***The new painting was finished. Smiling, Clare wrapped the freshly framed canvas in bubblewrap to protect the glass as she transported it from Cornwall to London, where Francesca had asked her to attend the party. Clare hadn’t been sure at first. She imagined Steve’s face when she walked in. Would he show even a spark of recognition for the artist whom he knew so much better than any of the guests would have suspected? Misreading Clare’s apprehension, Francesca had assured her that she would not reveal that Clare had been anything other than a painter of pictures to the good lady wife of the subject. Eventually Clare had been persuaded, but, she told Francesca, she would have to turn up a little late. She had things to do in Cornwall and wouldn’t be able to get away until at least seven. Francesca begged her to send the picture down ahead, just in case, but Clare refused. ‘I might have to tighten the canvas in the frame again before I can let you have it,’ she had explained.‘You'

Karen looked out through the landing window. Below lay the quad, across it the stately buildings that had sheltered aspiring students for over five hundred years. Not women, of course — they were a late addition. At one time no females had been permitted beneath the sacred portals of those male-dominated seats of learning. Just one more night spent there. It was sad, really. Despite her assertions to Jeremy, Karen was nervous of taking up the position she had been offered. She unlocked the door of the college flat. Inside the cosy panelled sitting room she stepped out of her sandals, padded across to the little kitchen and switched on the kettle. While waiting for it to boil, she opened the letter. Dear Karen, Am looking forward tremendously to having you join me at Blackwood Towers. You'll like Porthcombe. Miles of beach, a pounding sea and spectacular cliffs. The library is a mess. I really need your help. It’s too much for one person. The late marquis neglected it. He was only in

Karen nodded and followed him up a winding flight of stairs leading from a doorway next to the fireplace. There was no landing. A few steps, and she was standing beneath the low attic ceiling. The windows were on a level with the uneven floor. They were open. The smell of roses crept in. It was a strictly masculine room: a mirror supported on a dressing table, a built-in wardrobe, a chest of drawers and a wide mahogany bed, neatly made, the duvet pulled straight. ‘You keep your house very tidy,’ she commented, remembering vividly the chaos of his flat, the floor strewn with books and papers, the dilapidated settee where she had lost her cherry. ‘I’ve a woman who “does”.’ He put the tray on the bedside table. Gin and tonic splashed into the glasses, topped with shaved ice and a twist of lemon. ‘Here’s to my assistant librarian,’ Tony said, smiling into her eyes as he toasted her. ‘I recommended you for your abilities, not because I expected to screw you, though I'll admit that wasn

‘You see how wonderful they are,’ Tony said unsteadily, hand working up and down the outside of his trousers, distended and dampened by his urgent cock-head. ‘It’s great to look at them with you here. You, of all people, who understand and appreciate them.’ Karen’s nipples and honey-pot were burning; the entire surface of her skin had become unbearably sensitive. She struggled for control. This was absurd and most unprofessional, throwing her into an ethical tizzy. She should be able to give a cool, unbiased assessment of the artistic merits of Dick Bedwell’s work. ‘I can see why they’re so valuable,’ was all she managed to gasp. Tony pushed the drawings to the far side of the table. ‘Lie down, Karen,’ he said in a dark, persuasive tone. There was no way she could deny him or herself as he pressed her back, the hard table edge cutting into her thighs. He possessed her lips hungrily, and she sighed with satisfaction at the feel of his tongue moving insidiously in the wetness of her

Karen was no longer listening, her mind spinning as she watched Armina playing with herself, ripples of lust coursing down her spine to centre on her pulsating clitoris. When Armina moaned, eyes half closed with longing, the urge to help her achieve orgasm was the most powerful thing Karen had ever experienced. Without realising what she was doing, she touched the velvet-smooth mound and inserted a finger alongside Armina’s, deep within the hot, wet crease. ‘Do you still have your maidenhair, Karen? Is it chestnut or a lighter shade. May I see?’ Armina’s voice rang with excitement. ‘I've never — I’m no dyke. I like men,’ Karen began, tripping over the words. ‘That makes no difference.’ The elfin eyes smiled encouragingly. ‘If you've never tried, how can you tell? You may find you prefer women. Why restrict yourself? Enjoy the best of all possible worlds.’ ‘I’m not sure I want to.’ Armina moved away, scooped her dress from the floor and held out her hand. ‘Let’s continue this conv