Free In Too Deep by Roxane Beaufort

always pinching each other's
designs?'
    Arlene drove
her fist into her palm. 'You're right. Someone's robbed me of my
newest creations, and I've a suspicion who. And who helped him do
it.'
    'Who?'
    'I think it's
Marty Blake, probably assisted by the big chief at the top...
Vincent Gabor.'
    'How can you
be so sure? There are a dozen designers who could have done it.'
Eugene placed a comforting hand on her shoulder but she didn't
bend, rigid with fury and indignation.
    'I met him at
the Cloth Show. And that's not all... he'd seen my work at a
charity function. If he's running out of ideas, and don't forget
he's been pulling out all the stops over the past year and may be
feeling pretty jaded, then what's to prevent him deciding to help
himself to something of mine and rehash it as his?'
    Eugene pulled a face, as if unable to contemplate such an
underhanded trick. Wide boy he might be, but there was always a
kind of fairness about his own dealings in the trade. Honour among
thieves didn't seem to exist in the rarefied atmosphere of haute couture .
    'You mean, he
broke in here?' Eugene hadn't met Blake personally, but had read
about him in the papers and seen him on television. 'Burglary's
hardly his style, is it?'
    'It wasn't
burglary. No one's tampered with the lock. He had a key. I can't
believe it of her, Eugene, but there's only one person who could
have given it to him.' She wanted to break down and cry, feeling as
if she'd been raped. 'That's my assistant, Tina Morris. Funnily
enough, she rang to say she was ill. Somehow I don't think I'll be
seeing her again.'
     
     

Chapter
4
     
    'So you see,
I've simply got to help her,' Julia said, looking across the round
marble-topped table at Will, having just finished giving him
details of Arlene's loss.
    He pulled a
serious face, humouring her in an annoying, patronising way. He
lifted his pint to his lips and took a long pull, then put it down
on the coaster, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and said,
unenthusiastically, 'If you say so.'
    'I do say so.
She's in trouble. Been robbed. Doesn't that mean anything to
you?'
    'Sounds like a
job for the police, not us.'
    'She won't do
that, not yet. Wants to try it her own way first. Eugene was
furious.'
    'And who,
darling girl, is Eugene?' Will drawled, his voice world-weary and
cynical.
    'He's her
friend. He was there when she discovered she'd been robbed. He
wants to deck Marty Blake.'
    'Does he
indeed? How macho. Well, good luck to him. I hope he knows what
he's taking on.'
    The Flying Goose was crowded with Saturday night drinkers. Built in 1880, on a
main road where once a posting-inn had stood, it had survived a
firebomb during the blitz in World War Two, and retained its
Victorian opulence of polished mahogany and bevel-edged mirrors
etched with ferns. One of its finest features was a stained glass
panel depicting art nouveau beauties, their flowing hair entwined
with the names of breweries. The air was redolent of the fermented
hops and tobacco of ages, though there were plenty of non-smoking
areas now.
    It was Julia's
local; not that she drank much, but had needed to meet Will
somewhere outside the office, asking his advice concerning Arlene's
problems. She had found her friend in tears last night, alarmed to
see this usually level-headed girl so upset. She had calmed down
after threatening to castrate Marty Blake and hang Tina up by her
thumbs. Then, her face set grimly, she announced her plan, one in
which Julia was involved.
    Nonplussed but
willing, Julia required Will's help if she was to fall in with
it.
    He had been
happy to meet her, almost too eager for comfort and she was glad he
was sitting opposite. Even so, his foot kept touching hers under
the table. She moved it, but he was persistent, and she realised
that had he been at her side, he would undoubtedly have had his
hand on her knee by now, probably fondling her inner thigh. The
thought made her hot, a flush mounting to her cheeks.
    She took a sip
of her