Planet Portia - Portia Da Costa's online world

Hettie swept through the house, her thin wrap flying behind her. She didn't really know where to start looking for Starr, as last time she'd searched, neither the kitchen, nor the pantry, nor his own quarters had yielded him up.

But then again, she'd only knocked on his door. He could still be inside. And she was the mistress of this house. If she knocked and demanded loudly enough, he would have to let her in!

On the landing, she hesitated outside Starr's room, screwing up her nerve, trying to quiet the strange quivers that rippled through her. It was desire, she realised, but much more than just that. She felt gripped by the need to fathom him, to know him. To get close in a way he'd never, ever allowed her to.

The sound of her knock on the door seemed astonishingly loud, but it brought no answer. Hettie's heart pounded. She couldn't be thwarted now, she just couldn't.

Again, she pounded on the door. Again nothing. Not giving herself time to think, she tried the handle, turned it, and found that the room wasn't locked.

Heart fluttering now - leaping even - she stepped into the sombre, tidy, almost ascetic room. She knew that Starr had always been offered every home comfort for his accommodations, but still his bedroom had the spare, uncluttered feeling of a monk's cell.

'Some monk!' she growled to herself, moving inside and glancing around. Barely any possessions sullied the stark orderliness of the room's surfaces. On the bedside cabinet there stood a small, cheap-looking alarm clock, a bottle of water and a paperback book. A military biography she discovered, moving closer, seeing the page marked by a simple black leather bookmark.

Crossing to the chest of drawers, she picked up the items that were set upon it. An unlabeled bottle that, on opening, revealed Starr's subtle but strangely exciting cologne, and a plain, black, immaculately clean comb.

The only other items on show in the room were an art magazine, neatly placed on the ottoman at the foot of the bed, and an inexpensive portfolio, marked with the brand of a discount stationery house set beside it.

Hettie's fingers twitched with a desire to open up the portfolio and look inside. She'd always known that her blond servant drew, but even after many requests to show his work, he'd always respectfully resisted showing it to her. Only once, by accident, had she ever seen the product of Starr's artistic endeavours, and the chance, now, to see more of his secret talent was just the merest flick of a leaf of cardboard away - but suddenly Hettie knew she mustn't take it. She was already invading his privacy unforgivably, but in this one thing, she could still respect his boundaries.

Abandoning the portfolio, she turned and saw a single black cotton shirt on a hanger hooked to the front of an old-fashioned mahogany wardrobe.

Unable to control herself, Hettie plucked the shirt from the hanger and pressed it to her face. It'd been worn, and not only was it scented with the same cologne from the bottle, but also with a fainter, more insidious, more blood-stirring fragrance. The fresh, yet disturbingly musky scent of Starr's warm skin...

Pressing her mouth and nose against the thin black cloth, Hettie felt her desire kick again, hard, and surge for its wearer. Oh, Starr, she thought, inhaling his essence and longing, longing, longing for the feeling of him inside her. Irrationally, she had never wanted him more than at this moment. The longing was so intense that her knees trembled and she swayed on her feet. Stepping shakily, she backed up until she found herself at Starr's narrow, neatly made bed.

Collapsing backwards, she lay down, clutching the black shirt, with its evocative odour, to her face.

Each breath seemed to make him more real to her. Each breath made the craving ache and ache and ache. Closing her eyes tightly, she sank into a world of scent and sensation. The scent of Starr.

'Oh Starr! Oh Starr!' she groaned, wanting him, and him only. In that moment all other men, even her lost husband, seemed like ghosts, like fiction...

For a while, she just lay there, clutching the shirt, astonished, and very scared by the tears that had trickled from beneath her tightly close eyelids. Crying for Starr? What was to become of her?

A long, firm, familiar tread on the landing brought her shooting to her feet, and she flung the black shirt willy-nilly across the bed. The door opened, and she froze like some tiny, terrified prey animal before an unstoppable predator.

A mild frown momentarily pleated Starr's broad, tanned brow. He stepped across the threshold, his movements relaxed and economical as ever, but in spite of her own confusion, Hettie could see he was clearly surprised, almost shocked, to find her in his room.

But a second later, his familiar, glass-like mask was back in place, and his voice was a smooth and even as it always was.

LESSONS AND LOVERS - excerpt one