French espresso. As they cradled the hot mugs in their hands, he settled into the tub chair and smiled. “So, are we all ready to be brilliant about John Donne?”

No one was ready to be brilliant about anything, of course, least of all Carla, but most of them wanted to try. This was a new Alex, an Alex who had thawed a few degrees from their initial group tutorial. An Alex who knew them better, perhaps?

Or was it something to do with her?

She dared not speculate. She needed all her mental strength to focus on the tute. Alex selected Gideon for the killer blow this time, asking him to read “Elegy XX: To His Mistress Going to Bed” and silencing his groans by pointing out that Donne’s speaker was male. There were muffled squeaks and barfing sounds from Emma and another of the female students as Gideon made Donne’s sensual love poem sound like a story from the
Sunday Sport
. After Gideon had snorted and sniggered his way through the poem, Alex let them collect their thoughts for a few moments.

“What’s happening here?” he asked.

“Donne is trying to lure his lover into bed.” Carla broke the silence, surprising herself but not Alex, whose gaze was steady. You would never know that they had shared any kind of intimacy, let alone pleasure and pain so intense it had made her weep.

“And?” he asked.

“Donne—or the narrator—describes disrobing and caressing his mistress. However, there’s a sting in the tail. We find out at the end that it’s the narrator—the man—who is actually naked.”

Although she heard Gideon’s chortle and felt Emma buzz with astonishment at her new boldness, she was determined not to be accused of prudery on this occasion. “We don’t know whether his lover is actually naked herself throughout the poem, or if the narrator is just imagining what it would be like to have his mistress undress in front of him, do we, though?”

Alex steepled his fingers, and she searched for any trace of unease and surprise from him too, but he was as unruffled as a millpond. “Interesting… So do you think this poem is about unattainable love? And how does this poem sit in relation to the Petrarchan elegiac tradition? Do you think it subverts that convention?”

Wow. That was a side shift, thought Carla as Gideon piped up with his thoughts. From undressing in front of your lover to poetic convention. And as for
subversion
, that was a word Alex was very fond of. Who was avoiding the elephant in the room now?

“Does anyone else have any views on this poem and its wider implications?” he asked.

Was there a chink in the emotional armour, and had she found it? Was he now too embarrassed to discuss sex so publicly with her?

The others took over the rest of the tutorial. There was a lively discussion in which everyone, even Gideon, had something useful to offer. Carla joined in occasionally but spent most of her time watching Alex, seeking out any minute signal, any hint that he wanted to acknowledge what they’d shared. Perhaps, she thought, he’d avoided looking at her more than the others. She’d also—possibly—caught him glancing in her direction when he thought she wasn’t looking. He was so difficult to read. He kept his feelings locked away behind high walls of politeness and restraint. Wanting to know and understand Alex Lemaitre wasn’t like baiting a tiger, but like trying to thaw an iceberg to find the beating heart underneath.

The tutorial ended, and the students filed out. She waited for a sign from Alex, even a look or a glance that acknowledged what had passed between them—even a tiny hint that only she could ever recognise—yet there was nothing. Today he was her tutor, everyone’s tutor, and she would have to accept that and wait until her scheduled appointment with him.

“Don’t do it, Carla.”

The voice behind her as she rifled through the lingerie rails in John Lewis was familiar. She’d bypassed her usual knicker haunt, intent on a pewter thong and front-fastening balconette bra by one Mimi Holliday. At almost a hundred quid for the set, her eyes were watering without any chastisement from Alex. That didn’t stop her wanting some sexy new underwear, ready for their next encounter. Mimi Holliday seemed so appropriate; she sounded French, and the pewter lace of the set added a touch of sobriety and seriousness to the frivolous confection of the lace and ribbons. She laughed at herself. What the hell was she on? Alex Lemaitre, that’s what, and he was scrambling what passed for her brain.

Emma tsked. “You’re not going to spend that much on a pair of knickers, are you?”

Carla thrust the thong and bra back on the rail. “Of course not. Ridiculous waste of money.” Oh bum, she sounded like her mother.

“If you’ve got the money, then I don’t blame you, but you don’t buy underwear like this and not intend it to be seen. What I want to know is, who’s the lucky man? If it’s Michael, you’ll be wasting your time. He’s a sweet guy, though I suspect he wouldn’t know his La Perla from his Per Una.”

“Oh no, not Michael. Not anyone. I was just…looking.” This conversation had to end, so Carla resorted to a very underhand tactic, one she should be thoroughly ashamed of but which never failed to work. “I haven’t bought anything like this since Stephen…”

It had the required effect, even on a cynic like Emma, who hugged her and whispered, “Then get them, even if they aren’t for public consumption.”

Carla felt instantly guilty for playing the sympathy card. “Let me think about it over a coffee. My treat. By the way, what are you doing in this store? Isn’t it rather sedate for you?”

In the café, Emma revealed that she was going to be a bridesmaid at her cousin’s wedding and needed a strapless basque to “maximise her tits and minimise her arse”, despite the fact she had the figure of an undernourished wood nymph. As they leafed through the store’s bridal catalogue, Carla contrasted her own body. She wasn’t overweight, and daily cycling and power walking around the city helped to keep her toned, but she was no supermodel. She tried to imagine the view Alex had of her bent over his desk—displayed in all her glory—and afterwards as he went down on her from behind. Even in the cold light of day, thinking of herself presented to him like that didn’t dampen her lust for him.

