Gemini Heat (20 page)

When she arrived home, grubby and weary, Deana could hear the TV in the flat. Delia was back, it seemed. But was she safe and sound? That was the question. Deana hardly dare call out and ask.

The first thing she saw when she walked into the living room was a large, rectangular, white card box. It was the sort of packaging an exclusive dress store might use, the sort that Delia often turned up with but which Deana never did. Her clothes came wrapped in plastic carriers ... if that.

The store logo was unfamiliar. She'd half expected it to be 'Janet Reger', 'La Perla' or some sort of designer ready-to-wear, but instead there was just the word 'Circe'. Deana recognised the Palatino Italic script, 36 point. Very plain, very classy . . . but why a witch who'd turned men into swine? Jake was a chauvinist, but no pig. Far from it. He was dissolute, decadent and a pervert extraordinaire; but he was the most refined man she'd ever met. No woman - not even herself in her wildest moments - could ever rob Jake of his elegance.

She was assuming the box came from him, but it could always just be Delia treating herself. She might've been high on fabulous lovemaking and dying to spend some money. Deana often had that urge herself but she usually bought a painting or some books. Or those huge, hand-made Belgian chocolates which were the foodie equivalent of orgasms.

When she opened the box, all doubts about its origins dissolved. There was only one person in their lives at the moment who would purchase such a thing . . . Deana touched leather and her stomach quivered. She lifted out the contents of the box and felt sick with excitement. How typical of Jake to buy this.

'This' was the most remarkable piece of lingerie that Deana had ever seen - a boned and laced basque made from flawless, pure white leather. It was fine and sleek, and fragrantly erotic, and her fingers shook as she stroked it.

Wear it for me, she imagined him saying. She could hear him, see him, feel him, as automatically she clasped the basque to her. It wasn't her usual style, but she'd no doubt it was exactly her size; a minor masterpiece in leather, so thin it felt fluid. Its texture was like cream to her exploring fingertips, and both virginal and deviant, it menaced her. Smooth and strange, it was a pleasure to hold against her body. But could she ever put on such a miracle? It was just 'not her'.

'It fits,' said Delia calmly. 'I've tried it.'

Deana almost dropped her find when her sister walked into the room, soundless in her stockinged, shoeless feet.

'God, you made me jump!' Deana dropped the basque back into its wrappings, and then, when she looked at her sister more closely, she frowned.

She'd expected Delia to look different somehow. Radiant. Beatific. Completely suffused with sex . . . But Delia just seemed her usual cool efficient self. There were no visible signs of debauchery either. No love-bites. No bags under the eyes. No pasty face or stifled yawns.

Deana stared hard, but Delia didn't waver or seem phased. 'You haven't got long, Deana,' she said briskly, lifting the corset back out of its box. 'You're being picked up at half past seven, and he wants you in
this.'
She shook the strange garment chivvyingly, and its suspenders danced and bobbed, 'So you'd better get a move on and get into it.'

Deana took the basque back from her sister and fingered its sensuous surface. 'Never mind "get a move on",' she shot back with some spirit, 'hadn't you better tell me how you came to be out all night? I've been worried.' She paused, guiltily. It was true, she
had
been worried, but her jealousy had bothered her more. 'I'll start getting ready if you'll get us some wine then tell me everything that's happened.'

'You'll have tea,' replied Delia firmly, 'and I'll brief you while you dress.'

She was already on her way to the kitchen.

Will my sweat stain the leather? Deana wondered, hoping it wouldn't.

Waiting in the corset, she felt hot and uneasy. She was uncomfortable in the bloody thing, but more uncomfortable by far with the twists and turns of life.

The disquieting parallels. The weird coincidences ... it was like being in the Twilight Zone. Having fantasies about geishas and samurai while your sister was making love with a Japanese bath girl.

But when Deana rationalised events, they didn't seem quite so unlikely. Jake was half Japanese himself so why shouldn't he have Japanese staff working for him?

