Greg Warner, well-to-do owner of a string of restaurant has the world by the string ... until he picks up a stranded motorist one stormy night. She turns out to be the shameless teen-ager Greta Hoefer who proceeds to seduce Greg ... right in his car ... then rushes to a nearby house screaming, "rape." Then it appears that the world has Greg by the string instead. Robert Phillips, his best-friend lawyer is dissatisfied with his lovely wife, Carol, and wants desperately to place Terry Warner, Greg's incredibly beautiful wife on his enormous list of local conquests. In no time at all Phillips and Terry celebrate his depraved requests and she furnishes the details of her own perverted affair with Greta that was responsible for Greg's current difficulties. Using his new-found information as blackmail, Phillips frees Greg ... never suspecting that Greg would rush to his one true love....
CHAPTER ONE
Just before it ALL started, at twenty minutes past two o'clock on a Monday morning, Greg Warner was aware only of the hissing of tires on damp asphalt, two wavering fingers of light probing the mist-shrouded darkness in front of his car, and the vision of his brunette wife lying in bed with nothing on as she waited for him to arrive and make love to her. Greg was hurrying.
He'd been married for three years, but the thrill of possessing his wife had not lessened in all that time. If anything, it had grown more intense. Greg loved her very much.
As his cream-colored Buick hurtled along the narrow secondary road, which was lightly traveled at that hour, he maintained a firm grip on the wheel and his eyes followed the beams of light, but his thoughts were on the bed toward which he was rushing. He visualized Terry lying there, her long legs arranged seductively on the silk sheet, her breasts ripe and high and thrusting even though she lay upon her back, her shadowed eyes heavy-lidded, her lips parted in moist invitation to him....
He pressed his toe harder on the Buick's gas treadle and watched the speedometer needle crawl to 65 ... , then almost to 70.
The enticing reverie of home and bed and female warmth was suddenly banished by the sight of a car parked on the shoulder of the road ahead of him. Greg transferred his foot from the accelerator to the brake peddle. The Buick slowed.
The parked car was an old one-a faded blue Chevrolet-and its hood was up. Its left front door was partly open and a figure in tan raincoat and hat stood there, looking toward him. It was a woman. Bare legs gleamed in the Buick's headlights and auburn hair tossed about her shoulders.
Greg pressed the brake peddle harder, stopping the car.
He knew the woman. She was only a girl, actually. Her name was Greta Hoefer.
He leaned to the right and opened the car's door, admitting the raw air of the March morning. Greta stepped to the Buick's doorway.
Greg, remaining bent to the side so as to see the girl's face, grinned pleasantly. His own face was strikingly masculine, with firm features and a neat mustache-mature yet youthfully appealing at the same time. He was 37 years old.
"Greta! My god, what are you doing out here ... and all alone? Did you have a breakdown?" He realized the foolishness of the question, as soon as he'd asked it.
She smiled in an embarrassed way, as if she were sorry to have bothered him and reluctant also to admit her ineptitude with cars. "Seems like it. The darned thing just stopped on me. I was driving home from visiting a girl friend and...."
"How long have you been out here?" Greg asked.
"An hour. Maybe a little longer. Only one car came along and it didn't stop."
"The louse," Greg said sympathetically. "Well, get in. I'll bet you're chilled, I'll take you home, then call my garage in the morning and have them come out and see what the trouble is."
"I hate to be such a bother," Greta told him.
"Nonsense. I'm glad I came along."
She smiled shyly. The girl had an illusive, wistful quality about her. She was slim, pretty, and elfin, with a wide mouth, reddish-brown hair, and eyes that Greg had always found somewhat disturbing, on the few occasions when they'd talked.
Greta was the daughter of a woman real estate broker in town, whom Greg and his wife knew casually. He wasn't sure how old Greta was. She'd been going to high school but he hadn't heard if she'd graduated or not She could have been eighteen, or perhaps a little younger.
"I'll lock my car up," she said. "It'll just take a minute."
Greg eased closed the Buick's door as she moved away, so as to retain the warmth from the car's heater.
He thought of his wife and how she would have to wait a bit longer for him ... and he for her. He had been later than usual, as it was.
Though he made it a practice to stop in at each of his three restaurants on weekend nights, this time he'd waited at the Atmore spot until it closed. He'd wanted to be certain his new manager could handle things.
Greta lowered her car's hood, checked its windows, locked the doors, and tripped back to the Buick. Greg reached to open the door for her. There were a few moments of delay, after which her tan raincoat and hat-both boy's style-were thrust into the car. She had the coat rolled up and the hat on top of it, and she placed both of them on the floor in back of the front seat.
"They're a little wet; I didn't want to muss up your car," she explained with a smile as she eased her slender body onto the seat beside him and closed the door.
Greg looked at her as she ran her fingers upward through her long hair, loosening it so that it settled into place. It framed the piquant beauty of her face and formed a saucy fringe at her forehead.
She smiled again, continuing to show mild embarrassment. She said, "I must be a sight."
"You are. A very lovely sight." It had been only a pleasant thing to say, as far as Greg was concerned.
Greta looked at him seriously.
He laughed. "Well, let's be off, shall we?"
He fed gas to the Buick and it surged forward.
The girl was a funny one, Greg thought. But, then, perhaps teen-agers were bound to seem peculiar to people in their middle thirties. It was a sign that he was getting old, Greg feared.
She was a desirable little package, though, he admitted as they rode along silently for a few moments. A boy could have fun with her. He wondered idly how many had.
He glanced her way. She was peering through the windshield, apparently unaware of his inspecting gaze. In the light from the instrument panel, he noted the modest but firm rise of her breasts beneath the sloppy white sweatshirt she wore. He also noted the way her brown skirt revealed the tapering outline of her leg, then stopped above her knees to show creamy flesh. She wasn't wearing stockings. He caught himself wondering whether she wore a brassiere beneath the shirt; she wouldn't really have had to, considering how loose the garment was.
Hell! he rebuked himself. What the devil have you Come to, thinking this way about a young kid? It's because you're amorous tonight, hm? The hour's late and your nightly passion feast is overdue.
Greg and Terry did make love just about every night. He was the sort of man who wanted love every night and could handle it just that often. The handling was somewhat of an accomplishment, too, because Terry was a very passionate animal.
He got to thinking about her again, then quickly derailed the thought train before it progressed too far. After all, he wasn't alone.
"Lousy night, isn't it?" he remarked pleasantly.
"It sure is," Greg agreed. "It's been quite a winter for California."
"We've been needing the rain. That's the way it is around here-almost nothing for a couple of years, then we get it in buckets."
"I guess," Greta said with a little laugh.
He glanced at her again and, this time, she was staring at him. A twinge of uneasiness went through him.
"You...." she began uncertainly, then started over: "You're very nice to give me a lift. If you hadn't come along, I don't know what I'd have done."
"It was a bad place to get stalled at this hour," Greg agreed, continuing to watch her, with brief glances back at the road. There was no traffic to worry about and the pavement, though narrow, was straight.
"How come you're out and around all by yourself at two-thirty in the morning, Mr. Warner?" she asked pertly, her mood seeming to have undergone a quick change.
"I just closed my place at Atmore," he said. "I was on my way home."
"Oh." She hesitated. "Do you think your wife will be worried?"
"I don't imagine. She knows I'm being a good boy." He grinned.
Greta looked at him closely. "Are you always a good boy when you're with another girl?"
"What?" The question had shocked him.
Greta smiled. "Well, we are alone, you know? We're ten miles or so from town and it's late. There's nobody else around here."
Greg squinted at her. In spite of himself, he'd felt an intimate reaction to her words. He didn't know if it had been what she'd said that had caused it or the honeyed tone of voice she'd used-a tone that seemed to convey much more than the words themselves. He cleared his throat and said, "That's right."
"I feel kind of funny tonight," she told him, gazing wistfully ahead just then. Her voice had grown softer, more liquid. "It's as if T could do something real daring." She turned her eves on him again. "Do you ever feel that way. Mr. Warner?"
The conversation had become absurd. Greg thought. But he answered her with, "I guess I do sometimes." He continued to watch her.
"You know, Mr. Warner ... Greg ... I've always liked you very much."
"Really?" He was surprised at the degree of huskiness in his own voice. He was surprised, also, at the sharp interest which the conversation had generated within him.
Damn it, you're a married man! his inner voice said. And you love your wijel
"I suppose you haven't ever thought about me at all," Greta went on. She was looking straight ahead again and her tone, though casual, was warm. How warm it was!
Greg cleared his throat. "Well ... I wouldn't say that I'd never thought about you, Greta. I mean...."
She turned to him, her eyes afire in the glow from the car's instrument panel. "How have you thought about me, Greg?" She paused, still gazing at him intently. "Have you ever thought about ... making love to me?"
Greg lessened the pressure of his foot on the Buick's accelerator. The car slowed.
"Have you, Greg?" she pursued, her voice becoming more excited. "Because I have. I've thought about that a lot."
Greg caught himself and said firmly: "Damn it, Greta, you're only a kid. Hell, I'm-I'm twice as old as you are. And I'm married."
"Does that make a difference, really? T mean, when two people feel a certain way about each other?"
Greg was astounded at the course the conversation had taken. He hadn't expected anything: like this. It had been the furthest thing from his thoughts. How had it happened? What was he getting into?
The car had slowed considerably now and he was staring at the slim and very earnest girl beside him. "You don't mean what you're saying. Greta."
She ignored his statement and asked, "Do you think I'm prettv, Greg?"
"Weil ... yes, I...."
"Wouldn't you like to make love to me?"
"Now, listen...."
"Wouldn't you like to ease me over on that back seat and...."
"Damn it!" He put his foot on the brake and the car came to a stop. They were all by themselves in a pocket of warmth surrounded by cold, wet, silent dark ness.
Greta slid across the seat until she was right against him. He felt the special warmth of her body and its softness. He stared at the gleaming cream tone of her legs which had been half-denuded by the drag of her skirt as she'd moved across the upholstery.
She whispered, her breath striking his ear and cheek: "Wouldn't you like to pet me. Greg? To pet me and feel me come alive for you? Wouldn't you like to hold my breasts and squeeze them? Wouldn't you like to put your lips to them, Greg?"
And then, before he had a chance to say or do anything, her girlish hand leaped to him.
Breath exploded from his lips involuntarily.
A smile of satisfaction spread over Greta's face. "Yes. Oh, yes, you'd like to. You can't deny that. Oh, Greg, you're such a man!"
Then suddenly she was all over him, pressing her lithe and lovely form against his chest as her hand caressed him knowingly. A hungry mouth met his, lips loose, capturing his own startled lips.
Greg's brain reeled as the blood roared through him. There was a funny sound in his ears. His head throbbed. He felt frantic fingers biting through his clothing and hurting his upper arm. He had the scent of her, warm and delicate and tremendously enticing. He felt the softness of her chest....
He clamped his arms around Greta's body, pulling her more tightly to him. Her hand was continuing....
Suddenly he grasped her at the shoulders and pushed her away. Her hands came away from him and she seemed to hang almost in mid-air. Her eyes were intense. Her pink mouth was open.
"We can't do this!" he exclaimed in a voice full of gravel.
"Why?" she demanded. "Why can't we? Who will know? I'll never tell, Greg. Never, never, never. I want you and you want me. Oh, Greg, I adore you. I need you tonight. Just tonight. If I have you once, I'll be content. We never need to see each other again."
"Do you know what you're saying?" he asked, half out of his mind with desire for her now.
"Yes! I know, Greg. And I'm not a virgin. I've known boys. Tonight I want to know what it's like to be loved by a man. Oh, please, Greg. Please!"
He relaxed his hold against her and she was at him again, pressing and grasping and moving her upper body against his. Her warm lips were sliding across his cheek, trailing on his skin. Then they were touching his lips and pressing against them and their kiss was locked again.
His brain swirled in sweet agony. He didn't love her, he didn't really want her, and yet he couldn't turn her down. How could he?
He held her tightly now and kissed her with unleashed passion. His right hand slid down her back, delved under her bulky sweatshirt, and skinned its way up her spine.
She was bare as a baby under there! There was no bra strap!
His hand moved around to the front of her, still beneath the sweatshirt.
From the moment that he grasped her satin breast between his thumb and fingers and squeezed its warm, soft firmness, he was lost. There was no turning back. He knew he would have to continue.
He slid his thumb across her nipple and she moved her lips more frantically against his. He caressed her nipple until it was bending like a spike. How it stood up!
He had to see it. He had to have this girl.
Greg tore his lips from hers. "I'll turn off the road," he gasped. "There ought to be a farm driveway somewhere around here."
"No. No. Just pull onto the shoulder. No one will come by, I can't wait, Greg!"
He couldn't say or do anything but what she wanted. He couldn't argue.
He took his hand from under her sweatshirt and she fell away from him. He twisted the Buick's wheel, guiding it off the asphalt. He set the parking brake and cut off the ignition.
"Get in the back," he demanded huskily.
Greta grasped the bottom of her sweatshirt and pulled it up and over her head, revealing her naked beauty to him. He had neglected to turn off the headlights, so the instrument panel was still aglow. Its soft radiance touched the red tips of her breast and bathed the whiteness of the surrounding flesh, making it seem softer and creamier than any he'd ever glimpsed before. The girl was lovely. There was certainly no doubt about that. Her breasts were not too large but nicely rounded and firmly erect. Her aureoles were neat and tidy, her nipples very passionate-especially the one he'd been caressing. It stood up, thick and tall.
Now Greta gave a little jump on the seat, bobbing her breasts as she flipped her skirt waist-high all the way around. She wore pink panty-briefs.
She grasped the panties at either side at their top and lifted herself again to peel them down. They came out from under her hips and swooped down. She twisted, holding her legs together as she stripped the pink pants over her knees. They were quickly gone, her shoes with them.
Wearing only her skirt, she crawled over the back of the front seat and lay down on the rear one.
"Come on, Greg," she said passionately. "Come on and love me!"
He didn't think of his wife. He didn't give any further thought to the fact that he was parked on a public road. He thought only of the lithe young body, dimly visible on the back seat of the car-a length of whiteness, interrupted at its middle by the rumpled band of skirt.
Greg tore off his jacket, then his tie and his shirt. He unfastened his belt and his trousers. As he began to push himself up, preparatory to vaulting the seat, he realized the car's lights were still on. He cut them off.
Then he was over the top of the seat and finding the young female who was waiting and ready for him. She had positioned herself perfectly, so they could move together almost at a touch.
She groaned softly at the suddenness of his approach. Greg's head throbbed in the sensation. Oh, my God, he thought, has anything ever been like this before?
He began.
Greta was with him, in time with his action. He shifted position slightly so he could grasp one of her naked breasts-the one he hadn't touched before. He squeezed it and pulled at it and rolled it.
She moaned and said something obscene.
He twisted to grasp one of her red nipples to his lips. He held it tightly.
Now he let go of it and began to work harder, as if he were devil-possessed. He was working like a satyr. She was breathing through her mouth which was wide open, her eyes shut.
He wasn't aware of the lights of the approaching car until the vehicle had almost reached them. By that time, the interior of the Buick was virtually ablaze and he could hear the sound of the advancing engine.
Without thinking, he did the one thing which he later realized he should never have done. He rose on his knees and looked out the window. Then Greta was rising also, to a sitting position.
The other car slowed to a stop beside them. Greg glimpsed a girl behind the wheel.
He dived forward, pushing Greta down beneath him, but he knew it was too late. The driver of the other car had seen him and probably Greta, as well.
The other car, after idling for a moment or so, picked up speed and was on its way.
My God, Greg thought, what ij it was someone who knows me?
He swore.
Greta wriggled as if trying to get away from him, but he pressed the bulk of his weight down again. "No," she said harshly.
"What the hell you mean, no?" he demanded, work kg as if he were crazed.
She sighed and began to work with him.
He went faster and faster, being driven now by rage for himself and for her as well as by passion. He wasn't sure if she was with him or riot, and at the moment he didn't care. Neither did he give any thought to the fact that she'd tried to interrupt their love-making. He concentrated on the single and solitary object until that became something gross and brutal. But, at the same time, it was lifting him to a passionate height he had seldom reached before.
When the release occurred, it was magnificent, seeming almost to turn him inside-out with its power.
Then that was all over.
He began to restore his clothes.
Greta slid around and sat up.
Then she did a startling thing: She opened the door beside her and stepped out of the car. Standing on the roadbed, her brown skirt settled around her legs. The skirt was the only garment she wore.
"Greta!" Greg exclaimed. "What the devil?"
She started to run along the edge of the road and quickly disappeared into the gloom.
Greg was over the top of the front seat quickly. He didn't bother with his shirt or other clothes, but flipped the ignition key and stabbed a toe at the gas peddle. He turned the car's lights on as it began to roll.
Greta was ahead of him, still running.
He raced up to her, braked quickly, and yelled. "Get in here! What the devil's the matter with you?"
