turned down the lamp as he saw her wince.
‘You’ve been out in the dark for a while,’ he observed, his voice low and detached. ‘Here we are, Fern, have a drink with me and tell me what you’re curious about.’
‘I’m curious about everything,’ said Phryne with perfect truth, taking a swig from the bottle. It was a sweet, rich port.
‘But you are curious about me in particular.’
‘Yes.’
She took another gulp of wine. The paint was still on his face, two yellow stars over each eye, the mouth white and his own lips red. Those grey eyes watched her, giving nothing away. He sat easily on the bed next to her, his bare thigh touching her cotton-covered one.
‘Perhaps I just find you . . . attractive,’ she added. ‘Why else would I prowl in the night?’
‘Why else indeed?’ he replied. ‘But you are no circus-born kid, Fern. Or you’d know.’
‘Know what?’
His nearness was unsettling Phryne. She could feel heat radiating off his skin and she noticed a muscle begin to twitch, a tendon pulling from his hip to groin. Other developments were making themselves apparent. There was no doubt that the clown was pleased to see her.
His voice, however, was still cool. ‘No one sleeps with clowns,’ he said, passing her the bottle. ‘It’s unlucky, we’re unlucky. And we are supposed to be sad.’
‘Why?’ Phryne laid a hand on the nearest expanse of flesh and heard him draw in his breath.
‘Clowns contain sadness. That’s why people laugh at us. How can we be sad if we have lovers?’ he asked reasonably. ‘Ah!’
Phryne had stroked another part of his back. His muscles under her hands were hard, evidence of formidable strength.
‘So you think I don’t belong to the circus?’ she asked, running her fingers lightly down his neck to his chest and finding an erect nipple.
‘No, you don’t. You’re a good rider but that’s not why you’re here. Why . . . Ah! . . . Why are you here?’
‘I won’t be able to concentrate,’ purred Phryne, ‘and neither will you, until we have this over with. Therefore, you shall have kisses for answers. One, do you favour Farrell or Jones?’
‘Farrell. Jones is a crook,’ he said and Phryne kissed the painted mouth. The greasepaint came off on her lips and coloured them alike.
‘Good. Two, will you help me find out what is happening?’
‘Yes,’ he said and red mouth met red mouth in a deeper kiss.
‘Third and last . . .’ She breathed into his ear. Then she paused.
‘What?’ he said, still not touching, and saw her smile, the black hair swinging back from her face.
‘Do you want me?’
The clown mask came closer, until he was staring into her eyes, and for the first time that night he touched her. He slid both calloused hands up her calves to her thighs and she caught her breath.
‘I might hurt you,’ he said. ‘It has been a long time.’
‘Because clowns are unlucky?’
‘Yes.’ His face glowed with sweat and paint; a desperate clown who trembled at her touch, at her nearness and her female scent.
‘I will take the risk. What is your answer?’
‘Yes.’
She stripped off the nightgown in one movement and then he was above her, kissing her with hard, fast kisses, his strong hands picking her up and laying her on the patchwork quilt. Paint smeared as he rubbed his face across her belly, his mouth seeking the sweet place where all of her sexual nerves twined into a knot.
Her joints loosened, her thighs parted. Over the flat planes of her breast and hip, the clown’s face appeared. His hair fell ragged and Phryne bit her hand to still a cry. His mouth was skillful; he had found the right place.
She could not reach him to caress him; he did not seem to want to be touched. His rough fingers found each nipple and squeezed hard; she gasped on the edge of pain and pleasure. There was such pent-up force in this clown that she was as close to fear as she had ever been.
His mouth moved, sliding up to join with her mouth; an engulfing kiss, bitter with paint. She wrapped her legs around his hips and the first thrust was so strong that it nailed her to the bed. The clown mask filled her vision, which was blurring. She grasped him tightly and began to respond, but his hands came down on her shoulders so that she could not move.
‘Please. Don’t move. I can’t . . . wait . . . if you move.’
‘I won’t run away,’ she said, wriggling under the imprisoning hands. ‘I will stay all night. Let me go! I won’t be pinned down!’
He blinked and released her. Phryne, whom force turned cold, began to regain her lust as the movements became slow and considered. He bent to kiss her nipples. The sliding of painted flesh made a sucking sound, curiously loud in the night. His hair fell over his eyes, hiding their strange light.
Phryne seized his shoulders, forcing him closer, deeper. He groaned and stiffened, then fell into her arms and writhed with release.
She had been so surprised by his collapse that she had lain still for five minutes under his weight. Now he was becoming too heavy. She shoved at his chest and he clung to her, the muscular arms encircling her in a fast embrace.
‘You said that you would stay all night,’ he whispered and there was that odd note in his voice again. Phryne decided to ask. Besides, she was not yet sated and this man had erotic potential which needed to be developed.
‘What is it, Matthias? Why are you so . . . unsure of me?’
He leaned up on one elbow and wiped the sweet-smelling hair out of his eyes.
The paint had largely been transferred to Phryne’s body. She saw that he had a face which in Paris would be called
He bore her inspection bravely and said, ‘There are some women who aren’t circus folk who like . . . who like masks. They occasionally . . . want to try me. But they never want to stay. Just for an experiment, you see.’
‘And you thought I was one of them?’ Phryne’s voice was cold.
He stroked her breast, laying his cheek on it gently. ‘You said that you were curious.’
‘Yes. I am curious. But you are lovely, a good lover. Hasn’t anyone told you that? You’re the only person in this circus who likes me, if you don’t count Mr Burton and Bruno the bear. And my curiosity isn’t so easily satisfied.’
A smile dawned on his face, curving the soft mouth. ‘What can I do for your curiosity, Fern?’ he breathed into her ear.
She reached for him and drew him close, relishing the sprung line of his backbone and the hard strength of his buttocks.
‘Why, satisfy it,’ she said lightly.
Lizard Elsie offered her bottle to the woman lying face-down on the other bed.
‘Have a bit of good cheer,’ she said in her creaking voice. ‘Come on, love, it can’t be as fucking bad as all that.’
Miss Parkes looked up in astonishment at the strange voice and slid her knife down under her mattress.
‘Come on,’ encouraged Lizard Elsie. ‘What’s bloody wrong?’
‘I’m a murderer,’ said Miss Parkes flatly.
‘Oh, are yer? Who says so?’
‘They say so.’
‘Well, they can be fucking wrong, can’t they? Have a sip. Just a sip. It’s bloody good brandy.’
Miss Parkes sat up and accepted the bottle. ‘Who are you?’ she asked.
