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  143

  By

  Jade Winters

  143

  Copyright © 2007 by Jade Winters

  www.jade-winters.com

  Published by Wicked Winters Books

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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  CHAPTER 1

  THE TENTH FLOOR of the Parliament View apartment block overlooked the city of London. The living room's floor-to-ceiling windows offered panoramic views of the River Thames, upon which the illuminated Houses of Parliament sat, highlighting its striking architecture. Like most days, Rebecca awoke ahead of her five-thirty a.m. alarm call and stood at the window of her apartment watching London come alive. It was hard not to be in awe of the city from this angle — most people only saw London from the ground upwards. She loved the beauty and history that epitomised the city. For a few more moments she watched the road below her, alive with braided strands of traffic, then walked back over to the bed and gently lowered herself down, being careful not to wake its sleeping occupant.

  Rebecca never tired of looking at Genevieve while she slept. Every morning she drank in the beautiful oval-shaped face framed with blonde highlighted dark brown hair, the barely noticeable little scar just above her top lip — the result of a childhood accident — and the small mole on her right cheek that only enhanced her beauty. Genevieve stirred and opened her sleepy eyes.

  "Hey you," she said, a broad lazy grin lighting up her face.

  "Hey yourself," Rebecca replied with a smile, leaning over and covering Genevieve's face with little kisses before drawing back to look directly into deep green eyes. "I love you."

  "How much?" Genevieve looked mischievous.

  "I can't quite think of a word that describes it accurately."

  "So I'll never know..."

  "Oh, I think I can find another way until the word comes to mind!" Rebecca said as they dived under the quilt laughing.

  Much later they lay breathless, their bodies entwined with one another, not speaking, just being. Their lovemaking had always evoked a form of contentment. They had not been cursed with the dreaded "lesbian bed death" that a lot of their lesbian friends had been through. They were attracted to each other now as much as they had been when they'd first met. Though it was not with the same urgency, their lovemaking was still intense. Genevieve was the first one to reluctantly move out of their embrace.

  "Why do we always end up having sex before we go to work? It just makes me want to stay in bed with you all day." She sat up looking down at Rebecca, who was now stretching on her back.

  "But just think: We have the whole weekend to do nothing but please ourselves... and each other," Rebecca said languorously, winking at Genevieve. "Now please, cover that body before we really do end up not leaving the bed!"

  With both women finally dressed and at the kitchen table eating breakfast, the subject of the evening's event arose.

  "Are you sure you don't mind me going to Paul's show tonight?" Genevieve said as she sipped her freshly squeezed orange juice.

  "Positive," Rebecca replied, with more conviction than she felt. "What's he going to do — ravish you over his paintings? Come to think of it, I wouldn't put it past him." She popped the last remains of her croissant into her mouth and rose quickly, starting to clear the table.

  Genevieve smiled.

  "You know something? I think I want to marry you," she said, changing the subject. She decided it might be better if, for now at least, she avoided the issue of Paul's sudden invitation for her to attend his show that evening.

  "Let's not even go there with that one," Rebecca said, leaning over and dropping a kiss on Genevieve’s forehead. She loaded the dishwasher and turned to see Genevieve looking at her with mock surprise.

  "What?" she asked innocently, stifling a smile as she imagined walking down the aisle with Genevieve. Rebecca and Genevieve often spoke about a civil partnership, but neither of them could seriously go through with it. They had both agreed they would die of embarrassment, so it was better to stay as they were. Their property was to be left to the surviving partner, so as far as they were concerned, they had the important areas covered and they didn't need to publicly declare their love for each other to know they were committed for life. Rebecca had all she wanted: A woman that she loved more than life itself and a job as a freelance art critic, which had been more of a passion than a career for the past six years.

  According to Rebecca, art critics fell into different groups. There were the highbrow critics who wrote for art journals and whose targeted audience was assumed to be quite knowledgeable about the arts and understood the everyday jargon that was used. Then there were those who wrote for the daily or weekly newspapers, whose targeted audience didn't know their arse from their elbow, and thus the critic wrote in a more informal way, telling the masses of their subjective view on the piece they were writing about. Rebecca, on the other hand, was more interested in informing the public of what the artist was trying to get across, rather than give her own subjective views. It was because of this that she was one of London's most successful art critics.

  Her rise to the top had come via a route not dissimilar to others who had managed to get a foot in the door. After studying for a degree in art and literature, she'd worked briefly at an art gallery. It was here that she began writing for a monthly art magazine, submitting her reviews on openings she had attended. It had been the editor of the magazine with whom she had had a brief affair who'd brought her attention to an opening for a new prestigious art magazine. She'd forwarded her art review clippings and gotten the job. For the past six years she'd been working as a freelancer, giving critical opinions on works of art, galleries and artists. She had a loyal following that respected her opinions; and as such, she played a vital role in an emerging artist's career.

  Though the role of cultural gatekeeper had been unwittingly bestowed upon her, she was uncomfortable in it and tried her best to remember that she served the people and doing her job well meant introducing the public to an array of art that would enlighten everyone.

