Chapter 1

 Peter Tourne ran his hand over the shaft of the whip, his handsome face closed and expressionless. Against the wall the blonde girl began to writhe, pulling frantically against the manacles that secured her. Her struggles raised a fine slick of sweat over her slim body.

He let the end of the whip drape across her narrow shoulders - just the lightest of caresses. He watched with pleasure as her breasts spread and pressed against the cold wall in an effort to avoid his attentions. The girl whimpered, closing her eyes to block out the images. They both knew what was to follow.

‘Please, Peter,’ she hissed, her words barely more than a sigh. It was difficult to decide whether she was begging him to stop or imploring him to begin.

He swung the whip, watching the tip flick back in a wide arc. As he brought it down the fine leather caught the girl squarely across the shoulders. Her cry came an instant later as the pain coursed through her. Her body bucked away from him, her instinctive movements exposing the soft pink crevices between her heavy buttocks. A thin red weal lifted on her flesh. Peter Tourne smiled, relishing the delicate flush that crept across her body.

She broke into a sob. ‘No, Peter,’ she shuddered, tears coursing down her face. ‘Please! Don’t hurt me. Please...!’

He swung the whip back again, concentrating on the satisfying hiss it made as it cut through the still afternoon air.

‘It’ll be all right,’ he said softly, almost to himself, feeling the excitement building low in his belly. ‘It’ll be all right. Just trust me.’

The girl screamed again as the whip found its mark for the second time.

In her studio, Alex Sanderson heard the phone ring and then the tone of the answering machine as it cut in.

‘I know you’re there, Alex. Pick the bloody phone up,’ snapped a familiar voice.

Alex grinned and climbed off the stool near her drawing board.

‘Morning, Laurence,’ she said, cradling the receiver on her shoulder as she wiped her hands on a rag. ‘You sound as if you’re in a good mood today. What can I do for you?

At the end of the line her agent snorted angrily. ‘I had arranged for you to come in to see me first thing this morning. Remember?’

Alex groaned and felt a sickening lurch in her stomach. She’d been on Laurence Russell’s books for less than a year. He was an established agent with connections in all the right circles - as a virtual unknown she’d been lucky he’d taken her on. She grimaced - besides being a damned good agent he was also extremely good looking in an intimidating sort of way, and it didn’t do to upset him.

‘God, I’m so sorry Laurence, I’d completely forgotten about it.’

Laurence Russell sighed. ‘You really must learn to take business commitments more seriously, Alex. You’re not in college now, you know.’

‘I know, I really am sorry,’ she said apologetically.

‘Okay, enough said. Now, I’ve got a commission for you.’

‘I’ll get my notebook.’ Alex stretched across the workbench on which the phone, the answering machine, and a thousand other things were piled with careless abandon.

‘It’s for a mural.’

Alex frowned. ‘Oh God, not more trompe l’oeil for the rich and famous.’

‘No. One of my existing clients saw the piece you painted at Vernis Restaurant and asked me if you could do something similar for him.’

Alex paused. Vernis had given her a free rein. She’d created a tableau of medieval images in rich golds and reds on a huge wall in their function room. It had been one of her most successful pieces of work so far.

‘I’d be delighted,’ she said enthusiastically. ‘I’ve still got all the preliminary sketches. Who’s the client? Have you got the address?’ She teased a pen out of a pot on the bench and scribbled it into life.

Laurence laughed. ‘Not so fast, not so fast, there is a slight problem with this one.’

Alex groaned. ‘I knew it. Go on, tell me.’

‘That’s why I wanted you to come in this morning, so we could discuss it. The site is in a place called KaRoche, D’arnos.’

Alex pouted. ‘Run that by me again.’

‘It’s on a Greek island. My client lives there in his villa.’

‘So, are you saying I’ve got to do it all on panels, and then we’ll ship them out?’

‘No, not exactly. The client, Mr Peter Tourne, has suggested you fly out there and work on site.’