She paid no attention to him.
Greg stopped the car and leaped out, running along side it and crossing its path of light. He reached Greta and grasped her naked arm, pulling her to a halt.
"You little fool!" he rasped. "What the hell are you trying to do?"
She wriggled, trying to wrench her arm free of his grip. Her round breasts shook and quivered in the cold damp air, the nipples straining upward. "Let go of me! Haven't you done enough?"
He stared at her.
"I'm under-age, you know," she added in a harsh voice, while staring at him Ievelly. "I'm seventeen and you raped me. Not only that, but the girl in the car that stopped-I know her and she saw both of us. It's going to go bad with you."
"Greta! Are you out of your mind?"
She pulled away from him and began to run once more. Greg stood rooted to the spot, half-naked, the windblown mist nipping at his chest with frigid teeth. He watched Greta lurch out of the path of his car's lights and head into a driveway which was marked by a white mailbox on a post.
Suddenly he realized that she was going for help. She was going to say she'd been raped and that he'd done it. She was only seventeen!
As chilled as the air was. perspiration popped on Greg's forehead. He turned and ran toward his car.
Get away, he thought. I've got to get away!
CHAPTER TWO
"Robert Phillips was aware of a sound. He stirred, awakening to silence. Now he heard the sound again. It was the ringing of the telephone in the living room, cutting through the dark stillness of the house.
He cursed to himself.
Carol lay asleep beside him. He could see her in the moonlight from a window, her golden hair fluffed about her face and spreading on the pillow. She never put her hair up at night. Of course, Robert wouldn't have permitted her to do it had she wanted to. A man shouldn't have to sleep with a human pincushion, after all.
He threw his legs over the side of the bed, found Rippers with his feet, and stood up. The phone continued to ring, its shrill blasts alternating with silence.
Carol wouldn't hear it, would she? Oh, no. Not her. She could sleep through a four-alarm fire.
He stumbled alongside the bed and across the room to the hall doorway. He should have had an extension installed in the bedroom, he thought. But, on the other hand, he was seldom disturbed at night and it would really have been a waste of money.
A call at this hour could prove to be something pretty good. A lawyer never knew.
The phone continued to ring as Robert reached the living room and finally had his hand on it. He picked it up.
"Hello." He cleared his throat and pushed at his rumpled hair.
"Bob! Oh, hell, I thought you weren't there, the damn thing rang so long!"
"Who is this?" Robert asked, the voice was familiar but his sleep-fogged brain couldn't immediately identify it.
"Greg Warner. Boy, I'm in a hell of a jam. I don't know what I'm going to do."
"Easy, now," Robert said, coming fully alert "Just tell me."
"I raped a girl, Bob. She forced herself on me. She made me."
Robert squinted in the dark. "That doesn't sound Eke rape."
"She's seventeen."
Robert released a soft little whistle.
"They're going to get me," Greg went on. "They're going to nail me to the wall."
"Wait a minute. Slow down. How the hell did this happen? Tell me about it." Robert snapped on the small desk lamp, pulled a chair around, and sat down.
Greg told him in a blurting and disjointed way. Robert asked questions until he had a complete picture in his mind.
"I'm in it, huh?" Greg asked finally, his voice full of torment. "There's nothing I can do, is there?"
"There's always something a person can do," Robert told him. He had gained full use of his professional tone by that time. Also, he had warmed considerably to the subject at hand. Greg Warner was well-fixed. That meant there'd be a tidy fee in a case of this kind. What was more, if Robert could win it, he'd be carving a large measure of prestige in Cole County.
"Then tell me!" Greg demanded. "Damn it, I can't see a way out."
"If I tell you what to do, will you follow my advice and not ask questions?" Robert asked.
"Yes! That's what I called you for."
"All right," Robert said. "You're going to the police."
"The police? My God, Bob, they'll...."
"I'll be with you," Robert cut in to say "In fact, I'll meet you right now. Tell me where you are." From the corner of his eye, Robert saw his wife emerge from the hallway and move softly over to the desk. She was in her nightgown, her feet bare.
"I'm-well, it's a booth out on Highway 85. A gas station. Couple of miles past Crandall Road I think."
"Okay," Robert said, glancing at the small clock in front of him. It read 3:17. "You drive back jo town. Stop at that all-night coffee joint on the highway around the corner from the courthouse. You know the place?"
"Yeah," Greg replied.
"I'll get dressed and meet you there as soon as I can.
"Well, hurry, will you?" Greg said. "Cops get coffee there. They've probably already got a pickup order out on me."
"Cole City doesn't have more than half-a-dozen police on duty this time of night," Robert said. "There are probably only a couple at headquarters and they aren't apt to be going on an outside coffee break. In case one shows up and grabs you, tell him you were waiting for me and were going to give yourself up. Got that?"
"Yeah. I guess so."
"And don't worry. This thing might not be as bad as it sounds"
Greg swore dismally. "I'll see you there."
"Okay, Bob. And thanks. Thanks a hell of a lot!" Greg seemed genuinely grateful for a friend who could help.
Robert hung up.
"Bob, what is it?" his wife. Carol, asked in concern. She stood looking at him like a little girl, but her body called the look a lie. Lush pink-nippled breasts shown through her sheer gown. She was no child.
"Go back to bed, Carol," Robert said drily and stood up.
"I won't. You have to tell me what this is all about."
"I don't have to tell you anything," he growled and moved past her to the hall, his head down. He wanted to get dressed quickly so that he could reach his client as soon as possible.
Carol was following him. "Is it a new case?"
"Yes, it's a new case," Robert said in mild exasperation. What the hell did she think it was?
In the bedroom he threw off his pajama tops, then yanked the string on the bottoms and they slid down his legs. He was trim, but not impressively built.
Carol stood watching him. "I wish you didn't have to run out like this," she remarked wistfully.
He walked to the dresser and got shorts. "Please go back to sleep, Carol," he said, as if he were addressing a ten-year-old child.
"The least I can do is to make you some coffee," she said as she started to move toward the door.
"I don't have time for that," he snapped. "Greg's waiting for me."
Carol turned in the doorway and looked at him over her shoulder, presenting a most provocative display of pert buttocks through the diaphaneous fabric of her gown, while around her shoulders her golden hair spilled in exciting disarray. "Greg?" she echoed. "You mean Greg Warner?"
"What other Greg do we know?" Robert replied, pulling on a pair of pants and fastening them. He had scarcely looked at his wife all the time they'd been talking.
"Is Greg in trouble?" Carol asked, stepping up to him.
He looked tip from his effort at unwrapping a freshly laundered shirt. "Will you kindly stop yapping and go back to sleep!"
"Robert...." Her tone reflected sadness rather than shock. Then she turned and walked along her side of the bed.
"I wish you'd tell me," she said a few moments later, as she sat up in bed and he was tucking his shirt under the waistband of his pants. "After all, Greg's my friend as much as yours."
"He's not a friend now." Robert said curtly, stepping to the closet for his shoes. "He's a client. Now, go back to sleep."
Within a few minutes, Robert had finished dressing, had run his electric shaver over his face and combed his hair, then had gone out to his car. He'd backed out of the driveway, leaving the garage door open, and was now moving along the quiet tree-shaded street where he lived. It was raining again.
The courthouse, containing police headquarters, and the cafe where Greg would be waiting were fifteen blocks away.
Greg. Greg Warner.
Robert Phillips thought about him, picturing the man in his mind's eye.
A handsome rogue, Robert thought. A regular devil.
He and Greg had known one another since shortly after Robert moved to town, a couple of years ago. They and their wives had mingled socially, and Robert had done some minor legal work for Greg. This was going to be the payoff.
Robert stared past the slapping windshield wipers of the three-year-old Plymouth Fury. As he thought about Greg, his eyes were alight and his mouth twisted peculiarly.
Robert Phillips had a long and sensitive-looking face which was not unhandsome as far as the formation of its f pa hires was concerned. But the expressions which had a habit of passing over it sometimes didn't do it justice. This was such a time. His dark eyes were somehow too bright and the null of his mouth was peculiar. It would have been difficult to describe it in any other way. Robert's brown hair was mixed with gray, even though he was only thirty-five. This lent an air of distinction to his appearance which he hadn't possessed before his hair had started to turn, a couple of years ago.
He continued to think about Greg. If it had been possible to insert some sort of detecting instrument In his brain, its findings might have been shocking to some. Thev might even have shocked Robert Phillips himself, for Robert was not a man who knew his inner being too well.
Actually he was thinking something like this: What a desirable man Greg Warner is! He's a handsome brute-so masculine. I hate him!
After these thoughts passed the censor In his brain, however, they registered to his consciousness somewhat as follows: Greg is interesting. I'm not sure just how T feel about him. I think I'm glad he's in trouble, though. Yes, I am. But, then, what lawyer wouldn't be glad to fall onto a case like this one?
And next Robert thought: That wife of his-now, there's a wicked witch! Tall and tantalizing, with those hips that move like well-oiled machinery, and that set of big beautiful boobs!
His thoughts continued on, following a familiar course. This happened each time he saw Terry Warner or was reminded of her. He'd been thinking such thoughts about her for two years, but he'd never done himself any good as far as Terry was concerned.
As a matter-of-fact, Terry Warner was one of the few desirable women in town whom he hadn't made as yet.
He didn't know anyone who had made Terry, either-outside of her husband, of course. If any of the men Robert talked with had known Terry that way, they hadn't owned up to it. To Robert that meant they hadn't scored for, if they had, they couldn't have resisted the urge to brag. Terry was that good. She was that well thought of by the men of the town.
What effect was Greg's present trouble soing to have upon his marriage? Robert wondered. He wondced also if the new closeness which was bound to develop between himself and Terry, as a result of his handling of her husband's case, would make it possible for him to get her. Perhaps it would, provided he played his hand right.
He wanted her desperately. He wanted her because she was a long-limbed love machine-the most beautiful that Cole City had-and he wanted her because she was secretly coveted by every male in town. Most of all-though he wouldn't have admitted this even to himself-he wanted her because she was Greg Warner's wife.
The truth was that Robert Phillips hated Greg: Warner as fiercely as he had ever hated anyone. And he'd hated quite a few. Only men, however. Women weren't worth hating. Women were good for one thing.
There was a singular exception to his generalized view of women, and this related to his wife, Carol. He didn't love her, but she served a purpose which was different from that served by the other women he had known-the casual conquests, one-nighters all.
Robert regarded it as a necessity to have a wife. A professional man who wanted to rise in the society of a small city had to be married.
Of course, Robert had married Carol some six years before they moved to Cole City from Los Angeles. He'd plucked her right from high school, as a matter-of-fact. Robert had decided that a wife would be an adjunct to his professional life even in L.A., and Carol had been just the type he'd wanted. She was submissive and meek. Girlish. No matter how old she grew, he knew she would never be anything but a little girl.
As far as the bedroom was concerned, Carol came in handy there, also. No man could have a new woman every two or three days, after all.
If Robert's attitude toward Carol was a strange one for a man to hold toward the woman to whom he'd been married for eight years, it was no more strange than his psychological makeup in general. But Robert kept most of this well hidden, even from himself. Consciously he regarded Carol as someone to have around and to take care of, as men took care of their wives. She annoyed him frequently but, then, she had redeeming features. And not only physical ones, at that People liked her. Even other women called her "adorable," while men looked at her with covetous eyes. This gave Robert a certain pride of possession, and it helped him make his way in the social world.
Yes, Carol was worth the trouble she caused him with her babyish moods ... and her drinking. At least, she got drunk only at home.
He had reached the cafe now and pulled the Plymouth to the curb just short of the lighted windows. He cut the ignition, turned off the lights, and got out of the car.
He strode briskly to the front door of the place. He opened it and glanced around:
A waitress, thin and sad-faced, moved along behind the counter. A chef's hat was visible through the square kitchen window. Two truckers were seated at the counter drinking coffee and talking together, one drawn and tired-looking, the other husky, red-faced, and wearing an affable grin. A small man in brown coveralls looked at a folded newspaper as he ate his ham and eggs. Three booths were occupied, one by a well-dressed couple, another by a plain girl seated alone, and Greg Warner was in the booth at the far corner. An instrumental was blaring from the juke.
Robert walked over to Greg, said, "Hi," and sat down on the opposite bench.
Greg looked like a man who was pursued by the devil and losing the race. "Thanks for coming, Bob." He held his hand up and watched it tremble. "God, I'm in a state."
Robert smiled wryly. "That girl must have been really something!"
Greg swore.
"Okay." Robert reached across the table to pat his "friend" on the upper arm. "But this isn't the end of the world, you know. Under-age girls have been fooling older guys since the beginning of time and most of the guys have gotten away with it."
"You don't know this girl," Greg said. "A damned she-devil!"
The forlorn waitress walked up to them.
"I'll have coffee," Robert told her. "And bring another for my friend."
The girl nodded and walked away.
Greg was staring at his coffee cup. Robert had never seen him like this before. Even allowing for the circumstances, Robert was a little surprised. Greg had always seemed so strong, so sure of himself ... so damned confident.
Robert took out a cigarette and lit it up. He dropped the pack on the table. "This girl, what's she got against you that would make her frame you this way?"
Greg looked up at him. "You think it's a frame?"
"What the hell else could it be?"
"Well...." Greg faltered. "I don't know. I thought she might be a nut. You know, you hear of girls like that, who just want to get an older guy in Dutch."
"That only happens in bad novels," Robert said with a slight smile. "How well do you know her-this Greta Whosis?"
"Greta Hoefer." Greg took a deep breath. "I don't know her at all, really. Her mother's in the real estate business. You've met her-Minna Hoefer. She has an office on Center Street. I bought a property from her some time ago. Since then, Terry and I have seen her socially a few times. I'd met Greta maybe three or four times in her life, and then just to say hello." He gestured helplessly. "That's all there is to it."
Robert exhaled smoke and studied the man across tine table. Before he could speak, the waitress had arrived with a cup of coffee and the Silex, from which she re-filled Greg's cup. Robert watched her walk away and decided that her hips were too bony to warrant a second thought.
"This couldn't be a play for money on Greta's part," Robert said, "or she wouldn't have run for help. She'd have arranged with a witness to show up, all right, but then she'd have put her demand to you and threatened to tell the police only if you didn't pay."
Greg stared at him. "You think Greta arranged to have someone drive by?"
"I'd bet on it." Robert sipped his coffee. It tasted good.
"Then you think Greta was parked out there wait tag for me."
"Sure."
Greg stared for a few moments, as if the entire thing were too much for him to comprehend, and then looked down.
Robert raised his coffee cup again, sipped the hot brew, and set the cup down. "Just in case the girl had a change of heart, Id better call the police first and see if she made a complaint. Wait here."
Greg sat at the table, staring at his cup and at his hands, while Robert walked to the phone booth at the opposite end of the room and placed the call. Greg didn't once take a sip of coffee or pick a cigarette from the pack on the table.
Robert came back and said, "Well, she made a complaint, all right. Stat rape is the charge. The report just came in. They'll be looking for you."
Greg sat upright "My God! I just realized, they'll talk to Terry."
"She's bound to find out anyway," Robert said. "We can't keep it from her."
Greg stared.
"Why don't you call her now." Robert suggested. "I don't imagine the police have gotten there yet. Maybe we can head them off. Tell Terry what's happened and that you and I are going to the police station. She doesn't need to come down. Tell her I'll arrange for bail in the morning. You'll see her then."
"I'll have to stay in jail tonight?" Greg asked.
Robert nodded.
Greg stared at him for a few seconds more, then got up and headed for the phone booth. Robert lifted his coffee cup and watched Greg walk away before he took a sip.
A fat case, he thought. Ft will make me if F can pull it out of the fire. Avd not only that. There's Terry. Robert smiled to himself.
CHAPTER THREE
Terry Warner hung up the telephone, her lips slowly unpuckering from the dry kiss she'd given her husband at the conclusion of their talk. Though she'd tried to remain calm and had done her best to buoy Greg's spirits, she had been deeply shocked by what he'd told her. The reaction had not yet diminished very much.
The fact that Greg had taken a girl in his car on a lonely road at two-thirty in the morning didn't bother her. She appreciated the position in which he'd found himself. She, of all people, knew the power that women held over men. A female, who knew what she was doing, could make a man do almost anything in the world. Terry herself was the living proof of that.
And Greta Hoefer was a tricky wench indeed!
But Terry had not realized that Greta was such a vindictive person. She'd had no idea the young tart would go this far merely to get back at her.
Sitting up in bed, completely nude, with the silken bed-clothes at her lap, Terry stared at the opposite wall of the room, trying to decide what if anything she could do about the distressing turn of events.
Go and see Greta? Try to make peace with her?
She didn't like to contemplate such a step. One thing on which Terry had always prided herself was that no one on God's green earth could boss her around. She did what she wanted, as she wanted, and when she wanted, and she made others like it. And she made them like her, at the same time. That was her skill.
