Such words as "progress" and "civilization" have very positive connotations. Almost everyone automatically assumes that progress and civilization are good for all concerned. On rare occasions, however, a perceptive observer will point out that progress is usually equated with science, which has frequently failed to give us unalloyed blessings, and that supposedly civilized people are not always that much happier than so-called primitives.
One such observer is California psychologist William Glasser, M.D. Glasser is the author of three books, Reality Therapy, Schools Without Failure, and The Identity Society (the latter just published by Harper and Row). He feels that human society has been through three major phases throughout history, and is just entering a fourth. In a recent article in Saturday Review, he sums up his ideas succinctly.
"So quickly that few have recognized what is happening, a society that had lasted for 10,000 years has begun to dissolve. In its place, a new society has been growing up, one in which the mores, habits, and goals of a hundred centuries are being profoundly altered. Some might take longer than others to recognize this colossal reorientation; many will undoubtedly spend the rest of their lives resisting the new direction of humanity. But it is real."
This is a startlingly dramatic statement, even upon careful re-reading. But Dr. Glasser has studied history carefully. His facts are thoroughly documented, and his theory seems to fit them. Further consideration will make it quite obvious that the usual preconceptions are by nature prejudiced in favor of the status quo. As Glasser says:
"Because civilized survival societies have dominated the earth for the past ten thousand years, and because the written record of man's behavior is contained entirely within that period, the human species has come to deluded by its own propaganda. There is now a common belief that life became easier for man with the advent of civilization, that the species has enjoyed more happiness during the recorded history of settled, agricultural, property-owning people. This belief prevails in spite of little evidence to support it. In fact, there is good evidence that the lives of two-thirds of the people in the world today are much less gratifying in terms of ease and human satisfaction than were the lives of men who lived during almost half a million years of the primitive identity society."
"Is Dr. Glasser, then, predicting a return to a more primitive society? By no means. What he sees, instead, is a civilization in which individuals strive for personal "roles" instead of material "goals." Here is his brief summation of the vital change:
"Led by the young, the half-billion people of the Western world have begun a tumultuous revolution toward a new, role-dominated society in which people concern themselves more and more with their identities and how they might express them. Of course, people still strive for goals, but increasingly these are vocational or avocational goals that their pursuers believe will reinforce the independent human role. The goals may or may not lead to economic security, but they do give people verification of themselves as human beings."
Bruce J. Brooks, the author of The Beautiful Bitch, is not a doctor, but he too has studied history thoroughly, and seems to have reached conclusions similar to Dr. Glasser's. They are by no means explicitly stated in the book, which is primarily a work of entertaining fiction, but a careful reading will show that they lurk just below the surface.
We have seldom read a novel with such a varied and yet totally convincing cast of characters. The heroine, Tricia Goode, is a typical innocent young girl, but she is deeply disturbed because she seems to hate everything about her life without fully understanding why. In strong contrast to her is the cold, selfish Vicky Martin, the "beautiful bitch" of the book's title, whose arrogant actions directly or indirectly influence all of the action. Then there are the men -- Roger Martin, Patrick Doyle, Larry Stevens-- who all quite clearly have tangible goals of one sort or another and will sacrifice almost anything to reach them.
There are others, including Lee Jergens, the lesbian whose chief and completely overt goal is to convert Tricia to her way of life. We do not wish to give away too much of the plot at this point, however, except to note that as in all worthwhile fiction the action depends on the reactions and influences those characters have on each other. We do not think we will give away the ending if we say that it is Tricia's discovery of a genuine "role" for herself rather than any "goal" imposed on her from without that brings about the surprising but fully believable climax.
Narrow-minded readers may find some of the scenes shocking as men and women alike toss conventional moral behavior aside in their greedy search for pleasure, money and power. But these are the scenes that flesh out the skeleton of the plot and make it come to life. Thoughtful readers will take them as they are intended: essential illustrations of the theme.
And the theme just may be one of the most vital you have ever encountered.
-The Publishers
CHAPTER ONE
"Don't worry." His voice was a whisper. "I won't hurt you. Trust me, dear. Let me stay a little while."
His intense eyes looked down into Tricia's and she knew that she could trust him. Didn't love mean trust? Magically, she felt herself propelled to the bed and then she was conscious of him above her, her gaze focused on his firm mouth with the gleam of strong teeth inside. Out of nowhere a hand slid, tantalizing, burning, over the rise of her young tits, down past her waist and then making little circular motions on one thigh.
Something like a furry animal leaped up within her. Fear, mingled with an itchy, burning desire she had never known before, spurted through her body. The expanses of her youthful flesh, now exposed, tingled for more caresses. Yet in the back of her brain she knew he should go, that it was wrong to be here together behind a locked door--and on a bed.
An alarm bell jangled distantly. Tricia struggled, moaned--and then heard his smooth whisper again.
"Trust me."
Well, why not? She was so warm and soft and weak--she really didn't want him to go. Not yet. In a little while, perhaps. But not now. Oh, not now!
It took Tricia Goode a long time to realize that the new sound injecting itself into the room was her own jet-like breathing. Writhing, she tried to evade his hands, which were finding their way through the openings of her clothing. But she could not evade them--they followed her, found her, fondled her as if they had inclinations of their own. And punctuating the twisting drama were the unmistakable tugs that meant her clothes were now being stripped from her body. When it actually happened she had no idea, but suddenly she was naked. Under the eyes of a man--naked--for the first time in her life. The sensation was thrilling and fearsome all at the same time. That swirl of pinkness at the foot of the bed was a bra and panties and slip--hers!
"Trust me."
The words were daggers, jabbing, stabbing, piercing the last core of resistance.
Breathing was difficult. As if a blanket was smothering her, suffocating her, slowing the world's movements down to the slow motions that her body was now churning through. Her head was light and yet heavy, her lips quivering, the peaked points of her breasts aflame under his fierce attention.
Only rarely in her young life had she gotten any hint of what resided within this tight container that was her body. True, there had been warnings, and she should have heeded them. Was it too late? She was hurtling down a steep hill on a motorcycle with no brakes, gathering momentum, unable to halt the terrifying rush, throbbing deep in her belly with the impending ecstasy of danger, excited beyond the point of uttering anything more than moans and choked-up sighs.
Then he pressed his face to her firm bosom and began to lick and suck. Wild sensations went through Tricia.
His wet sucking mouth moved from nipple to nipple, and he licked each one thoroughly before he took the tingling flesh-buds between his lips. He sucked and laved them with his warm, moist tongue. He nibbled at the pegs of erectile tissue and hot darts of sinful delight coursed through her body.
"No, no!" she screamed aloud, and she writhed against his face. But it only caused her taut breasts to vibrate and her nipples to leap in and out of his mouth, arousing him still further. He caressed her quivering tummy, then slid his hand down over her mound and between her thighs, pressing the heel of his hand against the flaming, moist lips of her cunt.
Tricia closed her eyes against the tremendous thrills that rocked her. And then as his fingers petted her pussy directly, she felt that she must cry out for him to take her. He leaned on one of her legs, holding it against the bed.
"I hate you, Walter!" she screamed, although her hot young body was singing a different tune. Her virginal cunt was already awash with excitement, and she knew his hand was making him aware of the fresh, warm moistness from her pussy as it seeped its girl-juices, coating his fingers and palm.
Now he grasped her by the ankles, and pushed outward, spreading her legs apart. The result was that her crotch and ass were laid open to his lascivious gaze as they'd never been exposed to anyone before.
Her cheeks burned with mortification as she imagined his hot eyes prying into the pink, moist split of her vulva and touching the tight puckered hole of her anus.
Walter's prick pounded with blood as he gazed at the breathtaking beauty of her firm thighs, so creamy-smooth as they converged on the hair-fringed splendor of her virginal cunt-- then at the cunt itself, small and tight, yet partially open to him now as he held her legs well apart. Finally his gaze stroked like a paintbrush down into her buttock cleft where a pinkish-brown dimple winked at him from between white, firm loaves of flesh.
Next, Tricia's legs were pushed almost up to her breasts, and she felt utterly humiliated, but her pussy was dribbling madly. She imagined Walter could see the pearly moisture oozing out of it, as it curved toward him, ripely split.
And then... and then her pleasure senses felt his warm, grabbing kiss against the center of heat, while her legs were placed atop his shoulders and his head bowed into the sweet, warm valley between her thighs.
Tricia reacted with panic. He mustn't do this to me! she thought. Not THIS!
But he zestfully lay his long, moist tongue against the ever-moister, pink slash of her pussy and began to sensually swab it up and down, licking indiscriminately over her silky hairs and the slippery edges of her cuntal folds.
How magnificent! her mind screamed, and it became even better, if that were possible. Walter wiggled his sinful tongue in between the lathered flanges of her cunt and slurped up her free-flowing juices, fluttering little tongue-lashes against her hot-as-cinder little clithead, which trembled and throbbed so blissfully that Tricia was sure she would explode. Walter wormed his tongue in and out of all the labyrinthine folds and finally concentrated on the hot secret opening of her vagina, licking ardently, trying to penetrate it. But her maidenhead stopped him from getting his tongue in very far.
Tricia was ooh-ing, aah-ing and wiggling her legs on his shoulders as he refused to stop licking, sucking and biting at her little pea of a clithead.
Tricia grooved, flipped, went wild with passion. She felt her brain going up like a rocket when he took the clit between his teeth and bit on the spongy, firmly fleshy protrusion.
"Oooooh-oooh--ooh--ooh!" Tricia panted as she kept throbbing in utter bliss, her clit vibrating against his teeth and lips and tongue.
Then Walter was back up over her and she felt his weight. She stared up at him with her pink lips moistly parted, her high, aching breasts rising and falling, their rosy nipples stretching against his chest, and she waited.
A question shot through her mind like a bullet. How could this be so terribly wrong, yet unspeakably good at the same time?
Walter's prick gave a series of tight jerks as he massaged her beautiful fanny, rolling, quivering, shivering its close-set globes.
Tricia squealed with a sudden sweet shock. Walter kept caressing the inner mouth of her cunt with the glistening head of his prick, widening the cunt-mouth slightly and stretching the hymen, readying it for rupture.
The cockhead seemed to be talking to the lip-stretched stubborn cunt, demanding the full feel of hot female flesh around it as it throbbed violently with blood.
"Easy..." Walter whispered. "Easy..."
And the brutally blunt-headed cock burst through her virgin's tissue, the pain now ebbing from her body, a new voluptuous sense of pleasure replacing it as his length, bone-hard thick rod glided up tightly, stretching the channel, the great fullness creeping deeper and deeper into her. He was forging deeper, opening more and more with each stroke, the clutching, slipper snugness clinging around him. Fucking her, harder and harder, his hard belly against her soft one, his coarse hair against her fluffy down, the encircling wet-warm taking him and taking him and taking him, the fullness supreme, so awesome Tricia was sure she could never let go. She opened and blossomed and gave up all reserve, the inner muscles of her pussy quaking, her legs scissoring at him.
"Yesss! Ooh, dooo it!" Tricia heard her own voice cry out, drowning out completely the small voice that still cried NO!
She panted and worked her hips eagerly beneath his. Then she felt the world closing in, and she couldn't breathe. She fucked up at him and let out a series of keen wails, gasping, feeling the moment come closer and closer until in a shattering moment the inward pressure turned into an outward rush, atingle from head to toe, in a blissful flood of warmth she had never before imagined.
As her taxi rolled to a halt at the pier entrance, Tricia Goode hopped out, flung a bill to the startled driver and then turned and raced away. A uniformed porter said, "Sailing on this ship, miss?"
She nodded and he took her bags from the back seat and followed quickly behind her.
Tricia went through the red tape of getting aboard. Tickets, passport, baggage, walking up the gangplank, feeling the eyes from the deck, fellow passengers appraising her girlishly slender figure in its flattering sheath of brand-new traveling suit.
She was finally led to her cabin door, and once inside she surveyed the neatly made-up double-decker bunks, the table and bureau bolted to the floor, metal chairs, a cushioned lounge. Above the lounge, like a big eye looking on all this, a single porthole.
Tricia sighed. Seven days in this tiny trap-- and sharing it with some unknown female besides. A roommate--unknown to her as yet-- would probably arrive any moment, she guessed. But all that was unimportant. She had escaped. Escaped from the grasp of the city, escaped from WALTER!
Well, hadn't she?
She felt swollen somehow--bloated, and for a silly moment she wondered if she could be pregnant. No, they were child-thoughts. But her breasts felt hot and heavy and she asked herself the question again. No, she was thinking like a naive virgin. Ex-virgin, she reminded herself acidly.
By climbing to the upper bunk she was able to look out the porthole and see the grand and evil outline of the city she had just left. He knew she was leaving this morning... that's why Walter had to make his play last night, she thought.
Last night. God, she couldn't even think of it. What a frightening, nightmarish... and beautiful night it had been.
She got down and looked in the mirror, and the look coming back at her was one of reproachful solemnity. And the guilt in those eyes!
Now, without even looking out the porthole, she could feel the city out there, pulsating like a gigantic heartbeat.
How she hated it! And hated Walter! And hated everything!
CHAPTER TWO
Over his shoulder, Roger spoke to his wife in what was meant to be a well-modulated snarl. "What are you doing now? Playing for one last time your little cock-teasing game? One last time before we board the crummy boat for Europe? For all I care you can cancel out the Europe trip and your little final teasing game."
But then he had to look at her. Vicky was propped against a pile of pillows, reclining on the circular bed with her knees drawn up. Over her richly rounded bosom she wore a pink brassiere; a pair of matching panties encased her slim hips. The jutting tits pressed out of the top of the bra with maddening casualness. Her waist was a slim isthmus of flesh that widened provocatively to stretch against the too-small panties in what appeared to be near the breaking point. The smooth undersides of her cream-hued thighs were faintly marred by the recent impression of stocking marks.
Clipped in concentrated ringlets, her auburn hair lay close to her delicate ears. Her eyes were utterly expressionless. Even her lips, full-blown, sensual, remained quietly unconcerned.
Beautiful, Roger thought angrily. A beautiful bitch. Much too beautiful to live. Having a woman like this was torture. Only not having her would be worse.
Languorously, without motion, she filled the bed, the room, the apartment, with a kind of throat-tightening futility.
Yawning lazily--as only she could--she stretched her arms and then sat up in a bone-lessly fluid movement. Her limbs flashed enticingly as she straightened up and moved toward him. "What's the matter, dear husband? Thinking about the lousy two thousand dollars the trip will cost. We'll have fun--and we just might keep our marriage off the rocks in the bargain--isn't that worth it?"
"Yes, a good time. That's really what you're looking for."
"Oohh, darling, can I help it if I feel the way I do about interesting men? It doesn't have to affect any feeling I may have left for you. Unless you make it such. Now, then... suppose we just let nature take its course, hmmm?" Her arms went about his neck as her middle slumped into him. "It just might be fun. Moonlit nights on the high seas, romance all over the fucking place."
Roger shook his head. "How can a beautiful bitch like you always ruin things with vulgarity!"
"Oh, don't think I'm limiting the fun to myself. If you get the urge, follow it. Only fair. Likewise, I'll follow mine."
"You and your urges."
"Mmmm. I got an urge now. Know for what?"
"I can hardly guess."
Her soft body stirred warmly, and Roger was helpless... again.
A knowing smile spread itself across Vicky's face as she rubbed the cleft of her vulva, which was surrounded by silken, curly red hairs, into his groin.
Roger's face flushed red. Angrily, he stepped back and slipped out of his robe. He gripped his swollen prick, and waggled it in front of her. "This what you want, Vicky? Well sure, only thing is you're going to take it tonight on my terms, not yours."
His penis twitched as it drew higher and tighter, its rosy head, slick and firm, was nearly breaking free of its encircling foreskin.
He pushed her to the bed, down on it, and the smile never left Vicky's face. He gained a workable hold on her flashing tanned legs and wrenched them wide apart. Her pussy opened to him. It was wet already, the little mouth of her vagina gaping in anticipation of his impending thrust.
Wrapping his arms around her naked legs, he tore off the panties and bra, and gripped her thighs from underneath, working his hands upward until he had hold of her firm, resilient buttocks. Lifting her ass that way, with his fingertips tickling its warm, silken crack, he moved in close, aiming his fleshy rod at her moistly receptive cunt.
Vicky whimpered, but the sound was strangely false.
His thumping glans touched the center of her soft vulva.
Then Vicky positioned the head of his cock just between her cunt lips, and withdrew her hand. Now Roger was playing with her lovely tits, his tongue lashing about her mouth, tasting the wet juices of her saliva.
His hand closed on her tit in a more urgent, squeezing movement, thumbing hard at the nipples.
Vicky panted into her husband's mouth, her tongue seeking his. They met and they licked each other making wet sounds with their juices. Roger lifted his mouth and buried his teeth into her soft shoulder, biting into the flesh. Vicky's nails clawed at Roger's back, reaching downward until they reached his ass.
And so Vicky Martin had the only thing she had ever really wanted;--the feeling of seven inches of man in her cunt. Even if this time it had to be her husband.
Revolving his hips, Roger made his cock rotate in a circular motion inside the burning hot and juicy pussy. Vicky began to clench and unclench her buttocks, squeezing that hard cock with all her inner might.
A cock sticking rigidly into her--god! how it felt!
"Oohhh," she whined as she twisted her hips in his hands, pressing her hungry loins against the base of his phallus. She could feel his balls against the cheeks of her ass, all drawn up and tense with passion for her. She flopped her head from side to side, her teeth biting her lower lip.
Roger watched her titties quiver, and her mouth contort. He took a firmer grip on the foam-rubbery cushions of her ass, and he wiggled them as he dug his cock in and out of her.
Roger's crude hands mauled and rediscovered every lush mound and crevice of her nude body, her moist flesh, squeezing her round tits together below the weight of his pumping body.
She bit her lips harder as her body rocked violently with his entry and retreat, entry and retreat. Roger was grunting and sweating profusely, his cock enflamed as always with this woman's flesh-feeling of her soft clinging chasm that swamped around it. And now the swift thrusting shocks of locomotion as her hips became a mass of heat and pounding, her body all wrenched and bounced and caught anew with each thick, dabbing stroke... his flanks and buttocks popping up and in and off and digging, undulating and jolting ever faster, his prick feeling hotter and more bloated with every ramming plunge, his mouth still groaning and ecstatic against her shoulder, her legs wrapped tightly about his body, squeezing and pushing, as he pummeled and dug... both going crazie and wilder for the approaching moment now... that soft clamping suction gripping at his battering cock, wet and warm, sticky and damp, merged and juiced and hooked together and... and...
That familiar moment of blind ferocity, thickly stuffed inside her, his cock stretching those woman-walls, her hot box lifting up and down on it, squirting her insides, gushing swarms tearing loose from his loins, hot juices spurting in jet streams.
Patrick Doyle was a near-miss.
Nearly a poet, novelist, actor, diplomat, playboy--not quite any, yet some of each. What caused him to elude any special designation was the irrefutable fact that he had never been hungry. Bequeathed a tidy fortune, he had been able to indulge his every whim. Blessed--or damned --with a facility for words, he achieved success in various fields so easily that he became bored. And although he was periodically plagued by requests for the fruits of his talents, he lacked both the desire and the need to do anything about it.
He had approached middle age (denoted by the younger generation as anyone over forty) finding that he was still--to his astonishment--unwed and carefree. Being more than a little cynical, though, he knew he was unlikely to attract any feminine companionship unless it was with his money, which he guarded zealously. Now and then, however, he chanced upon a girl who knew nothing of his wealth and at such times he enjoyed himself thoroughly.
Possessed of a unique sense of humor, Patrick Doyle transformed some of the most ordinary acts of passion into delightful excursions. He liked young girls, the younger and less experienced, the better. Not that he ever tempted fate --or the law--by being too rash or indiscreet; he merely preferred maidens untouched by human hands. Or human anything else's.
Cynical as he was, though, he sometimes took a genuine interest in people and their problems. Armed with money, intelligence and just a bit of compassion, he would apply all three in efforts to effect changes in certain lives. It was his hobby, in a way; rather than let sleeping dogs lie he preferred to kick them once in a while just to see what might happen.
Thus--upon boarding the ship--he took a cursory look around and decided that unless he took drastic steps the voyage was going to be insufferably dull. So he set about to make alterations. All he needed was personal information on some of the passengers. Being himself, he had the necessary free hand for putting his theories into practice, which he chose to do.
It was simple enough. He sought out the purser, one Paul Taylor, and with the aid of a few large bills, gained access to the passenger files. Taylor, luckily, turned out to be other than a dolt. It did not take Patrick Doyle long to learn that the muscular young man--a onetime college athlete--was not altogether unconscious of the fair sex. For one thing, he, as the purser, had in his quarters a fine stack of better than average erotica. No mean collector himself, Doyle was quick to come to terms with a kindred soul.
So rapport was established, breaking down all the social barriers, and they were off to a flying start. Patrick Doyle gave his confidence and Paul Taylor responded by promising full support. In turn, Doyle said he would try to deal Taylor in wherever and whenever it might be possible.
"Goode, Tricia." Taylor perused his list. "Young, pretty, a college type. May have possibilities."
"And the Martins. You probably know them, don't you? Roger and Vicky Martin? They're society people."
"The Martins--ah, yes. I do know them. Her, anyway. Yes, indeed, I know Vicky. Quite a woman. She would be a worthy addition to your library, Paul."
"Really?"
Doyle scribbled in his notebook again. "In every way. A worthy addition to any man's library. Next?"
Taylor rattled off more names. Doyle frowned at some and took notes at others. "Then there are a few odd potentials," the purser said after a while. "Like the dish who is gym instructor in a girls' school. Lee Jergens. Muscles, yet, but smooth."
"Traveling alone?"
"More or less."
"What stateroom?"
"This will kill you. The same one the Goode girl is in."
"Oh? Complications?"
"More than that, Mr. Doyle--competition."
"Ah, so the plot sickens."
"I'm afraid so. But things aren't all bad. Wait till you see the chick who calls herself Sabrina Moore. Self-styled model, actress, showgirl and what-have-you. Most unselfish-looking doll I've seen in a long time."
"How do you mean--unselfish?"
Taylor chuckled. "Generous."
"Fine, fine." Doyle rose from his chair. "Paul, I think you and I will get along quite well." He drew a manicured nail along his thin mustache. "Providing..."
"Providing?"
"Providing we continue to understand each other. I too am unselfish--up to a point. After that I shoot trespassers." And with a farewell nod, Patrick Doyle stepped out of the purser's quarters, notebook clutched firmly, and returned to his cabin to draw the battle-lines.
CHAPTER THREE
The dining room was a cacophony of clattering silverware and dishes as the passengers plowed full tilt into dinner. But Larry Stevens scarcely heard it. This was Patrick Doyle he was dining with--the Patrick Doyle.
"Oh, yes, I've dabbled a bit in architecture myself," the man was saying. "Ever heard of the Laurel Building? I had a hand in the designing of that one."
"I'll say I've heard of it. We studied it for an entire week last year. It's considered one of the finest of its day."
"Ah well, that day is past. I did the thing when I was close to your age, if I remember rightly."
Larry forgot the food that decorated his plate. A hundred questions rose to his lips; It was true, he recalled vaguely, that the name of Patrick Doyle had been listed in conjunction with the famous Laurel Building. And now here he was. To be face-to-face with such a man was unbelievable.
"Tell me, is it true that a couple of contractors turned down the job of putting the place up?"
"More than a couple," Doyle said. "They complained that the cantilevers wouldn't support the weight properly. But I designed it and I knew. If the ferro-concrete was any good then the principle had to work. Built the slabs right into the bedrock. No reason why the building shouldn't last a hundred years."
Dismissing the idiotic contractors with a shake of his head, Patrick Doyle bent to his meal, cutting the meat cleanly and expertly-- as he did everything. Every motion he made was precise to the point of perfection.
"Mr. Doyle..." Larry's tone was devoutly respectful. "What do you think is best for a young fellow to do these days? Go to school or work as a draftsman?"