Alex let out a low whistle. ‘In Greece?’

‘That’s right, all expenses paid. Would that be a problem?’

Alex glanced around her tiny studio apartment. Rain lashed at the skylight above her drawing board. She grinned. ‘No, I think I could manage that,’ she said. ‘Would you like me to come over right now?’

Less than a week later Alex found herself leaning against the handrail of a little Greek ferry, surrounded by local people making their way back from the mainland. Despite it being the beginning of the tourist season, hers was the only foreign face amongst the passengers on deck. She stretched, letting the warm fresh breeze tug and tumble through her long coppery coloured hair. Above her the sky was clear and cloudless. She closed her eyes, enjoying the sensation of the sun on her body.

This has to be the life, she thought, drinking in the heat. The sea was as blue as any of the brochure photos she’d ever seen. Ahead, a cluster of islands rose from the water like glistening white pebbles.

When the ferry chugged slowly into port, it looked as if the harbour was sleeping in the midday heat. At the far end of the jetty Alex could make out a motley collection of dusty cabs waiting for the passengers to disembark.

She glanced at the piece of paper in her hand and murmured under her breath, ‘The Villa KaRoche, D’arnos.’ She wondered if she would be able to make the local taxi-drivers understand her phrase book Greek.

White painted houses gleamed around the quay. Above the harbour the landscape was verdant green with dramatic outcrops of rock pressing up between the trees and foliage. Dotted here and there were villas, clinging precariously to the rocky hillsides. It was stunningly beautiful.

Must remember to send Laurence a postcard, Alex thought wryly, shouldering her bag and picking up her suitcases.

At the far end of the pier a man in peculiar mongrel uniform, made up of a smart military jacket worn with tattered cream cotton chinos and sandals, was holding a cardboard sign that read ‘Alex Sanderson’. She pushed her way towards him, relieved that she wouldn’t have to tussle with the language, and extended her hand.

‘Alex Sanderson,’ she said cheerfully.

The man’s eyes roamed over her body, drinking in the details, lingering on the curve of her breasts where a thin cotton shirt clung to her warm skin. Alex shivered as he licked his lips and spoke.

‘Not taxi,’ he said in an accent so thick that she could barely make out what he was saying.

She pointed to his sign. ‘Alex Sanderson,’ she repeated more slowly, enunciating each syllable.

The man raised his eyebrows and muttered something she didn’t understand, while his eyes continued to work across her travel-weary body. Feeling uneasy under his undisguised interest, she pointed to herself, repeating her name for a third time.

The man’s reaction was to pull a face and then say very slowly, ‘Alex Sanderson. I pick him up from ferry, today.’

Comprehension dawned: someone had assumed Alex was a man! She pulled her passport from her bag and showed the driver her photograph and name. ‘It’s me!’ she said slowly and loudly as though speaking to an idiot. ‘I’m Alex Sanderson, Alexandra! I’ve come to paint a mural for Mr Peter Tourne, at...’ she showed him the piece of paper upon which was written her destination, ‘... KaRoche!’

The man barely glanced at her passport, but at the mention of his employer’s name, rolled his eyes heavenward and snatched her suitcases. Reluctantly Alex fell into step behind him.

Parked a little way from the jetty, surrounded by village children, was a sleek black Mercedes. The driver opened the boot and slung her suitcases inside. Alex winced, obviously she was a great disappointment to him, and as if reading her mind, he glowered at her.

‘You should be man,’ he snorted disjointedly.

Alex shrugged philosophically and climbed into the car, which the man immediately gunned into life.

The main road meandered up around the island, taking in spectacular views of the coast and the sea below. Alex peered out from the cool confines of the car’s luxurious interior, while in the front her driver turned up the radio and watched her face in the rear-view mirror.

Finally, as they rounded a steep bend, Alex saw a huge pair of wrought iron gates with the name ‘KaRoche’ set into them.

