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‘What friend?' he asked suspiciously.

Frederica shook her head. ‘Does it matter?'

Lorcan closed his eyes briefly and prayed for strength. ‘Frederica,' he said, his voice ominously calm, ‘you have one of the best Art Fraud detectives there is breathing down your neck. And if he has his way, you're probably going to spend the next three-to-five years of your life in Holloway,' his voice rose in pitch. ‘So yes, off-hand, I'd say that it mattered!'

Frederica licked her dry lips and looked down miserably at the hands in her laps. He was warning her. He'd even told her about the police plans. Surely, surely, that was enough. That was all the proof she needed?

‘I'm not going to sell the painting on, Lorcan,' she said softly, looking up at him, her face naked in its honesty. ‘We never intended to. So you see, there's nothing the police can do to us. Whatever it was you and the police thought was happening in Oxford, whatever
criminal
activity brought you down here, it has nothing to do with me. It never has.'

Lorcan took a series of slow, deep breaths. She sounded so earnest. But it was not her truthfulness that concerned him now. Jealousy, sharp as a dragon's tooth, began to nibble away at him. ‘Who's “we” Frederica?' he demanded. ‘Who put you up to this? And what rubbish did he feed you? Of course he's going to sell it on!' he snarled. ‘Why else do you think he got you to paint it in the first place?'

In his mind he could just picture some charming con-artist seducing her into this mess. If he hadn't known better, he would even have bet that he'd sweet-talked her into his bed too, the better to be sure of her.

Frederica shook her head. ‘You don't understand,' she insisted stubbornly. ‘You've got it all wrong. It's nothing like that. I swear. I promise.'

‘Frederica, you've been conned, sweetheart,' he said grimly, not liking the look of stubborn defiance in her eyes one little bit. Whoever this scoundrel was, he had a hold on her that was driving him crazy. Why was she being so damned loyal?

‘Whoever this man is, he means to make money out of the fake,' Lorcan gritted. ‘And if anything goes wrong, it won't just be him that pays for it. You will too.'

Frederica burst into tears. She couldn't help it, because, suddenly, and without a shadow of
a
doubt, she knew that he meant every word he was saying. He thought she was innocent. He loved her. He was willing to fight her corner. Days and restless nights of suffering were suddenly washed away in a glorious, wonderful, tidal wave of relief.

Lorcan groaned and gathered her into his arms, holding her tight, rocking her back and forth as she cried as if her heart was breaking, instead of mending.

‘You d-d-don't understand,' she hiccuped, trying to pull away, to look him in his wonderfully handsome, loving, face. ‘It isn't l-l-like you th-think. I . . .'

‘No, you don't understand,' Lorcan insisted, one hand cupped behind her skull, caressing her. ‘You've got to let me take the painting,' he said flatly.

He felt her stiffen. ‘Take it?' she asked, her tears drying up instantly. ‘Take it where? Why?' she demanded.

‘To burn it,' Lorcan said. ‘I've got all I need to do it back at the house.'

Frederica wiped the tears off her cheeks, her eyes scanning his face restlessly, searching for signs of deceit. ‘Can I come with you?' she asked quietly, her eyes intent and full of fear. If he really wanted to burn the painting, he'd have no objection, would he?

Lorcan frowned. Was she afraid of this man, whoever he was? ‘Of course you can come,' he agreed.

‘And
watch you burn it?' she added persistently.

Lorcan nodded. ‘Yes. We'll burn it together,' he agreed eagerly. ‘And then we'll be rid of the damned thing.'

Frederica laughed. For one awful moment back there, she'd thought . . . Oh, but she was wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong!

‘All right,' she agreed, getting up.

Lorcan let out a long, wilting sigh of relief and pulled her close. His mouth fastened on hers, hard, strong, hungry.

Frederica melted against him, gloriously happy, her heart singing, her blood pounding. ‘Oh Lorcan,' she murmured, when he finally lifted his head.

His green eyes glinted. ‘Come on, let's . . .' A knock at the door made them both freeze. Lorcan slowly turned his head towards it. ‘You'd better see who it is.'

Frederica nodded, and walked to the door. She half-suspected to see the now infamous D.I. Braine standing there, but it was one of the scouts. ‘Hello luv,' she said cheerfully. ‘This was in the lodge for you. I thought I'd bring it up, since I was headed this way.' She handed her a letter, casting the handsome man standing behind her a curious, smiling look.