"You mean book-learning as opposed to practical application? That's simple--junk the books." Doyle smiled. "But it appears you are doing just that by going to Europe."
"Good idea?" Larry asked eagerly.
"Might be--if you don't waste it. However, don't make the mistake of liking everything you see just because it happens to be by a foreign architect."
"How about Le Corbusier's stuff?"
"Fine--if you're interested in apartment houses." Doyle concentrated on his food for a few moments and then glanced up. "But there are other kinds of beauty in this world--other than architecture, I mean." He nodded his head in the direction of a table in the corner of the room.
Larry's gaze followed automatically. There were two women. One was a blonde with a strikingly dark tan complexion. And from what he could see, her figure was quite attractive. As she leaned across the table to speak to her companion, her substantially endowed breasts were note-worthy.
The other girl had her back to him and he couldn't see much of her. But his eyes took in enough--the sheen of the dark hair that hung to her shoulders and the softly curved cheek and the compact way her slim hips fit the high-backed chair.
He cleared his throat. "If you like blondes..."
"I don't," was the reply. "Not that much. I was referring to the young one."
"She's young all right. Too young, maybe."
Doyle snorted. "Look again, my friend. No girl with a figure like that is too young."
"Who is she? Any idea?"
"Tricia Goode. Daughter of a Detroit auto man. Grosse Point. Mackinac Island. Private schools. Class. Twenty years old--and a lot on her mind."
"Whew." Larry stared open-mouthed. "Sounds like an FBI report. Do you know everything?"
"Just about, I suppose. Everything worth knowing." The stern mouth split in a surprisingly candid smile. "Would you care to test me, perhaps?"
"No, thanks. I'll take your word for it."
"In that case, I'll ask you one. What are the measurements of that lovely child over there?"
"How would I know that?" Larry said. "Do you?"
"From long experience, I could make an estimate. Hips: 34, waist: 23, bust: 34. How does that sound?"
"Beats me. I don't estimate that sort of thing. If it were important enough, I'd find out personally."
"You would, eh? Ah, you young men." Doyle frowned somewhat. "I have a feeling that you're going to get into mischief before this voyage ends."
"Mischief?" As Larry spoke the dark-haired girl turned slightly; he got a quick flash of her radiant beauty. "Maybe I will. With that one I sure wouldn't mind. I was planning to do some work on the trip, but with things like that running around loose, I may never get around to it. She's a doll."
"She certainly is." Doyle pursed his lips thoughtfully. "The work you were going to do --is it important?"
"Not very. Just a textbook problem."
"Too bad."
"Hmmm? Mr. Doyle, what do you mean?"
"Oh, you know. The devil finds work for idle hands. You should be designing some real project. That's what I always was doing at your age. As a matter of fact..."
"Yes?"
"Ummm, let me think. Yes, why not? Why don't you start on a real project? Do one for me."
"For you? What?"
"A house," Patrick Doyle said slowly. "A house for me."
"You're kidding."
"Am I? Well, perhaps I am. You seem like a pretty clever young fellow--and I do plan on building a house soon. But if you're so quick to tell me I'm kidding, well, maybe you're not the..."
"Please. I'm sorry. You just tossed it at me too suddenly, sir. It's hard to believe you really mean it."
"That's understandable. But I'm given to hasty judgments, as you'll find out in due time. And I'm seldom wrong. That girl's measurements, for instance. And your ability as an architect. I'm sure I'm right in both instances. How about it--would you like to design a house for me?"
The words rang bell-like above the hum of the dining room. Larry realized that the man was serious, and the significance of it burst inside his skull like a pinwheel. To get a crack at a commission like this was fantastic.
"But--but you haven't seen any of my stuff."
"I've seen you! And as for your work, I'll see that when the time comes. Before the trip is over, I hope. Can you come up with a fresh design that soon?"
"I can try."
"Good. Do so, by all means. Show me something interesting and you've got a commission. Agreed?"
"I wouldn't have the effrontery to refuse."
"Of course not." Doyle extended his hand. "A deal?"
"A deal." They shook on it.
The rest of the dinner passed in a kind of paralytic stupor for Larry. He was certain he had forgotten all he ever knew about architecture. Buck fever. Stage-fright. At the same time he knew with a strange coldness that he had to make an attempt. The stakes were too high not to.
Anyway, what could he lose? He had planned to get some work done and now he had something specific to put some time on. Even if Patrick Doyle turned out to be a complete phony, the time still wouldn't be wasted.
But Doyle was no phony and Larry was positive of it. Besides, the guy hadn't been overly radical, really, he wanted to see a design first before awarding the commission. No, it was obvious that the offer had been made legitimately.
Larry gulped. This was a big day for him. And wasn't it odd the way it had all come about? Talking about a girl's measurements one minute and discussing the designing of a house in the next. Almost as if the two had something to do with each other.
Once more Larry glanced at the other table. The girl named Tricia Goode looked up to speak to a passing waiter; her face turned and he got a better view of her. He felt his muscles contract. Never had he seen anything so marvelous--except on a drawing board. Such a profile, so delicate, so sensitive. Little upturned nose and great big long-lashed eyes. Truly a divine creature.
Then he thought about the house. Could he get involved with a girl like that and still get the work done?
The lovely thing was still in profile. Her breasts, as displayed by the cut of her dress, weren't large but neither were they small. Separately, with the fabric falling between them to follow their classic curves, they rose with a quiet defiance.
He must have been staring too hard, for at that moment Tricia Goode's head came around and her eyes met his. She was even prettier now --lips full and pink, cheeks smooth and soft-looking. Larry felt himself blush and he began to contemplate his mashed potatoes--but not before the girl had acknowledged his attentions by narrowing her eyes in a show of irritation. No smile touched her lips. The lady was not amused. Larry wanted to crawl under the table arid die. But he knew--right then and there-- that he couldn't let it end like this. Sure, he would design Patrick Doyle's house. But how about the all-work-and-no-play adage? Could such a delightful girl touch his life without having a profound effect?
After dinner, Mr. and Mrs. Martin strolled out on the promenade deck. The sun had disappeared over the western horizon, leaving a rich orange afterglow. Darkness was riding up fast above the prow of the ship. Stars popped into view in the velvet sky, dancing on the swells of the black-green water. The sea split and sent out white-capped rolling waves.
Vicky looked attractive, dimming even the splendor of the setting. But then she always did look great, Roger knew, especially when traveling. Without any visible effort she could dress flawlessly while living out of a suitcase or steamer trunk. It was a quality that made other women overboil with envy.
They moved to the rail together and leaned over to peer at the rushing water. Vicky's belted gray frock was cut deep at the bodice and although he had watched her put it on just ninety minutes earlier, Roger could not repress a tingling sensation as his eyes flicked over the curve of one breast and the teasing fringe of the black brassiere.
After five years he could still get a Peeping Tom kick out of the sight of his wife's exciting body: as he was getting now, with the night breeze whipping at her skirt, flaring it and then pasting it against her thighs. Once when the breeze got too strong, it lifted the hem to reveal nearly the entire length of one leg high up above its sheath of nylon. Heart thumping, Roger swallowed audibly and gripped the rail.
Simultaneously he was aware--acutely so--that other men were directing surreptitious glances at Vicky's torso, clearly silhouetted as she bent low. Anger and pride struggled for expression, and if things were not going so calmly between them--as compared with earlier in the day--he might have punched a few noses. As it was, though, he decided to let well enough along.
"Happy, dear?" he asked.
Vicky nodded. "Mmmm, nice."
He brushed his lips against her hair. "About this morning, uh, I want to apologize. I behaved like an ass."
"It's all right."
"But it wasn't. I was acting stupidly and I ought to be man enough to admit it. Hell, it was just a misunderstanding. I had the crazy idea you didn't really want to come."
"I didn't." Vicky smiled.
"Didn't? But what..."
"Oh, I'm glad I'm here. Anything is better than New York in the summer. But there was no misunderstanding. The last thing I wanted was to get on this boat today. So for once you did know what I was thinking." She laid a hand on his sleeve. "However, that's all past and we are here."
Relief flooded him. For a time they did not speak, satisfied to watch the sea and its churning waves. It had been a long time since he felt this close to his wife. Could it be that at last he was coming to know her and anticipate her thoughts? It might be good to experiment. He could think about putting his arm around her waist, whispering gently into her ear and then leading her back to the cabin nonchalantly, opening the door and following her in, not turning on the lights but embracing in the dark, and piece by piece they could disrobe one another and then with the stars shining through the open porthole they would fall to the bed and lie side by side and...
"Guess who's on board," Vicky said, smashing the vision to a thousand fragments.
"Besides five hundred peasants, I can't imagine."
"An old friend of ours."
"Who?" he barked, suddenly interested.
"Patrick Doyle."
Roger's hands tightened on the rail. "Say that again."
Calmly, oh, so calmly--she repeated the hateful name.
He shuddered. "What is that lousy bastard doing here?" His voice rose at the last word, ringing out clearly. Strollers slowed down and stared curiously at his apparent distress.
Vicky shrugged. "It's not our boat, is it? I suppose the company is so careless that they just let anybody aboard. Anybody who can afford a ticket."
"But--why this boat?"
"Please," Vicky cautioned. "We're stopping traffic." Turning to a pair of sturdy schoolteachers, she murmured, "Isn't it a perfectly ghastly evening?"
Startled, the teachers were quick to agree. "Yes. Yes. If it only keeps up this way for the whole trip." Blinking, they hurried on their tweedy way across the deck.
"Take it easy, Roger. It has nothing to do with me. It's just a coincidence, that's all."
"Hah! Some coincidence." He spewed out a string of curses that touched upon the ship, the crew, the captain, the company and the illegitimate ancestry of half the passengers.
In silence, Vicky waited for his seizure to pass.
Roger ranted on. "And listen, I'm telling you. If that wife-stealing know-it-all even so much as looks at you I'll cut his goddamn throat."
"Oh, don't be angry, dear. Don't spoil everything. Just when we were getting along so nicely. Let's have a drink, hmm?"
The idea appealed to Roger. He grumbled for another moment and then looked about for a roving steward.
"Why not get it yourself?" Vicky said. "At the bar, I mean. And bring one for me, too."
He hated leaving her. But he grumped off, the purple rage still in him as he entered the jam-packed cocktail lounge. He took a place at the bar, preempting space with belligerent elbows, and stood trying to catch the bartender's attention.
"What's the matter, buddy-boy?" a husky voice intoned in his ear. "You get turned down or something?"
The source of the voice was a deliciously red full-lipped mouth that was hovering near laughter. Above it was a pair of highly amused green eyes topped by a professionally coifed swirl of copper-colored hair. The head was situated between a set of shoulders that were as naked as if in a Turkish bath.
"Don't look so scared, buddy-boy," the creature said over the rim of her glass. "I don't bite."
Roger was less scared than he was speechless. With an effort he managed to drop his eyes down to the upper boundary of the strapless gown. It reached just high enough to hide the major portions of her undeniably feminine anatomy. She actually looked as if she had been sewn into it.
"The name is Sabrina Moore--and I'm not on the make and I'm not scrounging drinks or luring men to their doom." The low-pitched voice seemed to emanate from her middle.
The bubbling anger began to cool. Although she wasn't the most beautiful woman in the world--too obviously sluttish for his tastes-- he couldn't take his eyes from her. When she talked, her lips showed an enchanting moist-ness that disturbed him.
Others were watching, he realized, but a sudden wildness gripped him. Spurred by Vicky's mention of the hated name of Patrick Doyle, it occurred to him that being seen with such a confection would in no way hurt his relationship with his wife. Indeed, a little jealousy might even help.
Let them look.
"I'm Roger Martin." The laughter in that face was infectious. "But you can call me buddy-boy. Tell me, sweet lady, are you licensed or do you free-lance?"
"I take a few chances now and then," she admitted readily. "Especially on ocean voyages. Can I buy you a drink?"
"Do I look like a gigolo?"
"Not at all. The point is that I never buy things for guys I don't like."
"And for the ones you like?"
"I buy, I give, I offer, I everything."
"You everything everything?"
"Not in a crowded barroom."
"Where, then?"
"Where, the man asks. Is he being naive?"
Roger leaned against the bar--for support. Five minutes with Sabrina Moore had as much effect on his emotions as a night with Vicky. For so long had he been accustomed to struggling, arguing, cajoling, threatening, that to be practically seduced on his feet was numbing, to say the least.
"Why me?" he said suddenly. His gesture encompassed the room. "You know, there are any number of virile males in this place. Younger than me--brawny, lusty types."
Her mouth broadened in a red smile. "Maybe I have peculiar tastes. I go for mature men. Men with black hair turning gray at the temples. Men who look like harried husbands."
"Is that what I look like?"
"Somewhat. So far you're the most interesting guy I've met on this tub. You aren't pawing me or peeking down my dress or pretending I don't even exist. You act like a grown-up, not a little boy."
She spoke with such candor that Roger felt an immediate intimacy. The girl was right, of course--he was more mature and knowledgeable of the female sex. Didn't he possess one of the most desirable women in New York as a wife? And his gray hair--well, that was no hindrance, not to a person as discerning as this one. It was likely that she was forever being pestered by oafish attempts to pick her up. He had played it just right by letting her pick him up. That always made a man more interesting to women.
Roger took a deep breath. If Vicky wanted to play with fire, okay, he'd give it to her. Right now. Sure, she was waiting for him to reappear with the drinks. Well, let her wait.
"This place," he said, "is getting on my nerves. Shall we head for my cabin and finish our booze there?"
Had he told Sabrina Moore that she had just won the Irish Sweepstakes, he couldn't have achieved a more intriguing effect. The corners of her mouth curled, her eyes melted and she hunched her naked shoulders cozily. She winked, poked out a damp lower lip and nodded once.
"I'll follow you," she whispered. "Ten minutes?"
He gave her the cabin number and left on unsteady feet. At the door he glanced back for one more look. From this distance he could see all of her, perched upon the barstool with one high heel hooked over the rung. The other leg rested on the floor, the dress painted skin-tight to her thigh. And with a shiver of anticipation, Roger whirled around and started toward the cabin.
"Did you tell him?" Patrick Doyle asked quietly as he approached Vicky Martin at the rail.
"Of course. He reacted just as you said he would. Says he's going to stick burning bamboo under your fingernails. Or shave off your mustache. Or both."
"A fiend, no doubt. Poor fellow. Did you have any trouble making the boat?"
"Hah! He talked himself into it." Vicky turned to him with spuriously innocent eyes. 'But doesn't it get tiresome to be so right all the time?"
"Not when I'm right about you, my dear. You look positively lovely tonight--as usual."
"Patrick," she said with lips scarcely moving, "you are such a rat. A prime rodent, if ever there was one. I don't know why I let you talk me into things like this."
"Don't you know? I'll tell you. First..."
"All right, all right." She looked around hurriedly. "This ship is simply crawling with busybodies. Can't we go somewhere and be alone? To my cabin?"
"Not there, Vicky."
"Why not? Roger is at the bar and I suspect he'll be there for the rest of the night."
"Not quite correct. If I judge right"--Doyle checked his watch--"he should be in the cabin about now. And I don't think our entry would be propitious."
"What are you talking about?"
The auburn hair framed the cream-colored face, enhancing the glistening lips and the flashing eyes. Her hands intertwined nervously as if she were having difficulty keeping them away from him. A deep breath made her agitated bosom rise.
Doyle lit a cigarette and flicked the match into the breeze. "You know I never do things haphazardly. As I'm well acquainted with Roger's ridiculous jealousy, I decided to hobble him for a while. Not unpleasantly, I might add."
The breeze caught at Vicky's perfume and wafted it to his nostrils. Her husband wouldn't have recognized her face now. It was full of concern and love and desire--things that the poor fool had rarely if ever seen there. The pink tip of her tongue slid over her lips in delicious bewilderment.
"Oh, it's not such a puzzle," Doyle explained. "There's a girl involved. Roger's captor is a tasty little package who will help him be taken off your neck." Then he added, "And mine."
"You are an insufferable, egotistic..."
"In that case I'd better go."
"Don't you dare. At least not without me, you monster. Where is your cabin?"
"Tsk, tsk. I think you already know where it is. Let me pick you up a jug of moonshine. I'll join you there."
A quarter of an hour later, Patrick Doyle opened the door and went into his cabin. There were no lights on; sole illumination came from the porthole.
"Vicky?"
"Mmmmmm..." It came from the bed.
It took a minute or so to adjust his vision to the gloom. When he did so, he made out a pale form lying on the turned-back sheets. Silently he took off his clothing. Then, carrying the bottle, he moved to the bed and stood over it.
Now he was able to see plainly every detail of the woman as she looked up at him. The lidded eyes, the parted lips, the dark points of bared breasts, the swift slope of the ribs, the breathtaking beauty of the geometric juncture of the white thighs.
He knelt on the bed. Holding the bottle high, he drank and then set it on the floor.
"It's been a long time, Patrick. Have you been deliberately avoiding me?"
"Not deliberately. I have other charges, you know."
"Uh-huh. Haven't you even missed me?"
"At times. How have things been with Roger? I must confess to an occasional twinge of guilt about that."
Her hand reached out, seeking him. "You should," she said. "If it weren't for the fact that he gives me everything I could possibly want --except that special kind of love--I would have left him long ago. Why did you ever sic him on me?"
"So that I would always know where you were." Doyle's body went taut. "I know where you are now, though."
"What burned me up," she breathed, "was that you knew me inside and out--better than I knew myself. You had no doubts that I would stick it out and wait for your phone calls. The calls that came so seldom. Oh, Patrick..."
Doyle's knees gave way and he sank beside her. His skilled hands traveled swiftly over the body he knew so well, finding the weak points, the sensitive spots that were so familiar to him. If he chose to, he could reduce her to a panting, limb-thrashing thing in a matter of minutes, eager to obey his slightest suggestions. But tonight that was not his wish. During the day his imagination had directed his wants into other, more leisurely channels. Vicky had been on his mind for quite a while.
He kissed her mouth gently and then moved his head so that his lips brushed over the hills of flesh that were her incomparable breasts. As though invisible wires were drawing him on.
The youthful body quivered as he kissed her again and she clutched at him frenziedly. His skull was thundering with that peculiar artillery which came upon him at times like this. He played sensuously with her bare feet for a moment. Then he bent and lightly sucked her girlish toes, one after the other--adoring the new spasms and squirms this created throughout her body, and further incensed by the moist-lipped look of torture on her lovely face. And now the look of unbearable urgency as his hands snaked to the revealing patch of moisture at the crotch, and he realized what agony he was brewing for her. Vicky pitched and writhed about on the bed, staring at that bloom of affirmation between his legs that seemed to burst out of the tightened skin. He crouched over her body and stared down at it, his eyes agleam with exultant rediscovery as he prized this garden of curving mounds and dips.
"Oh, you delicious animal!" his voice hoarse and low, his hands about her waist and sliding tentatively downward along her hips, fingers fanning inward to meet at the center, gliding past her navel, tracing the taut softness of skin at Vicky's pelvis. Then lower, filtering through the silky red foliage, one hand gently rounding into a fist as it reached the damp and dimpled heat of her cunt, furrowing softly in against the opening, watching as her lips blossomed into a fully womanish smile.
Vicky let out a choked and wretched cry, panting and half-sobbing for some deeper touch from him, her pulse pounding out like the spitting flames of a fire, and she slid down and flung her legs about his neck; and rammed his face and mouth fully in against her seeping and throbbing passage, wanting to be fucked by the lunging prowling mouth of him, wanting to come on that tongue of his, that tongue that she heatedly remembered so well...
Now she rolled and groaned as his tongue sought and dipped inside that dark and cuddly-warm chamber, gasping anew as his lips formed the soft healing succulent kisses and sucks.
Kissing, licking... ahhhh! "Eat it, darling!" she screamed.
He lifted his head for a split second and tongued some of the woman-oils from his lips. Before his head went back down, he tossed her face another glance, detecting the native-need it expressed, feeling the ripening head of his cock growing more tremulous with urgent signals as he moved it closer to the heat of her body. Vicky rose in bed and reached out for it. The straight and muscular and staunch cock neared her lips, and she moistly parted them, letting the juice-filled fleshy pulser lunge softly in against her tongue until it filled and crowded her mouth, and Patrick Doyle groaned aloud with the tender wet furnace-feel of her lips, tongue, mouth and throat.
Her sucking drew him in, and his mouth formed a newer coil of passion on her cunt, swabbing deep inside her, drawing deep loud breaths as he sucked her out and blew her in.
Vicky inhaled deeply and her stomach sank shallow with it. A nipple burst to its hard breaking point as one of his hands worked between their bodies at it. And the taste of his cock was setting loose a million goose-bumps on her arms and shoulders and as she shivered, the sounds of the double mouthings seemed to electrify the room. Vicky milked at it with her tongue, fusing it with her own fever, swallowing at it, crushing more of it into her mouth. She squirmed with every upward motion of his tongue. The meaty gob inside her mouth seemed to have a fist of its own, clenching and unclenching, pulsing and un-pulsing. When he slid it slowly out of her mouth, she ran her fingers along the shank of it, up and down, up and down, under his balls, weighing them against her chin. Her legs stiffened, relaxed, stiffened again, but the inner thighs always remained soft, weak under his never-ending lickings. The room raged in passion flames that singed at her now-closed eyes, her salivating tongue pressure-cooked under the heat of his prick, greedily sucking, guttural moans escaping out of the back of her throat, murmurs, moans of pleasure, sweetened with her mad WANT of ALL of him.
Patrick Doyle lifted the sauce-basted meal closer and tighter against his now-drenched mouth. His head swam in the sea of her, filled within with squashy thoughts of flesh, lust, inner-cunt insanity, sucking at the wet, warm, moist nectar, nourishing on it, wanting to scream into it and thus blow her bones apart.
Down... down... down down down, into the cave where thick liquids seeped out of the walls. Together their brains and bodies exploded in a glorious spasm... and after-spasm, orgasm and hiccuping little orgasms.
Patrick removed himself from this ancient prison of flesh, got up and walked to the opposite side of the cabin, his cock dangling as if stunned and dead. His manicured nails played on the skin of a plum, plucked from a bowl on the bolted-down table. Vicky watched him with freakish, urgent eyes. His sidelong glance came back at her, and she didn't know if he were completely spent or not. Oh, no, not the Patrick Doyle she remembered! He rolled his head back and dropped the small plum in his mouth. HE closed his teeth on it and the fruit washed the woman-taste from his mouth.
His enormous sex-appetite always took control at times like this. Feeling enveloped and yet not in any way used; surrendering but still retaining command. Where he did lose control was in the manner in which his five senses took precedence over his intelligence. For he could not see and hear and touch and smell and taste enough. More, more and more. And still more. He moved to the bed and took her in his arms.
Muscles strained, nerve-ends jumped. As if from a long way off, he heard her lip-biting cries. Sounds of joy. He felt her nails scrape lightly over him.
She had not changed. Everything was the same, the feminine fragrance of her, the sweetness of her flesh, the wild noises from her mouth. He wondered how he had had the temerity to farm this perfect creature almost out of reach, taking the chance that she might one day refuse to recognize his eminent domain.
Such a marvelous woman!
Doyle was molten now, his entire being concentrated into his effort, each nerve alive and awake, sensitized to her touch, the satiny brush of her body. In the darkness he could see her-- as he had seen her so often in the past--as through a camera lens with a distorted perspective. And there was no other way that he might have preferred to see her. Even with his eyes closed, she was a vision of pure loveliness.
Inexplicably, his nimble mind abruptly focused upon another woman on the boat. A girl, rather--a very young girl. How would Tricia Goode look through such a lens.
"Patrick... ah..."
It gave him a pang of contrition. This was not time to be thinking of others. Not when this paragon of aroused pulchritude was right here with him. It wasn't fair to her. Or to himself. Nor was it in keeping with his expert technique.
