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  When she opened the box, all doubts about its origins dissolved. There was only one person in their lives at the moment who would purchase such a thing … Deana touched leather and her stomach quivered. She lifted out the contents of the box and felt sick with excitement. How typical of Jake to buy this.

  ‘This’ was the most remarkable piece of lingerie that Deana had ever seen – a boned and laced basque made from flawless, pure white leather. It was fine and sleek, and fragrantly erotic, and her fingers shook as she stroked it.

  Wear it for me, she imagined him saying. She could hear him, see him, feel him, as automatically she clasped the basque to her. It wasn’t her usual style, but she’d no doubt it was exactly her size; a minor masterpiece in leather, so thin it felt fluid. Its texture was like cream to her exploring fingertips, and both virginal and deviant, it menaced her. Smooth and strange, it was a pleasure to hold against her body. But could she ever put on such a miracle? It was just ‘not her’.

  ‘It fits,’ said Delia calmly. ‘I’ve tried it.’

  Deana almost dropped her find when her sister walked into the room, soundless in her stockinged, shoeless feet.

  ‘God, you made me jump!’ Deana dropped the basque back into its wrappings, and then, when she looked at her sister more closely, she frowned.

  She’d expected Delia to look different somehow. Radiant. Beatific. Completely suffused with sex … But Delia just seemed her usual cool efficient self. There were no visible signs of debauchery either. No love-bites. No bags under the eyes. No pasty face or stifled yawns.

  Deana stared hard, but Delia didn’t waver or seem fazed. ‘You haven’t got long, Deana,’ she said briskly, lifting the corset back out of its box. ‘You’re being picked up at half past seven, and he wants you in this.’ She shook the strange garment chivvyingly, and its suspenders danced and bobbed.’So you’d better get a move on and get into it.’

  Deana took the basque back from her sister and fingered its sensuous surface. ‘Never mind “get a move on”,’ she shot back with some spirit, ‘hadn’t you better tell me how you came to be out all night? I’ve been worried.’ She paused, guiltily. It was true, she had been worried, but her jealousy had bothered her more. ‘I’ll start getting ready if you’ll get us some wine then tell me everything that’s happened.’

  ‘You’ll have tea,’ replied Delia firmly, ‘and I’ll brief you while you dress.’

  She was already on her way to the kitchen.

  Will my sweat stain the leather? Deana wondered, hoping it wouldn’t.

  Waiting in the corset, she felt hot and uneasy. She was uncomfortable in the bloody thing, but more uncomfortable by far with the twists and turns of life. The disquieting parallels. The weird coincidences … it was like being in the Twilight Zone. Having fantasies about geishas and samurai while your sister was making love with a Japanese bath girl.

  But when Deana rationalised events, they didn’t seem quite so unlikely. Jake was half-Japanese himself so why shouldn’t he have Japanese staff working for him?

  Similarly, why shouldn’t Vida Mistry pick up on Jake’s exotic heritage and use it in her stories? The black hair, the oriental eyes – they were perfect for a glamorous fictional hero. Especially if you’d had an affair with that hero. And the fact that things were happening contiguously wasn’t so strange either. Everything seemed to be happening at once since that night at the gallery.

  So Jake has a female valet? So what? It was Delia’s description of her responses that was the bigger shock. Deana had been astounded by her sister’s matter-of-fact account of her first brush with lesbianism. She was still astounded. But more by Delia’s unruffled sang-froid than by the physical blow-byblow details. She seemed so calm describing another woman’s hands on her body and sex. Deana doubted if she herself could act so coolly … She certainly wasn’t cool now at the thought of the night ahead.

  At the end of her account, Delia had at least had the grace to blush. But Deana wondered now if she and her sister’s sexualities might not be all that different.

  Delia had taken pleasure with Elf, and she, Deana, was attracted to the weird and wonderful Vida. There was nothing to choose between them except that Delia had put inclination into action. They were both latent bi-sexuals who’d found their true selves at last.

