The Gallery

by Fredrica Alleyn

  Common sense told her that this meant Guy had planned it all, but whether he’d planned it because he was suspicious of her or simply because he fancied her she didn’t know. The former seemed more likely, although he had made it clear that he was attracted to her on Saturday night.

  ‘Something wrong?’ asked Marcia as her customer left.

  Cressida shook her head. ‘Not really. It was Rick on the phone and he’s got some flu bug so we won’t be going out tonight.’

  ‘That makes two of us,’ said Marcia sympathetically. ‘I was meant to be going to Lord and Lady Truscott’s dinner party with Guy tonight but I got a call from the nursing home to say that my mother’s not very well and I’ve had to cry off.’

  Cressida studied the other woman carefully. She sounded genuine enough, and there was no suggestion from her that Cressida should take her place. ‘I’m sorry about your mother,’ she said politely.

  Marcia gave a rueful smile. ‘Don’t be; she’s always having “turns” but she’ll probably outlive me! Aren’t you meant to be at lunch?’

  ‘Yes,’ murmured Cressida, finally picking up her handbag and getting to her feet. ‘I’ll only take half an hour today – that way you can get a break as well. Are you going to replace Leonora?’

  ‘That depends on a lot of things,’ said Marcia slowly. ‘The final decision will rest with Guy. He prefers to keep the number of people we employ as low as possible. A small, efficient unit is what he aims for, and sometimes it’s difficult to get people you can trust. We’ve been so lucky with you!’

  Blushing with embarrassment, Cressida hurried out of the door, and Marcia smiled to herself. She’d be interested to hear what Guy found out about Cressida during the next week or two.

  When Guy called in at the gallery that afternoon and invited Cressida out, she accepted with as enthusiastic a smile as she could manage. There was no choice. She’d rung her chief in her lunch break and he’d been over the moon with excitement, so all her personal fears had been put firmly to one side. Even if Guy was suspicious of her, and Detective Chief Inspector Williams had agreed he might well be, she still had to play along with him and learn what was going on behind the scenes at the gallery.

  ‘I’ll pick you up at seven-thirty,’ he told her before he left. ‘It’s pretty formal but they’re a very nice couple. Hugo, that’s Lord Truscott, is sixty-five, but his wife Venetia’s only in her early thirties so it’s never stuffy there!’

  ‘You know a lot of men with much younger wives, don’t you?’ remarked Cressida casually.

  Guy’s eyes narrowed. ‘Do I?’

  ‘Well, yes. There were quite a few at Marcia’s on Saturday night.’

  ‘I suppose that’s what being rich does for men. They can keep casting off their ageing wives and taking on new young things. Probably they truly believe the women are in love with them too!’

  ‘No doubt the women believe it as well,’ remarked Cressida. ‘Money’s a great aphrodisiac, or so they tell me.’

  ‘I take it from that, you don’t know this from personal experience?’ asked Guy.

  Cressida shook her head. ‘The few really wealthy men I’ve met have never held any sex appeal for me, but maybe I just happened to meet them on the wrong day!’

  ‘Maybe you’re looking for something else,’ suggested Guy, leaning over the desk. ‘I have a feeling you’re more attracted by danger than money.’

  ‘Danger?’

  ‘Yes, I think that beneath that placid surface you enjoy living a dangerous secret life,’ said Guy.

  Cressida forced herself to look directly into his dark brown eyes. If he was suspicious about her true reasons for working at the gallery then now was the moment to try and allay his suspicion. ‘You’re quite wrong,’ she said firmly. ‘I’m rather a timid person I’m afraid.’

  ‘Well, I shall have to try and teach you some courage,’ he whispered.

  Cressida felt goosebumps rising on her forearms, as though she was sitting in a draught, and for a moment she was almost hypnotised by the look in his eyes as he searched her face for clues.

  ‘I hope I don’t need courage for the dinner party tonight,’ she said lightly, but both she and Guy heard the slight catch in her voice as she fought to control the strange feeling that his proximity created.

  ‘None at all; wear one of your most alluring dresses and leave the rest to me. It will be a good night out, I promise you.’

