In Too Deep (7 page)

‘I’m speaking at a dinner. I’m just waiting for my taxi.’ He stares down at the polished toes of his shoes, then looks up again, making me realise that something else is different. No glasses today.

‘What happened to your specs? Don’t you need them when you’re not working?’

A strange, almost angry expression flits across his face for a moment and his mouth twists. What have I said?

‘I need them all the time, more or less, I’m afraid.’ His voice sounds odd, flat. ‘But I’ve got my contacts in tonight. Better for the old image, don’t you know.’ The crimp in his lips softens and he gives me a grin, as if embarrassed by his own vanity.

What the hell would he say if he knew I’d seen him naked? I’m convinced now that he doesn’t know he was watched.

He smiles wider, gives a little shrug.

‘Look, I’m sorry about yesterday lunchtime. I was abrupt and far too prissy. I shouldn’t have been “off” with you.’ His voice drops to a whisper and becomes quite thrilling. All the nerves that have just been settled by my session in the cloakroom start to quiver again. ‘That was a delicious kiss. I really enjoyed it.’

Shiny behind their invisible lenses, his eyes glitter.

‘Me too’ is all I can manage.

His look is so intense I almost feel faint, and in its depths strange messages shift and flow. Is it him? Is he Nemesis? I find myself wondering again, and I feel a flutter of fear in my chest that he could be so clever and so devious and such a bloody good actor.

He checks his watch. ‘Taxi’ll be here any minute, and I won’t be back until late. But maybe we could have coffee or something tomorrow? Or a drink? Or lunch?’

Crikey, is Professor Hottie asking me out for a date?

‘Cool, that’d be great.’ Don’t sound so enthusiastic, Gwen!

‘And, before I forget, I meant what I said about those letters. You must be careful. If any more arrive and you’re worried about them, give me a call, won’t you?’ He whips out an austere white business card with his contact numbers on it.

‘Thanks, but they don’t worry me. Not really. I think he’s pretty harmless.’

‘Are you sure? I don’t want you to do anything foolish.’ His voice drops low, and he seems just about to say something else when there’s the toot of a horn from the library’s forecourt. ‘That’s my cab. Time to go. I’ll see you tomorrow.’ He reaches out, touches my arm, and even through my blouse his fingers feel as if they’re made of flame. ‘And remember, be careful. It’s
often
the quiet and apparently harmless ones who turn out to be the most dangerous.’

He turns and walks away, but just before he reaches the main door of the lobby he looks back. Did he just wink? Surely not … I must be imagining things.

4 Contact

WAS IT A
wink or wasn’t it? And if it was one, what did it mean? That he was acknowledging he’d sounded a bit pompous? That he knew I’d seen him downstairs, naked and masturbating? That he’s actually Nemesis and he’s fully aware that I suspect him?

It could be all of those or none of them. It could be just
me
that’s imagining things. It seems to be my normal mode right now. But I do need to find out more about Professor Daniel Brewster if I’m to go out with him, either seriously or just as friends, with a unilateral no-crotch-grabbing policy.

I’m in bed again now. It’s late. I can’t sleep. So I fire up my trusty laptop for some Googling. Surprisingly for someone who’s been on the telly, he has no personal website. There’s just a page at the site of the University from which he’s currently on sabbatical, but even that’s simply a bare-bones bio, basic contact info and an impressive list of his qualifications and honours.

But further down the first page of search results, I hit pay dirt: a fan site for Professor Hottie groupies! I pour myself another glass of wine and dig in.

There’s a treasure trove of photos, most of them screen-caps from his three television series. And whoever runs the site is a wizard with the capture software, because in most shots he looks far more like a pin-up than a professor. Here, his shirt has come slightly unbuttoned, and there’s a hint of his delicious dark chest hair. Here, his sleeves are rolled up, showing
his
muscular arms. Here, he’s actually wearing shorts, wahey! And here, the way he’s standing, with one foot up on the tumbled blocks of some historical ruin, shows his elegant chinos stretched tight across his package.

