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Authors: Cathryn Cooper
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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
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
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