Free Moth to the Flame by Maxine Barry Page A

presence all around her. Gareth. Just his name . . . Gareth . . . repeated in the quiet fortress of her mind could make every nerve-ending in her body twitch in tingling reaction. And after that first, heart-wrenching, soul-numbing encounter on her first day, she’d been obliged to back off just a little, if only for her own peace of mind.
    She needed to wean herself off that sensation of desire and intimacy whenever he was around. So far, unfortunately, it wasn’t working. But he looked puzzled by her reticence, which was no good, of course. No good at all. She was going to have to bite the bullet sometime, and make a much more positive move on him.
    Not that that would be easy for her. Even in the staid and ultra-respectable SCR, his grey eyes had been capable of setting her skin jumping, her blood pounding, and her heart reluctantly racing. His lips were the most mobile, kissable lips she’d ever seen on a man.
    Realising she was still standing with her back to the door, gazing around at the large, comfortably furnished den, she forced herself forward towards his desk on shaking knees. She sat down in a scuffed, faded red leather chair, and felt herself sink into its contours. He’d sat in this chair for day after day, year after year, and he’d moulded it to his body. She could even smell him on the chair—the tangy scent of the pine aftershave he favoured. Grimly she fought off a sudden wave of intense desire. Yet she knew she would only have to close her eyes to conjure up his image in every sharp detail—those wings of brown hair over his forehead that always made her itch to run her fingers through them. Those eyes . . . She gave a small growl of real anger now, and yanked open the first drawer of his desk.
    Just get on with it girl!
    *          *          *
    Gareth knocked on Davina’s door in Wolsey. In his mind’s eye he could see her opening it, her face bearing a fierce scowl, or that dreamy, other-worldly expression that meant that she’d been working on ‘The Flame Moth’. She would laugh, ask him if that was the time already, and . . . But the door remained shut. He knocked again, his ears straining for the sound of movement within, but there was nothing.
    Perhaps she was dining out of college tonight. The whole of Oxford, by now, knew that she was here. She was probably inundated with invitations. Grimly he walked back to the main door and stepped out on to the grass. Off to his right, the hoops of the croquet lawn glinted palely in the moonlight. It was a night for walking hand-in-hand along the banks of the Isis, watching the swans on the riverbank and listening to the choristers practising in Christ Church. The whole of Oxford was bathed in a full moon just waiting for him, and he had no Davina to share it with.
    As he crossed the lawn towards Becket Arch, he glanced across at Walton. And saw that his lights were on.
    *          *          *
    Inside, Davina was feverishly flicking through the desk drawers. Her trawl so far wasn’t very helpful—a student’s essay he was in the middle of reading, a desk diary, assorted stationery. The next drawer down contained College printed papers, but the drawer under it, however, was locked. Her heart suddenly skipped a beat. A locked drawer usually meant something to hide.
    Feverishly she tried the drawers on the left hand side—all were open and one contained a small silver key, right at the back, hidden under a pile of brown envelopes. With a small whoop of triumph, she tried it in the locked drawer, mentally crossing her fingers as she turned the key. Yes! She pulled open the drawer and removed a large, heavy, black folder. Heart beating, she opened it and began to read.
    *          *          *
    Outside, Gareth Lacey began to