by Maxine Barry
Tell me, he urged her. Oh my darling, just confide in me, and I’ll tell Richard that I’ve made a mistake. Confide in me, and I’ll see you never have to forge another work of art in your life. Trust me and I’ll forgive you anything.
Frederica swallowed hard. First he says he loves you, she thought bleakly. The next he wants to see the painting. How much more proof do you need? He’d do anything, say anything. She was beaten before she’d even started.
There was only one last card she could play. One last desperate gamble.
‘Why don’t you go and look?’ she asked softly. And, as he went to rise, and his knees left the floor, she added softly, ‘Or you can make love to me.’
Lorcan’s green eyes darkened. Something—some brief, incredible pain—seemed to flash across his face, as he understood.
‘But I can’t do both, can I Frederica?’ he whispered hoarsely.
Frederica shook her head. ‘No,’ she said sadly, ‘you can’t do both.’
* * *
Over in Hall, Reeve’s angrily flushed face contorted in venom. ‘Why don’t you just face it, Hendrix,’ he hissed, ‘you don’t understand the book the way I do.’
Their immediate neighbours, who’d been chatting happily over their lunch of cold chicken salad, slowly fell quiet as Reeve and John played out their big argument scene.
‘I know more about editing, proper, responsible editing,’ John hissed right back, ‘than you could ever possibly hope to learn. It might come as a big shock to you, Reeve, but your pretty-boy looks won’t get you anywhere in this business. In this business you need brains.’
Reeve half-rose from his chair, pushing it back, the sound of the chair scraping across the floorboards as teeth-tingling as chalk across a blackboard, and leaned across the table dramatically. ‘Don’t think I don’t know what you’re up to, you little . . .’
‘Boys, boys,’ Ray interrupted, casting their avidly agog audience a mock shame-faced look. ‘Please, don’t make a scene,’ he begged them, with unintended irony. ‘Now is not the time to talk about this.’
Reeve shot Ray a fulminating look. ‘Are you trying to tell me this little sod hasn’t been trying to get me fired?’
‘You don’t need any help from me,’ John shot back. ‘Incompetence has a way of catching up with you in the end.’
‘Oh yeah?’ Reeve sneered. ‘And how incompetent was it to sign up the author of the Brother Felix Stowe murder mysteries then?’
The atmosphere was now electric. Even though all the conference-goers were aware that it was an act, the two were so good that you could almost cut the animosity with a knife.
John shot to his feet. ‘That was just a fluke!’ he yelled, a vein throbbing in his jaw. ‘You stumbled on to him!’
‘Stumbled, hah!’ Reeve was shouting now. ‘Admit it, I hooked a big money-spinner and you didn’t.’
‘That remains to be seen!’ John snapped, the two actors eyeing each other balefully.
Reeve allowed his face to fall into an astonished mask. ‘Are you trying to sabotage the book John?’ he asked, as if amazed at his discovery. ‘Is that why you’re insisting on all those unnecessary re-writes? To ensure that it flops?’
‘Don’t be so bloody stupid,’ John snarled, but flushed guiltily. ‘I could kill you sometimes, you trouble-making little creep.’
‘Darlings, don’t be so melodramatic,’ Gerry drawled, right on cue. ‘Calm down and eat your tomatoes like good little boys.’
Julie laughed, again right on cue. Annis turned to her neighbour. ‘I think I prefer the modern whodunits, don’t you?’ she asked loudly, conversationally, like any other good-mannered woman trying to defuse an ugly scene.
Reeve and John reluctantly sat down. The show over, people began to eat again. And confidently expected to find either Reeve or John ‘bumped off’ before the day was out.
* * *
Frederica gasped, her fingers clenching painfully in Lorcan’s wheat-coloured hair as he sucked hard and passionately on her engorged nipple. She pushed her head back against the pillow in painful pleasure as his teeth nibbled her delicate flesh.
His hands found the waistband of her shorts and feverishly pushed them down, his palms cupping her buttocks, all sense of civilised man gone now as he surrendered to her, and the over-riding need of the moment. Somehow, it seemed to him now, that it had always been inevitable. This fall into love.
