TH03 - To Steal Her Love Read Free Page A

in the drive.
    ‘Hello, love.’
    ‘Looks like you’ve had quite a day,’ she continued. Her voice was comforting, and when she spoke it was as though she gave him permission to be tired, to be himself.
    ‘You’re not wrong. They faxed the spring collection through from Brussels, but Weckman had forgotten the high heels, of course.’
    ‘He’s such a dimwit.’
    ‘Sometimes I’d really love to give him the boot, but he’s got an unbelievable eye when it comes to fashion. It’s as if he can smell next season’s colours.’
    ‘My love,’ said Wheatlocks once again and moved closer to him, and that meant to hell with Weckman and his shoes. What a magnificent woman, fair-haired, poised and, above all, intelligent. She was his wife. And just then the smell of roast beef and garlic potatoes came wafting in from the flat behind them, while from the living room streamed the soft, relaxing tones of Herbie Mann’s flute.
    ‘My love,’ she sighed and wrapped her arms around him, and there she remained, tight against him, soft and warm, then she laid her head against his neck and tasted it with tiny kisses. She loved him. And not only because she needed him, benefited from him, spent his money. This was LOVE, like a warm power surging into him through her fingers, and it made him feel good and he knew that life had a meaning after all.
    ‘My love,’ she ran her fingers down his back, and only then did he realise she was wearing a silk dressing gown that he had brought her from London. It slid open by itself, and he moved his hand to her waist, and her skin felt like velvet. His fingers searched further – and beneath the dressing gown she was wearing a black bra, stitched with yearning like a poem, and a pair of panties, so small they could have fitted in a matchbox, and thin, lace-edged suspenders.
    ‘My love,’ she whispered, gently unzipping his trousers, then they started moving towards the bedroom. Wheatlocks went first, her buttocks tightly pressed against his groin, and with his right hand he caressed her breasts, their raisin tips, while his left hand slid downwards along her smooth belly, down beneath her knicker elastic; between his fingers there was cotton grass, then suddenly honey too.
    ‘My love,’ Wheatlocks uttered. ‘First from behind, then the missionary position, then sitting in the armchair and over the desk and…’ He didn’t say anything. His hands spoke on his behalf; he lifted up her dressing gown and pulled down her little panties, Wheatlocks sighed and bent over, and there in front of him were her white hips and her buttocks, and his cock was like a copper door-handle.
    Tweety turned on to Vänrikki Stoolinkatu; he came from Hesperiankatu just as before, only this time from a different direction. The first thing he did was look up; Silkybum’s window was dark, just as it should be. They’d had well over an hour.
    He headed straight towards the main door, his steps now calm as though he were walking home. Just before he reached the door, he unzipped his coat and put his hand into his inside pocket, and the first thing he felt was the handle of his knife. He fingered it for a moment, long enough to locate the silver skull he had pressed into the wood, the eye sockets, the teeth, and only then did he check that the pouch was there too. And there it was, like a second heart. It was a thin purse made of chamois leather, and when he moved it a soft metallic jangling sound came from inside, as though it contained a collection of brass tacks and an animal slowly gnawing away at them.
    He stood on the front step, grabbed the handle, pulled, and the door opened. Of course it opened, he’d never doubted it. He scooped the paper egg from the latch, slipped it back into his pocket and stepped inside, and Carmina Burana began ringing in his head once again, the part where the women’s voices are at their loudest. He stood on the doormat, perfectly still, listening to it, listening as the door