Act of Exposure (7 page)

Stephen's
facial expression hardened. His eyes glittered, and only the strong
jaw moved as he spoke. 'What I am saying, Mr Vector, is that Mr
Rheingold is unattached, wealthy, and perhaps even lonely. His
tastes are his own and break no laws. All those involved did so out
of choice and were all above the age of consent.'

'But they were
paid...'

'Yes. They
were paid by him to participate. But let us remember that your
paper also paid them for the honour of publishing the story. Who's
to say which of you are immoral, Mr Vector? Who's to say which of
you is the procurer, the pimp or the prostitute?'

Eyes almost
black with fury, Vector sniffed indignantly. 'All we did was reveal
how suspect his morals are. We only reported the truth - that he's
a dirty old man.'

Stephen
Sigmund's eyes narrowed and his jaw tightened visibly. 'The morals
of your newspaper are suspect, Mr Vector. You cater for dirty old
men - young ones too. You, your newspaper and your ilk are nothing
more than hypocrites!'

Although
Vector's face went from pink to red, his voice became icy. 'Your
sympathies are noted, Mr Sigmund. We'll expect no quarter from you,
and you can expect none from us!'

Sigmund was
unmoved. His jaw, his expression were as strong as ever. His chin
jutted defiantly forward as he responded, 'Then we understand each
other, Mr Vector!'

Hairs bristled on the back of the journalist's neck as he
stomped off. Inside, he boiled.
Just you
wait, Sigmund. Just you wait. You'll see who's likely to scream for
quarter. You'll see!

His jaw
relaxing slightly, Stephen watched him go. Outwardly, he still
looked calm, controlled. Inside, he had an urge to rush up behind
the smug little sod, grab him by the neck, and thump his stupid,
self-satisfied head off his shoulders. But he didn't. Instead he
took a deep breath as a restraining hand landed on his arm.

'You've made a
dangerous enemy, Stephen. That man makes a living from ferreting
out the most intimate details of people's lives. See what he did to
Nigel Porter. His wife's suing for divorce, and Carol Anne Flowers
has been sacked from her job - at least for the moment.'

It was John
Humphries, a man whose own reputation was impeccable. No matter
that he kept a wife and mistress. Neither, he had told Stephen,
affected his ability to stand in judgement of others, and each knew
of the other's existence.

Stephen shook
his head. His expression still held anger in it, and even
disgust.

'I couldn't
help it, John. My God, that paper has no right to preach moral
ethics at anyone. They spout about guarding public morality when in
truth they are pandering to suburbia's fascination with the
erotic.'

'You're right.
Years ago, you'd have been put in the pillory as an adulterer or
gone to beg absolution from the church. Nowadays you get the front
page and public indignation which is really just the public's
fascination with your sex life and an insatiable lust for detail.'
John shook his head mournfully. 'And if it's not lurid sex they're
peddling, it's horror - the more grisly the murder, the more
editorial.'

Both stood
silently for a moment and watched those about them. Both were
thinking of how they would react if their sex lives became public
knowledge. The Rheingold, Swan and Swallow case also preyed heavily
on Stephen's mind. His brows knitted in a frown. John Humphries was
first to break the silence.

'Have you
strong enough evidence to get you to the true instigators, the
powerful people who are really behind this debacle?'

Stephen's eyes
continued to study those gathered even as he answered the question.
'There is a witness. We have yet to agree a meeting however. That's
all I can tell you at the present time.'

John Humphries
nodded and looked down into his glass. He liked Stephen. There was
no humbug about him, he uttered no mealy-mouthed platitudes about
what an upright man he had been since his first wife had died. Even
the press knew of Stephen's brief liaisons with beautiful women.
Time and time again his picture had appeared in the press, some
pretty face smiling at his side. But like him, Stephen had a darker
side, a side that needed a real woman and not just the sort who
only came out to play if a dinner party was in evidence, or her
picture was likely to appear in some society magazine.

