Act of Exposure (25 page)

The woman's
hips tilted backwards and forwards. Her head was thrown back, and
short gasps of delight raced from her mouth.

'Keep going,
you little dog. Keep going!'

Douglas did
keep going. If he tried to slow, she beat him with the strip of
leather and pushed her pussy into his mouth with grim
determination. Tight restraint obviously agreed with Douglas.
Having someone who was restrained mouthing her pussy, obviously
agreed with the woman. Their need to come superseded anything else.
It was etched on their faces, breathless in their voices.

Abigail
changed stance. No one, she told herself, could watch something
like this and not be affected by it.

Although she
was not with them, she knew at what stage they were, knew that his
sperm would be swimming up a pulsating canal, that the woman's
clitoris would be hard, though the rest of her sex would be as
soggy as wet dough.

Smooth,
debonair Douglas liked to be disciplined. What a turn up. But what
about Bennet? The thought of what sort of things he got up to made
her shiver. She remembered how degraded he'd made her feel in her
disguise as Carmel. She also recalled how repugnant she had found
his comments regarding Stephen.

'Bennet
accepted club membership very gratefully,' Archie snorted.

'More so than
money? I find that hard to believe.'

She stared
determinedly into Archie's eyes. In that one moment, she thought
she saw some expression there that was secretive and a little
frightening, but Archie quickly turned his eyes back to the scene
beyond the glass. Douglas was climaxing into the earth of a potted
plant that had been conveniently placed there by the woman.

'That's it,'
she was saying, 'my plant needs your milk on a regular basis. Come
on. Cough it up!' She gripped him and shook the last droplets from
his member.

Abby stared at
the scene, heard what the woman said, but was also listening to
Archie.

'Bennet knows
a good deal when he sees one. Anyway, he's like a lot of other men
with responsible jobs. He needs a little light relief now and
again. Not that I like the man mind you, but then, darling lady,
there are few people I like, and I've found no one yet who does not
indulge in their own private fantasies when the moment occurs.'

Archie pressed
the button that turned off the sound, then placed the picture back
across the glass. He made an attempt to appear jovial, but she
sensed some underlying worry, some niggling doubt.

'You look
worried. What's the problem?'

He started,
pursed his lips and suddenly avoided looking at her.

'Oh. Nothing
really.'

She touched
his arm, wondered about the thickness of his coat sleeve and the
thinness of the arm beneath it. The fact that he was trembling was
obvious.

'You can tell
me, Archie darling. Come on. What is it?'

He looked,
looked away, then back again.

Then he patted
her hand.

'Nothing for
you to worry about, my dear. I'm just a little annoyed this
evening. Something went astray. Something important.'

'Oh really?'
This was too good to be true. He was telling her what she wanted to
hear without her having to ask a question. 'I'm surprised such a
fastidious man as yourself, Archie, could be so careless. What have
you lost?'

He sniggered,
patted her hand again.

'Something I
wrote, and something I said. Never, my dear girl, never, ever trust
the press. They're all charlatans, all snakes. But keep away from a
journalist called Lance Vector. He's a muckraker. And a thief! He
stole an article I wrote and changed it about to suit himself and
that sordid paper he writes for.' He clicked his lips as he shook
his head. 'Never trust a journalist or a lawyer!'

Abby winced
but didn't bite. For the first time, it occurred to her that Archie
was as much a victim as Stephen was. All the same, she was still
angry that he had given Stephen's secret away. His dress that night
had been worn purely as a dare. It was more than annoying that his
charade had ended up with such a lot of bad publicity. But now she
had to try her hand at discovering the root of it all without
letting on that she was Stephen Sigmund's barrister and lover, and
that her black hair hid her natural colouring, as did her contact
lenses. The fact that she applied make-up as Carmel and completely
altered the look of her face, was also something she preferred to
keep to herself.

However, as
regards the case in hand, her legal training called for
clarification. She jumped straight in at the deep end.

'Do you mean
the piece in the paper? About the guy who was dressed as a woman -
the one with Valeria?'

'Yes.' He
sounded relieved. 'The one you went off with that night.' There was
an instant quizzical look on his face. 'Did you know he wasn't a
woman?'

Shiny as
satin, her red lips smiled then curled as she purred her response
and gave him a look that would leave him in no doubt of whether she
knew or not.

Archie
laughed.

Smiling still,
Abigail tossed her dark hair so that it swung in a smoky cloud from
side to side. 'He was most definitely a man. Most definitely!'

She took a
taxi when she left the club and got the driver to drop her at the
two-bedroomed brick-built terrace where Carmel - the exotic dancer
- lived alone and in absolute privacy.

Few of the
neighbours had seen her in daylight, and those that had, only
glanced her way and never spoke. She was just a trim figure in a
very short skirt walking quickly from the taxi to the front door
with nothing but the half-hearted glow from a streetlight to glance
on her features.

Under cover of
darkness, a slim young man left the house from the rear, his collar
high around his face, a broad-brimmed hat pulled low over his eyes.
Without looking to right or left, the lithe figure walked swiftly
along the alleyway and out onto the road which ran between both
rows of brick terraces.

As the figure
exited the alley, a sleek car, black as a panther, went slowly past
and turned into that part of the street where the house was
situated.

Pulling collar
nearer to chin, the figure turned in the opposite direction to that
of the car. Home beckoned, and the night was getting damp.

Lance Vector
yawned and rubbed his eyes before looking at his watch. It was two
forty-five and Abigail Corrigan's Mercedes was still in the car
park.

Earlier, he
had driven in and around the car park, checking that there was only
one entrance in and one out for a car. There was, and besides the
doors to the staircase, there were only two other doors and both
were marked private. Both, he assumed, were for the use of the
security men and the maintenance crew.