From the parted lips came more sounds. Unintelligible; and yet he easily interpreted them as impatient invitations. Patrick Doyle shifted his frame, caressed the jeweled baubles of her breasts once again and then--forthrightly--attended to her in a much more active and powerful way.
CHAPTER FOUR
"Frankly, I have no idea what will happen to me once I hit the Continent," Sabrina Moore was saying. She smiled at him over the glass she was twisting between her hands. "I do have the place on the Cote d'Azur if I care to go--but I rather think it will be terribly dull there."
"The place?" Roger echoed, not really listening, trying to smother his bubbling impatience. A sort of hypnotic spell had come over him, somehow, leaving him numbly incapable of making a forward or backward move. He had to wait for Sabrina.
"Oh, it's just a big villa that I managed to acquire during my travels. It isn't much, but I like it. Then there's the apartment in Paris--costs me a fortune and I don't get to stay in it more than a few weeks a year. Still, I suppose it's worth it to have someplace to land whenever I do get there. Hotels in Paris can be awfully crowded at times."
Roger was impressed. Here was a person who had every right to be a kept woman, but who retained an amazing independence. The fact that she had her own havens and hideaways to go to was ample proof of that. She evidently didn't have to depend upon handouts or charity or luck to figure out where she might wind up spending the night.
And it was doubly encouraging to know that she wasn't likely to tap him for a loan---or worse yet, to try to set a price on their inevitable relationship. What it meant, ultimately, was that she was genuinely interested in him.
Sabrina sat in the armchair that slanted back so steeply that her crossed knees were nearly on a level with her head. The position contorted her body onto a delightful series of curves. Each was more stimulating than the next: breasts awry, the slope of her belly, the uptilted thighs, the revelation of slim ankles and tiny feet beneath the hem of the gown.
"Of course," she went on quietly in that husky, throaty tone, "there's always the possibility that my agent will land me a job that I can't afford to pass up. In that case"--shrugging the nude shoulders--"well, I'm stuck. And my whole vacation goes up in a puff of smoke."
"Might it happen?" Roger was feeling increasingly uncomfortable at the nearness of the girl. Glass in hand, he was balanced on the edge of the bed and fighting the roll of the vessel. Inside him there was an ever-mounting tension. Even his wife, with all her angelic beauty, couldn't bring on this kind of excitement.
"In this business," the girl said wearily, "anything can happen. And I've learned to take it in stride. I never know when I'll be asked to do the unexpected."
Roger nodded as though he had just heard a world-shaking opinion. With some difficulty he rose and walked to the chair and stood above it, looking down at the delectable creature, down at her face and past her face into the fleshy meadow of her bosom. He saw now that only the strapless garment pinioned those lush breasts, that the slightest tug on the topmost part would let them billow out into his gaze.
Sabrina reached up and drew her fingertips over his hand. His own fingers leaped excitedly --and then he could no longer hold back. He had to do this. Clawlike, his hand went out to pull at the top of the gown. For an instant it remained firm. Then, with a reluctant sigh, it gave way and collapsed.
The expression on Sabrina's face did not change as she was abruptly naked to the waist. "Mmmm, so impulsive. You're the kind of man who takes what he wants, I see."
It was a novel notion, really, but Roger grabbed at it. "Yes. And I want you."
With astonishing ease, she lifted herself out of the chair and slipped into his arms. Even through the thickness of his coat and shirt he could feel the inherent warmth of her body. Her flesh seemed to hiss as it slid against him. To combat the roll of the ship, she had to stand with her feet planted wide apart, stretching the fabric of her fabulous dress drum-tight across the voluptuous breadth of her hips.
"Remember," she whispered in his ear, "this doesn't in any way make me yours."
"Huh?"
"You know what I mean. I'm a free soul when it comes to things like love and lovemaking. So I'll be perfectly happy to remain your friend-- just as long as you don't start becoming possessive. Can you understand that?"
The rolling floor threw her against him and they clung together tightly. For one of the few times in his life, Roger knew what it was like to have a woman offer her body completely to him. And it was incredibly thrilling.
"We'll get along," he mumbled thickly. "I've got a wife, you know. And a reputation. So if you behave, well, many things may be possible between us."
Hearing his voice say the words was like eavesdropping on someone else's conversation. Some stranger, perhaps. Could this be Roger Martin?
Sabrina stepped back, regarding his face with just a hint of amusement. With deft movements of her hands she rid herself of the clinging dress. Her nylon stockings stayed in place, held by detachable garters inserted into loops on the borders of her panties. Then she was standing before him clad only in the three pieces, with nary a stitch above her waist.
Roger's brain went into a slow spin. She was even more alluring than he had imagined.
With a kind of feline insistence she forced him back to the bed. The edge of it met his knees, bucking them under. And then she was on him, hungrily, going after him with an uncanny knowingness that rendered him helpless, immersed in a drugged suspension. It was a happy suffocation of his senses, leaving him surrounded only by the heady perfume of her sensuality. She enticed him with a maddening cleverness. Her mouth was a cavern of warmth and wetness, her limbs spongily supple.
He had never had it this good.
And there was much to come, he knew. Oh, so much. This woman actually wanted him!
The ship plowed onward into the night. By now even the rankest of landlubbers knew that the Siwanoy had finally passed beyond the sheltering protection of Long Island and was churning through the wilderness of the Atlantic where the waves and swells beat at the hull endlessly as if endeavoring to swamp the craft. Now the bow rose high against the dark sky, higher and higher, then stopped, hung for a long instant and quickly dipped far into the shallow depths of its trough. Perhaps a watcher would not have been able to recognize any forward motion, only up and down but it was there just the same, with the powerful engines giving impetus to the shaft which in turn spun the three-bladed-propeller. Imperceptibly the vessel churned ahead--eastward--away from one continent, toward another.
And inside the rolling, tossing ship Roger Martin also rolled and tossed. As though--like the vessel--he too was trying to leave something and achieve another. Shudders seized him. He was in the midst of a transition that could well alter his way of life. And yet, surprisingly enough, he was not in the least bit afraid. Quite the contrary, in fact.
In such ecstasy how could there be fear?
Roger introduced the head of his dripping and throbbing penis to the curly hair-fringed nest that was revealed in her cleavage, the warm, moist opening seeming to purse its lips outward to receive him like a sucking kiszzzzz... and to draw him into her until the shaft was entombed within her body. He began working it in and out and, in a matter of moments, his passion had lofted him to a level of pleasure that was akin to pain in its fierce intensity. Then the ship rolled, the resulting heave causing him to plunge even deeper into her in a pulsing flood. The pumping action of his penis caused some of it to slush out of her brimming cunt, where their bodies met, now there was a wet and sticky area.
"Ah!" Sabrina sighed, straightening her body and turning her face for an awkward kiss. "What a perfectly lovely fuck!"
"Must you use that word?"
"It's the perfect word for it. What else could describe such a lovely sensation? Hmmmm? Can't think of one, can you?"
"Not at the moment. Never mind."
He looked down between their bodies at her breast. "Lovely," he said. "Nothing as pretty as that should ever be hidden."
Sabrina lifted herself to kiss him sweetly but fleetingly on the lips then, straightening, she thrust her ripe tit against his mouth. Her hand crept down and played with his cock, probing into its softness.
He placed his lips on the rose-colored nipples of her breasts and Sabrina sighed contentment. He kissed her lips again, tasting their tremulous sweetness.
Now his cock was in a velvety, steel-hard erection again, under her fondling. He slid wetly back into her.
"Ah, ah! All the way, that's it!" Sabrina cooed.
He held himself up from her on his elbows, bending his head to look at her and fully savor the perfection of her writhing torso and twisting limbs, feeling the warmth of her inner body, welling his ego with the warm juices of her increasing excitement and the scent of her musk stained the air of the small cabin, going to Roger's head like perfumed wine. The tightness of her pussy was a strong hand on his cock, caressing and milking it and sliding wetly up and down on it.
He was feeling the wonderful, terrible tension building up in his loins again, and his mind was approaching another sea, swept up momentarily out of reality and into space-time dimension of total passion.
Rolling with the ship, rolling with Sabrina's body...
Both her hands squeezed down between their bodies and toyed gently with his scrotum as she rolled his testicles between careful fingertips, coaxing a full load forth this time, urging him on, driving him mad.
Mouth-to-mouth, they both let out a scream of pure joy...
The cabin became quieter and quieter as their breathing subsided. He could feel her and smell her in the room, and yet it was like she wasn't there, that this was all a strange and pleasant dream. It had all happened so fast. His mind skipped guiltily back to Vicky, foolishly picturing her waiting up on the deck for her drink.
He'd have to think up a dandy excuse this time... and he really should get this woman out of the cabin... fast!
... But her body was so warm under him...
The compulsion of ambition was strong in Larry Stevens. His head reeled from the effect of Patrick Doyle's offer. The dreams of glory which had so often afflicted him in the past seemed on the verge of being realized. A commission--imagine! A commission to design a house.
For a time he remained by himself on the deck, parking in a deck chair or restlessly pacing to the rail, unable to sit still. He was even unable to appreciate the beauties of the night-- all kinds. There were stars in the sky and there were young girls and mature women who strolled along, seemingly oblivious that, in such a setting, they were excruciatingly attractive, the wind snatching at their clothing, blowing their hair willy-nilly. They were without meaning to him, so dimmed were his eyes by the splendid fantasies in his fevered mind.
Not until two of the passengers appeared on his left and commenced a discussion was he brought down to earth again. About to leave the rail and go to his cabin, he caught a glimpse of them, both women. His heart flipped. The girls at the table. Tricia Goode and her blonde companion.
They had not noticed his presence yet. He debated whether he should slip away and get back to his cabin or stay, on the outside chance of introducing himself. Finally, making himself as inconspicuous as possible, he decided to remain.
"Lee, how can you?" the young one was saying. "How can you possibly condemn all men?
In spite of what happened to me, I'll be the first to admit that not every male is a louse. Just because one betrayed me doesn't mean that all those other millions are exactly the same."
Straw-hued hair flew in the breeze. "Well, personally I think I've had a large enough sample to make the judgment. Certainly larger than what you've had. And I claim that if a man gets the chance he will try to hurt you. Or even destroy you."
"Are you destroyed?"
"No--yet I have only luck to thank for it. And also, well, I've been strong. I've had to make myself strong. In a primitive way--like an animal in the jungle."
"But didn't you ever figure that your very strength and independence might scare men off?"
"What the hell do I care?" the older woman snapped. "I wouldn't want them anyway."
The words precipitated a silence that hung in the air around the deck. All that could be heard was the rush of the waves. Spray shot high, turning the atmosphere salty. Larry wanted to move but was afraid of being noticed.
"Aren't you lonely?" Tricia inquired gently.
The one called Lee appeared momentarily thoughtful. "No, not really. Men aren't everything. I have my work at the school. I travel. I meet new people--which, when you understand that I'm in no danger of getting emotionally involved, gives me a great advantage over them.
That is," she added, "in some cases."
"What do you mean--in some cases?"
"Too difficult to explain," Lee said curtly. "I'll tell you about it some day." Then, in a casual tone, "Has that young chap made a pass at you yet?"
"Hmm? What young chap?"
"The one in the dining room. Sitting with Patrick Doyle. I thought he was going to eat you up right there."
Larry's ears tingled.
"I--I don't know what you're talking about," Tricia said in a voice that practically admitted she did know.
"Come, come," Lee chided. "Or don't you care, either?"
This confused the girl, and her attempts to clarify the issue almost made Larry laugh out loud.
"Of course I care. I mean I don't care, but-- now don't snicker, Lee, I'm serious. You've got it all wrong. I care that he looked at me, naturally, but the way I'm feeling right now, well, it just couldn't matter less."
"But you remembered, didn't you?"
"Why shouldn't I? We did look at each other and..." Tricia's voice broke into giggles. "But you're so right. He did look like he wanted to eat me alive, didn't he?"
Steeped in misery, Larry clung to the rail. The merriment of the pair was a knife in his heart. Did he actually appear that insipid to them? The thought was devastating.
The wretched episode was a veritable nightmare. That was what he got for listening to private conversations. It was time to get out of there, but quick.
And with no attempt to conceal his identity, he stalked down the deck in their direction. As he went by them, he heard their chorused gasp and then a hurried whispering.
Larry said, "Good evening," and went on his way, suddenly feeling much better about the whole thing.
CHAPTER FIVE
Inevitably, word of Patrick Doyle's illustrious presence on board the Siwanoy got around. Once begun, it traveled with the speed of a prairie fire. Needless to say, the great man dealt with the unsought notoriety in his usual manner.
A representative of a nationwide chain of newspapers tried to talk him into doing a series of articles on his trip. As they shared coffee on the second day, the newsman became a pest. And Doyle got rid of him summarily. "My dear sir, I'm off to spend money, not grub for it."
A gushy, bosomy writer of slick pieces for women's magazines asked for an exclusive interview concerning his opinion of unisex fashions and related topics. To her he said, "Madam, just about all of my major opinions on any given subject can be found in the two volumes of my autobiography. As for my minor ones"--here he smiled sadly--"I don't have minor opinions."
The bosom of the authoress heaved as she turned pale and beat an unceremonious retreat.
A few of the younger fry--egged on by their cowardly parents--were bold enough to seek his autograph as he was stepping along on his morning constitutional. He was wearing a checkered cap, black silk cravat, gray tweeds-- with knickers--and carrying a walking stick. He stared at the gape-mouthed, gap-toothed little faces and then signed graciously in an outlandish all-but-indecipherable scrawl. Then, in a capricious moment, he switched tactics and made his name in the painful upright letters of first-grade printing. On another he simply made a large X and then wrote underneath the words "His Mark."
The young tourist set, the students and bookkeepers and ribbon clerks, were in awe of him and did little more than mumble a daring "Good morning, Mr. Doyle," as he passed. Then they proceeded to whisper excitedly behind his back. Aware of this, on one occasion he halted dead in his tracks, put on his most fearsome expression and whirled around. Two strides toward the whisperers sent them scampering for cover. Smiling, Doyle went on his way.
Older ladies (by the calendar, of his own generation) were a bit more brave, feeling, after all, he is no different from us and why shouldn't we treat him as a friend? Who knows but what the poor man is just aching for understanding, he certainly looks lonely enough.
Now come on, Gertrude, speak to him, just up and say hello and how does he like the trip; after all, you did see one of his plays and once rode on the same train with him so you must have a lot in common.
And for the hapless Gertrude, the great man obliged by imitating a hunchback with one eye and pinching her bottom. Which, in its own way, achieved a very much desired effect.
All things considered, though, Doyle knew it was developing pretty much as most of his journeys developed. Not any worse, at any rate, nor--apparently--promising to improve. Except in the matter of his human chess-pieces.
Doyle was forced to wonder about the prudency of his selections. That he had a rather hodgepodge collection this time was more than obvious. In many ways it was unpredictable-- which both pleased and bothered him. It was fun to create explosive situations, but when they got out of hand it could bring one of his rare moments of panic. True, the situation had not reached that stage yet, but there was always that possibility. For not all of his characters were really puppets. Including of course, the puppeteer.
Impossible as it seemed, Patrick Doyle was beginning to lose control of himself.
And it disturbed him.
Vicky Martin had reawakened the desire he had known for her when she was just eighteen, when he had plucked her like a fresh peach from a beauty contest he had judged. Even now, all these years later, he could recall the thrill that had jetted through him when he first saw her walk by, her girlish hips swaying in the white satin bathing suit. Since that time her pure shape had not altered, only the dimensions.
Where he had left Vicky as a dewy-eyed bride of Roger Martin, still warm from his bed of the night before, now he found her a woman. A full-grown, calculating, sex-conscious woman, quite aware of her power over men.
The need for possession filled him. Had he made this creature what she was?
On the other hand, there was his unreasoning contemplation of the youngster who had captured his fancy just from the purser's description. Upon actually seeing Tricia Goode he had been only mildly impressed, which was why he had so magnanimously brought her to the attention of Larry Stevens. But on subsequent review he realized she had, for him a definite appeal.
Boyishly slim but certainly feminine. The expressive eyes under the soft, dark hair. And depths of a new suffering, something extremely recent, evidently. That was what attracted him most. So often he had seen in women the signs of suffering, but they were embedded scars, bitter and acid, carried for years until only the telltale scars remained; the cause forgotten.
Not so with Tricia Goode. The ache was still fresh in her. He had looked closely at her wounded-deer eyes and he was convinced. The girl's troubles were of recent vintage. It was only too clear that she needed a shoulder upon which to rest her head. That the shoulder should be his was a notion he found stimulating. Who knew better how to soothe an unhappy maiden?
And consequently he could no longer assume that he was calling all the plays in this game. His dual yearning for both Vicky and Tricia was enormously disconcerting.
Legally, of course, he could not make an open pitch for Vicky Martin. And morally he felt honor-bound to leave Tricia Goode free, now that he had gotten the Stevens lad so interested in her by that impulsive discussion of her measurements.
He liked the young fellow. And impetuous as his gesture had been--about the house design-- he had meant it. He was planning on building in the near future. And an unfledged architect might be just the one to come up with some brand-new ideas.
But now he almost wished that their dinner conversation had been confined to architecture. He didn't care to look upon Larry Stevens as a competitor. After all, to a certain extent he was practically paving the way for the boy. And if he never did anything else with consistency, he did keep his word.
What he hoped for now was that he would be able to continue to keep it...
That morning, Tricia Goode was routed out of bed just after dawn by an exuberant Lee Jergens who intended to greet the day healthily. Clad in blue shorts and a form-fitting wool shirt, she yanked Tricia from the bed by one foot and ordered her into exercise garb. The girl staggered about sleepily, washing her face, finding garments in the suitcase, forgetting to put on makeup. Lee kept after her like a terrier.
Somehow, Tricia made it.
The decks were all but vacant, with only a few hardy souls out to welcome the new day. Tricia shivered and envied the unhealthy ones still in bed waiting for breakfast. Dazedly she started back to the cabin when Lee seized her arm and propelled her aft. They did a turn around the deck briskly and with each step, Tricia felt life seeping back into her. Lee maintained a constant and not unpleasant stream of chatter.
The air was chill and Tricia had to rub her thighs to keep the circulation going. The coldness pierced her thin blouse to tantalize her breasts. She wondered if she was in any condition to be prancing around like this. In fact, if she...
No. There was no sense worrying about that. And she had been awake a full half-hour without giving any thought to Walter. It both appalled and encouraged her. It was frightening in that she was letting herself get used to the idea so quickly. But it was good that she was able to dismiss it and return to at least a semblance of normal living.
It was interesting to watch Lee Jergen's body as it went through its liquid movements without any visible effort. Springing high into the air, arms and legs thrown apart, the browned limbs flashing in the just-risen sun. Dropping to her hands and shooting her legs back alternately. Push-ups, sit-ups--no matter what Lee did she managed to make it look incredibly easy, scarcely breathing hard from the exertion.
But Tricia marveled most at the woman's superb physical condition. True, the legs weren't quite as softly feminine as her own. The calves and thighs were too muscular, but they were well-shaped. And the bosom was remarkably firm.
Finally Lee relented and they headed back to the cabin. Tricia's body tingled with energy, but she was ready nonetheless for another couple of hours in the recumbent position. And shedding the exercise garments hastily, she flopped on the bunk and stretched out with lazy languor.
Lee, hands on hips, stared down at her.
It was a disquieting moment. Tricia tried to pretend that she didn't notice what the woman was staring at. And she regretted having removed her shorts in such a hurry. Only the flimsiest of briefs encased her hips. And from the way Lee was staring, it might as well have been nothing at all. For the first time, the athletic blonde appeared to be out of breath.
Never--even during that terrible hour at the hotel--had Tricia felt so helpless. And a strange kind of helplessness it was. Exciting and awful at once. Not the same as it had been with Walter. This wasn't fear. With Walter she had had a pretty good idea of the mechanics of the act. With Lee she had absolutely no concept of what was going to take place.
Anything could happen.
No, she no longer had any doubts that Lee's interest in her was sexual. But how? Why? When? With what?
She couldn't begin to guess. All she knew was that something was brewing. Something wild. And in her own body--coming to the surface now--was a responsive chord.
Lee sat on the edge of the bed, still looking at her, and quite deliberately reached out and placed her palm on the swell of Tricia's stomach.
Nerves quivered at the instant of contact. Tricia tensed. A kind of hunger was heavy in her, yet it was not a hunger for food or for anything she recognized. It was unfamiliar and she related it vaguely to the night at the hotel. There were no achings or violent yearnings--merely a strange hunger. Lee's strong hand had calmed it for a moment, but it was still there.
In an involuntary motion, Tricia writhed and twisted. The hand followed her. It began to make tiny circles on the layer of bare skin. Like soft caresses.
"Is there anything," Lee murmured in hushed tones, "as lovely as a woman's body?"
It took Tricia a minute to realize that Lee was really talking to herself. Certainly her discourse seemed to be addressed to no one in particular.
"The way it is constructed, every part in harmony with every other part. No sudden changes to ruin the symmetry. Not one thing needed, no one thing extra. See how the legs taper from slim ankles to round thighs and then come together as if fashioned by a master locksmith. And the breasts--two are just enough for balance and there could be no other shape for them but the ones they already have. There could be no improvement."
Tricia lay on her back, letting the words soothe her ears and add to her somnolence. She had to quell a sudden urge to drag Lee down from her height and clasp her close. She felt a need to slide her hand along the length of the nearest thigh.
Slowly, gradually, the straying hand was finding new areas of exploration. Infinite tenderness shoe in Lee's face. Not the burning lust that Walter had displayed. This person--this woman--knew...
Tricia was about to lift her arms in silent invitation. She couldn't bear to wait another moment for what was coming. She had to meet it halfway. "Lee..."
A loud noise froze her. A knock on the door-- and it came again, harsh, demanding, insistent.
"Miss Goode? Are you there?"
The intrusive masculine voice could not be denied. Dizzily, Tricia struggled to a sitting position, astonished at the change that had come over Lee. The woman's features were a mask of hatred and anger.
"Yes?" It was an effort to get the word out.
"Taylor--ship's purser," the voice said. "May I see you? It's about your passport."
"Right now?"
"As soon as possible, if you would. I have to send the information to New York by radio."
"All right. I'll be with you in a minute."
Deliberately avoiding Lee's gaze, she drew on her shorts, straightened her blouse and fiddled with her hair. Her fingers were numb. Inside her tummy was a tumbling cement-mixer and she leaned against the dresser to shake the sensation off. Her lungs were choked with invisible smoke.
Without a word she left Lee sitting on the bed. The blonde's fingers were digging into the coverlet. Tricia regained composure, opened the door and stepped out.
Paul Taylor was in the corridor, examining a sheaf of papers in his hand. He looked up and smiled professionally. "Sorry to disturb you, Miss Goode," he said, "but when we get an order from the company we have to comply."
Taylor's face glowed as if it had just been shaved. White teeth contrasted with his mahogany tan. Under the peak of his cap and in front of his ears the pale blondness of his hair was visible. Tricia had the confusing impression that she was peering at a male version of Lee Jergens.
"Would you like to step down to my place?" he said.
"Of course."
It turned out to be a minor matter. At the pier she had gone through so fast that the agent had miscopied the number on her passport. The error was discovered only after the ship had left. And since the State Department was rather sticky about such details, they had had no choice but to have the purser check the number and radio it back to the mainland.
Somewhat hollowly, Tricia sat next to Taylor's desk. She didn't feel like a woman at all, but like a thing. A number. Her eyes roamed the room as the purser rifled through papers and made notes from her passport. Pictures clipped from magazines decorated the walls--the usual glamor-girl poses, a couple of ships, a seascape, a nautical map of the Atlantic.
Along one wall was a two-shelved bookcase, and she read the titles on display. Some currently popular novels, a mess of brightly colored paperbacks, a volume on navigation, a book of sea stories, something by the Marquis de Sade, a heavy tome on...
The Marquis de Sade!
