Mistress of Deception

Does she know what she's doing? he wondered savagely. Does she know I'm here?

Of course she does, came the bitter answer. She's a witch, a black-hearted witch!

God damn you to hell, Ebony Theroux.

Hie parked in the street opposite the three-storey square building that housed her flat, watching and waiting for her to come home. What he would do if she showed up with Stevenson, or any of her other numerous admirers, God only knew. Would he be able to meekly drive on? Or would he find some way to spoil her night, as she had already spoiled his?

He'd vowed after the last argument they'd had not to have anything further to do with her, never to come here to see her again. But he'd vowed that the time before as well.

His teeth clenched down hard in his jaw, his stomach muscles tightening. Would he never rid himself of this gut-wrenching desire? It had been four years now. Four painful, soul-destroying years. He really could not allow it to go on. He would have to do something about it.

But he'd said that before, as well.

A light snapped on in her flat, sending a wave of near-nausea churning

through his innards. He hadn't seen her enter the building, anger at this crazy but uncontrollable desire having distracted him for a moment. Now, she'd slipped in without his knowing if she was alone or not.

He stared up at the square of light, his eyes darting left as he waited anxiously for her bedroom light to be switched on as well. That was a large window with gauzy curtains. If she had someone with her, he would soon know.

The light remained off.

After several tortuous minutes, he couldn't stand the waiting any longer. With an agitated, jerky movement, he extracted the keys from the ignition, not bothering to put the steering lock on, only just remembering to lock the door before swinging it shut. It was only when the bitter winter air cut through him that he remembered his overcoat draped over the passenger seat.

'Damn it!' he swore, and, ramming his keys and hands into the trouser pockets of his black dinner suit, strode angrily across the dimly lit street and up to the locked security door. For a moment he hesitated, self-disgust urging him to turn right round and go home. But other forces were at work, forces far stronger than pride. He jabbed the buzzer on flat eight with his finger.

His heart began to thud, disgusting him further. Why did he let her do this to him? Why?

'Yes?' came the low, husky query that sent a shiver down his hunched spine.

'It's Alan,' he said, despising himself.

'Alan...' she repeated as though trying to recall whom she might know called Alan.

He bit his tongue to stop himself from snapping at her. Male ego demanded he play her at her own game, keeping his cool, not allowing her any more triumph than was strictly necessary.

'What do you want, Alan?'

To strangle you, he thought viciously. God, but she liked turning the screw.

Tor pity's sake, Ebony, it's bitter out here. Just let me in. Or aren't you alone?' he finished cuttingly.

There was a moment's tense silence from the intercom before a buzzing sound indicated she had opened the door. Alan hated himself for the rush of relief, not to mention the rush of something else that immediately stampeded through his body. But already he was on that treadmill of excitement that she could generate without any conscious effort. He couldn't look at her these days without wanting her so badly that it was a painful ache in his loins.

She met him at the door, still wearing that damned black dress. It was one of her contract conditions, that whenever she did a fashion parade she kept the clothes she modelled. The designers didn't mind. The fabulous Ebony wearing their clothes in public was great advertising, and cheaper than most.

'That dress looks even better up close,' he said in a desire-thickened voice.

She eyed him coolly over the rim of a glass of white wine, sipping while those black eyes stripped his soul naked. 'So you were there tonight,' she

remarked casually, and, turning, began walking across the tiled foyer and into the living-room. Alan was left to come in alone and close the door behind him, following her as she wandered, glass in hand, into her strikingly furnished flat.

Alan glanced around the lounge-room and marvelled at the effect she had achieved with just a few pieces of furniture. Had she deliberately chosen white as a foil for her colouring, or in cold mockery of what white usually represented? He wouldn't put it past her. He wouldn't put anything past her.