She had never knuckled under.
She thought of the time when she was dancing at a joint in Cleveland and the proprietor-a creep by the name of Jack Glasco-had tried to get her to date a so-called friend of his. She'd said no and Glasco had slapped her across the face. And then he'd told her bluntly: no date, no job.
She'd gone out with the man. She'd let him feed her gin and rub his fat body against her. She'd gone with him to a motel and she'd let him lift her breasts free of her low-cut gown. Then, when he'd gotten undressed and was all primed to go romping on the kingsized bed, she'd started to laugh. She'd looked at him and laughed as the fat man's ardor departed. Finally he'd charged her like an enraged bull and she'd pulled a neat automatic from her purse and held it on him until he quieted down. Then she'd put on her clothes and left.
The man had never complained to Glasco. She had known he wouldn't. It would have hurt his pride far too much.
She'd kept her job for another couple of weeks-until she'd lined up something else-then she'd gotten her pay and walked out just before the start of a show, leaving Glasco in the lurch. She hadn't done it for kicks. It had been a matter of principle with her. No one took advantage of Teresa Lombardi and got away with it.
Now she was Mrs. Greg Warner. Mrs. Most-EnviedWoman-in-Town. Mrs. Untouchable, as far as most of the men around Cole City knew.
How they would have been shocked if they could have seen her on the night less than a week ago when her trusting husband had thought she was visiting her convenient, nonexistent half-sister in Riverside.
Greg had never insisted on meeting "Clara" and that was a good thing, though Terry would merely have had a girl friend impersonate the "relative" if this had proved necessary. As it was, Greg seemed grateful that his wife had someone "safe" with whom to spend her time while he visited his restaurants in the evening and played host, as he was frequently expected to do. Terry had no doubt that his lack of suspicion was due to the excellence of the performances she put on whenever they hit the hay together.
That part was easy for her because she genuinely enjoyed those times, just as she enjoyed every bed-romp with a virile and skillful male, so long as she could pick m and choose.
Terry thought about her most recent visit to "Clara," as if the recollection was needed now in order to bolster her spirits. She visualized the little bar in Los Angeles-an intimate place just off Wilshire, at the edge of Beverly Hills. She liked it and had been there often because the clientele was high class without being stuffy.
She'd sat there on the particular night in question and had watched the men come and go-covertly, of course, as a lady should. She had frozen a couple of too-eager ones with a glance. And she had waited.
Finally the right one came along. He was slim to the point of being hungry-looking, but Terry knew it was nervous vitality and not a lack of nourishment which gave him that appearance. He had crackling gray eyes and was smoothly groomed. What she liked most about him was that he d'dn't make his interest in picking up a woman too obvious. He played it cool.
Terry let him know she was available. She did it by crossing her legs to the accompaniment of a certain look in the blue-shaded mirror behind the bar. Tt was a look that said well? in a soft little drawl. That was all it took.
The man proved to be as smooth as his looks had suggested. He had an apartment nearby. There was no flim-flam, apparently because he realized there didn't have to be. But he was a gentleman in his approach. A direct gentleman, the kind girls like.
They went to his apartment. It was smartly appointed and located right on the boulevard with a terrace which overlooked the lights of town. He-his name was Steve-and Terry were alone there.
He had no sooner gotten her inside the place and closed the door than he pulled her to him, placed both hands around her back, and gave her a searing kiss which was like an electric wire.
Terry thrilled to it. But, as always, she thrilled more to the psychological than the physical aspect of what was going on. She thrilled because this man this very virile and masculine man-found her so enticing that he couldn't kiss her long enough and he couldn't get enough of her round, lush, lovely buttocks in his hands.
Terry was particularly proud of her buttocks. They were, she believed, as beautiful as any pair m the world. They might even be the most beautiful pair in the world, for all she knew.
When it came to buttocks, most American women were guided by a funny notion, Terry realized. They were embarrassed if their buttocks protruded or were extra-round or were the least bit jiggly when their owner wore a slim skirt. Consequently, they girdled their buttocks to disguise their natural shape and to prevent their natural jiggle.
Terry also was aware that most men held exactly the opposite view, as far as female buttocks were concerned. Most men liked them. They liked women's buttocks to appear naturally rounded beneath a skirt or slacks, revealing their true unique shape. Men also liked to see a woman's buttocks react naturally when she walked, the way good buttocks do, and to quiver just a little bit.
It went without saying that no one liked gross, overly fat buttocks. Or, at least, no one with any taste liked that kind.
Terry's were not gross. They were perfectly formed.
Neither were they fat. Delectably plump was more the term.
They were delightful, heavenly. Buttocks that any man worth his salt would want to hold in his hands and knead gently like loaves of bread. He might also like to jiggle them lightly in his palms, or maybe even spank them a little bit.
Terry's buttocks had been spanked more than once by men, and she'd found this to be an experience not without its reward.
Most of all, Terry liked her buttocks to be kissed. She liked to have a man hold one of them with both of his hands and squeeze gently as he planted his lips against its fullest part.
Men did that to her all the time. Yes, men liked her buttocks very much.
That was not all that Terry Warner had to recommend her to a man's attention, however. Far from it.
She was a tall girl-five-nine, to be exact-and her height was evenly proportioned. This meant that she had very long and lovely legs. Her ankles were slim, her calves were curved delicately and just enough, and her knees were smooth, and a sheer delight. They were long and exquisitely tapered to a fullness which made a man's mouth water. Terry had been kissed more on her legs than almost anywhere else. Almost, that is. There were some other places which had received an extraordinary amount of attention, too.
Jerry's legs were soft, but very smooth at the same time. There was not the slightest suggestion of flab to lessen their appeal. They had a texture like the finest silk and they were full and strong. They were kissable, lovable in every way.
A girl blessed with such a figure could have gotten along nicely with mediocre breasts. A man would have made allowances. But no man had to make allowances for Terry. She was one of those rare women who were appealing from all aspects.
In fact, some men had said that her breasts were her best feature. Or double feature, if you prefer.
First of all, they were very full. Then, too, they were taut. They stood up and outward proudly. They had aureoles which were passionately wide, but not so wide as to be unaesthetic. Though the rings of rosy crinkled flesh were well defined, at their perimeters they blended nicely into the surrounding skin-tone. Their centers were plump studs that could stretch to a truly astounding height when they were well treated. The fact was that Terry had a pair of nipples which were perfectly suited to their natural function.
Looking at Terry's breasts from the south-as a man might do sometimes when Terry was on her back in bed with him-they appeared as two great round domes with a deep and narrow defile between them and rosy lookout towers perched at their crests.
Viewed from the side, when Terry was erect, her breasts sloped out and then slightly upward to the tips of her nipples. Beneath the nipples, a rich arc swelled down and around and then back to her ribcage. There was almost the total absence of an under-crease.
Such were Terry's breasts.
In addition to the delights already described, Terry had dark somnolent eyes, a truly passionate mouth, a nose that was not tiny but was well defined, and a wealth of tumbling dark hair that framed her features in utter softness.
Terry Warner was, in fact, a living doll. She knew this and gloried in the knowledge. At twenty-six she felt that she was more attractive than ever, maturity having added its special richness to her appeal.
Her own judgment was confined by men. By her husband, for example. But Greg was primarily for the security and social status he gave her.
For pure kicks there were others. Men like Steve, for instance.
She continued to relive the incident of several days ago when she was in Steve's Los Angeles apartment and he was holding her and kissing her while he squeezed and rolled her luscious buttocks at the same time.
Oh, he had become excited! And quickly, too.
Terry's pulse had quickened and her spirit had soared as he caressed her with fervor and pressed against her in a way that proved his eagerness beyond the slightest doubt.
Finally he released her mouth and sent his lips on an expedition along the classic line of her jaw and up to the tender lobe of her left ear. He nibbled her there for awhile as he kept palming and moving her buttocks all around.
Terry wore no girdle to disguise her lush appearance or to frustrate a man's efforts to acquaint himself with it. Terry wore, beneath her dress, only stockings, the slimmest of garter-belts, and a pair of very sheer and clinging nylon pants. Her bra was built into the top of the dress itself.
Steve was busily appreciating the fact that she had only light pants around her buttocks. In fact, Steve was appreciating her lush and responsive buttocks to such a great extent that Terry was becoming a bit annoyed. After all, buttocks were not all she had!
Finally she twisted away from him and left him standing alone, his lust boldly betrayed. She smiled to herself and strolled over to his bar.
"What's good?" She asked, leaning to inspect the bottles on the shelves behind it.
"You are!" Steve said with passion as he came up to her, this time pressing his front firmly against her buttocks while he reached forward to grasp and hold the now slightly suspended glories of her chest. He began to stroke them through the ribbed top of her dress.
"Take them out, darling," she murmured, not changing position. "The zipper's behind me."
Steve took his hands away for a moment so as to hunt for the zipper tab. He found it and drew it all the way down to her hips. Her dress fell away and her bosom hung white and bare, punctuated by accents of red. Steve could see these delights reflected in a mirror in front of them.
He reached forward and took one of Terry's breasts in each hand. He squeezed them gently but with firmness as he slowly stroked the satiny ovals downward. Finally he captured her nipples between his thumbs and fingers and shook them very gently. Then he raised his hands up, got a new hold, and stroked her breasts downward again. At the same time, he was moving his body against her and Terry was responding with a move of her own.
Her action gradually loosened the hold of her dress upon her hips and it slowly and teasingly slid downward and off until she was standing there in only her white nylon pants which showed the outline of a thin garterbelt beneath them, as well as showing in perfect detail the lush contours of Terry's rear. Sheer sand-colored hose encircled and clung to her lush cream-tinted legs.
Terry began pressing backward against the man and watching his face in the mirror as she did so. His eyes were staring half out of their sockets as he seemed unable to decide where he liked most to look-at the reflection of her full dangling breasts being cradled by his hands, or at the round figure which stretched the sheer material of her panties as she touched against him.
She imagined it took quite a lot to make such a strong and self-possessed man look that way.
But she was quite a lot, wasn't she?
Oh yes, she told herself ... she was the most!
She deftly slipped sideways and out of his grasp, smiling as she tossed her dark hair around her shoulders. "Let's find a bed, hm?"
"No," he said. "I don't want a bed."
She cocked an eyebrow evilly.
"The floor," he said, jerking open his suit-coat and then throwing it off.
Terry strolled, long-legged, hips undulating, until she stood in the center of the spacious room.
She watched Steve as he divested himself of every bit of clothing he wore, and she was not in the least disappointed when he finally did. He was a most satisfactory man, she decided-almost as good as her husband who was by all odds, the best she'd ever seen. Steve was so excited at the prospect of taking her that he could hardly wait.
She moved up to him as he approached her and they met head-on. Steve immediately slipped his fingers under the elastic at the top of her pants and began to stretch and draw the sheer white garment down, denuding her completely and then slipping her pants, inside-out, past her knees. Gravity carried Terry's pants the Best of the way and she stripped clear of them, letting them remain as a delicate ring of silk upon the rug.
Now Steve pulled her against him nakedly and kissed her some more while, at the same time, he tormented her buttocks with his fingertips. This made Terry shiver with delight.
But he couldn't remain this way with her for long.
In moments she found herself stretched out full-length on the carpet with the lean man beside her.
He bent to caress and kiss her nipples, holding a breast in each hand and moving them in such a way that their turgid tips encountered the edges of his teeth.
Terry sighed and twisted on the rug. Oh, he was crazy for her, wasn't he? He was almost out of his mind!
She extended a hand and marveled at the quality of him. Yes, he wanted her indeed!
Now his mouth was roaming downward as he kissed her soft and subtly contoured middle. Then he teased her along the legs, nipping her above the stocking tops, branding her with kisses. She stretched and flexed her legs, luxuriating in his ministrations to her silken flesh, and also making it very easy for Mm to continue Ms caressing.
..Oh, how grand it is to be adored! She thought. To have a man so mad about me that he would kiss me like this!
When he finally took her In the natural way, Terry responded with real passion. But her greatest pleasure came from the look upon Steve's face as he delivered himself in vigorous timing. His expression was intense and utterly determined. His eyes stared at hers (for she was tall enough to permit this), and his straight white teeth gleamed behind parted lips.
As that went on and on, Terry found herself being lifted in much the way of an object being raised by a pulley. Though the sensation was more subtle than this, it was every bit as vigorous as such a thing could be.
When she saw the finale approaching, she could tell that Steve was reaching the same point, too. The signs on his face were unmistakable. There was the look of near-desperation-the urgency of man as he approaches the peak of truimph.
Terry embraced him as vigorously as she could, giving and taking until she was reaching the golden moment herself.
She cried out as the pulley released its burden and fell with sudden shattering force, then landed deep in what seemed to be a gigantic pile of cotton.
She kept her eyes open all this time so as to see Steve at the supreme moment, too. The look of him as he experienced that completed her own enjoyment.
He wanted her to stay the night, of course, but there would have been no point in that Once had been enough, from a physical standpoint and, as far as the psychological kick was concerned, she'd had that all.
She returned to where her car was parked, got in, and drove back to Cole City. Greg was asleep when she arrived home.
In the morning he asked her if she'd enjoyed her visit with Clara and she said it had been pleasant but that she'd missed him. They would make up for it that night, she vowed.
That was how she kept Greg happy.
The visits to "Clara" kept her happy.
She and Greg had what amounted to a thoroughly gratifying relationship all the way around.
But now the security of that relationship was threatened, and all because of a little snip named Greta Hoefer.
Terry's experience with Steve-. the most recent of her visits to "Clara"-was not representative of all such visits. Since Terry derived keener excitement from the reaction of a love partner to her own charms, rather than from the effect of the partner's charms for her, Terry was not exclusive as regards the love partner's gender. That is to say, she enjoyed the reactions of women as well as men.
Young Greta Hoefer had represented too tempting a challenge for Terry to turn down when the teen-ager, astutely interpreting Terry's flirtatious gestures as an invitation, had revealed that she'd just graduated from her initial affair with a high school gym teacher and was seeking to broaden her education.
Though Greta lived in Cole City. Terry had thought it would be safe to give her a play. After all, ft didn't seem likely that what they did together would ever reach the ears of males, where it might eventually be passed to her husband.
The trouble was, however, that Greta had not been willing to call it quits after one time. She'd cried and even threatened.
Terry had remained adamant. She would not permit herself to be coerced.
Now Greta had gone all out to gain revenge, striking at Terry in the way that promised Greta the most satisfaction, for she was getting back at Terry and hurting Greta's rival for Terry's affections as well.
.Greta was such a child! A silly, spoiled, vindictive child!
Well, perhaps it wasn't as bad as it seemed, Terry thought. Bob Phillips was handling the case. And for Terry's view, she gave him credit for being a competent lawyer. He stood to get a big fee from the case and, on top of that, he and Greg were friends.
Perhaps Bob would be able to have the case against Greg quashed without a lingering stain of guilt that would ruin Greg in Cole City, and ruin Terry as well.
If Bob couldn't accomplish that, well, Terry would then have to take a hand herself. As much as she hated to do so. and as much as it went against her nature, she would have to go and see Greta. She would have to make up with the girl. This, Terry felt, would cause the child to abandon her case asainst Greg. Just how it could be managed, Terry wasn't sure, but she felt confident there would be a way to do it.
Still, she wanted to avoid going to Greta if at all possible.
Damn! She should never have fooled around with jailbait, Terry told herself sternly.
She decided to go to the kitchen and fix a cup of warm milk. Otherwise she would never be able to get to sleep, she knew.
Naked, she strolled through the house, turning on lamps and not caring that all the shades were up. If there was a peeping torn around, she thought, let him have a cheap thrill.
As a matter-of-fact, the possibility of her being observed gave Terry a vicarious satisfaction.
She remembered the time that a telephone lineman had happened to be working on a pole across the alley when she'd strolled out to the patio for a swim. She'd noticed him right away, but had pretended not to, and had thereupon stripped to the buff. She'd pranced around on the pooldeck for a while, then dived into the water and splashed about, finally emerging to lie naked on an air mattress by the pool's side where she toasted herself, front and back.
She had wondered later how he'd explained to his supervisor about being up there so long. Maybe it had cost him his job, she'd mused.
The incident had given her quite a thrill at the time.
In fact, she'd enjoyed it so much that there'd been that later occasion when her gardener had been at work outside the bedroom window.
But that had turned out differently. The gardener hadn't been content merely to stand and look. Damn those industrious Japanese!
She hadn't been worried about him talking, though. Who would ever have believed him?
CHAPTER FOUR
Robert Phillips hung up the telephone and leaned back in his fawn-colored swivel chair. He had just finished talking with Ed Romero, the deputy D. A. who had charge of Greg's case.
The outlook wasn't at all good. After running to the farm house early that morning, Greta Hoefer had insisted upon being taken to a doctor. It was from his house that the police had been called.
