The Arrogant Artist by John Creasey

Author:John Creasey
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: House of Stratus

Chapter Twelve

Artist’s Licence

As Forrester finished, he smiled.

There was nothing predatory about it, but there was daring with a hint of danger. She did not think she had ever met a more masculine man; one who by his very pose and manner could make her aware not only of him, but of herself. Had John told her that he would behave like this she would have said laughingly: “I can look after myself, darling,” and she would have felt quite sure.

And of course she was sure: wasn’t she?

It was uncanny that he could loom so large and near without moving. Or was he moving? Had he drawn a little closer? Whether he had or not, her heart was thumping louder and the sense of fear was greater, her breathing was much more shallow, each breath coming through slightly parted lips. She wanted to make some casual or commonplace comment, to pretend that she was not aware of this – this magnetism in him, but if she spoke while her heart was thumping so it would be gaspingly, and that would be fatal.

Fatal? What on earth was the matter with her?

Now he moved, closer, and held out his hands.

“I can see he doesn’t,” he said. “Too many men take their wives too much for granted. Don’t they?”

She didn’t put out her hands although the impulse to do so was nearly irresistible. She could not move further back in the chair which seemed to close about her, holding her back, her waist, her thighs: hugging her. She sensed, she knew, that if she yielded even so far as putting out her hands, she would be lost.

Nonsense!

But it wasn’t nonsense. This was real. She was sitting in the corner in a chair from which she couldn’t rise without holding or pressing against something to help herself up, and only this man’s hands were within reach. And they were drawing closer, long, pale, strong-looking hands.

“Lorna,” he said, “you are mature enough to know better.”

At last, she could control her voice well enough to answer: “Better than what?” The words came out quite clearly but perhaps with a shade of vehemence.

“You know perfectly well what I mean,” he said.

“No,” she denied. “I don’t.”

But her heart was now thumping furiously and she was breathing with greater difficulty even than before.

“You do,” he insisted. “You are a very beautiful and desirable woman and I am a handsome, strong and virile man. We have been thrown together by chance and we have an opportunity to make love. Two perfect human beings with a perfect opportunity. And—” he moved again and rested his hands on her elbows. She could feel his strength, and sense the urgency of his desire. “No one need know,” he went on. “If you live in a comfortable convention-cluttered world, no one need know. I promise you.”

The pressure of his hands grew stronger, and he began to lift her. She was surprised how easy it was for him. And he was utterly serious. He had such confidence in his mastery that it did not seem to occur to him that she would not be compliant.

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