Any minute now she'd hear the key turn in the back lock. And then… A rush of heat started in her belly and plunged down. She looked at her reflection again, gaze dropping to the twin dots pressing hard against the front of her sundress. She rolled her shoulders and sighed as the fabric brushed her nipples. Still looking in the mirror, she unzipped her dress and let it fall. She grinned at her reflection. Not bad. Not bad at all.

Her eyes went to the blue tattoo on her forearm. An unexpected burst of colour. She turned to the easel, lifted the paint brush and grazed it lightly across one hardened nipple. She sighed, then tickled the brush hairs around the aureole of her other nipple.

Another dip of paint, ochre this time. She stroked lines down her torso, shivering at the cool touch of the paint against her skin. Next the red, on her stomach, drawing lazy circles and zigzags. She parted her legs, lowered the brush and swirled it across her inner thigh. As she painted lower, she let the end of the brush dart between her legs, prodding like an uncertain lover's finger, hesitant yet eager. Each time it made contact, she caught her breath and glanced at her expression in the mirror. She forced herself to finish her work, painting the other thigh to match the first, letting the brush tip probe her only when it came in contact naturally. Then, when she finished, she took the brush and turned it around, so her hand wielded the plastic tip instead of the paint-soaked bristle. She spread her legs and used the tip to tickle the hard nub within.

The back door clicked open. Abby grinned and lifted the brush, painting one last stroke of red from her crotch to her breasts. A bustle of motion in the doorway, silence, then a sharp intake of breath.

Abby looked up, and flourished a hand at her painted body.

'What do you think?' she said. 'A work of art?'

'A masterpiece.'

Friday, August 14

Gregory switched the cellphone to his other ear and took his keys from the ignition.

'Yes, that's right, a room on the west side. Not the east side. There was construction on the east side last time and it kept me up all night.' He paused. 'Good. Hold on, there's more. I want extra towels. Your house-cleaning staff never leave enough towels.'

The hotel clerk assured him everything would meet his satisfaction. It wouldn't, though. Gregory would make sure of that. He'd find something to pester them about at the front desk, raise a little fuss, just enough so that when the police asked the clerk whether she remembered Gregory, she'd roll her eyes and say 'Oh, yes, I remember him'.

Once he'd finished here, he'd stop by Deanna's cottage and make sure everything was ready. He chuckled. Deanna was ready, that was certain. Ready, willing and chomping at the bit. She wanted to be free of Abby almost as much as he did. Last night when he'd gone by to finalize the plans, he'd barely made it through the door before she'd pounced and given him a taste of what life would be like post-Abby. He felt himself harden at the memory. A remarkable woman, Deanna was. He only hoped everything went well tonight. It would be a shame to lose her.

Last night she'd suggested – not for the first time – that she join him at the hotel, so she could corroborate his alibi. He'd gently reminded her that this wasn't a wise idea. When the police dug into his personal life, he knew they'd find he had a history of infidelity, but there was no sense doing their homework for them. Or so he'd told Deanna. The truth was that Gregory didn't want anyone seeing them together tonight. Better to leave her behind… in close proximity to his about-to-be-murdered wife.

Not that he had any intention of offering up Deanna as a scapegoat. But, well, if things went bad, it always helped to have a plan B. Deanna had bought the weapons and the tools, so it would be easy enough to steer the police in her direction. If the need arose, he had a speech all prepared, the heart-rending confession of an unfaithful husband who had realized he still loved his wife and told his mistress it was over, then made the tragic mistake of leaving on a business trip to Halifax that same day, never dreaming his scorned lover might wreak her revenge while he was gone. He'd practised his lines in front of the mirror until he could choke up on cue.

He pushed open the door to the gallery. A muted laugh tinkled out, followed by a deep chuckle that grated down Gregory's spine. He paused, holding the door half shut so the greeting bell wouldn't alert Abby and Zack. The murmur of their voices floated out from the back room. Zack laughed again. Gregory eased the door open, trying to slide in before it opened wide enough to set off the bell. He was halfway through when it chimed.

The voices in the back room stopped suddenly. Zack peeked around the corner, saw who it was, then said something to Abby, too low for Gregory to hear. The intern backed out of the studio.

'Ab? I'll grab coffee on my way back, OK?'

Abby appeared from the back room, carrying a wrapped canvas, and beamed a smile at Zack. 'Perfect. Thanks.'

As Zack strode out the front door, he slid a half-smirk Gregory's way, as if being allowed to play errand boy for Abby was some great honour Gregory could only dream of. Art student, my ass. The kid looked as if he should be riding the waves, not painting them. Not that Gregory cared. If Abby wanted to play teacher with California 's Picasso, she was welcome to him. He only hoped the kid wouldn't cause trouble later.

'I sold the new Martin's Point oil,' Abby said, laying the canvas on the counter. 'Got the asking price, too. A couple from Chicago. Once they heard the exchange rate, they didn't care to dicker.'

'Good, good. I just stopped by to make sure everything was OK before I left for my meeting.'

'You'll be staying for the weekend, I assume.'

Being little more than an hour from Halifax, there was no need for him to stay the weekend, and they both knew it, just as they knew that he usually stayed, and why he usually stayed. Yet Abby asked as casually as she'd ask whether he'd take Highway 3 or 103, a matter of no interest to her either way. The thread of anger that rippled through him surprised him, as it always did, and, in surprising him, only angered him more.

'Yes, I'll be staying the weekend. With a friend.'

He hated himself for tacking that on the end, hated himself for studying her reaction, and hated her even more for not giving one.

'Don't forget we're having dinner at the Greenways' on Sunday,' she said. 'Eight o'clock.'

'I'll be there.'

She nodded, then disappeared into the back room. He stifled the urge to call out a goodbye, turned on his heel and left.

'You've reached the voice-mail of Gregory Keith-'

Abby sighed and hung up.

'Still no answer?' Zack asked as he flipped the gallery 'OPEN' sign to 'CLOSED'.

'He must have turned off his cell. Maybe he's still in a meeting.'

Zack cast a pointed look into the darkening night. 'Uh-huh.'

'Sometimes his meetings run late,' she offered lamely. 'I'll try once more from home, then call Mr Strom back and tell him we're still considering his offer.'

She turned off the main lights as Zack locked the front door. He followed her into the studio, and trailed out the back door after her.

'Go,' Gregory hissed.

Deanna lurched from behind the bushes as Abby parked at the top of the long drive. Gregory had to squint to see her. For a half-mile in either direction, the only lights were the security floods beaming on to the renovated farmhouse.

Abby climbed from her car. She started to lock it, then stopped, seeing Deanna stumbling up the drive-way, her clothes torn and bloodstained. From this distance Gregory couldn't see his wife's expression, but he could imagine it. Eyes wide, mouth dropping open, a whispered 'oh'.