Samantha Lee Howe

PROLOGUE

She woke with a headache that rivalled any hangover she’d ever had before. When she tried to open her eyes, white hot pain oozed in her sockets and the deep throb in her head intensified until she thought she might throw up. Her hand went to her forehead and she massaged her temples, gingerly running her fingers over her closed eyes. Her hand felt wet. And so was her back and the backs of her legs.

There was a moment of confusion before she understood: she was lying in a shallow pool of water.

She forced her eyes open, blinking in the darkness until the pain subsided. Her vision was blurred and she couldn’t make sense of what she was seeing. It looked as though she were gazing down a tunnel and the opening ahead only held the barest hint of light.

Think! Where was she, and how did she get here?

She’d been drinking. She remembered now. And he was there.

Every part of her ached but she slipped into the comfort of the memory, pushing away the hurt in her skull and the cramp in her damp limbs.

Something had happened … she couldn’t remember what: it was all jumbled. She thought that someone had caught them together. There had been an argument.

Her mind stalled as though she couldn’t bear to make sense of these awful images. She must be dreaming. Her thoughts drifted away, down into a fevered hallucination until they convinced her that she was safely back in her room. Her friend was there, sleeping off the booze. They were both fine.

Friend.

The water lapped over her face then, and she spluttered as some went in her mouth. Jerking from her muddled state, she forced herself to sit.

Is the water getting deeper? The idea terrified her enough to bring her back to full consciousness but she couldn’t see anything, even with her eyes wide open.

She reached out in the dark and her hand touched damp, slimy brick. There was a wall at her side and one behind her, she shuffled backwards in the shallow water, until her back was against the stone. A wave of nausea and dizziness washed over her. She rested her head back against the wall until it subsided and then she pulled her knees up to her chest.

She thought that perhaps she was in a hole of some sort, with a few inches of water pooling around her. She pushed back against the wall, and using her bent knees forced herself slowly up to her feet. As she stood, holding on to the stability of the brick, back still resting against the wall behind her, the dizzy spell threatened to consume her again. She swallowed back the bile that rushed into her mouth, gagging on the acrid taste. Her knees buckled but by sheer will she remained standing.

She felt the water sloshing around her feet and realized she wasn’t wearing shoes – why were her feet bare?

What was she doing here? So many questions … She couldn’t remember how this had happened or why.

She sucked in a deep breath. Forcing her breathing to slow and steady. The pain in her head subsided and so did the sickness and wooziness. Her eyes still felt dimmed and out of focus, as though she should be wearing glasses: but she’d always had perfect vision. It had to be the mugginess of the air, the lack of light. There was no other explanation.

There was a waft of air coming from somewhere. She raised a hand and felt the water cool and her skin prickle. She reached out in front of her, felt the chill that was coming downwards. And then her body registered the freezing cold water and the soaked clothing clinging to her body. She shuddered from the cold.

I’ve got to get out of here, she thought. Fear flooded into her chest like the water swirling around her feet. She had a terrified vision of more pouring in and surrounding her, of it reaching up and forcing its way into her lungs. Her chest hurt as panic threatened to overwhelm her. She pressed her hand hard against her chest and tried to again slow her frantic breathing.

Stay calm!

She began to count, four breaths in, four out. Then six in, six out. Eight. Ten. The panic attack began to diminish.

She opened her eyes again and looked up.

Feeling stronger she took a small step away from the wall and, hands out, walked forward. Her fingers met with another wall and then she knew. She was in the well. Yes, another glance upwards confirmed the round shape silhouetted she could just discern above. It made sense now.

The well where she and her friend met when they snuck out of school.

Judging by the lack of light it was still night. She could see a sliver of moonlight falling onto the tree that loomed over the well. A large oak. She and her friends had met there sometimes.

She remembered the small torch she’d been carrying in her pocket, to help her find her way through the woods and now searched for it. Her hands swished through the water searching for the tool. It was meant to be water proof but she had no idea if it could have survived the fall. Then she remembered her watch. It lit up so that she could read it in the dark. She nudged the device, activating the function. The dim light formed an umbra around her hand, and when she moved it, she could see the brick walls of the well. It was just past four in the morning, she noted. She must have been down here for hours. It would be dawn soon and then she might hear someone passing. She’d be able to call for help. Thank God the well wasn’t full, she’d have drowned! She assessed her wounds, Skin scrapes on her arms and legs stung under her clothing confirming that she must have fallen. She felt battered and bruised but nothing seemed broken. She probed her memory again but to no avail.

