Chapter Twelve

It was a handsome book - rich, deep green binding with hand-tinted end-papers, deckle-edged pages of thick cream paper that set off the elegant black typeface. The details of each drawing or painting practically leapt off the page, looking like an original rather than a printed reproduction. Handling the book, flipping the pages and looking at it, Devon could hardly believe it was all his work. "It's great," he commented, smiling widely. He handed the copy to Libby. "This one's for you - I've signed the fly leaf for you."

Libby took the book, opened it and read the inscription. Shutting it again, she grabbed him for a quick kiss and murmured something in his ear that had them both laughing. "I can't - not right now, anyway," he answered her, "I've got to go and sign books."

"I know," she said, "but that'll give you something to think about while you're sitting at the table in the bookstore getting writer's cramp."

Devon grinned, "Yeah, like more than 2 or 3 people are gonna buy an expensive book of prints like this one."

"You'd be surprised," she murmured to herself as he waved and shut the front door behind him. She heard his car start up and heard him drive off. Sighing happily, she went into her office and sat looking at the book for a bit, even though she knew every sketch, every brush stroke of each painting by heart. The book had taken him almost two years from idea to fruition, and a lot of cheer-leading, cajoling and downright yelling on her part to get done. Now, she knew, he was really proud of it. When she'd broached the idea, he'd almost laughed her out of the room.

Mrs. Wallace stuck her head in the door, "Dev gone to the bookstore, dear?"

Libby glanced up, "Yes - he should be back in a couple of hours. He looked nice, by the way, I made sure his hair was combed and everything."

They smiled at one another. Devon's resistance to what he termed unnecessary grooming and pretense was all right except when an occasion really called for such trappings, then they had to practically drag him, kicking and screaming, into a suit, nice shirt and a tie. Even today, for instance, he'd resisted the shirt and tie and instead worn a soft cashmere pullover with his dark gray slacks. He had even brushed the wayward waves of chestnut hair and promised not to rake his hands through it, if he could remember to, so it ended up a mass of half-tangles. "I can't promise perfection, luv," he'd informed her.

Admiring him from the bedroom doorway, she had just shaken her head at him in exasperated fondness and admitted he was pretty close to perfection as he was. "Not that you need anything else to swell your head."

He had grinned at her and seized her for a few short but passionate kisses, whispering in her ear that when he got back he'd show her a swelling that would boggle her mind. Libby had swatted him, giggling, "Promises, promises - now go before you're late!"

"I'll discuss this with you when I get back," he had promised, and she knew he would. One way or another.

Thinking back over the time since she'd first seen him, trussed up and unconscious in the back of the police van, it was difficult sometimes to remember that he was the same person as the tattooed, defiant skinhead hoodlum. He had changed so much! But then - so had she.

She opened the patient chart on top of the stack in front of her, turned on the radio and set to work making notes in the file. The time passed rapidly, and she heard the front door open and close as she finished with the last chart. Startled, she glanced at the desk clock and realized it was nearly six. "Devon?" she called out.

"Yeah, it's me - the famous artist," he answered. She heard the chinking sound of his keys hitting the top shelf of the bookcase in the foyer, and met him just as he crossed to her office door. "Hey," he greeted her softly. "I signed some books."

"I knew you would - how many do you think?"

He slid his arms around her and hugged her close. "Ten - I was shocked. The publisher's ecstatic - they want me to come to some big book fair in Sydney next month - they're going to have a big booth of art books similar to mine, want all the artists there to sign books and such. They want me to display some of my work as well."

"Devon - that's great!" She leaned back in his arms to smile at him, "I'm so proud of you!"

He gave her a resounding kiss, swinging her around so her feet nearly came off the floor, "Yup, it's all your doing, y'know."

"It is not! The work was all yours - I just ragged you until you got the book together. Now put me down!"

He set her down gently and they went into the kitchen. The housekeeper had dinner in the oven and the delicious scent of roasted chicken filled the room. "Gawd, I could eat that whole thing," Devon commented, looking through the glass window of the warming oven.

"You will not!" Libby shot back. She held out a stack of plates, "Here, set the table so we can call Gram and we can eat - I'm starving too."

Devon dutifully set the table, snickering to himself at the mental image of Hando laying out china, silver and linen napkins. It was almost as humorous as Hando signing books of his artwork at the largest suburban bookstore in Sydney. 'Who'd have thought it?' he asked himself. "I'll go get Gram," he called when he finished.

They ate dinner and Mrs. Wallace went to bed early complaining of being tired from her bridge games earlier in the day. "Sure you weren't playing poker for money, Gram?" Devon teased her. He knew the ladies sometimes got bored with their decorous games of bridge and gambled over poker instead. She just made a face at him and went upstairs, laughing.

"You shouldn't tease her about it - it embarrasses her," Libby chided him as they set the dishes in the sink.

"Well, she should be embarrassed - the director of the social club caught them last time, and there's not supposed to be any gambling there unless they get a special permit for a charity event or such like. What if they'd all gotten arrested?"

She had to agree that would have been much more embarrassing. "But, I'm sure she'd have thought it was a big adventure."

Devon, who had been arrested several times while living his other life, merely grunted and dropped the subject. It wasn't an adventure, it was just plain demeaning - especially when you couldn't bail yourself out but got sent off to prison. He'd already talked about that whole period of his life with Libby, and he had come a long way in putting it all into perspective and handling it as part of his learning to be his true self and not some put-on criminal persona. Still, it was an unpleasant memory.

Libby, who practically read his mind, didn't comment on it again. "I'm going to straighten my desk," she told him, "I left files all over it earlier."