Swigging a mouthful of supermarket plonk, I wonder vaguely if I’m turning into an alcoholic, drinking two nights on the trot. I wonder how the besotted girlies who’ve put this site together would react if they’d seen what I saw this afternoon? They’d probably expire of ecstasy on the spot. I wasn’t far from it myself, and I’m starting to veer in that direction again right now, just from thinking about it. I try to put it out of my mind, and start clicking on other pages in the site. Soon I’m feeling almost as dirty and voyeuristic as I did this afternoon. Where have they dug all this personal info up from? Doesn’t anyone have any secrets these days?

What a hypocrite I am. This is just the sort of intimate background skinny that I’m after. According to the ‘dating history’ page, Daniel doesn’t have a girlfriend at the moment. Unable to stop myself, I check the ‘date last updated’ and see it’s only a few weeks old. I shouldn’t be sighing with relief, because I don’t seriously believe there can be anything between us … but I am.

But he has had a rather colourful series of relationships. Lots of beautiful and quite high-profile women have succumbed to his charms, the most notable Larena Palmer, a socialite with whom he lived for several years, and whom he was expected to marry. I wonder how hurt he was when she ditched him for the son of a duke and became part of the landed gentry? Horrible bitch! How could she?

Am I feeling sorry for him? I think of my own defunct marriage. I was glad to be out of it, really, because once we got back from our honeymoon my ex-husband quickly
developed
the annoying habit of believing he was right and telling me what to do all the time. But it still stings a little to have failed in something that once meant so much to me. Frowning, and not sure whether it’s over my own relationship history or Daniel’s, I turn away from the screen and top up my glass. No alcohol tomorrow, and that’s a promise.

The family background proves interesting too. His mother was a brilliant scientist, as much a luminary in her field as her son is in his. But she gave it all up, ditching her career to nurse his father when he became ill with a chronic condition. There’s a picture of her with Daniel and, even though it’s a candid, it’s acutely revealing. Her face is sad and lost, even though she’s trying to smile, and the expression is somehow reflected in her son’s, as if he comprehends the bitter impact of her sacrifice.

He’s got issues. Stuff in his life that’s scarred him. People like that do strange things. But are they quite as strange as sending secret, floridly erotic letters to women they barely know, and then bluffing denial?

I flick back to the Uni site and click the email link. Does he still check this one? Will he answer if I mail him? Thunderbird opens and immediately I close the new message window. No, I’m not going to email him. It’s too risky because when I’m online I have a nasty habit of saying far more than I mean to.

My glass of wine calls to me, and so does the strangest little frisson of fear-slash-excitement. I click ‘check mail’. A couple of spam messages and a newsletter from Amazon arrive, and then …

‘You have a message from Nemesis.’

It just sits there, almost pulsating on the screen. I go hot and cold, terrified for a moment, wondering how he’s found
me
, and then I realise it’s come via a social networking site I signed up to a month or two ago and never did anything with. If Nemesis is obsessed enough with me to leave me erotic love notes in the library’s suggestion box, he’s certainly going to search for me on the likes of MySpace and Facebook, isn’t he?

Maybe I should just delete it. It might be safer. Even if Daniel and Nemesis
are
the same person, to engage in direct contact with his ‘dark’ side is just getting in too deep. Far too deep.

I open the email and click the link because I’m just certifiable and far too curious to resist. I find myself in the networking site’s message centre, staring at a link saying ‘Hello, Gwendolynne’, flanked by an avatar that’s just a picture of a quill pen. A historical writing implement for a historian who writes secret notes?

The ‘online now’ legend is showing. There’s still a chance to step back. I don’t have to click this link either. I can always check the box beside it then click ‘delete’ … can’t I?

Telling myself ‘No! No! No!’, I open the message. Bracing myself for more of the deliciously purple prose in the letters, I look away from the screen. But when I turn back, I simply see a button to open an instant message system and the ‘N3m3sis’ email address I already know.

I feel as if there’s a vortex in my chest, whirling madly. I can’t, I just can’t ‘talk’ to him in real time. That really
is
getting in too deep, and far too soon. Well, for me … He’s probably gagging for it!

I click the email link and Thunderbird springs to life again, a new message open with ‘him’ in the recipient line.

Hello?
I type, then reach for my wine again, staring at the white expanse of the open message window. I take a few sips, deliberately keeping my hands clear of the touchpad and the
keyboard
. I can still hold back. But my glass is empty and, taking a deep breath, I click ‘send’. Too late, it dawns on me I’ve sent it from my personal email address, so he’ll
know
it’s from me. If I’d half a brain cell I would have used a more anonymous Hotmail or Google identity. Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! I feel like slamming shut my laptop and never opening the bloody thing again. Now I’ve done it.