From where he
was parked, he could not only see where Abigail Corrigan's car was,
but, by using a pair of powerful binoculars to eye the front
entrance to her apartment block, he could check on who went in and
who went out. He'd seen nothing of her. Her car had remained parked
all night.

Disappointed,
he eyed some gaunt youth who was sauntering to the car park steps,
pausing in the corner as if relieving himself.

Lance sighed
impatiently. 'Like tonight,' he muttered to himself. 'Nothing but a
bucket of pee.'

Tonight had
certainly not been successful. His editor would press for more
lurid exposés, more innuendos to cast in Stephen Sigmund's
direction, but unfortunately he had none to give. Of course, he
could still blab that Sigmund was involved with his barrister, but
Lance didn't want to do that. For the first time in his life, he
wanted to protect someone rather than destroy them. Besides that he
was tired, and his patience was at an end.

'Oh fuck
it!'

He sighed
bravely once he'd made up his mind, switched on the engine, and
slipped as quietly as possible away from the kerb.

As he pulled
away, another car, black as midnight, slid into the gap he had
left. Silently, a window was wound down and a soft burr of redness
waxed and waned behind a dense cloud of cigarette smoke.

Inside the car
park, the lean youth with the turned-up collar and wide brimmed hat
glanced swiftly over his shoulder before pulling a small key from a
shallow pocket.

A stray wisp
of light-coloured hair fluttered from beneath the blackness of the
hat. Eyes of Wedgewood blue glanced once more over the solemn grey
of concrete walls and sleeping cars.

The first door
marked private was blue. The second was pale green and used only by
those living in the adjacent apartments.

Through the
door; across the service road at the back; then another key; a
wooden door in a red-brick wall: a courtyard garden. Another key,
another door, and at last, the hat was removed, and Abigail
Corrigan shook her hair free. She was home, and as far as she knew,
no one was any the wiser that she had ever been out.

From the very
first, she had surmised that buying this place was a good idea. The
ground floor and the private entrance into the courtyard gave her
privacy. She saw little of her neighbours, and did nothing to
encourage their friendship. To those living in the same block, she
was a workaholic who stayed late at her desk and alone.

No one could
possibly know that she had two lives, that she was Abigail, but she
was also Carmel who some knew as Jezebel Justice. And anyway, it
was dark in the alley that passed the wooden door to her courtyard.
She was convinced her secret was safe.

Without
switching on any lights, she made her way through the kitchen and
out into the hallway. Her step was free and easy. Each room, even
in darkness, was blatantly familiar to her. Only when she saw the
strip of light that filtered out from beneath her bedroom door did
she stop in her tracks. Normally, she left the study light on. But
tonight, it was off and she was positive she had left it on.

With
quickening heartbeat, she stepped softly across the black and white
tiles; one foot in a white square, then one in a black.

The door
handle was within reach. Her hand opened, her fingers uncurled.
Then she hesitated, tilted her head as though that would help her
hear better. There was little except a rustling noise - like the
sound of moving bedclothes.

Her heartbeat quickened.
Someone's in
there. Now what?

Movies came to mind.
Pretend you've
got a gun. No
, another voice said,
this is stupid. It isn't
,
said its opposite reaction.
Be positive.
Yes. Be positive
.

She took a
deep breath. One hand went back into her pocket, one finger pushed
forwards into the soft silk lining.

Again she
reached for the door handle, turned it slowly, and just as slowly,
pushed open the door.

The blue silk
shade of the table lamp cast a cool light on Stephen's sleeping
face. He murmured something in his sleep, turned over, and threw
out his arm.

It gave her a
warm feeling to see his fingers curling and uncurling over the
pillow where her head should be. Even in his sleep, Stephen was
reaching for her.

At last, she
relaxed.

Although the
urge to wake him was strong, she resisted it. Stephen needed his
sleep as much as he needed her. At this moment in time, perhaps
more.

But she also
needed him, needed to feel that no matter what she did, she aroused
him still.

Asleep he
might be, but she undressed as though he was awake.

Bare shoulders
gleamed in the soft light as she let her coat fall to the floor.
She was naked to the waist. Her nipples were hard and her breasts
cold from the effect of the night air that had caressed them. Still
pretending to herself that he might be watching, she threw a kiss
in his direction. Then she stretched and cupped her breasts as
though she were offering them to him. She bent her knees slightly
and swayed her hips from side to side.

Slowly, she
ran her hands down over her belly to the waistband of her trousers,
tucked her fingers into them, and pushed them down over her moving
hips and from there down over her thighs. When they reached her
knees she turned, bent over, and wiggled her backside towards
him.

If he was awake
, she thought to
herself,
he would see my sex winking at him
and then he would grab my hips and lunge straight into
me
.

The charade
continued. She pulled off her trousers and her boots, and running
her hands down over her body, she moved to the bed. It was then
that she saw him grin, saw one eyelash flutter as his grin became a
smile.

'That was very
nice, Abby darling. Now what will you do for the main
performance?'

He threw back
the bedclothes and they laughed as they fell together.

But the
laughter was shortlived. Passion erupted as flesh met flesh and
lips met lips.

Hot with
desire, she closed her eyes and wished. The wish could not possibly
come true. There was no turning back the clock, no pretending this
was the first time, the Railway Hotel and the trains rattling on
the curving line outside the window. Yet still she pretended and
ran her hands over his body, felt the hardness of his shoulders,
his arms, the vague hairiness of his chest. Flesh rose and fell in
delicious contours beneath her travelling fingers. His stomach
tightened beneath her touch, his navel retreated as she trailed one
finger around it and pushed gently into it.

Its skin soft
as a velvet glove, his penis tapped a steady tempo against her
belly as if begging her for immediate attention.