Wicked Beauty

by Susan Lewis

  Stacey’s eyes were aglow with pleasure as Petey struggled a huge, cardboard box in through the door. ‘Darling, you should have got the porter to help you,’ she chided. ‘It’s far too heavy for you to manage alone.’

  ‘He’s obviously auditioning for David Copperfield,’ Petey puffed as he headed into the sitting room. ‘I mean the magician, not the orphan. There,’ he declared, depositing the box in the middle of the floor. ‘Approximately five-zero thousand pounds, or it will be once converted.’

  Stacey’s smile widened, as peeling back one of the flaps she reached inside to lift out a neat, book-size parcel, which she carefully unwrapped. ‘Beautiful,’ she sighed, admiring the intricate, hand-tooled carvings that covered the teak box. ‘Such skill our friends in the south-west have.’ Lifting the lid she took a quick peek at the precious inner cargo. ‘Mm,’ she murmured, inhaling the heady aroma that drifted out like an invisible genie. ‘I can feel myself relaxing already.’

  Petey took the box from her, re-wrapped it and slipped it back in with the others. ‘Not for you, sweetie,’ he told her.

  Pouting childishly, she picked up the glass of wine she’d been drinking before he’d arrived. On the table next to it was a newspaper whose front page was completely taken up with the story of the missing journalist, Elliot Russell. She hadn’t read it yet, though Chris had told her on the phone, earlier, that there were references in it to Franz Koehler. Right now she was much more interested in this new delivery. ‘I take it there were no complications?’ she said.

  Petey shook his head, while using a hanky to wipe the sweat from his neck. ‘Did you miss me today?’ he said, heading off to the kitchen to get some water.

  ‘Do you need to ask?’ she responded, tucking her legs under her as she settled into a corner of the sofa. ‘I hate being on set without you, you know that. And no one ever does my hair the way you do.’

  He reappeared in the doorway. ‘You’re such a liar,’ he told her.

  Laughing, she picked up the scenes she was memorizing for the last day of shoot. ‘So how were Elwyn and Felicity?’ she asked, scanning the page for where she’d left off.

  His eyes darted in her direction, but she was still studying the script. ‘Fine,’ he answered, and flopped down in the armchair Chris normally used. ‘So where’s the end of shoot party?’ he asked, plonking his feet on the coffee table. ‘Has anyone decided yet?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, they have. It’s at No. 1 Aldwych.’

  ‘Very stylish,’ he commented. ‘Do we all get rooms for the night?’

  Her eyebrows rose with humour. ‘I don’t think so,’ she answered. ‘But I’ve booked one anyway, which you can use, my darling, if my adorable husband doesn’t make it back in time.’

  ‘Which of course he won’t,’ he said cattily.

  Stacey looked up, her eyes beaming a warning, but her tone was smooth as she said, ‘This time he’s promised he will, and he owes me after taking off to the Caribbean without me.’

  Petey sat quietly for a while, watching her as she carried on reading, then sitting forward he gulped down the rest of her wine.

  ‘There’s more in the fridge,’ she told him, turning over a page.

  Getting up he went to fill two glasses, then brought them back into the room.

  ‘So,’ she said, taking a sip. ‘Shouldn’t you be calling our clients instead of impersonating a teenager with restless hormones? The list is there, on the table. They’ll be eager to know their orders have arrived.’

  Returning to the kitchen, he retrieved her mobile from its charger then went back to begin his duties. ‘Oh, by the way,’ he said, starting to punch in the first number. ‘There was a message from your agent. Someone wants to get in touch with you.’

  ‘Really?’ she said, only half listening. ‘Who?’

  ‘Can’t remember,’ he replied, ‘but I think I’ve got it here,’ and cutting off the call he dug into his back pocket. ‘Someone by the name of Lee Krasner,’ he read, from the torn-off flap of an envelope. ‘Apparently you met at a party and told him to call.’ He tossed the piece of paper over his shoulder. ‘Amazing how they actually believe your crap,’ he spat disgustedly, and resumed dialling.

  Not until he’d finished the third call did Stacey say, ‘Surely you’ve heard the name Lee Krasner before.’

