Page 6 of Save Me (Maxton Hall #1)

Ruby

A strawberry-blond ponytail sways in front of my face. I focus all my rage on it.

This is all Lydia’s fault! If she hadn’t been making out with a teacher, I wouldn’t have caught the two of them at it, and she wouldn’t have been able to go running to her brother about me.

Then I’d be able to focus on the lesson and wouldn’t be getting worked up about the fact that he called me Robyn .

Or that I actually threw five thousand pounds up in the air.

I bury my face in my hands. I can’t believe I did that.

Of course it was right not to take the money.

But all the same—my mind has been racing since yesterday afternoon with all kinds of things I could have done with it.

Our house, for instance. Since Dad’s accident ten years ago, we’ve gradually been doing it up and making it wheelchair accessible, but there are still a few places that could do with improvement.

And our car’s been on its last legs for ages, when we’re all dependent on it.

Especially Dad. The forty grand that James offered me by the end of the year could have bought a brand-new people carrier.

I shake my head. No, I’d never take hush money from the Beauforts. I can’t be bought.

I pull my journal out from under my history book and open it. Every bullet point for today has already been ticked off. The only thing that’s still glittering mockingly at me is pick up reference from Mr. Sutton .

I grit my teeth and stare at the letters. I wish I could erase them—that and the memory of him and Lydia.

For the first time since the lesson started, I dare to peek over Lydia’s head to the front.

Mr. Sutton’s standing at the whiteboard.

He’s wearing a checkered shirt and a dark gray cardigan, and the glasses he always has on in class.

He has neat designer stubble, and I can see the dimples in his cheeks that the whole class swoons over.

Laughter rings out around me—he’s cracked a joke.

One of the reasons I always used to like him so much.

Now I can’t even look at him.

I don’t get it—Mr. Sutton got into Oxford, did his degree, started work at one of the poshest schools in the country straight after graduating, and then the first thing he goes and does is get involved with a student? Why, for God’s sake?

His eyes meet mine and immediately, his smile slips slightly. In front of me, Lydia stiffens. Her shoulders and neck go rigid, as if she’s putting every ounce of strength she has into not turning around.

I lower my gaze so hastily to my planner that my hair flies across my face like a dark cloud. I spend the rest of the lesson hunched in that position.

When the bell finally rings, it feels like days have passed, not ninety minutes. I take as much time as I can. I gather up my stuff in slow motion and put it carefully away in my backpack. Then I do up the zip so slowly that I hear each individual tooth lock into place.

I don’t stand up until everyone’s footsteps and voices are gradually fading. Mr. Sutton seems miles away as he stuffs his papers into a folder. He looks tense, every scrap of humor that was on his face just now has vanished.

The only person still in the room with us is Lydia Beaufort. She’s hanging around by the door, looking from me to Mr. Sutton and back again, her jaw tense.

My heart is pounding in my throat as I shoulder my backpack and walk to the front. I stop a good distance away from Mr. Sutton’s desk and clear my throat. He looks at me. His golden-brown eyes are full of regret. His guilty conscience is tangible. His movements are jerky and robotic.

“Lydia, would you give us a minute?” he asks, not looking at her.

“But…”

“Please,” he adds gently, his eyes drifting over to her for a second.

She nods, lips pressed together, and turns away. She shuts the classroom door quietly behind her.

Mr. Sutton turns back to me. He opens his mouth to say something, but I cut him off.

“I just wanted to pick up my UCAS reference,” I say hastily.

He blinks, confused, and it takes him a moment to react.

“I…Of course.” He flips frantically through the folder that he just put his class notes away in.

He doesn’t seem to find what he’s looking for, so he leans over, picks up his brown leather bag from the floor, and heaves it onto the desk.

He opens it and digs around for a while.

His hands are shaking, and I can see his cheeks starting to flush pink.

“Here’s your copy,” he mumbles as he finally pulls out a clear plastic folder with a sheet of paper inside it. “I was intending to talk it through with you first, but after…” He clears his throat. “I’ve already uploaded it because I didn’t know if you’d still be collecting it.”

I take it with stiff fingers. “Thanks.”

