MasterStroke (4 page)

All that evening, she tried to focus on her normal routine, feeding her beautiful tabby, Heathcliff, preparing dinner, reading, but thoughts of Jack kept intruding. Her body gave so much more away than her cool demeanour; it had a mind of its own and her libido wasn’t to be neglected. She retired early, lying cosily between crisp sheets under a feather duvet, rain pelting against her bedroom window like a drum, her skin hot and sensitive to the touch, her hands caressing her breasts, her stomach, her inner thighs before ultimately dipping down to the silky and familiar moistness between her legs.

As her thoughts filled with Jack, the curve of his generous mouth when he smiled, the deep blue of his eyes, his large hands and slim delicate fingers, she urgently sought out the hard nub of her clitoris. It responded quicker than usual and, just as the climax peaked, she slipped a finger inside her to feel the contractions unleash wave after wave of utter relief. She may even have cried out in the darkened room.

When it ended, a pleasant exhaustion settled in and she fell into a deep sleep. She may have dreamed but she had no recollection the next morning.

Chapter Four

She couldn’t get Jack out of her mind but, when a second week had gone by, it looked increasingly as if Jack had abandoned her. He said he’d only be a week and he’d call once he arrived home; several times a day she checked her email and cell phone for messages. Every time the small bell above the door tinkled sharply to herald a new arrival, she looked up expectantly, yet was disappointed each time. The more time dragged on, the greater the disappointment became, edging into shame, humiliation and, finally, anger.

How dare he
, she fumed,
he really seemed to enjoy my company
. On more than one occasion, she wanted to call the number on his business card but stopped short.
What if he answered? What would she say? And my telephone number would come up on the caller ID. I’d seem like a stalker.

Her mood eventually mellowed into a grudging annoyance. A few days after that, some three weeks after they’d had drinks, she was busy answering emails at the front counter when the bell sounded above the door. She was too involved to look up.

“Can I help you?” she asked distractedly.

“I certainly hope so.” The voice was immediately recognisable. Jack pressed himself against the counter, leaning across it with an excited grin. The wary pursed-lip look she returned spoke volumes.

“Jack,” she said coolly. “Nice to see you again. How was your trip?”

“I’m so sorry, Sandrine. I lost my cell phone and the trip took a little longer than I anticipated. Plus…..”

“Yes?” He was paler than when she last saw him and there was something about the way he held himself, a little more angular than he should, as if any movement would carry with it a certain amount of discomfort.

“I had an accident. Stupid little thing. I was hit by a car in Moscow on the last day. Nothing serious but it meant a rather uncomfortable flight back despite the pain-killers. Arrived this morning.”

“Oh.”
Hit by a car? That’s terrible.
A wave of shame swept across her. She’d been angry at him for not getting in contact, imagining all sorts of slights to her, and he’d been injured. “What happened? Was this to do with your work?”

He nodded and she realised with a jolt that she was more than relieved to see him. She was overjoyed. Her dark mood had dissolved immediately.

“I wasn’t paying attention. It was late at night and raining and I was wearing dark clothing. A combination of stupidity and bad luck. Anyway, how are you?”

“Fine. I’m fine. It’s been deathly quiet here and the weather has been awful. To be honest, I’ve been worried about you.”

“Thank you, Sandrine. It’s been a long time since anyone worried about me.”

“Would you like to sit down?”

He shook his head.

“No, thanks. I need to do a few things then I’m heading home to get some rest. I’ve been travelling nearly 24 hours and I really need sleep. I just wanted to drop by and say hello. Oh, and arrange a time for dinner. How is Saturday night for you?”

It didn’t take long to recall the details of her hectic social schedule. Saturday was two days away and was the same as Wednesday, Thursday and Friday. Feed Heathcliff, make dinner and read. Not necessarily in that order.

Jack scribbled an address on the back of a business card.

“Seven o’clock it is, then.”

“At your place?”

“Yes, is that OK? I love to cook and I’ve been planning the menu for the last few weeks. It gave me something to do during the boring bits.”

