Her voice was so soft, so compelling that he had to remind himself how vulnerable he was. He snorted, meeting her bright, sparkling eyes. Angela was wrong. He did have one other option, the option to call in the organisation he was working for. They would have pulled him out, brought him in – and taken Magenta, and Johnson and Fielding operation away from him. He looked across at his rescuer.
"Are you going to tell me why you were ringing Johnson's private number?"
Angela shook her head. "I can't."
"You really can keep a secret," he said dryly.
Angela nodded. "Yes. Do you want to eat now?"
Peter glanced over at the steaming casserole on the table. "What? The condemned man ate a hearty meal?"
"If that's how you want to think of it. But I'm not condemning you. Peter. I told you before. I want to help you." She pushed him towards the table; the food smelt delicious.
"If you won't tell me who you are working for, will you tell me why you're doing this? Johnson and Fielding and the guys they work for play hard ball."
Angela fluffed a napkin across his lap. "I just want what you want."
Peter laughed without humour. "And what's that?"
"For Johnson and Fielding to lose the power they have now. We want you to bring them down."
"We?" said Peter, as she began to dish the meal up.
She nodded. "Yes, we."
Emily didn't resist as Birdie carried her, slung over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. He was a big man and she weighed barely eight stone. Her mind was dazed from the shock of the cold water and the long wait in the detention cell. She felt distant and removed, almost as if what was happening to her was a bad bad dream. Her teeth chattered, she closed her eyes.
At the back door of Deuvar a van was waiting. Birdie slung her into the back onto a padded mattress, and then took his place in the passenger seat beside the driver. She stayed very still, cold, dazed, listening to the wheels crunching over the gravel. It wouldn't be long. Leonora said they were waiting for her.
Max Fielding took a glass from the tray brought by a uniformed footman and glanced around the elegant sitting-room of Naomi Haroldson's Deuvar guest house. Canapes had been arranged on trays, the distinguished guests circled and smiled, exchanging polite social chit chat. A log fire glowed in the grate. It could have been the prelude to a family dinner party.
Naomi Haroldson circulated, exchanging a few words here and there, looking suitably gracious in a beautifully cut red cocktail dress. Her elderly husband, George, watched the proceedings from the comfort of his armchair, fortified by a large glass of brandy.
Naomi smiled at Max and then glanced up at the clock.
"They should be here soon. Have you tried the smoked salmon?" she nodded towards a tray on one of the side tables.
Max laughed. "You are really quite remarkable, Naomi. I see all the regulars are here. How's Franz?"
Naomi smiled broadly, revealing a row of perfectly shaped shark-white teeth. "Oh, he's very well, very eager."
From outside came the sound of a vehicle arriving. Naomi flashed him the icy smile again. "If you'll excuse me, I think my little present has arrived. The footman will show you to your seat."
In one wall of the sitting-room a servant had opened a pair of double doors, discreetly disguised amongst the wealth of oak panelling. Inside was a luxurious room set with sofas, low chairs and side tables – once again replete with canapes and bottles of champagne.
Opposite the double doors the whole of the far wall was made of glass, giving the small audience a compelling view in the room beyond. Max took a seat near the door, giving himself a broad view of the events that were about to unfold. He helped himself to a glass of perfectly chilled champagne and waited.
George Haroldson joined him a few seconds later. Max nodded to his host. George Haroldson had a penchant for voyeurism – he had no stomach to take part, but revelled in his young wife's exhibitionism. Silently he pulled up a chair beside Max and lit a cigar.
A door into the softly lit room beyond the glass opened and Emily Lawrence appeared. She was on a short leash, led by Naomi Haroldson. The girl was cold, dishevelled, the ragged remains of her shift clinging damply to every fold. She watched Naomi's face like a frightened rabbit as Naomi unlocked her wrist cuffs. Even through the glass Max could sense her fear – and more compelling yet, a tiny glittering flame of expectation.
The girl's eyes flashed as she took in the details of the room. It was softly lit, almost bare. In the centre was a low plinth, padded, with restraints set in each corner. Emily's eyes widened as Naomi led her towards it.
Above, hanging on the panelled wall, were a selection of corrective devices: a riding crop, a two finger tawse, a small plaited whip, a flat leather paddle. The girl shivered, holding back, her eyes bright with terror. Naomi jerked the leash tight. Emily strained against her.
It struck Max that she didn't realise she was being observed. He leant forward in his chair, watching as the girl turned and tried to jerk the lead out of Naomi's hands, twisting back and forth to free herself, tugging this way and that until finally the leash was ripped from Naomi's fist.
The frightened girl lunged towards the door, threw it open and then froze in terror. Framed in the doorway was Naomi's special play mate, Franz.
Franz was a great bear of a man in his mid twenties, dressed in cream jodhpurs and a sleeveless leather waistcoat. More disturbingly, his face was hidden by a full leather helmet. The helmet rendered his strikingly handsome Nordic feature into a torturer's mask. Emily backed away in terror, oblivious now to Naomi Haroldson. Franz stepped into the room, his great barrel chest oiled and gleaming in the lamp light. His eyes glittered behind the mask.
"Get on the plinth," he said softly, in a voice that brooked no contradiction. "Now, all fours."
The girl let her gaze drop to the floor and without a word crept up onto the padded bench. Naomi smiled and locked the girl's hands and ankles into position. The lamp light glowed through the ragged shift Emily was wearing, outlining her delicate body, revealing her deliciously uptilted breasts, her flat belly, her small rounded buttocks -
Franz moved around her thoughtfully. Emily whimpered, her breaths coming in great laboured gasps. The big man's hand caught hold of her shift and ripped the remains of the material away, making the girl quake and whimper.
Slowly, he drew a thick leather belt from his jodhpurs and let it trail along her exposed spine, making her tremble visibly.
In the corner of the room, Naomi Haroldson was snaking out of her beautiful evening dress. Beneath she was wearing a tight black leather Basque that revealed every curve of her carefully sculpted body.
On the plinth Emily began to sob, soft throaty sounds of terror bubbling behind her lips as Franz stepped behind her and folded the belt in two. The first cracking blow across Emily's naked buttocks made Max Fielding flinch. The girl shrieked, lunging forward to escape the belt's sharp tongue.
"Get up," hissed Franz, drawing the belt back again. Slowly, stiffly, Emily got back onto her hands and knees in time for Franz's second blow to explode across her reddening skin. This time she stayed on all fours, tears flooding down her face.
Three, four – five. Max murmured the number of strokes under his breath as the girl sobbed and writhed. Behind them, Naomi Haroldson watched the spectacle with growing excitement. Her eyes had darkened, her nipples pressed eagerly against the soft tight leather of her Basque.
Six, seven – Emily's movements were subtly changing as Franz laid on the belt again and again. Yes, she was afraid, yes, each blow hurt, sending ripples of pain through her chained body – but there was a certain eagerness and expectation in her movements now.
Max smiled to himself. She was enjoying it or, at least, some part of her was, some part he had recognised the first afternoon in the office.