He coughs again. The situation is getting worse by the second. “I wanted to tell you that I…”

“Don’t.” My voice is a hoarse croak. “Please…don’t.”

“Ruby…” Suddenly I recognize a second emotion alongside the regret in Mr. Sutton’s eyes: fear. He’s afraid of me. Or rather of what I might do with the knowledge I have of him and Lydia. “I only wanted to…”

“No,” I say, and this time my voice is firmer. I lift my hands to ward it off. “I have no intention of telling anyone about it. Really, I don’t. I…I just want to forget the whole thing.”

He opens his mouth and shuts it again. His expression is equal parts surprise and doubt.

“It’s none of my business,” I continue. “Or anyone else’s.”

Between us there’s a pause, during which Mr. Sutton eyes me so intently that I don’t know where to look. It’s as though he’s trying to read my eyes to find out whether I’m serious. In the end, he says quietly: “You know that that means I’ll still be your teacher.”

Of course I do. And the idea of spending several hours a week in the same room as Lydia and Mr. Sutton is anything but appealing. But the alternative is going to the head, and my encounter with James Beaufort gave me a very clear foretaste of what that would mean for me.

Besides, I genuinely do believe that Mr. Sutton’s private life has nothing to do with me.

“I just want to forget the whole thing,” I say again.

He exhales slowly. “And you have no…conditions?” When he sees my outraged expression, he hastily adds: “You’re on course to pass with flying colors anyway.

You’re one of the best in the class, you know that.

All I meant was that…I…” He breaks off, groaning with frustration; his cheeks are red, his body language uncertain, and his eyes are almost despairing.

He suddenly looks incredibly young, and, for the first time, I really clock how young he is—not that much older than us.

I try to smile, without much success. “I just want to get through my exams in peace, sir,” I say, putting my copy of the reference in my bag.

He doesn’t reply, and I walk to the classroom door. Then I look back over my shoulder. “Please don’t give me any special treatment.”

He stares at me like I’m a ghost—and not a friendly one. His eyes are suspicious, which is hardly surprising.

“Thanks for writing the reference.”

I see him swallow hard. Then he nods again. I turn away and walk out of the classroom. Once I’ve shut the door, I lean my back against it, shut my eyes, and take several deep breaths.

Only then do I realize that I’m not alone. A soft sound makes my eyes fly open again.

James Beaufort is leaning against the wall opposite me.

He’s crossed his arms over his chest and has one foot against the wall.

His eyes are on me—his expression is harder than yesterday; his mood seems darker.

There’s no more trace of the conspiratorial grin with which he tried to foist his money on me.

He pushes himself away from the wall and comes over. His steps are slow and almost threatening. The moment seems to last ages. My heart starts to race. This is his kingdom. And I feel like an interloper.

He comes very close before he stops. He looks down at me without a word, and for a moment I forget how to breathe.

Once I’ve got that under control again, I realize how nice he smells.

Like star anise. Spicy and tangy, but pleasant.

I’d like to bring my nose closer to him, but then I remember who I’m facing here.

James reaches into his inside pocket.

That frees me from my paralysis. I narrow my eyes and glare at him. “If you try to bribe me again, I’ll shove your money down your throat.”

His hand pauses a moment, then draws back. His eyes flicker darkly. “Cut this whole Mother Teresa bit out and tell me what you want from my family.” His voice is velvety and deep—a strange contrast to his harsh words.

“I don’t want anything from your family,” I begin, glad to have the door at my back.

“Apart from you to leave me alone, maybe. Besides, Mother Teresa would have taken the money and handed it out in the dining hall or given it to the needy on the streets or something. Love thy neighbor and all that, you know?”

James’s face freezes. “Do you think that’s funny?” he asks, the rage clear in his voice. He takes another step toward me, so close that the toes of his shoes are touching mine.

If he comes another millimeter closer, I’ll kick him where it hurts—regardless of who at Maxton Hall knows my name after that.

“I don’t want any trouble with you, Beaufort,” I say, keeping my voice calm.

“Or your sister. And I really don’t want your money.

