Altered Images (15 page)

‘Thank
you. I think I will,' she purred. And walking forward she stepped slowly, down into the warm bubbling water. Reeve shot upright, both to make room for her, and because he was suddenly breathless. He dragged in a badly needed gulp of air as they stared silently at one another.

Reeve's eyes widened as she lay back in the tub, her long legs stretched in front of her and just brushing against his as the water bubbled about her nipples, turning them cherry-red.

There, she thought with satisfaction. That's removed the all-knowing male grin from his face!

Reeve swallowed hard, his lips, in spite of the humidity in the air, feeling suddenly dry. ‘I . . . uh . . . I . . .' he muttered, and then, when she arched one dark brow mockingly, abruptly shut up. So she wanted to play games? Slowly he allowed one foot to stroke her calf. Her eyebrow rose even higher, disappearing into her hairline. Then her own foot moved, and her toes were suddenly massaging the tender spot at the back of his knee. His leg jerked in helpless reaction and again he swallowed hard. One-up-manship was it? Well, two could play at that game. His foot moved higher, raised on the bubbling stream of water, until his big toe was level with one cherry coloured nipple.

His eyes met hers. Annis smiled. Just you dare . . .

He dared. She gasped as her nipple tingled
at
the contact. She closed her eyes in pleasure, just for a moment, then opened them again. There was no mocking smile on his face. Just an intense look that had her body coiling like a spring.

She moved her foot, forcing his legs apart, moving forward, pressing her toes against his inner thigh now, then moving up, gently but firmly, until the sole of her foot was pressed against his hard pulsating shaft. Reeve groaned and jerked in the water. His face had a tight, pinched look, a dark blue flame burned within his eyes. Slowly, carefully, Annis caressed him with her foot, her own shoulders moving up and down against the rim of the tub as she leaned forward and back, with the movement.

Reeve closed his eyes and leaned his head back, every atom of his being concentrated on her sensual foot, the hardening of his body, the helpless reaction of his desire. When he could stand it no longer he surged forward, leaning over her, his mouth fastening on hers in a fierce kiss. Then her legs were hooked around his, her heels digging into the indent just above his buttocks. She lifted herself from the slippery hard surface of the bottom of the tub and gasped as he was suddenly inside her, hard, fast, demanding, igniting her own love-greedy response. She threw back her head, groaning his name, holding on to his wet shoulders, kissing his temple, his nose, his
cheek,
his closed eyelids, anywhere she could reach as she thrashed beneath him.

He pressed her gently against the side of the tub, thrusting into her harder, deeper, ever faster, the water splashing over the sides and running along the tiny square tiles of the floor. She clung to him, lost in the tempest, her body pulsating and exploding as the tension of the last few weeks finally eased in the cleansing, generous act of lovemaking. Reeve shouted her name and shuddered, and she clung to him, hugging him close, brushing the damp curly hair from his forehead as he collapsed against her, all his devastating male strength spent, his breathing ragged and hoarse.

Silence slowly returned to the room, only the bubbling of the water invading the peace. Annis leaned her head back against the tiled floor and stared up at the ceiling, her sense of self returning with a vengeance.

Well. What good had that done her? Her lips twisted ruefully.

She was now, officially, another notch on Reeve Morgan's belt. She slowly pushed him away, fighting the tenderness that made her want to go on holding him. He opened dazed, sapphire blue eyes, and smiled softly.

Annis,' he murmured. I love you. ‘I . . .'

‘Don't worry,' Annis said briskly, getting out of the tub to put on her robe. When she turned, she was already doing the belt up firmly. ‘These things happen when you're away
touring,'
she said brightly, saying it before he could. ‘We're big boys and girls, after all. We can enjoy ourselves for now, but once we get back to London, we probably won't bump into each other again.'

Reeve frowned. ‘Annis . . .'

‘I think I'll go out tonight,' Annis mused, turned and headed for the door, her heart tight in her breast, her voice as light and breezy as the air. ‘I'll ask John and Gordon if they've found a place that plays jazz.'

And then she was gone.