‘Is this it?’ she asked, hoping to finally break through the uneasy silence between them.

He nodded. ‘You should be man,’ he repeated.

Alex sighed with exasperation. ‘Well, I’m not - I’m really very sorry.’

The drive through the island had not prepared her for KaRoche. The villa, built on a series of broad terraces, seemed to grow straight out of the hillside. Set amongst a tumble of vines, trees and fragrant shrubs, it was breathtaking. Alex gasped. The driver lifted an eyebrow at her reaction, but said nothing.

The car purred to a halt outside the front door. The driver unceremoniously dumped Alex’s bags on the doorstep before disappearing inside. Alex, perturbed by the man’s rudeness, picked up her luggage and followed him nervously into the villa.

The interior was cool and dark. It took Alex a few seconds before her eyes adjusted to the gloom. She glanced around the hallway. It had a red tiled floor and pale cream walls, set with a wealth of ferns and plants in huge urns. In the centre of the room a fountain and pool added a crystal babble of water to the cool and elegant interior.

Alex hesitated on the steps, uncertain what she should do next. Her thoughts were interrupted by a low melodious voice.

‘Alex Sanderson?’

She turned towards the sound. Across the room, a tall slim man in his early forties stepped forward. He was dressed casually in a soft white shirt and cream slacks. His features were refined and aristocratic, the impression heightened by his dark hair, shot through with grey, which he wore in a ponytail.

Alex smiled and extended her hand politely. ‘Mr Tourne?’

The man nodded, lightly pressing her fingers between his. His touch was cool and disturbing. Alex fought the urge to shiver as he lifted her hand to his lips.

‘There seems to have been a misunderstanding,’ he said, with the slightest trace of an accent. His dark eyes moved slowly and confidently across her face and body. ‘You are Alex Sanderson, the artist?’

‘Yes, and from the reaction of your driver, I assume you were expecting a man?’

Peter Tourne nodded, his eyes lingering on the curve of her breasts.

‘Does this cause a problem?’ she continued unsteadily. ‘My agent said you’d seen my work at Vernis.’

He nodded. ‘Indeed I have, and I was very impressed. But you’re right - please forgive me, I had no idea you were a woman. Your agent - Mr Russell - is perhaps having a joke with me?’ His eyes held hers. ‘But I am forgetting my manners. I trust your journey was a good one? My housekeeper has already prepared the guest cabin for you.’ He paused, and she detected the slightest flicker in his dark eyes. ‘Or perhaps you might prefer to stay here, in the main villa?’

Alex shook her head, a peculiar feeling of unease growing in the pit of her belly. ‘No, the guest cabin will be fine, thank you.’

The man pressed a bell set into the wall. Alex wasn’t sure what kind of reception she had expected, but this certainly wasn’t like anything she could have imagined.

‘Please don’t think me rude, but I am working at the moment. My housekeeper will ensure you have everything you need. We will discuss my plans for the mural when you have had a chance to recover from your journey. You will join me for dinner?’

Alex nodded. ‘Of course, that would be very nice. Thank you.’

A small woman, dressed in a faded cotton smock, appeared from the far side of the fountain. She eyed Alex suspiciously and then murmured something to Peter Tourne in Greek. He glared at her, his icy look stifling the words in the old woman’s mouth.

‘This,’ he said, with a hint of annoyance aimed at the elderly woman, ‘is Alex Sanderson. Would you please show Miss Sanderson to the guest cabin.’

The woman snatched up Alex’s cases and bustled across the tiled hall.

‘I’ll see you at dinner tonight,’ said Peter Tourne.

Alex turned to thank him, but he’d already vanished into the shadows. With her sense of unease growing alarmingly, she followed the old woman out into the sun-drenched garden.

The cabin, almost completely obscured by creepers, stood away from the main house, up a steep flight of steps. The housekeeper hesitated at the open door of the little building, her face closed and stormy.

