Meredith Chancellor in distress made to strip to white lace bra and panties. Detail with altered background from unknown Men's Magazine.

Brian's work influenced me in another way. Pictures of tied-up women are certainly not my thing. But I liked the way that Brian uses illustration at the beginning and end of each chapter. I prefer drawings to photos and Brian has kindly sent me some of those to suit my text. He has also been generous in adding gags and blindfolds to these as requested, often making alterations on demand. I sought out some of my own and cut details from those and Brian has done a similar job on those. I will normally limit these to one a chapter. But I am sure that Jeb would welcome feedback either from those who find that they spoil the story by prescribing images, or form those who would like more of these.

The courier wore motorcycle leathers, the face invisible behind the helmet's opaque visor. Charlie Osborne took the small brown jiffy bag from the gloved hand and looked at the name. Meredith Chancellor. He smiled. Of all the women who worked in the building and came past him every morning and evening, Meredith was the one he liked to ogle the most. The package was an unexpected boost. It was express, courier-delivered, and evidently urgent. Charlie would have to take it up to Miss Chancellor and when he did so, he'd get another close-up look at her.

She was older than the secretaries who flooded past him each morning. Meredith, he knew, was in her mid thirties: thirty-five to be precise. However, she was none the worse for that. At five foot eight, Meredith was tall with a still-narrow waist that efficiently bisected shapely breasts and long legs. She wore her auburn hair at shoulder-length, and it neatly framed an oval face that was lit up by two hazel eyes whenever she smiled. When she wasn't smiling, those same two hazel eyes smouldered appealingly.

In addition to her body, Charlie liked the way Meredith Chancellor dressed. The secretaries in the office all seemed to wear the same outfit: white shiny blouses, through which you could see the patterns and details of their bras, tight short skirts, and shiny patent, spiked high-heeled shoes. Meredith, dressed more soberly, as befitted an attorney. She preferred smart woollen suits, with skirts that ended only a few inches above the knees, opaque silk or cotton shirts which forced Charlie to use his imagination, and sensible shoes with high heels she wouldn't fall over in if she had to run.

The courier said nothing as the package was handed over. Rude, Charlie thought, suppressing his normal smile. He looked up to sign for the package. But the courier had disappeared without waiting for a receipt. That would never happen if he had his way. No receipt, no pay. Disgusted, Charlie turned towards the lift.

If Charlie had been observant, he would have noticed that no motorcycle stood at the building's entrance. He would have been more surprised if he had known that the courier kept moving on foot, negotiating two corners and traversing two blocks before slowing and disappearing down a narrow lane between adjacent four-story buildings. Two minutes later the leather-clad figure emerged into a small side road, which, once navigated, led into another of the city's main streets. Weaving through other pedestrians, the courier kept going until it was possible to turn off into another road that rose with a small but significant gradient. Unhindered by the heavy motorbike leathers, it took only a short time to reach the top of the short incline, then to disappear into an old building.

There was an elevator at the rear of the foyer. The courier crossed to it and pressed a button. As soon as the door closed, off came the right glove, and a small key was fished from the pocket of the leathers with elegant fingers. A turn of the key in a slot just below the panel that offered a choice of floors set the elevator moving. Although the panel did not register a basement, the elevator immediately began to descend.

A few moments later, the courier left the elevator and entered a small outer office where a middle-aged woman sat behind an office desk. The clock behind her showed the time at just after midday. The courier raised the cycle helmet to release a cascade of raven hair that settled on to the neck in an elegant bob. Blue eyes accompanied a delicate face with dark eyebrows and an elegant nose.

'Ah, Miss Metcalf.' The woman behind the desk almost rose. 'How did it go?'

'Fine, Miss Grainger,' answered Moira Metcalf. 'Is the bossman in?'

'Other office, Miss Metcalf,' the woman replied crisply, resuming her seat. 'Other office.'

Charlie Osborne grinned appreciatively when he entered Meredith Chancellor's office, his eyes rewarded by the sight of her. It was warmer than in the foyer, due not only to the air conditioning. Meredith had removed her jacket and was sitting in such a way that the white silk shirt stretched disarmingly across her chest. What was more, she was sitting in an easy chair in order to have a clear view of the twin-spired cathedral that dominated that part of the city. As a result, her skirt lay taut across her legs at mid thigh, unintentionally inviting Charlie's eyes to linger there.

'Can I help you?' Meredith asked, a little tartly.

'Oh,' Charlie gulped. Instinctively, Meredith tugged at her hemline. The office doorman always looked at her that way and no doubt always would. But that was no reason to encourage it.

'Here,' Charlie answered monosyllabically. He reached the package towards Meredith then stood and gawked uncomfortably. Meredith took the small jiffy bag.

'Is there anything else?'

'No.' Charlie managed the syllable with difficulty before turning on his heels. Meredith smiled. Charlie wasn't a bad sort, even if he did take rather too great an interest in her body. Forgetting the doorman, she tore open the package. It contained an airline ticket and a note.

'All done,' she announced when he came back with her drink.

'Good, good, good,' Donald announced. He was a large man in his early fifties with a mop of red hair still untainted by any traces of grey. He lifted his glass to his lips with a hand that, despite its size, looked remarkably gentle, as if it could never be raised in anger.

Moira sipped her single malt. 'So what now?' she asked.'

'You meet her in the town square as planned, old girl. I've booked you a private flight.' He proffered a piece of paper, which she looked at appreciatively. 'If she hands over the file, so much the better. Let her go. We can pick her up later if we need to. If she hasn't got them, at least see if she'll tell you where Gail Keen is hiding.'

'And if I can't?'

'Try to scare her. We need to know for sure if she knows where the file is and how far she is wrapped up in this case.'

'I don't believe ... '

'You don't believe she's in on it? What's that, feminine intuition or feminine solidarity?'

Moira smiled. 'Just common sense. And I've said before, I think it's a mistake to involve her in this way.'

'Perhaps.'

'Perhaps has nothing to do with it. She's a lawyer, not a thief.'

'She wouldn't be the first lawyer to want to get rich quick. Nor the first one to over-estimate herself.'

Moira shook her head in denial. 'I don't see it myself, but ... ' Smiling courteously she drained her malt. 'You're the boss, Donald. And I'd better be off.'

Donald McEwen watched the elegant sway of her hips as she left.

Chapter One

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