‘Thank you, Edie,' Frederica murmured and closed the door behind her.

She looked down at the envelope, and recognised the writing at once. It was her
father's.
In the left hand corner he'd written the single word ‘urgent'. Frederica opened it, unaware that Lorcan was watching her, his sudden jubilation draining out of him as the old dragon's tooth, jealousy, took a savage bite out of him. Was the letter from the creep who'd dragged her into this? Somehow, he was sure it was. Frederica read her father's letter quickly. It was brief and to the point.

Her mother had noticed the missing Forbes-Wright. He'd told her it was being cleaned. Should he now admit to selling it, or had Frederica been serious about finishing the painting?

He needed to know. Either way, he'd informed their insurance company that the painting had been sold. It was a typical letter from her father—honest and fair. She'd have to ring him up and tell him that yes, he'd have to confess to Donna and take his medicine. She looked up, about to show the letter to Lorcan. To tell him that there was no conman, no deceiver, out to make money from her. Just her father, needing a favour. But there was a strange, tight, angry look on his face. A worried look.

‘You're not going to do it, are you?' Lorcan said flatly. ‘You're not going to let me burn it.'

‘No,' Frederica said, stunned. Of course she was going to let him burn it. ‘Lorcan . . .' she held a hand out to him, but he was already moving past her.

‘Leave
it, Frederica,' he said, his voice more weary than she'd ever heard it. ‘Just leave it.' He left the door open behind him as he walked away.

Frederica rushed forward, about to call him back, and then hesitated. No. She had a much better idea. She'd take the damned painting home. Let Richard Braine's detectives follow her. Then they would all know that she had nothing to hide.

Then she laughed hollowly. She'd been so busy testing Lorcan for loyalty and honesty and trust, that she'd forgotten that he had every right to test her.

There'd be no chance of happiness, for either of them, until they'd proved their love to each other, once and for all.

*          *          *

The afternoon passed happily for the delegates. Some checked out Oxford's pretty Botanical Gardens. Others opted for a punting expedition from Magdalen Bridge on the River Cherwell. Some die-hards went Saturday afternoon shopping. Reeve and Annis caught the bus back to Squitchey Lane. As they got off and walked hand-in-hand along the pavement towards their love-nest, Annis sighed happily. ‘You know, I'm always going to remember Oxford,' she murmured fondly. ‘As a place in which to fall in love, we could have
done
worse, couldn't we?' she mused.

Reeve pushed open the gate and dug into his jeans for a key. ‘I'd say so.'

Inside, they headed for the conservatory, where the scent of orange blossom hung headily in the moist, hot air. Reeve opened the windows and glass doors as Annis flopped down into a sun lounger. ‘Get me a long tall glass of lemonade, lover, loaded with ice cubes. Please,' she drawled lazily.

Reeve looked down at her, his lips twisted into an amused curve. ‘And what did your last servant die of?'

‘Sexual exhaustion,' she purred.

Reeve felt his breath catch. The minx knew what it did to him when she said stuff like that! ‘In that case,' he drawled, ‘lemonade coming up.' When he returned a few minutes later, with two tall iced glasses full to the brim, he glanced at her. ‘Madam's lem . . .'

Annis was naked. Lying on the sun lounger, one knee slightly bent, she was leaning back, her black hair splayed against the cheerful red and yellow lounger, her breasts already beading with sweat in the humidity. His hand shook, and drops of ice-cold lemonade splashed on to her navel. Her eyes snapped open, and she shuddered. ‘Clumsy,' she said, shaking one fmger at him. ‘For that, you have to be punished. Come here.'

Reeve put down the glasses, his heart leaping about all over the place, and dropped
to
one knee. ‘Don't tell me,' he said huskily. ‘Fifty lashes?'

‘Something like that,' Annis murmured, her arms looping over his shoulders. ‘Why are you wearing so many clothes?'

Reeve shook his head. ‘No idea,' he gulped.

‘Well, get them off. Huh-huh,' she waved a finger under his nose as he fumbled feverishly with the top buttons of his shirt. ‘Slowly. I want to watch.' Her amber eyes glowed as she leaned back, curving one arm behind her head, and settling in for the show. Reeve slowly stood up. He eased his feet out of the sandals he was wearing, then slowly unbuttoned the cuffs of the shirt. He pulled the shirt free from his jeans and slowly, from the bottom up, began to unbutton it. Annis's breath caught, making her breasts rise and fall erratically. Reeve's eyes darkened.

