Act of Exposure (8 page)

'That doesn't
mean sex has to take a back seat too.'

Aware that her
jaw had dropped, she stared at him. For someone who was a Member of
Parliament, he was being very unguarded in what he was saying. How
could he be sure she wouldn't betray his words to the carnivores of
the tabloid press?

'What makes
you so sure that I have no sex life?'

'Your
colleagues call you the Snow Queen.'

Abigail
refused to be ruffled. This name was not unknown to her. In fact,
she quite liked it. Scorned women resort to fury; scorned men to
malicious sarcasm.

'It is of no
consequence to me, Mr Sigmund. As I have explained, the law is my
life. I am devoted to it, and I expect everyone I work with to
adhere to its principles and disciplines just as I do. Besides
which, my sex life is my own affair.'

She made as if
to rise and leave him. To her astonishment, he gripped her arm and
ordered her to sit down. To her further amazement, she obeyed.
Vaguely, she was aware of a warm tingle running up her arm and
across her breasts. His lips were near her cheek. She could see his
eyes from the corner of her own. His breath was warm, and his close
proximity made her want him. His voice moved her.

'You like
giving orders, don't you, Abigail Corrigan? You like laying down
the law to everyone else, using your sharp words and your
convoluted arguments to persuade a jury that what you say is gospel
truth; that you are like the Statue of Justice herself, blind to
anything but what she sees behind her mask.'

Her heart thumped so hard.
Could he
hear it? Could everyone hear it?
She tried
to get up. 'I don't need to listen to this!'

He held her
tightly. Strong hands looped one of her wrists into the tie-back of
the curtain. He pulled on its long tassel so that the rope
tightened. A controlled whimper escaped her mouth. There were
people on the other side of the curtain. She could not - would not
- allow them to hear her. Her breath came quicker, and her breasts
heaved in mute apprehension. He held onto her other hand with his
own.

His face, his
mouth came near her, his breath warm upon her cheek, his lips soft
against her ear. Why couldn't she move? Why didn't she want to
move? His voice seeped into her brain.

'The statue
above the Old Bailey wears a blindfold, Abigail Corrigan, but you
wear a mask at night - and little else.'

His dark
eyebrows and dark hair blurred as she looked into his eyes.

'Why are you
doing this?' she whispered. The answer was irrelevant. She knew
why, knew that by this small action, he was replicating one night
in a seedy hotel room beside a railway shunting yard.

'Because I am
like you, Abigail Corrigan. I am someone who lives two lives, not
just one.'

Strength
turned to weakness. She stopped struggling. She stared,
half-knowing what he knew, what was about to happen. His fingers
left her wrist, went to his pocket. He held his hand against her
chest, his palm uppermost. Dare she look down? Fear of what might
be there made her head swim, her pulse race. She swallowed, took in
the roguish expression on his face, his smell, the expensive cut of
his hair and his suit.

At last, she
had to do it. She had to look down.

'Yours, I
believe. Left at the Railway Hotel.'

Sitting in his
palm was one black contact lens.

Behind the
privacy of the heavy hangings, his lips were on hers, his hand on
her breast, and her hand on his erection.

No one within
the polished panelled room saw them when, some moments later, they
emerged from their temporary privacy.

And yet one
person had seen them kiss and embrace.

Lance Vector
had excused himself from the gathering on the pretence of needing
fresh air.

Hidden from
the house by a shiny-leaved bush, he had retrieved his cellular
phone from his pocket, dialled an ex-directory number, and spoken
to the man who paid his salary. Word by word, he played back his
conversation with the MP, Stephen Sigmund, by way of a miniature
tape recorder.

'Good work,
Vector.'

'Thank you,
sir. It's a pleasure.'

It was a
pleasure. He was being paid well for this assignment. All that he
could find out about Sigmund would be carefully reported. Except,
that is, for the episode in the window seat. That was an incident
he wanted to use for himself. Three weeks ago Sunday, he had made
an acute observation about the video he was watching and about
himself. He had promised himself he would lose his virginity when
the right woman came along, and now, he decided, she had.