Heart fluttering, I shove the lappie to one side on the bed, leap out and run to the bathroom. I’m such a coward. I squat on the loo, pee, blot myself – and instantly feel a keen jolt of pleasure. I’m running a river, I’m so aroused. How the hell did that happen? I wasn’t even aware of it. I consider doing something about it, but I sense the computer waiting. Waiting as if Nemesis is in the room and tapping his fingers, impatient with my craven wimpishness.

On my return, I find that Thunderbird has automatically checked for new mail and there’s a reply. I hardly dare open it but, when I do, there’s the link for the instant messenger again, and the words.

Afraid to ‘speak’?

Not giving myself a chance to falter, I send a reply saying ‘
no
’ and open the IM software in a full-screen window.

And here’s the quill-pen icon again, and mine, a very unimaginative picture of a book alongside my handle ‘librarygirl’.

The cursor flashes and flashes. Has he got cold feet? I start to type.

LIBRARYGIRL: Are you there?

Still nothing, so I pour more wine. Obviously he’s all talk and no action. I don’t think Nemesis and Daniel can be the same person, after all. Professor Hottie may be a lot of things, but he doesn’t strike me as a coward.

Then the connection icon starts to flicker … and here it is.

NEMESIS: Hello, Gwendolynne. How delightful to actually speak to you at last. I’ve been waiting so long for this moment.

Is this a clue? Is he a library regular who’s been fantasising about me for months and only just escalated to putting pen to paper and fingers to keys? Now that
is
really scary.

LIBRARYGIRL: How long?

NEMESIS: Since I first saw you, delicious one. Since I first saw you and my cock stood to attention at the sight of your gorgeous body.

LIBRARYGIRL: Really? And how long is that?

There’s another aching pause, and I realise that I’m holding my breath. I drag in a great gasp, feeling light-headed, spaced and unreal.

NEMESIS: Now that would be telling. Let’s say plenty long enough for me to become utterly besotted with you.

A pause.

NEMESIS: Long enough not to be able to count the nights that I’ve masturbated myself to sleep dreaming of you beside me … naked.

Uh oh, here we go.

NEMESIS: Or perhaps I should say beneath me and naked?

The minute it appears on the screen, I want it. It’s been too long since I’ve had actual sex, rather than just playing with myself or using my vibrator. Bed wasn’t especially spectacular with my husband, but it wasn’t all bad, and a girl can compensate with fantasies. But now I feel as if I’ve been zapped by lightning. It dawns on me that Nemesis is pretty much what I was fantasising about all along while I was having sex with my ex-husband: a dark, mysterious, faceless lover who may or may not be real. Suddenly it doesn’t matter all that much
who
he is. It’s the fantasy I’m connecting with, not the reality.

I smile, ready to enjoy myself. All my fear, or most of it, has been melted by the gathering excitement, both mental and physical.

LIBRARYGIRL: So, who are you, Nemesis? Are you afraid to tell me?

There’s another long pause, but somehow I know he’s smiling too. Along with the horniness, he feels the same sense of challenge that I do.

NEMESIS: Not afraid … just reluctant to explode the game so soon.

Now it’s my turn to make him wait. Should I push or hold back? Dare all or hedge my bets? My chest feels as if I’m having a mild apoplexy or something. I press my hand to my breastbone, as if that might settle my heart.

LIBRARYGIRL: Fair enough, but did I see you in the library today? Did you see me?

Vague enough. And a miracle of self-restraint, considering the question ‘Are you Daniel Brewster?’ is careening around in my brain.

NEMESIS: You saw me. I saw you. You looked magnificent. Elegant. An icon of groomed, professional sexiness. I wanted to fall to the floor, kneel at your feet, and then slide your skirt up and rub my face against your stocking tops, while I breathed in your perfume and the scent of your cunt.

If he goes on like this, I’ll be able to breathe it in myself. In fact, I already can. I’m welling and flowing again, all damp and silky. I wish he was here, whoever he is. I see that image of a masked man again. Mysterious and threatening. Deceiving.