Pity
, he thought, that women were
divided into two camps; the lady of the house, the dinner party,
and the holiday home in Provence, and the woman who was sexy no
matter where she was or who she was with. It was an even greater
pity that he had never encountered a creature who could be both of
these things, but such women were few and far between.

'I would advise you, Stephen, to get together with your
witness as quickly as possible. I would surmise that those involved
will do everything they can to stop you getting to the truth
-
if
you get to the
truth. I'm not entirely sure anything good will be gained from it,
but I admire your persistence.' John Humphries patted the younger
man's shoulder in a fatherly way. His dark eyes looked darker as
his brows lowered in a frown. 'I personally would advise you to
desist from this witch hunt. They could easily destroy you before
you destroy them.'

'And leave
Rheingold to carry the can?'

'Open prison.
Five years, maybe seven. He won't be uncomfortable.'

Stephen
frowned. John Humphries' comments came as something of a surprise.
He'd always viewed him as a man who truly believed in justice.

'I don't
believe I'm hearing this from you, John.' He looked more intently
into the face of the older man, almost as if he were seeking
something he might have missed earlier.

Humphries
shrugged and looked away. 'I'm just being realistic. Who is this
witness?'

'I can't tell
you that.'

'No. No. Of
course not. But if you should need my help, don't hesitate to
ask.'

Stephen
thanked him, but refrained from explaining further. Such detail was
for him to worry about.

Unfortunately,
the witness who was scheduled to supply him with the necessary
evidence was being elusive. But Stephen could not divulge this
fact, not publicly. He had to be patient, had to try and persuade
this man to meet him in a mutually acceptable place. But the man
was being stubborn in his choice of such places. Soon, very soon,
Stephen would have no choice but to comply with his wishes, and the
thought of that lay heavy on him.

Forget it for now
, he told
himself.
Think of something pleasant. Think
of the Railway Hotel and of her; the first time with
her
.

The first
time? Why did he refer to it as that? Why did he assume that he
would see her again, make love to her again? Thoughtfully, he
fingered the transparent fragment that nestled in his pocket. For
two weeks he had carried it around, transferring it from one jacket
pocket to another. In his mind it had become a talisman, a part of
her that had to be returned to the whole.

But what was
the whole?

The contact
lens was black. Why wear dark contact lenses unless they were meant
to disguise the true colour of her eyes? Like her eyes, her hair
had been black - on her head, that is. On her pubes, it had been
light blonde, verging on silver. Her true colour had to be that,
and the colour of her eyes had to be blue or grey, perhaps, at a
push, even hazel or green.

He touched the
hidden lens again. As he touched it, his gaze followed the
effortless movement of the tall, slim young woman who gathered so
many admiring glances from older men as well as those in her own
age group. The way she carried herself, the set of her head, the
proud chin, the self-confidence, stirred his memory and caused a
tightness to gather in his groin. His heart began to beat that bit
faster, his blood flowed that much hotter.

He narrowed
his eyes and followed her as she moved around the room.
Commensurate with her profession, her suit was black, her cuffs and
collar white. Wrong versus right. Although seamed and fitted to the
lean lines of her body, the suit did not cling but merely hinted at
what was beneath its expensive touch. Her face was the sort he
dreamed of, and there was more in those bright blue eyes than the
letter of the law could ever account for.

I know her
, he thought to
himself.
I know what her body looks like
beneath that suit. I know that movement, that face, that
expression, yet I see it with black hair, black eyes, and bright -
very bright - red lips
.

He smiled to
himself, then absentmindedly slid his hand into his pocket
again.

Stephen
Sigmund didn't just remember faces. He remembered form, structure,
and movement as well. No matter that this woman was fair, had blue
eyes, and dressed in the black, though attractive, conformity of a
barrister's business suit: the blackness in itself gave her
away.

