Jigsaw by Campbell Armstrong Read Free Book Online Page A

he said. He gestured in a vague way.
    She broke free of him, strolled the room, then she paused at the foot of the spiral staircase which led to the bedroom above. She gazed up along the intricate design of wrought iron to the shadows overhead. She thought of Barron’s oversized bed, the silken canopy, the tapestry on the wall. Turning, she parted the curtains and walked out on to the balcony overlooking the canal.
    Barron followed her. They stood together in silence for a time. A couple of tarpaulined gondolas shivered like glassy black coffins on the water. The moon was flint, frosty. The night had an immeasurable density to it.
    He kissed her. She turned her face to the side, gently pushed him away, shook her head.
    â€˜It’s worse than ambivalent, I guess,’ he said.
    â€˜You taste of gin.’
    â€˜Since when was that a problem?’
    She ran her hand over the cold balcony rail. She peered out into the darkness. She sensed the night as one might sense nearby the presence of a large, dangerous cat. Venice seemed to have a peculiarly feline quality just then, its passageways and darkened campos the hunting-grounds of foraging leopards.
    He took her hand, stroked it softly. ‘Let’s go inside. Upstairs.’
    She hesitated before following him. She started up the spiral staircase, then stopped halfway. She turned to look down at him, at the impossibly tanned face, the exquisitely handsome features. The sheer perfection of him scared her in some way. Nobody had any right to look like Barron. His beauty was unreasonable. And how had he stopped his internal clocks from marking their passage?
    She kept climbing. When she reached the bedroom she lay down, sprawled across the bed, one leg upraised. ‘I’m not in the mood, Barron.’
    â€˜You keep saying so.’ He stood over the bed, gazing down at her. She looked vulnerable all at once. But the trouble with her vulnerability was how it could change and become hard-edged. She was in that sense like the weather. And he had no barometer for measuring her changes.
    He lit a red candle on the bedside table, sat on the edge of the mattress, slid his hand up and down the lower part of her leg. ‘Tell me what you feel,’ he said.
    â€˜What I feel …’
    He cupped his hand around her kneebone. With his other hand he picked up the candle and held it over her.
    She turned to look up into his face. She knew she’d succumb to him, she understood the inevitability of it all. She watched the flame. She felt the first drip of red wax on her arm and then, as he moved the candle, the second fell across her knuckles. The wax burned, hardened on her skin as the heat dissipated. She drew the hand that held the candle closer to her face, and the shapeless hot wax slid against her cheeks, drip drip drip, each touch of heat bringing her momentary pain. She thought she felt some mild resistance in Barron, as if he wanted to set the candle aside.
    â€˜Nearer,’ she said. ‘Closer.’
    He eased her blouse away from her shoulders; hot waxy rivulets slithered toward her breasts. He worked the tips of his fingers along her inner thigh, back and forward, a gentle brushing motion. She shut her eyes and concentrated on his touch and the way wax spluttered upon her skin. She could still see the candle in her head, could still feel the heat against her face and neck.
    She was losing her breath. His hand moved across her stomach and rested in the smooth flat area below the navel. She brought her hand down so that it covered his and she manoeuvred his fingers between her legs. She half-opened her eyes, drawn into the hypnotic shifting flame. She raised a hand, seized Barron’s wrist, made him bring the candle closer to her nipples. She experienced the exquisite intensity of the flame’s core, wax running and stiffening beneath her breasts, rolling and congealing on the surface of her stomach. The flame was searing, brilliant. She