Annis was like mercury, he thought dizzily. One moment a spitting cat, the next . . . a sleepy-eyed seductress. Life with her would be a wild roller-coaster ride. Especially if either one of them, or both, made it big in their chosen careers. He knew, too, that he would never be bored. Never get a moment's peace. Never know what she was going to do next. And that was a wonderful prospect. He slipped the shirt from his shoulders, exposing tanned, lightly but firmly muscled, flesh.

Annis let her mouth fall open, and held out her hand vaguely for the glass.

Reeve,
eyes glinting, gave it to her. She took a sip, her eyes never leaving his. ‘Lose the jeans, Reeve,' she said huskily. Reeve lost them. For a long moment they froze as they were—Annis, reclining naked on the lounger. Reeve, naked and erect, standing over her. Then Annis slowly got up. Her hair fell over her shoulders as she moved towards him. She reached up and put one hand against his chest, then slowly lowered her head, pulling one hard male nipple into her mouth.

Reeve threw his head back, throat taut, as he stared up at the glass ceiling and the blue cloudless sky above him, before slowly, carefully, pushing her back on to the lounger.

Annis sighed, closing her eyes as his dark head lowered over hers. She arched her back as he repaid the compliment, his tongue laving first one nipple then the other in loving tenderness. She reached up one hand, running it though his dark curls, pushing him down, lower, lower, letting her legs fall apart, and soon her gasps and cries echoed out, filling the conservatory with sound.

*          *          *

Ray arrived at St Bede's an hour early for dinner, coming in by one of the postern gates on Walton Street. If anyone had seen him, and later, for any reason, happened to remember it, he had the perfect excuse. For tonight was
the
most dramatic scene in his murder mystery. Tonight, when the delegates entered Hall, it would be to find John Lore slumped theatrically across one of the tables, his head ‘bashed in' by a heavy silver and artificially-blood-stained candlestick. Naturally, ‘the police' would then have the body removed, whilst everyone—civilised society being what it was—enjoyed a fabulous dinner. With such shenanigans to supervise, he had the ideal excuse for moving around.

Just as he was passing the college clock he recognised the Bursar leaving Webster's main doors, and heading straight for the Lodge. Ray instantly made his decision. He had the lock pick in his briefcase, along with the copy of the Hogarth. There was not a soul in Wallace Quad. He strolled casually across the gravel towards Webster and walked inside.

He felt sick. His skin was sweating, a slick mixture of hot and cold. There was no one in sight as he approached the Bursar's office. He tried the door. It was of course locked. Which meant that there was no one inside. He cast one last glance around, then dropped carefully to one knee and extracted the lock pick from his case. He inserted it, added just the right amount of pressure, turned and . . . ‘click'.

Ray stood up and looked around again. Nothing and no one. He stepped inside and closed the door quietly behind him within the space of a second or two. For a moment he
just
stood, looking around the office, taking deep calming breaths. Then he went straight to the cupboard. It too was locked. Ray's trusty lock pick went into action once again. He recognised the heavy, old-fashioned safe instantly, and grinned. It would be no problem. After three minutes, he was down to the last number. After four, he'd found the combination. He pulled open the safe door, his heart thudding so loudly he felt nauseous. But there, amongst the ledgers, iron petty-cash boxes and papers, the dirty, carefully wrapped scroll was instantly recognisable. Ray carefully removed it, his hands shaking just a little as he unwrapped the white linen. He had the Hogarth in his hands. Literally. He yearned to unroll it, to feast his eyes on it, but he knew better. There was no time for that now. He removed the copy from his briefcase and made the exchange. It took him only moments to shut the safe and twirl the dial and carefully wipe a handkerchief over it.

He wiped every surface he'd touched, then walked to the door for the final gamble. The last risk. He eased the door open a crack and looked out. Clear. His heart skipping nervously, he pushed the door open and stepped outside. And, with the original painting of Alfred Gore by William Hogarth in his briefcase, Ray Verney walked across Wallace Quad towards Hall. Now he would have to sit through the ‘murder' scene at
dinner
with the painting in the case beside him, but he knew his nerves would hold out.