  His eyes widened in exaggerated interest. ‘Well, if you’re talking about Lee Krasner the artist wife of Jackson Pollock, then of course I know who she is,’ he responded. ‘But old and weird as you are, sweetie, I don’t think you can have met her at a party when she’s been dead for twenty years.’

  Stacey laughed, and turned over another page. ‘Did she leave a number?’ she asked casually.

  Petey leaned over the arm of the chair to pick up the message. ‘It looks like a mobile,’ he said.

  ‘Give it a try.’

  Obediently he started punching in the number. ‘What am I supposed to say?’ he asked, putting the phone to his ear.

  ‘Start with hello.’

  Casting her a withering look, he leaned back in the chair and waited. After fifteen rings he was automatically disconnected. ‘Someone else doing Copperfield auditions,’ he remarked, pressing the end button.

  Stacey was quiet as she thought. ‘Call my agent,’ she said, after a while, ‘find out if this Lee Krasner said anything else.’

  A few minutes later he snapped off the line. ‘In this case, Lee Krasner is a male,’ he said. ‘And he just left a number for you to call.’

  Confused, Stacey shook her head. ‘Then we’ll try again tomorrow,’ she said. ‘Now, I need to concentrate, and you need to finish those calls.’

  It was over an hour later when Petey finally put the phone down and wandered into the bathroom, where Stacey was soaking in the bath. ‘All done,’ he declared, perching on the edge and scooping up a handful of bubbles. ‘We should have the full amount by the end of next week.’

  She inhaled dreamily, and closed her eyes. ‘Then I should be able to take it it down to Cornwall myself,’ she said. ‘Unless Chris wants to go down any earlier. In which case, you can hang on here and bring it when you’re ready.’

  Petey’s eyes dropped to where he was trailing a hand through the water. He didn’t much want to get into a conversation about Cornwall, not after what Elwyn had told him today, so changing the subject he said, ‘Do you think Anna Maxton’s going to carry on babysitting her husband all the way through the edit?’

  ‘I imagine so,’ she responded, reaching an arm up high and watching the bubbles descend. ‘Which reminds me, did you put one of the boxes aside for Robert? I want to give it to him as an end of shoot gift tomorrow night.’

  ‘He’s already got one.’

  ‘He can have another, can’t he?’

  Petey shrugged. Then picking up the bath foam he unscrewed the cap and poured in more of the thick, perfumed liquid.

  ‘I’m starting to get the impression that something’s bothering you,’ she remarked, as he put the bubble bath back, and picked up an emery board.

  ‘Just tired,’ he said. ‘It’s a long drive to Cornwall and back in a day.’

  ‘Of course, poor darling,’ she said sympathetically. ‘And I don’t expect you’ve eaten either, have you? How selfish of me. I’ll make you something, tout de suite. Hand me a towel, then go and make yourself comfy in the sitting room.’

  As she stepped out of the water, he wrapped her in a large, fluffy towel then started to leave.

  ‘By the way, did Elwyn and Felicity have any news?’ she asked.

  ‘What sort of news?’ he responded, stiffening. She never asked that.

  She shrugged. ‘Any sort? How are things going down there?’

  ‘Fine, as far as I could tell. They wanted to know when they might expect you.’

  ‘Soon. Very soon,’ she said. ‘I miss it, and Chris and I need to get away together for a while.’ Letting the towel pool at her feet, she released her hair from its shower cap and picked up a b
rush. ‘I wonder if Robert and Anna would like to come for a weekend?’ she said, gazing critically at her reflection.

  Petey looked at her in amazement. ‘Sweetie, the woman’s doing her utmost to keep him away from you,’ he reminded her, ‘and with those poems he writes you I’d have thought you’d be glad to be rid of him. The man’s a psycho …’

  ‘Stop, stop,’ she interrupted. ‘If you start saying those things, then so will other people, and it’s not true. He’s just highly … creative.’

  Petey rolled his eyes. ‘He’s a pervert, and you know it,’ he declared.

  She started to protest again but he cut her off,

  ‘The only reason Anna’s there every day is because she’s terrified to let him out of her sight,’ he cried. ‘She knows you’re fucking with his mind …’

  Stacey laughed.

