‘Let’s go then. Have you seen Gary?’ for once he turned to look at Clare. ‘Gary?’ Just the sound of his name sent a shock-wave down to her sex. Clare was clearly in the same state as Bridget. ‘Yeah. He called me about ten. Said he was coming over.’ ‘Here?’ Clare said in disbelief. She couldn’t believe her luck. ‘Yeah.’ ‘Who's Gary?’ Bridget asked. Her fingers were drawing delicate patterns on the top of Malcolm’s hand. ‘A friend of mine,’ Clare told her. ‘Another viscount?’ Malcolm laughed. ‘Gary’s a prince among men but he ain’t no lord. We’re both from the other end of the social ladder. We went to school together.’ ‘Well, I haven’t seen him,’ Clare said. ‘Perhaps he’s upstairs.’ Clare looked puzzled. ‘In the flat. He’s got a key,’ Malcolm explained. ‘He can use it whenever he likes. Come on, let's go and see.’ They got up. Malcolm grabbed a passing waiter. ‘Have the booze sent up, there’s a good boy,’ he said. 'Certainly, Mr Furness.’ The waiter collected the bottle f

Synopsis:Struggling painter Clare is bored with her boyfriend and tempted by the charming Steve. So when his wife asks her to paint Steve's portrait, Clare finds herself indulging in some passionate studies of both her model and her client . . .Chapter 1BEAUTY ARTICLES IN glossy magazines always say that the best way to match a foundation to your skin is to try it out directly on your face, rather than on your wrist where the skin is, quite simply, a totally different colour. It’s a great theory, Clare thought, applying the rules of Max Factor to the medium of Monet, as she daubed a little more paint on to her model’s cheeks. He twitched nervously — and excitedly, she hoped, since it wasn’t the cheeks of his face that she was trying to match. ‘That’s cold,’ he complained. ‘Perfect,’ Clare exclaimed, ignoring her model’s little moans. She dashed back to her canvas with palette in hand and added another sweeping stroke to her latest nude. They were selling like hot cakes. Flying ou

‘DO YOU WANT to come to Graham’s party?’ Clare asked Daniel as she slicked on another layer of deep plummy lipstick. ‘I feel that I’ve got to go because Graham has been so good about taking my paintings but it’ll just be full of people from the art society talking about their children’s piano lessons and mortgages and...’ Daniel was already shaking his head. A thrill of excitement raced through her. She was going to the party on her own. ‘You look very pretty,’ Daniel said as he wandered into the bedroom. Clare smiled her thanks, feeling a little guilty over the effort she had been making. But she didn’t have anything to feel guilty about, she reminded herself . . . yet. ‘Shall I help you do that up?’ Daniel began to button up the back of Clare’s long red silk dress. It was stunning, but not in an obvious way, clinging tightly to the contours of her breasts and her waist before flaring gently out in a sweep of fabric that reached her ankles. She felt covered and yet revealed. The fe

‘THOUGHT YOU MIGHT be thirsty,’ Daniel said, handing Clare a vodka on the rocks. He looked as if he had been crying. ‘What did you paint?’ he asked. Clare had thrown a sheet over the wet canvas at his approach. ‘Nothing good. It went wrong,’ she told him. He was almost lifting up the corner of the sheet. ‘Don’t look at it,’ she implored him softly. ‘You know I hate letting you see stuff that I’m not happy with.’ ‘I’m sure I would be impressed,’ he assured her but he let the paint-splashed sheet drop again. The next day, Clare decided, she would have to get rid of her latest masterpiece. ‘I’m sorry about earlier,’ Daniel told Clare as he stood with his back to her, surveying the mess of his own ruined painting. ‘No worries. It was my fault too. The fickle muse, eh?’ Clare replied, knowing that his temper tantrum should be far outweighed in the guilt stakes by what she had just found herself doing. ‘Let’s go into the other room.’ Even covered by a sheet, the portrait of the lover s

AFTER FRANCESCA HAD gone Clare stood at the window for a long while, just looking out across the houses to the sea, thinking. That evening the sea was very calm. Just a few wispy, cotton-wool clouds crossed the pinky blue sunset and were echoed by the tiny white horses riding the waves. The beach was deserted but for a boy and his dog. The boy threw a stick and the dog barked, the distant noise carried up to the window by the wind so that it mingled with the calling of the gulls constantly wheeling overhead. The view from the flat where Clare and Daniel lived was almost the same as the view from Steve’s hotel, though their flat was a little lower down the hill. Steve, Steve, Steve. What had Clare been doing? She had never slept with a married man before and had always thought of the guys who had affairs as rats. In fact she had decided never to do the dirty on another girl right after the birthday party where Susie Powell stole her man and her pre-pubescent self-esteem. But at the sa