Read A Suitable Vengeance for Free Online

afternoon doing nothing save awaiting his arrival. Her expression shifted quickly from welcome to surprise, however, and it was only after a fractional hesitation that she stepped back from the door to admit him.
    “Simon! I’d no idea…” She offered her hand in greeting, seemed to think better of the gesture, and dropped it to her side. “You’ve quite surprised me. I was expecting…this is really…you’ve only…Oh, why am I babbling? Please. Come in.”
    The word flat turned out to be a euphemism, for her new home was little more than a cramped bed-sitting-room. Still, much had been done to fill it with comfort. Pale green paint, refreshing and springlike, coated the walls. Against one of them, a rattan day bed was covered with a bright, multicoloured counterpane and embroidered pillows. On another, a collection of Deborah’s photographs hung, pieces which St. James had never seen before and realised must represent the result of her years of training in America. Music played softly from a stereo near the window. Debussy. Afternoon of a Faun .
    St. James turned to comment upon the room—what a far cry it was from the adolescent eclecticism of her bedroom at home—and caught sight of a small alcove to the left of the door. It comprised a kitchen where an undersized table was set with a china tea service. Two places were laid.
    He should have realised the moment he saw her. It was hardly in character for her to be lolling around in the middle of the day, wearing a soft summer dress in place of her usual blue jeans.
    “You’ve someone coming. I’m sorry. I should have phoned.”
    “I’m not connected yet. It doesn’t matter. Really.” She extended her arm to encompass the room. “What do you think? Do you like it?”
    The entire bed-sit was, he thought, pretty much what it was intended to be: a room of peace and femininity in which a man would want to lie at her side, throwing off the day’s burdens for the pleasure of making love. But that was hardly the response Deborah wanted from him. To avoid having to give one, he walked to her pictures.
    Although more than a dozen hung on the wall, they were grouped in such a way that his eyes were drawn to a striking black and white portrait of a man standing with his back to the camera, his head turned in profile, his hair and skin—both lit with a shimmering cast of water—acting as contrast to an ebony background.
    “Tommy photographs well.”
    Deborah joined him. “He does, doesn’t he? I was trying to give some definition to his musculature. I’m not at all sure about it, though. The lighting seems off. I don’t know. One minute I like it and the next I think it’s about as subtle as a mug shot.”
    St. James smiled. “You’re as hard on yourself as you ever were, Deborah.”
    “I suppose I am. Never satisfied with anything. That’s always been my story.”
    “I’d say a piece was fine. Your father would agree. We’d bring in Helen for a third opinion. Then you’d celebrate your success by throwing it away and claiming we all were hopeless judges.”
    She laughed. “At least I didn’t fish for compliments.”
    “No. You didn’t do that.” He turned back to the wall. The brief pleasure of their exchange withered to nothing.
    A different sort of study had been placed next to the black and white portrait. It too was of Lynley, seated nude in an old iron bed, rumpled bed linen thrown over the lower part of his torso. With one leg raised, an arm resting on his knee, he gazed towards a window where Deborah stood, her back to the camera, sunlight gleaming along the swell of her right hip. Yellow curtains billowed back frothily, no doubt serving to hide the cable release that had allowed her to take the picture. The photograph looked completely spontaneous, as if she had awakened at Lynley’s side and found an opportunity in a chance of light, in the contrast of curtains and morning sky.
    St. James stared at the picture, trying to pretend he