Altered Images (19 page)

When he came back with a loaded tray, she watched him place it on the table, pour out two cups, and offer her the sugar lumps. The sense of unreality heightened. Ever since the phone call from her father, she'd felt as if she'd taken a step outside the real world into some other kind of existence. Now, this feeling of other-worldliness was almost suffocating. It felt just like a nightmare. A sense of being somewhere utterly alien. Except that this time, there was to be no waking up.

Lorcan handed her the teacup, noticing that
his
own hand was shaking. When she took it from him, her hand was no steadier.

He leaned back in his chair and took a deep breath. Time to get everything out in the open. Time to take back control of his life. He wasn't used to being as out of control as this, and he didn't like it. He'd demand to know what she was doing, make her give it up, drag her into his life and keep her there no matter what it took.

‘Frederica,' he said, and then the telephone rang.

She jumped and it seemed to jolt her back into gear. The cotton-wool feeling in her head disappeared. Suddenly, she was alert and aware, and thinking clearly.

‘You'd better answer that,' she said softly, and got up from the sofa to give him a little privacy. She gravitated naturally towards the window as Lorcan snatched up the receiver.

‘Lorcan! Richard here. I was expecting to get the answering machine. I just wanted you to know—our stool pigeon has disappeared.'

‘What?' Lorcan said, hardly listening. Of all the times to call! He fought back the unreasonable anger and shot a quick, agonised look over his shoulder. She was standing with her back to him, staring out over the gardens.

‘Gone,' Richard repeated obligingly. ‘As in scarpered. Word has it that he's left the city. Something he's never done before. And I don't know why.'

Lorcan
sighed. ‘Perhaps he was telling you lies?' he said, as quietly as he could without whispering, but over by the window, Frederica ears sharpened.

‘What do you mean?' Richard asked sharply.

Lorcan picked up the phone and walked with it to the kitchen, glad that the owners of the villa liked portable telephones. Frederica waited for just a few seconds, then softly moved towards the doorway, being careful to hug the wall and keep out of sight.

‘I mean,' Lorcan said softly, ‘perhaps your little bird was having you on.'

‘Why would he do that?' Detective Inspector Richard Braine asked sharply. ‘Have you found out something?'

‘I mean,' Lorcan said, keeping his voice even and calm, ‘perhaps he lied to you to cover up something else. To focus your attention on Oxford.' He glanced at the half-open door, not knowing that Frederica was lurking behind it. ‘Whilst his friends pulled a fast one somewhere else.'

Frederica bit her lip. Fast one? Focus on Oxford? He was talking to the police! He had to be. Right here and now, after he'd just made love to her! She slapped her hand to her mouth to stifle the small sound she made. Pain washed over her, and she forced it back. She'd wanted definite, solid proof, hadn't she? An end from all this wavering uncertainty? Well,
she
had it now. In spades.

‘I don't think so,' Richard Braine said, his voice becoming wary now. ‘Skeeter's always been on the level before.'

‘There's always a first time for a someone like him to play both ends against the middle,' Lorcan pointed out briskly. ‘How do you know someone hasn't paid him to feed you misinformation?' As he spoke, he mentally winced. Now he was committed. He'd changed sides utterly, like a turncoat in the midst of battle. But, really, the decision had been made the moment Frederica had asked him to choose between her and that damned painting. There was no way, now, that he could feed her to the lions.

‘Lorcan,' Richard said quietly. ‘You have found something out, haven't you?'

Lorcan cast another look at the open doorway. Picturing the curve of her slender back as she stood at the window. Remembering her soft sighs against his ear. Her breasts crushed to his chest. He took a deep breath. ‘You're right. I found out that I've been on the wrong track. That student I was telling you about . . . she's clean.'

There. He'd done it. What did his honour mean to him, if it meant losing her? What good were having principles and convictions if they crucified the woman you loved?

By the door, Frederica was glad she still had her hand over her mouth, for she felt a stifled
cry
of happiness lodge in her mouth. It was so overwhelming, so acute, that for a moment she thought she was going to pass out. He was defending her.