Is this happening a bit too quickly? I hardly know anything about him.
On a few occasions during the last few weeks, she’d Googled him without success. Tried Facebook and LinkedIn, even Myspace. Zip, nada, nothing. It didn’t help that Jack Lucas was a particularly common name. There were numerous sportspeople with the same name including a retired rugby player from New Zealand who appeared to spend his time opening hardware stores, a Canadian ice hockey player and an East Coast NFL athlete. But just not this Jack Lucas. She’d exhausted all her options without even a hint of him. It was annoying but she kept a similarly low profile so it was something she understood.

Should she turn down his dinner invitation and instead suggest a restaurant? She’d spent very little time with him, knew even less about him, yet there was something about the entire situation that made her feel reckless. Traditionally, Sandrine would never have done such a thing but an inner voice that sounded suspiciously like Mariel’s told her to go for it.

Admit it, babs,
the voice said impishly.
You want to do it. You’ve been thinking about him a lot. He’s even on your mind when you’re playing with yourself.

She shut down that train of thought abruptly, uncertain whether the look on her face would give her away.

What do I have to lose? The worse that can happen is if he’s a serial killer.

“OK, that would be great. I’d love to.”

“Excellent. See you then.”

Sandrine watched as he made his way gingerly to a dark grey four-door sedan parked illegally outside the shop. She couldn’t tell what sort of car it was. They all looked the same these days. She was still watching as he drove away.

Jack was back! And two days to go until she’d see him again. The anticipation ramped up again and memories of her mood swings of the previous weeks receded. While she was disheartened that she’d been feeling this way, she was also a little surprised at just how quickly she’d forgiven him.

Mariel answered her cell phone within the first three rings.

“Guess who just showed up?” Sandrine asked excitedly. She was really going to have to pull herself together. She was acting just like a besotted teenager.

Chapter Five

On Saturday afternoon, she closed up the store at the usual time and Heathcliff was avidly wolfing down his dinner within fifteen minutes. Although his big tabby head was buried deep in the bowl, he was nonetheless alert and watching Sandrine out of the corner of his eye. Something wasn’t quite right. The routine was slightly different so he knew something was up.

By the time he’d finished licking the bowl clean, the kitchen was deserted. He paced through the apartment and found Sandrine relaxing in a hot, soapy bath. He leapt casually onto the bathroom counter, curled his long tail around his legs and stared balefully at her.

“OK, you got me. I admit it. I’m going out. You’ll have to fend for yourself tonight.”

Heathcliff continued to stare down at her, completely still, a statue of recrimination swathed in gingery-brown fur.

“Have it your way. Give me the silent treatment, then.”

After the bath, her body was flushed slightly red from the heat. She slowly applied moisturiser, starting at her feet and working upwards, working the scented lotion into her legs. It was a ceremony, in its way, and she took her time, seated on the edge of the bath, pleased to feel the lightly yielding tautness of her muscles under the pale skin. When she was finished with her legs, she walked into the bedroom and continued, on her stomach and her breasts, as she examined herself carefully in the full-length mirror mounted on the inside of the closet door, angled so that the overhead light reflected her image precisely.

Although she’d never considered herself lithe, she was comfortable with slim and it was a word that had always held a certain dramatic allure for her. She was proud of her body, with the narrow conformity of her legs and her small, perfectly proportioned feet, with her hips and flat stomach and especially with her breasts. If she had one hesitation with her body image, it was that she considered her breasts to be slightly too large for her frame. She was a C-cup, although with some underwear, especially the lacy French bras she occasionally bought as treats, she nestled quite comfortably into a D.

As she stood in front of the mirror, she examined her breasts full on, pivoted her body to one side then the other. She smoothed the lotion into the soft skin of her breasts and was pleased with their firmness. The nipples were hard and slightly puckered and started to tingle in a way she recognised so well. A heat was beginning to glow within her, deep in her stomach, and she was aware of a pleasant moistness that was a result of something more than the bath. The smell of soap, scented lotion and a gradual blossoming warmth made her smile softly.

