Wicked Beauty

by Susan Lewis

  After a while he said, ‘I see your legs opening and feel myself sliding deep inside you.’

  She moaned softly again, and her hips writhed a little, as though searching for the finger he’d removed. ‘Are you going to carry out the promises in your new poem?’ she asked huskily.

  ‘I already am,’ he told her, caressing her. ‘Can’t you feel the brutality; the merciless degradation and pain?’

  She smiled and closed her eyes.

  ‘How much of it can you stand?’ he asked.

  ‘All of it.’

  ‘Can you see how huge you’re making my cock?’

  Her eyes remained closed as her tongue circled her lips. ‘Mmm, yes, I see it,’ she moaned.

  ‘Is it too big for you?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘But you know you’re going to get it.’

  She nodded, and drew in a shuddering breath. ‘You’re going to rape me,’ she said.

  ‘That’s right.’

  He looked down at his hand again. Her knees were still together, but he could see how aroused she was by the circling motion of his fingers, and wondered how much further she would allow him to go.

  Her eyes opened as he pressed two fingers in deeper, seeking to penetrate. ‘You like being raped,’ he told her.

  She said nothing, only watched his face and let his fingers continue their quest. Then one of her feet fell to the floor, parting her legs, and as she sat up, playfully reminding him it was almost time for rushes, his fingers slipped all the way in.

  Then she was on her feet, her dress round her knees, and her hand out to help him up.

  ‘It will happen,’ he told her gruffly.

  Laughing softly, she cupped a hand over his erection, squeezed it hard, then sauntered to the door. ‘Before I go, tell me you love me,’ she said over her shoulder.

  ‘I love you,’ he replied.

  ‘More than Anna?’

  His eyes showed his pain as he said, ‘More than anyone.’

  ‘Are you my slave?’

  ‘Always and for ever.’

  Her eyes were smouldering as she looked at him.

  ‘I will have you,’ he said softly.

  She only smiled, then after dropping her gaze to the thick bulge in his trousers, she pulled open the door, leaving him to use the en suite bathroom alone.

  Rachel was standing in the middle of the front lawn, surrounded by boxes of old junk and papers that she’d carted down from upstairs. Since the sun had finally found its midsummer might, it had seemed a good idea to start sorting all this outside, but as she stared down at it, it felt like such a trivial, time-wasting pursuit when she so desperately wanted to get out there and do something to help Laurie that she couldn’t even think why she was here. It was imperative now that they find Katherine, even before the police, should such a miracle prove possible, but there were just no leads at all. And with the investigation moving on to such dangerous ground, she really had no other choice but to suppress this almost overwhelming urge to act, and put the baby first.

  Sighing irritably she sank down on the blanket, not sure whether she liked the way her waistline was expanding so rapidly, for her belly was bulging out between the bottom of her T-shirt and the elastic waistband of her Capri pants. Still, at least it had started to turn brown, thanks to the last few days of hot weather, and in truth, despite her irascible mood, there was almost nothing she longed for more now than to feel the baby starting to move. It would be like a single ray of hope to carry her through this nightmare she was amazingly calling a life!

  Digging into the nearest box, she was about to pull out a handful of papers when the sound of someone singing made her look up. At first she couldn’t quite make out where it was coming from and assumed it was a radio, until laughter began bubbling up inside her as she spotted Chris Gallagher, strolling up the footpath with his guitar, serenading anyone who cared to listen. Though she didn’t recognize the tune, as he drew closer she realized the words were familiar, and by the time he reached the gate, she was joining in with the final chorus.

  ‘So watch the wall my darling, watch the wall my darling, oh watch the wall my darling, while the Gentlemen go by.’

  He finished with a flourishing stanza of chords, and she clapped and laughed as he bowed his thanks.

  ‘Rudyard Kipling’s “A Smuggler’s Song”,’ she declared, as he came to join her. ‘Did you set it to music?’

  His expression crooked with irony. ‘I confess that was Zac’s doing. Did you like it?’

  ‘It’s wonderful. I’ve never heard him sing it.’