Lying for her. For a man like Lorcan, it meant the world.

‘What do you mean? I thought you said it was . . .' Over the line Lorcan heard a ruffle of paper, and he could almost picture his friend pulling towards him a print of ‘The Old Mill and Swans'. ‘A painting by Forbes-Wright?'

‘I was wrong,' Lorcan said flatly. ‘Her Tutor, knowing that she was interested in depicting modern living in a contemporary way, had set her the task of comparing a well-known painting of a dwelling of the last century and re-painting it as it was now. I found some notes of hers at the Ruskin. Living right next to the mill at Cross Keys, the Forbes-Wright was an obvious choice.' It sounded good. It even sounded plausible. So much so that Frederica, listening to him, felt like applauding. She wanted to throw her arms around him, promise him she'd love him for ever and ever. But something kept her rooted to the spot.

Richard Braine wasn't an easy man to convince however. ‘I thought you said she was making an exact copy?'

Lorcan closed his eyes, hating to do it, but then shook his head. ‘She was. That's what threw me, at first. But I've just seen the
canvas—she's
over-painted all that clever preparation in her own style. The damned Mill's even got a conservatory on it now.'

There was silence on the end of the line for so long, that Lorcan felt sweat pop up on his forehead. He gripped the receiver hard. He knew Richard of old—if he couldn't put him off, nothing would shake him. The man was a terrier when it came to getting his teeth into a case.

‘So that old canvas and all the Victorian-style paints . . . ?'

‘She's a perfectionist,' Lorcan said quickly. ‘I'd already learned that. She's Ruskin's star pupil, although they're being very careful not to say as much. Everyone expects her to get a First.'

‘I see,' Richard said, but his voice was ominously flat.

‘Which is why this stool pigeon of yours disappearing, makes me wonder if we haven't been set up,' Lorcan added craftily, tossing the distraction into the conversation like a master fisherman. ‘You say he's never pulled a stunt like this before?'

‘No,' Richard admitted.

‘So, isn't it possible that he was paid to give you false information? And, knowing that you're soon going to realise it, he's gone into hiding. It makes more sense than some second-year student turning rogue.' He swallowed hard, his heart pounding. Behind
the
door, Frederica's heart did the same.

But could she really trust him? Even now? That old worm, suspicion, wriggled deep inside her. He knew that she'd heard him answer the phone. He'd gone out into the kitchen, fairly screaming the fact out loud that it was an important phone call. He very conveniently hadn't been able to shut the door completely, because of the telephone cord. And he was clever enough to guess that she might be listening in. What if he was just laying the grounds to set up a false sense of security on her part? Was she being paranoid? Or was she just being realistic?

Once again she was back in the realms of a nightmare. Was he a heartless seducer, a cunning, ruthless hunter? Or did he mean it when he said he loved her?

‘Hum, you might be right,' Richard Braine agreed cautiously.

Lorcan disguised a sigh of relief, and said casually, ‘Well, I'll still keep my eyes open down here. Just in case.'

‘Good idea,' Richard said dryly. Then, just as Lorcan was about to hang up asked softly, ‘Is she very beautiful Lorcan?'

Lorcan went cold. He stared at the wall opposite him. Then he said quietly, ‘Yes, she is.' And hung up.

Frederica moved quickly back to the window. When Lorcan came back into the room and put the phone back in its place, she
was
standing exactly where he'd left her.

‘Frederica,' he said softly. His breath caught as she turned to look at him. His heart melted as those dark velvety eyes met his. And he knew it would always be this way. He walked towards her, his arms coming out to hold her. Frederica panicked.

‘You said you had something you wanted to show me?' she reminded him, taking a hasty step back. She needed to think. She needed time to recover, to try to make sense of all that had happened. If she let him hold her now, she'd be lost all over again.

‘What? Oh . . . yes,' Lorcan tried to ignore the pain he felt as she moved determinedly away from him. Pretended it didn't matter. Reassured himself that, in time, he'd win her over. After all, he'd just given up a very important part of his life for her. He knew without having to ask him, that Detective Inspector Richard Braine would never again ask him to help the police. He knew that he'd never again be able to meet his own reflection in the mirror without knowing, and acknowledging, that he had sacrificed a great part of himself for the sake of a woman who might not even love him. But it didn't matter.