She wished she had time to lie down for a while but she knew she’d fall asleep easily and her dreams would be mellow. With a start, she focused, slipped into a soft white towelling robe, knotted it tightly at the waist and walked barefoot into the kitchen to make tea. Later tonight, when she returned from dinner, she promised herself. She’d give her body the attention it was beginning to demand.

Chapter Six

Sandrine felt a brief stab of panic when the taxi pulled up outside what appeared to be a dark warehouse on a stretch of equally dark street. They were in a run-down section of town on the edge of the CBD, block upon block of industrial decrepitude, century-old buildings that had once been a thriving hub of the city’s economy now fallen on hard times. Many of the street-lights weren’t working and those that were barely penetrated the muddy darkness. Even without daylight, she could tell that the gentrification that had brought large sections of the inner city to life was light-years from touching down here.

“You sure this is the place?” the taxi driver asked apprehensively.

She checked the address Jack had written down. The street number was a match for the large numerals painted in fluorescent yellow on the brick building just beyond the taxi door. Just as she was about to dig through her bag for her cell phone, the sidewalk outside the warehouse blazed with white light. A doorway opened and Jack stepped out and opened the taxi door.

“There you are,” he said. “Welcome to Paradise.”

He offered his hand. She looked around, aware of the biting cold and her breath frosting before her.

“Paradise? Hardly.”

“That’s what this part of town used to be called in the late nineteenth century. It was where the immigrants who flooded in from around the world found employment, where they could begin to build a better life. The earliest industry around here was the abattoirs; the cattle came in to the rail yards nearby and went out as slabs of meats. There were tanneries, food processing factories, breweries, housing for the workers, shops, saloons, schools, everything a community could need.

“Later on, heavy industry came through, the workers moved to better parts of town and the factories continued to be the lifeblood of this city until the 1980s. The last few decades haven’t been kind at all.”

“I imagine it’ll all get pulled down soon. It’ll be trendy apartment blocks before you know it,” she said.

“Eventually,” he conceded. “But I kinda like the place. No pretensions. It is what it is. And there’s no problems with privacy.”

“That’s probably an understatement.”

They stepped into a short hallway which ended at a plain door without a doorknob. Jack closed the outside door. It sounded heavy and substantial. She had noticed there was no knob or even a lock on the street side. At the second door, Jack pressed his hand against a stainless steel panel. There was a muted click and the door swung open. They ascended a wide staircase to another short hallway where he once again pressed his hand against a stainless steel panel.

“Please,” he said, standing back and allowing her to proceed through the open doorway. She smiled and arched an eyebrow as she did.

“You can never be too careful,” he said. “Especially in this part of town.”

They were in a very large room, bigger than Sandrine’s apartment. The walls were bare dark brick, most likely the building’s original walls. There was a living area with large couches in a U-shape facing one wall, on which was mounted a large television screen. Behind this was a kitchen, stainless steel cupboards, shelving, an enormous commercial-style refrigerator with glass doors, a double-wide oven and gas cook top below an enveloping range hood. An island bench the size of a small car held a double sink and plenty of preparation space with storage underneath.

Adjacent to the kitchen was an elegant baronial-style dining table with seating for twelve. It looked like an antique, as did the high-back chairs. A matching sideboard stood along one wall. The juxtaposition between the dining setting and the highly modern kitchen was not as jarring as might be anticipated.

Dark timber blinds were drawn on the several windows along the walls. A timber-panelled door near the dining area, Sandrine guessed, led to the rest of the apartment.

“Nice place,” she said.

“It’s comfortable.” Understatement suited him, she noted.

She browsed the artwork hanging on the walls. There were a few beautifully framed lithographs along one wall, French, most likely early twentieth century although Sandrine did not recognise the signatures. One in particular caught her eye and she moved in closer to examine it. It was large, vaguely Cubist in nature, showing a stylised representation of Venus and Cupid. She’d been cataloguing a number of recently-arrived art books a few weeks before and this image in particular had appealed to her sense of humour; the Venus figure had an absurdly small head, resembling a cartoon teddy bear, in proportion to the rest of her body. The signature in the right hand bottom corner was in bright blue and looked to be crayon. She was certainly no expert on art but it appeared genuine.