He groaned as her fingers scratched a path down his spine, her nails raking him, her soft, inarticulate cries filling his ears. He reached for his belt, fumbling with it, freeing himself as her long, slender legs looped around him, imprisoning him, demanding, urgent, her action as mindless as his.
Lorcan gasped, tried desperately one last time to draw away from her, but when she opened those dark, dark eyes, her lips parted for his kiss, and she sighed, he was lost. Finally, irrevocably, lost. He closed his eyes and buried himself within her, groaning as her tight, inner muscles encircled him. He threw his head back, his jaw clenched tight in exquisite ecstasy. Amazed, Frederica watched him, fresh tears starting in her eyes as she realised that, whatever else he was, he was hers.
At least for this moment of agony that was also ecstasy. She clung to him, holding him close, crying out as he plunged into her again and again, his lithe, hard body not hurting her, always just . . . just . . . pushing her a little higher and higher, nearer to that apex that submerged the mind like molten lava. Her heels dug into him, her breasts were hard points pressed against his chest. She felt his body leap, and he cried out her name, shuddered, and collapsed on top of her.
Frederica, surfacing slowly, heard only the echo of her own name as she cried out his.
Eventually she opened her eyes. Reality, in the shape of a crack in the ceiling, brought her crashing back to her senses.
So, she had forced him to choose between her and the canvas. And he’d chosen her. This time. But what about next time?
She moved, sliding out from beneath him, and pulled on a long, simple dress that covered her from neck to shin. That covered the skin he’d so lovingly kissed. She shivered, feeling colder, not warmer, by the covering. She looked down on him, lying naked on her bed. Gone were the cool, classy clothes. His hair was ruffled, and his skin had the silken sheen of sweat. He had a hand over his eyes, as if he couldn’t quite face the world yet.
She wanted to kill him. And love him for ever.
‘I’ll be back in a little bit,’ she whispered softly, and when he looked at her questioningly, murmured vaguely, ‘the bathroom.’
She went out of the door, and even walked a few steps down the corridor, before slowing to a stop.
She felt as if her heart was breaking as she tiptoed back to the door she’d purposefully left just a little ajar.
For she already knew what she’d see. The moment she’d left the room, she just knew that he’d leap off the bed, walk to the canvas and pull back the sheet.
She took a breath, preparing herself for the ultimate proof of his betrayal. His lies. His sweet, wonderful, marvellous lies. But when she peeped through the crack the sheet was still on the canvas, and he was still lying, gloriously naked in her bed, his hand over his eyes. Could it really be that he loved her after all?
She didn’t know it, of course, but Lorcan had no need to look at the canvas. He’d seen it already. Instead he lay, satiated, throbbing with the aftermath of their lovemaking, staring at the darkness of his closed lids, wondering just what he was supposed to do now. And knowing that there was only one possible answer.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
As Frederica stood in the corridor, spying on him through the crack in the door, Lorcan slowly got up, his naked body bathed in the afternoon sunlight streaming through the windows. She licked lips gone suddenly dry, her heart aching with tenderness as she watched him drag back on the clothes that he had discarded in such a hurry. The transformation from impassioned lover to cool, sophisticated gallery owner seemed less acute now. As if, miraculously, t
he man was merging into one entity. But was the entity her lover, or her enemy?
He ran his hand through his hair in a gesture that had become heart-achingly familiar to her by now and walked, not towards the painting, but towards the window. Frederica’s heart hammered. What was he waiting for? Why didn’t he check out the bait she had set for him so tantalisingly? She lingered there for what seemed like an eternity, or at least a lifetime, but he only continued to stare out of the window at the tops of the famous silver birches, his hands thrust deeply into his trouser pockets as he scanned the Oxford skyline. He looked weary, and yet tense at the same time.
Frederica’s heart thumped heavily. What did it mean? Why wasn’t he looking at the canvas? Eventually she pushed open the door and walked in, warning herself not to get too far ahead. Not to hope too soon.
At the sound of her footsteps on the wooden floorboards, he turned and looked at her. His hazel eyes ran over her, drinking in every detail. The glorious hair, hopelessly tangled now. The concealing dress. The blank, puzzled look in her lovely eyes. He sighed. ‘Would you like to come back to my place for a drink? There’s something I’d like to show you,’ he offered quietly, both of them shying away from talking about what had just happened.