The physician, a respected man in the community, was prepared to confirm that Greta had been violated. The physical signs were, he said, unmistakable.
In addition to that, the girl who had driven past Greg's Buick while Greg and Greta were naked in the back seat was one of Greta's ex-schoolchums. She had seen both persons in the Buick, she'd said, and she'd recognized Greg as the owner of the drive-in restaurant where she and her boy friend frequently stopped for sodas.
After recounting all this, Romero had gloated. "What are you going to do for a defense, Bob boy?" he'd wanted to know.
It was a damned good question.
Since Greta was only seventeen years old, it wouldn't be necessary for the State to prove that Greg had used force or threats. Statutory rape didn't require that.
Robert's only hope-and Greg's also-depended on Robert's ability to shake the testimony of Greta's witness. But that wasn't apt to be easy, since Greta had undoubtedly set the whole thing up with the other girl in advance. They had probably planned it with care.
He wondered for the hundredth time why Greta had set out to ruin Greg. Greg had claimed he had no idea of the reason and Robert believed him. Hell, if Greg had known, he certainly would have offered an explanation. His freedom-perhaps his very life-depended on it.
Romero had said he wasn't sure whether his office would go for a stat rape conviction only or whether they would charge kidnapping, since a car had been involved. Kidnapping was a capital crime in California.
Well, Robert would get his fee regardless of what happened. Greg had it. The first payment was to be made the very next day. Tn the meantime, Greg had been released on bail. The amount was high, but they'd found a bonding company to go it. Greg had always enjoyed a good reputation in town and he had turned himself in voluntarily. That fact was in his favor.
It was because of Greg's good reputation that Robert had been able to save him from a rigorous grilling at police headquarters which might have made him confess to the charges. As it was, he had maintained his innocence, even refusing to admit that he'd given Greta a lift on the road. On Robert's advice, Greg had denied. he'd seen the girl that night.
The fee, as big as it was going to be, wasn't the only benefit that Robert hoped to reap from the case, of course. If he could somehow come up with an acquittal, he would thereby establish himself as one of the leading attorneys in Cole County. This was that sort of case. It would be widely publicized.
Robert would have to be a Houdini to win it, though, it began to appear.
He chewed at a pencil, then threw it down on his desk. If he only knew what was behind the whole thing-what had motivated Greta Hoefer to do what she'd done. As it was, he was working in the dark.
His contemplation of Greg's legal dilemma had been interspersed with occasional random thoughts of Greg's wife. He had decided to insist upon Terry's presence when Greg came in for a conference on the case. In that way, Robert would bring himself and the lush brunette into closer contact and ... who knows? Considering how important he was to Terry's husband right then-and, indirectly, to Terry herself-perhaps she would not be above doing her bit, so to speak, to make him work aD the harder on Greg's behalf. Perhaps he would put it up to her in just that way when the proper time arrived. Terry Warner.
Robert let his mind picture her and he became exhilarated with the thought that perhaps he might possess her soon.
At that moment, not too far away, Greg was returning home after a sleepless night and morning. His wife, who had slept for a while before he had called her and had finally managed to fall asleep again afterward, was reasonably fresh.
She was seated in the living room wearing black woolen pants and a dark figured blouse. She got up to face her husband as he came through the door.
He gazed at her regretfully, then closed the door behind him.
She came to his arms. "Darling," she murmured.
They clung, Greg burying his unshaven face in the scented hollow of her neck. He didn't try to kiss her on the lips.
When the embrace ended, he shuffled to a chair and dropped in it to stare at the opposite wall of the room.
"What does Bob say?" Terry asked anxiously as she moved to seat herself in front of him. "How do the chances look to him?"
Greg turned to her. "Terry, I'm sorry. I couldn't really tell you when we talked on the phone this morning, I was so upset. But I'm damned sorry. It was a hell of a thing to do. I wouldn't blame you if you didn't want to speak to me again."
"Don't say that," she told him. "I understand."
"Do you?" Greg stared. "How can you possibly?
If I was in your place, I wouldn't understand at all."
"I'm a woman, Greg."
"And that makes you understand why I took that little tramp?"
Terry nodded. "I know she made you. Nature gave women that power. Take it from one who knows." She smiled wryly.
Greg's expression softened and he said, "I love you."
Terry smiled a bit more affectionately. But each of them remained in their separate chairs.
Terry looked down at her hands. "I want to know about the case-what the prospects are."
Greg gestured emptily. "I was charged in court this morning, statutory rape. But the D. A.'s office said they might add kidnapping to it. I got an extension of time to enter my plea and bail was set. Bob arranged it."
"But what does he say, Greg?" Terry pressed. "What are your chances?"
"It looks bad; that's all I know. Damned bad. Greta has a witness who saw us together on the road. And she went right to a doctor. He's going to testify, I guess. I didn't confess to anything, of course, but they've got a pretty strong case. Bob says our only chance is to deny all of it and hope the jury won't believe the witness who saw us out there."
"Who is the witness, Greg?"
"I don't know her. A girl friend of Greta's."
There was silence in the room for a few moments.
Terry broke it: "Did Greta give you any idea why she did this?"
"Hell, no! Not the slightest. That's what gets me. It was almost as if she was out of her head. One minute passionate as hell and the next minute running down the road without her clothes on and screaming that I'd raped her." He paused, then murmured, "God, I'm sorry, angel. If I could only...."
"Don't worry about me, Greg. I mean that. The only thing that matters now is for you to beat this charge and do it in a way that will leave no doubt in anyone's mind. You know I'll stand behind you. This hasn't changed anything between us."
"Terry, you're wonderful," he said with deep feeling.
He looked for a moment as if he was going to rise from his chair and go to her, but he didn't. And she didn't come to him. They sat five or six feet apart and looked at one another. Though they pl-edged devotion, there was a barrier between them.
Greg felt this acutely, but he didn't blame Terry. All of his blame was directed toward himself. He had behaved shabbily. Now he was getting no more than he deserved. As a matter-of-fact, Terry was being remarkably tolerant. That proved her love, he thought. But, then, he'd never had any reason to doubt it.
"This is going to cost us a lot of money," Greg said.
"Money isn't important."
"Not now, T guess."
Terry stood up. "You're terribly tired. Why don't I fix you some eggs and toast, then you can go to bed and try to sleep for a while."
"All right."
As he stood and moved with her toward the kitchen the two of them still not touching-Greg had the appearance of a man who was in some sort of trance. His head was down and his eyes were dark, almost unseeing.
Terry thought: This is worse than I imagined. That witch, Greta! That vile contemptible little witch! I'll probably have to go to her. It's probably the only way. But I'll wait until Bob Phillips has had more of a chance to get into the case. Then I'll have a talk with him. Greg may not have the complete picture.
As her husband sprawled at the table in their richly upholstered breakfast nook, Terry moved to the refrigerator to fetch some eggs.
In a smaller house located in a middle-class neighborhood on the other side of town, Carol Phillips found herself face to face with another afternoon.
The house was quiet. She had tidied up the kitchen after her lunch, and now there seemed to be nothing to do.
Oh, she could sew, she guessed. And there was some ironing in the box. But somehow she couldn't face up to those tasks.
She strolled through the house, crossing the living room and walking into the kitchen. With her hands loosely clasped behind her, she swung her body slightly from side to side in the manner of a child.
She was wearing a full-skirted dress of spice brown, green, and turquoise stripes. She also wore stockings and moderately high-heeled shoes. She was not planning to go out: this was the way Carol customarily dressed around the house. She disdained slacks and shifts. She liked to look her best and most feminine at all times.
She felt that was the way women should dress.
She stopped in front of the cupboard where the liquor was kept and stared for a moment at the closed door. Then she cast a glance at the metallic red-and-white clock on the kitchen wall. It was 1:12.
Bob would be home at a little after 5:00. That was four hours away.
She looked at the closed cupboard door again.
The position in which Carol found herself at that moment had become a familiar one lately. She chose not to regard it as such, however. That is, she ignored the obvious fact that she was following a pattern.
Some days were just dull, she rationalized. This happened to be another dull one. What to do?
She reached for the red plastic handle on the cupboard door.
She could have stopped right there perhaps. On some days she had stopped, when she'd happened to think at that precise point in the habit pattern of someone to call or some place she should go. On such occasions she'd resolutely turned her back on the cupboard and had gone about her business, rarely returning to the cupboard again. At the end of those days she had felt rather proud of herself in a vague way, but she'd also felt discontented.
Discontent. She'd come to live with that.
How long had she and Bob been married now? Eight years. God! Eight years.
She was twenty-five, and next year she'd be twenty-six. In five years she'd be thirty.
Where had all the time gone? Where had her youth gone?
These questions led to others: Why had she let it all happen? How had she gotten herself in such an awful fix?
She remembered how it had been-her parents breaking up, not caring what happened to her. Her father had disappeared and, as soon as Carol was graduated from high school, her mother had suggested that Carol go out on her own. She could have her own apartment, her mother said, and go to work for the telephone company or someone. She could do anything, so long as she moved away. Her mother didn't seem to care.
As Carol had grown up, she'd felt her parents really loved her. They'd babied her and taken care of her in every way. If anything, they'd been too protective. Then suddenly it had all changed. Her father had gone and her mother didn't want her around any more. Carol was in the way. Her mother was only thirty-six at the time and still young enough to catch another man and even have another baby.
Carol was turning eighteen and Bob was twenty-seven. His mother lived in the same apartment house where Carol and her mother lived. Bob had his own place, but he used to visit his mother often. His mother had introduced him to Carol. , Carol gave her virginity to him on their second date. For a while after that he didn't call her, and Carol went almost out of her mind until she finally called him. They got together.
A week later they were married.
It hadn't bothered her that Bob was nine years older. In fact, she'd rather liked the idea. He was strong. she'd believed and he would give her the security she needed.
But nothing had worked out right. Not even at the beginning. He'd said he didn't want children. He'd neglected her. He hadn't really cared for her at all-not really.
Soon there were other women. Bob scarcely even tried to keep the knowledge from her. By now she'd learned to live with it, making what allowances she could. What else was there to do? She couldn't face up to the prospect of leaving and being on her own.
It was just lately that she'd come to realize that Bob was an inferior lover. She hadn't known before because she'd had no basis of comparison. Though marital love hadn't amounted to what she'd heard it should be, she'd blamed herself. Perhaps, she' thought, she was simply under-endowed with passion.
Now she knew that wasn't so. She'd learned that Bob wasn't as good as other men.
She didn't love Bob. She hadn't for some time. Living with him had become only a habit, but a habit she didn't have the strength to break.
She opened the cupboard and stared at the three bottles: the blended whiskey, about a third full, the vodka with only a couple of ounces gone from it, and the half-bottle of dry vermouth. Bob liked vodka martinis. She preferred the whiskey, herself, over ice with a little water.
She reached for it.
Just one, she thought, as she usually did at this stage. One now ... then, perhaps in an hour or so, another, maybe a third just before Bob gets home. There would be nothing wrong with that. And so it started....
At three o'clock she was finishing her sixth. At 3:02 the door buzzer sounded. Carol stood up and wavered as she crossed the living room.
CHAPTER FIVE
The man who stood there in a brown tweed sport coat and smooth slacks, wearing a hat and with a brief case in his hand, was not particularly good looking. Nor were his looks repellent. He was in his twenties, dark-haired and tanned. He had white teeth and a good smile.
He touched his hat brim. "Hello. My name's Hal Bethel. I'm making a survey in this neighborhood for the Harris Insurance Agency. They're offering a new .. He stopped, having lost interest in what he was saying as he looked at Carol.
She was smiling broadly and holding the door open wide. "Come in."
What Hal Bethel observed was a girlish and very pretty housewife who was dressed trimly but whose golden hair was in slight disarray about her shoulders, errant wisps tickling her cheeks. Her blue eyes were watery and rather vacant-looking, and there was the unmistakable aroma of liquor on her breath. She had swayed a bit, had closed her eyes a couple of times, then had smiled giddily. Now she was holding the door for him.
He went in, his eyes asking questions as he looked at her. He passed her, moving from the short entrance hall into the living room beyond. He noted the almost empty bottle on the cocktail table and the glass of melting ice beside it.
"Was jus' having a drink," Carol slurred as she moved unsteadily past him to the sofa. She made an elaborate gesture with her right hand. "Want one?"
She smiled broadly and warmly, the man thought.
"Well, I...."
"Cm on, c'm on...." She reached for his brief case. "Si' down. Take a load off."
He sat and placed his hat beside him as Carol lay his brief case on the floor near the end of the sofa.
She reached for the bottle. "This all right?"
"Yes," he said uncertainly, trying to figure out what his position was and which way he ought to move. The girl was married. Not only was she apparently the lady of the house, but she wore a wedding ring. Perhaps she'd drunk too much to know what she was doing.
He wondered if there were any children around.
"Oh...." Carol said in disappointment as she held the whiskey bottle in front of her, tilting it slightly away to examine the amount of amber fluid remaining at its bottom. 'S almost gone."
"That's too bad," the man said in an indefinite tone.
"Wait!" Carol set the bottle down hard. "There's another one." She stood up and leaned a bit to the side before achieving her balance. "Wait right here. Don't go 'way, now."
He watched her follow an uncertain course to the kitchen, and admired the sleek slimness of her calves which were attractively set up by her high-heeled shoes. She was dressed as if she'd been expecting company. He wondered and looked around. The place was quiet. But someone might be on his way.
This would be risky, he thought. Real risky. A man could get fired and run out of town, not to mention what might happen to his person.
But she was a damned cute trick. And loose. Man, that booze had made her as loose as a broken gate.
Carol came back beaming, her slim fingers clutching the neck of a full fifth. In her other hand she carried a glass.
"Like ice?" she asked, handing the bottle to Hal. She sat down beside him.
"I don't care," he said, still in a noncommittal tone.
"Tha's good, 'cause I don't think there's any left." She shook her head gravely from side to side. "Bob'll spank me when he gets home. He likes his martinis good 'n cold."
"Bob," Hal repeated, opening the whiskey bottle. "Is that your husband?"
"Mmm." She was nodding her head vigorously. "My sweet ol' husband."
"When's he due?" Hal asked cautiously as he tilted the bottle over Carol's glass. He let a good two-and-a-half ounces slop onto the ice.
"Quar' aft'r five," she said firmly. "Ev'ry day at quar' aft'r five. Reg'lar as clockwork."
"I see." Hal sneaked a look at his watch.
Carol was raising her glass. "Well, go 'head. Take one. I'm a li'l Tiead of you."
"Yeah," Hal said and poured himself a double slug.
"You live'n this lousy town?" Carol asked with sudden harshness as she lowered her glass. Her lips were loose and wet.
Hal drank, then answered, "Yes. That is, I hope to. I just got here a couple of days ago."
"Take my 'dvice an' don't," Carol began to lift her glass again. "It stinks."
"Really?"
"'S like a prison."
He watched her take another drink. She was going to be real bombed before long, if she kept at it like that.
His eyes moved downward to take in the pleasant lift of her bosom, the slimness of her waist. Her legs were uncrossed and the dress hem fell just above her knees. Quite a number, Hal decided. Quite a number indeed!
He thought: She's looking for love, there's no doubt about that. But I'd better let her take a little more sauce, just to be sure. Some dames don't know what they want. Others know but don't have the guts to admit it. Booze helps.
"You said your husband might spank you," he commented, deciding to spice the conversation and thereby feel her out. "Does he often do that?"
"Mmm?" She had partially slipped into a reverie and he'd startled her.
"A spanking." He grinned. "You know: patty-pat pat. Your husband ever do that?"
"Bob?" She laughed derisively.
"Well, you said something about it."
"Figure of speech," she explained.
"Oh." He took another nip from his glass.
"Maybe he should." Carol said, staring downward. "Maybe I'd like 'm to."
"You think you need it?" Hal asked, watching her over the rim of his glass. "A spanking, I mean?"
She slammed her glass down and stared at him. "Hell, yes! Tha's what I need! A damn good spanking! Are you man enough t' give me one? Huh?" She leaned forward, her girlish face wearing a mask of anger and frustration.
"Well, I don't know." Hal was trying to figure her out. Spanking her was not exactly what he'd had in mind, but....
"My daddy used t' spank me," she said. "Whenev'r he caught me lying or doing something bad, even when I got to be a big girl, he took me ov'r his knees an' pounded hell out'a me!"
"You liked that, huh?" Hal asked, warming to the idea now.
She twisted her shoulders. "I used to yell like the devil. Really holler, y'know? But I think I kind'a liked it. Made me feel better aft'ward. I mean, I knew I'd done something wrong an' was getting paid for it."
"Have you done something wrong now?" Hal asked.
"I've done lots'a things wrong." She stared at the glass in her hand. "This, for one thing. Men for 'nother."
"Men?"
"Mmm." She took a drink.