  ‘Sure, it might seem funny now,’ he said, ‘but you must know the way they’re all gossiping, and if any of this gets into the press, which it will, because dear Gloria will make sure it does, then that’s all we’re going to need, isn’t it, a bunch of reporters digging for dirt and finding fifty grand’s worth of bloody pot.’

  Stacey’s expression was still full of humour. ‘You worry too much,’ she told him, slipping into Chris’s bathrobe and belting it.

  ‘Well, yes, because it just so happens I enjoy my freedom,’ he responded.

  ‘Mm, it smells of him,’ she said, pressing the lapels against her cheeks.

  ‘And what about the art show?’ Petey continued. ‘If anything gets out about the pervy poems that have been running in tandem with the others, and you’re there, displayed in all your glory, you’re going to end up looking like some kind of porn queen.’

  ‘When Ernesto Gomez has done the portraits?’ she said. ‘I don’t think so. Anyway, what do you want me to do? I can’t help it if Robert’s got a crush on me.’

  ‘The man’s a mental case,’ Petey cried. ‘I’m telling you, he’s a psycho.’

  ‘No! He’s a sweet, kind, gentle man with an overactive imagination.’

  ‘And a rampant libido. Not to mention a neurotic wife who’s –’

  ‘Petey, just stop this, will you?’ she demanded. ‘I understand why you’re worried, but I won’t put up with you encouraging or repeating the gossip that’s going around the set. So, let’s drop the subject, and go and get you something to eat.’

  As she stalked out of the bathroom Petey yanked the plug from the bath, then stooped to pick up the towel she’d discarded. He was shaking with frustration, because it wasn’t just her neck on the line here, it was his too. And she certainly wouldn’t be jumping so fast to Anna Maxton’s defence if she knew that Anna Maxton’s sister had been cavorting in the Caribbean with her beloved husband, at least according to the gossip in Killian. Oh no, she’d be going bloody ballistic if she knew about that, which was why he was finding it so difficult to summon the guts to tell her, because everyone knew what happened to the messenger, and in this case the chances of the punishment being anywhere near as simple, or quick, as being shot, were about as good as the chances of Gloria Sullivan keeping her trap shut about Robert once the shoot was over. And that was all they needed, one nosy-face reporter digging a bit deeper than the others, and the whole bloody lot of them were going to find themselves spending the next few years on the wrong side of prison bars. So, like it or not, he was going to have to tell her about the gossip, so she could start the damage control now, before it was too damned late.

  ‘Hello Franz,’ Katherine said into her mobile.

  ‘Hello,’ he responded. He sounded calm, faintly amused. ‘How are you?’

  She could feel the breeze on her face, and the restful beauty of the lake and mountains like a calming force carrying her forward. ‘Ready to end the game,’ she said.

  ‘I’m glad to hear it. Where are you?’

  ‘Where I am now isn’t important,’ she replied, gazing across the water to the glinting buildings of Locarno as they came into view. Maybe he could hear the sound of the boat. Would it matter? She thought not. ‘I want to meet you,’ she said. ‘I’m alone. Do you have the courage to come the same way?’

  Again he sounded amused. ‘If I said yes, would you trust me?’

  ‘Do you trust me?’

  This time he laughed. ‘Where? When?’ he asked.

  She told him, and then rang off. A few minutes later, before the boat reached the shore, she allowed the phone to slip from her hand into the water.

  Xavier might be waiting in the hotel they’d chosen, up in the old town. If not there should be a message, telling her whether or not the actress she’d met at Robert Maxton’s had connected with the name Lee Krasner. It was obscure, but not so obscure as to be unfathomable. It was also one hell of a gamble, considering how little she knew about the woman, but it was that link to Rachel Hendon, through her brother-in-law, and the propitious directing of her footsteps to the Guggenheim Museum in Venice, where she’d remembered the woman, that was encouraging her to go on. And so far there was no reason to feel concerned, for Stacey Greene had no idea who had made the ‘Lee Krasner’ call, except that it was a man, nor did she have anything to connect it to the missing Katherine Sumner. So the opening moves of her strategy were barely under way, a mere dice roll at the beginning of a game that had no real rules to follow, and odds that were stacked so heavily against her that she stood very little chance of staying the course. Knowing Franz, he would already be several moves ahead, because he always was, and he never lost. But she was now going to spend the next two days psyching herself up to get them, at the very least, on to a level field, and at the very best, on to the kind of footing that would allow her a clear and steady aim straight at Rachel Hendon.