"Okay, I'll be in the studio," he answered. He walked down the hall to the big, airy room that was now his art studio and flicked the lights on. During the daytime, the big windows let in light from 3 sides so he could work in natural daylight. At night, he had lamps on his work table that gave him almost the same effect, but for now, he wasn't sketching or painting, he was putting away new supplies of paper, pens, pastels and paints that he'd bought on the way home from the book signing. He opened the drawers of the cabinets and put each item in its place, humming to himself.

Libby appeared in the doorway with a small package in her hands, "I got you something to celebrate your book signing," she told him in response to his questioning look. She handed him the gaily wrapped box. "Open it."

"Libby," he said warmly, grinning, "you didn't have to do that - but I'm glad you did!"

She knew he loved presents, and she just stuck her tongue out at him now. "Go on, open it and quit lying that you're not pleased about it."

He ripped off the paper to reveal a huge box of colored crayons - the size box every child is thrilled to get at Christmas or a birthday. He exclaimed over it just as much as he would have over a set of expensive artist's pencils. "These are great! Now all I need is a coloring book."

"I thought you could color in one of yours," she teased, indicating a stack of half a dozen copies of his new book.

He gave her an affronted look, "Sacrilege!" he informed her. "I'll just color in your fashion magazines or something."

"In that case," she said, "let me just get this other thing," and she was out the door, back a moment later with a huge pad of inexpensive paper. The covers indicated it was especially for crayons. "This might do?"

He took it and said that it just might. Setting it and the crayons on his work table, he gathered her close and kissed her for a bit. After a few minutes, he reached over and flicked off the lights. "Maybe we should go upstairs," he hinted.

"Oh?" she feigned innocence, "has something come up?"

He rubbed himself against her, "Oh, I'd say so, yeah."

She giggled and they walked to the stairs wrapped around one another. As they passed the open door of her office, however, the sounds of the evening news from her radio told them she'd left it on. "Oops, gotta turn that off," she said. He stood in the doorway as she went over to her desk. He listened despite other things on his mind.

"In other news this evening," the announcer said, "Jack Reed, infamous former police detective and one-time director of the Sydney anti-gangs unit, who was the ring-leader in the Devon Wallace kidnapping nearly three years ago, died today in the Royal Prison hospital at Ombarra. The press liaison of the prison said Mister Reed had died from advanced prostate and testicular cancer. In sports news. . ."

Devon and Libby stared at one another across the short distance between them, then she flicked off the radio. "So," she said, searching his face, seeing the conflicting emotions play across it, "he's dead at last."

"It doesn't seem real," Devon finally commented. He'd wished for Jack's death so often - and now, here it was, a reality. And of such a nasty disease. "Ironic, isn't it? Cancer of the prostate and testicles - God." He shuddered slightly.

"Seems fitting to me," Libby commented. "I hope they rotted."

"Libby!" Devon said, slightly shocked for a moment, then he shook his head, marveling at the bloodthirsty nature of women. He was always startled by it, although he knew he shouldn't be. "I think he got what he deserved," he finally said, after some consideration. "It took awhile, but I'm sure it's a just punishment for what he did."

"Well, I'd have liked to do a few things to him myself," Libby added as they walked up the stairs, "but I'm sure there'll be some Divine retribution waiting for him."

"Remind me never to piss you off," Devon teased her. He went into his dressing area and took off the sweater and slacks. "I'm just going to get a shower," he called, and went into the bathroom. He started the water running and got in, enjoying the frothing spray from the multiple nozzles. What an odd day, he thought, one extreme to the other - art and prison and just desserts to an evil man. He lathered up with his sandalwood soap just as Libby whipped the shower door open and darted inside. "Well, come on in," he urged, laughing.

She grabbed the soap from him and they were shortly both soaped up and playful, sliding against one another and tickling, kissing - adult water sports, she called it. She reached down and stroked him, ringing his hard cock with her fingers. "How d'you want it?" she asked in a throaty voice.

Devon quivered, fighting not to just throw her over his shoulder, toss her onto the bed and have at her. "I'm not sure," he answered, "can I get back to you on that?" Then he laughed loudly as she swatted him on the rump. "Okay, okay - in the bed, I'm not into getting all wrinkly in here tonight." So they rinsed off, shut off the water, and dried one another, playing more games of stroke and caress, tease and kiss until he actually did throw her over his shoulder and then bounce her onto the bed.

He climbed on top of her and literally growled at her, although there was laughter in his eyes as well as lust. Libby welcomed him inside her body, urging him to not be gentle, and so he wasn't. He took her as if he were storming the walls of some fortress, intent on pillage and rapine. Hips pumping, he pounded into her wet heat as her gasping moans filled his ears, heating his blood even more. He kissed and bit and licked her, suckling her breasts until her nipples swelled and pulsed in time with her sex as he filled it again and again with his heated length. He brought her to climax twice before allowing himself release, and when he did finally come, his whole body went rigid as - head thrown back - he groaned harshly and shot into her endlessly. At last, empty, he collapsed against her. "God," he commented after a bit.

"I think I saw Him that time," Libby answered as he moved off her and cuddled her against him. She rested her head on his chest and stroked his firm belly. "Did I mention I've been off the pills for almost two weeks now?"

He blinked, then smiled, "No, you didn't, Miss-I-forgot to-tell-you."

"Well, I'm telling you now. I think it's time we made a baby, don't you?" She knew he'd been thinking about it, and they had, actually, discussed it. Now seemed the right time.

"So does this mean I have to sacrifice myself to you twice daily and three times on the weekend?" he teased her, playing with a lock of her hair.

"Oh, at the very least, I should think. Maybe four times."

He just groaned appropriately. After a bit, he grabbed her and lifted her - giggling and squealing in mock protest - so she sat astride his hips. "Round number two," he informed her, and set about his work. "Let's get you pregnant."

He did his work diligently and without protest.

They named her Michelle Elizabeth and she has her father's eyes.