She shivered again. The movement brought a fresh burst of pain and she reached behind her head, feeling a sore patch at the back of her neck. Her fingers came away damp. She ran them down the front of her jeans, smearing away the blood from the wound. She must have hit her head during the fall. It explained why she was struggling to recall the moments before. How lucky she’d been to still be alive. She went through the many ways she could have fallen down the well and this injury was not as bad as what could have happened. She took a deep breath as fear rose once more with the endless possibilities.

‘Don’t panic!’ she said out loud and her voice, dulled by the enclosed space, echoed upwards.

She looked up at the hole above once more. People walked through these woods all the time. She would be found. Then she saw movement above, a dark shape appeared to be looking down into the pit above her.

‘Help!’ she called. ‘I’ve fallen down here!’

She squinted in the gloom trying to make out the figure again. Maybe she’d imagined it? But no, there was sound from above. Someone was turning the crank, the old bucket, and rope were being lowered down.

‘Oh, thank God!’ she said.

As the bucket reached her, she grabbed hold of the thin rope. Could it take her weight? There was only one way to find out. She placed one foot in the pail for support.

‘I’m ready, pull me up!’ she called.

The crank creaked as it turned, the rope became taut. For a moment she thought it would snap but then she was lifted, the bucket skidding out from under her as she got her balance and clung to the rope.

In the dim light from above she saw the ancient brickwork slowly passing by as she was, inch by inch, hauled back up to the surface.

As she reached the top, and her head crested the lip of the well, she saw her saviour.

‘You!’ she said. And then the memory of what had happened came tumbling back.

She kicked out, pushing herself to the side of the well, her back hitting the edge. She scrabbled over it, getting away from the black maw of the pit below.

A blow came down on her, knocking her sideways. The bucket clattered and the rope swung. She flailed with her arms, knowing that it wouldn’t take long for her assailant to finish the job they’d started.

Chapter 1

Bella Canter dipped the fine horse hair brush into the water jar and swirled away the last stain of paint from the expensive bristles. She stepped back and admired the painting. Her heart was in her mouth. The Death of Eve, as she had named the piece, was exactly right, perfect. For the first time, Bella knew she had done something special. She felt it as surely as she did the day Mercia Gault had come into her home studio and told her that she wanted to show her work.

As the daughter of a lord, Bella – as everyone called her – had been privileged from birth. Or so they thought. The truth was, she had never met her father until she was eleven. It was only when Chantal, her mother, was diagnosed with breast cancer, that she contacted Charles Canter and told him he had to do right by his child. Bella had been collected and taken to the Canter ancestral home a few days before her mother died. Up until then, she hadn’t even known who her father was.

Charles had been kind, but distant. He had his lawyers set about changing her surname from Helson to Canter, never questioning the truth of her parentage. But his answer to fatherhood, as a confirmed bachelor with a daughter suddenly thrust upon him, was to sign her up and send her away to a girl’s boarding school as soon as possible.

Now, twenty-five years old, and an accomplished artist with a great deal of talent, Bella was on her way to more success than her father’s associates and friends’ generous purchases of her work had so far guaranteed. Word had spread. The aristocracy enjoyed fine art, indulged in portrait commissions, but so too did the new royalty: film and television stars, celebrities of all kinds, who had money to burn and wanted to claim they had ‘culture’. Bella received invitations from such people on a daily basis, and now, with the Los Angeles viewing coming soon, Mercia reassured her that her future was secure.

‘The trick is to spread the rumour of you first,’ Mercia said. ‘Then we add the exorbitant price tag.’

‘But why would anyone pay so much for one of my pieces?’ Bella had asked. ‘I’m nobody.’

