Last Resort Read Online Free PDF

spent a rare and blissful two days without a single interruption and she could only wish they were similarly occupied right now.
    A surprising frisson of excitement suddenly passed through her, but it wasn't only at the thought of their love-making, she realized, it was also at the idea of the
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    kind of life they would lead if they did go to France. She was in no doubt that if she went Declan would come with her, if for no other reason than on the couple of occasions they had visited the Riviera he'd talked so wistfully of living there, had waxed so lyrical about the quality of the light, that she'd almost felt guilty at the way her job tied her to London. Once she had attempted, half-heartedly it was true, to persuade him to give in to his longing and take a studio in the artist's village of St. Paul, but the conversation ended pretty quickly as there was no way he was going without her.
    So, she asked herself with a sigh, what was there to discuss? Sylvia had made up her mind, Declan would be all for them going, and, she had to confess, now that she'd had a little more time to get used to the idea, the thought of all the parties she and Declan would throw, the endless stream of guests from London and Ireland, as well as the circle of itinerant intelligentsia and slightly barmy indigenous wits he would inevitably attract, was becoming quite appealing.
    Damn Richmond, she thought, glancing at her watch. It had only been in the past couple of months that Declan had started to do male nudes and, boy, had she learned a thing or two about male vanity in that time! To see them gazing at Declan's perfect renditions of their beauty was like watching Narcissus catching his reflection in a stream. They couldn't tear themselves away and Declan, loving nothing more than he loved praise, was quite happy for them to ogle his masterpieces for as long as it took him to get bored - which could be anything from an hour to an entire day, depending on the subject's eloquence.
    It was rare for her to interrupt him while he was working, but in this instance Penny felt justified in climbing the three flights of stairs to the studio, for she had to let him know that Mally and the boys were arriving.
    With any luck this would remind him that the time they 26
    would have to talk had suddenly become limited - and if she were to let him know how keen she was to remove her own clothes right now, then Richmond would probably be out of the door in even less time than it took to put his trousers back on.
    Pausing when she reached the top stair she rested her elbows on the banister, and quietly regarded the scene in the studio. Declan, his shirt unbuttoned and hanging loose over the elastic waistband of the Turkish-style pants that drooped well below his navel, was at his easel, a brush between his lips, a palette on the stool beside him and such a fixed air of concentration about him that Penny felt reluctant to speak. Though his skin was pale, dressed the way he was he had something of the Suleiman about him, and as she noticed the outline of his genitals beneath the flimsy fabric of his pants a spark of lust bit deeply into her.
    Richmond was sprawled across an old maple-wood day bed, his perfect, athlete's body gleaming with the oils he had earlier massaged into his ebony skin. One arm was thrown across his eyes, the other hand was resting, Penny noticed with some surprise, beside an almighty erection. She wondered how long he had been in that state and whether it was something Declan had insisted on or was simply a result of Richmond having recently taken a quick dekko at his portrait.
    Canvases were stacked all around them, fighting for space with vast, embroidered cushions, a couple of threadbare throne-style chairs, an assortment of threefold screens and the usual artist's paraphernalia, which cluttered every available surface. The scent of whisky in the warm air was only slightly masked by the turps and tempora, and the dazzling spotlights