  Deana shifted position on the sofa. The basque was harassing her, its tightness on her body so different to her usual minimal underwear. She liked featherweight cottons and silks: pants she could hardly feel, bras that were really just wisps. Unstructured camisoles and G-strings. All these bones and hooks and laces were purgatory. She knew it was more imagination than anything, but she was finding it difficult to breathe.

  Constrained in the basque, she felt as if her whole body and mind were controlled by it. The thing had a form and character all of its own. It moulded her flesh to its shape rather than adapting itself to hers. It made her submit, but it also made her beautiful.

  Taming her near-perfect figure, the pale fetishistic corset imbued her with an elegance and mannequin-like deportment that she’d never before possessed. Her nature was always to stroll, skip, bop along. But the basque allowed none of these. In it, she was forced to stand up straight and glide. Be stately … She felt like a brand new woman, and the experience was deeply disquieting.

  A cocktail dress borrowed from Delia didn’t help matters either. It was as completely unfamiliar as the basque was, but Deana had nothing in her wardrobe that was meant to be worn with a corset. She slid her fingers across the ruched magenta silk, and imagined the tight white hide beneath, ensheathing her. Sweat popped out afresh and she felt a murderous urge to panic. To rip everything off and say ‘to hell with it’. But she didn’t. Because rising at last through the layers of discomfort came a new and strangely genital excitement. Constriction forced her blood and organs downwards, building tension and pressure in her sex.

  In a sudden illuminating moment, Deana’s feelings about the white basque changed. Completely. As the pressure in her vulva mounted, she understood the dark lure of containment, the magic of being bound in and laced. Her clitoris felt lively, and exquisitely tender. She wanted to reach down and touch it, to put her hand between her legs, but the vivid pink dress was too slim.

  ‘You bastard!’ she hissed, not sure if it was the garment or its giver that she cursed. He was controlling her with it, dominating her. He’d wrapped her in snow-white leather and enslaved her. And he wasn’t even here yet!

  But even as the thought coalesced, a coolness trickled right down her spine. The ghost of a long, elegant finger … A man’s slender, narrow-tipped, perfectly manicured finger.

  And when she slid to her feet and went to the window, the limousine was purring outside …

  9

  Comings and Goings

  What a strange way to end a relationship, thought Delia, almost skipping up the steps after paying off her taxi.

  She felt light, free, exhilarated. She felt wicked, outrageous, almost giddy. And very, very sexy. Laughing softly as she opened the door to the flat, she realised that she’d never really enjoyed herself all that much with Russell anyway. It was so ironical that tonight, in the course of their furious parting row, she’d finally got sexual pleasure from him!

  Deana would be proud of me, she observed, throwing down her bag of belongings on the settee and marching into the kitchen in search of something to drink. An achievement like this deserved a special treat, and with a heavier hand than usual, she mixed herself a large gin and tonic and sank half of it in one long swallow.

  She still couldn’t quite remember how she and Russell had managed it, but somehow they’d ended up screwing out their fury on his immaculate off-white lounge carpet. And – for the first time ever without recourse to fantasy – she’d had an orgasm with him inside her.

  For about half a minute afterwards, while he huffed and puffed on top of her, she’d wondered whether to back-track and suggest they try again. But sweet reason, common sense, and
the pervasive guiding spirits of both Deana and Jake had swayed her. This ‘jackpot’ with Russell had been a fluke, a one-off fuelled by their mutual antagonism. If they stayed together they’d slide straight back to the way they were. A going-through-the-motions, low-grade boredom that had a killing effect on the sex drive.

  ‘No way, my man. It’s over,’ she whispered, then sipped at her drink. ‘Here’s to you, Russ. It was tedious … but at least I’ve learned something. Second best isn’t worth it!’ It was a philosophical, turned about salute, but it seemed to set the final seal on things. She glugged down the rest of her gin, then set about mixing another.

  I’m turning into an alcoholic, she decided, still feeling buoyed up and wicked. It was true, she’d drunk more than usual in the last few days, but the days themselves had been far from usual. She’d been through a wild, erotic upheaval, but delicious as the process was, she couldn’t see it lasting forever. Well, not for her at least. Deana maybe, but not her, Delia, whose sense of equilibrium had always been strong. Except, perhaps, when she was worrying about her sister, and feeling just a little bit jealous.