She must be a wild one, all right, Hal thought. That means this isn't just a special kick with her today. She's done this before. That husband of hers, I wonder what he's like.
"So you think you ought to be spanked, hm?" Hal asked slowly after he'd polished off his drink and was putting the glass down.
Carol faced him. "Dare you to!"
"I don't think I'd better." He watched her carefully.
"Chicken!"
"It's not that. But you might yell. I wouldn't want the neighbors running in here."
"Hell with th' neighbors. Y' jus' don't dare, tha's all."
"I dare."
"Then prove it!"
Oh, this babe is really wild! he thought. She wants to get her rear warmed and then she wants me to take good care of her afterward. But she wants her punishment first. That's a cute thought.
Hal said, "Okay. Finish your drink."
Her eyes widened slightly and seemed to become even more liquid. "Y'mean you'll really spank me?"
"If that's what you want."
She made a sound that was half-purr and halfgrowl. She kept looking at him, her blonde head nodding a bit. Her lips parted and her eyes looked as if she was having trouble focusing.
"Y'don't mean it," she said. "You're like th' rest of 'em. Don't mean it, a'tall."
"The hell," he told her. "Finish that drink!"
She looked at him a bit longer, then picked up her glass and drained it. She placed it down with such force that its base slid an inch or two on the table.
She turned to him again, a wave of blonde hair falling next to her eye. It gave her a most provocative look; one that was girlishly wanton.
"All right," she said. "Go lead. Spank me now, if you've got the nerve."
She said it in a way that suggested a dare. She evidently didn't think he would take her up on the challenge, he thought. But she wanted him to. Hell, if he'd ever seen a girl who wanted something....
He reached with both arms, grasped her at the shoulders, and pulled her to him, laying her across his lap. She didn't fight but made only a startled sound, a slight gasp.
He looked at the roundness where her buttocks rose. Now that her dress was lying against her he could see for the first time that she was well-developed. She was larger than he'd expected.
Well, let's see what we've got here, hmm? He thought, excitement rising for him. He took careful hold of her dress at the hem and began to draw it up.
She wore pink; a pink slip, which he carried upward with the dress, and pink garter straps tugging the tops of her nylons.
He flipped her dress and slip over and away from her buttocks so that the two garments bunched at her waist.
Her pink panties were extra sheer and brief, and they dung to her. She was plump, but well formed.
Altogether, she was a sight more tempting than Hal Bethel had seen in a long time.
He raised a hand, deciding to try an experimental tap. He hadn't had much experience at spanking girls. In fact, he'd never spanked one in a purposeful way like this.
He brought his hand down smartly against the nylon-covered flesh. "Oh!" Carol said.
Hal Bethel was suddenly brimful of lust. The feel of Carol's soft smooth bottom, with just her panties barring his hand, had been almost too much. Her flesh had shook as he made contact. It was taut, but it was soft as hell at the same time.
He spanked her again, a little harder.
He swore.
Carol made an urgent cat-like sound and clutched him around the legs. She wasn't fighting. Hell, no. She wanted more.
He spanked her again, shaking her good this time.
He spanked her again and again, her soft flesh shaking and jumping and growing pink.
"Oh ... she cried, but it was as much a moan of ecstasy as of hurt. "You are a man! Hurt me! Oh, hurt me!"
Hal did. More and more and more. He was in the grip of a fever that was raging through him. He'd never felt this way before. The wildest! He'd had no idea....
Suddenly Carol cried, "Take my pants off! Pull them off!"
Hal dug for the slim elastic band which was beneath the folds of her clothes, got his fingers around it, and yanked. It popped. He tore at her pink pants brutally. They split all the way off. He grasped and squeezed at her flesh.
"Spank me!" Carol demanded. "Spank me!"
"No!" Hal yelled.
He couldn't fool around any longer. He couldn't wait.
Extending his legs straight out. he rolled the girl off and onto the floor. He pounced at her.
Carol squealed excitedly as he tore at the top of her dress.
Hal got her dress open, then yanked and broke her brassiere in two. Her pink-nippled breasts tumbled free.
Hal buried his face to her soft tossing bosom as she told him graphically what she wanted him to do.
This was wild! Man, the wildest! He'd never gone this kind of route before.
After he'd worked at her breasts, he reared back and finished divesting her of the torn briefs.
His own clothes were no problem. He took care of them in the simplest way he could.
Now he was grinning her closer.
"Yes-yes, go!" Carol cried.
He went, and she yelled.
He went again and again. And again. She was helping him and all but strangling him with her clutching arms.
He worked with frantic abandon. Carol's face became very intent in the exquisite torture of what was happening to her. She emitted short little cries explosively, a steam locomotive gathering speed. Faster and faster.
Then Carol tightened and cried loudly as he also reached the apex in a blinding flash of light.
They clung motionless. Finally he moved away.
She sat there, her head turned to the side, her hair mussed and her eyes closed. Her soft breasts moved up and down with her heavy breathing.
Hal fixed his clothes, picked up the first bottle of whiskey, which had perhaps a couple of ounces remaining in it, and drank the contents. He smoothed her hair and picked up his hat, then stepped to where his brief case was lying on the floor at the head of the sofa. He didn't say a word to her as he walked out.
Carol remained where she was for a long time. She began to cry. She sobbed, tears streaking her face and ruining her make-up.
She got on her hands and knees, her torn clothes open at her breasts, her loose hair resembling a golden waterfall. She reached for the newly tapped bottle of whiskey and poured a large amount in her glass. She lifted it to her lips and drank most of it. She coughed.
She remained on her hands and knees for quite a while, steadying herself on the edge of the cocktail table. The room seemed to be tilting. A tightness was closing around her.
She swore softly and miserably. Then she took the rest of the whiskey in her glass.
She would have to clean up the mess, she thought vaguely. She always was careful about that. Bob mustn't find any trace. She would have to wash the glasses and gather up her clothes.
But there was something else which she had to do first.
Waves of nausea wrenched her insides, and she made it to the bathroom just in time.
CHAPTER SIX
Robert sat at a table in the regal room of the Cole Hotel, staring into his second vodka martini and wondering how things would be five years from now, or ten, if Carol continued to drink as she had been doing lately.
When he'd arrived home, he had found her in bed. She was naked, with the covers pulled up around her chin, and she was crying softly to herself. She seemed more sick than drunk right then. He knew she'd drunk quite a lot by the fact that there was an empty bottle in the trash can under the sink and a new fifth, partly gone, an the shelf. But there was no mess around. She apparently had even washed the glass she'd used. Funny, but she often did that.
She'd said that she didn't want anything to eat, had mumbled that he could fix something for himself. He was damned if he'd do that, though. He had stomped out of the house.
Robert saw his wife's fondness for liquor as the manifestation of a natural weakness of character and he didn't know what, if anything, could be done about it. It was possible that a psychiatrist could build up her resistence in some way, he supposed. He had considered taking her to see one, but it would have to be in Los Angeles. He couldn't have it known in Cole City that his wife was undergoing psychiatric treatment.
Carol never drank to excess in public, and he didn't think their friends or neighbors knew about it. At least, he had never heard anything indicating that they did. It was a private problem, between Carol and himself. He had viewed it philosophically, as part of the price he had to pay for the advantages of marriage. Every wife had her faults. But if Carol's habit kept getting worse he eventually would have to do something about it.
He finished his cocktail, lit a cigarette, and walked into the hotel dining room. He nodded at some casual acquaintances at a table, then smiled at the hostess as she greeted him and led him to a table at the side of the room.
In due course he ordered, then sat back and watched he scene around him as he waited for his soup to be brought in.
The unpleasantness with Carol had somehow put him in a reflective mood. He began to think back over their years together and gradually this process carried him further back in time.
Robert thought quite frequently of his childhood. More frequently than most people do, as a matter-of-fact. Whenever he thought of that period of his life, he experienced a strange emotional response. The memory was acutely bittersweet.
The most vivid impression was of his mother, of course. She had remained a vital force in his life until she died just three years ago. Throughout his childhood, it had been his mother who had inspired him. She had disciplined him, too.
Robert's father was remembered as a vague figure who came and went; on the road, selling, for weeks at a time, then home for perhaps a week or only a weekend before he took off once more.
Robert had an older brother whom he hardly remembered at all. His brother had finished school and gone out on his own when Robert was seven or eight years old. The last word of him came in the form of a letter from the War Department, advising that he'd been killed in action in the opening days of the Second World War.
Robert's father had died of a heart attack when the boy was twelve. From that point on, there had been only his mother to care for him, to guide him, to give him all her love and attention.
Strange, though, there was one thing about his father which stuck with him-a scene he had often thought of through the years:
The two of them bad gone to a football game together just a couple of weeks before his father died. On the way home, his father had talked to him about being a man. Robert had gained the impression that his father was concerned that he might grow up to be something less. The mere idea shocked the boy, and therefore impressed him deeply.
Not become a man? How could he be anything else, Robert thought at the time.
And then he remembered that his father had chided him on other occasions because he preferred reading to sports, and because he had concentrated on scholastic achievement to the exclusion of football and baseball.
His mother had always wanted him to work hard in his studies. She had helped him, guided him, driven him, and praised him highly whenever he passed an examination at the head of his class.
A conflict arose in Robert's mind as the result of his father's attitude-it had given rise to a doubt about himself which went to the very essence of his identity. Not become a man? he thought again and again. His father was afraid he might not become a real man.
Robert began to change. Though he continued to work hard scholastically, he also turned toward more active participation in sports. He didn't do well at them, but he tried. He tried very hard.
His efforts were sometimes derided by the other boys. This heightened the self-doubt which had taken root within his mind.
Then, as Robert began to come of age physically, a most remarkable development took place: He felt himself drawn not so much toward girls as toward boys. His self-doubt blossomed into guilt. He felt desperately afraid that his father's implied prediction about him might come true.
It was at this time, as he found himself embroiled in secret turmoil, that the incident with Betty Denton occurred.
Betty was a dark-eyed wench of fourteen and Robert had just passed his fifteenth birthday. They sat side-by-side in home room at Hollywood High School, and it was evident to Robert that Betty had been trying to attract his attention for some time.
Though he recognized that she was pretty, Robert was not particularly attracted toward her. She had glossy black hair, a remarkably clear skin for her age, and her breasts had matured to a far greater degree than those of most of the girls in the class.
One afternoon, however, he found himself beside her as they walked to the streetcar stop.
Her eyes sparkled as she looked at him, and she tossed her hair in the sunlight. He began to think that she was quite a pretty girl indeed. But still....
"Bob," she said, "there's a show at the Orpheum this week that's simply terif! It's Tommy Dorsey and his band, with Frank Sinatra. Oh, I just get goose-pimply when Frankie sings!"
"I don't think he's so hot," Robert said. "I like Crosby better."
"I know. All you guys do. But wouldn't you like to catch the show, anyway? Dorsey's band is the greatest!"
"Yeah," Robert admitted. "I'd like to catch it, all right. But with the term tests coming up...."
"Why don't we ride all the way downtown right now?" Betty suggested brightly. "We could make the stage show and still get home in time for dinner. We wouldn't have to stay for the picture."
"Yeah, but those tests...."
"Don't be icky! They're not until next week. We've got several days to bone up."
"I know, but...." He was ill at ease and not concealing it very well.
Suddenly Betty stopped and faced him. "You don't want to go with me, huh?" Her dark eyes snapped. That's it, isn't it?"
"I didn't say that," Robert protested helplessly.
"No, but I dig it, all right." She paused, staring at him angrily. "I guess you just don't care for girls."
He grasped her arm. "Why say a thing like that?" he demanded.
She shrugged, looking at him closely. "I don't know. It's just the way you act, I guess. And there's been some talk. I mean-"
"Talk?" Robert echoed. "What kind of talk?"
Betty wriggled uncomfortably. "Just that you've always got your nose in a book and, well, you aren't like the other guys in some ways. They say you throw a baseball like a girl."
"Who says?" Robert demanded, flaring angrily. "Who says that, huh?"
"Take it easy," Betty replied, her eyes having changed a bit now. There was a glint of satisfaction in them. "You don't need to get all upset over it."
"I want to know who's been saying those things," Robert demanded again, squeezing her arm more tightly.
"You're hurting me, Bob," Betty said in a soft voice.
He relaxed his hold. "What do you think?" he wanted to know. "Do you think that is true? About me not being a real guy?"
"Well, I don't know, Bob. I don't want to think it. I mean, I kind of go for you and...."
He turned her roughly and they headed for the streetcar stop again. "Your mother works in a war plant, doesn't she? And your old man's in the Navy?"
"Yes. That's right."
"There's nobody at your apartment now, is there?"
Betty shook her head and she watched him intently. He was looking straight ahead as they walked along.
"What do you say we forget about Tommy Dorsey." Robert almost gritted his teeth as the words came out. "And we'll forget about the term tests. How about you and I having a real time at your apartment, huh?"
"Bob!"
Though she was faltering and looking at him in surprised excitement, Robert continued to walk resolutely, facing straight ahead.
"Bob, we shouldn't do anything like that," she said. "I mean...."
"Put up or shut up, chick! You said you weren't sure if I was a real guy or not. Well, now's your chance to find out, if you've got the nerve. If you say no, then maybe I'll think you're not a real girl. How'd you like that?"
"Bob, I...." She seemed to have lost her voice.
Robert stopped short and faced her. People other students and grown-ups as well-were all around them but he paid no attention. "Well? What is it? Are you game or aren't you?"
"Gee, Bob, I...."
"You said you liked me," he reminded her. "I know, but...."
"Are you or aren't you?" he repeated firmly, the issue having become a matter of urgency with him.
She hesitated another moment, swallowed hard, then said, "Yes."
They boarded the big red car together.
Less than thirty minutes later, they were on Betty's bed in the three-room apartment where she and her mother lived. Robert had pushed Betty's sweater to her neck and he was becoming acquainted, for the first time in his life, with the intricacies of a brassiere.
"The hooks are at the back," Betty said, her excitement very plain to him.
Robert's excitement would have been just as plain to her if she looked. Robert was physically normal. He responded as any fifteen-year-old would have responded if he'd had the prettiest girl in his class on a bed beside him and was about to touch her naked flesh.
Psychologically, however, his reaction was a little different. Instead of feeling an overpowering surge of joyful lust, Robert was dominated by a different kind of need, the need to prove himself, to establish once and for all that he was masculine. Betty meant nothing to him, really, except as a means of making the proof possible.
He found the hooks of her brassiere, fumbled with them, and eventually succeeded in getting them apart. He lifted her bra.
"Like them, Bobby?" she asked. "You like the way they look?"
Robert had never seen any before. At least, he didn't remember his mother's. Betty's breasts were soft-looking, but firm at the same time. They were very white, except at their tips where they were rose-red. The nipples fascinated him.
"You can touch them, Bobby," Betty said breathlessly. "Go ahead."
She lifted one of his hands and pressed it to the left one. He grasped its full packed softness. He squeezed it and began toying with it.
"That's right," she murmured huskily. "Oh, that's right! Gee, Bobby, when you play like that I just go crazy!"
He played some more. Now he played with both of them at once.
"You want to kiss them?" Betty asked.
Why not? he thought and he bent his head, bringing his lips to one of Betty's breasts.
Now he felt a new kind of physical pleasure that was sharp and strangely demanding. He was in the grip of a force that he knew would carry him all the way without any further exertion of will on his part. He gave himself over to that.
Quickly he stripped Betty of her sweater and her bra and then he was hauling down her skirt. Her slip came with it. She was now in shoes, bobby socks, and panties.
Her panties were shiny, silken, and pink. He ran his hands over them and then the contours of Betty's buttocks.
"Take off my panties, Bob," she said. "Take them off right now."
He took the panties off, stretching the elastic and lifting them over her shoes. He let her keep her shoes and socks on.
Betty lay back now against the bed, her eyes closed and her breasts moving up and down in time with her deep breathing. Bob looked at her carefully then caressed her more boldly.
She began to gasp. "Oh, hurry, Bob! I want you to take me!"
He was now face-to-face with the moment. He was about to prove himself.
He hadn't thought about whether or not Betty was a virgin. He had thought only of himself and what he had to do.
He opened his clothes and shoved them down. Then he climbed to the girl.
She caressed him and made a strange little sound. She didn't look at him, though. Her eyes were completely closed.
Suddenly she was wholly available to him, and he took her quickly. Betty cried out.
He worked faster, a wild urgency gripping him.
Then, for the first time in his life, he knew the sensation of total ecstasy.
Betty, gasping and moaning now worked also. She was making strange sounds and turning her head from side to side on the pillow.
Robert worked faster.
Suddenly he began working very fast. He couldn't stop. He had to go and go. That was all over.
At first he seemed suddenly calm, but this void of feeling soon was filled by a rush of self-pride. He had proved himself. He had known a girl.
He moved away.
