Two Faced Woman

It was all wrong, she told herself frantically. Everything she knew about this man was bad, but that seemed to have faded to the back of her consciousness. The front was occupied by the frenzy of pleasure that was making its way inexorably through her.

Fighting to collect her wits, she began to work on the fastening of his trousers. She needed him as nearly naked as possible, then George could get his pictures and she could bring this to an end. But she didn’t want it to end. As she cast his trousers away she yielded to the temptation to run her hands over his flanks, enjoying the discovery of their lean tautness and the sense of power ready to spring. There was power in his arms, too, as they drew her down onto the bed and pressed her back against the pillows, propping himself on elbows to look down at her. “You’re a very beautiful woman,” he said.

Suddenly she couldn’t speak. His closeness and the sensations coursing through her had caused a constriction in her throat. If he discovered that, he’d know she was losing control and that would be fatal. So instead she smiled at him, slowly, enticingly. She didn’t know it but that smile was full of the mad pleasure that was pounding in her veins. Her chest rose and fell with the rhythm of desire that had begun to beat insistently through her. He looked down at her breasts, softly moving against him, barely covered by the tiny bra. He slid his fingers inside and gave the flimsy item a quick jerk that destroyed it. He tossed the pieces into a corner and enveloped one breast in a shapely hand, letting the ball of his thumb rasp across the nipple.

Debbie gasped at the poignant sensation, and flung her hands out. But instead of pushing him away she found she was clinging on to him, running her fingers through his springy hair. She just managed to suppress a groan. Nothing in her life had felt as good as that. He repeated the action more slowly, and although she choked back the gasp of pleasure, she couldn’t control her body, which had developed a life of its own. It arched instinctively against him, reveling in the contact of their skin and the soft friction as she moved against him. Her arms wound around him of their own accord, pulling him closer. He paused a moment to look searchingly into her face. Then, with tantalizing slowness, he lowered his head and laid his mouth on hers.

It was as though a flaming torch had touched her mouth. In the very first moment she knew that this was more than a kiss. It was a baptism of fire, and she was ready, eager for it. One tiny part of her mind, that was still professional, found time to hope that George was getting all this. The next moment all common sense was engulfed in the flames of excitement that were consuming her. His lips were hard, determined, seeking, intruding, commanding and enticing all at the same time.

His hands were at work all over her body, touching, teasing, thrilling. They were like no other man’s hands had ever been, possessing the skill of the devil, knowing how to drive a woman to madness. She’d meant to half seduce him, keep everything under control and bring matters coolly to a conclusion when it suited her. But all that was slipping away now. She had no control left, only the yearning for this to go on, never stopping until it reached the perfect conclusion.

Her blood thrummed in her veins as she thought of that conclusion. Some distant corner of her brain, where sanity still lived, shouted a desperate warning. This was a bad character, a criminal—apart from that, he was a total stranger to her and she had no right to be naked in his arms. But her body knew better. Her flesh sang and told her that this was the man she’d been made for, and he’d been too long finding her. It was monstrous, crazy— and inevitable.

His face was before her eyes, and now she saw that the look of cool cynicism was gone and he was as thunderstruck as she. He, too, was caught up in something that made a mockery of calculation, and which could have only one appointed end.

Then a shudder went through him and he seemed to control himself by sheer force. “Well?” he rasped. A pulse was twitching near his jaw and his whole body seemed to be made of steel. Debbie could feel him fighting to master his own desire while he eyed her narrowly.

“Well?” she gasped.

“Are you ready to go through with it?”

She looked at him wildly. Was she ready? Was she crazy? This was a man whose control over himself was awesome, terrifying. Could she match it, or would she yield to the wild thrumming in her blood, the craving need in her loins to feel him there?

“Answer me,” he said in a voice that was almost a snarl.

She drew a long, shaky breath. “I—”

But before she could say more there was a crash from inside the wardrobe. Debbie turned wild eyes toward it and saw the door swing open, revealing George sitting on the wardrobe floor, tangled up in the legs of his tripod. The man also looked at him sharply, uttered a profanity, and began to rise. Quick as a flash Debbie tightened her arms about him. For a few mad moments they struggled, he trying to get free, she restraining him, while George frantically grabbed his gear and headed for the door. At last the man’s greater strength prevailed, but Debbie had delayed him just long enough to give George a head start. As the door slammed behind the terrified photographer the man raced across the floor in pursuit, but Debbie launched herself after him and brought him down with a flying rugby tackle. Her advantage lasted only a moment. With a swiveling movement of his entire body he managed to get on top of her, seizing her wrists and holding them above her head. For a long moment they gazed at each other, breathless, angry, infuriated by their own desire.