He loved her. Such was the power of love. He smiled, suddenly glad that, no matter how things turned out, he hadn't cheated himself. Hadn't betrayed her. He knew, in a flash of illumination, that he'd never, ever, regret what
he'd
just done.

Frederica saw an astonishing look cross his face, and wondered what had caused it. Before she knew what she was doing, she'd taken an instinctive step towards him. Something wonderful had just happened. She knew it. She felt it. But then she checked herself.

She still didn't dare trust him.

‘What I wanted to show you is over here,' he said calmly, and walked to one corner of the room, where a plain-looking frame faced the wall. ‘I got it the other day, in a junk shop in Botley. What do you think?'

He turned it around and showed her the vibrant, colourful, cartoon-like print of a Roy Liechtenstein. ‘Liechtenstein is the best known of the American pop artists, as you know. But what do you think this was doing in Botley of all places?'

Frederica shook her head, but for once failed to be moved by a piece of art. She turned away from it, not even bothering to check to see whether it was one of the earlier prints. Lorcan put it back and said casually, ‘Of course, his work is very easily faked. Any competent cartoonist or magazine strip-cartoon artist could have a reasonable go at faking a Liechtenstein.'

Now, Frederica thought. Now was the time to turn round and tell him that she was copying the Forbes-Wright, and more importantly, why. Now, Lorcan thought. She's
going
to tell me now. But even as Frederica turned, even as she opened her mouth, even as she began to speak, something insisted she remain silent.

Had that phone call been a set up, between him and his policeman friend? He'd invited her back to his house, he could have asked his buddy on the Art Fraud Squad to call at three o'clock on the dot. She didn't want to believe it. She didn't, even, really think it was true. But she didn't know. And until she did, she'd just have to stick it out. Until the painting was finished, until she showed it to him in all its glory, in all its fine detail, and waited to see what he'd do? Would he call the police in, or tell her to destroy it? Until then, she was in limbo: that place between heaven and hell, not knowing which was to be her final destination. Her only consolation was that it wouldn't be long. The painting was all but finished. She could hang on just that little while longer. She had to.

And so she smiled merrily at him. Took a step towards him, and held out her hand. ‘Want to go punting on the river?' she asked softly.

Lorcan swallowed hard. Once. Felt something deaden and crumple inside of him. Then he nodded. ‘If that's what you want,' he agreed, his voice as bleak as a winter wind.

CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN

Detective Inspector Richard Braine didn't look happy as he boarded the train to Oxford. In his pocket he had a search warrant for Frederica Delacroix's room in St Bede's, and another one for her work area at the Ruskin School of Fine Art. He stared at the passing scenery morosely. He wanted his suspicions to be wrong. Dead wrong. What he most definitely didn't want, was to find out that Lorcan Greene, a man he'd always trusted, had lied to him.

*          *          *

At four-thirty on the dot, the conference goers at St Bede's began to assemble for afternoon tea, the impressive College Butler and several scouts beginning to circulate with delicious meringues and trays of dainty cucumber sandwiches and pots and pots of tea.

Carl Struthers, the owner of a large and successful non-fiction publishing company, was a thin, dark, intense looking man, who rarely smiled. He had only one ruling passion, and it wasn't publishing. His eyes flickered around the room restlessly, and he glanced, more than once, at his watch.

‘Do you have to salivate whenever she walks
by?'
Gerry hissed loudly at her ‘husband' John Hendrix.

‘Oh don't start . . .' John snapped back. And as the conference goers quietened down to watch the next instalment, Reeve moved slowly across the room, careful not to interfere with John, Gerry and Julie's big husband-wife-mistress love triangle.

‘Looks like things are going well,' Reeve murmured to Annis, as Gerry scornfully asked her errant spouse why he had to rub her nose in it by bringing his mistress to Oxford?