The name rang loud and clear in her memory. It brought back the nostalgic pang of schooldays and dormitories and the unforgettable thrill that came with the opening of new books. And also the unmistakable recollection of a dark and unfathomable evil. Girls reading after lights-out hours with gasps and giggles and eager whispers. The same girls relating by day what they had read by night, using the word "sadism" with a kind of feverish relish. It had left her feeling sick and ashamed. So graphic were her classmates in their descriptions of the eerie doings that she had even had nightmares about them.
Yet she had never read a word of the forbidden books; her sole knowledge came second-hand, abetted by her lively imagination. But that didn't prevent her from fearing de Sade as she had feared Dracula and Frankenstein's monster.
It seemed, Tricia realized ruefully as she watched Paul Taylor check the papers, that her entire life had just been one Pandora's Box of petty fears.
"How are you fixed for reading material?" he asked, glancing up suddenly.
She wondered, frantically, if he had divined her thoughts. And she murmured something about having packed so economically that there had not been space even for a dime novel.
"Then why not borrow some of mine?"
"Well..."
"I insist. What do you like?"
Her eyes followed as he rose and went to the bookcase. As he moved she could not ignore his almost overwhelming masculinity--his well-muscled torso, his powerful legs.
"I've got some good ones here," he went on. "A decent library comes in mighty handy at sea. Time hangs heavy, especially when the weather is bad."
His hands were running over the titles. But he wasn't looking at them. He was looking directly at her.
Tricia flushed. "That book," she heard herself blurt out. "The one over there. Is it an autobiography?"
"De Sade?" The purser chuckled affably. "Hardly. Haven't you ever read it?"
"No." She spoke in truth and yet she had the odd feeling that she was telling a lie.
He regarded her paternally. "In that case I doubt whether I should be the first to let you see it. It's really not intended for innocent young girls."
"Who's an innocent young girl?" she said bellicosely. "I mean, uh, well, I mean that has nothing to do with reading, does it?"
"Perhaps not. It can't hurt the now-innocents, certainly, and it might just educate the naive ones."
"I'm not naive."
"Who said you were? Relax, Miss Goode. I'm not making any criminal accusations. If you must have this book then I won't stop you. Just don't say I didn't give you warning."
Having achieved a sort of victory, Tricia felt sheepish. "Is it really so naughty?"
Intrigued by the book, she had forgotten to be offended by this-- servant's brashness. And he was a servant, wasn't he? This was his job and he was supposed to show respect for the paying passengers, not condescension.
Then it occurred to her that respect must be earned and not commanded. Obviously she had not earned it.
Taylor grinned. "Naughty is a pretty mild term, not to say inaccurate. But if by using it you mean does the book deal frankly with sex and sadism, then yes, it does. More than mere sensationalism, though, it does have a good deal of meat in it. The Marquis de Sade was a brilliant man and his observations on human behavior are classics. True, the name has come to be synonymous with depravity, but if you can take the wicked parts lightly, you might find the total work very instructive."
When he placed the heavy volume in her hands she came close to dropping it. A peculiar apprehension gripped her. As if she were on the verge of a taboo revelation. There it was again--that word. This had been a week of revelations.
... her first sight of a naked man.
... her first real sexual experience.
... her first contact with another woman's passion.
... her first exposure to a "bad" book.
Any other time just one such revelation would have put her in a state of shock for a month. Yet here were the secrets of life unfolding for her so rapidly that she could hardly keep up with them. Nor did she feel particularly inadequate either. Maybe she had hidden depths of resiliency. Could it be possible that she was not as ineffectual and helpless as she had led herself to believe? She sure felt that way.
And the hell with this impudent purser!
"Of course I'll take it," she said bluntly. "Although I doubt if I'll learn much from it."
They were standing shoulder to shoulder, not quite touching. Acutely aware of the man's vitality, Tricia feigned concentration on the words of the title page. The print blurred. The band of her shorts seemed exceedingly tight. That the fellow was going to kiss her she had absolutely no doubt. The fact was there--all it needed was the fulfilling. The surprising part was that she was making no attempt to avoid it. Not that she could.
The next thing she knew, he had taken hold of her shoulders and turned her to him. Then his face was over hers, his big arms closed inexorably and his mouth came down. Not violently. Not demandingly. Just meeting hers.
He wasn't crushing her, but they were in close contact now and the points of her breasts met his chest. The flame that she expected to rage into life flickered, dimmed--and went out. He released her and they looked at each other.
The man didn't laugh. Nor even smile. He was simply gazing into her eyes calmly. No mockery. No disdain. And there wasn't anything hateful about him.
"You shouldn't have done that," she said at last.
"I know. But I did, didn't I?"
"Yes, you did."
They stood in silence. With her increased rate of breathing, her breasts rose and fell, brushing against his jacket. An abrupt desire roared through her, a desire to fling herself against him, to have his arms tighten around her, to feel the rocklike hardness of his body. But she didn't move.
Taylor stepped back. "The book," he said. "You can take it if you really want it."
"Do you think I should?"
"In all honesty--no."
"Why not?"
"You're not ready for it."
"All right," she said. "Then I won't take it." She tossed the volume upon his desk.
"Uh, you'd better get back topside before your roommate sends out an alarm."
"Yes, I suppose I'd better."
He kissed her again, harder this time, pulling her to him. Her breasts mashed against his frame. His hands were weighty on the small of her back. His legs were pillars touching her thighs.
When he let go and drew away, she felt that for the first time in her life she had really been kissed. Not as a child or as a blushing virgin. But as a woman.
He opened the door and she stepped out into the corridor. As she went up the stairs to the next deck it dawned on her that another revelation had forced its way into her existence.
And this was one she liked.
"What time did you get in last night, darling?"
At the words, Roger Martin lifted his eyes from his coffee cup and looked over the twenty-four inches that separated his bed from his wife's.
"Who, me?" he asked, stalling.
Vicky seemed to be on the verge of making some sarcastic remark. But she must have changed her mind. When she spoke, her tone was without rancor.
"I waited," she said. "You were going to bring the drinks, but you never showed up. So after a while I went down to the gameroom figuring I might see you there. But no Roger. By then I was so exhausted I came back here and went to bed. I never did hear you come in."
Roger waited for the flood of anger that always filled him when Vicky questioned him in this cat-and-mouse manner. But the flood wouldn't come. And he realized that it wouldn't, either. Not this morning.
He spread a gob of butter on his toast. "It was just one of those things," he said. "Ran into a guy I know and we got to drinking and swapping lies. Naturally, I feel bad about standing you up, honey, but maybe it was a good thing--the way I was getting, I mean. That black mood was chasing me."
"Perhaps so." Vicky smiled sympathetically. "I didn't mean to accuse you, dear. I was just curious." She reached over and patted his hand. "You are my husband, aren't you?"
"Who says not?" A laugh almost welled up and burst out. He choked it down. "But it wasn't very nice to leave you waiting on deck like that."
"As long as you enjoyed yourself..."
"Well, I guess I did."
"Grand. I'm glad."
"You look lovely, Vicky. You really do."
She did. Her face was alive with a secret animation, the very picture of someone who has slept well. The pink peaks of her breasts were visible under the diaphanous folds of her negligee. Round and fresh. When she raised her arms to stretch, Roger had the impression of a nymph rising from the water. White arms curved fetchingly. Hair tumbled, happily tousled.
"It's the salty sea air," she said.
"Whatever it is, you should have more of it."
"Maybe I will," she replied. "You too."
Roger's heart skipped a beat. "That all depends. I did drink a little too much last night, but oddly enough I don't have a big hangover."
"That's funny. Not disappointed, are you?"
"Hell, no. Maybe I should try it again."
"I would if I were you."
Vicky sipped the last of her coffee and dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. On most days she looked soft and alluring but rarely this much. She moved toward the bathroom, the robe rustling behind her. At the door she let the filmy thing slip down, hesitating and glancing back over her shoulder.
He caught his breath. She looked more perfect than he had ever seen her. The tantalizing lines and curves, the incredible beauty of the divisions of her hips, the slender width of her waist. He stared at her, drinking the entire vision in like a thirsty desert wanderer.
This was fantastic, he knew. Only hours ago he had left the bed of another woman, following as complete a bout of lovemaking as he could recall. From this cabin he had escorted Sabrina Moore back to her own--with every intention of parting at her door. But he had wound up inside on her bed.
So now he should have been somewhat purged of desire for Vicky, but it was there as usual and as strong as ever. Stronger? Curious, but it might just be.
He stood up. She was still watching him over her creamy shoulder, an odd expression on her face. One breast peeked prettily through the crook of her arm.
The shower, he thought with a wild brilliance. The shower. Why not? She must be waiting for me.
When he got to the door she turned and preceded him, stepping into the stall but leaving the curtain open. Her hands went up to adjust the nozzle before twisting the taps, and she looked like an alabaster satin statuette.
He took off his pajamas. "Room for two?" he asked, striving to keep his voice from quavering.
"There might be." She drew the curtain.
The gesture slowed him down. He didn't know whether to take it as an acceptance or a rejection. Putting off the decision, he went to the basin to shave. If she really wanted him in there, well, it wouldn't hurt if she had to wait a bit.
"Wonder if we'll see Doyle today," he said conversationally. It was safer to talk about anything rather than last night. "I imagine he's being his usual self--telling the captain how to run the damn boat. What a pain in the ass he is. Honestly, Vicky, how did you ever stomach him?"
From the stall came the splash of water.
"Not that I'm really worried," Roger went on. "Last night I was a little upset, I guess. But he's too smart to come sniffing around when I'm here."
Roger spread lather over his face. "What the hell, I'll even go so far as to have a drink with him. After all, there's no reason why we have to hide," he said assuringly.
The shower kept gushing.
"He does seem to think he's got some sort of claim on you, Vicky. So he'd better find out that it's all in his mind. You're my wife." Roger's tone was possessive. "And it's high time he realized that fact. Let's see now--when was the last time you saw him? Hmm, must have been five years ago. But for a bastard like Doyle, it's still too recent."
Roger grinned at himself in the mirror, his face like that of a white-bearded, virile giant. He curled his lip and beetled his brows, coming to the conclusion that he looked mighty powerful that way. As well he should. Poor Sabrina. It might be days before she would be the same again. He smiled a cynical smile, enjoying the mirrored reflection.
Carefully he began scraping the lather off with his safety razor, waggling his jaws and pulling his lips back from his teeth. Steam was fogging the glass. He could no longer see the shower behind his back.
The sound of the water changed, somehow. It seemed to hesitate and then rush in a solid downpour once again.
"Hey, there's a thought for Patrick Doyle." Roger chuckled at his witticism. "You know, I think he's still inclined, but don't let him kid you. It's all in his mind."
His laughter erupted and he had to grab the metal handle to keep from falling. "All in his mind," he repeated, doubling up over the basin and dropping his razor. "How about that, honey?" he managed to gasp.
Not a word came from the stall. The water kept cascading down and it was unaccountably loud.
"Vicky?" He cocked his head. "Vicky?"
The realization was like a blow from a hammer. He went to the shower and pulled the curtain aside. All he saw was the falling torrent of water.
Quickly he moved to the door that led to the cabin. The place was empty. Vicky was gone. She had slipped out behind him, dressed hurriedly and disappeared.
And he knew why, of course. He had to bring up the name of that Doyle character. And he should have known better. What a brainwave that was. Brilliant. Oh sure. Martin, you stupid idiot, when will you learn to keep your trap shut?
Picturing how it could have been if he had not been so stupid, he weighed for a moment the idea of standing over the bowl and masturbating, picturing the shower scene as it should have been played.
The shower water running in both their mouths; tightening his hold on her buttocks and driving himself into Vicky, his mouth comes down on hers under the needle spray of the shower, her eager tongue pushes between his lips; shuddering with the feel of her filmy-drenched skin, the water swirls around their slow-moving bodies, caressing him, exciting him; he begins to drive and thrust, pulling and pinching her flesh, his face wet with sweat and water, bearing tight to her body, grunting and groaning, pouring himself into that deliciously warm cunt of hers, her eyes look up into his, flashing wildly with the feel of his prick stuffed deep inside her gulping belly, their wet bodies mold into one heaving mass, she digs her fingers into his back and pushes her twisting, water-rivuleted hips against his groin, working it furiously into that woman-drenched, water-drenched sweetly grasping pussy of hers, wet-fucking her until she's helplessly tweak with orgasms, coming again and again on his still-hard cock until... until...
"Shit," Roger said aloud to himself in the lonely cabin bathroom. "Now that sonofabitch Doyle has got me dreaming about fucking my own wife!"
He didn't masturbate.
He didn't do anything. He just stood there looking at himself in the mirror and, going up on his toes, he could see the bright erection that had raised itself, the passion in it still unspent, and a sad look came over Roger's face.
Somewhere in the pit of his stomach the turmoil of nausea that combines guilt and need gripped him with strong fingers and he murmured, "Jesus!"
CHAPTER SIX
"There's no limit to what a man can do," Patrick Doyle said as he tilted a glass of lemonade to his lips, "if he's right--and if he's sure he's right."
Larry Stevens was not quite able to see how this fit in with the current conversation, but he made no attempt to halt the flow of words. It was endlessly fascinating to hear the great man talk on matters of life, work and morals.
Their chairs afforded an unobstructed view of the play-deck and swimming pool, where the passengers were beginning to appear. Doyle had his cap tipped forward to shade his eyes but not far enough to impede his vision. Not a solitary pair of bare legs escaped him. For perhaps an hour they had been sitting and talking, but Larry couldn't erase the impression that something was eating at his companion. He wanted to ask what, but was aware that it was really none of his business.
"Of course," Doyle continued, "that doesn't give everyone a license to behave like a criminal--just because he thinks he may be right."
Then, with a sly grin, "Unless he can get away with it."
"I have no intentions of becoming a criminal."
"Larry, I'm sure you don't. My quotable bromide has to do with whether or not a man has the courage to face the opposition of the masses. If he's brave enough and if he's right, then nothing can stop him."
The sun grew hotter and its rays laved Larry's skin. He shifted on the deck chair, peering out from the protection of his dark glasses. This was just what he needed, this pleasant bit of lounging around. Too long had he been chained to the drawing board. Why, he had almost forgotten how nice it was to study the architectural lines of pretty women.
With certain interest he watched a trip of teen-aged girls loping by. They were in shorts and halters and sandals. Lithe and lean, with the bright-eyed optimism of kids with no problems. Young bodies, young minds, young hearts. An unbeatable combination. But they soon passed and he realized that his momentary diversion had let the conversation wane.
"Does that go for architects too, Mr. Doyle?"
The older man sighed in exasperation. "At times I suspect you of being deliberately obtuse, my boy. It goes for architects, painters, writers, musician--anyone who has the touch of madness that makes him pretend to be an artist. Creators, in a word. But I'm willing to be the first to applaud those who--addicted to eating --take the easiest and most lucrative path to success. That's fine, so long as they don't prostitute the things they really believe in. Essentially no harm is done just because a man wants to pick up a few dollars. But once an artist stakes a line he must follow it--and if he remains true to it then there is absolutely no doubt that he will come out on top in the end."
Patrick Doyle paused. "For example, look at me."
Larry looked at him.
"Don't be impertinent, young man. I was going to the trouble of pointing out to what heights a man can rise--if integrity is part of his arsenal."
"Integrity. That's true, I'll admit. But it's easy to have integrity when you have a million dollars."
"Aha!" Doyle shrugged to a sitting position and pushed his cap back. "That's the great fallacy of the poor. It's a spit-on-me-philosophy. It's a hell of a lot harder to remain honest when you know you can buy fame than it is when your have to work for it. Besides, to be more serious, such moral aspects as integrity, honor, faith and self-respect exist apart from money. And I think you know that, don't you?"
Somewhat chastened, Larry nodded. "I guess I do. I suppose I was just taking a potshot at you."
"Go right ahead," the man said airily. "I don't mind in the least. Take as many as you care to. Greater marksmen than you have tried to penetrate this hide and failed."
There was a silence as they regarded a long-legged creature who was undulating toward them.
Doyle sighed. "Speaking of marksmen..."
The creature was a woman--there was no doubt of that. On well-shaped feet with painted toenails she wore high-heeled thong sandals. The calves of her legs were like a dancer's. The thighs were covered halfway by tailored silk shorts. Then a most intriguing waistline, overshadowed only by the abrupt outward sweep of the firm, ample breasts.
"Observe the mammoth mammaries," Doyle whispered.
But Larry was observing the face and eyes-- and the eyes, in turn, were observing him. Little crinkles appeared at their corners. A bandanna covered the woman's hair, but enough was in view to show its reddish orange color.
Doyle formed his two hands into a telescope. "Methinks I spy a lovely hostage. Tell me, fair lady, could this be the famous Sabrina Moore? In the flesh?"
"I could be, Mr. Doyle," said a husky voice, "and yes, thank you, I will join you gentlemen."
"Won't you join us?" Doyle said tardily.
But she was already perched on the arm of Larry's chair. Larry was beyond movement. All he could do was gape. The woman represented utter carnality. She carried her body like a banner. And, although she wore more makeup than he cared for, projected a warmth of spirit that pleased him.
"My dear," Doyle murmured, taking one of her hands, "you look absolutely ravished."
"You've got the wrong tense. But thanks anyway."
"I never make mistakes in grammar," Doyle said, his eyes twinkling. "Larry, please introduce yourself to Sabrina Moore, but for your own sake don't discuss architecture and such. Stick to stocks and trusts and quarterly dividends."
For the next few minutes Doyle and the woman engaged in the typically insulting dialogue of celebrities who know each other. Larry only feigned interest. But his artist's eye raked over the red head more than casually.
Her proportions were magnificent. The revealingly clinging silken things she wore outlined and delineated every curve and indentation of her body. She sat with her legs together, but the sight of her bare knees was as exciting as an open invitation. The bands of whatever she wore next to her skin made ridges in the shorts, and Larry wondered how difficult it must have been for her to wriggle into them.
She held herself well--head up, shoulders back, spine slightly arched. A painted doll, perhaps, but she was a long way from being a streetwalker.
"How many?" Doyle intruded abruptly.
"Huh?"
"Inches. The number. Quickly now."
For three whole seconds Larry was stumped. Then he realized what the man was driving at. "Thirty-eight?" Focusing his eyes, he stared thoughtfully. "No. Thirty-nine."
Doyle nodded in approval. "Not bad, young fellow. It's really right in between. But I can't hold you accountable for that. The point is you reacted splendidly under pressure."
"Say, what's going on here?" Sabrina said.
"Just a little harmless fun, my dear," Doyle chuckled. "We were merely making wild guesses as to the precise measurements of those remarkably delightful glands of yours."
"You're getting to be an obscene old man."
"Tut-tut. What could possibly be obscene about anything so lovely? Obscenity lies in what a man thinks, not what he beholds. My young friend and I happen to consider the female bosom an object of beauty. And no one can make it otherwise. Obscenity is a word for censors and puritans."
"Praise be and amen," the woman said.
"But aside from that, my dear, tell me how things are with you. Enjoying the trip?"
"So-so."
"Only so-so?" he asked.
"Well, perhaps a little more than that. But I must say I've been on better ones."
"I'm sure you have. For that matter, haven't we all? But you haven't run into any trouble, I presume?"
"Not a bit. I can be quite charming when I put my mind to it. Amazing how some people like being charmed. This chap, for instance." She gestured toward Larry. "I wonder if he would be interested in visiting my place on the Riviera."
"Riviera?" Doyle echoed. "I'm interested myself."
"We could go yachting. It isn't much of a craft but big enough to play bridge on, anyway."
"Sounds quaint."
Sabrina Moore smiled and stood up. "But at the moment I'm going to be plebeian and frolic with the peasants in the sunshine. See you all later."
She glided away fluidly. Larry watched the magical weave of her hips until she negotiated a corner and vanished.
"Like that one?" Doyle asked.
Larry licked his lips unconsciously.
Doyle smiled. "I thought you would. All woman. Care to have me put in a good word for you?"
"I care. But would it help?"
"Certainly. I have influence, you know. However--knowing Sabrina as I do--I'm sure she wouldn't take it kindly if you didn't rank her as a prime target," he said.
"Prime target? I--I don't understand, sir."
"It's not that complex, my boy. Restrain yourself from seducing that innocent little Tricia Goode girl, and I'll do something for you with Sabrina. How does that strike you?"
"It--it strikes me," Larry said. Then, recalling the supple power of the woman's thighs. "As a matter of fact, it strikes me like a bulldozer."
Something close to relief passed across Doyle's features. "Fine. I'm glad we agree."
"Uh-huh."
It occurred to Larry that he had just been outwitted in some way, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. Except that he had been switched from one woman to another as if they were horses designated by some racetrack tout.
He began to wonder if he might not be allowing himself to be detoured by both money and sex--in quantities beyond his comprehension. If so, then it meant he was liable to prostitute himself and his work. Was he being bought by Patrick Doyle?
Somewhat discouraged by Tricia Goode's plodding progress in the directions laid down by her own rules, Lee Jergens decided to find a suitable substitute. And with the practiced eye of an old pro, she wandered out to the playdeck where shuffleboard, table tennis and similar delights engaged and occupied the passengers.
She knew almost precisely what she was looking for, if not who. Having been aroused to an unbearable pitch by that near-thing with her roommate, she had to do something about it. Her entire nervous system was taut and tense, at the point of physical hunger. The symptoms were too obvious--she needed gratification.
On the deck Lee scanned the young passengers, spotting three attractive girls--and one struck a responsive chord immediately. The youngster was rather short and quite pretty in a handsome way, with close-clipped brown hair and a solidly constructed body that moved somewhat boyishly.
The trio was grouped around a blanket playing cards. The interesting girl was no stranger, in a way--Lee had seen her counterpart in several schools in the past. Intense, watchful, and yet a little detached. Now and then she would scrutinize her friends as if divining their thoughts. The other two were ordinary; they laughed and chattered unconcernedly.
Suddenly, the brown-haired one glanced in Lee's direction, her face emotionless. Lee didn't move a muscle in her direction, her face emotionless. Her hands were thrust in the pockets of her slacks as she leaned against the metal wall. But her heart throbbed heavily.
This was the girl...
In less than five minutes, the chosen quarry excused herself from the card game, picked her way over the assorted bodies soaking up the sunshine and walked straight to Lee. "You look familiar," she said softly. "Do I know you?"
"I don't know," Lee answered. "Do you?"
"A few years ago I went to a junior college in Pennsylvania. A school near Harrisburg. Maybe I'm wrong, but I have an idea I saw you there."
"It's likely. I taught at the place." A look of satisfaction crossed the girl's face. "My guess was right, then. You're Miss Jergens, aren't you?"
"Yes. Lee Jergens. And you?"
"Sue Trask. I took PE for a semester with you."
"Then I did recognize you."
"You sure did. But what gets me is how."
"There are ways. All kinds of ways. But they're too complicated to go into here."
"Okay--where?"
"You name it."
Sue Trask looked back at her friends. They had apparently forgotten her already. "Come on," she said.
Together they left the deck and walked through the corridors. At her cabin door the girl stopped and led the way in. Against one wall was a double-decker bunk. Across from it, under the porthole, was a single.
"Cigarette?" Sue said.
"Thanks, no. It's not one of my vices."
Lee's excitement was less than what she had felt with Tricia. It was like the thing with shoes. New shoes are always worthy of special attention and care, but old ones feel more comfortable and relaxing. Sue Trask was one of the old shoes.
"You know, Lee, I have always admired you in school. But you never even noticed me."
"Sorry. There were so many."
"Yes. I know. There still are, from what I hear."
"How old are you?"
"Twenty-one--by the calendar. But between us girls, well, I'm just three--if you know what I mean."
"Uh-huh. You looked older."
"That's because I learn fast."
"How fast?"
"This fast."
The close-cropped head moved swiftly but not as swiftly as the hands. Nimble fingers parted shirt buttons and then were tearing fiercely at Lee's bra. An instant later burning lips were searing bare flesh.
"I should say you do learn fast."
"I had good teachers."
"Umm, that's obvious."
