The First Time We Met: The Oxford Blue Series #1 by Pippa Croft Page A

shirt from his bloodied nose. Bile rises to my throat at the sight of it.
    ‘You’ve broben by fucking node, you bastard.’
    ‘You should be grateful this girl didn’t kick you in your tiny balls.’ He reaches out his hand and pulls Piers roughly to his feet, shoving him at his mates. ‘Now get him out of here.’
    You can almost smell the testosterone and feel the tension crackling in the air. Rupert and Oscar have quietly moved behind Alexander like the Three Musketeerswhile Piers and his boorish friends bristle with hurt pride and venom. A couple of bar staff try to weave their way through the drinkers. We’ve become Oxford’s latest spectator sport. That’s what I hate the most: once again I’m the centre of attention when all I wanted to do was fit in here. Does it have to be so hard to blend in?
    Piers clutches a handkerchief to his nose, as Gideon throws an ill-advised ‘You’re not worth it, you shit,’ at Alexander before bundling Piers out of the rear door of the pub. As for me, I’m shaking like a leaf inside, all indignation on the surface.
    Rupert shakes his head. ‘For fuck’s sake, Alexander. Do you have to resort to willy-waving to impress a girl?’
    ‘You can piss off, Rupert. I didn’t see you stepping in.’
    ‘Why bother when you’d waded in like a tank battalion?’
    Alexander brushes glass fragments from his rugby shirt as if they were cookie crumbs. ‘Why don’t you settle up for the damage with the bar staff? I’ll sort it out with you later.’
    That comment is sheathed in silky menace and Rupert curls his lip but does as he’s told, reduced to a hired lackey. I know what he’s thinking, what they’re all thinking – Immy, Oscar and the rest – as Alexander gestures to a corridor that leads to the pub bathrooms. The hubbub is rising again, but strangely enough everyone is giving us some space. I ought to walk out of here now, but I find myself doing the same as Piers and Gideon and Rupert.
    That is, dancing to Alexander’s tune.
    His voice is calm and oddly soothing as we face off in the corridor. ‘I’m sorry about that. Are you OK?’
    I don’t need his apology because I’m not some shrinking Edwardian lady, but I’m also human and when Alexander touches my arm, the contact is electric. Then I spot the skinned knuckles and the spots of blood on his shirt.
He smacked a guy in the mouth for me
. Well, this isn’t the Stone Age and I don’t need to be presented with a sabre-toothed tiger and dragged by the hair to his cave. He’s just as bad as the rest of them.
    I take a step back, as much to back off from the idea of being carried to his lair as to show him my indifference to his boxing skills. My back brushes the wood of the door.
    ‘You know, I – we really didn’t need rescuing,’ I say, refusing to be fazed by that intense gaze.
    A ghost of a smile touches his lips. ‘Again?’
    I know he’s referring to the cloister incident and the memory of it makes me prickle with indignation and lust all over again. Over his shoulder, Immy, Rupes et al have their eyes on stalks, desperate to check out what’s going on. Then Alexander shifts his position slightly so that his back is between me and them, shielding our conversation from view. He smells and looks incredible, and the bloodied shirt both repulses me and connects with some deep-rooted primeval need.
    Suddenly I realize how skilfully I’ve been manoeuvred into place and my heart pitter-patters. Well, I’m not intimidated and I’m not impressed. So unimpressed, a jolt of desire for him shoots right through me.
    ‘Um, Alexander …’ Wow, that name sounds weird on my tongue, like I agreed to try a new food for the first time and I’m not sure I like it. I’ll have to take another bite to be sure. ‘Alexander, I do appreciate you thought you were helping me … us, but I didn’t ask you to hit that guy for me. We were in control of the situation.’
    He shrugs and his mouth turns up at the corners.