She continued to lie as he'd left her, her eyes still closed, and she turned slightly from one side to the other, agitating nervously. She ran a hand across her nude body.
Bob stood up and restored his clothes.
Betty made a little anguished sound and looked at him. "That's all, huh?" she said in a thin wondering voice.
"I guess so." Robert cleared the huskiness from his throat.
Betty sat up. "Maybe-maybe we can try again, huh?"
"It's kind of late," Robert said. "I'd better get home and study."
She stared at him. There was no anger on her face and no sign of affection, either. Wonderment was what he saw there. And perhaps a mild sort of shock.
Maybe she's sorry, he thought. But hell, she asked for that, didn't she?
Betty got up, dressed silently, and they exchanged a few words in the other room before Robert left the apartment to take the streetcar home.
His experience with Betty set a pattern for young Robert Phillips. He had gained keen satisfaction from that, a mental satisfaction which far exceeded the physical pleasure. Physically that had been good-producing relief-but mentally that had done wonders for him.
He felt afterward as if he were nine feet tall.
Later, as he thought back to the incident, he shuddered at the realization of what might have happened. But, at that time, what had he known?
He found out what was necessary before he had his next girl. His bragging to a couple of school chums about his conquest of Betty led to a revelation of the information.
He tried out the new technique with Susan Tetley. Then there was Mary Bruce. And Sylvia. Sheryl.
The pattern continued into adulthood. Now Robert Phillips had no idea how many females he had seduced.
He hardly ever went to bed with the same one twice. He had no desire to develop an affair with any of them. Once he'd had them, he lost interest. As for his recurrent physical needs, that was what a wife was for, when there was nothing more stimulating in prospect.
Physical needs were secondary, as far as Robert Phillips was concerned, anyway. Love, to him, was principally a matter of conquest. The conquest was what gave him satisfaction. It proved that he was a man, though Robert himself didn't see it in exactly that light. To his conscious mind the exact nature of the satisfaction was vague, but very real nonetheless:
In reality, each of his conquests served to quiet, for a while, the implied accusation of his father and his own doubts about himself-doubts which still arose, in spite of all the years and all the beds where he'd proved his maleness.
The doubts continued to live because they were fed by something-a strange urge-which lurked in the shadows of his mind. Though vaguely aware of it, Robert had always refused to look at it squarely or to attempt to identify it in any way Whenever it had made itself known, he had pushed its dark mass further back, beyond the limit of consciousness.
He was aware, however, that men frequently aroused a peculiar reaction in him. Certain men, particularly. Men like Greg Warner. There was always the feeling that he might slip and do something that he didn't want to do.
As a result, he hated men. Particularly he hated Greg.
After he'd finished his dinner, Robert Phillips went to a little bar at the edge of town. Rarely did anyone he knew stop in there. It wasn't a very good place, really. The liquor was cheap and the atmosphere shoddy.
But there were always women around.
When he didn't have any better prospects, it was a convenient place to go.
He found what he wanted that night, and in due course the two of them ended up in a motel.
It was a little after midnight when Robert returned to his wife, found her asleep, and slipped into bed beside her.
CHAPTER SEVEN
This witness," Terry said, staring at Robert through the smoke from her cigarette. "Is she someone a jury will believe?"
"Her name's Esther Fant and she's a year older than Greta. That's all I know about her," Robert said. "Naturally, I haven't been able to interview her. The prosecution will keep her under wraps until the trial; we can be sure of that."
"But she did see Greg," Terry said, seeking definite confirmation. "There isn't any doubt about her identification of him?"
"So the District Attorney says."
Terry shut her eyes for a moment, as if she were wishing that reality would go away.
Robert stared at her. God, but she's a fascinating woman! No wonder she made every man's tongue hang out whenever she was around.
Robert had insisted that Greg bring her with him to the conference. But it was still problematical as to what, if any, good it would do. As well as Robert knew her, and as close as they were now, with him handling her husband's case, she still seemed unattainable.
He had to have her, though. He damned well had to!
He looked at her sleek crossed legs, the smoothly rounded knees with the suggestion of dimples in them, the merest glimpse of black lace below the hem of her stylishly short skirt. What a glamour boat she was!
Robert's gaze shifted to Greg who was slouched in the chair beside his wife's. He wore a dark shirt, open at the collar, an expensive nubby-textured sport jacket, and plain slacks. His face betrayed the anguish which he'd been trying to hide but couldn't. Like a cork pushed into water, it kept coming to the surface. He had said very little, apparently realizing that words one way or another, wouldn't help. Terry had done most of the talking.
Robert sat, suave and impassive, behind his desk. A cigarette was burning in the ash tray near his right hand, its smoke curling lazily upward.
"Our hope, as I've told Greg," the lawyer said, "is to implant enough doubt in the jury's minds so that at least one of them will be unwilling to turn in a verdict of guilty. Greg will take the stand and deny everything, of course. We'll have to work out a story to cover his whereabouts that night. Most of our case will be in the form of character witnesses. Greg has an excellent reputation in Cole County and well call some important people to bear that out."
"But what chance will Greg really have," his wife asked, "if the witness tells what she saw, and if Greta Hoefer testifies the people from the ranch house and the doctor who examined her?"
Robert lifted a restraining hand. "I know. We have a lot to overcome."
Terry sighed and looked down.
"If I only knew what was behind all this," Robert said, looking from Terry to her husband. "There has to be a reason for the Hoefer girl's actions."
"Reason!" Terry snapped suddenly. "She's a filthy little witch! She has no reason for anything!" The words had seemed to gush from her.
Robert's eyes narrowed. "You know her quite well, do you?"
"What?" Terry caught herself and her expression changed. She forced a smile. "I don't know her at all, really. I'm just imagining the sort of person she must be."
Robert continued to watch the lush brunette. "If there's anything at all that you can tell me about her, anything that might help...."
"I said I don't know her," Terry replied defensively. "But it's obvious that she's a tramp."
He looked at Greg. "Have you been able to think of any explanation for what she's done?"
"None," he said, moving his head from side to side, his eyes downcast, "Well, we'll have to get together on a story to explain where you were the other night. But there's time for that. At this point it's better to wait and see how the prosecution's case develops. I'll keep in touch with Ed Romero, the deputy D. A."
"There's nothing else we need to discuss, then?" Terry asked.
"Not at the moment." Robert squinted. "Unless you can think of something else you want to tell me."
Terry's remark about the Hoefer girl had set him off. He'd had too much experience cross-examining witnesses for him to let it pass. It wasn't so much what she had said that had impressed him, as the vehemence behind her words. He wondered what it had meant.
"You're the one who's going to have to come up with the ideas, Bob," Terry remarked.
He smiled wanly. "Well, don't be discouraged. I've won tougher cases than this." He paused. "But I have to have the full confidence of my clients. That's basic A lawyer can't do very much without it."
His eyes held Terry's for several moments before she looked down.
By evening, Robert had talked himself into the notion that Terry Warner did indeed know something about the Hoefer girl which she hadn't chosen to reveal. It was, to some extent, an intuitive feeling. Intuition had often served him well in his legal practice.
He had no idea what Terry was holding back, but he suspected it had to do with a pre-existing relationship, between Greg and the young girl, one which Greg had confessed to Terry but had been reluctant to tell him about.
Perhaps Greg had been carrying on an affair with the Hoefer girl, had tried to end it, and this had sparked her revenge plot. It was understandable that Greg might not want such a thing to be known, even to his lawyer. Terry could have wormed the truth out of him, though. Robert gave her credit for being a clever and resourceful woman.
He decided to have a talk with her alone, in the hope he could convince her to confide in him if Greg was not present.
Since Robert had been looking for an excuse to get closer to Terry, it would have been difficult to say which was the stronger motivation-this desire or his theory about what Terry might know and his eagerness to make use of the concealed information in some way, if possible, to upset the case against Greg.
He phoned the Warner house from his own home, placing the call at an hour when he was pretty sure Greg would be at one of his restaurants. He was right, Terry was home alone. Though faintly reluctant, she agreed to his suggestion that he come over for a talk.
She said, "Naturally, if a chat between us will help Greg's case in any way, come on over, Bob, by all means."
Robert arrived twenty minutes later.
When she met him, Terry was wearing stretch pants of moss green with a bulky gold-and-white pullover. The bulkiness of the top didn't disguise the fullness of her breasts, however, and what the skin-tight pants did for her hips completely defied description. As she walked ahead of him into the living room, Robert kept his eyes on the undulating tremble of her beautiful rear and reaffirmed his conviction that here indeed was a woman he had to possess. She was superb, the ultimate female challenge.
She sat down and offered him a cigarette. He lit one for each of them.
"Has something new come up?" she asked. "Is that why you wanted to see me?"
"Not exactly," he said, his eyes shining in the glow of a crackling log fire. He let his eyes dance over her. "There was that remark you made this afternoon, the one about Greta Hoefer."
"Oh. for heaven's sake, Bob! Will you quit trying to read something into that? It didn't mean a thing. I don't know the girl. I don't know a blessed thing about her. It was just an impression I had."
He watched her, smoked quietly, and didn't say anything.
"What is it you think I can tell you, anyway?" she asked. Something about the way Terry looked right then reinforced Robert's suspicion.
"If I knew what it was, I wouldn't be here. The point is that there's a lot more to this case than meets the eye. More than Greg and you have told me. There has to be."
"Bob, for God's sake .. "
"Surely you know how serious the situation is, Terry," he said. "I'm certain I don't have to belabor that point. Right now things look damned had. If there's anything you're holding back, anything at all, you owe it to Greg to tell me what it is. You ought to do it even if he's told you not to."
"If he's told me not to?" she echoed.
"Well, even if it's something you only suspect, whatever it is, I ought to know."
"Bob, this is absurd!" As far as her expression at that moment was concerned, he might have been on the wrong track altogether.
He studied her. What lush legs! He imagined the satisfaction he'd derive from possessing her.
He took a new tack: "How have you and Greg been hitting it off lately, Terry? I don't mean just since this thing blew up, but right along."
She smiled. "What a thing to ask."
"Let's not kid around with one another," Robert said. "Tell me, hm?"
"Greg and I are getting along fine, just as we always have."
"Really? Nothing has come up on either side that has threatened your marriage in any way?"
"Absolutely not."
"How do you feel about this incident between Greg and Greta?"
"I don't blame him," she said quickly. "I know how such a thing can happen."
"You believe his story?"
"Of course."
Robert stared at the glowing end of his cigarette.
"What are you fishing for, Bob? You've got my curiosity up."
He looked at her and their eyes held. There was a magnetism about this woman. "I just want to understand how things are, that's all."
"Well, things are all right. Greg and I are very much in love."
"That's the impression I always had," Robert admitted. "But it's difficult for an outsider, even a good friend, to be sure."
"I still would like to know what you're getting at," Terry said with soft persuasiveness. "Talking about leveling with one another, why don't you level with me?"
Robert looked at her deeply. "Are you sure you want me to?"
"Yes."
"Well, then, maybe my questions about you and Greg had a personal motivation on my part."
She arched an eyebrow slightly.
"Maybe I asked what I did because I was wondering if I might stand a chance with you."
"Bob," she said. She smiled very slightly, but her expression and tone of voice reflected surprise.
"Okay. So I'm out of line. Go ahead and tell me off."
"I wouldn't do that," she said softly. "Why not?"
"Because I like you, Bob. I like you very much.
And right now everything depends on you, as far as I'm concerned. I'm counting on you to save Greg from this awful charge."
Robert took hope. She appreciated the importance of his position, at least. And it had sounded as if she was implying that she might give in to him. But, on the other hand, maybe he'd read something into her words that wasn't there, or else she was trying to string him along. A witch like her could make men dance like pup pets.
He decided to press: "There's a way that you could give me a special incentive. You could make me work like hell for Greg, and for you."
"Now, Bob...." She wasn't angry. Her attitude seemed distinctly flirtatious.
He was encouraged to make the pitch: "Terry, I'm mad about you. I want you very much. I always have, H only you could...."
"I love my husband, Bob," she said softly. "I've told you that."
"But isn't there a chance? I mean .." He felt like a fool, blurting and blundering this way. He'd lunged ahead too fast. Where was the smooth womanizing touch he'd cultivated through the years? Terry had knocked it all out of him. The mere thought of possessing her had been too heady, had excited him too much.
"I said I like you, Bob. I really do. If it wasn't that Greg and I are so much in love...."
"Sure."
"I'm not angry with you for saying what yon did," she went on. "As a matter-of-fact, I'm flattered by it In a way I wish that...." She let the sentence die.
Robert was encouraged again. Then he became angry with himself. Hell, she was yanking him up and down as if he really were a puppet. He didn't renew his play. There was a matter of pride.
"Well, I'm sorry that I bothered you," he said. "I suppose, if the truth were known, I just wanted to see you. I guess that's the only reason I had for coming over."
"It's a nice reason." She smiled.
They stood up and walked across the living room, "Feel free to drop in any time, you know," Terry said.
Robert looked at her sharply. Had she really meant that as the sort of invitation it seemed to be?
She touched his arm. "Do everything you can for Greg, please."
"You know I will."
"Good night, Bob."
"Good night."
Terry turned her back to the closed door, pressed against it, and smiled.
That dirty man! She thought. He wants me like crazy and he was hoping to use the jam that Greg's in as a means to get me. He's a schemer. A slimy schemer. She laughed out loud because it gave her a vicarious thrill to know she was so strongly desired, even by such a mediocre man as Bob Phillips.
Had it not been for her confidence that she held the power to save her husband by merely going to Greta and resuming the relationship they'd had, Terry would have been angered by Bob Phillips' tactics. As it was, they mildly excited and amused her.
But it would be a frigid day in Hell, she thought, when she would give herself to the likes of him. Some women might find him charming, but she didn't. Not in the least. She liked rugged men. Men who were all male. If she was going to go the other way, she'd go the whole route with a minx like Greta.
As she strolled across the living room, Terry thought of the young girl and the way they'd been together.
She thought of the night a couple of nights ago, the night that had brought on the trouble in which she and her husband now found temselves.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Greta had not been Terry Warner's first adventure in the realm of Lesbos, but there had been quite an interval which had elapsed since the preceding one. And, of course, Terry had never been with a girl who was so young.
Therein lay the thrill-and challenge-of Greta. How would a young girl react, Terry had wondered. Terry's earlier experience had been with old hands at the game.
When she'd first begun to entertain a notion concerning Greta, she'd had no idea that the seventeen-year-old was experienced along that line. At first, Terry bad elected to feel her out gently.
A casual touch.
A few soft words.
A fleeting revelation of her body.
She wanted to get Greta's reactions to these.
She had. Oh, how Greta had reacted! She'd reacted like a pool of gasoline reacts to a match.
And then there was no stopping either of them.
That had happened in Terry's home on an evening much like the present one. Greg had been away, as he frequently was, on business.
Terry didn't object to this. Actually she liked it because it gave her the freedom she wanted. Greg understood how, on such evenings, she would find it preferable to run over to Riverside and visit her halfsister Clara rather than sit at home alone. Greg was very tolerant. He trusted her.
But on this occasion with Greta, Terry had remained at home.
It was a little after eight o'clock when the door chimes had sounded and Terry opened the door to find Greta standing there.
"Oh," the younger girl said as she looked at Terry. She didn't smile. "Mrs. Warner, is your husband at home?"
"Not at the moment." Terry did smile as she looked Greta over.
Terry had considered the teen-ager as a possible love partner off and on since Terry had first met her. It was Terry's habit to think about nearly everyone male or female-in that light, though not seriously in most cases. Usually she only teased herself with the notion, wondering how the person in question would react to her, titillating herself with the possibilities. She was too discreet, and discriminating, to make a move toward most of them.
But with Greta, Terry had half-decided it would be worth it, if it could be managed safely.
"Can I help in any way?" Terry asked as Greta stood in the doorway. The young girl seemed uncertain as to whether she should stay or leave.
"Well, I don't think so. I mean, Mr. Warner told me once that if I ever wanted a job in one of his restaurants, he'd consider me. And well, I finished school a couple of weeks ago and...."
"You did, Greta?" Terry responded. "How about that! Congratulations! Come on in. Let's chat for a little while, why don't we?"
Greta smiled then, shyly.
The girl had a wistful manner that stimulated Terry. She was somewhat withdrawn and yet Terry had the impression that she was capable of being ignited into passionate fire, given the right treatment. Of course, Terry had no idea whether Greta would react that way to another girl. But it would be worth finding out. Greta was so young....
Greta wore lean gray pants and a bulky loose-fitting jacket with a hood that was thrown back. She entered the house and looked around casually as she preceded Terry to the living room. She began to open her coat.
"Here," Terry said, touching her at the shoulders, "I'll take that."
Under the jacket, Greta wore a black sweater. It showed that she had curves, though they weren't start ling in size. Well, Terry didn't care much for big-breasted women. She preferred the slimmer, more willowy sort.