  Aside from her work, life for Rebecca had been truly uneventful until she'd met Genevieve. Not that she had anything to complain about — the past thirty years had been good to her, but Rebecca could never have envisioned that she could feel like this about someone. When she'd met Genevieve, it was as if her soul knew the search was over. It was like coming home from a long journey and finally sleeping in your own bed. It was this kind of warmth and security that she always felt with Genevieve and her life had been enriched in a way she never thought possible.

  Her most prized piece of art was a portrait Genevieve had given to her. Not only was the painting breathtaking — it was also how Genevieve had first told Rebecca that she loved her. Although Rebecca did not wear a necklace, Genevieve had painted one on Rebecca's neck with the numbers 143 dangling from it. At first she couldn't comprehend the symbolic significance of the numbers, but then with sudden clarity the meaning had become obvious: Each number stood for the number of letters in the words "I love you." Rebecca had had relationships in the past, but they were neither great nor bad. If she had to sum them up, they would come under the term "flat liners"— no ups or downs, no emotional pull either way. It wasn't because she was holding herself back, either. She liked to think of herself as being quite fluid; she just went where her emotions took her. In the last four years though, she'd experienced depths of emotion that she'd previously thought inconceivable. />
  It was nine a.m. when Rebecca and Genevieve finally strode through the lobby of their apartment block. Acknowledging the chorus of "good mornings" from neighbours, they made their way out of the building. The mild heat of spring lay over the city; the sky was a golden yellow and buds were alive and blossoming, relieving branches and stems of their solitude. The buzzing bees were a welcome signal of the new season now upon them.

  The scent of spring, the smell of new beginnings... Rebecca thought to herself.

  "I'll see you tonight," she said, letting her hand fall into Genevieve's. They kissed each other on the cheek.

  Rebecca's driver was already parked outside in a black polished Mercedes.

  "Good morning ladies," Peter said through the open window of the car.

  "Yes, it is," they said in unison and laughed. Genevieve brought her eyes up to meet Rebecca's.

  "I really love you," she said with such intensity that Rebecca felt a bit unnerved.

  "Are you planning on making a confession of some sort, or are you going to do a runner?" Rebecca asked, half-jokingly.

  "Neither." Genevieve smiled. "I can't explain why, but it's just important that you know. I'm just being silly. Go on; go, before you're late!"

  "I'm going through Westminster, would you like a lift?"

  "No, I think I'll walk." And with that, Genevieve was gone.

  Reluctantly Rebecca got into the car. Even as Peter took off, she was unable to shake the disturbing tinge of uneasiness.

  * * *

  Sometimes life just potters along merrily. Nothing much really happens and weeks go by, with weekends providing a welcome break from the usual routine of having to go to work. At other times, something may happen and a small pebble is thrown into the pool of life. It makes a few ripples that momentarily upset the balance, but then the surface soon calms and normality is restored. And occasionally there comes a time when a large rock is hurled into the pool, creating a tidal wave of havoc and flooding that causes so much damage that the effects are seemingly endless.

  CHAPTER 2

  Four Years Earlier

  THE IVY HOUSE GALLERY in South London was hosting a show in aid of Children South East, a charity which had been set up with the aim of turning troubled teenagers' lives around. Rebecca had been invited to write a review for an artist who was showing her work for the first time, as well as shedding light on the need to help raise funds for such a worthwhile cause. She'd heard good things about the artist through the grapevine, and was interested in meeting her in person as well as seeing her new work.

  Guests at the black tie event were met with a champagne reception, including a wide range of canapés created by The Ivy House's award-winning chef. With glass in hand and sipping her champagne slowly, Rebecca moved through the crowd until she spotted the artist. There was no mistaking her — her tall, sculpted body covered by a black, tight-fitting strapless dress served to accentuate the firmness of her body, long hair rested on her bare tanned shoulders, her cheeks were radiant and an enigmatic smile exuded an undeniable confidence. Standing in the middle of a group of people, she looked like royalty holding court. There was humour in her voice while she talked about the graffiti artist, Banksy. Rebecca caught the sound of Genevieve's voice in the midst of saying, "... the problem, and what people can't get their heads around, is that his stance was always anti-establishment and anti-capitalist, but now his work goes for a fortune and he's being exhibited in Knightsbridge."

  "But," Rebecca said, moving into the group to stand squarely in front of her, "to be an artist, you have to make art, and to make a living out of that art, you have to sell your work. Isn't it a privilege to make money doing something you truly love, or are artists exempt from needing money? I think there's a distinction between 'selling out' and 'selling.' I don't think you can be accused of selling out unless you change your work to cave in to commercial pressures, or prostitute yourself for the advertising pound — and he's never done that."