‘You shouldn’t have come here,’ she said flatly. ‘It’s very bad place.’

Alex glanced back at her, uncertain that she’d heard the words correctly. ‘I’m sorry?’

The woman lifted her hands in resignation. ‘Mr Tourne, he very bad man,’ she snapped. ‘Better if you were man.’

Alex sighed and glanced around the sparse but comfortable interior of the little cabin. ‘Well, I’m not, and I’ve come to paint - not to discuss the morals of my client. What time is dinner?’

The woman pulled a face. ‘Eight. You find everything you want here; kettle, tea, bottled water.’ She paused. ‘He make you do terrible things, you know.’

Alex swung round, her degree of unease increasing her annoyance. ‘I’m painting a mural, that’s what he’s paying me for!’

The woman stepped back out onto the sunlit steps. ‘Mr Tourne, he a wizard, he make a magic on women. Much better you had been a man.’ She closed the door behind her.

Alex wondered what on earth she had got herself into. She glanced anxiously back through the windows, watching the elderly woman bustle down the steps, and wondered why her agent, Laurence, hadn’t let Peter Tourne know that she was a female. As for the housekeeper - what could she make of someone like that?

Grateful to be alone, Alex slipped off her sandals and turned her attention to the chore of unpacking.

Outside, the afternoon sunlight touched everything with a brilliant exotic hue. Creepers and flowering plants that had been trained around the windows and doors filled the air with an heady exotic scent. Alex yawned, suddenly feeling tired and dirty from the journey. Her arrival at KaRoche had not been exactly auspicious, but surely things could only get better from here on in? Once she had unpacked her things, Alex slipped off her clothes and headed for the shower.

Under the refreshing torrent of water Alex soaped her aching body and thoughtfully considered her host. Peter Tourne was an odd man, but it was difficult to define exactly why. She thought about the housekeeper, and smiled at the woman’s melodramatic pronouncements.

Clean and rejuvenated Alex turned off the taps, wrapped herself in a towel, and lay down on the comfortable bed. She closed her eyes, and within seconds travel weariness led her gently into sleep.

In the villa Peter Tourne poured himself a drink and looked out into the garden below his office. Amongst the intricate tumble of foliage and heavily scented flowers he could make out the tiled roof of the guest cabin.

He was both surprised and delighted that his resident artist had turned out to be female - and Alex Sanderson was quite beautiful. He let his mind conjure up a picture of her slim muscular frame, her deliciously firm breasts, and the way her hair curled into the curve of her long white neck.

He had planned on a mural, something cool and green in the long gallery overlooking the swimming pool, but now - he smiled and sipped his aperitif - now perhaps the mural could wait awhile. He sat down by the desk and opened the top drawer. Inside, in a small box, were a set of ornate body rings. He stroked the cool silvery metal and let his mind picture a dozen erotic possibilities. He imagined Alex tied and subdued, completely at his mercy, bucking against her restraints as he taught her the lessons he loved so well. She would learn to be compliant and obedient, and she would learn to understand that his word was law, and that her body was his alone to command or give away as the fancy took him.

He imagined her nipples, puckered and dark, pierced by the silver rings. He could see them glittering in the gloom, and below them the subdued flash of the one that would nestle in the lips of her sex. The rings, and other sets like them, were reserved as a gift, as markers for members of his discreet and beautifully trained stable of girls. He lit a cigar and then picked up the phone. He knew someone else who might enjoy the education of Miss Alex Sanderson.

Alex woke just after seven. Outside the light had subtly changed to a softer evening glow. Although the sun was lower it was still pleasantly warm. Alex pulled a thin cotton dress off its hanger and slipped it on. Glancing at her reflection in the bedroom mirror, she twisted her thick copper hair into a bun and secured it with a clip. The effect was soft and feminine. She stretched and smiled at herself. Recovered from the journey she felt relaxed and ready to face whatever Peter Tourne might have in mind. At least this time she would be ready for him. As she leant forward to add the lightest touch of lipstick there was a knock on the door. It was barely ten to eight, fleetingly she wondered if it was the housekeeper returning with another dire warning.