Similarly, why shouldn't Vida Mistry pick up on Jake's exotic heritage and use it in her stories? The black hair, the slanted eyes - they were perfect for a glamorous fictional hero. Especially if you'd had an affair with that hero. And the fact that things were happening contiguously wasn't so strange either. Everything seemed to be happening at once since that night at the gallery.

So Jake has a female valet? So what? It was Delia's description of her responses that was the bigger shock. Deana had been astounded by her sister's matter-of-fact account of her first brush with lesbianism. She was still astounded. But more by Delia's unruffled sang-froid than by the physical blow-by-blow details. She seemed so calm describing another woman's hands on her body and sex. Deana doubted if she herself could act so coolly . . . She certainly wasn't cool now at the thought of the night ahead.

At the end of her account, Delia had at least had the grace to blush. But Deana wondered now if she and her sister's sexualities might not be all that different.

Delia had taken pleasure with Elf, and she, Deana, was attracted to the weird and wonderful Vida. There was nothing to choose between them except that Delia had put inclination into action. They were both latent bi-sexuals who'd found their true selves at last.

Deana shifted position on the sofa. The basque was harassing her, its tightness on her body so different to her usual minimal underwear. She liked featherweight cottons and silks: pants she could hardly feel, bras that were really just wisps. Unstructured camisoles and G-strings. All these bones and hooks and laces were purgatory. She knew it was more imagination than anything, but she was finding it difficult to breathe.

Constrained in the basque, she felt as if her whole body and mind were controlled by it. The thing had a form and character all of its own. It moulded her flesh to its shape rather than adapting itself to hers. It made her submit, but it also made her beautiful.

Taming her near-perfect figure, the pale fetishistic corset imbued her with an elegance and mannequinlike deportment that she'd never before possessed. Her nature was always to stroll, skip, bop along. But the basque allowed none of these. In it, she was forced to stand up straight and glide. Be stately . . . She felt like a brand new woman, and the experience was deeply disquieting.

A cocktail dress borrowed from Delia didn't help matters either. It was as completely unfamiliar as the basque was, but Deana had nothing in her wardrobe that was meant to be worn with a corset. She slid her fingers across the ruched magenta silk, and imagined the tight white hide beneath, ensheathing her. Sweat popped out afresh and she felt a murderous urge to panic. To rip everything off and say 'to hell with it'. But she didn't. Because rising at last through the layers of discomfort came a new and strangely genital excitement. Constriction forced her blood and organs downwards, building tension and pressure in her sex.

In a sudden illuminating moment, Deana's feelings about the white basque changed. Completely. As the pressure in her vulva mounted, she understood the dark lure of containment, the magic of being bound in and laced. Her clitoris felt lively, and exquisitely tender. She wanted to reach down and touch it, to put her hand between her legs, but the vivid pink dress was too slim.

'You bastard!' she hissed, not sure if it was the garment or its giver that she cursed. He was controlling her with it, dominating her. He'd wrapped her in snow-white leather and enslaved her. And he wasn't even here yet!

But even as the thought coalesced, a coolness trickled right down her spine. The ghost of a long, elegant finger ... A man's slender, narrow-tipped, perfectly manicured finger.

And when she slid to her feet and went to the window, the limousine was purring outside . . .

Chapter Nine

Comings and Goings

W
hat a strange way to end a relationship, thought Delia, almost skipping up the steps after paying off her taxi.

She felt light, free, exhilarated. She felt wicked, outrageous, almost giddy. And very, very sexy. Laughing softly as she opened the door to the flat, she realised that she'd never really enjoyed herself all that much with Russell anyway. It was so ironical that tonight, in the course of their furious parting row, she'd finally got sexual pleasure from him!

Deana would be proud of me, she observed, throwing down her bag of belongings on the settee and marching into the kitchen in search of something to drink. An achievement like this deserved a special treat, and with a heavier hand than usual, she mixed herself a large gin and tonic and sank half of it in one long swallow.

