Tonight, Jane had called from the station. "I took the train from London. Everyone thinks I'm spending the night at my friend Donna's, the one who moved to London last year when her dad took the job at the embassy." Her words spilled from her, fast and furious, as if she had to get them out before she lost her nerve. "But I'm not with Donna. I'm here. And I really want to see you tonight. You know. Before it gets crazy. Before it's more than just us. So I'm coming. Right now. And I don't care if you think I shouldn't. I'm coming, and you can't say no."
She was coming; she was really coming.
And, of course, he couldn't say no.
--
"Don't go," Quince said as he peered out the window toward the canopy of a nearby willow tree and the common area below. "I've got a bad feeling."
Dallas patted his back pocket to make sure his wallet was there. "Give it up, man. I'm going. I mean, come on. What's the worst that can happen?"
Quince turned to face Dallas, and as he did the moonlight through the willow's fronds cast shadows on his face. "Oh, gee, let's think. Expulsion?"
"As much money as my dad pumps into this place? I don't think so." The words came easily, but he didn't really believe them. Despite the family fortune, Eli Sykes had to fight to get Dallas admitted to the Academy. Apparently Dallas wasn't the model of decorum that the school usually accepted. And it wouldn't take much for Phelps and the administrative board to decide they should never have caved in the first place.
Didn't matter. Even if it meant living at home and getting his damn GED, he'd do it. He'd sneak out.
He had to see her.
"You'll cover for me?"
The shadows moved over Quince's face. "I still don't like it. It's going to get all fucked up."
"Q, come on, man. Back me up here."
Quince sighed. "Fuck. You know I will."
Dallas flashed a wide grin--the one that would put him on the cover of GQ and Esquire in later years. A decadent, knowing smile that promised sin and redemption all wrapped up together.
"I owe you big-time," Dallas said.
"Hell, yeah, you do." Quince cocked his head toward the window again. "She's down there. Go. And for god's sake do it quietly."
He'd had plenty of practice sneaking down the back stairs of Lancaster Hall, and Dallas was out of the room, down the corridor, and through the fire escape door in less than three minutes. He hesitated just long enough to make sure none of the guys with too-tight neckties and sticks up their asses had reattached the alarm trigger, but all stayed quiet.
He crept through the moon-dappled dark, through the shadows casting patterns on the damp ground. A small tributary of the Thames ran through the school property, dividing the common area between Lancaster and Wellington Halls. Jane had never been here, but he knew where she would be. Hadn't he written her enough emails describing the campus and where he liked to go to sit, to think?
And, yes, to curse the fact that the girl he wanted--the girl he loved--was the one girl he couldn't have.
The path curved to reveal the bench. It was plain enough, the paint faded from years of exposure to the elements despite the limited shelter provided by a majestic oak that was undoubtedly older than the school that had been founded three centuries ago.
He hurried toward it, his chest tight. She wasn't there. Had she changed her mind? Surely she hadn't changed her mind.
Then the shadows near the bank of the river shifted, and there she was, just standing there looking out at the ghostly reflection of the moon on the water. Her back was to him, and he stood perfectly still. But she must have heard him. Or maybe she just sensed him.
She turned. And when she smiled it was like the rest of the world just fell away.
He took a step toward her, and then another and another until they were standing only a breath apart.
He reached for her, and she did the same, but both pulled back the second their fingers touched.
Her mouth quirked into an embarrassed smile, and she dropped her gaze.
The moment turned awkward, and he didn't know how to erase the thick unease that seemed to fill the air between them. All he knew was her. All he wanted was to touch her, hold her.
He wanted to kiss her, wild and hot, and so much deeper than the one gentle kiss they'd shared over a year ago. And, dammit, he didn't care if it was wrong. He wanted it. Wanted her.
He always had.