‘Come in,’ Alex called.

The door opened slowly to reveal a beautiful blonde girl, dressed in a cream evening dress. The girl hesitated in the doorway.

‘Hi, can I help you?’ said Alex, spraying on some cologne.

‘I come to invite you to join Peter for drink before dinner,’ she said slowly, struggling with the English words.

Alex turned and extended her hand. ‘I’d love to, my name’s Alex - Alex Sanderson.’

The girl smiled and blushed. ‘I know. I’m Gena.’

‘Right, and are you Mr Tourne’s girlfriend?’

The girl’s colour deepened and she shook her head. ‘No.’ She paused for a moment, considering her reply. ‘I am his slave. He understand me.’

Alex turned to pick up her handbag. Gena’s words must have lost something in translation; surely she really meant servant, or secretary.

In the hall of the villa Peter Tourne was sitting by the little fountain waiting for the two girls to arrive. Beside him stood another man, dressed in expensively casual clothes. As Alex and Gena came in through the French windows the other man stepped proprietarily towards Gena. Peter Tourne smiled a welcome towards Alex.

‘Good evening,’ he purred as he got to his feet. ‘You look lovely.’

Alex smiled politely. ‘Thank you,’ and then glanced back at Gena and her companion.

‘Forgive me. Let me introduce my friends,’ he said, taking her arm. ‘May I present Starn Fettico and Gena?’

Starn Fettico’s smile was fixed as he stepped forward to shake her hand. His eyes moved slowly over her face, as if he could look inside her mind, whilst his other hand rested casually on Gena’s hip. Alex sensed there was something wrong, something unsettling, but didn’t resist as Peter Tourne led her up a sweeping flight of stairs into a sitting room.

‘Would you like an aperitif?’ he asked, indicating a tray on the side table. Alex nodded and accepted the glass he offered before turning back towards Gena and Starn, who had followed them up.

What she saw made her gasp. Starn was standing close behind Gena, his hands reaching around and cradling her large breasts, his tongue lapping at her throat. Alex looked away quickly, feeling her colour rise. Peter Tourne lifted an eyebrow as Alex fought to compose herself. Behind her she heard Starn moan.

Alex coughed. ‘Look, Mr Tourne,’ she began uncomfortably, ‘if I’m interrupting something...’ her voice faded away.

He casually sipped his drink. ‘They disturb you?’

Alex shook her head. ‘No, but I’m employed to - ’

Lifting his hand he silenced her. His eyes were dark and hypnotic and did not leave hers as he spoke. ‘Gena, take off your dress.’

Alex blushed furiously. ‘Please, this is hardly what I’m here for!’ she blustered indignantly and turned to leave.

Behind her, framed in the doorway, Gena had already slipped off her evening dress. Alex swallowed hard, feeling the heat flooding through her body. The blonde girl was naked beneath the creamy silk sheath, her body as pale as snow, but what was more startling was that she was shaved, her sex as pale and vulnerable as the rest of her body. Alex froze, feeling a thread of panic bubbling up inside her. The girl’s heavy breasts were pierced with silver rings and below her outer labia were similarly adorned.

‘What is this all about?’ Alex hissed, suddenly remembering the housekeeper’s words to her earlier.

Peter Tourne laughed softly. ‘Perhaps you would like to paint Gena for me?’

‘Perhaps not! Usually I’m told before I get a life model!’ She struggled to regain her poise. ‘And they don’t usually strip off just before dinner!’ As she spoke she noticed the way Starn’s eyes slithered over the ripe and vulnerable curves of Gena’s body. She shivered and then swung back to face Peter Tourne. ‘Is this some kind of test?’

He lifted his hands. ‘No, not at all. Gena, come here.’ The blonde moved closer, so close that Alex could smell her expensive perfume and feel her body heat.

