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PAINT OF PASSION 8
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Wild Desire PAINT OF PASSION 9
FRANCESCA CAME TO see how the painting was getting on just a couple of days after Clare started to paint it. Clare was alone in the flat, Daniel having driven back to London for a couple of days to try and persuade some galleries to display his work there. Francesca explained that her husband was in the area on family business, turning some houses into flats for the tourists. She could only come down to see him occasionally because she had a business of her own these days, a boutique in Chelsea. Bought to keep her out of the way, Clare thought unkindly. She could imagine what it was like. Full of the kind of peachy pale clothes Francesca was wearing now, populated by bored housewives who giggled like schoolgirls and snatched up sequinned numbers for parties while their husbands were seduced by girls who wore jeans. Francesca stood behind Clare for a while as she painted. The blonde girl had one arm wrapped protectively around her body so that her hand caressed her hip, while the othe
Wild Desire PAINT OF PASSION 10
LIFE IS WHAT happens when you've made other plans. The next day, when Francesca had finally gone back to London, Clare wandered down to the harbour, diligently avoiding the fatal café on her way. Since she couldn't find her foldaway stool in the chaos of the flat, Clare doubled up her jumper to make a seat on the cold, grey stone wall, and balanced the board she used for an easel on her knees. Graham wanted still more sea scenes. The woman in America was ordering them to be sent all over the place for Christmas. Clare mixed up a job lot of sea-green on the inside of her paint-box lid and began to work on three small scenes at once, like a factory production line. She hadn’t got much further than three wishy-washy horizons when he appeared. ‘Fancy meeting you here.’ 'Yes, fancy.’ Clare replied. Steve was swaddled against the cold in a huge cream fisherman’s jumper. He sat down beside her on the harbour wall without being invited and cast an eye over the paintings. ‘Hmmm,’ he said.
Wild Desire PAINT OF PASSION 11
STEVE WAS DISAPPOINTED when Clare told him she couldn’t make it to Barcelona after all. When she said that she was going to Paris, on a ticket won in a raffle, with a friend from school that she couldn’t let down, he remarked, ‘That's a real coincidence, my . . . friend is going there as well this weekend.’ He told Clare that he could cancel the tickets anyway and that he could always use some golf practice. Daniel was far less happy. Francesca, as promised, had telephoned the flat pretending to be an old girlfriend from school. Daniel was confused as to why Clare should want to spend a weekend away from him with a girl that she hadn’t spoken to for four years. Clare assured him that they had actually kept in touch. But to Paris? he moaned. He asked why this schoolfriend couldn’t drag up some willing man to see some of the most romantic sights in the world with. He begged Clare not to go. Promised to take her there himself one day and when she refused to give in he went into a sulk w
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Francesca continued to tongue her lover’s nipple, by turns biting it teasingly, but her hands had another purpose now. They were creeping up Clare’s stockinged legs, under the fluid jersey hem of the dress. Francesca reached Clare’s suspender belt and moved her hands beneath the lacy straps which held her stockings up. For a moment or two she savoured the pleasure of having Clare’s beautiful, firm thighs beneath her hands, before moving higher still. A small laugh escaped Francesca’s lips when she realised that, once again, her companion was not wearing any knickers. She twisted her fingers in the silky hair, traced them down the warm, waiting labia, then up again, to Clare’s aching clit. Lazily she circled the little bud with a finger, watching with great pleasure as Clare closed her eyes and bit her painted lip. ‘Carry on,’ Clare breathed. ‘Please carry on.’ She let her legs fall more widely apart. Francesca traced a languorous path between Clare’s swollen lips, making her lover s
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BACK AT THE hotel, Clare headed straight for the mini-bar to calm her frazzled nerves. Francesca and Clare had waited for two hours at the club before the waiters finally showed up but now Jean and Bertrand were comfortably ensconced on the green leather sofa, with Francesca between them. She had her leg crossed towards Bertrand, her shoeless foot twitching predatorily, brushing from time to time against his trousered calf. Clare opened another bottle of champagne and filled four glasses. She sat down opposite the other three but wasn’t on her own for long. ‘See you later,’ called Francesca as Bertrand swept her up off her feet and carried her giggling into the darkness of her room. Jean had made his way over to Clare and was now perching on the edge of her chair. His arm snaked around her shoulder and he fixed her with his chocolatebrown gaze. She told him that she didn’t normally do this kind of thing but to no avail, since his English seemed to be as bad as her French. ‘Let’s jus
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***The boys stayed the night at the hotel. Francesca was obviously paying so much money that the manager made no complaint when she rang up to order two extra breakfasts in bed. 'What do you want, Clare?’ she called across the room. Clare shrugged her shoulders and let Francesca order. Francesca laughed, ‘Oh, I forgot that you'll eat anything that comes!’ ***The next day, Jean and Bertrand didn’t have to work at the restaurant until the evening shift, and while Bertrand and Francesca were happy to stagnate in bed all day, Jean agreed that Clare should see more of Paris, since it was her first time in the city, and he offered to act as her guide. Strangely, in the daylight, Jean looked far more attractive to Clare than he had done across that crowded restaurant. His brown eyes were so friendly, perpetually crinkled up in a smile. As they walked, he held her hand naturally and they talked falteringly. First trying to tackle each other’s languages, which, on Clare’s part at least w
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‘Oh ...’ Jean’s first eager thrust made Clare suck her breath in sharply. She tightened her thighs against his body and held him still for a moment while she relaxed and let him further inside. But he couldn’t hold off for long and soon he thrust into her again. His face hovered above hers. She looked up at the eyes, now tightly shut. He was biting his lower lip as he pushed himself into her again, feeling the divine resistance of her vaginal walls. ‘Ah,’ he thrust again. Clare clasped his buttocks. Clenched her fingers into his hard, firm flesh. He responded with a deeper thrust, a longer moan. She raised her body again and again to meet him. But still it didn’t feel deep enough. Jean stopped his frantic pounding for a moment and pulled her legs so that they were wrapped around his middle. He curled his knees beneath him and rocked backwards so that he was sitting up with her astride him. Clare released her legs and used her own knees to help her move up and down on his glorious c
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***Francesca and Bertrand lay entwined on the green leather sofa again. Their naked bodies were lit only by the light of the television which flickered and danced along their complementary curves. When she heard the door open, Francesca looked up but didn’t bother to cover herself at Clare and Jean’s entrance, as Clare probably would have done in her position. Bertrand also looked up lazily from his resting place between Francesca’s silky thighs. He looked knackered and Francesca looked frustrated. Cursory greetings over, Bertrand was content to settle back down again but Francesca had already wriggled out from beneath him and was tripping across the room. She headed straight for the little kitchenette where Clare and Jean had gone to fix some drinks. Francesca slid to a standstill across the tiled floor and Jean couldn’t help but find his eyes drawn to her breasts which still jiggled from her little jog. ‘Nice evening?’ she asked brightly, insinuating her naked self between Jean a
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