"Over here, huh? Let's..."
"All right. But you're so strong, Sue. Take it easy. Gently, please, gently."
"I can't be gentle."
Nor could she. Anxious fingers clawed at the belt of the slacks. The bunk came up and met Lee's back. Almost at once she was conscious of the endless rocking of the ship. Distantly the brown hair was alternately in sun and shadow from the porthole. All the desire and heat that she had built up for Tricia began to struggle for release, and she directed it toward this strangely competent, emotionless girl.
Girl? No, creature.
This was almost a biological necessity. It lacked the tenderness that Lee usually sought. It was like a man going to a bordello to find an outlet for the love he had for a well-bred lady. Unclean and a little bit shameful.
But she consoled herself. This once wouldn't hurt. And then she would really concentrate on Tricia.
From far away she heard spoken, mumbled, muffled words. She had to repress a momentary laugh. This weird kid was so like a rambunctious puppy-dog. Unafraid and anxious to make friends. And the difference in their ages didn't seem to make much difference. Sue Trask was years and years younger but she was behaving exactly as if it were the other way around.
Kind of cute, really.
Not as cute as Tricia though.
Hmm, now there was an idea. Simply delicious. Maybe the three of them should get together. Wouldn't that be fun? It would certainly make the voyage worthwhile. She would have to think about it. But not now. Later. Right now it was nice just to relax and enjoy the burrowing puppy-dog bent on delighting her.
How Lee had ached for a touch like this! She stretched voluptuously under the girl's hands. She smiled down at the top of the girl's head, her eyes brilliant.
The cabin room was heated against the ocean chill.
Her touch, the moving tongue made Lee hotter and hotter. Almost skillful were the fingers as they roamed. Now her breasts were held by warm hands, the rounded, swelling breasts that she herself had caressed in frustrated longing for Tricia just moments before. The girl held them firmly, squeezed them, always touching that delicate tongue to the more sensitive area below, licking it sweetly, her lips closing around the clit-bud, lifting it from its nest, and pulling, pulling at the aching clit until Lee pulled her head deeper into the velvety mouth of her cunt again. The girl's fingers began again, whispering over Lee's belly, digging lightly into the curving navel, then over the ribs, and down to the bloom of hair beside her own working mouth.
How sweet the caress of those firm fingers into the hair! Lower still, until she lifted her mouth for new breath, and the fingers tenderly parted the labia lips, and explored inward. The finger touched... and then stroked the hard but-ton-clit. Lee's hips arched up involuntarily. She was so hot, and now flashes of heat burned again and again through her thighs and belly.
It was more and more difficult to lie lax and not participate.
Lee's flesh burned with heat, her hips arched with joyful frustration, her legs parted eagerly, knees bent to permit more access.
Now the girl's two hands were working, one drawing at one lip, the other hand nudging at its mate until the slit was wide open, then one finger moving inside again, probing gently.
Oh, the deliciousness of the sensations of that finger--then the second finger joined it, rubbing inside. Both fingers slid further inside, making room for the tongue that was following them.
Lee could feel the warm liquid flowing from her insides, creaming her cunt, the fingers, the tongue.
Tonguing, teasing, fingering.
The little pointed tongue had taken the place of the two fingers, and the girl was thrusting at the cunt walls with such authority!
Hips more bowed than arched now, Lee moaned with the pleasure of it as the girl licked the cream up like a glutton, the tongue a fierce intruder now, the marvelous sensation rippling over Lee's breasts, belly, into her cunt, out again, grabbing at her asshole, streaking up her back.
Rapidness and haste was destroying the pleasure, but Lee didn't care. Let that tongue pull with youthful impatience!
She lay under the bobbing head and cooed at the feel of that tongue crooking and rubbing against the soft wet walls of her vagina, and Lee looked down to watch the girl's becoming alert with the signs of Lee's approaching orgasm.
The tongue suddenly became stiff and still, feeling the rapid contractions inside Lee's drool-ing-wet pussy.
Afterward, the girl lay on Lee's body, mound to mound, breast to breast, and squeezed up to help stay in place, and they rubbed against each other, hair to hair, both moaning in happiness.
Then, in the hour that followed, Lee taught the young girl much.
CHAPTER SEVEN
After dinner a committee of four--self-appointed--searched the ship for Patrick Doyle. They found him descending from the bridge, where he had been discussing celestial navigation, radar, sonar and lunar tides with the captain, a grizzled veteran of some thirty-five years at sea.
The group was a hearty, tweedy, sensibly shod and indefatigable quartet determined to liven up the trip with good clean fun and wholesome activities. Resolutely they cornered the vessel's most celebrated passenger and told him that it was his duty to share his inventiveness and wit with his less endowed fellows.
Shooing them away turned out to be impossible. And at last he succumbed to the plump pressures and was proudly shepherded below by the matrons. Their conspirators had gathered in one of the dining rooms, and at his arrival a murmur went through the crowd.
Doyle glanced about.
Largely they consisted of the widows and spinsters, with a sprinkling of cowed elderly males. The Martins, he noticed, were conspicuously absent. So was Sabrina Moore. He did not see Larry Stevens. But he did see Tricia Goode.
The slim, dark-haired girl sat unobtrusively in a corner, busily knitting with a pair of needles and a ball of yarn. Wondering why it should make such a difference to him, Doyle watched to check whether she had heeded his entrance.
Tricia Goode made not a sign.
While the ladies performed gay introductions, he listened and observed with only half his consciousness. Had she been a live hand-grenade ticking away, the girl could not have been more important to him. It was ridiculous, he knew. She was less than half his age. They had not yet exchanged so much as a word. She was hardly any more attractive than Vicky or Sabrina. And yet he stood there nodding and smiling at people he did not know nor care to know--all because a young girl sat in a corner and knitted.
It galled him. And abruptly he stopped smiling.
"Could you give us a lecture on the Tyrolean Alps, Mr. Doyle?" someone cried. "I heard you give that one once and it was wonderful. I wish you would..."
His stare cut the woman short. "I would rather have my tongue torn out by the roots, madam."
"Then would you recite one of your epic poems for us?"
"Not if I can help it."
Suggestions continued to fly thick and fast. Everyone tried to win the "let's get Patrick Doyle involved" contest. But he held out staunchly, brushing off each request with a refusal as malevolent as corrosive acid.
And at last they got the hint. The eagerness drained away and the atmosphere grew stiff. No one seemed to know what to do. The gaiety of the party fell like a punctured balloon. But the knitting needles continued to click unabated.
Presently, when a voice weakly suggested a duplicate bridge tournament, Doyle quietly excused himself and went out on deck. The night was clear, but a chill was in the air and there were comparatively few strollers.
He stood and sucked in the cool air. After that stupid mob he was glad of solitude. But it was soon broken and he was startled to hear a voice at his elbow.
"Why must you be so cruel, Mr. Doyle?"
Even before he looked he knew who it was. He had not heard her speak before, but he was quite certain that this voice could belong only to one person.
"Am I cruel, Miss Goode?"
"You--you know my name?"
"Yes. As you knew mine. But let me ask you again, if I may. Am I cruel?"
"Of course you are. You've been cruel ever since you got on this boat. I have a feeling that you're very proud of yourself when you go to sleep at night."
"Who says I sleep? Perhaps I hang from my toes like a sloth and catch fireflies."
"It's not necessary to be clever, Mr. Doyle. Actually, I suppose it's none of my business. But you see, I feel kind of sorry for you. I beg your pardon. Good night."
Doyle's arm barred her way. "Wait."
"Yes?"
"Please. I beg your pardon, Miss Goode. Won't you stay another moment?"
Silently the girl moved back to the rail. By the light from the portholes he could make out her face. Eyes solemn, mouth unsmiling. The wind danced in her hair.
She wore a blue sweater against the chill. The soft wool clung to her breasts tenderly and Doyle resisted an impulse to hold them in his hands. He liked the simple way her skirt hung over her hips and legs. At this instant Tricia Goode seemed infinitely more desirable than either Vicky or Sabrina.
Doyle was glad that his own face was in shadow. "Why do you care, Miss Goode?" he asked gently. "To you, I'm sure, I must appear completely obnoxious."
"You may seem that way to many, Mr. Doyle. But somehow I don't think you are. I wasn't really certain that you fully realized how much you can hurt people. And since everyone else is afraid of your sharp tongue, I thought I'd be the scared sacrificial lamb."
A weight settled upon Doyle's shoulders. This was not the first time in his life he had been forced to gaze upon himself in a mirror held up by someone else. But it was the first time that it caused a stab of conscience. And with the pained conscience came a definite sense of guilt.
"Come now," he said, "there's no need for anyone to be sacrificed. I'm not altogether a sadist." Then, hearing her sudden intake of breath, "In fact, I'm not a sadist in any respect."
"That's odd. I had thought of you as just that."
It was like the twist of a knife. "That's a rather serious business," he said. "I had no idea you were watching me so critically. However, if I do give that ghastly impression it is quite unintentional, let me assure you."
"That's why it's so horrible. If you were deliberately sadistic it would be almost forgivable. But being that way unknowingly indicates terrible things in you."
Doyle held his hands out, palms up, and spoke with sincerity. "What would you have me do?"
The girl hesitated. Evidently she had attacked with the expectation of a counterattack in return. To have the foe expose his jugular vein without defense was unnerving. Her thoughts apparently had not gone beyond the basic fact of the malady. The cure had never entered her mind.
"I--I don't know. Recognize yourself, I suppose. Recognize all the good and constructive things you can do for people. And stop feeling compelled to mock and insult and hurt. Oh, I just don't know..."
Her voice quavered and he sensed she was on the verge of tears. But he could not imagine why. Surely it couldn't be over this little scene. If there were any tears to be shed they should be his.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Doyle. I have no right to be talking to you like this. I should go."
Once again she tried to get away, but again he held her. For a moment she struggled and then all at once she went limp. Her face dropped against his chest and she clung to him. It was not the embrace of a woman for a man. Instead it was more like that of a child for a parent.
Her slender body trembled in a paroxysm of dry sobs. There stirred in Doyle a curiously mixed reaction. Part of him was overly conscious of her as an appealing woman. The other part wanted to offer only the solace and comfort she sought.
He was mildly astonished at the inherent warmth of her body. A flowery glow seemed to emanate from her. Was this what he had felt but had not understood ever since laying eyes on her? It was strange to him, this feeling, almost alien. In his entrails was a mushiness he could not fathom.
"I want to be your friend," Tricia said in muted tones. "I didn't mean all those awful things I said."
"You are my friend," he murmured, looking over her trembling shoulder at the star-flecked water beyond. "But we mustn't stay out here; you'll catch your death of cold. Let me take you to your cabin. May I?"
She shook her head. "No. Not to my cabin. Anywhere but there. Not now. Please."
"As you wish. To the lounge, then. Perhaps we can find a quiet table and talk. A good brandy might help, also."
"All right," she said faintly.
But they did not get to the bar. Peering in from the doorway, Doyle saw too many passengers warming themselves with alcohol. And the girl made no demurral when he suggested his cabin.
Feeling like a boy on his first date, he uncorked a bottle of cognac and poured two fingers for her. Trustingly she drank it and then coughed. Her face reddened and her eyes went bleary. But the shivering stopped and soon she lifted her head and smiled.
"Delicious," she gasped. "What do you call it?"
"French moonshine. Another?"
"I give up. I'll never be cold again."
They talked casually about the ship and her home and school and where she was going in Europe. Until, at last, Doyle could hold back no longer. "Understand, young lady, I'm not about to forget the roasting you gave me." His voice chided, but there was no sting in it. "But in all frankness I must confess to some mystification as to why you picked me."
"Did I pick you?"
"Well, didn't you? But why? If you despised me so much, why did you want me as a friend?"
"Oh..." She put a hand to her still-flushed face. "Was I that transparent?"
"Not quite. Pellucid, perhaps. You see, you didn't lie in toto. You meant what you said about me. And I know enough about this tired old hulk to recognize the truth when I hear it. But there were other reasons you had, I'm sure, for approaching me. Your main object had to do with you--didn't it?"
Tricia lowered her eyes. "Yes. You're right."
She spoke with such helpless trust that Doyle felt a lump rise in his throat. "Would you care to tell me about it?" he said.
"Yes... and no. I thought it was a very important matter, but now it seems so ridiculous."
"Nothing is ridiculous if it has an effect on you."
"But maybe I am ridiculous."
"Impossible. What is it?"
He hated to prod. At times it was like poking at a festering boil. He preferred remaining aloof from the petty troubles that bothered petty people. Anyone who interfered in another's problems usually got more than he bargained for.
But this was difficult.
This was Tricia Goode.
"Sex," Tricia Goode said out loud.
Doyle had heard the word before but never with quite such violence and dread. To hear the sound issue from those lips was like hearing a curse word in church. He had long known that to most young people--and many older ones-- sex was a frightening monster that threatened to gobble them up if they weren't careful. This monster had come into Tricia Goode's life, and it was a shock to him that she should be suffering because of it.
"That's a pretty broad subject," he said lightly, his mind racing ahead in a dozen different guesses.
"And pretty dull to you, I imagine. You'll probably get a big chuckle out of this--but if you want to hear it..."
"I do. Please tell me."
She did. She told him about a boy named Walter and what had happened to her on her last night in New York. And the later awakening to reality, the revulsion and self-castigation, the sickness of disappointment. She told him a lot.
And Doyle muttered silent oaths about the stupid youth who had barged in, bull-like, to shatter this fragile, crystalline heart. And all those like him, for they are myriad. There should be a law, he figured, that only experienced and skillful males be allowed to make love to virgins. Not asses who had picked up their knowledge in hallways or bushes or out of pseudo-scientific books.
In all his life and with all his activity, Doyle could truly swear that he had never left a maiden's bed without leaving her happy and grateful. Now he bemoaned the fate which had not brought this girl to him forty-eight hours earlier.
"And that's just the beginning, Mr. Doyle. There's more--if you can stand it."
Raging with jealousy, he nodded--yes, he could stand more. He pressed the back of his hand to his forehead in an effort to quell his wrath. How he detested that Walter boy!
"I suppose it wouldn't have been so bad, really--I mean, well, I would have lived through it all right. Every girl does, I guess. But something happened inside of me."
Tricia was standing next to the bureau and Doyle saw two of her in the mirror. Unable to chain his ire, he stared at the slim form and imagined it writhing nude on a hotel bed with a leering, slobbering oaf poised to violate it. The vision of those shapely limbs kicking in futile resistance infuriated him.
"As bad as things are," she went on quietly, "there are always two sides. In this case, the present and the future. Well, the present took place in that hotel. The future is taking place on this boat. The aftermath, you could call it. Afterbirth, to be really crude. Now I'm beginning to reap some of the agonies. Like feeling terribly ashamed when I'm around others who don't know."
The roll of the vessel caused her skirt to sway softly around the loveliness of her legs.
"So now there is someone who interests me very much, but I can't fight off the unclean feeling I have. If he knew he would probably turn his back on me. A man has a right to expect me to come to him without any dark secrets."
Doyle gulped. Another one?
It was bad enough to bear rage and jealousy for an absent man, but to have a second one right under his nose was too much. Perhaps the girl was stupid--didn't she know that she could have come to him, Patrick Doyle, with her problem before it ever became a problem? He was almost angry with her for not having foreseen the fact that they would meet.
Holding down his irritation, he said, "I can understand your dilemma, Tricia. But where do I fit in?"
"That's what I'm not sure of. I guess I just had to tell somebody--a man--to find out what I should do. A man as worldly as you would know about such things. Maybe I'm being overly squeamish about the whole affair."
"Not exactly. You've been through an emotional battle. I'd be amazed if it didn't have some repercussions. However, I see no reason for it to become a bugaboo in your life." His mind shifted into high gear. "I'll tell you this, though--any man who turns his back on a girl for that sort of thing isn't worth a damn in the first place. You are what you are. You mustn't pretend to be anything else. The man who really wants you will love you for yourself or not at all."
Her eyes came alive. He could see that she was all but eating up his soothing words.
"And now," he said shrewdly, "what else is it that bothers you? The other part of sex? The physical part of it?"
"I--I think so," and her voice was low as she said it.
"Afraid that something is wrong with your reactions?"
The girl nodded.
"It wasn't very pleasant the other night?"
She shook her head.
"Not even a hint of enjoyment?"
"Uh... just a hint. But that was all."
Doyle pursed his lips. Then he raised his eyebrows in a question that could have been construed in only one way. He crossed his fingers in hopes that she would understand.
She must have. Slowly, deliberately, knowingly, Tricia Goode nodded her head, once.
"Are you afraid of me?" he murmured.
"No."
"Do you trust me?"
"Yes. That's why I'm here."
Their separate gazes met, locked, held. No longer were they two persons of different generations. They were a man and a woman. Doyle felt the change in the atmosphere; it seemed to press heavily upon his chest.
How many times had he been involved in similar moments? He couldn't count them. Yet they still were possessed of an enormous magnetism. He could be blase about many things in this world. But he would never, even if he lived another half century, be jaded about this.
Doyle stood up. Tricia started across to him. The door dipped toward her and she stopped. Then, inexorably, it rose and slanted in the opposite direction. She raced down the incline into his arms. The impact sent him backward onto the chair and then she was on his lap, their mouths meeting.
Tenderly, so very tenderly, he probed her lips, parting them. The flaming tip of her tongue darted to greet him. His hand slipped upward along a slim leg. To her waist and higher. Around to her back where his fingers groped expertly for the zipper, found it, tugged --and the dress folded away.
Even through the silken fabric of her bra he tasted the freshness of the flesh beneath and felt it stiffen. Her body quivered. The backstrap clasp presented only a small problem. And then there was no silken fabric in his path.
He lifted her, surprised that a body so light could still feel so full and firm and complete. On his way to the bed he hit the switch and darkness cloaked the room. But almost immediately a faint illumination poked itself from the porthole to the bed like a long yellow finger. Gently, lovingly, he placed his burden down directly in its glow.
With a trust that dizzied him, she allowed his hands and lips full reign. He prepared her like a surgeon preparing for a delicate operation. And soon the white body was exposed to his eyes and he wondered how any man, no matter how blinded by passion, could have treated it as that simpleton Walter had.
Lying beside her, he heard the deep and regular breathing that issued from her open mouth. His own mouth was dry and burning. In the darkness he envisioned a jewel coolly displayed on a velvet cushion. A beautiful pearl. It was there to be taken--purloined, perhaps-- by some daring diver.
And he saw himself high atop a cliff about to enter the beckoning waters below. And then he was springing far out into the air and soaring, soaring, and at last plunging into the sea. At the touch of his hands it parted resiliently and he was in the depths, sinking, but it became lighter instead of darker and now he could see all around him. The water enveloped him like a friendly blanket, pulling him and buoying him at the same moment as though he had no weight, no consistency.
Farther and farther he plumbed, and the liquid gave way with a kind of joyous reluctance. In the distance was the pearl lying in its velvet nest and he reached for it--but alas! it was just too far away.
Stroking, he sank toward the precious gem and saw it grow larger with each movement. Now he was almost there--the urgency of the necessity to breath was pulsing in his lungs. They were about to burst. He needed air.
Yet he knew he must reach the pearl. He must. Even though he might not ever have the strength to get back to the surface he had to gain this prize.
And he reached.
His fingers closed over the smooth, lovely thing.
He started to return to the living world.
Then, with startling suddenness, the sea crushed in on him, the air in his lungs rushed out, his ears popped. And he had the peculiarly thrilling sensation of watching himself disintegrating in the terrific pressure of the surrounding water in a soundless, ever-spreading explosion.
But he had the pearl, the treasure, the precious gem--and he had gained it without harming even one speck of its flawless, maddening beauty.
And that was what counted.
The taut, jouncing breasts were free and expanding now and Tricia watched him pull back and gape at them. Then she brought them back to his mouth in a most giving and womanly gesture, her cheek against his, lips trailing, flicking at his ear lobe. "Teach me..." she murmured, and with a groan he gathered her closer to him, sank deeper into her, and buried his face against the naked throb and heat of her, sucking furiously at her nipples, nibbling at the palpitating buds and loving the tantalized moans of her as she reverently stroked his cheeks and cradled his chin higher against her breasts, and he alternately slid each fat little melon into his mouth, trying to devour the both of them, going carnivorous with the sudden luxuriant taste of her. Then his lips were fervently caressing at the hot-tit undersides, gently lifting each tear-shaped mound and slowly swirling his tongue up and behind to lick and explore the tender back-flesh, and all of it tasted so new and fresh to his mouthings.
Slowly, his movement in and out of her furtive and savoring, his lips traveling, satiny, staking their claim, lifting the back of her knees and raising her legs, his cock all sopped and pressed into the unveiled glories of her, now a rearing response in its own slight emission, the buried head of it towering up in her belly, discovering new, hidden heat pockets in there.
His hands swept around her buttocks and clutched the tight and sweltering cheeks, hoisting her higher for the coming finale, his prick wet-sliding in and slowly out in awe and wonder that he thought himself no longer capable of, as he wormed his way through the groaning discovery, drowning it again and again in her sweet, moist rain, letting it be sipped by the swirling, clinging whirlpool, he stretched upward and flung her thighs even wider apart... wanting the loin-emptying of her now, the nourishment lurking for him in this girl of fire and replenishment. And her frenzied convulsions of legs and pelvis, she sighed "Ahhh!" and grasped for more of the thickness and breadth of the wet throbbing monster-member, the rumbling now fever shafting deep inside her belly, giving her every joyful inch, basking it in the hot fluids of her, feeling the inner muscles of her cradling the very hub of it, spiking her up off the bed, holding her straight up, planted in that ever-gurgling nest of her, as she moaned and shot her little body and bottom in fresh and covetous hunger, his eyes brooding about her soft licking lips, parted and vulnerable with need, crushing his own hot mouth against hers, softly nudging his tongue between her lips as their mouths went locked and he thought my little virgin-whore, my lovely one, my... Ohhhhhhh!
He went senseless and unhinged for the mad moment... dug in and soaking in her moist creamy cunt, treading juices between them... going under, losing altitude, drowning...
Patrick Doyle came, splitting, spraying endless volleys of hot jetting bursts and jamming the great flood into her... again... un... again... his loins aflame, milking it into her, trembling from his head to his feet. He felt her body tighten from within, too, felt her come uncontrollably, the bunk wheezing with her hand-grabbing at it for support throughout this glorious moment.
Sunk and met, as he throbbed out his last moist drippings into her.
They clung in silence for long and sheltered moments, both unbelieving, letting the cathedral-hush of their dwindling sighs envelop the cabin, and perhaps the world.
He leaned down and kissed the warm full repose of her lips.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Roger Martin didn't know what to do with himself. During the day his wife had been tolerantly cordial to him, neither angry nor pleased. It was her greatest weapon, this ability to politely ignore him. There was no effective means of combating it. He could not start a fight with her because she simply would not fight. He could not try to divert her with an off-color story; she would merely smile vaguely and make him feel asinine.
Perhaps a drink would loosen him up. He had two or three and it helped him feel better. But Vicky was as remote and unapproachable as ever.
There was a serious breach between them, he was aware, but he didn't quite know what had caused it. His comments about Patrick Doyle? He had spoken disparagingly of the man previously and she hadn't seemed to mind. Was it because she had in some way learned about Sabrina? The thought stupefied him. What if she had come into the cabin and seen them?
That would explain everything. Perhaps he might hint at it to her and find out. But what good would it do? Do you just laugh it off and say it was a tragic mistake? Hmmm. That session with Sabrina had scarcely been tragic. The only sad part was that it had not lasted longer. Nights longer.
Ensconced at a table in the lounge, Roger felt happily miserable. Again he had failed to assert his husbandly authority. Could it be that Vicky was determined not to meet him halfway? So it would seem. No matter what he did, it turned into mud. All his money couldn't change his luck for the better. Maybe he was fated to go through life with the world against him.