All I want is to get through the upper sixth. ”

“You really don’t want the money,” he says with an air of such disbelief that I can’t help wondering what he and his family must have experienced in the past. Or who they’ve had to deal with.

None of my business, none of my business, none of my business!

“No, I don’t want your money.” Maybe if I repeat it a few more times while looking him straight in the eye, he’ll believe me.

He watches me for what feels like an eternity, studying every inch of my face and reading my intentions. Then he lowers his gaze to my lips, then to my chin and neck, and then lower still. Centimeter by centimeter.

When he looks up again, understanding has dawned on his face. He steps back a bit. “I see.” He sighs and then looks both ways down the corridor. “Where do you want it?”

I have no idea what he means. “What?”

“Where d’you want it?” He rubs the back of his head. “I think one of the tutor rooms over there is free. I’ve got a master key.” He looks questioningly at me. “Do you get very loud? It’s right next to Mrs. Wakefield’s office, and she generally stays late.”

I can only stare at him, wondering what the hell he means. “I don’t have the least idea what you’re on about.”

He raises a mocking eyebrow. “Right. Listen, I’m familiar with the whole ‘I don’t want money’ thing too.” Then he grabs my hand and pulls me down the hall. Outside the room he mentioned, he pulls the key from his pocket and opens the door.

He’s started loosening his tie with his free hand.

Where do you want it?

Once I realize what he meant by “it,” I’m gasping with outrage. But he suddenly takes my hand and starts to pull me into the room. I grip on to the doorframe and tear my hand away.

“What the hell?” I snap.

“Let’s start the negotiations over again,” he replies. He glances at his watch. The strap is black and the casing is bronze, and it looks very stylish. And crazy expensive. “I’ve got training in a bit, so it would be good if we could get a move on.”

He holds the door for me and nods into the room, untying his tie altogether and starting to unbutton his shirt too. My brain short-circuits as his chest comes into view and I get a glimpse of his muscles. My throat is dry as dust.

“Are you insane?” I croak, taking a step back before he can get to the last button.

He looks intently at me. “Don’t act like you don’t know how this works.”

I snort. “You must be out of your mind if you think you can buy my silence with your body. Who do you actually think you are, you arrogant bastard?”

He blinks again and again. Opens his mouth and shuts it again. Then he shrugs his shoulders.

My cheeks are hot. I don’t know whether I should be repulsed or ashamed. I think I’m feeling a bit of both. “What’s wrong with you?” I mumble, shaking my head.

Now it’s his turn to snort. “Everyone has a price, Robyn. What’s yours?”

“My name’s Ruby, for fuck’s sake!” I snarl, clenching my fists. “Here’s my price: Leave me the hell alone from now on. I seriously can’t afford to be seen with you.”

His eyes are spraying sparks. “ You can’t afford to be seen with me ?”

The disbelief in his voice ought to make me angry, but by now I almost feel sorry for him. Almost.

“It’s enough that you spoke to me in the dining hall. I don’t want to be part of your world.”

“My world,” he repeats.

“You know…the parties, drugs, all that crap. I want nothing to do with it.”

Suddenly, I hear footsteps. My heart skips a beat and then starts to race. I shove James into the room and slam the door behind us. I hold my breath, listening intently and hoping desperately that whoever is out there won’t come in here.

Please no, please no, please no.

The steps grow louder, and I screw my eyes shut. They pause outside the door. Then they fade away again and disappear altogether. I breathe a sigh of relief.

“You’re serious.” James’s tone is inscrutable, like his face.

“Yes,” I say. “So kindly do your shirt up again.”

He slowly complies with my request but doesn’t take his eyes off me. Like he’s searching for some back door that I might have left open somewhere. He doesn’t seem to find one. “OK then.”

The pressure on my chest eases abruptly. “Good. Great. So, I have to get home; my parents will be waiting.” I gesture over my shoulder with my thumb. He doesn’t speak, so I awkwardly raise my hand to wave goodbye. Then I turn to the door.

“Even so, I don’t trust you.” The sound of his dark voice sends goose bumps down my arms.

I press down the handle. “The feeling’s mutual.”