Perhaps it was
the contrast of her suit with her silky skin. It might even have
been the unforgettable structure of her face, and the easy movement
of her body, but he knew instinctively that he had met Abigail
Corrigan before. He also knew she was more than she made herself
out to be.

However, being
the adept speaker of words that he was, he continued to talk with
those who wanted to know more of what was happening in Parliament.
As he talked, he fingered the small, fragile thing that nestled in
the pocket of his pure wool jacket. His stomach muscles tightened
as just the feel of it ignited the sensations that had been so
overpowering on that night in the Railway Hotel.

No matter how
much he talked, how interested he appeared to be in everyone's
conversation, his gaze wandered occasionally. He made sure he knew
exactly where she was in the room at all times. Eventually, he saw
Abigail Corrigan grow tired of the gathering, and seek a quiet
place to hide. His chance had come.

One of the
opulent windows had a seat built into it. She had used the bathroom
first so that any prevailing eyes might lose track of her and had
then quietly made her way to the window seat and sat right next to
where the thick tapestry curtains were tied back with thick green
rope. While sitting there no one could see anything much of Abigail
Corrigan, though her long, shapely legs were protruding just beyond
the fringes of the heavy curtains.

She was just
taking her second sip of wine, when her solitude was
interrupted.

'May I join
you?'

The first
thing that struck her about him was his eyes. The second thing was
that she knew him.

'Stephen
Sigmund.' He smiled and offered her his hand.

'Abigail
Corrigan.' She smiled back at him, memories of that night running
through her mind.

As their palms
touched, her heart quickened as if it were recognizing something
her eyes had failed to do. A hungry ache arose in her pussy as
though she had been starved for ages, and a feast was being set
before her. A shiver streaked down her spine, and not just because
of one night in the Railway Hotel. A few days after that meeting,
she had seen his face smiling out from a photograph on the front
page of a newspaper, and realized who he was.

Now, she
pretended otherwise. Her two-pronged life was too precious to
surrender recognition to a man - any man.

'The MP! Of
course. I'm very pleased to meet you. My name's Abigail
Corrigan.'

'I know.' He
smiled. His teeth were very white, very noticeable against his
tanned skin. Small wrinkles of something like amusement played
around his eyes. 'I understand you're a superstar in the legal
world. A real performer. Are you the same in private?'

His comment
threw her off balance. Despite knowing him more intimately in the
guise of Carmel, she had, as usual, been preparing to talk law. As
he sat down beside her, his thigh hard against hers, she became
wary, and determined to throw him off the scent. She tore her eyes
from him, stared out of the window towards the rolling lawns and
clusters of maple, birch, and beech, but saw absolutely nothing.
Her voice remained even.

'I have worked
hard for success, Mr Sigmund. I swore I would make it despite my
sex, and I have made it. I have achieved exactly what I wanted to
achieve.'

'In your
public life?'

'Yes.'

'And what
about your private life? Have you achieved everything you wanted in
that?'

She thought of
snapping a suitably tart reply about him minding his own business,
but some echo of her other life caused her to temper her
response.

'I am happy,
Mr Sigmund. Happy in my work. In fact, I am completely engrossed in
my work. I have little time left for a private life. My career is
very important to me.'

'Regardless of
sacrifice?'

She turned to
look at him, her chin high as she did her best to adopt an
expression of cold detachment. Usually, it was easy. With him, it
was difficult.

He was resting
his elbow on his knee, his chin in his hand. His eyes were so warm,
his smile so knowing. It was as if he were daring her to tell the
truth. But the truth was hers and she was keeping it. She took a
deep breath before she replied.

'Sacrifice of
what? My life is my work.'

'So you gave
your sex and your sexuality the old heave-ho, is that right?'

'We all have
choices to make, Mr Sigmund.' Her voice was tart.

He smiled.
'Stephen. Call me Stephen.'

'We all have
choices to make. I made mine. If I wanted to get to the top,
relationships had to take a back seat.'