All around him people were joking and laughing, having the good time they were paying for. The women were especially attractive away from their everyday chores. The men were calm and assured, safe in their wives' love. Dammit, why couldn't he be one of them?
He stiffened when he saw Patrick Doyle appear in the doorway. Here was a goddamn golden opportunity to let off some steam. As soon as that bastard came into the lounge he would just walk over and slug him. Pow--right in the kisser.
Behind Doyle was a girl, a very pretty girl that Roger had seen earlier. Just like Doyle to have something as delectable as that on the string. Roger was all the more determined to make a scene. It would ruin the old know-it-all in the girl's eyes.
He was half out of his chair when Doyle and the girl turned and disappeared. Roger hesitated, wondering if he should follow his hated nemesis and have it out with him on the deck. He took a tentative step, felt the roll of the floor, swayed and sat down again. Damn ship wasn't safe. A fellow couldn't move without endangering his life. He'd have to talk to the captain about it in the morning. And he'd see Doyle, too, tomorrow.
Where in hell was Sabrina Moore?
He called for a double shot of whiskey and gulped it down angrily. Who did that babe think she was--giving him the brush. She knew he would be here at the bar. Why didn't she show up?
Bravely he rose and went out. The windswept decks were deserted as he hunted for Sabrina's cabin. Dimly he recalled having been there in the corridor a hundred years ago, but now all the doors looked alike. But there was a solution for that, and he located the wall-roster that listed the passengers and their staterooms. Running his finger down the list, he came to her name and number.
Hah! Thought she could fool him, did she?
A pair of matrons stood aside to let him pass and he glowered at them. At Sabrina's door he paused. A crafty grin spread over his face. He could knock and say it was a telegram. Western Union. Hmmm. Did they have Western Union on boats? Then how about saying it was the florist delivering flowers? Of course he could always say it was Roger Martin.
But he dismissed that idea as utterly absurd and pressed his ear to the panel. Silence. Wasn't she in? Maybe he could steal a peep through the porthole and make sure.
Gingerly he opened the door to the deck and went out. It was so dark that he stumbled over a chair. But he found the right place, and after looking around to see if there were any snoopers, he sidled up to the porthole and peered in.
Sabrina was there.
She was standing at the washbasin soaping a handful of lingerie. She wore only bra and panties. The back strap bit gently into her flesh. When she bent forward he could see the rounded solidity of one of those gorgeous breasts. Even covered, it was disturbing to him. Avidly he let his gaze roam over the curves that had lifted him to undreamed of glories.
And so engrossed was he in the bewitching sight that he forgot what he had come for.
Oh, yes.
He was supposed to go in.
Reluctantly he stopped peeking and went back into the corridor. With no hesitation this time he put his hand on the doorknob and twisted it. It gave quickly. The ship lurched and Roger tumbled over the steel sill and fell.
The knob snatched itself from his grip. A feminine scream cut into his ears. When he finally got oriented he was lying on his back and looking up at the startled figure of Sabrina Moore.
She was high and far away. But from this angle he could still see how enchanting she was. Her legs were incredibly long, with thighs that were huge. Then the swatch of cloth at her loins, tight and revealing, almost transparent. Above that, the jutting cliffs of her breasts and then the frozen anger of her face, topped by the swirl of coppery hair.
"Darling..." Roger grinned. "How nice of you to ask me in." One of his hands reached up to slide along a naked leg. How soft and silky it was!
"Get out," he heard a husky voice say. "Get the hell out of my room, you drunken sot."
"Now, now, sweetie, calm down, huh? I just wanted to pay a nice friendly visit."
Somehow he managed to get to his knees, then up on one foot, then both--supported by the wall. Sabrina kept swaying this way and that, so he threw out his arms to hold her still. Clutching her to him, he could feel the soft warmth of her flesh. His hand moved to paw a tempting mound.
Sabrina cocked an arm and loosed a slap. Roger staggered back, hurt more by her unreasonable attitude than by the blow. He looked at her, somewhat aggrieved.
"Honey, what was that for? Why should you hit me? I didn't do anything to you, did I?"
"No. And you're not going to, Roger. I don't mind seeing you but not in this condition. If you really wanted to visit me, you could have at least had the courtesy to stay sober."
"Who says I'm not sober?"
"Good night," she snapped, pushing him toward the door.
"But I just got here."
"It's already been too long. And next time, knock."
Roger stepped back to regard her objectively. Without makeup, her face seemed a bit pale. But she was not any the less alluring for it. She even seemed not quite so formidable this way. Not like an unapproachable glamor queen. More human. And angry she was actually lovelier. Like Vicky. When she got angry, he always got aroused, somehow.
But right now there was nothing he wanted more than to get that bra off this woman's body. He lunged and grabbed for the shoulder straps. Sabrina Moore dodged him and then ducked away, spinning around, and this time his fingers hooked into the band of her panties. For an instant she stood still. Then she moved; there was a sharp snap as the elastic broke. The small bit of gauzy fabric sighed away from her hips.
Roger smiled. The victory was as good as won. Now that she was half naked she would be unable to resist him. All he had to do was touch her and that would do it.
A balled fist caught him just below the eye. Another squashed his left ear. Then fingernails were clawing at him. An endless series of enraged cries filled the room. So did Sabrina. There were at least four of her coming at him from every direction.
He retreated, covering his face with his hands. The bombardment continued even when he got to the door. His last sight of the beautiful hellcat came as she kicked out at him, missing and thus causing her near-nude flesh to quiver violently.
And never had he heard such language.
The door slammed with an echoing bang. Roger stood there a long moment, dumbfounded and profoundly shocked. Such fury! He hadn't suspected that the woman was crazy, but this certainly proved it. Absolutely insane. Treating him like a drunken slob. And after everything he had done for her. Talk about ingratitude.
The deck was emptier and darker now, but the silence was welcome after that outburst. He leaned on the rail, dug out a handkerchief and dabbed at the streaks on his face.
This, then, was the final proof. He--Roger Martin--no matter how hard he tried to be kind and thoughtful and generous, was being ganged up on. There was a conspiracy against him.
Uh, huh. A conspiracy. They were all in on it. Sabrina must have squealed to Vicky. That would explain his wife's attitude. And Doyle's too. Oh yes, he had seen that bastard's derisive look in the doorway of the lounge earlier. Then there was the bartender, hiding his smug laugh. Uh-huh. The whole damn bunch of them. All out to make Roger Martin feel foolish.
Well, they had succeeded, damn them, they had succeeded beyond their wildest dreams.
Below him the froth from the ship was white and gleaming in the dark water. It seemed so close and inviting. Hypnotically it held his eyes until all that existed was the sea that rose and fell monotonously. The waves beckoned, frightening friendly, gay, charming. The hiss sounded in his ears.
Under his hands the rail was hard and cold. Behind him he could hear the faintly raucous noise from the lounge. The fools. Wasting their time in that place, drinking up their money, pretending to have a good time. Didn't they know that this was much better? Out here there was peace and contentment.
A sudden desire to feel what it was like in that black ocean came upon him. Think of bobbing up and down like a cork and then watching the lights of the ship recede in the night. Then they would miss him. Then they would know that he had won, after all. Uh-huh. Outwitted the whole bloody bunch of them.
And even if the ship turned around and came back to look for him with searchlights raking the waves, he wouldn't signal or anything. The last laugh would be his. Yet he would let Vicky appreciate him then. Let her realize she had done this, had put him beyond where she could hurt him.
Yes, he would do it.
With one foot on the rail, he paused. The chill wind smacked his face and insinuated itself into his shirt. It was cold, all right. It really was. And it would sure be a damn sight colder in the water. What he needed was a belt of booze to keep him warm. It wouldn't be so good to freeze to death before he had the chance to laugh at them all. A stiff drink, yes.
He made his way back to the lounge. It was pretty well cleared out by now, but there were a few diehards. Roger passed them, smiling secretly as he went to his favorite table. Just one drink and then he would go. This was his moment. They would remember this tomorrow when they talked in hushed tones of the man who had had the courage to face the ocean alone. How he had come in, ordered one whiskey and stared thoughtfully into space, a jaw muscle rippling slowly. They would recall his smile.
The shot went down so easily and tasted so good that he called for another. The waiter did not notice that Death was at the table, too. Roger felt a great warmth for the man, his last contact with the living before facing the end. Perhaps he would let the fellow in on his secret. Order another drink to get him back.
He ordered two but did not speak to the waiter about his plans. The time would come. Right now he had to get warm enough to brave the cold sea. He could say something to the fellow on the way out. Maybe hesitate at the door, hand him a fifty-dollar bill, thank him politely, smile sardonically, toss him a casual salute, perhaps, and then step out into the night. Into eternity.
Steely-eyed, he gazed around the lounge. No, they would never forget this night. As long as the Siwanoy plowed back and forth across the Atlantic they would never forget the man who had beaten them at their own game. Never... never... never...
After his sixth straight shot, Roger Martin tried to get to his feet. The vessel rolled; he groped for the chair he had left, missed it and then crumpled into a ball on the floor. Vaguely he wondered how it had happened. Had one of his conspiring enemies cut him down with a machine-gun?
Presently the waiter and the bartender exchanged bored glances and walked over to the unconscious heap that was now snoring open-mouthed up at them. Together they lifted him, sharing the burden between them, and lugged him, feet dragging, down to his stateroom, pushed open the door and deposited their load on the nearest bed. Then--still bored--they went back to the lounge and closed up for the night.
CHAPTER NINE
For the fifth time Larry Stevens tore up a sheet of drawing paper. He tapped nervously with the edge of the T-square and then began scribbling upon a clean sheet.
Itchy and irritable, he could not concentrate on what he was trying to do. Ideas flowed like a mountain stream through his head, but he was unable to channel them. For more than an hour he had drawn lines, curves and dimensions, but nothing came even close to being right. It was as if he had forgotten everything he knew about design. Even looking at old sketches on his pad did not help.
It was ridiculous, he knew, that he should be in this unsettled state. There was no reason he should freeze up. What if his whole future did rest on whether he could come up with a good design for Patrick Doyle? No need to behave as if it didn't happen every day, was there?
Once more he applied himself to the paper in front of him, trying to envision the time when it would be virtually covered with lines and marks denoting the precise shape and size of a structure that would one day be Patrick Doyle's home. He wanted to do an imaginative job that would, if possible, reflect the man's matchless personality. The kind of house that was distinctive and yet not a sore thumb in nature's backyard. And there was a point, of course--he didn't even know the setting for the house. Seashore, mountains, prairie--it could be anywhere. And what of the budget? How much money should it cost?
But these were mere details, he was aware. To anyone else they would be all-important, but Patrick Doyle was the kind of person who would build the house where it would best fit. And pay whatever the bill came to. In any event the significant thing right now was doing it. The plan. The fresh idea.
The sixth time, Larry began to make some sense out of it. The design took shape and he recognized its possibilities. Low but not rambling. It would need order and convenience. Air, light, spaciousness. Places for writing, reading, entertaining, listening to music--every human physical and social function. Because if ever there was a man who was many things, it was Patrick Doyle.
Nearly an hour later, Larry pushed back from the table and regarded his latest effort critically. The thing was good. A long way from perfect, but definitely promising.
But now he was exhausted and the afternoon was waning. Sounds of happy voices came through the porthole and he felt the need for relaxation before tackling the rest of the job. He might find it out there at the swimming pool.
Out at the pool, though, Larry Stevens did not find relaxation. He did find other things, however. Among them, Patrick Doyle and Tricia Goode. Relaxing with either one would have been difficult; in the presence of both it was impossible.
In keeping with station in life, the great man was an impressive figure in impeccably tailored sports clothes. He was seated in a canvas chair, his knife-edged trouser legs crossed. Kneeling next to the chair was the girl.
It took Larry a moment to get used to the sight of Tricia. Her tight-fitting swimsuit showed exactly what her body was like, and it was all there--and stacked. The small, youthful breasts riding high and pointed. The flat stomach and narrow waist. The smooth projections of hipbones that held the garment taut. The slim thighs and calves and shapely bare feet.
Doyle raised his hand. "Ah, there you are, my boy. Do come over and join us." His manicured fingers indicated an empty chair. "Right here, Larry, sit down right here. It so happens that we were just talking about you."
Larry felt suddenly uncomfortable. The idea that anyone should be discussing him was embarrassing enough, but when the anyone might be Tricia Goode it was doubly so. Tricia and Patrick Doyle. A few sunbathers were peering their way with evident curiosity. Doyle and the girl were the principal objects of attention at the pool.
Tricia's face was flecked with silvery water drops. Her nose, Larry noticed, was a bit red from the sun. Standing over her, he couldn't help but see down into the cut of the suit and the twin curves of her damp bosom.
Did she know that her body was thus exposed?
Of course. No woman alive is ever totally unconscious of her body and what parts of it are visible to men. The girl knew. And recognizing that she did gave Larry an insight to her character. It brought her down off the pedestal he had placed her on, down to his own mortal level where--perhaps--he could cope with her in the ways he knew.
It was at that exact moment that Stevens the architect became Stevens the man. No one--not even the great Patrick Doyle--was going to tout him from one girl to another just because of a commission to design a house. He no longer cared one way or the other about sexpot Sabrina Moore.
"I've been thinking about you, too, Mr. Doyle," Larry said crisply as he lowered himself into the chair.
"Naturally. What's the verdict?"
"It depends. How much can you spend on your house?"
"Oh--that. Well, let me see now..."
"A house?" Tricia said. "Oh. Patrick, this is the architect you told me about, hmm?"
"Correct, my dear. And good, I might add."
Tricia turned her eyes on Larry as if seeing him for the first time. "Yes, I think so. He has that look."
Larry shifted in his seat. "You're both talking through your bonnets. Mr. Doyle has never examined any of my work--and you, Miss Goode, couldn't tell an architect from a coal-stoker just by looking at him."
"No?" The girl's smile almost blinded him. "I was merely saying, Mr. Stevens, that you look to me as if anything you tried you would be good at."
Doyle reached down and lifted the girl's slim arm. "The winner of round one," he announced. "Well done, my dear. You have the makings of a true bitch."
"You're sweet, Patrick."
"And now--as we were saying. How much for the house? Good point. I have only a vague idea of where to build it and therefore cannot be accurate. I suppose the best thing to do is to do the plan first and then quibble about the money. If I need extra cash I'll write a book or a song or something." Doyle's tone was not boastful in the slightest.
Larry shrugged. "Even a vague idea would help--about where you want it, I mean."
"Yes, I imagine so. Mountain top overlooking a town. Not a craggy mountain, a wooded one. Pine trees. Green hills."
"Good road?"
"Passable. Why?"
"Trucks will have to transport the materials. If the road has to be improved, it will go into the total cost of the house. A well for water. Electricity. Fireproofing. Stormproofing. All matters to be considered when building outside the convenience of a city. And all adding up tremendously."
"Hmm. Guess I've been away from architecture too long. Should never forget details like that." Doyle glared as if it were Larry's fault. "But no matter. Money is no object here, Larry, so just do the best you can. Wright wouldn't let such a piddling item as money interfere with good design. Neither would Doyle. And neither should little Larry Stevens."
"Fine with me. I like being in such illustrious company. But seriously, Mr. Doyle, I appreciate what you're doing for me. You don't know how encouraging it is."
Doyle vainly favored him with a stern glance. "I'm not doing anything for you. You're doing it for yourself. Frankly, if I didn't think you had the stuff, I wouldn't give you the time of day."
The girl stood up. "Too much architecture for me. Mind if I excuse myself and make like a swimmer?"
Walking to the edge of the pool, she tugged at her bathing suit where it encircled her upper thighs. Slimly silhouetted against the sky, she seemed exceptionally long-legged. She tossed them a smile and then arched cleanly into the water.
Looking at his companion, Larry thought there was an expression of tenderness on the sharp features. Doyle was staring at the spot where Tricia had vanished. As though the dive into the water reminded him of some particularly memorable occasion.
"Attractive girl," Larry said tentatively.
"Quite. But so is our friend Sabrina Moore. I haven't forgotten about that, you know."
"I have."
"Eh?" Doyle frowned darkly.
"Don't bother about putting in a good word for me. I've changed my mind. And you should have expected it, sir, considering how you feel about integrity. Sabrina Moore means nothing to me."
"I see. And... uh... that young lady?" The man seemed almost flustered as he gestured toward the pool.
"As I said--an attractive girl."
"Quite. Or did I already say that?" Doyle was his poised self once more. "Now--about architecture. Where were we?"
Neither of them had his heart in it, but for the next few minutes they talked about houses. When Tricia climbed out of the pool, dripping wet, her breasts heaving from the exertion, they were discussing the use of new materials in construction.
Tricia approached, wrinkling her nose prettily as she took off her rubber cap and shook her highlighted hair free. "You two sobersides aren't very good for a girl's vanity. At least I thought you'd be talking about the way I look in a swimsuit."
"It's not how you look," Doyle said, "but how others look. And they do--right at you, my dear. The helmsman almost ran us aground when you dove in a while ago."
"That's better," Tricia said with a giggle. "Say, I'm getting thirsty. Is there a water fountain nearby?"
"More than that." Larry smiled an invitation. "How about dropping in at the milk bar and checking the goodies?"
Doyle glowered. "The cocktail lounge is open."
"Ice cream and soda," Tricia said, "or scotch and soda. That's some decision for me to make."
Both men stood up. Doyle took the girl's arm possessively and spoke in an emphatic tone. "Come along, my dear--you can put on a beach-robe and we'll sample the alcohol."
"I'm against it." Larry shook his head. "Booze in the afternoon can be fatal--especially on the high seas. I recommend milkshakes."
"Please, boys." Tricia was obviously enjoying the struggle. "Don't fight over poor little me." In an impishly coy motion she hugged her arms around her breasts.
Doyle seemed vexed. "People are staring."
"Is that a complaint?" she said quietly. "I thought you were annoyed only when they didn't stare."
"Don't behave like a child. Come along."
"Stop acting like a father. Maybe I don't want to."
The bickering went on in low voices. Larry thought it peculiar that two people who had known each other such a short time should be on terms intimate enough to permit the swapping of barbs. Did Doyle know the girl better than he had admitted?
"Let's all go," Tricia said with an air of finality. "We'll make the big diehard decision later."
Doyle uttered a grumbling sound, displeased that she had not jumped through his hoop on command. Tricia held her arms out and they started off, three abreast, Larry on her left and Patrick on the pool side at her right. Unspeaking, they moved along the apron, with Doyle within two feet of the water, stepping over puddles and shrinking to avoid the splash of playful swimmers. They were almost to the deck when it happened.
Larry was never quite sure whether it was intentional or accidental, but he distinctly saw Tricia shift her hips firmly. On the left swing she struck him in mid-thigh. On the right swing she caught Doyle in the same spot. And at the same instant she released her grip on his arm.
Off balance, the best-dressed man on the ship clawed the air for support. His face was a mask of horror. For an endless moment he teetered on the brink of the pool, one beige-clad leg flailing in space wildly.
Then, apparently realizing the hopelessness of his position, he relaxed and an expression of utter resignation came upon his features as he gave up and tumbled.
The splash nearly upset the ship. Larry watched him strike the water and sink like a stone. The colors of his clothing made him look like a gigantic tropical fish. Bubbles danced upward. A stunned silence gripped the spectators.
Tricia's arm held Larry's. "Too bad Mr. Doyle can't come with us. Perhaps we'll have a dry martini with him later on."
The sputtering head of Patrick Doyle popped to the surface. His hands pounded the water. "Help! I can't swim."
Two delighted matrons loosed yells of glee and jumped in, each bent on saving the man of her dreams. Pulling, pushing, arguing, cajoling, they struggled with their victim. Eventually Doyle managed to break loose and in a remarkably short period of time learned enough about swimming to make it to the ladder, where he clung sopping wet and gasping for breath.
"Did anyone ever tell you," Larry said, "that you have the cutest little body on this whole boat?"
Tricia blinked up at him. "You didn't have to say that--even if it is true."
Over their shoulders they saw that Patrick Doyle was trying to murder them with his eyes. Tricia Goode flipped her hips once more and then allowed Larry Stevens to guide her to the milk bar and ply her with ice cream and cookies.
CHAPTER TEN
Roger Martin had not killed himself, but neither had he dismissed the idea altogether. There were some appealing aspects to the thought. Ever since his abortive attempt a few night ago he had been weighing the advantages and disadvantages. To be or not to be, that is the question.
Certainly it would be good to know that he had hurt Vicky greatly, but not to be there and see her face took away some of the pleasure. Too, he did not relish the prospect of doing himself in while he still possessed considerable desire to make love to his wife's gorgeous body once more. He could hardly do that as a cadaver floating in the sea.
Below, the waves piled immensely against the sleek hull of the vessel. Then they rushed away to perform white dance steps on the gray-green stage of the sea. The horizon was an endless, monotonous circle, a prison wall of sky and water. Ahead, the prow was an implacable knife slicing its way toward Europe. Only in the damn downward view was there any sensation of forward motion. There the lure of the deep seemed to be almost magnetic.
For the first time in nearly thirty-six hours, Roger was completely sober. He could not remember much of what had taken place during that period. There were a couple of black-and-blue bruises on his knees and some dried-blood scratches on his neck and an unholy ache in the cave of his skull, all scars and relics of forgotten encounters.
Perhaps it was just as well. He had gone on binges before only to come out of them full of remorse, unabsorbed alcohol--and occasionally--lawsuits. As far as he knew, no one was gunning for him and passing passengers were still nodding hello.
He was fairly sure that he had spent some time in his bed, and yet it seemed that Sabrina Moore's room was more familiar than his own. For that matter, Sabrina seemed more familiar --physically--than Vicky. But he could not recall a single phrase he had uttered or heard during the day-and-a-half hiatus.
Regardless, he had not erased the notion of suicide. At breakfast Vicky had mercilessly repeated some of the threats of self-destruction he had recently muttered. Embarrassed, he had left her and wandered off to the gameroom.
Later he had come up here to the sun-deck and studied the females who were cavorting about.
His puritanical streak rebelled at the sight of so many half-clad bodies and sunburned legs and jiggling breasts. The lusty side of him snuggled up closely for a long and rewarding examination.
Two of the women he singled out for special attention. One was Tricia Goode, the supple, dark-haired youngster who bloomed with radiance. Lying on a blanket, she was immersed in a magazine. Time after time he ran his eyes over the sweet curves of her flanks. Now and then she kicked her bare legs up and down in an absent-minded fashion. Roger liked that.
The other was Lee Jergens, the intense-looking blonde who always seemed to be looking for someone or something. It was she who organized the games and sports, at all of which she excelled in performance. Roger enjoyed watching the lithe grace of her movements, and in her own way she appealed to his senses as much as the other woman did.
In any case, as he soaked up the sunshine that would ultimately dispel the wretched liquor fumes from his brain, he was not wasting his time. Just seeing those two was invigorating. Enough to keep a man alive.
It was only natural that he should try to meet them. But how? Even on a ship like this, a man couldn't walk up to a girl and say, "I'd like to meet you in hopes of getting into bed with you." You might try that at a sophisticated cocktail party in New York. But out here on the ocean it would be--
A cocktail party?
Of course. Why hadn't he thought of it before? Just ask them to the cabin for drinks. Ah, but no. Too blatant. It would have to be done with subtlety. Camouflage. Ask a lot of people and just happen to include the right ones. "Oh, by the way, I'm having a few friends in tonight--a small and intimate gathering. Thought you might like to join us."
Those two. Vicky, naturally. And Sabrina Moore. Doyle? What the hell, why not? It would show Vicky that he bore no grudges. Besides, it might be fun to get the old bastard into a fight and kick the daylights out of him.
And a few others. The purser, probably. That young architect fellow. The boyish girl who was with the athletic blonde. Might be an interesting development in that direction. He was never wrong about judging girls, and that one looked like a sure thing. In fact, the whole bunch were interesting.
So that was the way to do it. A cocktail party.
Crowded; but not unbearably so. Cozy and close. Without sufficient chairs, almost everyone had to stand--and standing makes for better parties than sitting.