‘Darling, your work is the genuine article. It’s gorgeous. On top of that the nouveau riche are sheep. You tell them this is the latest thing and they buy. That’s because most of them aren’t refined enough to have their own taste. So, they buy for investment or because they are told their friends will be envious. Believe me, I’ve made a career out of this.’

Bella couldn’t argue because Mercia really had made a vocation of finding artistic talent. Mercia was a close friend of her father’s and so, at times Bella hadn’t been sure if Mercia really believed in her, or whether she was determined to use her resources to make her into the next best thing because of her relationship with Charles. Even more so for this reason, Bella had been pleased that Mercia had referred to her ‘gift’ and not her father’s title as the inducement to help her.

When she had doubts like this, she submerged herself in her next painting. But even that process had changed since she began to work with Mercia.

‘The showing has to have a subject,’ Mercia said. ‘The paintings will all come under that. Then, no matter who buys the best one, the others will sell as part of this narrative. They’ll each be able to brag they have a piece of it.’

Mercia’s advice made sense and for once Bella’s private art had a focus that she’d never had before.

They’d decided on ‘Temptation’ as being the theme. Bella had chosen the painting of Eve as the centrepiece. They would all be offshoots of this one. Stories that told of how the world was corrupted after the very first temptation. At the last minute though, Bella had changed the title. She’d called it The Death of Eve, and the painting itself showed Eve writhing as though in the throes of agony, even though her face was the picture of serenity.

When Mercia saw the picture, she took a seat and stared at the canvas without saying a word. She had expected simplicity aided by the beautiful flow of Bella’s brush strokes. A straightforward portrayal of the garden, the snake and Eve. She had not expected this wholly unique and somewhat sexual image of a woman being strangled by a snake. The image was in fact quite dark and shocking. It was not the kind of thing she would have expected from Bella and her background.

‘My God,’ she said eventually. ‘You’re going to be huge.’

‘You like it then?’ asked Bella showing her youth and insecurity.

‘You’ve done something here with temptation that I think will shock and titillate the best of our celebrity crowd. It’s amazing.’

‘The others, thematically shoot off from this one,’ Bella explained. ‘Look.’

Then Bella unveiled another. Here was the image of a young man snorting cocaine in a bathroom. The next piece showed a man cruising in a car looking for a prostitute. A third depicted a woman passed out in a grungy hovel, a baby in a basket nearby and an empty bottle of whiskey lying on the floor. The tableaux of sin were not that original but in each of the pieces, the serene image of Eve’s dying face was hidden somewhere: in the mirror over the sink watching the man in the bathroom; on a poster behind the prostitute, partly obscured by the trawling man’s car; reflected in the whiskey bottle of the drunken mother as though Eve was there in the room, just off canvas. Mercia was astonished by the depth of thought behind the work.

‘It’s like …’ Mercia stopped, her brow wrinkling as she struggled to find the right words. ‘Life, after the first temptation, overseen by Eve, and yes, the seven deadly sins to boot. You’re a genius my dear. People love sin! I did not expect you to rise to this level of inspiration so soon. And you, so young to show such insights.’

Bella was pleased with the praise and so she continued working on the pieces until Mercia was happy that the collection was complete and she arranged to have them packed and shipped over to the Hollywood gallery where they would be shown.

Now, Bella watched as Mercia’s movers carefully packed each of the pre-covered paintings. She felt an odd satisfaction as they went into the crates, protected as they were not only from potential damage but also from prying eyes. For no one other than Mercia and herself had seen them and no one would until they were displayed at the gallery.

Bella’s jaw set in a firm line as the crates were carried down the huge staircase of the large country estate house and out into a huge white van waiting on the gravel driveway. She felt nothing for the works now that she’d produced them. They were all destined to be sold, though Mercia had said she would have them professionally photographed so that prints could be made at a later date. And ‘possibly’ even an art book!

As the van drove away from the house, down the long, private, tree-lined driveway, Bella turned and went back inside.

Back in her studio she uncovered the ‘other’ painting. The one that Mercia hadn’t seen and never would. But it was the source of her inspiration. The starting point.

The brush strokes weren’t as sure or as developed as now. But the signature on the bottom was the same: Bella C.

On the back of the canvas the title of the piece was scrawled in light pencil.

Eve’s Temptation.