From a physical standpoint, she wasn't really attracted to females, as such, at all. But it gave her a kick when females were attracted to her. And when another girl began ministering to Terry's body, Terry reacted to that.
Terry happened to be wearing a rather fancy apricot-colored dress with a wide skirt and a saucy bow at the front. It had a deep vee-shaped neckline which showed the tops and inner slopes of her voluptuous breasts. She'd felt like dressing up that night. It had been a whim. She liked to dress in different ways from day to day and evening to evening. She enjoyed admiring herself in mirrors about the house, especially when she was there alone.
Terry took a chair opposite the sofa where Greta was. The older girl crossed her nylon-sheathed legs.
"How nice you look," Greta said. Though she smiled slightly, there was an underlying seriousness about the remark which impressed Terry. Somehow it seemed like more than just a casual compliment.
"Thanks," Terry smiled back. "I don't know why I'm all dressed up, with stockings and the whole bit. I knew Greg would have to work tonight and that we wouldn't be going out."
"Girls look good with stockings on," Greta remarked. "I'd wear them more often myself, but they make me self-conscious. So I slop around in pants most of the time."
"I like pants, too," Terry said, watching Greta and continuing to wonder.
She decided to be a little bold. After all, they were there alone and they were both girls. It was innocent enough, if one chose to interpret it that way.
"Speaking of pan's." Terry said "the under kind, I mean, I've got on a pair of cute ones. I picked them up at La Femme the other day. I mean, they're kind of wild. Would you like to see?"
She thought she saw something happen around Greta's eyes, but Terry couldn't be sure about it. All the younger girl said was, "Yes. I'd like to."
Terry stood up, grasped the wide hem of her apricot dress, and pulled it up, along with her white bouffant petticoat. Her tapering legs were sheathed in very sheer nylons held up by white garter straps which crossed smooth flesh. Above, they disappeared beneath cute panties of white lace with an intricate and imaginative pink rose applique at the sides and front.
"How do you like them?" Terry asked.
She needn't have asked. It had only been necessary to glimpse Greta's features to know that she was fascinated. Of course, there was room for doubt as to whether it had been the panties which had stimulated Greta's intense interest.
Terry hoped that it hadn't been the panties. She hoped it had been something else.
"Pretty," Greta said.
Terry walked in a half-circle in front of the slim young girl, holding her dress and petticoat high and letting Greta see the panties. Terry's perfectly shaped buttocks twisted gracefully, molding and stretching the sheer fabric.
Then she dropped her outer clothes. "Show's over," she announced gaily.
A fire had been kindled in Greta's normally wistful eyes. "You have such pretty things!" she said with feeling.
Now, that was interesting, Terry thought. If by things Greta had meant articles of clothing, then the emotion in her voice could have been envy. If, on the other hand, she had meant something else, the emotion could have been desire.
Terry sat down beside her on the couch. Would you like a drink, Greta?" She smiled in a conspiratorial way and measured air with her thumb and finger. "A little one?"
"Oh, I don't believe I'd better."
"It wouldn't hurt, really. Let's see, you're almost eighteen, aren't you?"
"Yes," Greta said. "I'll be eighteen in another four months."
"So?" Terry made a negligent gesture. When the girl continued to show reluctance, Terry suggested, "Maybe a glass of sherry, then. There couldn't be anything wrong with that."
"I've had sherry," the girl told her. "Whiskey and gin, too. I don't care for any of them."
"Oh," Terry was taken aback by Greta's sudden frankness. It had seemed out of character for the younger girl. Terry began to appreciate more and more that Greta was indeed an interesting subject for exploration.
Greta looked at Terry intently. "I can see why your husband adores you. You're lovely."
Terry's spirits leaped. "Do you really think so?"
Her soft hand came to rest on top of Greta's.
The two-girls looked at one another, each of them seeking an expression in the other's eyes. Terry thought she saw what she wanted to see and was exhilarated by it.
Judging by what Greta next said, the younger girl had no doubt about the message which she had read: "I've made love with a woman, you know. I liked that. I'd like to make love with you."
Greta's sudden revelation about herself and her frank expression of desire for Terry left the older girl speechless for a moment. Then she said, "You're so young. I was afraid to hope...."
"I learned a lot at school," Greta replied blithely, apparently very sure of herself now "Miss Jenkins, my gym teacher, was that way."
"My dear...." Terry breathed, excitement coursing within her
"You've done that, haven't you?" Greta asked seriously, her eyes locked warmy with Terry's.
"Yes," Terry said, joy singing through her body. "And I liked that, too."
Greta smiled in the anticipation of pleasure. "Would you like to try with me?"
"I'd love to, darling," Terry said. She hesitated.
"One condition, though: It will be you who will love me.
"All right." Greta hesitated, a slight cloud on her features. "But that's more fun when each takes the lead."
Terry smiled. "You'll have to be the leader."
"I will, for you," the teen-ager replied fervently. "I want to for you."
"Then why don't you undress me?"
"I will. Just let me get my own things off first."
Terry agreed and sat back in happy expectation.
She derived no particular thrill as Greta divested herself of her sweater and brassiere, then arose to shuck down her outer pants and the plain panties beneath them. Greta had a good body-lithe and smooth and very youthful in form-but female bodies did not stimulate Terry.
When Greta began to remove Terry's clothes, however, the older girl felt an immediate surge of excitement. The excitement heightened as she noted the subtle changes which took place on Greta's face.
Terry let Greta do that all, remaining seated as the younger girl ungartered and drew down her hose, with fingertips trailing along Terry's satin-smooth legs. When Greta had completed this part of the operation, she bent impetuously and planted a kiss to one of Terry's legs.
"Do you like that?" Terry asked.
"Mmm " Greta said, still kissing.
Terry glowed inwardly. Oh, it had been a long time since she'd had such a sweet sharp thrill as this!
In due course, Terry stood and merely moved her arms to the proper position so that Greta could lift her apricot-colored dress up and away. Then Greta took her white petticoat down and Terry stepped from it.
She was clad now in only the basics, though frilly basics they were.
Greta reached for the elastic of Terry's cobwebby pants.
"No," Terry said, restraining her with cool fingers. "The bra first."
Greta didn't argue. It was evident that she wanted to get the stripping of Terry taken care of as quickly as possible, and she wasn't much concerned with the order in which she removed the various articles of finery, so long as they all came off.
Terry, on the other hand, wanted to enjoy Greta's reaction to the baring of her breasts. Terry was afraid that if her pants came off before her brassiere, the revelation of her bosom would be anticlimactic.
So, as requested, Greta reached and deftly separated Terry's bra hooks, then peeled the cups away.
The soft white flesh of Terry's breasts quivered, her rosy nipples already tautened by excitement. Terry could feel her excitement grow before the naked warmth of Greta's eyes.
Greta's wide lips parted a bit, then closed. She stared at the twins which stood tip-tilted before her.
"Go ahead," Terry smiled. "Don't be afraid."
The younger girl reached out, at first tentatively and then with urgency. Her slender fingers went around each of Terry's breasts, lifting and shaping them.
As she started to bend toward them Terry restrained her. "There'll be lots of time," she said huskily. "Finish undressing me first."
And so Greta slipped down Terry's lace-flowered panties, bending to help Terry step out of them. Terry's garter-belt was the last garment to come off.
"You're beautiful!" Greta said with obvious passion. "The most beautiful person I've ever seen."
"Do you really think so?" Terry asked as Greta fell to her knees on the carpet.
"Oh, yes, yes ... umm "
"Tell me more, sweet," Terry said ecstatically.
Greta told her, silently, as she clutched Terry tightly. Terry went slightly out of her mind with delight. Oh, the young ones were the most passionate, all right! There was sure as hell no doubt about that!
A few minutes later, Terry and Greta were in the master bedroom on the king-sized bed. True to the condition she had established at the very outset, Terry played a passive role. That was all she ever did with women. But Greta was putting on more than enough passionate activity for two.
Greta was remarkably skilled as well as passionate, Terry discovered. That gym teacher had taught her everything, and Greta had obviously been an eager pupil.
They remained on the bed for the better part of two hours, each of them rising to height after passionate height. The time finally came when Greta begged Terry to return the favor, but Terry wouldn't relent.
"Loving me is all you need, angel," Terry said. "You've proved that."
"Yes, but the other is so...." And then the mere thought made Greta bend to her task once more. Terry lay there, clenching her hands and thrilling to everything.
But here again, as with the others who'd made love to her-both male and female-the larger part of Terry's pleasure came from the realization that she was driving her partner wild rather than from what the love partner was doing for her.
Terry, if the truth were known, had experienced only one love affair throughout her life. It dated back to her earliest recollection and had remained constant ever since; Terry's love for herself.
When Terry and Greta said good night, it was with the understanding that they would meet again the following evening. Greta had insisted and Terry hadn't wanted to have an unpleasant scene.
Terry had no intention of keeping the date, however.
The next morning, she called the younger girl and told her so.
Greta called back, pleading and in tears, but Terry patiently explained that, as good as their experience had been, they could not repeat it. It would not be safe and it would not be right, Terry said. When Greta refused to accept this, Terry simply bid her good bye and hung up.
The next evening Greta appeared at Terry's house. But Greg happened to be home at the time, so the younger girl was forced to talk about going to work in one of his restaurants while her eyes continually came back to Terry and gazed at her with passionate longing. If Greg thought there was anything peculiar about this, or if he even noticed it at all, he didn't let on. Greta didn't commit herself about taking the job.
The following morning when she phoned, Terry curtly instructed her not to call again.
That was when Greta made her threat: "If yon don't see me, I'll make you sorry! I'll make you the sorriest witch in the world!"
Again Terry hung up on her.
If she'd had any idea to what lengths Greta would go, Terry would have handled the matter more diplo to repair die damage that had been done It seemed to be the only hope that she and Greg had.
CHAPTER NINE
Robert had his hands at Carol's breasts when the door buzzer sounded in their house the next morning.
He hadn't loved his wife the night before. Though he'd been full of desire when he arrived home from Terry Warner's place, he'd also been angry with himself for having acted like a fool. He barely spoke to his wife and went to bed early, alone.
Upon awakening in the morning, desire was very much with him while the humiliation of the previous evening had receded to the background of his mind. So he reached for his wife and awakened her.
Then the door buzzer sounded.
Robert cursed.
"Who could that be?" Carol wondered lazily.
"How the hell should I know?" her husband replied. "Maybe they'll go away." He resumed caressing his wife.
"That's good," she told him, and the expression on her face confirmed it.
Robert always managed to excite her, but the excitement was almost invariably followed by a letdown.
The door buzzer sounded again and Robert called it a vile name. Carol flinched inwardly. She didn't like to hear such words when she was sober.
Robert got up, found slippers, and put on his robe. He shuffled through the house.
Greg Warner stood there, unshaven and red-eyed. "Let me come in, huh, Bob? I've got to talk with you."
Irritated, but taking care not to show it, Robert opened the door.
"I'm sorry as hell to barge in on you this way, but I haven't slept all night and...."
Carol appeared in the hall doorway, a pink robe wrapped around her and her golden hair falling loose about her shoulders. She was usually an exciting vision first thing in the morning, provided she hadn't been too drunk when she'd gone to bed the night before. She was one of those rare women who wore the just-out-of-bed look well.
Greg forced a smile, but it turned out to be a pitiful effort. "Hi, Carol. I was just telling Bob how sorry I was to barge in this way."
Carol smiled back, warmly. She'd always liked Greg. Now, particularly, her heart went out to him. She'd heard about his trouble from a friend at the supermarket and had picked up more information from the local paper. She'd made Bob fill her in on the rest, though he hadn't, Robert respected the lawyer-client relationship. He had not, of course, revealed the fact of Greg's guilt. And that applied even as against his own wife. Anyway, he and Carol were not that close.
He gestured to a chair. "Sit down, Greg. Had your coffee?"
"I've been up all night but I haven't had a drink of coffee or anything else. I've been walking most of the time."
"I'll get some coffee going right away," Carol said, moving to the kitchen.
"Bob, you've got to come up with something," Greg said urgently. "This damned thing is getting to me. You've got to find out what made the Hoefer girl do what she did and, see if you can settle it." He paused, watching Robert closely. "If we could satisfy her somehow, the D. A. would drop the prosecution, wouldn't he?"
"I'm afraid it isn't quite that simple," Robert said, packing an open pack of cigarettes from an end table. He took one and held the pack out to Greg who shook his head. "It's the District Attorney's job to prosecute when there's a reason to believe that a felony has been committed, and that applies whether there are cooperative witness or not. From a practical standpoint, though, it would be pretty difficult for him to make a case if Greta and her girl friend-the one who saw you two in the car-didn't play ball. If her girl friend said she wasn't sure who she saw in the Buick and wasn't sore if the car was yours or not ... that, along with your denial that you were with Greta, might very well win the case for us even in the face of Greta's charges, especially if her reputation should turn out to be not too clean. I'm going to go to work on that angle."
"You've got to get to her Bob. "You've got to find out what's behind this thing."
"That's what I was trying to do when you and Terry were in the office yesterday. Good Lord, Greg, you're the one who ought to know if Greta Hoefer had any reason to frame you."
"I swear I don't!" he said vehemently. "I don't have the slightest notion in the world."
"You're really leveling with me?"
"So help me!"
The men gazed at one another for several moments, and Robert became convinced.
"There has to be an explanation," he said helplessly.
"Maybe I was right in the first place," Greg replied. "Maybe she's just a nut."
"You know her," Robert said. "Do you think that's the answer?"
Greg looked at his attorney for several moments. "No. No, I don't."
Terry, Robert thought as he drew deeply on his cigarette. Terry must be the key. I still think she knows something. Perhaps it's something that Greg doesn't know. But how could that be, unless Terry was some how personally involved with Greta, and in a way she hasn't revealed to her husband?
Greg was saying something, his head bowed as lie mumbled Robert didn't hear him. His thoughts were racing ahead:
Perhaps Greta was really after revenge against Terry and not against Greg at all Fantastic? Maybe not Maybe, if Greta hated men, and ii she and Terry were....
Robert asked, "Is Greta a kook of any kind? What sort of person is she?"
Greg looked at him for a moment, trying to fathom what his friend was driving at. "She's just a kid. I always thought she was ... oh, maybe a little funny. But that's because of our difference in ages, I suppose."
"How do you mean funny?" Robert asked.
Greg gestured with an open hand. "I don't know. She was always a little hard to figure out. As if she was holding something back. You know what I mean. Some people are like that. But kids seem like that to older people all the time."
"Do you know her well enough to know if she goes out with boys?
"What seventeen-year-old girl doesn't?" was Greg's answer. "Anyhow, if you'd seen the way that little chippy went after me in the car...."
"That wouldn't necessarily mean anything," Robert said. "It could have been an act."
"Are you trying to say you think she might be perverted?" Greg seemed incredulous.
"I don't know. What she's doing to you certainly suggests hatred. It's possible that the hatred goes farther than just you personally. She might hate men in general."
"That's pretty wild, isn't it?"
"All right," Robert said. "You come up with a better explanation." He drew on his cigarette again.
Carol appeared with a coffee service and three cups on a tray. She set the tray on the small table in. front of the sofa where Greg and her husband were seated.
Greg smiled up at her "Thanks, Carol."
Carol sat down beside them and told Greg, "I want you to know how sorry I am about all that's happened. It's a terrible thing."
Greg murmured his thanks again. As his eyes held Carol's, he saw something in hers that he hadn't noticed before. She's a damned sweet kid, he thought. Bob's a lucky man.
Robert didn't notice the look that passed between them as he poured the coffee.
"I'll take mine back to the kitchen," Carol said, "if you men want to talk alone."
"No need for that," Greg told her. "My story's all over town. Anyway, I've got nothing to hide." As he said it, he hoped Bob hadn't told Carol all the truth.
There was nothing more of substance to be said about the case, anyway. As the conversation resumed, Greg tried to be pleasant, chatting quietly with Carol.
For his part, Robert said little. His mind was busily toying with the new theory he had, the notion that perhaps Terry Warner was more intimately involved in the case than he had at first thought.
He'd never had any cause to think that Terry might be strange in any way. But, then, it was reasonable to expect such things to be hidden. He was not so naive as to believe that the aberrations of people were necessarily revealed on their faces.
Terry had expressed considerable bitterness toward Greta in what had seemed to be an unguarded outburst in his Office the preceding day. If Terry hadn't been personally involved in some way, she would have been more confused than bitter, wouldn't she? Look at Greg: He didn't seem as bitter toward Greta as his wife was.
But if Robert's guess about Terry and Greta was correct, how was he going to get the truth out of Terry?
It was turning out to be a knotty case indeed.
Terry Warner was beside herself with anxiety over her husband's failure to come home the night before. She had called several persons early that morning but had learned nothing of Greg's whereabouts. Now she was pacing the house, clad only in a negligee. She had smoked one cigarette after another.