  ‘I’m sure you will.’ Resting the guitar against one of the boxes, he dropped down on to the blanket and sat cross-legged facing her. ‘So, are we playing jumble sales, or is this your normal diet for an afternoon read?’ he said, peering into the closest box.

  She looked at it in despair. ‘I’m almost tempted just to throw it all away,’ she confessed. ‘It’s mainly old bills, or letters from the council …’ She let a pile of it cascade from her hands. ‘I suppose it would be disrespectful, though, not to go through it completely.’

  Plucking a long blade of grass from a clump that was sprouting nearby, he popped it into his mouth and lay down to rest on one elbow. ‘So how long did you sit up searching the Net last night?’ he asked.

  She grimaced as her anxiety returned. Then narrowing her eyes, she said, ‘I’m not sure I like how well you seem to know me.’

  He laughed, and threw away the grass. ‘I was trying to call you for a couple of hours and couldn’t get through,’ he explained.

  ‘Ah, that’s because I was talking to my sister. The fax and computer are on another line. But you’re right, I did spend a long time on line last night, knocking around what you might call some of the roughest neighbourhoods on the Net, and managing to scare myself half to death into the bargain.’

  ‘Let me guess, guerrilla and terrorist groups?’ he said.

  She nodded.

  ‘So are you any wiser about anything now?’

  Sighing, she shook her head. ‘No, and I don’t suppose I really expected to be, so you have to wonder why I put myself through it. After all, these sanctions-busting shipments are hardly going to be recorded on someone’s website, are they?’

  ‘I wouldn’t imagine so,’ he responded. ‘What about the professor? Any more on him?’

  ‘Patrice Bombola? Yes, actually, there is. Laurie informs me that his assets, which turn out to be quite considerable for a mere professor, were frozen by the US Government until January this year, at which point they were promptly unfrozen.’

  ‘Oh,’ he commented.

  ‘Oh indeed, because when put together with his Phraxos connections, you have to ask, how come he got unfrozen so fast?’

  ‘And the answer is?’

  ‘Wouldn’t we like to know.’ As she spoke, her eyes were drifting off to the middle distance where a flock of gulls was flying harum-scarum over the cove, and a couple of fishermen were puttering out around the far headland in their boat, though she wasn’t registering much of anything beyond her own thoughts at that moment. Then quite suddenly she said, ‘The transfer’s obviously arrived by now. I wonder if I’ll hear anything about it again.’

  ‘You still haven’t mentioned it to … What was his name? Haynes?’

  She shook her head. ‘I haven’t spoken to him in over a week. Laurie saw him again yesterday though, after the Guardian broke the story about Gustave Basim and the possible connection to Tim. She leaked it, by the way. This time Haynes didn’t even try to deny it – he couldn’t really, could he, after the French police confirmed they’d been contacted about the body. So now we know for certain that Gustave Basim was the third person in the flat.’ Her heart sank then, as she remembered that the DNA results from the sheet were due any time now. ‘Still no leads on Katherine,’ she continued, wanting to get herself past it. ‘Or on this Xavier Lachère. In fact, it’s almost as though everything’s come to a grinding halt
on that front, and considering where it’s probably all heading, to my husband being the kind of human being I despise, I can’t really say I’m sorry.’ She turned back to look at him, slightly embarrassed by her note of self-pity, and seeing how earnestly he was scowling, as though trying to puzzle out how he could help, she found herself saying, ‘OK, that’s enough about me. Let’s talk about you for a change.’

  His eyebrows rose in surprise.

  ‘Beanie tells me you’re a very important art dealer with galleries in Mousehole, Fowey, and London.’

  ‘Beanie exaggerates,’ he responded, his eyes twinkling.

  ‘So you don’t have three galleries?’

  ‘Yes, I do, but I’m definitely not very important.’

  She laughed. ‘Beanie also tells me that she was madly in love with your father, and would have left home for him if she hadn’t been madly in love with her own husband at the time.’

  It was his turn to laugh. ‘My father would have been a lucky man to get Beanie,’ he declared. ‘Or so my mother used to tell him. Did Beanie also happen to mention how she pops into the church at Roon Moor to put flowers on his grave, every month?’

