Night School: Legacy

I cannot be in his bedroom – Carter would kill me. This is so not a good thing. I’ve got to get out of here.

But when he handed her a thick warm towel, instead of throwing it on the floor and running out of the door she began drying herself, looking around curiously. It was like any other dorm room, except for the extraordinary painting in an ornate gilded frame, of angels carrying an unconscious man.

Following her eyes, Sylvain gave an embarrassed shrug. ‘A gift.’

Yanking open a drawer, he pulled out an armful of T-shirts and jumpers, dropping them on the bed. ‘Here. Take off your wet clothes and put these on. They will all be too big but they will do.’

Through the tangled mass of wet hair covering her face, Allie glowered at him. ‘You think I’m taking my clothes off in front of you? Good luck with that.’

A flash of amusement sparked in his eyes. ‘Don’t be such a child. I’ll turn my back if you prefer, but you will not get warm if you keep those wet clothes on. Plus, you will make a spectacle walking back to your room.’

Without waiting for her to agree, he turned around to face the door.

For just a second she didn’t move.

Her soaking wet top made a slapping sound when it hit the wood floor. She wanted to leave her bra on, but it was wet through.

‘Don’t you dare turn around,’ she said through gritted teeth as she unhooked it.

His chuckle surprised her. ‘Hurry up or I will,’ he threatened. ‘I want to change, too.’

Dropping her soaking bra on top of her wet shirt, she pulled on one of his T-shirts. It hung to her thighs. She put a jumper on top of it, then a pair of pyjama bottoms with a drawstring waist.

‘Done.’

‘Thank God,’ he said. ‘I’m freezing.’ As he turned, his eyes skittered across her body. ‘My clothes look better on you than they do on me,’ he commented. She felt colour rise in her face, but he’d already turned to rifle through the T-shirts and jumpers she hadn’t put on.

‘Now, I need to get out of my wet clothes,’ he said in perfectly reasonable tones. ‘I won’t make you turn around, though. I am French, so I’m not shy.’

‘I will turn around …’ she said, but before she’d finished the sentence he’d peeled off his wet shirt.

So there was no point.

Right?

His torso was leanly muscled, and his latte-coloured skin held a Braille pattern of goosebumps. Shivering, he dried himself quickly before pulling on a clean T-shirt identical to the one she wore. Then, without any hesitation, he peeled off his wet trousers and dropped them into the pile with her wet clothes.

Turn around, Allie, she told herself. But she didn’t move.

He had the long, muscled legs of an athlete, she observed, as he pulled dry trousers on over his dark blue boxers.

‘You’re very good-looking,’ Allie heard herself say as if from a hundred miles away.

Oh good. I’ve gone completely insane.

Surprised, he looked up at her.

‘Thank you,’ he said simply. ‘You are beautiful.’

‘I’m a mess.’ Allie sat down on his bed, wondering with only mild interest what she would say next.

When she glanced up, he was holding a towel out for her. She looked at it blankly.

‘For your hair,’ he explained.

But the stress had taken its toll and, when he handed it to her, she just held it loosely in one hand, thinking about Christopher and Carter and Gabe …

And … Shut up brain! Please God, let my brain just shut up.

When she didn’t move, Sylvain lowered himself on to the bed next to her and began drying her hair with gentle hands. ‘I read somewhere,’ he said, ‘that when you are cold you lose most of the heat from your head. So even if the rest of you is perfectly warm, you can still feel freezing if your head is cold. I think that is very strange, don’t you?’

His hands felt cold when they touched her neck, and she shivered.

‘What happened, Allie?’ he asked. ‘Why did you run away like that?’

She closed her eyes. ‘I get these panic attack things. I can’t breathe.’ She gestured vaguely. ‘Claustrophobic. But …’ she opened her eyes again ‘… you mustn’t tell.’

His hands quit moving. ‘Tell what? Tell someone about your panic attack? Of course not.’

‘No. Sylvain,’ she said with such passion it startled them both, ‘please don’t tell Isabelle about Christopher’s letter.’

Dropping the towel, he moved until he could see her face. ‘I have promised. And I won’t. But now you must promise me that you won’t go off to meet Christopher by yourself.’

‘I have to see him.’ She held his gaze. ‘I have to know what happened. He’s the only one who can tell me. Sylvain, he’s my brother.’

He held up his hands. ‘Then take Carter with you. And Lucas. And Jules.’

She shook her head. ‘If I tell Carter he’ll go straight to Isabelle. He won’t listen to me.’ Only when she said those words did she fully understand why she hadn’t told Carter about the letter. She didn’t trust him. And he didn’t trust her.