Frozen Grave (Willis/Carter #3)(20)

‘I was wondering if your work would be there but I didn’t see it.’

She smiled with her eyes. He thought how full of passion they were, so dark. Her skin was luminescent. Her hair was long and flowing around her shoulders in a mane of black and silver.

‘I’m not exhibiting locally at the moment. My agent in London is taking everything I can produce. I can show you some of my canvases – works in progress.’ She reached out a hand as he came near. ‘I appreciate you coming all this way.’

He looked at her hands; they looked older than the rest of her – the years of oil painting had dried them.

‘It’s no trouble. I have an appointment in Exeter this evening, just finalizing a really big order for five yachts. But I couldn’t wait to see you again – that’s the truth. You left me wanting more.’ He leant in to smell her as he kissed her neck. She smelt of roses and musk. She wore a velvet dress that came almost to the floor. Between her breasts was a silver pendant. He watched it rise and fall then traced it with his forefinger.

‘A Claddagh pendant . . . Love, loyalty and friendship. Did you wear that especially for me?’

She gave a curious smile, her eyes shining. ‘Perhaps.’ She looked past him. ‘Looks like the mist’s following you. It wants to keep you here.’

Ellerman turned to see that all around was now obscured by white, and cold dampness filled the air.

She looked at him. ‘I hope you don’t intend trying to leave,’ she said, laughing as she turned towards the house.

‘No intention of it. One moment.’ Ellerman turned back to his car, opened the passenger door and, reaching inside, he pulled out a box that had been on the floor. It contained six bottles of wine.

‘I brought us something interesting to try. It’s ideal for the Dartmoor weather. I hope you’re keen on taking risks?’

‘Absolutely.’

He followed her into the house and down some stone steps into a flagstone-floored kitchen with a large Aga, a sturdy oak table and hanging pots and pans. He came behind her and slipped his hands around her waist. The velvet of her dress was soft to the touch. He heard her intake of breath.

‘But, are you ready for the first taste?’ she said breathlessly.

‘Yes.’

‘Close your eyes.’

She stepped away from him and he heard the clink of glasses and the sound of liquid filling a glass. He smiled knowingly.

‘Unmistakable.’

‘Damn!’ She laughed. ‘I opened the bottle as you drove in. I hoped to be cunning. You heard the fizz as it hit the glass, didn’t you?’

‘Yes. Let me guess the vintage. Mmm. I can smell almond and cocoa and . . . dried flowers.’ He took a sip and held the liquid on his tongue for a few seconds before he swallowed and smiled and nodded appreciatively.

‘Yes . . . tactile, dark and chiselled, even. Dom Pérignon 2004?’

She laughed excitedly. He could feel her heat close to him.

He opened his eyes slowly. ‘What a perfect choice to cement our friendship.’

She smiled, happy. ‘When I read that on your profile – “my favourite thing of all is champagne” – then I knew you’d be romantic.’

‘And you were right. I have a sensory nature: sensual, hedonistic – open to pleasure, sharing pleasure.’ His eyes stayed on her and he took a step closer. ‘I want to see where you paint. I want to know everything about you.’

‘Then come with me.’

She picked up the champagne bottle and turned and led him through the kitchen to a room off the back of the house. It was high-ceilinged, with skylights, and one whole wall was glass set in stone. The smell of oil paint hit him. She was working on several paintings. Slashes of black and grey and yellow gorse covered her canvases. They were bleak, dark and full of movement and anger.

‘Magnificent.’

‘Thank you.’

She was watching him as he looked at her work; he went around the studio, pausing in front of each easel, each piece of art. He took his time. She had stopped by one she was currently working on: a whirl of blue spring sky above forbidding granite shelters. He walked over to her and stood behind her, pulling her closer to him, feeling her buttocks nestle into his hips.

‘Your paintings are magnificent, beautiful, wild. They make me feel exhilarated. They overwhelm me with passion and excitement.’

She led him back through the kitchen, champagne bottle back in hand, and upstairs to her bedroom; he ducked to avoid the low beam. It was beautiful, minimal, with white-plastered walls and old beams.

Megan poured him another glass of champagne.

‘It’s been too long,’ she said as she began undressing. Ellerman studied her. When she was standing naked, he walked across and pushed her back onto the bed. He placed his hands beneath her and cupped her buttocks, parted her thighs and sucked so violently on her sex that she writhed and squealed beneath his mouth. She tried to push his head away but he stayed until she orgasmed. He took a swig of champagne and looked at her as she lay in the foetal position, squeezing her hands between her thighs.

He refilled his glass.

She turned onto her back and brushed her hair from her eyes as she watched him walk naked round to the other side of the bed. He was semi-erect.

She crawled to the edge of the bed and went to touch him. He stopped her hand, gently but firmly.