Altered Images by Maxine Barry Page B

acknowledged his subconscious whim, and let himself into the cool hall. On the second floor he quickly realised that the School didn’t really start to come alive until well after ten. It was now only nine-fifteen. Suddenly he heard a noise above him. It sounded as if someone had dropped something heavy. Vaguely curious, he sprinted lightly on up to the stairs and walked quietly across the paint-daubed floor.
    A glimpse of curly, auburn hair, glowing like fire in a stray misty beam of sunlight, told him the identity of the student long before he reached her workspace, and he felt his footsteps faltering. Although he was loath to admit it, even to himself, he didn’t really want to see or talk to Frederica Delacroix.
    He tried telling himself that his reluctance was merely precautionary. A wise man’s decision to distance himself from the temptation of forbidden fruit. But the simple fact was that Frederica had been haunting his dreams ever since their first meeting on Monday. Those freckles of hers had featured in many restless nights’ twisting and turning.
    So, reluctantly, and yet with a growing sense of pleasure that he couldn’t deny was both dangerous and enjoyable, he found himself, once more, walking silently up behind her, watching her work. He felt a bit like a teenager with a crush, getting an unexpected and forbidden glimpse of the object of his desire. Ridiculous. But heady.
    She was dressed in the ubiquitous dirty smock, and her hands were filthy. Not surprising, when he realised what she was doing. Cleaning a canvas. Even half-erased, the disappearing painting had obviously been hideous and amateurish in the extreme. There was no way it could have been one of her own efforts. He stepped a bit closer, looking at the beetle in one corner. As ill-painted as it was, he could see that the artist had been influenced by a certain style.
    He frowned. If he had to make a guess, he’d say the painting had been done by a Victorian trying to ape his or her betters.
    Lorcan was about to make a discreet noise and advertise his presence, when suddenly he realised that she wasn’t using a common stripping agent. In fact, she was using such an old-fashioned mixture that it was taking her much longer, and required much more elbow grease, than it should have done.
    What the hell . . . ? Every suspicious cell in his body began to tingle. Why was a modern artist using such a laborious and old-fashioned way to remove paint? And why, if it came to that, was she removing it at all?
    Frederica’s movements gradually slowed. She’d been aware of a chill down the back of her neck for some time, but had been too busy to take any notice. Now she could feel a tightness in her breast that was making her nipples tingle. When, she thought desperately, but with a leap of unstoppable excitement and gladness, had she felt that before? With a sharp upward movement of her chin, she shot a rapid glance over her shoulder.
    And speared him with her brown eyes.
    Lorcan took a sharp breath, caught by surprise at the sudden confrontation with those velvety depths. ‘Hello again,’ he said smoothly, and forced himself to smile.
    Frederica licked lips gone suddenly dry. ‘Hello Mr Greene. I wanted to tell you how much I . . . er . . . I enjoyed your lecture the other day.’
    â€˜Please, call me Lorcan,’ he corrected her briskly. The ‘Mr Greene’ had made him feel about a hundred-years-old. ‘And I’m glad I didn’t bore you.’ His eyes swept to the canvas again. Suddenly, he was sure that his lecture about art-forgery hadn’t bored her at all. Far from if, in fact.
    He felt an unaccountable sinking feeling deep inside him. He knew he should be elated. Richard had asked him to keep his eyes open for something unusual, especially amongst the students. And here he was, his excellent instincts screaming at him that he’d stumbled on to something, and all he could feel