A portable radio blared froth static-filled music and commercials in four different languages. The waiters kept on the move with trays of hors d'oeuvres, buckets of ice and bottles of whiskey. You had to shout to make yourself heard by your neighbor. Wandering elbows upset highball after highball on recently unpacked gowns and summer tuxedos. The cigarette smoke was so thick you could inhale it and save money. Just like New York.
All in all, a most delightful party. Roger Martin was the genial host, seeing to it that the glasses were kept full and the guests likewise. The cabin resounded like a boiler under a colossal head of steam. Everyone was having fun.
Of the girls, Sabrina Moore won the skin show easily with a dress cut nearly to her navel. And she was thoughtful enough to spend a good deal of her time perched on one of the beds to provide all those interested with superb points of vantage. To show off her big-heartedness she had neglected to wear a bra. Not until Sue Trask accidentally stumbled and poured a Tom Collins into the breach did Sabrina traipse off to change into something a bit less controversial.
Seeking Tricia out, Lee Jergens said, "Haven't seen much of you lately. Are you hiding out?"
"Not me. I've been around. Where have you been?"
"Here and there. From what I gather, you've made quite a hit on the ship. Half a dozen men, at the very least, sniff and snort at the mention of your name. Including the great Patrick Doyle." She spoke the name with a touch of derision.
Tricia shrugged coolly. "Oh, you know how men are on ocean voyages," she murmured. "They think every girl is either a queen or a tramp and are determined to disprove the one and prove the other. You haven't done so badly yourself, I see."
It was a vicious remark and Tricia made no effort to take the sting out of it as she deliberately glanced across the room in the direction of Sue Trask.
Lee flinched as if she had been slapped. "You notice everything, don't you?"
"So we both have 20-20 vision."
"I guess so. Let's not fight, Tricia. We still have a few more days together and there's no sense making them any harder than they'll probably be anyway. I'd like to be your friend. And believe it or not, I mean what I'm saying."
The tone of her voice told Tricia that the woman was being sincere, as sincere as she could be. And since the next few days were going to be crucial as far as her own future was concerned, she was willing to accept the truce.
"Thank you, Lee. I appreciate it. I really do. If I have any problems, I'd like to come to you."
"Please do." The blonde's hand reached out in a gesture that was too casual to be called a caress.
"And another thing I appreciate..."
"Yes?"
"It wasn't because I didn't want to, honey. But"--here Lee smiled ruefully--"I do have some principles."
Tricia would not have used that precise terminology, but the meaning was obvious. Lee was a respecter of individual rights. She followed the rules and stayed within certain boundaries. And not all men did that. Not Walter--and in a way, not Patrick Doyle. The great man lived by his own standards.
"It depends on what you mean by chastity," Doyle was saying to his interested listeners. As he talked, Tricia sidled closer to hear more. "Chastity is a word that has a variety of meanings, but if in using it now you are referring to society's interpretation, well, it's still not absolute. For example, I know a young lady who is one of the highest-priced call girls in Manhattan. Has been for a number of years. And yet I believe she is one of the most chaste persons I have ever met. You see, she supports a family on her income. She has a husband in medical school and twin daughters to whom she is devoted. By day she lives an almost painfully sweet existence--it's full of love. And at night --well, you know what call girls do at night. Society of course, condemns her because of its outmoded conception of morality. As if what one does with one's body has anything to do with one's soul."
"Just a minute, sir," Paul Taylor objected. "Society has to have a certain code for people to adhere to or else it would be chaotic. Chastity is part of that code. So you either have it or you don't."
"All right," Doyle snapped. "But let's get it straight. Just because a woman remains undefiled by a man doesn't indicate that she is chaste. Not by a long shot. Some of the worst bitches I know have slept only with their own husbands and no one else. And yet they are able to openly gossip and connive and lie and cheat and destroy. Protecting and sanctifying one small portion of their anatomy does not automatically lift them to a state of grace. I'll tell you this--I would much prefer to have as a friend a girl who conceived a baby out of wedlock and then proudly bore it and refused to slink away and tremble at society's pointed finger, than a woman who had a legitimate child and then raised it to be a murderer while she turned her back on the first woman."
Doyle drew a deep breath. This was his meat. Some who had more or less followed his career, read his books and seen his plays, found the theme a familiar one. As a gadfly of modern-day behaviorism he was unexcelled--a few critics had even compared him favorably with George Bernard Shaw. His audience was entranced.
"You, Larry, raised an interesting point earlier when you said a woman is as chaste as she feels. I agree. It fits in perfectly with one's concept of life and work and self-pride. Outsiders cannot pin the label on you--chaste, loyal, true, good. It must come from within. In the final analysis you yourself are the judge of whether or not you are being good. Give me no more of this pinch-lipped pseudo-purity about chastity. Just remember that physical behavior just isn't that significant."
As if that ended the topic forever, Doyle elbowed his way through the circle of drinkers and found a glass with a single inch of bourbon in it. He tossed it down in one gulp. Almost at once the others began to argue the points he had touched upon. The women were in favor, the men, generally, against.
Larry Stevens, anxious to know how Tricia felt about it all, tried to reach her. He was blocked effectively by the bulk of Roger Martin, who had cornered her and was talking rapidly about the idea of her planning an extended stay in Europe. He had one hand possessively over her shoulder and was slowly sliding it back and forth. Larry had an urge to kick him in the ass. He tried to catch Tricia's eye to signal her to escape and join him out on the deck. But it was no use. While she did not appear to be hypnotized by Martin's pitch, neither did she act as if she wanted to be free of him.
Larry felt ignored.
Meanwhile Patrick Doyle was talking to Sabrina Moore in confidential whispers. Presently the copper-haired creature nodded and smiled and stood up. Sex exuded from her pores and displayed itself with her every movement.
Doyle wrapped an arm around her firm-fleshed waist. "Some of you are sure to notice," he said aloud, "so I'd better answer your conjectures right now. Honesty is as much a virtue as chastity. Therefore I am being honest and telling you that Sabrina Moore and I are off to bed. But don't forget what I said--sexual behavior has very little to do with chastity. Miss Moore is one of the most chaste girls I know. Aren't you, Sabrina?"
"Whatever you say, Patrick."
With a bow to the others, the pair strode out of the room. A stunned silence filled the room. It was as if all the partygoers had been made fools of. But what surprised Larry Stevens was the way Tricia Goode reacted. When he got a good look at her he saw that she was making a bravely unsuccessful attempt to stifle tears.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Tricia rushed from the cabin, out onto the deck, along the railing, half falling, crying and telling herself only one thing, over and over again. Get away, get away.
She looked down at the ocean, dark and far below her, and a great sigh caught itself in her bosom. Followed by a sob that was noisy in the still night. She looked down the railing. Twenty feet away from her stood Vicky, crying just as obviously. Tricia struggled to put the scene together. Before she had much time to even get started with her reasoning, she heard still another movement from behind her. Down the railing in the opposite direction she saw the silhouette of a tall, lean man, but she couldn't make out who it was. Had someone followed her out of the party? Without even thinking about it, she hurried toward Vicky, not so much for the sympathy she felt for the woman, but for the fear she had of whoever was following her.
"Are you ill?" she asked Vicky, moving closer to her.
Vicky looked up, wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "Sick would be a better word."
"The alcohol?"
"No. Men."
There was a moment of silence as Tricia tried to grasp the meaning. "You... you're talking about what happened back there, aren't you. But why... why should what Patrick Doyle does bother you....?"
"Doesn't what he does bother everybody?" Vicky sobbed again, this time louder.
"Oh, Vicky, not you too!"
There was no answer.
Then Tricia noticed, for some strange reason, she wasn't crying anymore.
"Listen, girls," a male voice said from behind them. Tricia spun around. It was Paul Taylor, and he was drunk. "I been thinkin'. It occurs to me that Patrick Doyle has had things his own way long enough aboard this ship. I say let's stop his clock, what say?"
He held up a bottle of bourbon, holding it loosely by two fingers, letting it dangle before their eyes.
"You better go to your quarters and sleep it off," Tricia said.
Vicky turned and looked at Paul, tears rolling down her cheeks. "No. Let him talk. You sound like a man with a plan, Mister Taylor. What did you have in mind?"
"Well..." he staggered a bit with the ship's roll. "Just so happens I have a pass key to Mister Doyle's stateroom. Since he was rude enough to leave both you lovely ladies at the party, I say, let's take the party to him, what say?" He let the bottle dangle in front of their eyes.
Vicky reached out and took the bottle from his hands.
"Mister, all I need is a little courage first," she hissed, and then gulped three mouthfuls in a row from the bottle.
Tricia's mouth was wide open with the rapid-fire turn of events. These two were dead serious, she decided. They were actually going to walk in on Patrick Doyle and Sabrina Moore in bed! As it formed into words in her mind, the idea didn't seem all that monstrous anymore. She smiled. Then she politely took the bottle from Vicky's hand and took a long, continuous drink of the bourbon herself. She said nothing, but the other two knew they were a trio on the hunt, now.
Paul fished in his pocket for his pass keys.
"Who the hell are you and what do you want!" Patrick Doyle barked in the dark stateroom as the door was flung open. Taylor, more than a little drunk now after his turn at the bottle, reached for the light switch and flicked it on.
"We are a rescue party," he boasted loudly, and staggered again. "We came to rescue chaste little Miss Moore from the dirty old man's clutches. Ha-ha..."
Patrick Doyle sat up in the bed, still cupping the hot globe of Sabrina's tit. He did not remove his hand from the nude woman's flesh, but used the minute to regain his composure. "Methinks it's something else you're after, my three friends. First, let me assure you, Sabrina is not in need of rescue--she is entirely capable of taking care of herself, as you can see." Sabrina was paying no attention to any of them, but was instead snuggling down and bending over his hand, trying to get her mouth closer to his cock. "But do not feel unwelcome. I'm thinking it is rather participation that this little raiding party is after. Am I correct, Vicky? Come, come, admit it."
Vicky's eyes were glued to Patrick's enormous cock. She didn't say a word. He turned around on the bed, so that the erect member was directly in their view, swimming in the ego-pleasure of the wide, suddenly sober eyes of the two women.
"Well," he continued, "if participate you must, I insist you abide by the home team's rules, at least. Rule one..." he paused and smiled as Sabrina's mouth came down over his prick, grasping it from their view. "Get naked. We all must play this game fairly, you know."
Tricia looked at Vicky. The door was already closed behind them, and Vicky wasn't crying anymore. She was slipping her low-cut gown from her shoulders.
Leaning and falling against the bulkhead, Paul Taylor was laughing and struggling out of his pants. The heat of the bourbon was hitting Tricia right between her eyes, and she blinked twice, dazedly, before she realized that she was subconsciously unbuttoning her own dress...
Tricia moaned, she cried, tears streaming down her young face. Sex-dreaming filled the room and everyone was breathing loudly, fleshy echoes of fucking everywhere.
Sabrina was on the floor now, working herself down toward Paul's cock, in spite of Patrick Doyle's strong grips at her ankles. Slowly lowering, her pussy openly craving for the young man's prick. The entire group moved as one, back and forth like so many enchanted snakes.
Vicky was nuzzling the whole head of Doyle's cock, rather gently. His knees bent out of weakness, but his cock was still on its new rise, expanding, enlarging inside Vicky's mouth. Vicky's head was rising with it, locked to the meaty package. Her eyes wide, her mouth full. Her knees came up off the floor and she supported herself with wet-with-sweat fingertips.
Tricia was nude except for her stockings, and was now in a joyously obscene squatting position over Doyle's sucking mouth, and he sucked and he tongued and Tricia could no longer tell if she was drunk or mad!
He let go of Sabrina's ankles and ran his hands over Tricia's tits, over her belly, over her thighs. A chanting crescendo of heavy breathing filled the room.
Then one of his tickling fingers played a design on her inner thighs as Tricia spread them wider apart. His tongue was working inside her, inches inside her cunt, trapping her as it bent, tongue-maneuvering over each sensitive area, wetly licking, probing, massaging, running delicately in long strokes back to her burning clit. A long licking up over one cheek, then back down the other, before Tricia lifted higher to place her anus directly over the oven of his mouth now, and strange drums were beating everywhere inside her head.
"Give it to me, oh you wild bastards, give it to me!" she heard Sabrina scream.
"Ahh, eat it, eat it, eat it!" she heard her own voice screaming down at the top of Doyle's head.
Vicky was begging breathlessly. "More, oh god! more!" as Paul's prick seeped deeper and deeper into her. "Fuck it to me! Fuck it to me!" she yelped. Paul was leaning backward, plugging into her, and for a moment he seemed to balance her, even lift her, with the head of his submerged organ. Vicky leaned backward too, bulging her belly up and out, stuffed with his cock.
They all did a hasty shifting of positions and now Doyle was behind Tricia, she on her hands and knees and he feeding that giant cock into her from behind time and again, pressed against her, her buttocks grinding and rotating on his abdomen. She tipped her head back, her hair now fanning out over her shoulders, and she was chewing gently, but firmly on Paul's fat balls, while his hands kneaded her swollen titties. She reached down between her legs and cupped her hands around Doyle's balls and cock, urging them up into her, rubbing them against her open vagina.
Vicky straddled over Tricia (standing above her back) and raised her pussy to Doyle's mouth. His mind was busy fucking Tricia, but he took the cue and dabbed his long tongue deep into Vicky's welcoming-hot cunt. She grabbed him by the back of the head and worked his glistening wet face into her crotch, mixing her own juices with the ones drying there from Tricia's coming of moments before.
Sabrina urged Paul's prick out of Tricia's mouth and he fell off balance and over on his back on the floor. As Sabrina's stomach rose and fell rapidly, her back beginning to arch and twist, she crouched over his erect prick, sliding it into her, groaning with pleasure down onto it.
Vicky knew Doyle was coming inside of Tricia when his tongue went limp inside her sopping-hot cunt and his eyes moved up to meet hers, in what seemed to be a moment of helplessness for the Great One.
"Time, baby... time... honey... time, oh, keep sucking!" Vicky moaned down at those eyes. The tongue stiffened again inside her cunt, and Vicky flung her head back and groaned in sheer joy.
Sabrina was now letting her buttocks move downward inch by delicious inch until all of Paul's prick was swallowed by her eager and juicy love tunnel. He grunted and thrust upward, giving it all to her, thrilled an extra little thrill by looking up at her face, at the animal smile there.
She tensed and lowered herself on the stiff rod for one final time, writhing, twisting, rolling her eyes, her teeth bared.
Tricia had hold of Vicky's feet, one on either side of her, just to be holding on to something, as her mind totally enmeshed in that moist, dark bush between her legs and the warm spray of cum-juice that Doyle was spraying her in-sides with, electrifying her backbone with its gushy force.
Ahhh, oohhh --oh hell, I'm ALIVE! she thought, this is me breathing and living and loving and sweating, because it's all happening deep inside my belly right here and now, and, god help me!... I've gone crazy! But she suddenly felt freer and happier than she'd felt in years, as if she had just been let out of asylum and was cured and was ready to be counted among the living... and all the while experiencing the sweetest damn come yet!
CHAPTER TWELVE
Back in her own cabin by two a.m., Tricia was so excited, so busy trying to cleanse her mind of all that had happened, trying to forget that it had actually occurred, she didn't even hear the click of the key in the door lock. She had showered and scrubbed her body furiously, but that didn't help. The filth wasn't on her skin, it was deep inside her conscience. The first thing she heard was Lee's low, sultry voice saying, "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't know you were still up."
At the first sound of Lee's voice, Tricia whirled around, her heart walloping hard against her ribcage. For the instant, she forgot she was naked. She turned, leaning back against the dresser. She watched Lee moving toward her, saw the older woman's eyes glued to the sight of Tricia's jutting, bruised, full breasts.
"Honey, is anything the matter?" Lee crooned, as she came close. "You look all upset about something. Is anything bothering you? Can I help in any way?"
She reached up and soothed her hand across Tricia's forehead.
"No, no!" Tricia managed. Her voice sounded strange even to herself. "I'm all right."
"But you feel so feverish, my dear. I wish I had some rubbing alcohol here, I'd give you a quick rubdown. Maybe that would help."
Lee's eyes were looking straight into Tricia's now. They held the same strong, confident expression that she'd seen in Patrick Doyle's the first time he maneuvered her into this same kind of predicament. Oh god, Tricia thought, she knows, she knows!
"Not that it wouldn't be kind of hard to keep my mind on my work," Lee said. "I probably wouldn't get past these pretty things." With that her hand reached out and boldly cupped Tricia's already sore breasts, gently squeezing, kneading the solid, round flesh, lightly brushing against and teasing the again-erecting nipple. "So beautiful;" Lee continued her crooning tone. "You beautiful darling you!"
Tricia closed her eyes, shuddering with new delicious sensations that were flowing through her body. Oh god, she thought, do I need more?
Weakly she murmured: "Oh no! Please don't! Please!"
Lee's hand moved to the other breast, trying to capture its overflowing young fullness.
"Which do you mean, angel," Lee asked, hoarsely. "Don't or please?"
Tricia felt weak at the knees, exactly like when Patrick Doyle was sipping at her pussy an hour or so before. "I don't know. I--I don't know what's the matter with me."
"Well, I do," Lee said. "It's very obvious. You need some good loving for a change. You look like some crude animals have been at you. Men! With their big grubby paws. Don't fight it, hon. Everyone needs... a bit of special tenderness now and then, in order to forget how cruel and selfish the other sex is. You know, I've never felt this way before either, about any woman I've known, and I've known many. The way I feel about you, I mean. I just can't help it, coming in here and seeing you so beautiful and naked and all. It seems all I can think of lately is touching you, kissing you, caressing you. Maybe it was just meant to be, my sharing the same cabin with you, at just this time in our lives. Because I have a feeling you want me, too, need me, don't you, Adorable?"
Tricia was shivering all over now, as the other woman's hands moved to her feverish thighs, stroked them, sampling the firm, round, tenderly smooth flesh.
"I--don't know, Lee. I just feel so... disgusted with myself."
"Isn't it what they have done to you that you're disgusted with. Believe me, sweet, I'll never treat you like men treat you. Ever..."
She took Tricia's arm gently, leading her toward the bed. "Come on over here, where you'll be more comfortable."
Tricia didn't want to do this, just as she didn't want to do any of the other things she had done this night. But this in particular: she knew it was wrong, against all her basic precepts; but she again seemed without willpower. It seemed she had no longer any power to fight against anything. She allowed herself to be led towards the bed. Then she was being eased down onto it, gently, so gently--but so firmly, too.
She looked up, then, saw Lee starting to undress. She wanted to cry out, tell her to stop, but she could get no words out. Instead she kept remembering the events in Doyle's stateroom, the ecstatic expressions on the faces of Vicky and Sabrina--and then she became aware once again of the increasing heat and need and want in her own tortured body.
Lee's blouse came off first, then her skirt. She was now clad only in brief peach colored panties and a bra to match. As she reached back to unhook the bra, she said: "My breasts are not as beautiful as yours." She was right. The nude figure before Tricia appeared to be almost boyish, as compared with the wealth of Sabrina's body or Vicky's figure. Her shoulders were broader too, and Tricia thought: it will seem like a man, almost like a man, if I keep my eyes closed. She closed them quickly.
A moment later, Lee's hands were again on her breasts, this time more satisfying. The other hand was now boldly caressing the soft, gentle mound of her belly, then opening her thighs, coursing up and down the smooth, sleek white flesh there, gently kneading. The fiery longing in Tricia again flamed up with growing intensity.
A moment later, she felt the bed give with the weight of Lee's body as she lay down beside her. She felt the other woman's leg thrown over her own. The contact of their warm flesh sent shocks of sensations rioting through Tricia.
The next instant she felt the wet warmness of Lee's mouth on her breasts, as her lips plucked excitedly at the aroused nipples. Tricia gave one big quiver of delight and gave up. She hugged Lee's head to her breast and moaned, "Yes! Yes! Oh yes!"
The moist kisses left her breasts, then roved over her shoulders and arms, down across the soft slope of her belly. They tingled up and down her thighs and now Tricia was panting, twisting and writhing, begging: "Please! Please!"
Then it happened. The acute sensations again burst through Tricia in white-hot flashes and her back arched upward, hips quivering as she uttered an agonized but welcoming cry from deep in her throat. Her hands found Lee's hair and tangled in it, caressing, holding. The following moments became eternity for Tricia. She soared again and again to the new heights of breathtaking fulfillment, no longer aware of time nor place nor anything but the endless demands and satisfactions of her own body...
The room was alive with the wild tinglings on the bed, the entwinings of the two women and the sounds of their passionate outcries and groanings. The bed literally shook with the thrashing of their legs, the gyrations of their hips, Tricia moaning in acquiescence, as the weight of Lee's body bore down on her, legs wide apart, an open vagina against her mouth, leaking pearly passions out onto her lips, burning her tongue, gripping it, working it in deeper and against the flaming walls, moving in a crazy dance, the soft-wet blossom opening and closing and contracting and owning, her mouth all flushed full of the endless flow, half suffocated with the seething liquid surge of desire that nestled and cuddled against her tongue, her whole face submerged now and bathed by the mellowing inundation as Tricia hurled her body upward, the intoxication not diminishing, the insatiable narcotic need grabbing at her like strong fingers, tearing at her loins, searing and welling up in her breasts and throat; and Lee's tongue venturing into her belly like the plea of a starved lover, her swollen clit sliding in Lee's mouth.
The room went suddenly taut and silent and then Lee's urgent voice coming out from between her legs: "Oh God, I can't help it, honey, I'm coming... here's the rest of it now, all I've got... E-E-E-E... Ow-wwww... Oh-hhhhhhh!"
After that night something was broken between Larry Stevens and Patrick Doyle. Larry seriously thought of telling Doyle where to shove his crummy commission. Then, as he tried to fathom just why he should feel so strongly about a matter he could barely comprehend, he kept his mouth shut. That Doyle had committed an unpardonable breach of etiquette--and even ethics--there was no doubt. But as to why Larry Stevens should want to throw over the best deal that could ever happen to him, there was plenty of doubt.
Nevertheless, he no longer had that close contact with the older man, that desire to seek him out and talk with him and ask his advice. It was not only because of the disappointment he himself had felt, but also because of how Tricia took it. To him it seemed that the girl had been shattered by Doyle's crudeness, and he wanted to tell her not to take it so hard. Couldn't she see now that Doyle was probably just another wise guy?
But Tricia avoided him. She avoided everyone, appearing only for meals, and then with Lee Jergens. Both solemn and unsmiling. At the table with Doyle, Larry managed a surface courtesy toward the man but hardly more than that. On the sixth day, though, he was snapped back to reality.
"We land tomorrow, lad," Doyle said. "Anything to report on the project?"
"It's almost finished. There's enough on paper now for you to look at. Care to check it?"
"Umm, no. I'd rather see the final product."
"It's pretty good, I think, really. Although I have only my own opinion to go by. And, uh, one other."
The twin brows shot up. "You've let someone else see the thing? Who?"
"Tricia Goode. That day when you went swimming with your clothes on instead of joining us at the milk bar. It was only a rough sketch then, but she seemed interested so I brought it out and showed it to her."
"And did she like it?"
"I'll say she did. She acted as if I was the most talented architect in the world."
A cloud crossed the sharp features as some sort of distress touched Doyle. The same look on another face would have spelled jealousy, but that was absurd. Patrick Doyle couldn't be jealous of anything--unless it was himself.
Larry remembered that from Doyle's point of view their agreement was ridiculous. For no apparent reason, the man was lending his name to an untried and unknown architect. Possibly he was beginning to feel qualms about his impulsive offer. The deal had been consummated in a moment of brashness, almost out of cuteness.
Well, let him stew in his own juices then, big-mouthed, insensitive blowhard that he was. He had mousetrapped too many other people on this ship to gain much sympathy. And, after all that talk about integrity, he was going to have to put up or shut up.
Anyway, his strange attitude could be caused by nothing else but the commission.