Reeve collapsed back into the hot tub and shook his head. How many times in the past had he made it clear to a woman that their affair was strictly for fun? How often had he made sure that she knew he didn't want or expect commitment? And now that a beautiful woman had just said as much to him, he knew he should be relieved. Be thankful that he was being offered wonderful sex without any strings attached.

So why did he feel as though she'd just hit him with a sledgehammer?

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Lorcan stepped through the main door of St Bede's and into St Agatha quad. He glanced inside the lodge, briefly checking that no one
was
paying any undue attention to him, then walked past the impressive clock, through the arch, and to the main door of Walton. Once inside, he stood indecisively in the cool, tiled, silent hall. He had no idea which was her room.

A group of business-suited men walked down the stairs, heading for a seminar in Webster's lecture theatre. As he moved to one side to let them pass, he noticed the door opposite him had a name card on it.

Quickly Lorcan toured the downstairs doors, with no luck. Undeterred, he walked up a wide staircase to the second floor. There, six doors down, he came across what he was looking for.

He found himself hesitating. Ever since that afternoon under the chestnut tree, he'd been fighting a losing battle to keep away from her. He'd spent nights tossing and turning, alternately feeling like the biggest scoundrel on earth, and the next, the luckiest man alive. It couldn't go on. They had to talk. Get things sorted. One way or the other.

He raised a hand to the door and knocked, firmly and determinedly. Nothing happened. He almost laughed out loud. To have nerved himself to come and see her, at last—only to find that she wasn't even in.

He shook his head again and wandered slowly down the wooden-floored corridor, to the double window at the end. He leaned
wearily
on the windowsill, and looked out over the Oxford skyline, picking out the domes of the Sheldonian Theatre and the Radcliffe Camera. But he could think only of Frederica.

He shook his head and turned his back on the view, staring down the dark corridor, his mind going back to that wonderful, shattering afternoon. A virgin. He'd never once suspected her innocence. He'd seen her as a lovely, free-thinking student. And knowing her to be a crooked artist, he'd been utterly blind to the more intimate side of her.

She was still only a kid. No! Not now. Not since he'd made love to her. She was a woman now. His woman. But, no! She wasn't his woman. He grimaced at the pain of denial the stark thought set off, ricocheting around his mind like a loose bullet. He loved her.

No.

Yes.

He shook his head, walking down the corridor, hesitating once more outside her room. His legs felt weak, as if he was falling prey to some kind of lingering illness. Without quite knowing why, he put his hand out to the door handle and pushed down.

He almost gasped when the door opened. ‘Damn it Frederica, you're too trusting,' he murmured, as the door slowly opened out, revealing a typical student room.

A single bed lay tight up against one wall and looked neat and tidy. But in his mind's eye
he
could see her lying on it, her hair spread out against the pillow, her skin flushed with sleep, her long lashes feathered against her cheek as she slept. He took a step inside, then another, and closed the door after him. Even accepting that students didn't usually bother with locked doors, he'd have thought that she would be more careful. But even though he felt that he had right on his side, it didn't stop him feeling like an interloper as he looked around.

Prints by Salvador Dali and Jean-Honore Fragonard adorned the walls. A messy desk, covered in papers, sat underneath the single window. But, instantly attracting his eye and easily dominating the room, was a covered canvas on an easel.

He had no way of knowing it, but he'd just missed Frederica, who had retrieved her canvas from the Ruskin and was now in the library, photocopying other works of Forbes-Wright from the reference books.

Lorcan stared at the white sheet covering the canvas for some time before slowly walking towards it. Every step dragged. His heart thudded, sickeningly in his breast.

He didn't really want to know. Didn't really care.

Richard Braine had called him last night, confirming that ‘nothing was known' about Frederica Delacroix, but asking him to have a good nose around. Well, he thought, his lips
twisting
bitterly, he was certainly doing that, wasn't he?

Always before, he'd been keen to track down the scavengers who haunted his world like ugly vultures, bringing greed and deceit to something that should be beautiful and pure. But now he felt sick to his stomach, although it didn't stop him from taking a deep breath and slowly lifting the sheet from the canvas.