Being a man
who studied people's behaviour for a living, he had watched the
bright young barrister from the moment she had entered the room,
and prior to being introduced, he had asked questions about her and
found out that she was a lady who held herself aloof from sexual
encounters. Snow Queen. He liked that. It said it all.

Some, perhaps
those who had been the victim of rebuff, swore she was either
lesbian or asexual. Some just said that her work was her lover. She
loved her work as some women love men and that was the way of
it.

And that, he
decided, was the way it was. Stunned by her looks, her voice and
her reputation, he had listened to her talking to Probert. There
was a fire in her eyes when she spoke of the law, and a crispness
to her voice as though justice was the only thing she truly
adored.

He told
himself there were similarities between them. She was a seeker of
justice. He was a seeker of truth, and the more sleazy it was, the
wider its appeal. Yes, he decided, she was definitely the woman he
needed.

Already in his
mind, his hands were sweeping over her firm breasts, her flat
belly. Tingles of pleasure swept over him as he imagined her hands
on his chest, her blue eyes gazing up into his, lost in
adoration.

Oh yes, he
could imagine, all right. What a day that would be when he got her
to himself, when she lay beneath him, the scent of her sex wafting
up into his nostrils as his tongue licked her pussy, and his penis
pumped in and out of her generous mouth.

Seeing her
kissing another man made him feel jealous. Suddenly, Stephen
Sigmund, the man he had been ordered to expose, had done him an
awful wrong and he wanted revenge. As yet, he had no file on him,
no smutty statements from call girls or rent boys to mould into an
article. But that, he reckoned, he could easily rectify, and
rectify it was something he desperately wanted to do.

For the first
time in his life, Lance Vector wanted a woman, and the woman he
wanted was Abigail Corrigan.

Abigail and
Stephen left the celebration separately. It wasn't something they
agreed to do in words. Neither did they exclaim that they wanted
each other, but also wished to preserve their public image. They
just knew by the sparkle in each other's eyes, the parted lips, the
subtle movements that only they perceived and only they could
interpret. Then, once they were certain that they were not being
seen or overheard, they agreed to meet up later that evening.

Stephen
suggested an old inn just off the main A4 - probably, thought
Abigail, the same place he'd taken Valeria.

Without him
having to spell it out to her, she knew what she was going for,
knew what he wanted from her. That didn't mean she had to go. It
didn't mean she had to submit herself to whatever he wanted her to
do. But in some strange, intriguing way, he had snared her. By some
invisible thread, he was pulling her along the dark road, drawing
her closer to him.

A coldness
trickled down her spine as she thought of his hands on her body,
his solid, male weight pummelling her against the bonnet of his
car, just as he had Valeria. The coldness spread from her spine.
Like water turning to ice, it seeped over her body and made her
flesh tingle. And yet, between her legs, there was only the heat of
desire.

Like a piece
of driftwood being tossed by the sea, she was going with the flow,
but in doing so, was breaking her own rules. Her personal life was
gradually merging with her daytime career. Until now she had
enjoyed complete control over both her professional life and her
private one. Everything had been clear, everything had been neatly,
perhaps even coldly, divided between the two compartments of her
life. Stephen Sigmund had changed all that.

Lascivious
thoughts had given rise to lascivious dreams in the two weeks since
she had danced at the Red Devil. Two weeks, just two weeks, since
she had left that place with a man wearing a blonde wig and
high-heeled shoes. Two weeks since she had allowed herself to be
bound to a rough bed in the Railway Hotel. And now she was with him
again, but this time in an old inn, which was surrounded by the
Savernake Forest.

Except for the
flickering of a large log fire, and the odd coach light hanging a
little lopsidedly from a dark oak beam, the inn was dimly lit, a
fact that suited them both very well.

There were few
people in the bar. Some huddled protectively over their drinks, or
whispered attentively to women who were clearly not their
wives.

Stephen kissed
her cheek. He smelt expensive, and felt warm. His hand covered
hers. Like his body, she thought. Just like his body will cover
me.

'How did you
recognize me? Was it just the wig, just the contact lens?'