‘Closer,’ he coaxed.

Alex stepped aside as Gena glided towards him, and then watched mesmerised as he stroked the girl’s heavy breasts without her offering any form of resistance. His fingertips lingered over the puckered outline of her nipples and the glittering silver rings that hung from them. Gena, eyes downcast in submission, moaned softly as he caressed her.

Alex shivered, wondering why the exhibition excited her almost as much as it repulsed her. ‘Please,’ she murmured, uncomfortably aware of the fluttering sensation deep in her sex. ‘I think I’ve seen quite enough of this.’

As she spoke, his fingers moved down over the soft swell of Gena’s belly. He looked across at Alex, his eyes reduced to dark pinpricks.

‘Don’t tell me this doesn’t move you, Miss Sanderson,’ he said softly, his fingers tracing the plump outer lips of the other girl’s quim.

Gena shuddered under his touch and to her horror Alex felt the flurry of excitement flare white hot deep in her belly.

She swallowed hard and took a deep breath, controlling her voice as she spoke. ‘I’d have to be dead not to be moved by something so erotic, Mr Tourne, but I think you’re making a grave mistake.’

Peter Tourne chuckled, his slim fingers parting the moist lips of Gena’s sex, sliding unhindered past the heavy ring. Alex gasped, unable to look away as he caressed the girl’s compliant body. It felt as if his fingers were on her own flesh.

He looked at her levelly. ‘A mistake? I don’t think so,’ he said softly. ‘Do you?’

Alex felt her colour draining. From the corner of her eye she could see Starn moving around to get a better view. He moved silently, like a predatory wolf.

Alex stared at Gena. ‘Is this what you meant when you said Mr Tourne understood you? That you were his slave?’ she asked. The blonde girl nodded, her excitement was obvious.

As Alex spoke, Tourne tipped his glass, trickling the wine over Gena’s gorgeous body. She shivered as the sticky liquid trickled down over her breasts, leaving a slick glistening trail in its wake.

‘Wouldn’t you like to lick it off?’ he said quietly, staring at Alex. ‘Wouldn’t you like to taste her sweat and her juices mingling with the bittersweet taste of the wine?’

Alex didn’t move.

Tourne shrugged and then glanced at Starn who was now standing beside him. Starn grinned and stepped towards Gena, his tongue already protruding between thick red lips. Alex closed her eyes and looked away as Starn’s lips closed around one of Gena’s engorged nipples.

Tourne laughed. ‘Open your eyes, Miss Sanderson, we’ll leave them to play while we have our dinner.’

Alex flinched as his fingers closed around hers, but she did not protest as he led her away. As they moved across the room, she heard the soft little noises of pleasure as Starn sucked greedily at Gena’s willing body.

Alex let her host guide her up another set of steps to a large airy dining room. From the windows she could see the garden below, and beyond that the rich blue waters of the sea. Her discomfort was rapidly turning to anger.

She swung round to face him. ‘I think,’ she said with great deliberation, ‘that you would be better getting someone else to paint your mural, Mr Tourne. I am not particularly impressed with your behaviour so far, and I am not sure that I can give you whatever it is you want.’

Peter Tourne smiled. ‘So spirited - I like that. Just tell me truthfully that Gena’s activities didn’t excite you?’

Alex swallowed. ‘I’m really not into women or voyeurism,’ she said flatly.

He laughed. ‘Perhaps not. But her obedience, her compliance, tell me that didn’t fascinate you.’

Alex slammed her glass down onto a side table. ‘I’m really very sorry, I’m not sure what it is that you want from me, Mr Tourne. What do you want me to say? That you shocked me? Well, you did. That what I saw excited me? Well, as I said just now, you’d have to be made of clay not to find...’ she hesitated, wondering why it was she didn’t just walk out.