  She remembered his words when she was dressing. For once she decided to go for a conventional little black dress, which she felt would be safe, but it also looked very sexy. It was short and made of flowing crepe with tiny diamanté shoestring shoulder straps. She dressed it up with large silver earrings and a diamanté necklace and wore her highest heels to accentuate her long legs and shapely calves. Then she sprayed herself lavishly with Dior’s Dune, checked her make-up and hair, and decided that she definitely did look good enough to partner Guy.

  For a brief moment she wondered what Tom would make of her now, but quickly dismissed the thought. He’d be horrified at the change in her, and since it was a change that she rather enjoyed she wondered where that left her and Tom when her undercover work was over and Guy was behind bars. She was surprised at how disturbing she found that idea, and when he rang the doorbell she was still frowning. ‘Not late am I?’ he asked, glancing at his watch.

  Cressida shook her head. ‘No, I was thinking about something.’

  ‘Nothing very nice by the expression on your face!’ his eyes assessed her and he gave a brief smile. ‘Nice; not your usual style but definitely nice. Rick’s done you good.’

  ‘He didn’t make the dress,’ retorted Cressida, wishing she hadn’t thought about what was going to happen to Guy when she finally managed to trap him.

  ‘Maybe not, but he certainly taught you something about discreetly displaying your feminine charms. You’ve changed a lot since you joined the gallery, you know.’

  Cressida climbed into his XJS and thought how much better he looked in a dinner jacket than Rick. ‘I hope I’ve changed for the better,’ she said teasingly, deciding that a small display of flirtatiousness was called for since she had to encourage his interest.

  ‘It’s always a good thing when women start to learn the truth about themselves,’ said Guy quietly. ‘Mind you, I think you’ve still got a long way to go before you discover the real you.’

  ‘Why do you imagine you know the “real” me better than I do?’ asked Cressida with a laugh.

  ‘Because I’ve watched you very closely over the past few weeks, and women are my hobby.’

  ‘Then I’d better take your word for it,’ said Cressida with mock resignation.

  Guy turned and smiled at her. ‘There’s no need to take my word for anything. I hope I’ll have the opportunity to show you precisely what I mean.’

  Suddenly Cressida’s breathing felt constricted as she realised that she was now totally committed to following this through. She had to go wherever Guy Cronje chose to lead her, because only then would her superiors be able to finally close the net about him, but that journey could well be far more frightening than she’d appreciated. Frightening, but also highly pleasurable too, because as he’d said, he was a man who’d made women his hobby and probably knew more about their bodies and responses than anyone she’d met.

  ‘Not cold are you?’ he asked, pulling off the road and into the drive of a house near Hampstead Heath.

  ‘No, someone must have stepped on my grave,’ she replied.

  Guy parked the car behind several others at the front of the double garage, then got out and walked round to open the passenger door for her. ‘Don’t worry, Cressida,’ he murmured. ‘Before the night’s over you’ll feel much warmer, I promise you.’

  Chapter Ten

  CRESSIDA STEPPED INTO the vast four-storey house with Guy’s hand resting on her elbow, and as she glanced about her at the beautifully decorated hall with a wide redwood staircase leading off it, she thought how
lucky she was to have been given the chance to live like this even for a short time.

  Her host, Lord Hugo Truscott, was a very tall, well-built man. He had curling light brown hair and a friendly but clearly sensuous face with widely spaced brown eyes and a full mouth. His wife, Venetia, was another leggy blonde whose ankle-length, figure-hugging lime green dress with a plunging neckline and side splits left little to the imagination. She kept her arm possessively in her husband’s, and gazed adoringly at him every few seconds. Cressida wondered why nearly all men chose blondes at this stage in their lives.

  ‘Marcia sent her apologies,’ explained Guy briefly. ‘This is Cressida, a friend of mine, who very kindly agreed to take her place. It’s Marcia’s mother again,’ he added.

  Hugo nodded. ‘Marcia’s loss is our gain, my dear,’ he said to Cressida. ‘Do come through. I think everyone’s here now. It’s the usual crowd, Guy. Venetia, darling, get Cressida a drink and take her through into the reception room, would you? I’d like a quick word with Guy before we join you.’