In fact, she wanted it to happen again. Right now in the middle of the John Lewis restaurant, with all the ladies who lunched watching on, choking with envy on their paninis.

She spluttered her latte. She needed therapy.

Emma slapped her between the shoulder blades. “Careful!”

Carla grabbed a serviette and wiped coffee from the catalogue.

“Is it the underwear or the price tag that’s made you choke?” Emma enquired mischievously.

Carla laughed, hoping she hadn’t betrayed her kinky fantasy by blushing. Emma was sweet underneath the air of cynicism, and Carla was seized by an urge to tell her about Alex. A crazy thought, of course, but she wanted to tell someone about what had happened, to share her joy and anxieties and seek reassurance and counselling from a fellow sister.

The problem was that one word to Emma and Carla was certain that everyone in college would know exactly how Alex had been tutoring her. No matter how much Emma might promise to be discreet, no matter how much her heart was in the right place, Carla could not possibly trust her. God, she’d be tempted to spread that kind of juicy gossip herself.

If anyone found out, Alex would probably be dismissed, no matter how old she was. It would all be over before it had begun, and she couldn’t bear that—not that she knew what “it” was yet. He hadn’t even made love to her, so you couldn’t call it an affair, and as for a relationship? You couldn’t call spanking and going down on her a relationship. Not when he’d dismissed her so suddenly.

On the other hand, he
had
asked her to go back, a prospect that was driving her so wild with desire and anticipation that she could hardly function on a normal level.

“So, are you going to buy this naughty lingerie?” asked Emma.

Carla shook her head. “Nah. I’ll wait and see if it’s in the sale.”

Emma gave a sigh. “Fine, but you only live once.”

No one knew this more than Carla, and as they took the escalator downstairs and out of the store, all she could think of was the lingerie set and how she would be transformed by wearing it from Mrs. Jonas to wicked Carla, the errant student in need of firm correction and a whole lot more by her gorgeous tutor. As soon as Emma left to meet her boyfriend, she retraced her steps and headed back to John Lewis. As she handed her purchase over at the sales counter, she hoped Stephen couldn’t see what she’d spent her inheritance on.

Later that evening, Carla was back in her flat, panicking as the green numbers on the bedside clock told her it was almost midnight. Crumpled balls of paper filled the bin and dotted the carpet next to the empty John Lewis bag that had contained her underwear.

It was no good. No matter how many times she rewrote and edited her Brontës essay, it wasn’t going to turn into a masterpiece worthy of
English Lit Journal
.

It was also never going to be good enough for Alex, or was that the whole point of him asking her to write it?

She put down her red biro, wondering if she had time to print off another copy as the digits clicked onto 23.45. She now had barely fifteen minutes to send her essay to him, or she’d have missed her deadline. Only
technically
missed it. He had said he wanted it by Monday, and surely as long as it reached him by breakfast time, that meant she would be okay. Wouldn’t she?

Who was she kidding? Alex had said that he had a “thing about punctuality”, and hell, how he’d proved it. Her stomach clenched at the memory of the chimes ringing out as he’d administered her punishment over his desk. That essay had been on time, even if it hadn’t met his exacting standards. What would happen if she handed this one in late?

She pulled her laptop towards her and opened the lid. She’d give the essay a quick spell check, and then she’d send it.

Her email pinged, and her pulse skittered. There was a message from Alex.

Oh, shit.

From: Professor Alex Lemaitre [email protected]

To: Carla Jonas [email protected]

Subject: The Brontës

Dear Carla,
(Oh heck, that was formal. What happened to the “hi”?)

I was wondering if you had sent me your essay on the Brontës yet? It may have gone into my spam file, although I can’t see it there, or perhaps, as they say, got lost in cyberspace. If you have sent it, and the error is mine, then please accept my apologies. It’s my mistake, and I’d appreciate it if you could send another copy.

If you haven’t sent it yet, I’d appreciate it if you could e-mail it *today*. I would like to have time to consider it in detail so I can go through any corrections with you thoroughly at our one-to-one on Monday evening.

Is 8pm okay for you again? You’ll be pleased to know that I don’t have any engagements afterwards, so I can give you the time and attention you deserve this time.

Best,

Alex

Bloody hell, he must be online right this minute, waiting for the essay, waiting for her to fail him, to give him the slightest excuse.

Carla read the email. Then read it again. After the fifth read-through, she glanced at the clock.

23.57
.

No time to compose anything fancy, so she hit Reply and attached the essay to the e-mail. Her finger hovered over the Send button.

23.58
.

She became aware of her own breathing and her heart beating a little faster. She lifted her hand away from the keyboard and flexed her fingers. A bass line thudded from the flat above her as someone turned up the volume, momentarily distracting her. She ran her hand lightly across the keys, gambling on whether she might press the Return key by accident. Knowing she would not, that nothing involving her and Alex was an accident.

Today
, he’d said. He must have the essay
today
. He’d even framed the word with little asterisks to make the deadline very clear. He’d also made it clear he intended to “give her the time and attention she deserved”.