The painting was emerging so fast it was breathtaking.

He could now make out the definite tree-line, and a small pond. The square building and waterwheel. A flicker of recognition shivered over him, found a home, and lodged. He dragged in a deep breath. It was the water mill at Cross Keys!

For an instant, relief, delightful in its profundity, swept over him. He'd got it wrong. She was painting a scene from her own home! Nothing wrong with that . . .

And then, suddenly, the relief was gone. The Mill being outlined and taking shape on the canvas was nothing like the Mill he remembered seeing just before making love to her. Where was the out-of-place conservatory, the new windows? Perhaps it's a deliberately romanticised painting, a desperate voice suggested, coming from the region of his heart and utterly bypassing his head. But he couldn't forget her other paintings—Post-Millennium Home, the combine harvester, the depictions
of
satellite dishes and dustbins and cars. She believed in painting things as they were. But this scene could have been painted over one hundred years ago.

He moved closer, studying it. The swans on the water were as yet bare lines, but the style reminded him of someone. One of the early Victorians. Who . . . ?

He shook his head and studied the work she'd done so far. The brushstrokes were vastly different from those he'd noted on her other pieces. Finer, more delicate, more in keeping with someone like . . . Forbes-Wright. For a long while he studied the emerging painting on the canvas, trying to project in his mind's eye what the finished piece would look like. An old mill house, trees, sky, lake and swans.

Then he turned and left. A grim, deeply horrible sense of betrayal was taking the place of pain in his heart. A part of him knew it was irrational, senseless. But he took that faked canvas like a personal insult, like an injury aimed right at him. Dammit, did he mean nothing to her? Nothing at all? She'd given him her virginity, but what about her trust? Her confidence? Her honesty? She must know how he felt about forgeries—he'd given two lectures already on the subject.

If he'd gone to the library he would have run into Frederica, and found her with piles of photocopies of Forbes-Wright's work. But he
didn't.
He turned instead to the big City Central Library opposite Bonn Square. There he spent the afternoon looking up the early Victorian artists. And found, in one big book chock-full of prints, a painting attributed to Forbes-Wright. ‘The Old Mill and Swans'.

Looking down at the glossy reproduction of the painting he'd seen emerging on the canvas in Frederica's room, Lorcan felt a hard, cold knot form in the pit of his stomach. This time there could be no doubt—the evidence stared back at him with harsh cruelty. There was no excuse for stealing another painter's work. None. Not even for Frederica Delacroix.

Not even for the woman he loved.

*          *          *

Frederica was just changing to go into dinner when a Classics student on the ground floor knocked on her door and yelled that she had a phone call. She skipped quickly down the stairs to the public telephone, and lifted the receiver. ‘Hello?'

‘Hello, Freddy,' her father's voice sounded purposefully cheerful. ‘How are you? I thought you'd be home by now.'

‘No, I'm staying up for a little longer. I've got things to do,' she drawled. As if he didn't know, the old faker!

‘Oh. Ah. Right. About that, Freddy . . .' James Delacroix cleared his throat
portentously.
‘I think, you know, that it wasn't such a good idea after all.'

‘What?' Frederica squeaked, scandalised. ‘After all the hard work I've done? And the money I've spent on it. Are you mad? I only need another week or so and it'll be finished.' After sweating blood over it and tip-toeing around the greatest fake-buster in the country, surely he didn't expect her to chuck it all in, just like that? No way, José!

Then she felt a small shudder of foreboding slip down her spine as she realised that something must be wrong. Badly wrong. It wasn't like her father to chop and change his mind.

‘Daddy,' she said quietly, her voice falling to a mere whisper. ‘Daddy, is something wrong?'

James sighed, heavily. ‘Well, Freddy, I've heard . . . on the unofficial grapevine, that certain people have been . . . interested in us, recently. Making discreet enquiries, as it were.'

It took Frederica a few moments to interpret all this careful wording. When she did, she almost yelped. ‘The police you mean?' she squeaked.