  There was an instant spark in Genevieve's eyes as they met with Rebecca's. She drank in Rebecca's features — the way her face was framed in long, tousled curls of ebony, which perfectly complemented her subtle olive skin-tone. Her piercing eyes with the teasing hint of grey held a distant, dreamy look and her figure was slender and taut. But it was those lips — those full and sensuous lips — that almost tipped Genevieve over the edge. For what seemed like an age, she forgot to breathe. She didn't know why she was suddenly speechless. The silence continued as the two women stood there frozen in time, looking into each other's eyes. The surrounding group eventually dispersed, muttering polite pleasantries about her work and went to either look at the art or refill their drinks. Genevieve finally found her voice to break the silence.

  "And you are...?" she asked, holding out her hand.

  "Rebecca." Genevieve took her hand with the intention of shaking it, but just held it — not quite long enough for onlookers to notice that something was happening between the two women, but just long enough for Rebecca to acknowledge that cupid had stung them both with a sweet, sharp and deadly arrow.

  Both women strolled close together while Genevieve pointed out her work. Her creations came under the banner of Fine Art Photography, which referred to photographs that were taken to fulfil the creative vision of the artist. Looking at the images Genevieve had captured, Rebecca knew this project was not just another assignment; it came from a place deep within the woman. Some artists provide art for others to enjoy — Genevieve's art was to provide the viewer with an experience that they themselves would never experience. Her photography was about real life. The emotions, which were captured at the very moment the lenses closed, remained, and if you looked at the images for too long you would feel immersed in them. Genevieve was against the recent trend of careful staging and lighting of pictures; her images were discovered instead of ready-made. Rebecca saw in Genevieve a raw and unique talent that she hadn't seen in a very long time.

  "There you are darling," a male voice sounded from behind them. He slid his arm around Genevieve's waist and pulled her closer to him so her body slotted neatly into his. He kissed her briefly on the mouth before she managed to disentangle herself from him. Extending her hand out to Rebecca, she made the introductions.

  "Paul, Rebecca; Rebecca, Paul." Paul used his free hand to give Rebecca a firm handshake.

  "Nice to meet you; I've heard lots about you. It's nice to finally be able to put a face to the name." Turning his attention back to Genevieve, he said, "I'm going to have to steal you for a while, darling. Everyone wants to know the date you're going to make an honest man out of me."

  Rebecca felt an instant tightening in her chest and had to force herself to remain calm, put a wide smile on her face and say to Genevieve, "Well, it was an honour to have finally met you and to have seen your work."

  "I look forward to seeing what you write about me," Genevieve said with a flirtatious smile that only Rebecca could see, and with that she turned round and followed Paul into the crowd.

  Rebecca watched as she walked away so gracefully. She appeared to float through the gathered guests, seemingly unaware of the effect her presence had on those around her as she headed for a waiter and lifted a glass of champagne from the tray.

  The night was a great success with over one hundred thousand pounds being raised for the charity and Rebecca had seen more than enough to write an in-depth piece about Genevieve's art and the charity itself. She hadn't had the opportunity to talk with Genevieve again, but there had been eye contact when they were within each other's radar. To their mutual regret, both critic and artist had been swamped with the guests wanting to talk to them.

  * * *

  Rebecca's car was waiting outside the building. She had chosen not to learn how to drive because she enjoyed her social life and didn't want to get bogged down with all the hassles that go with driving — namely, being breathalysed. Peter, her driver, had the passenger door open — a gesture he knew she hated, but he did it anywa
y. He'd been assigned as her driver when she had done a two-month stint at Cades art magazine because she worked late most nights.

  Peter was sixty-five when he was given a brief handshake and pensioned off as a driver for the magazine. On his last day, he'd informed Rebecca that he was not looking forward to having no work. She had grown to like him over the months and found him a pleasure to be around. He was kind, intelligent, capable, and most importantly, had an easy-going nature. She had offered him a job and Peter had accepted the position for a fixed rate per week, and said he didn't mind working some nights either, which was an added bonus.

  He was a widower and appeared to be remarkably unaware of the attraction he held for women, generally spending his evenings in front of the TV. He was a tall, compact, rugged-looking man who had a powerful, resilient look about him. His thick silver hair served to complement his strong facial features, giving him the look of someone ten years younger. His soft hazel eyes could melt the hardest of hearts and in Rebecca's opinion he was just what any "ready-to-date" widow could hope for.

  He gave her a little chuckle when he saw the annoyed look on her face this particular night. He played the chauffeur role to a T and quite enjoyed treating her like she was a lady, even though it pissed her off a little. She was the best thing that had happened to him since his wife had passed away several years ago. He knew Rebecca had given him the job through kindness, not pity, and he respected her for that. She treated him as an equal and had never talked down to him or belittled him.

  He was just about to close the door after Rebecca had settled in when he saw a woman emerging from the arts building and heading straight for his car. She bent her head inside the car door.

  "Can we talk?" she asked softly. Rebecca slid over to the other side of the seat and indicated for her to get in. She felt perplexed by the unexpected appearance of Genevieve and fought to suppress her mixed emotions of desire and fear; feeling relieved when Peter closed the car door and the vehicle's interior was finally shrouded in darkness. Glancing at Peter as he sat in the driver's seat, Genevieve leaned over and whispered in Rebecca's ear, "Shall we go somewhere more private?"