Page 9 of All Saints: Pledge

“Someone will be in contact soon about the next test, please enjoy the rest of tonight.”

Kendall steps down from the dais and the waiters circulate in the room dispensing beautiful bottles of champagne, wine, and scotch.

Clara’s eyes are wide when I turn to her. “Did you have any idea?” she hisses.

“None.” The dark haired server heads our way. In this room, he’s more electric. More magnetic, like he owns the room. I can’t take my eyes off of him, though no one else spares our servers a glance.

“A drink for you?” He asks, reaching our table.

Oh my God, he’s Irish. The lilt to his voice does things to my inside. I nod, unable to trust my voice, and hand him my goblet. Our fingers brush, and I swear electricity zings through our fingers. He studies me a moment before filling my glass with wine and turning to fill the other glasses at our table.

Her gaze is still on Kendall, who is in turn, glaring at both of us.

“What if we have to sell a kidney or something?” Clara asks, her voice low as she turns to me. “Did you catch that whole thing about having to pay a cost? Maybe that’s why Kendall is so mad I’m here, he doesn’t want me getting hurt.”

The hope is palpable so I don’t point out that he’s furiousI’mhere too. He could not care less aboutmykidneys. “I don’t think that’s legal? To pay people to donate organs. At least not in America.”

Clara gives me a look like I clearly missed the part about this being asecret society. And she has a silent point. These people may not be operating under fully legal paradigms.

“At least we know it’s not the liver,” I say, cheersing her with my glass before taking a big long drink. I swear the dark-haired server watches me drink my wine, his eyes following my lips on the rim of the glass and then as they pucker together against the tanin. Can you get a hot flash from a glance? Our gazes collide, and feeling uncharacteristically emboldened by the overwhelm of the evening, I hold his gaze while I take another sip of wine.

His gaze leaves my lips and trails down my throat, following the pass of the liquid. My skin tingles and tightens. How is everyone in the room resisting the allure of this man? I’m about to ask his name, but someone walks between us and when I lift my gaze again, he’s gone.

The boy from across the table, a big brawny kid with tousled hair and ruddy cheeks of an athlete, leans over to Clara. “So, are you going to stay? This is bullocks, right?”

Clara doesn’t answer so he glances at me and I shrug. “That’s a lot of money.”

He nods. “I’ve got a rugby scholarship, and I can’t risk missing practices. Do you think their tests will interfere? Should I give them my match schedule?”

I don’t have any idea, but Kendall’s presentation didn’t seem open to skipping scholarship functions. “Um, maybe?”

He tosses his wine back in one throaty swallow and turns to the fourth person at our table. “How about you, mate?” David, or so his name card says. David Jinesh. He’s slender, but attractive with big dark eyes behind hip black glasses. His outfit is tasteful, and elegant. It screams old-world money.

David raises his eye brows. “My cousin came to the first meeting last year. She told me how to find the room. She made a tidy sum just by participating in the first test, then quitting. I’m here to do the same. I’ll either fail out or drop out.”

Our table inhales as one. David has firsthand knowledge. He feels our interest and lowers his gaze to the table. “I don’t know more than the location of the room. That part is true, she wouldn’t tell me more.”

Clara’s eyes are on Kendall as he talks with two boys at a table next to ours—clearly identical twins. Athletes by the look of them. Her answer goes to them, instead of to Rugby Guy. “I’m staying. At least until we find out more.”

Her intent is clear: where Kendall is, she will put herself there also.

My bank account has eighteen dollars in it, and I’m living in one of the most expensive towns in England. And I plan to stay here long enough to turn myself from a duckling into a swan. This little duckling can use all the help she can get. I can’t affordnotto press on— if they stop paying my tuition right now? I’ll have to go back home, I don’t think I can even qualify for enough loans to cover four years at Oxford. I’m rich in ambition but poor in dollars. I almost don’t carewhatthis secret society is peddling.

I toss back the rest of my wine.

I’m in.

5

“C’mon sleepyhead,” a beautiful voice calls to me in my dream. It’s British. And warm. Like caramel wrapped in flannel.

“Mmmm,” I respond with a smile as a strong arm wraps around my shoulders. In my dream the strong arm belongs to a man that smells like library books and pub chips. I murmur something, and run my hand up his arm.

“Oh my God, look at her. Looks like a good dream. Get it, girl.”

Thatvoice doesn’t belong in my dream. I jolt, forcing one eye open.

Dominic leans around my shoulders, reaching to shut my laptop. My right arm has slipped up his chest and my fingers twine in his collar as if I’m about to pull his mouth down to mine for a kiss.Shit.I’ve fallen asleep studying. And it’s not even that late. I’m still jet lagged, and reading about the political history of Britain hits like a lullaby.

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