  Venetia flashed a dazzling smile at her husband, which faded the moment she and Cressida were alone. ‘What would you like?’ she asked politely.

  ‘A dry martini please,’ said Cressida. ‘I hope we aren’t late,’ she added.

  Venetia shrugged. ‘No later than Guy usually is; we all know that he can’t tell the time, but of course he’s forgiven because he’s so gorgeous. I’m rather surprised Marcia put her mother first tonight. She’s quite possessive of Guy normally.’

  ‘She knows me too, so I suppose she knows I’m safe,’ responded Cressida.

  Venetia glanced pointedly at Cressida’s legs. ‘If she knows you well I can’t believe she imagines you’re safe at all. Quite the opposite really. Are you and Guy staying the night?’ she added eagerly.

  Cressida shook her head. ‘Good heavens, no! We don’t have that kind of a relationship.’

  Venetia sighed. ‘What a bore! I was so looking forward to the night. I hope Marcia’s mother gets better soon.’

  Totally baffled by this line of conversation, Cressida followed her hostess into the reception room which, despite its size, was packed with people. Within a few minutes several of the men had introduced themselves so that when Guy finally returned she was having rather a nice time.

  ‘Glad to see you’re not a wallflower,’ murmured Guy, putting an arm around her waist as he smiled thinly at the two men she’d been talking to. They quickly drifted back to their partners.

  ‘Everyone’s very friendly,’ said Cressida demurely.

  ‘That’s one way of putting it I suppose!’

  ‘Our hostess seemed to think we’d be staying the night; in fact, she was very put out when I said you and I didn’t have that kind of a relationship. Why should it matter to her?’ asked Cressida.

  Guy frowned. ‘Venetia’s very pretty to look at but she does talk too much. Don’t worry about it, it’s nothing to do with you. Good, we’re going in to dinner, I’m starving.’

  Dinner was excellent, the quality of the food more than equalled by the quality of Lord Truscott’s wine cellar, and when the meal ended and the guests drifted into various rooms, Cressida felt quite light-headed.

  ‘Did you give your telephone number to that chap who was sitting on your left?’ asked Guy.

  ‘I may have done, I can’t really remember,’ admitted Cressida. ‘I think I could do with some more coffee!’

  ‘It’s lucky for you I’m not the jealous type,’ he remarked. ‘Look, I’ve got to go upstairs and take a look at some of Hugo’s paintings. Are you interested? Or would you rather stay down here and chat to your new-found admirer?’

  Cressida’s head cleared immediately as her professional instinct took over but she pretended that she was still feeling slightly befuddled. ‘I think I’d like to look at some pictures,’ she said, resting her head against his shoulder. ‘Are they like Rick’s pictures?’

  ‘Silly girl!’ commented Guy lightly, but although he seemed taken in by her behaviour Cressida knew that it was possible he was acting too and that he was actually watching her reaction closely. She wished that she wasn’t so affected by his physical closeness and the smell of the aftershave he used.

  They followed Hugo up a flight of stairs and then their host unlocked a heavy wooden door and led them through into a long room with paintings hung on all the walls. ‘My family have been avid art collectors for years,’ he explained to Cressida, as she stared about her in astonishment. ‘There’s everything here from fourteenth-century Italian painters to Guy’s very own Rick Marks, although he’s kept in the bedroom at the moment as he proves quite a turn-on for us both!’

  ‘What was it you wanted me to see?’ asked Guy.

  ‘It’s this Correggio – “Madonna and Child”. You can see it’s filthy dirty and I do feel some responsibility about that because when I married for the second time – you know, the one before Venetia – it got put in the attic by mistake. Do you think you could do something with it for me, or is it too risky?’

  Guy stepped up to the painting and studied it carefully, while Cressida watched from a few feet away. She hardly dared to breathe as he worked his way over it inch by inch because she knew that if he agreed, if he actually said in her hearing that he’d get the picture restored and when it was returned the police got Lord Truscott to have it examined by experts and it was found to be a forgery, then he was trapped.

  ‘Yes,’ he said at last. ‘I’m sure we can do that for you.’

