All the Bright Contagions

All the Bright Contagions

Beautiful, mischievous and charming: Patrick Staunton is sufficient of a portrait artist to recognize trouble in the beautiful wife of his wealthy employer, and hardly needs the warning of mafia connections from an old Polish friend. 'Of course you will fall in love with me, I guarantee it', Natalie Stumpfl tells him at a Frankfurt nightclub, and remorselessly Staunton is drawn into her scandalous past even as he begins to understand the roots of his own tangled relationship with women. He closes his eyes to the murders of his father and girlfriend, and to the money-laundering activities of his employer, blindly following Natalie through Spain, the art-world of England and Russia. Will she leave the husband she despises, or does she despise all men, allowing only women to be fully intimate with her thoughts?

In stopping his headlong descent into crime, Staunton crashes the car in which they are travelling, and is arraigned for attempted murder. A celebrated court case brings out the shadows of Natalie's past as Staunton tries to secure the affections of a woman who is both his despair and continuing inspiration.

US$6.95, or click on the links below to read the first chapter free.

CHAPTER ONE (Excerpt)

I worked some more colour into the background until the phone rang a third time.

'Ah, there you are', said my dealer. 'You remember the lunch we talked about? Well, I have Mrs Stumpfl with me now. Shall we say one thirty?'

So it had come back, one of those advances that were always threatening the little sandcastles I built to the vagaries of women's charm.

'So that's a yes, is it, old boy?'

'Reg, I spent the whole weekend there. Toured the estate, admired the pictures, did everything needed, but not once did a commission come up. There's a living to earn, and if Sir Richard's portrait isn't finished on time—as the secretary keeps ringing to tell me—there will be blood on the moon.'

'Then we've good news for you.' The voice broadened into sunny cordiality, and over the phone came a picture of the scene at the Cope Street Gallery. Reg Ecclestone with green tie under crumpled corduroy suit, glasses pushed up over a great dome of a head, probably lunging about the desk, waving the receiver in the air. Opposite would be Mrs Stumpfl, her neat figure dressed in something from Stehle or Catherine Walker. I can give you the jottings. A suave Russian beauty, controlled in her movements, with brilliant, grey-blue eyes that seemed larger than their surroundings.

Heinrich Stumpfl got the same treatment, though with less approval: the travelled executive with the smooth manners, the frizzled hair thinning and scraped back. That's what came to me as we sat at table: the Stumpfls, an MP acquaintance and an American couple staying the night. Natalie Stumpfl was poised and correct, that shimmering body hardly belonging to its dress. Heinrich Stumpfl was politely affable, like a Swiss banker with important clients, leaving his wife to arrange the seating and lead the conversation. I was intrigued, but also annoyed as the evening wore on and there was still no talk of a commission. Reg's bullying rankled, though I hadn't been looking forward to another stay with Christine's parents, which the weekend was replacing.