“It’s too late,” Debbie said, gasping. “You won’t catch him now.”

“You made very sure of that,” he said grimly. “And you’re going to be sorry that you did.”

“I don’t think so. I think it’s you that’s going to be sorry. How would you like those pictures to go to your wife?”

“I don’t have a wife.”

“Don’t try to fool me. I know you’re married and you live off her. But the game’s up, Mr. Speke—”

“What nonsense are you talking?” he demanded. “My name isn’t Speke and I don’t have a wife. My name is Jake Garfield, Detective Inspector Jake Garfield. And you’re under arrest.”

Two

“Arrest? What do you mean, arrest?”

“You know what arrest means, Miss James. I doubt if it’s the first time you’ve been behind bars.” He leaned back and pulled her up, still holding her wrists. “Elizabeth James, I arrest you on a charge of obstructing a police officer in the course of his duty, of attempted blackmail, and anything else I can think of when I get my clothes on. Whatever you say may be taken down and given in evidence.”

Some of the horrible truth was getting through to Debbie. “You’re a policeman?” she demanded, aghast.

“Come on, save the wide-eyed innocence. It doesn’t go with the performance you’ve just been putting on. You lured me here on the promise of information and then tried to set me up for blackmail.”

“Not you,” she managed to say. “Elroy Speke.”

“Who the hell is Elroy Speke?”

“You are—aren’t you?”

“I’ve already told you who I am, and my colleagues at the station will be delighted to confirm it. Then you can have a long session in a cell telling yourself it’s true,” he informed her grimly.

True? Of course it was true! It was all so obvious now that this authoritative man could never be the miserable worm she was after. Her instincts had told her that from the first, but she hadn’t listened to them. Now she’d failed in her job and gotten herself arrested into the bargain. Oh, what a mess!

“Will you kindly release me so that I can get dressed?” she asked through gritted teeth.

“Modesty now, is it? I don’t recall that modesty was much in evidence when you were inviting me to have an interesting time.” But he loosened his grip and got on with his own dressing, taking care to keep between her and the door.

Debbie grabbed frantically at her clothes. The bra was beyond repair so she stuffed it into her purse and fastened the leather jacket up to the neck. Now the shortness of the skirt horrified her and she tried to pull it down, but it was no use. The skirt had been designed for provocation, and provocative it remained. “Why do you keep calling me ‘Miss James’?” she asked.

He groaned. “Surely we’re past that stage? Why go on pretending?”

“I’m not pretending. I don’t know anyone called Elizabeth James. My name is Debra Harker, ex-Detective Sergeant Harker. I left the force to become a private investigator. I’m on a case. Now, who are you?”

“All right. We’ll play the game to the finish. I’m Detective Inspector Jake Garfield, and you are Elizabeth James. Pretending to be a policewoman was a neat idea but—”

“There are a dozen people on the force who can tell you who I am,” she interrupted in exasperation. “Starting with Chief Superintendent Manners.”

“Manners?” He looked at her curiously. “Now that you mention it, I have heard Manners bellyaching about a Debbie Harker on his staff—wild woman, pain in the neck.”

“That’s me,” Debbie said without hesitation.

Jake studied her through narrowed eyes. “I had a meeting set up with Liz James who was going to spill the beans about a nasty character called Lucky Driver. All I know about her appearance is that she’s blond, and they don’t come much blonder than you. You really expect me to believe you’re not her?”

“That’s right. Because I’m not.”

Jake drew a sharp breath and snatched up the telephone and called the desk. “Is there a young woman with fair hair waiting down there?” he barked.

Debbie could just hear the male receptionist’s voice. “There was someone answering that description but she’s gone now. If you’re Mr. Garfield, she left you a verbal message.”

“I’m Garfield. What did she say?”

The receptionist cleared his throat awkwardly and repeated the message. It was extremely vulgar, very explicit, and left no doubt that Jake would be wasting his time trying that source of information again. Jake swore and slammed down the phone. “Now see what your interference has done!” he snapped.

“Just a minute,” Debbie muttered, and seized the phone in her turn. “Hello, reception? This is Room 18. Has a Mr. Speke been asking for me?”

“No, madame.”

“Are you sure?”

“There’s been only a young lady and she’s gone.”