  As he spoke he turned and looked straight at Cressida. She was watching him closely but the moment he caught her eye she glanced away, hoping she didn’t look as though what she’d witnessed mattered as much as it did.

  ‘I take it you’re interested in art, my dear,’ said Hugo Truscott as he took the Correggio down off the wall and began to protect it with bubble wrap and board. ‘Who’s your favourite painter?’

  For a terrible moment Cressida’s mind went blank, and she was aware that Guy was waiting with interest for her answer. ‘Francis Bacon,’ she said abruptly.

  Guy smiled. ‘Why’s that? Are you fascinated by the screaming popes? I watched a programme once where a psychologist came up with the theory that the popes weren’t really screaming, they were trying to draw breath. Francis Bacon’s brother had drowned when he was young and it was this image that haunted him.’

  Cressida knew then that Guy was definitely suspicious of her and that the trap had been cleverly laid, but luckily, thanks to her crash course in art, she was able to cope. ‘His brother didn’t drown,’ she corrected Guy. ‘He died of an asthma attack, and Francis Bacon himself suffered from asthma, so it is possible that the pope series depicts men gasping for air, but personally I don’t believe that. Anyway, it isn’t those pictures I like.’

  ‘Really? Which is it then?’ asked Guy with interest.

  ‘“Three Studies for Figures at the Base of a Crucifixion.” It’s the sense of desperate anguish and blind impotence that’s so overpowering.’

  Lord Truscott gave a small cough. ‘Right over my head I’m afraid. Give me an old master any time. Quite a knowledgeable young lady you’ve got here, Guy.’

  Guy smiled thinly. ‘Isn’t she just!’

  ‘How long will it take for you to get the Correggio in shape?’ continued Hugo, handing the parcel to Guy.

  ‘Quite a time I imagine; it’s in pretty bad condition. I’ll ring you and let you know more precisely when I’ve had a word with our restorer, OK?’

  It was gone one in the morning before Guy and Cressida finally left Lord and Lady Truscott’s, and even then Venetia made it plain she was reluctant to let Guy go. ‘Bring her back another time,’ she whispered, too quietly for her husband to hear but still within earshot of Cressida. ‘It would have been divine if the pair of you had stayed tonight.’

  ‘Far too soon for that I’m afraid,’ retorted Guy, but he was smiling as he and Cressida made their way to the car.

  ‘Why doe
s she like people to stay overnight?’ asked Cressida. ‘Does she parade around in some skimpy little outfit over breakfast the following morning? Is that how she gets her kicks?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ murmured Guy. ‘Don’t worry about it, it isn’t important. Look, before I run you home I ought to put this picture in my safe. We pass my place on the way back. Do you mind if I stop there for a moment?’

  Cressida’s mouth went dry. ‘Whatever suits you best,’ she murmured, feeling her heart start to race. If Guy decided to make a play for her now then she had to go along with it. Her body was more than willing but there was something about him that made her uneasy and she realised that she was missing Rick’s easy-going companionship. Not Tom though; she never missed Detective Sergeant Tom Penfold these days.

  Guy’s house was one of a row of terraced Victorian houses with a low white fence around the front garden. When he stopped the car outside he turned to Cressida. ‘Do you want to wait here or come inside for a moment?’

  ‘I might as well come inside,’ said Cressida, well aware that this was what Detective Chief Inspector Williams would want her to say, even if her natural instinct was to remain safely where she was.

  ‘I hoped you’d say that,’ said Guy quietly.

  He took her through the tiny hall and into a surprisingly comfortable drawing room with a highly polished wood floor and what looked to her like the original Victorian fireplace. There was a long sofa in a rich shade of autumnal red with matching chairs, while the draped curtains and rugs were bottle green.

  ‘Take a seat; I’ll only be a few minutes,’ said Guy with a brief smile. ‘Would you like a drink while you wait?’

  Cressida shook her head. ‘I think I had more than enough at the dinner.’

  While he was gone she looked around her more carefully, surprised that the decor wasn’t modern. This seemed like a comfortable family home rather than somewhere that a man like Guy Cronje would live. She got up and was examining a polished sideboard when he finally returned.