  This must be how Deana felt last night, she supposed, sitting down on the settee and kicking off her shoes. As she swung her legs up onto the seat, settled back and took a pull of her new drink, she felt a sticky trickle between her legs, the last remnants of Russell sliding out of her body and her life. The sensation was startlingly pleasant, and it took her back to that first morning at the office, when Jake’s flowing essence had shocked her too. It’d been that cool, silky flow that had made her realise what she’d done. What he’d done … That he’d had her within minutes of meeting her.

  But what was Jake doing now? Holding court in his fancydancy throne room with a leather-clad Deana at his mercy? Delia grinned into her drink, remembering her sister’s surprise at being told that female overnight guests did not share the de Guile master bedroom.

  She’d been surprised herself. She could’ve slept on a rail when she’d fallen into a sex-dazed stupor on Jake’s luxurious couch, but she hadn’t expected to sleep so deeply that she’d wake up somewhere else. Alone.

  The room she’d ended up in was one of the most beautiful she’d ever seen – a designer decorated courtesan’s boudoir complete with an antique four-poster bed. She hadn’t been alone for long in it, though. She’d just been wondering whether it had been Jake himself, the faithful Fargo, or even the remarkable Elf who had carried her there, when the Japanese girl had brought in breakfast. More pampering … Fresh hand-baked croissants with butter and preserves. Plus sublimely strong coffee. While Delia had devoured and drunk, Elf had run a bath for her. And afterwards, when she’d soaked for ages in aromatic, muscle-soothing bubbles, Delia had emerged to find all her clothes laid out and waiting for her, newly laundered and pressed. Even down to her panties.

  Jake – Mr Busy – had already left for the day, it seemed, but his household ran efficiently in his absence. When Delia was ready to leave, Elf had handed her the box containing the leather basque, and the note containing Jake’s precise instructions for its wearing.

  Instructions that Deana had laughed at on reading, and that Delia knew for a fact her rebellious sister was not quite following.

  It was typical of Deana. She’d always bucked any kind of authority, especially male. Delia had always found that for her own part, success came with going with the flow … Which was what she’d been doing with Jake. If Deana let her tearaway tendencies get the better of her, their game would surely falter.

  Delia didn’t like to think about the consequences of that just now; and happily a knock at the door meant she didn’t have to. With a grunt of equal parts irritation and relief, she swung her legs off the couch and went to meet her caller.

  On the doorstep stood Peter, his faintly gawky frame ridiculous in voluminous surf shorts and an overgrown T-shirt. But it wasn’t his unfortunate dress sense that really caught her attention. It was the red hot look in his eyes.

  He was eating her up, gobbling her with his gaze. They’d talked calmly together on the day after their night of winesoaked sex and as far as Delia knew the air between them was clear.

  But Peter’s eyes now said otherwise; they were dark and stormy, the pupils huge and black with arousal. The strangest thing was that his stare seemed as much for her clothes as the body inside them. For several seconds Delia was puzzled by this, then the truth dawned.

  Tonight was a sultry night in a silly season, and when she’d been preparing to go out, Delia had felt especially oppressed by it. She’d abandoned the chic two piece she’d picked out initially, and raided Deana’s wardrobe instead. Amongst the haphazard jumble of garments, she’d found a nice, floaty T-shirt styled top and matching skirt which was surprisingly elegant for Deana. Its ‘floppiness’ had felt quite odd to Delia at first, but the fact it was so cool and light had made up for everything. As had the fact that Russell had hated it at first sight. He’d often criticised Deana for her vagabond, thrown-on look, and it had given Delia a special, spiteful buzz to turn up looking just like her sibling.

  The trouble was she now looked far too much like her sister. The woman that poor Peter loved!

  He flinched when she reached out to touch his arm and guide him into the flat. ‘Whoah! It’s me, Pete … Delia. I only wore Deana’s frock because it’s cooler.’

  In the living room, he simply stood and stared at her, an expression of confusion and frustration on his quietly handsome face. After a minute, he shook his head, then took off his glasses and polished them nervously on the corner of his T-shirt.