Because she didn’t know what else to do, she nodded wearily. ‘All right.’
They closed the door on the painting and the untidy bed, and walked out into the glorious afternoon. Lorcan helped her into the car and drove the Aston Martin out on to the Woodstock road. Sitting beside him, so close to him she could feel his body heat, Frederica felt dazed. She was wearing nothing but the dress and a pair of sandals. Everything about her felt battered. Her senses, her heart, her soul, even her body. But her body, at least, was content.
She supposed she should feel wickedly wanton, sitting in a sports car beside a handsome man, wearing no underwear. She supposed she should feel grown up and liberated. But she didn’t. She sighed and looked out of the window, at the beautiful laburnums that were cascading yellow bunches of flowers over garden walls. She felt sick at heart and scared of the future. She loved a man who might still be planning on sending her to prison. The fact that she had done nothing wrong seemed utterly irrelevant. Lorcan heard the massive sigh she gave and glanced across at her. Her face was a picture of misery.
‘Frederica,’ he said angrily, ‘What the hell are we doing?’
Frederica laughed. It was a bleak, blank kind of laugh. It matched perfectly the way she felt. ‘I don’t know. I was hoping you might.’
Wisely, perhaps, he said nothing more until he’d negotiated the big roundabout and pulled up outside a white villa in Five Mile Drive. Leading her inside, Lorcan pushed open a door to reveal a large lounge. Acres of pale green carpet gave way to cream chairs and sofas. Cool mint-green curtains picked up the same colours on the cushions.
‘Do you want a drink? A glass of wine? Or tea?’
‘Tea would be fine,’ she said quietly. Listen to them. A pair of friendly, polite, civilised strangers. But she didn’t feel particularly friendly just then. And Lorcan hadn’t been anywhere near civilised in his lovemaking. But at least they could be polite, she thought, and fought back a wild desire to laugh like a lunatic.
When he came back with a loaded tray, she watched him place it on the table, pour out two cups, and offer her the sugar lumps. The sense of unreality heightened. Ever since the phone call from her father, she’d felt as if she’d taken a step outside the real world into some other kind of existence. Now, this feeling of other-worldliness was almost suffocating. It felt just like a nightmare. A sense of being somewhere utterly alien. Except that this time, there was to be no waking up.
Lorcan handed her the teacup, noticing that his own hand was shaking. When she took it from him, her hand was no steadier.
He leaned back in his chair and took a deep breath. Time to get everything out in the open. Time to take back control of his life. He wasn’t used to being as out of control as this, and he didn’t like it. He’d demand to know what she was doing, make her give it up, drag her into his life and keep her there no matter what it took.
‘Frederica,’ he said, and then the telephone rang.
She jumped and it seemed to jolt her back into gear. The cotton-wool feeling in her head disappeared. Suddenly, she was alert and aware, and thinking clearly.
‘You’d better answer that,’ she said softly, and got up from the sofa to give him a little privacy. She gravitated naturally towards the window as Lorcan snatched up the receiver.
‘Lorcan! Richard here. I was expecting to get the answering machine. I just wanted you to know—our stool pigeon has disappeared.’
‘What?’ Lorcan said, hardly listening. Of all the times to call! He fought back the unreasonable anger and shot a quick, agonised look over his shoulder. She was standing with her back to him, staring out over the gardens.
‘Gone,’ Richard repeated obligingly. ‘As in scarpered. Word has it that he’s left the city. Something he’s never done before. And I don’t know why.’
Lorcan sighed. ‘Perhaps he was telling you lies?’ he said, as quietly as he could without whispering, but over by the window, Frederica ears sharpened.
‘What do you mean?’ Richard asked sharply.
Lorcan picked up the phone and walked with it to the kitchen, glad that the owners of the villa liked portable telephones. Frederica waited for just a few seconds, then softly moved towards the doorway, being careful to hug the wall and keep out of sight.
‘I mean,’ Lorcan said softly, ‘perhaps your little bird was having you on.’
‘Why would he do that?’ Detective Inspector Richard Braine asked sharply. ‘Have you found out something?’