  Rachel smiled past the guilt she felt at not having visited Tim’s grave at all since his death. ‘No, she didn’t,’ she said.

  ‘My mother’s too, actually,’ he added. ‘They all knew each other for a long time. Even when we were living in London and didn’t come down here much, they still kept in touch. Beanie used to take care of the house then, but she hardly comes up there now. Maybe it brings back too many memories.’

  ‘Where exactly is the house?’ Rachel asked.

  ‘Just off the road to Kynance. Not far.’

  He gave her a wink then, and rolled on to his back to stare up at the sky.

  As she looked at him she could feel sadness welling up inside her. Even this small, merely polite interest in another man was making her feel horribly disloyal to Tim. ‘OK. The Killian secret,’ she said, changing the subject again. ‘You keep avoiding it, but this time I’m not letting you go until you’ve confessed all.’

  His expression immediately altered as a droll light came into his eyes. ‘Don’t I get some kind of bribe?’ he protested, turning his head to look at her.

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘A cup of coffee. A dance at the Roon Moor village hop. A promise that you’ll come sailing in my boat?’

  ‘All three, but the secret has to come first.’

  He laughed, and turned his eyes back to the sky. ‘All right, let me see,’ he began, putting his hands behind his head. Then glancing at her again, ‘Are you sure you don’t know what it is?’

  ‘Well, I could make an educated guess,’ she responded.

  ‘Then you’d be absolutely right,’ he told her. ‘So that’s that. What shall we talk about next?’

  Laughing, she said, ‘Oh no, you don’t get away with it that easily.’

  Pulling a face, he said, ‘All right. So what have you guessed?’

  ‘Smuggling?’ she ventured.

  Faking amazement he cried, ‘What on earth makes you say that?’

  Unable to stop herself laughing again, she said, ‘This is Cornwall. Old traditions die hard.’

  After a moment he turned his eyes back to the sky. ‘Do you actually want to know any more than that?’ he asked. ‘Because if you do, it’ll make you an accomplice – and I think you’ve probably got enough on your plate.’

  The reminder caused her heart to sink, for it seemed there really was no getting away from her problems. ‘You’re right,’ she replied dismally. ‘I don’t need to know.’ After a moment’s reflection that left her feeling more isolated than ever, she said, almost jealously, ‘How involved are you in it?’

  ‘Me? Not at all,’ he replied. ‘I know it’s happening, and how they’re doing it, but as for a hands-on – I don’t need the trouble either.’

  Several seconds ticked by, then suddenly aware she’d been looking at him for too long, she dug into a box and pulled out a sheaf of yellowing papers. ‘My goodness,’ she murmured, after she’d been reading for a few moments, ‘this looks like a book of some kind. Or a diary. But no, there aren’t any dates.’ She passed a handful over for him to read too.

  ‘Ghosts, witches, goblins,’ she said, starting to smile. ‘They must be some of the stories Beanie tells. Who wrote them down, I wonder? Oh, this is wonderful. I keep asking Beanie to do it, but she claims not to have the time. By the way, is she a part of the smuggling?’

  ‘Not as far as I know, but she’ll be aware it’s happening, I’m sure.’

  ‘And Nick?’

  ‘Of course. And Zac and Todd and Pinkie. They all are.’

  ‘What about their wives?’

  He laughed. ‘I’m pretty certain it was one of the wives, or a sister, who came up with the idea in the first place,’ he answered. ‘But I won’t name any names, because I don’t know for sure.’

  Rachel let her head fall back and inhaled the pungent scent of roses mingled with salt and fish. This was just the strangest time, making her feel as though she’d somehow got caught up in scenarios that really had nothing to do with her at all, and in many ways they didn’t, either here in Cornwall, or in the distant African lands she’d never even seen. Yet she could no more divorce herself from it than she could from the man who’d brought it all into her life.

  ‘Do you know what I’d like to do now?’ she suddenly declared. ‘I’d like to go somewhere for a genuine Cornish tea.’

  His eyebrows made a comical arch. ‘Well, considering where we are, that could be easier to arrange than a genuine Chinese tea,’ he said drily, handing back the story pages. ‘And as I recall, we still owe the Most Southerly Point a visit, so, shall we walk?’