  ‘That’s the first time in years I’ve got you mixed up,’ he said quietly, settling his specs back on the bridge of his nose, and staring at her wanly through their lenses.

  ‘Wishful thinking?’ she enquired, trying not to sound tart. Nobody was with quite who they wanted to be tonight … except Deana.

  ‘I’m not sure … I don’t know,’ he answered uncertainly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. ‘I don’t really know what I think since the other night.’

  Lord have mercy, thought Delia despairingly. As if things aren’t complicated enough!

  Even so, she felt a small smug spark of pleasure. There’d never really been much in the way of rivalry between her and Deana up until now because they’d always gone for entirely dissimilar men. But Jake had changed all that. They were in competition now, and though she loved her sister not one bit less, Delia felt at a distinct disadvantage. Deana was wild, flamboyant and earthy, a far more obvious sex object than she was. So it was nice to know that Peter – suddenly so decidedly fanciable – liked her as much as he did Deana.

  And more than ‘liked’.

  As discreetly as she could, Delia let her gaze drift lower and settle momentarily on his technicolour shorts. The eye-searing cloth was pushed out quite clearly at his groin …

  Catching her look, Peter blushed, and it was a curiously touching sight. He coloured beautifully. ‘Sorry,’ he muttered, his fists flexing at his side as if he longed to clasp his hands to his crotch and hide the bulging evidence of his urges.

  ‘There’s no need to be.’

  Delia felt an exhilarating wash of power. She was in control here; she could grant or deny this nice man’s pleasure. She’d had her own sexual release tonight already, and now it was down to her entirely whether Peter – poor rampant Peter – got his.

  Yet she didn’t want to cheat him. Offer him a body which had already been ‘used’ somehow. In spite of his protestations about respecting her freedom and her choice of relationships, she sensed he’d be deeply offended to find her wet with another man’s semen.

  I suppose I could get a quick shower, she thought, then decided against it. With Peter the moment had to be grasped immediately. His natural caution and politeness would make him back off if there was the slightest hesitation on her part. She felt a sudden strong yen for that drink she’d been having and as her mouth watered for it, an answer to the dilemm
a appeared.

  Feeling deeply female, she smiled at him. ‘How about a drink?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, please!’ He smiled back at her, looking grateful and slightly less nervous.

  ‘Right then, you sit down while I fetch you one. I’m on G and T, is that OK?’

  ‘Wonderful! Fine!’ He flopped awkwardly down, and as she picked up her own glass and slid from the room, hiding what she knew was a truly wicked grin, she heard him flicking through one of Deana’s many magazines.

  She was still grinning as she swigged down the last of her gin, then took a large mouthful of tonic, swooshed it around and swallowed. She’d no real personal experience of such matters – yet – but common sense told her that alcohol could well have a startling effect on the most sensitive areas of the human body. Particularly the male human body …

  For a moment, she wished she could talk to Deana. Deana who had experience and daring. Deana who never had qualms or doubts about her sexual performance. Deana who’d probably done most things and all of them far more often than Delia had.

  Hard on the heels of the wish came a curious, almost tingling revelation about its nature. Right now, with what she had in mind for Peter, she yearned for her sister’s sexual skill. But only that. She wanted to be able to do what Deana could do, but not to be her. It was suddenly just fine to be Delia Ferraro about to make love to Peter; and not Deana Ferraro in the dark and deviant clutches of Jake de Guile. And that thought made her happy. She didn’t have to strive and she didn’t have to worry, she could just be herself and enjoy it. Smiling, she poured herself a fresh glass of tonic and made Peter a fierce G and T, then strode back boldly to the living room.

  Peter had abandoned his magazine and was lying half slumped in his seat, his glasses off and his eyes closed as if weary.

  Was he tired? Delia knew only too well how emotional upheavals could wear a person out. Her own sleep patterns were crazy now, when before, she’d always slept soundly for a consistent eight hours. Padding softly on her still-bare feet, she put the glasses silently down, and crept towards the drowsy man on her sofa. She fanned her skirts out as she sank down and knelt at his feet, and as the soft silk fell across his ankle, his eyes flew open in alarm.