Why on earth was she arguing with him? All she had to do was collect her things and leave. What held her back? She realised with horror it was because there was something about this bizarre and stunning scenario that had electrified her. She could still feel the little frisson of excitement that Gena’s performance had ignited in her belly. She couldn’t define what it was, or perhaps she was afraid to admit that the blonde’s unquestioning obedience to Peter Tourne had mesmerised her. Sex without responsibility, an unquestioning obedience to another’s desires, wasn’t that a dark dream she had always denied existed in her heart? Alex felt herself flush scarlet.

Tourne smiled warmly and guided her to the exquisitely arranged table.

‘Don’t worry about that now - let’s eat,’ he purred softly. His powerful self-confidence frustrated Alex. ‘Let me tell you about my plans for the mural. Perhaps you and I can take a walk down to the gallery after dinner?’ His tone was now matter of fact. Alex nodded dumbly and didn’t resist as he poured her another glass of wine.

Dinner was exquisite, served by Peter Tourne’s houseboy who moved like a ballet dancer between them. Despite the convivial surroundings Alex found it impossible to concentrate on the meal, her mind drawn again and again to thoughts of Gena and Starn in the room below. Peter Tourne reverted to the role of perfect host, spoiling her and asking questions about her trip, her life her art.

She willed herself to relax. The combination of wine, food, and conversation slowly eased away the tension. If it hadn’t been for the recurring images of Gena’s smooth excited body and Starn’s glittering predatory eyes constantly bubbling up in Alex’s mind, the meal would have been perfect.

The young servant served their coffee on the balcony outside the dining room. As Alex and Tourne stood side by side, looking out over the evening, watching the light changing on the sea and sky, he turned to her.

‘You will stay.’ It was a statement, not a question.

Alex bit her lip, not letting her eyes meet his.

‘Yes,’ she said, in a voice barely above a whisper. As she said it she knew that she’d agreed to more than just painting the mural - and the forbidden, unspoken possibilities excited her.

He nodded. ‘Good, in that case I think we should go and look at the gallery,’ he said, indicating she should follow him. When she finally caught his eye she could see the gleam of desire there. Alex swallowed hard as she allowed him to take her arm, her heart beating like a drum in her chest.

Below the terrace a winding stairway threaded a path around the outside of the villa. Alex tried to keep her eyes on the sea, resisting the temptation to look in through the windows in case she caught sight of Gena and Starn.

Finally Tourne led her under an archway and into a wide gallery overlooking a swimming pool below. She could immediately see why he’d commissioned the mural; the gallery was a superb site. She turned round, about to congratulate him, but something about the way he looked made her swallow the words. His eyes glistened, while the rest of his face seemed devoid of expression. She stared at him, all her previous fears returning.

‘What do you want from me?’ she stammered, backing away from him.

He smiled thinly, though she noticed the smile did not quite reach his eyes.

‘Oh Alex, you disappoint me. Can’t you guess? I want to instruct you, to teach you to obey, to let go - ’

‘Like Gena?’ she whispered.

He watched her slow retreat along the gallery, the heady mix of emotions propelling her back towards the steps.

‘You’ll be better than Gena - far, far better,’ he said. ‘Come with me.’ He turned his back on her and walked towards a door set in the far end of the gallery wall.

Alex felt the flutter of fear growing with every passing second into something more electric and enticing. She stood frozen by the archway, afraid and yet some how compelled to follow. He opened the door, his face now obscured by the evening shadows. They stood there, unmoving, for what seemed like an eternity. She could feel the pulse rising in her throat.

‘Come.’ His voice was stronger now; firm and authoritative. He held out his hand and Alex knew then that she was lost. Slowly she walked towards him through the fading evening light, knowing that some part of her longed to experience whatever Peter Tourne had to offer her.

Above her, unseen amongst the verdant green climbers, the housekeeper watched from her apartment window. The old woman let out a thin, bitter sigh.

‘You should be a man, Alex Sanderson,’ she whispered, and closed the window quietly.