She still couldn't quite remember how she and Russell had managed it, but somehow they'd ended up screwing out their fury on his immaculate off-white lounge carpet. And - for the first time ever without recourse to fantasy - she'd had an orgasm with him inside her.

For about half a minute afterwards, while he huffed and puffed on top of her, she'd wondered whether to back-track and suggest they try again. But sweet reason, common sense, and the pervasive guiding spirits of both Deana and Jake had swayed her. This 'jackpot' with Russell had been a fluke, a one-off fuelled by their mutual antagonism. If they stayed together they'd slide straight back to the way they were. A going-through-the-motions, low-grade boredom that had a killing effect on the sex drive.

'No way, my man. It's over,' she whispered, then sipped at her drink. 'Here's to you, Russ. It was tedious . . . but at least I've learned something. Second best isn't worth it!' It was a philosophical, turned about salute, but it seemed to set the final seal on things. She glugged down the rest of her gin, then set about mixing another.

I'm turning into an alcoholic, she decided, still feeling buoyed up and wicked. It was true, she'd drunk more than usual in the last few days, but the days themselves had been far from usual. She'd been through a wild, erotic upheaval, but delicious as the process was, she couldn't see it lasting forever. Well, not for her at least. Deana maybe, but not her, Delia, whose sense of equilibrium had always been strong. Except, perhaps, when she was worrying about her sister, and feeling just a little bit jealous.

This must be how Deana felt last night, she supposed, sitting down on the settee and kicking off her shoes. As she swung her legs up onto the seat, settled back and took a pull of her new drink, she felt a sticky trickle between her legs, the last remnants of Russell sliding out of her body and her life. The sensation was start-lingly pleasant, and it took her back to that first morning at the office, when Jake's flowing essence had shocked her too. It'd been that cool, silky flow that had made her realise what she'd done. What he'd done . . . That he'd had her within minutes of meeting her.

But what was Jake doing now? Holding court in his fancy-dancy throne room with a leather-clad Deana at his mercy? Delia grinned into her drink, remembering her sister's surprise at being told that female overnight guests did
not
share the de Guile master bedroom.

She'd been surprised herself. She could've slept on a rail when she'd fallen into a sex-dazed stupor on Jake's luxurious couch, but she hadn't expected to sleep so deeply that she'd wake up somewhere else. Alone.

The room she'd ended up in was one of the most beautiful she'd ever seen - a designer decorated courtesan's boudoir complete with an antique four-poster bed. She hadn't been alone for long in it, though. She'd just been wondering whether it had been Jake himself, the faithful Fargo, or even the remarkable Elf who had carried her there, when the Japanese girl had brought in breakfast. More pampering . . . Fresh hand-baked croissants with butter and preserves. Plus sublimely strong coffee. While Delia had devoured and drunk, Elf had run a bath for her. And afterwards, when she'd soaked for ages in aromatic, muscle-soothing bubbles, Delia had emerged to find all her clothes laid out and waiting for her, newly laundered and pressed. Even down to her panties.

Jake - Mr Busy - had already left for the day, it seemed, but his household ran efficiently in his absence. When Delia was ready to leave, Elf had handed her the box containing the leather basque, and the note containing Jake's precise instructions for its wearing.

Instructions that Deana had laughed at on reading, and that Delia knew for a fact her rebellious sister was not quite following.

It was typical of Deana. She'd always bucked any kind of authority, especially male. Delia had always found that for her own part, success came with going with the flow . . . Which was what she'd been doing with Jake. If Deana let her tearaway tendencies get the better of her, their game would surely falter.

Delia didn't like to think about the consequences of that just now; and happily a knock at the door meant she didn't have to. With a grunt of equal parts irritation and relief, she swung her legs off the couch and went to meet her caller.

On the doorstep stood Peter, his faintly gawky frame ridiculous in voluminous surf shorts and an overgrown T-shirt. But it wasn't his unfortunate dress sense that really caugh her attention. It was the red hot look in his eyes.