‘I mean,’ Lorcan said, keeping his voice even and calm, ‘perhaps he lied to you to cover up something else. To focus your attention on Oxford.’ He glanced at the half-open door, not knowing that Frederica was lurking behind it. ‘Whilst his friends pulled a fast one somewhere else.’
Frederica bit her lip. Fast one? Focus on Oxford? He was talking to the police! He had to be. Right here and now, after he’d just made love to her! She slapped her hand to her mouth to stifle the small sound she made. Pain washed over her, and she forced it back. She’d wanted definite, solid proof, hadn’t she? An end from all this wavering uncertainty? Well, she had it now. In spades.
‘I don’t think so,’ Richard Braine said, his voice becoming wary now. ‘Skeeter’s always been on the level before.’
‘There’s always a first time for a someone like him to play both ends against the middle,’ Lorcan pointed out briskly. ‘How do you know someone hasn’t paid him to feed you misinformation?’ As he spoke, he mentally winced. Now he was committed. He’d changed sides utterly, like a turncoat in the midst of battle. But, really, the decision had been made the moment Frederica had asked him to choose between her and that damned painting. There was no way, now, that he could feed her to the lions.
‘Lorcan,’ Richard said quietly. ‘You have found something out, haven’t you?’
Lorcan cast another look at the open doorway. Picturing the curve of her slender back as she stood at the window. Remembering her soft sighs against his ear. Her breasts crushed to his chest. He took a deep breath. ‘You’re right. I found out that I’ve been on the wrong track. That student I was telling you about . . . she’s clean.’
There. He’d done it. What did his honour mean to him, if it meant losing her? What good were having principles and convictions if they crucified the woman you loved?
By the door, Frederica was glad she still had her hand over her mouth, for she felt a stifled cry of happiness lodge in her mouth. It was so overwhelming, so acute, that for a moment she thought she was going to pass out. He was defending her.
Lying for her. For a man like Lorcan, it meant the world.
‘What do you mean? I thought you said it was . . .’ Over the line Lorcan heard a ruffle of paper, and he could almost picture his friend pulling towards him
a print of ‘The Old Mill and Swans’. ‘A painting by Forbes-Wright?’
‘I was wrong,’ Lorcan said flatly. ‘Her Tutor, knowing that she was interested in depicting modern living in a contemporary way, had set her the task of comparing a well-known painting of a dwelling of the last century and re-painting it as it was now. I found some notes of hers at the Ruskin. Living right next to the mill at Cross Keys, the Forbes-Wright was an obvious choice.’ It sounded good. It even sounded plausible. So much so that Frederica, listening to him, felt like applauding. She wanted to throw her arms around him, promise him she’d love him for ever and ever. But something kept her rooted to the spot.
Richard Braine wasn’t an easy man to convince however. ‘I thought you said she was making an exact copy?’
Lorcan closed his eyes, hating to do it, but then shook his head. ‘She was. That’s what threw me, at first. But I’ve just seen the canvas—she’s over-painted all that clever preparation in her own style. The damned Mill’s even got a conservatory on it now.’
There was silence on the end of the line for so long, that Lorcan felt sweat pop up on his forehead. He gripped the receiver hard. He knew Richard of old—if he couldn’t put him off, nothing would shake him. The man was a terrier when it came to getting his teeth into a case.
‘So that old canvas and all the Victorian-style paints . . . ?’
‘She’s a perfectionist,’ Lorcan said quickly. ‘I’d already learned that. She’s Ruskin’s star pupil, although they’re being very careful not to say as much. Everyone expects her to get a First.’
‘I see,’ Richard said, but his voice was ominously flat.
‘Which is why this stool pigeon of yours disappearing, makes me wonder if we haven’t been set up,’ Lorcan added craftily, tossing the distraction into the conversation like a master fisherman. ‘You say he’s never pulled a stunt like this before?’
‘No,’ Richard admitted.
‘So, isn’t it possible that he was paid to give you false information? And, knowing that you’re soon going to realise it, he’s gone into hiding. It makes more sense than some second-year student turning rogue.’ He swallowed hard, his heart pounding. Behind the door, Frederica’s heart did the same.