In a sweetly
affectionate manner, Stephen flicked his fingers at a few strands
of hair that had escaped the velvet bow holding it back from her
face.

'Your hair was
coal black. So were your eyes. But your pubic hair was incredibly
fair - too fair to be fake.' He winked mischievously. 'Then I found
the contact lens. And there was something about the way you spoke,
the way you moved. The moment I saw you today, I knew immediately.
Anyway. Takes one to know one. I know the pressures you have. I
sympathize.'

'Yours are
worse.'

'Much worse.
If you think it's the MPs running this country, think again. The
civil service is loath to lose the power of centuries. Their
internal politics are more convoluted and more vindictive than
those of the House of Commons.'

He smiled,
paused; seemed to be enjoying just looking at her, just stroking
her cheek. In turn, she enjoyed looking at him, stripping him off
in her mind, feeling the heat of him against her, his hardness in
her.

His voice
caressed her thoughts. 'No matter what anyone says or thinks,
Abigail, we all have to have a private life. Some of us - you and I
- have to indulge in things a little more way out than others. We
have to walk on the wild side of life; taste the sordid as well as
the sublime.'

All in that
one moment, what he was saying and what had happened between them
seemed strangely unreal. A kindred spirit had flown into her life.
A very public man and a very successful woman had met, fused in the
tumbling heat of sexual ecstasy, and acted out their most secret
fantasy.

'You're
right.' As she spoke, her body seemed to confirm her words. She
tingled as if she were outlined in a crisp layer of sugar, sugar
that as it warmed, slowly began to melt. 'We cannot help but expose
ourselves to danger in order to taste excitement.'

He smiled. She
smiled with him and edged that little bit closer; enjoyed the feel
of his thigh against hers. Their eyes met, and an unspoken message
flashed from one to the other. 'Shall we expose ourselves here?' It
was her who voiced what they both were thinking.

'Yes.'

Beneath the
privacy of the rough wooden table, she unzipped his trousers and
pulled his weapon from its lair.

Already, it was hot, hard, and rearing in her palm.
Like velvet
, she
thought,
like a piece of warm, soft velvet
that has lain before a fire
.

As his hand
settled on her knee, she opened her legs.

The sweet
juice of her desire seeped from her vagina. Swollen with longing,
it awaited his touch, his entry, the pink, delicate flesh already
coated with a sheen reminiscent of satin. Although her thighs were
hidden beneath the table, she felt the progress of his fingers,
heard them rasp over her stockings before being silenced by the
smoothness of her thighs.

With one
finger and thumb, she squeezed the head of his rod. With her
fingernail, she dug into his opening. She smiled as she did it. He
groaned, his lips curling away from his mouth. His teeth were
clenched firmly together. No one would hear him.

'You bitch,'
he said through clenched teeth. 'I'll make you pay for that
later.'

His fingers
travelled higher. After travelling the smooth expanse of naked
thigh that divided her stockings from her body, his smile turned to
surprise. He gasped with delight. 'You hot little bitch! You're not
wearing any knickers! And you're soaking wet. How delicious!'

She squeezed
his penis. 'I never do. Not even in court.'

'Tell me about
it.' His voice sounded strained, almost as if he were in pain,
although the prime mover was pleasure.

As Abby
squeezed his erection, she rubbed her body against him, her lips
close to his ear. 'Can you imagine what the judge would think if he
knew my quim was naked beneath my neat suit, my black silk gown?'
She paused, gave him time for the words to sink in, for his body to
respond. 'Can you imagine what the prosecution would think? But
they don't know. Only I know I am almost naked beneath the
trappings of the law, beneath the watchful eyes of some seedy old
judge who spouts law at me, but would much sooner have his penis
spout into my mouth, my cunt, or my ass. It's just to remind me
that no one, absolutely no one, is without a darker side to their
life. It's just to remind me of my other life as Carmel - and
Jezebel Justice. Just as the wig and gown I wear in my act reminds
me of this side of my life and of the fact that I am Abigail
Corrigan. Both temper my passion for the law and my passion for sex
- in their own way.'