  Chapter 25

  ‘YES! OH, GOD yes!’ Stacey gasped, clutching a pillow to her chest as Chris rammed into her from behind. ‘Harder. Do it harder,’ she cried.

  The veins in his neck were bulging, his muscles were on fire. He was giving it everything he had, all the rage and frustration, the resentment, disgust, the whole damned farce of his life. But Stacey never liked it better than when it was like this, so why not just let her have it? It wasn’t going to change anything, it could even make things worse if she ended up pregnant, but right now he was beyond caring.

  Feeling himself starting to come, he grabbed her hips and rode them both to the brink. Then somehow managing to hold himself back as she went over the edge, he ended it sharply.

  She moaned and whimpered, pushing her face into the pillow and collapsing on to her side. Still kneeling over her he wondered if she realized he’d withdrawn prematurely. He hated to do it, because he desperately needed the release, but in the end he hadn’t been prepared to take the risk. A baby was the last thing they needed right now. OK, she could still get pregnant, even without a full climax, but what was he supposed to do, stop having sex with her at all?

  Moving off the bed he walked into the bathroom and turned on the shower. A moment later she was behind him, wrapping her arms round his waist.

  ‘Thanks for coming back in time,’ she murmured in his ear.

  Stepping into the water he reached for the soap. He could do without this party tonight, but since he didn’t want to deal with the scene if he backed out, he would suffer it.

  ‘Allow me,’ she said, taking the soap.

  Letting it go he turned to face her. He was still hard, and knew that if he sat back on the granite steam block, she’d finish him with her mouth.

  It took only a few minutes, then they both showered, kissing and stroking each other, until finally she reached for a towel and went to stand in front of a mirror.

  As she began to brush out her hair, it was his reflection she was watching, rather than her own. He seemed more relaxed now, she thought, but still not fully at ease, and though she was nervous about what might be distracting him, she wasn’t going to pry. He’d just returned from an intense few days with Franz Koehler, which apparently hadn’t gone
well, so it was highly unlikely that his bad temper was linked to a guilty conscience, considering the rumours in Killian, so it wasn’t going to help to bring them up. She seriously doubted there was any truth to them anyway, so she wasn’t going to make the mistake of turning a rumour into a drama. As a neighbour, and being the kind of man he was, it stood to reason he would offer his condolences for the loss of Rachel’s husband, and probably try to give some moral support as well. So that easily explained them spending ‘quite a lot of time’ together, and as for them being in the Caribbean for ten days, well unless someone could prove that they’d actually been there together, she was just going to assume it was a coincidence that malicious gossip had exaggerated into something more pleasing to their warped little minds.

  Watching him shave, she felt unease eroding her resolve to stay calm. Those rumours might be a lot easier to dismiss if she hadn’t sensed a change in their relationship these last few weeks, so trying to remain convinced that there was nothing to them was proving a lot harder than it should.

  ‘If you’d rather not go tonight,’ she said, watching him rinse the soap from his face.

  He glanced up at her.

  ‘We could stay at home, just the two of us,’ she said, her eyes narrowing seductively. ‘We don’t spend enough time together and I miss you when you’re away.’

  ‘They’re expecting you,’ he reminded her. ‘You’re the star.’

  ‘One of them,’ she corrected.

  Dropping the towel, he reached for his robe. ‘How are the portraits coming along?’ he asked.

  ‘Almost finished,’ she answered, forcing a smile over the deliberate change of subject. Why the hell didn’t she know how to play this? She was normally so together where he was concerned, confident and sure of his feelings, but this gossip, his mood, it was unnerving her badly. ‘I’ve just got a few more sessions,’ she went on, wrapping her hair in a towel. ‘I should be free by the end of the week, then I thought we could go down to the house. If you’re going to be free too.’

  When he didn’t answer she turned to look at him.