Or could it?
Larry wasn't sure. Although he fought against it, the thought persisted that in spite of Doyle's superiority of manner, underneath that confident exterior lay a certain undeniable insecurity. No matter how often the man whip-lashed people with his tongue, he still showed a need for human intimacy. In his own left-handed way, Doyle sought friends and friendship as much as anyone.
Another thing--in the intervening time since the cocktail party a transformation had come over the great man. His jauntiness was put on, his voice rang with a certain bravado. Some starch had gone out of his demeanor. In moments when he did not know he was being observed, his face became lined, his shoulders drooped and an expression of abstract concentration came over him.
"Anything wrong, Mr. Doyle?"
"Hmm? Wrong? What on earth are you talking about?" The man straightened up, fiddled with his necktie and then nervously clicked spoon against fork.
"That," said Larry, indicating the moving tableware, "I must say you're difficult enough when you're in a fine fettle, but when you're like this you're unbearable. Have I done or said something that bothers you?"
"Not at all, my boy, not at all," came the studied reply. "It's just that I've been doing some serious cogitating. True. At times I do." The sharp features softened. "You may laugh, but I'm getting ready to do a novel. Been building up to it for years and finally it's taking root."
Eyes distant, Doyle sipped his coffee. "I've known it's been in me for a long time and I've been tempted frequently. But I didn't want to do one of those ordinary things that I can toss off in my sleep. No, this is a big undertaking and I'm going to spend some time on it. No more roaming around on pleasure trips. Believe it or not, I'm going to work."
"Really? Somehow it doesn't fit you. But nothing about you would surprise me. Going to start on it in Europe?"
"I haven't decided yet. It's not the kind of thing I can rush into, you know. It will be a year before I can even get the first draft done. And another year, probably, to complete it. But it'll be good, don't worry about that."
Larry nodded, grinning. "I'm sure it will be."
He wanted to hear more about the new novel, but his gaze was distracted by a movement at Tricia's table. She and her roommate were getting up. Larry tried to catch her eye, hoping to get her attention without openly chasing her. But she merely glanced around the room without a pause and then, with Lee Jergens in tow, hurried out of the place.
Doyle peered at Larry thoughtfully. "What's your trouble, young fellow? Can't get to second base?"
"Not from the look of it."
"Too bad," Doyle murmured gently. "A fine girl, that Tricia Goode. Don't you agree?"
"Uh-huh. Too fine for me, I guess."
"In love with her?"
"I--I just don't know. But it wouldn't do me much good even if I were." Then, lowering his eyes ruefully, "You must think me an awful fool."
"No. It's no crime for a young man to exert himself over a lovely and intelligent girl. Even if he doesn't wind up as her husband, the time and effort aren't wasted. It's only wasted when the girl isn't worth it, when she's a phony or a tease. Not when there's some real substance to her. Well, take my word for it, there is something to this Tricia Goode. Much to her. No, I don't think you're a fool, Larry."
A kind of poignant quality was in Doyle's voice, one that Larry could not quite pinpoint. And again he was assailed with curiosity about what made this man tick.
"I'll tell you the kind of girls who aren't worth it," Doyle went on. "And there are some right here on this ship. The weak little things who are prissy and untouchable during most of the trip and then just before docking they thaw out. Why? So that they can have some big strong idiot to carry their bags, buy meals and wine for them and act as a general handyman. Oh, they'll be sly and seductive about it and hint at what wonderful gifts they will eventually bestow. And since the American male is trained from childhood to kowtow to the American female--or else mama spank--the poor goof has little choice. He's probably going abroad to get away from his coeds and would prefer to wile away his idle hours in a French brothel or with some bosomy Italian waitress. So what does he get? A chance to lug baggage for professional virgins." .
"Hey, you sound bitter."
"I am bitter. I ought to know--I did it on my first couple of voyages and I've never forgot-ten." A look of ecstasy passed over Patrick Doyle's face. "Mmmm, I think I'll put it in my novel. It occurs to me that this book will become the cause celebre of the century. Possibly I shall be paid not to publish it."
They chatted awhile and then Larry left to get back to his drawing board. Somehow, though, he no longer felt any animosity toward Patrick Doyle.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Roger Martin, following the shambles made of his party by Patrick Doyle, despaired of ever regaining face with his lovely wife. Recalling that his proposition to the Goode girl had been favorably received, he decided to do something about it before the vessel docked.
So what if Vicky was cool to him? Hadn't Tricia Goode shown considerable interest? Okay. If that was what Vicky wanted--an out-and-out war--well, she'd get it. No matter how standoffish she was, she could still get jealous. Let her get jealous of Tricia Goode then. The girl was much younger and in many ways more desirable. He ought to go to Vicky and lay his cards on the table. Tell her he wanted a divorce and suggest a settlement of some kind. And he would be generous with her, of course, so generous that she couldn't refuse.
Then he would be free to talk to Tricia as he really wanted to. That sweet kid deserved more than a proposition, she deserved an honest proposal. And he was certain that she would accept. True, she had not openly displayed her feeling for him, but it was obvious that silence meant practically approval. Besides, he could feel it. He was older, very rich, cultured. Probably she had been afraid to make a forthright play for him. That was the way some girls were. And if he had his way about it, that was the way he would keep her. Never let her get aggressive or forward. Yes, he would be a man and never let her forget that fact. That was the way he should have acted toward Vicky right in the very beginning.
But it was too late for that now. His love for Vicky wasn't altogether dead, of course, but he would get over it eventually. And this was as good a time as any to make the big break. Why not head back to the cabin right now?
He left the bar. The chill sea air cleared his head and he was prepared for a battle royal with his spouse. At the cabin door, though, he hesitated just a moment to further gird his loins. The room was dark, but he knew she was there.
And then he heard the noise. Sobbing. Vicky's crying always had affected him even when he knew she was using it as a weapon. He couldn't help but wince at the sound. Now he listened intently to detect a false note.
He pushed the door open. As soon as she was aware of his presence, the sobs were choked off and a thick silence fell. Roger frowned in the darkness. If she was acting, the mournful noises would become louder and not quieter. This just wasn't going according to the book. A nameless fear squeezed his heart.
"Vicky?"
No answer.
Again, "Vicky? Are you there?"
A tremulous sigh sounded. "Yes, Roger, I'm here."
The pain in her voice throttled the sarcastic words he was about to hurl. "Something wrong?"
"No. I'm all right." The bed squeaked as she changed positions. There was a faint sniffle. And then a more subdued renewal of the piteous wailing.
Roger went to the bed and reached for his wife: Her form stirred under the covers, soft and appealing, but at this moment he was not thinking of sex. "You're crying," he said. "Something is wrong. What is it? Won't you tell me?"
The answer was an outburst of tears--real tears--and then she flung herself into his arms. Warm and wet, the liquid from her eyes flowed upon his face, salty on his lips. She was wearing a nightdress that was next to nothing at all. The curves and softness he had known for years --and yet didn't really know--now melted to his touch.
"You should hate me, Roger," she managed to mumble. "You should. Oh, I've been such a fool." She broke down, sobbing.
"Honey, what are you saying?"
"I'm a fool. I've been one for five years. No, I don't mean because I married you. I suppose that was the only intelligent thing I ever did."
Stunned, practically flabbergasted, Roger groped for words that just wouldn't come. He was glad that it was dark enough so that she couldn't read his expression.
"And I'm just recognizing it," she continued. "I've just begun to realize how unfair I've been to you. How I've nagged and baited you. How I've taunted you and made you go off with other women to seek the love I refused to give. How I've hurt you. Well, now you can have the last laugh."
"I don't want to laugh," he said. As if he were nearing the end of a black tunnel, he saw a glimmer of light.
Her hands, damp with the tears of anguish, cupped his face. "I don't even deserve to have you listen to me. You started on this trip with the idea of seeing what we could do to preserve our marriage. And I started on it to see if I couldn't keep on with my affair with Patrick Doyle. Oh, I know this must hurt you--and it tortures me. When I finally woke up and found that Doyle had used me as a plaything for the past five years, I was disgusted with myself."
She pressed close to him and the warm breasts were against his shirt. He slipped a hand down her back, a gesture of habit, a holdover from earlier days. She responded quickly by snuggling close.
"Don't misunderstand, Roger. I'm not looking for pity or sympathy or even mercy. If you go, then I won't blame you. You see, when I married you, well, it was a marriage of convenience. You were rich and well-known and I could live the high-life. At the same time I could control you so that I could get away with just about anything. Because you loved me. I even refused to have babies because I thought it would make me unattractive to men. Men!"
"Vicky... Vicky..."
"So here I am, my dream of Patrick Doyle all smashed. I hate him, Roger, and for the first time I can see what a wreck he has made of my life. And yet I still have love inside me--and I've just figured out why. It's because of you. Because you've never let me down. When I got into trouble you were always there. I took you for granted. And now I... I..."
"Hush, darling. Don't talk."
"No, let me say it. You can get up and leave if you want to. But I have to say it first. Roger, I love you."
The room whirled and tipped. It was the first time he had ever heard Vicky utter the words and now they rang in his ears like gigantic bells. And she was not lying, he was sure, she wasn't just making it up. The very touch and feel of her was the truth. She responded to his hands, to his kisses, with a heat that astonished him. The night blazed with the brilliant flame of his new-found love. Of his re-found love.
Locked in the urgency of her embrace, once again enfolded by the body he so worshipped, experiencing the velvet sensation of her breasts, her legs, he felt a wildly surging ecstasy. Only for the span of a few seconds did he delay it.
"Do you mean it, Vicky? You really mean it?"
"Yes," she whispered adoringly. "Yes, yes, yes."
"And you'll obey me and truly be my wife?"
"I will, Roger, oh darling, I will."
"And we can have a family?"
What she did then dispelled all doubts from his mind. She moved meaningfully, rising, arching, straining against him, imprisoning him in her arms as if to engulf him.
In that gesture of abandon his question was answered. All his questions. And only then did he let himself merge with that delightful flesh that was now--and would forever be--at his beck and call.
Work was beginning to pile up for Paul Taylor. Already the passengers were haunting him with requests for changing dollars into francs and checking hotel reservations and asking endless, stupid questions about languages, customs and sights to see. At the same time he had to prepare his lists for the customs people, besides seeing that none of the crew members were plotting to smuggle anything ashore. So many things to do.
But not so many that he could not dwell on the beautiful girl named Tricia Goode.
The memory of those two kisses the second day out burned in his brain. Due to circumstances beyond the control of either, they had been prevented from repeating the episode. Nevertheless, the few words they had exchanged, the look in her eyes, told him that she had not forgotten. And that she was waiting for him to initiate the next move.
At his elbow, a stout librarian was chattering about the feasibility of finding rare manuscripts in the Flea Market along the Seine in Paris. She was getting on his nerves.
"By all means," he said. "I'm sure you won't have any difficulty at all. But you'd better hold on to your false teeth or they'll steal them right out of your mouth."
"Mr. Taylor!"
He would be reported for that, but what the hell, who cared? He had more important things on his mind. The book, for instance. The book that he was going to take to Tricia Goode as a farewell offering. Only it wouldn't be farewell, of course, but a brand-new hello. She would understand. It was too soon to do much more than make a date for the future, but not too soon to be thinking about what to say on that date. He was already figuring out how to word his proposal of marriage.
In his cabin, Patrick Doyle looked up from the page on which he was writing with his gold pen and looked out the open porthole. Lights denoting islands flickered in the distance over the water, and a wave of nostalgia swept him. He was returning to the land where he had experienced so many triumphs. Very likely his French friends would remember him and would do something splendid to his honor to show their appreciation.
But he did not feel in a festive mood. His normally ordered mind was leaping about in fits and starts. And he knew why, of course. He never fooled himself about his daydreams.
It wasn't France that gave him this belly-sickness.
It wasn't the new novel that made him sad.
It wasn't the rolling sea that disrupted his thoughts.
It wasn't the thought of Sabrina Moore's anxious invitation to come to her cabin for the last night. Nor was it that his long affair with Vicky Martin had ended. No, it was none of these things.
It was Tricia Goode.
The sun gleamed brightly on the buildings of Le Havre. Atop the hills, cows gazed peacefully on green meadows. And through the jetties the Siwanoy pushed its way.
At the rail, Lee Jergens and Sue Trask gazed at the city that spread over the near hills and continued on out of sight. This was the first city of the Old World for them. Beyond, stretching for thousands of miles, lay the wonders and mysteries and adventures of an entire continent. In many ways, a new world.
"Did you ask her?" Sue said, with a smile.
"Yes. She'll meet us here in five minutes."
"How did she sound?"
"Enthusiastic. I know very well she had hoped to grab herself a rich lover to show her around, but she's willing to go at least as far as Paris with me."
Sue chuckled. "That's all we'll need. I swear, just give me two hours with any woman and I'll make a convert out of her."
"Well, don't go wild over her," Lee chided. "You'd better not forget about us--you and me."
"Hardly. I've been trying to find you ever since school. I'm not about to let you get away now. I suggested her because she's so cute and has such a marvelous body. I'm sure the three of us can have some great times together."
Remembering some great times on the boat, Lee nodded emphatically and shivered in anticipation.
"How much have you told her?" Sue said. "I mean, did you say we wanted to travel together --to study and junk like that?"
Lee laughed. "She said she wanted to study, too--men. But she figured that you and I weren't the ugliest women she had ever seen and thought that between the three of us we could attract a pretty good brand." Again she laughed.
Sue's hand stole along the rail and closed on Lee's. "What a wonderful liar you are."
"Thank you, sweet. All I ask is that you don't throw a monkey wrench in the works by making your play too soon."
"Worry not. I can restrain myself."
Suddenly, behind them, was the voice: "Hi, Lee. Sue. What evil plots are you two cooking up?"
They turned. Sabrina Moore, her hair strikingly fiery in the sunshine, stood there allowing the breeze to paste her dress to her legs, against the round flatness of her tummy and the projected mounds of her bosom.
"Ah, there," Lee said, extending a welcoming hand, "come and join us, Sabrina. We were just talking about you."
Somehow--but with great difficulty--Larry Stevens managed to cram the last sock into his duffel bag and fit the padlock to the ringed openings. Hefting it, he almost fell down. But that was because he was out of shape. A few days of lugging the thing on the roads of France would fix him up.
He had risen at dawn and started the irksome chore. Consequently there had been no opportunity to seek out Tricia Goode. And he had to, of course, to make a definite date to meet in Paris. Nor would he take no for an answer. A man in love couldn't let himself be stopped short of his goal.
Besides, she wouldn't say now, especially if the design for the house pleased Patrick Doyle. A young man without a job was one thing, but an architect with a fine commission was something else again. But he prayed fervently that he wasn't counting his proverbial chickens before they hatched. First there was Doyle himself to be reckoned with. After that, Tricia.
With the roll of paper--his brainchild--under his arm, Larry headed for Doyle's cabin. Cameramen and reporters were milling around in the corridor. Pushing his way through, he got close to the door only to be halted by a crewman on guard. Indignant at such cavalier treatment, Larry snarled his name. The man opened the door a crack and repeated it.
"It's about time," Doyle's voice shouted over the hubbub. "Send him in."
The interior of the cabin resembled the aftermath of a typhoon. Clothes, papers, suitcases, trunks and a goodly sprinkling of hangers-on cluttered the place.
As soon as Larry was inside, Doyle raised a hand for silence and then announced, "Good-day, all. I'm going to be busy now. I'll see you all on the dock."
Expertly he shooed them out, almost including Larry, whom he seized at the last instant. "Not you, my boy. You're the one I want to see."
The door closed and Doyle heaved a monumental sigh. He drew a finger over his trim mustache and straightened his tie. "Now let's have a drink, shall we?"
It never failed to surprise Larry, the sense of security he felt in Doyle's presence. His doubts and fears seemed to vanish as they tipped their glasses together.
"Ahhhhh," Doyle approved, smacking his lips. "Amazing how cognac tastes better on this side of the ocean than on the other. But enough of that. Let's see what you've got for me."
Larry unrolled his sheets of drawing paper, spread them on the top of the bureau and stood aside. His heart pounded, but he remained deliberately quiet. The thing was out of his hands now. Actually, he couldn't have spoken if he had wanted to.
Nor could Patrick Doyle, it seemed. For what dragged out like a century the man went over the work, his expression completely impassive. Then--abruptly--he went to the door and spoke a few words to the guard on duty. Back again, he continued to pore over the lines and figures.
It seemed like ages. Larry wondered what Doyle was waiting for. Good or bad, he wanted to hear the great man's opinion. Outside, the passengers were already filing off the ship to the buses and taxis. A band was playing on the dock; shouts and songs filled the air. The two of them would have to get moving soon. And still Doyle did not say a word.
Larry could stand it no longer. "Uh... no comment?"
"Not yet. And don't fret about the customs people. They'll be taking care of me separately and I told them to do the same for you. And for our mutual friend."
"Our mutual friend?"
The guard at the door said, "Miss Goode is here, sir."
Tricia came in hesitantly. She was even prettier than Larry remembered. Hair brushed and shining, dress without a wrinkle, legs adorned with smooth nylons, absurdly high heels that did delicious things to the curves of her calves.
"I--I don't understand," she said. "I was ready to disembark when the man came and..."
"It's all right." Doyle placed his hand on the drawings. "I've fixed it with customs, so you won't be in any trouble. But I wanted you to be here for the big presentation."
"Presentation?"
"Certainly." He held up some kind of legal-appearing document. "Here it is. My written agreement to commission Larry to design a house for one Patrick Doyle. Now let's see-- shall I hand it to you both together?"
Tricia froze. Larry reached out and took the paper.
"Congratulations," Doyle said. "And to you too, young lady. Somehow I've got the feeling that this is as important to you as it is to the architect."
Larry's face flamed. It was an embarrassing moment if ever there was one. What was the man trying to do, act like a matchmaker and throw them together?
"It's important." Tricia's expression showed anger, but her voice had a deadly flat quality. "More important than you may ever find out, you--you know-it-all." She whirled around suddenly and raced from the room.
Larry was shocked. But he couldn't bear to see the crestfallen look on Doyle's features. Quickly he gathered up the drawings and when the man made no effort to stop him, he slipped out the door. On the deck and on the dock there was utter chaos. But nowhere did he see Tricia, and he waited at the rail knowing that she would have to appear sooner or later. And then, without any snooping old busybody to interfere, he would take her in his arms and kiss her and they would face the world together. Although he should have done it back there in the cabin right under Doyle's nose. That was the way the great man had evidently intended it.
Presently--and with a jaunty air--Patrick Doyle came by behind a platoon of porters toting his luggage. As he passed, he stuck a card in Larry's breast-pocket.
"My addresses in Europe. Look me up, Larry, and we'll go over the final details."
They shook hands and then Doyle was gone, a debonair figure twirling a malacca cane, a snappy felt hat upon his head. Larry gazed at his disappearing back, a catch in his throat, still dazed by the rapid rush of events. But he just couldn't let the wonderful old guy out of his sight and he moved toward the gangplank and looked down.
Doyle had just about reached the bottom when Larry heard a cry behind him. He spun on his heel. Tricia was running along the deck. Larry grinned happily and held out his arms to catch her.
"Tricia," he said.
"Hello, Larry," the girl gasped. "Good-bye, I mean." She ducked under his outstretched arms and went racing down the gangplank, her hands sliding along the ropes. "Patrick! Patrick!"
The impeccably garbed figure turned.
"Wait for me," Tricia cried. "I'm coming with you."
Doyle's face broke into a broad smile. Tricia fell into his arms and kissed him. Then to Larry's ears came the words, shouted for all the world to hear. "I love you, Patrick Doyle, you pompous genius. I love you!"
Arm in arm, the couple walked into the bustling swirl of passengers and workmen on the dock. Larry stared after them until he could see them no longer.
At his elbow a voice sounded. "Larry?"
He turned and saw Paul Taylor regarding him with a wryly disappointed face. "Oh, hello there, purser. What's up?"
"Uh, I don't suppose you'd be interested in buying a book from me would you? It might help you to understand women better."
"Sounds interesting. What book?"
"This one. It's by the Marquis de Sade."
A dry chuckle popped from Larry's lips. "No, thanks," he said. "I know the author."
That night Tricia and Doyle stayed at a quaint little hotel in Paris, before moving on to Doyle's Villa. The hotel was named La Regency Opera, was right around the corner from the huge opera house, and Tricia was thrilled to death with the French-speaking, madam-type bosomy woman at the front desk, and with the little caged elevator that only could accommodate two people. It took Tricia and Doyle only up to the third floor and they had to climb a flight of stairs to the penthouse apartment.
They had dinner at a tiny, down-off-the sidewalk French restaurant that only had three tables, and after that they played tourist and caught the all-nude show at the Moulin Rouge, followed by pastry-at-midnight at a sidewalk cafe and a furious ride back to the hotel.
The bathroom of the penthouse suite had a see-through glass door and Tricia waved out to Doyle while sitting on the throne. The tub had a sit-in tile seat that fascinated Tricia and she took three baths in the twenty-four hours.
In the huge circular bed that night, Patrick Doyle said to her; "I shall treat you miserably, of course, you know that."
"Yes, I know that."
"Then why choose me?"
"Because you are the first real man I have ever met."
"I agree," Doyle said, and dropped the satin robe from his body.
Doyle was on his knees on the bed, and soon he slid upwards toward her face, turning her head to one side so she could see the profile of his monstrous erection. Then he let the head of his prick lurch and slide against her parted pleading mouth, and he could feel the piercing hot eyes on his member as it touched the lips.
Doyle slipped his sweltering-thick rod in deeper against the slippery heat of her tongue, thrusting his loins fully forward until Tricia's warm and gulping mouth was overflowing with his hot and round flesh.
He felt the soft beginnings of fury and fluid welling up inside of him as she now gave to sucking wildly at the velvet heat in her mouth, received him right down to the hilt, driven by a sensuous quick greed for all of this man's explosive moistures as his cock seared angrily inside her mouth.
Doyle glanced at the suite's mirrored wall for a brief flash of this exquisite tableau. Then he gazed down at his prick slowly sliding in and out of that full mouth, those pouting O-shaped lips, and he could see the euphoric look of contentment in her eyes, watched the hard-nippled breasts as he jammed his brute-cock more swiftly in and out against that oven-like tongue of hers.
Her head was bobbing forward and down onto his thick spear and her teeth now and then chafed against the burning shank of it, which made it grow even more fretful and eager.
"I'm going to drown right down in your throat, girl," he cooed, still looking directly into her eyes.
The bed was wheezing and rattling beneath them.
And with a sigh he sank fully onto her, collapsing like a wounded buffalo, while Tricia moaned and hurled her crotch up to greet and claim the two fingers he offered, never ceasing to try to stuff more of his cock fully inside her busily loving mouth. Tricia parted her lips wider as Doyle crushed his meat down her throat and let it explode in the searing fire that was there.
She held it, and he watched her sweet thirsty swallows as her body wrenched and tossed in its own secret surge that melted and joined the still-lunging fingers, her first ardent drippings racing down his fingers to puddle his palm.
"Ohhh, take this one," Tricia moaned, pointing a finger to a warm heavy breast with its rigid nipple twitching.
In the next instant he was sucking at her, his tongue traveling, mouth and hand probing every crevice and curve.
Then he turned her over on the bed and gripped her shoulders as she shot her round bottom up towards his cock, jutting up on her knees while her upper portions lay prone on the pillow.
Doyle neared the target, prodding thickly at the taut anal lips for a second, and then plunging deliciously, fully up into that throbbing back chamber, and Tricia was biting her lips with the sudden thrill of excruciating pain and joy that flooded and swarmed at her loins.
She squirmed and squealed and jerked her body back for more of it, while Doyle drove it into her with a breath-taking rapidity, both gasping and feverish with the intimate, burning contact, his balls swinging back and forth against her.
Thousands of miles away, in a tiny furnished room on 84th Street in New York, Walter simply masturbated and wondered if he would ever hear from Tricia Goode again.
