I was still adamant. ‘I really have no desire to sit there while some uptight ball-breaker finds a new way to work out her issues.’
Blaine laughed. ‘You and Finn have been having an interesting chat, haven’t you? If it’s any consolation, the first time at least is likely to be pure vanilla – there’s no specialist request that I’m aware of. And I’ll make sure you’re tucked away in the viewing room for the act itself.’
‘Viewing room?’
‘A private chamber, connected by two-way mirror to Ms Fenworth’s room,’ Blaine explained, as if she was describing an ensuite bathroom. ‘My great-grandfather had it built – he had rather voyeuristic tendencies, by all accounts. He used to hold the most amazingly libertine parties then retire to his viewing room to observe the aftermath. It’s a comfortable little place, with plenty of room for you to set out your things. Then you can make further sketches of Finn without the problems that seem to have arisen this morning.’
‘Look, Blaine, this really isn’t how I work.’ I was pleased with my pitch. Reasonable. Final. ‘Trust me. I’m sure you’ll be more than happy with the final piece.’
‘I understand your brother goes swimming on Thursdays. According to his teachers, he becomes a different boy when he’s in the water.’ Blaine returned her gaze to admire my sketch of Finn. ‘You know, you’ve really caught that peculiar waif-like look my guests seem to find so attractive.’ She reverentially placed the book on the table. ‘I suppose you can only pray that these trips are adequately chaperoned, can’t you? It’s amazing the harm that can befall a child when one’s back is turned.’
The vice tightened around my chest once more as she strolled from the room. ‘I’ll expect to see the finished sketches from this evening at our breakfast meeting tomorrow, shall I?’
As she left I reached for my inhaler once more.
Chapter Twelve
Lilith
Laura Fenworth perched on the edge of one of Blaine’s high-backed green leather armchairs. She had changed into a severe black velvet off-the-shoulder evening dress, and she repeatedly shrugged and pulled the short sleeves back into place. A few months ago it would have fitted perfectly, but her divorce had dropped pounds off her – I guessed two dress sizes – and she hadn’t found the time to buy a new wardrobe.
The constant drumming of elegant fingernails against the crystal bowl of her half-empty glass played in counterpoint to the staccato rap of a stiletto heel on antique oak floorboards. Even from my hidden eyrie of the curtained-off minstrel’s gallery, her latent anger was palpable.
‘Laura, darling, I’m so sorry to keep you waiting. You look magnificent.’ Blaine entered the room like a Hollywood starlet walking onto the set. Her hair hung loose over her right shoulder, and her silk gown, corseted to emphasise the generous curve of her breasts, matched the last inch of blood-red wine in her guest’s glass. She offered a gracious hand, and Laura stood to accept it. ‘I’m sure you’re about to have a most enjoyable evening – I trust the wine’s to your liking?’
‘It’s excellent. A Margaux?’ For the first time, I heard the hard, clipped voice of Laura Fenworth, Investment Banker: artificially pitched half an octave lower than its natural range, to prove that she had the biggest balls of anyone in her company.
‘Naturally,’ Blaine said. ‘It is your favourite, isn’t it? I’ll make sure Henry keeps your glass filled.’
A soft footfall on the stairs that swept down into the room caused both women to turn, and the hostess gave her most beatific smile as she brought her possession forward into a shimmering pool of candlelight. ‘Laura, may I introduce my companion, Finn Strachan?’
The same script, the same well-cut dinner jacket and extended, elegant hand with its hidden marks, and Finn pale and beautiful and entirely absent. ‘I’m delighted to meet you.’ The gentle lilt of his refined, ‘working’ accent warming the room.
This time, the meticulous staging had the desired effect. I watched the hard, cold mask that Laura wore drop away, burned up by a lust that flared the moment she touched her purchase. I had never seen such open hunger on a woman’s face: in that one awful second Finn ceased to be human and became a convenient and malleable means to an end.
I bit my lip hard enough to taste blood. How could she look at him and not notice, not feel the delicate bones that lay too close to the surface of his skin, or the scars across his hand? Did she really dare look into his eyes and think that what she saw there was returned desire?