  She took a moment to think. ‘We could, and if we don’t want to walk back, I can always get Beanie to come and fetch us.’

  ‘Will we fit in Romie’s trailer?’ he asked, puzzling it out.

  The very image made her laugh, but then the phone rang and her laughter instantly died.

  ‘Shall I get it?’ he offered.

  She nodded, and stayed where she was, not proud of her cowardliness, but willing to let it rule this time, for light-hearted moments were so rare these days that she wanted to hold on to this one for at least a few moments more.

  ‘Got a registered one here,’ a voice called out from the gate.

  Starting, she turned round. ‘Oh Reg, I didn’t see you coming,’ she said, getting up. ‘How are you?’

  ‘’Ot,’ he grumbled, wiping a limp hanky round his neck. ‘Got to sign for it,’ he told her, holding up the medium-sized package.

  As she walked over to the gate she could hear Chris’s voice inside, though was unable to make out what he was saying. ‘Thanks,’ she mumbled as Reg passed her a dog-eared book and pen.

  ‘Just put your moniker there,’ he said pointing.

  She blinked and looked down. Then after quickly scrawling her name in the right box, she took the package and looked to see who it might be from. It was Lucy’s handwriting, so presuming it must be the mail, from London, she absently tore the top of the envelope open, while still glancing at the house, wondering who was on the phone.

  ‘Nice stamps. Haven’t seen them before,’ Reg commented, as she pulled an envelope out of the package.

  ‘It’s Laurie,’ Chris finally called out.

  Rachel turned back to Reg. ‘Thanks,’ she said, and clutching the package to her chest she ran inside to take the call.

  When she reached the kitchen Chris was already coming out again.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ she asked anxiously. ‘What did she say?’

  ‘She’s about to tell you herself,’ he responded, gesturing for her to go on into the sitting room.

  A moment later she was holding the phone to her ear, while putting the package on the table next to it. Her heart was thumping unnaturally, as it always did when she spoke to Laurie now. ‘Hi. How are you?’ sh
e said, infusing as much warmth as she could into her voice, as if it could turn Laurie’s bad news into good.

  ‘Fine,’ Laurie answered. ‘Chris tells me you’re having lovely weather down there.’

  ‘Yes, we are.’ She glanced down at the package, and was about to look away again when she noticed the stamps Reg had mentioned. ‘Oh God,’ she said, feeling a twist in her heart. ‘The package has just turned up from the Virgin Islands.’

  ‘Well there’s a coincidence,’ Laurie responded, ‘because I’ve got good news on the villa front. It belongs to an American woman by the name of Bettina Margolis, who owns two other villas in the same bay, and her own line of cosmetics in Texas. Franz Koehler’s villa is about five or six miles away, in a place called Mahoe Bay, so it’s definitely not the same one.’

  Rachel’s relief was so immense she felt herself turn weak.

  ‘Are you still there?’ Laurie asked.

  ‘Yes, I’m just trying to get over the shock of some good news,’ Rachel answered.

  The smile was audible in Laurie’s voice as she said, ‘I thought you’d be pleased. But hold on, because it doesn’t stop there. Katherine’s ex-senator friend, Patrick J. Landen, has, would you believe, suddenly started taking my calls. I spoke to him this morning, in person, when he informed me that if I care to get myself over to Washington, the week after next, he’ll be happy to see me.’

  Rachel blinked a couple of times. ‘I’m amazed,’ she said bluntly.

  ‘You and me both, but as we know, it can happen like that. One day they give you nothing, the next they’re asking if the world’s enough.’

  ‘Of course, he might be about to spin you a pack of lies,’ Rachel commented sceptically.

  ‘Of course. But that’s no reason not to go, because there’s always the chance he’ll tell us something that could lead us to Katherine. He might also be able to shed some light on the elusive Professor Bombola, who, I’m told, is in Paris at the moment, so I’m trying to get through to his hotel. If I can persuade him to see me I’ll go right away. Or, at the very least, I’ll try asking him on the phone about his meeting with Tim at the Kensington Palace.’