Could it be that Greg had run out? she wondered desperately. If that had happened, she didn't know what she would do.
Finally, at about eight o'clock, the telephone rang. She rushed to answer it.
"Darling, it's me," Greg said softly.
Terry sank into a chair. "Where have you been? I've been out of my mind."
"I was driving, and then I walked the streets. I'm at Bob's house now. I'll be home in a little bit." Her husband's tone seemed almost lifeless. She'd never heard him sound just that way before.
"Come home right away, darling," she murmured. "Please."
"Very soon," he said. "Don't worry." Then, without another word, he hung up.
Terry sat and stared at the phone. He might do something desperate, she thought. He can't face up to this alone. I've got to help him.
She raised the telephone and dialed Information to ask for the Hoefers' number.
Greta's mother had left for her office about an hour ago. and Greta had then immediately phoned her girl friend, the one who was to testify against Greg. Esther Fant had come right over.
Esther was a plump drab-faced girl of eighteen who had proved receptive to the overtures which Greta had made to her following the breakup of Greta's affair with the gym teacher. Esther was not a Terry Warner, by any means. She was, in fact, a miserable substitute. But Greta had been in need and Esther had proved available.
Now the two girls were established on Greta's rumpled bed, their clothes off and their hands busily demonstrating the passionate attachment which they had for one another.
The telephone rang and Greta lifted her head.
"Let the damned thing go," Esther said.
"I can't do that," Greta told her. "Maybe it's Mother. She knows I'm home."
"Oh, all right."
Greta got up and answered the extension on her desk
"Greta? This is Terry." Terry.
A shock of surprise sped through Greta's body, followed by a passionate thrill. This, in turn, was followed by anger.
"What do you want?" Greta demanded.
Terry's soft laugh sent a wild sensation across Greta's naked flesh. "I want to see you." the older girl whispered. "Can I come over this afternoon?"
It would be wonderful, Greta thought. But then: No. She's only trying to protect that animal of a husband. I won't let her control me this way. She had her chance. Now I'm calling the tune. I'm going to make her suffer. Her and that precious man of hers....
Greta took a firm hold on herself. "I don't want to see yon, Terry. It's too late."
There was stunned silence on Terry's end of the line. She recovered: "You don't mean that. You know you don't, baby."
"Don't I!" Greta responded with bitterness.
Terry hesitated again. When she spoke, her tone had changed. Hardness had come into it: "Look, this charge against Greg. I should hate you for that. But I understand. Let's talk about it, huh?"
"There's nothing to talk about," Greta said. She was still speaking calmly, while conflicting emotions played havoc inside her.
"You mean you intend to go through with this monstrous thing?" Terry demanded.
"Your darling husband did exactly what I said he did. I haven't made anything up."
"But you threw yourself at him. Greg would never have done that otherwise."
"How do you know?" Greta shot back. "How can you be so damned sure? You think you're so good that no guy-or girl, either-can resist you or could pos sibly choose anyone else when you're around and willing. Well, just let me tell you, honey: you're not all that good!"
"You little tramp," Terry said with quiet loathing.
"Maybe I am," Greta replied, "but you're a bigger one. The last time I called you, you told me never to call again. Well, now I'm handing that right back to you, sister. So remember it, you." Greta ended the conversation in a burst of obscenity and slammed the phone down
"Well," Esther remarked indolently from the bed where she was stretched out. "You really told her, that's for sure."
"Shut up," Greta snarled as she padded back across the room.
"You still go for her, don't you?" Esther asked.
Esther's fat breasts blobbed against the mattress as she lay on her side, her body propped on an elbow. In Greta's eyes, the other girl left much to be desired. Greta couldn't stop thinking of Terry.
There was one thing about Esther, though-one thing that recommended her above Terry-and Greta decided to take full advantage of that quality right now.
She stretched out on her back "Come on," she told the other girl. "Just you, this time."
"Sure, Greta," Esther said.
CHAPTER TEN
The meeting of Robert Phillips and Terry Warner occurred some days later.
Robert called the Warner house right after lunch, assuming that exhaustion had most likely put Greg to sleep by that time. The assumption proved correct. Terry answered the phone and agreed to come right down to Robert's office.
She had been thinking about it, anyway.
She hadn't wanted to tell Bob about herself and Greta-she hadn't wanted to tell anyone-but now she seemed to have no choice. It was either that or she would lose Greg, one way or the other. She was on the edge of desperation.
No one would have suspected this to look at her, however. Her features were composed and her grooming was perfect as usual.
She dressed to the hilt, selecting a two-piece red outfit of wool jersey that fit her in a thoroughly exciting way This she topped off with mink Her stockings were the sheerest and her heels the highest she owned.
This meeting with Bob would be an important one. Her entire future might depend upon it for she had to make certain that, although she revealed herself fully to him, he didn't pass on to anyone else what he knew.
Her reasoning, in deciding she should tell him about herself and Greta, was based on the belief that if Bob were to get in touch with the young girl and let her think that Terry was prepared to "tell all" in court, Greta would back down rather than to have her reputation ruined. If Terry herself were to make the threat, she was afraid Greta would think she was bluffing. Anyway, Terry didn't want to risk a further rebuff from her.
It would be better to tell Bob.
She'd convinced herself that it would be safe because, first of all, Bob was a lawyer and lawyers were used to keeping secrets. Secondly, she was prepared to tender him an added incentive. She knew how much he wanted her. He had made that clear the night before.
She arrived at his outer office at about two-thirty and he received her right away.
As soon as she was seated beside his desk, she crossed her legs alluringly. She smiled and said, "First you tell me why you wanted me to come down. Then I've got something to tell you."
"Ladies first," he replied with a little wave.
"No, I don't think so. You tell me."
He looked at her long and longingly. God, but she's a rare prize, he thought. I have to have her.
Suddenly the suspicion he'd been entertaining about Terry and Greta seemed absurd. This woman couldn't be a Lesbian. The notion was ridiculous.
He cleared his throat. How to begin? How could he go about prying the truth-whatever it was-from her? He was still convinced she knew more than she'd revealed.
"There's something about Greg's case," he said, "that really puzzles me, as I told you yesterday. There has to be a motive for Greta's conduct, but I haven't come onto one. I'm convinced Greg doesn't know what it is."
When he looked at Terry, he caught the wise glitter in her eyes. I'm moving in the right direction, he thought.
He pressed on: "If Greg doesn't know, I can't get away from the idea that you must. Terry, this damned thing is too serious to take chances with. Greg's going to be convicted, sure as the devil, unless I come up with the answer and pretty fast."
"All right." She smiled vaguely. "As a matter-of-fact, that was what I wanted to talk with you about."
Robert's eyes narrowed as he waited.
"May I have a cigarette?"
"I'm sorry." He opened the humidor on his desk and offered her a cigarette.
She selected one and Robert lit it for her.
"This is very difficult, Bob. It's something that a woman would ordinarily tell to no one but her priest."
"Lawyers can be trusted, too," he said.
"I'm going to tell you," she went on, "because I've decided that I must. But if this ever gets back to Greg, or to anyone else, for that matter...."
"Don't worry." Robert said.
So Terry told him, her eyes holding his as she spoke firmly.
When she'd finished, he sat back, continuing to stare at her.
"I'm not a freak, Bob-I'm really not," she said. "It was just a crazy kick."
She hadn't, of course, told him that she'd dabbled in Lesbianism before.
Robert didn't let on that he'd suspected the truth because actually he'd come to disbelieve the hunch. It had seemed too outlandish. Anyway, he wouldn't have wanted her to think that he saw her in that light.
"The reason I told you," she said, "is so that you can get in touch with Greta. If you can convince her I'm prepared to reveal all this in court, I think shell back down."
"Revealing it in court wouldn't help Greg," Robert said. "Convincing the jury that Greta was after revenge that night wouldn't constitute a defense. When a girl is underage, it doesn't matter what the circumstances are."
"I understand that," Terry said. "But I don't think Greta would risk letting the truth come out. After all, she wouldn't know but what it might help Greg. And there's certainly no question that the truth would ruin her in Cole City."
"It would ruin you, too," Robert replied.
He appreciated the possible bargaining advantage in what Terry had told him, but he was continuing the argument to help him consider the matter from both sides.
"I'll be ruined anyway if Greg's convicted," Terry said. "You'll have to make Greta see that I have nothing to lose by telling everything T know on the witness stand, and that I might have something to gain by doing it."
"I would be unethical for me even to get in touch with her," Robert argued.
Terry stiffened. "Ethics be damned! You want to save Greg, don't you?"
"Of course."
"If I'm willing to risk all I have by bringing this thing with Greta out in the open, you ought to be willing to take a risk, too."
"I didn't say I wouldn't do it," Robert told her.
"You will, then?"
He looked at her closely. "I think we know one another well enough now, so I'm going to be frank with you, as frank as you've been with me."
She shrugged. "Go ahead."
I want you, Terry. I want you right now."
She remained silent for a few moments, measuring the look in his eyes It would be difficult to put him off, she decided. Anyway, she was prepared. She believed that would be the best thing, all the way around.
She smiled. "Right here in the office, you mean?"
"Yes. Here and now."
She looked around the room. "The couch?"
"Why not?"
"Bob!" she scolded playfully. "I had no idea you were like this."
"We've each learned something today," he said.
She crushed out her cigarette and stood up. She was a stunning vision in the clinging red dress, her stole riding low about her shoulders.
Excitement began to grip Robert. This was to be the supreme triumph, having the most desirable woman in town.
The knowledge that she'd had an affair with Greta Hoefer tarnished her image in Robert's mind, but he believed what she'd said about it being just an experiment. He was able to understand how a vital, free-thinking woman would be curious about life on the other side of conventionality's fence. Anyway, it would take more than that to keep him from making the move, considering how long he'd coveted her, and particularly considering that she belonged to Greg.
That last was the sweetest part of all.
Robert stood up.
"Well, Bob, do you want to undress me?" Terry asked.
He felt himself trembling a bit. The anticipation was almost too much. "No," he said. "You do it."
She slipped the mink off her shoulders "You'd better lock the door, don't you think?"
"Yes." He was grateful that she'd thought of that. His own mind was all but paralyzed.
He moved to the door on wooden legs and turned the bolt as quietly as possible, so that his secretary wouldn't hear. When he faced Terry again, she had removed the upper part of her dress.
He stared at the lace cups of her black brassiere and at the round, smooth, cream-colored swells which rose above their rims. Below the bra her skin gleamed, incredibly clear and flat.
Terry quickly worked the zipper at her side and drew her red skirt down. She stepped from it.
"Undressing in a law office seems so out of place," she said as she lay the skirt aside. Her half-slip was black and red and very lacy.
Robert said nothing, but continued to stare at her. Terry stretched prettily as she reached for the hooks of her brassiere. When they were released, the flesh surged forward. She dropped the bra's ribbons from her shoulders, then lifted the cups away. Her breasts shook slightly as the nylon fell from them.
Robert had seen the breasts of many women since the day some twenty years ago when he'd removed the sweater and bra from Betty Denton, but he'd never seen any to equal the lush beauties that now stood before him. They were ripe and thrusting. He knew that they'd be firm but very soft to the touch.
Terry was watching him in apparent mild amusement. Actually she was interested in his reaction, but she didn't relish the prospect of giving herself to him. Too bad that circumstances were forcing it.
She plucked the elastic of her lacy slip and let it down, stepping from it gracefully. "Well?" she asked.
Her panties were red, with fancy black trim. Black garter straps extended from them to her hose. The stockings were hardly more than a smoky sheen on the long tapering legs.
Robert began to tear at his own clothes.
Terry derived a slight thrill from this demonstration of eagerness and from the way he was staring at her. But his look seemed more one of avarice than passionate appreciation.
She sat down, crossed her legs ostentatiously, and began slowly to release her garters.
Now Robert was intent only upon freeing himself from the restrictions of his own clothing. He kicked his shoes off before he dropped his trousers. Then, in flowered nylon shorts, he tore at the buttons on his shirt.
Fancy underwear is a bad sign, Terry thought. She'd encountered such men before.
She began to feel more and more as if she was throwing herself away. There would be little satisfaction, she felt sure, but still this was something she had to do.
After she'd removed her shoes and stockings, she stood up and drew her garter-belt from her panties. That left her in the single garment.
Robert stripped off his shirt, then his shorts.
She moved toward the couch.
He stared at her, his eyes very bright. "Wait."
She turned to face him and he moved against her. Her breasts had a delicious springy give.
She lifted her lips. "Do you want to kiss me?"
"I don't think so," he said. The brightness in his eyes gleamed more intensely and he raised his hands to rest them on top of her shoulders. "I'd like to have you kiss me." His palms pressed.
"No!" She twisted, resisting his pressure.
"Come on, Terry," he said, excitement raging for him, "You're in no position to refuse."
"I won't," Terry said. "You will."
"Damn you!"
He laughed It was strangely high-pitched and ragged.
What he wanted wasn't new to her. She'd never liked that but, with some men their reactions made that worth while. With this one, that would be too degrading to bear.
"Now!" he demanded.
"You can go to the devil!" she said, twisting free and away from him. Her breasts lurched heavily.
He stood there and stared at her. His naked chest moved with his deep breaths. "I won't see Greta," he threatened. "I'll let Greg go right down the drain."
"You louse!"
He smiled weirdly. "Names won't hurt me or help you. There's only one thing you can do. And, baby, you'd better start right now."
She stared at him. She know she would have to. She was as defenseless as any woman had ever been before a man. He had everything in his favor. Her husband's fate, which meant her own as well, was in his hands. Besides that, she'd told him a most shameful secret about herself.
She began to move toward him.
"Finish undressing and sit on the couch," he said.
She pulled her panties down and quickly whisked them off her feet. She sat on the couch, facing him, posing the way she knew he wanted her to.
He moved forward.
As he came to her, she reached out and hesitated for a moment.
Robert, trembling on the brink of this especially rewarding triumph, could hardly contain himself. The moments of anticipation seemed to last forever.
And then he found her caress. He ran his fingers to her hair, grabbing handfuls of it.
She continued until he thought he would go mad. Finally, when there were only moments left for him, he pressed her to the couch.
He took her.
Terry's eyes were open, staring hatefully at him as he worked quickly. He finished.
She forced her eyes closed so that she wouldn't have to look at him any more.
Robert sat alone in his office for some time after she'd left. He'd told his secretary to put through no calls.
This was the time to savor his conquest-now, when he was alone and could think about the significance of what he'd done.
He had gotten the better of Greg.
He had proved himself a man among men in Cole City.
Now there remained but one thing, to win the case. That would establish him as a lawyer among lawyers.
Robert thought of his father and wondered, If the old man could see me now, what would he have to say?
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Terry hurried home as quickly as she could. She frowned at the sight of her husband still asleep in their bed. He was breathing deeply and seemed not to have stirred since she'd left the house. Well, she had insisted that he take a couple of sleeping tablets. He would most likely sleep right through the day.
Terry bathed quickly but with particular thoroughness. Then, after touching herself strategically with perfume, she dressed.
The experience in Bob Phillips' office had left her miserably unsatisfied. Her husband was dead to the world and of no use to her at the moment. So what was a girl to do? In Terry's case, the only answer was a visit to Clara.
She walked out of the house and to her car, which she pointed toward Los Angeles.
It had begun to rain and the temperature was in the fifties. She turned on the heater and found some bright music on the radio. The heater soon made her physically warm, but the music didn't have a comparable effect on her state of mind.
Everything was wrong. She was threatened with the loss of the security and prestige which she had known as Greg's wife and there was her immediate frustration as a result of Bob Phillips' selfish treatment. Then, too, there was the fact that she'd been forced to reveal part of her "other life" to Bob,and she was no longer to sure as she'd been that he would respect her confidence. He was a weirdo, all right. What if the truth should get back to Greg?
Things were royally botched up!
Now, more than ever, she needed to get her mind completely off her troubles. She needed the special kind of "drug" which, in her case worked wonders. The drug was spelled M-A-N and it worked by helping renew the love she had for herself.
Terry wheeled onto the lot of a drive-in restaurant. She needed some coffee, she'd decided. Coffee first, at any rate. Then she could wait a little longer for what would really help her.
She got out of her car and walked to the restaurant. Inside it was comfortably warm and good-smelling. She was cheered by the sound of conversation and the clatter of dishes, all against a melodic FM background. She took a chair at the counter and ordered.
As she lit a cigarette and turned slightly to her right to reach an ash tray, she saw them-two men seated in a booth by the front window. They were just under thirty years old. each good-looking and well-dressed, and they were eyeing her with something more than casual interest. In fact, their eyes were sending an unmistakable message of desire.
She faced front and smoked quietly, but could not keep her own eyes from straying to the mirror behind the counter.
The men were very masculine in appearance, one tall and slim with close-cropped sandy hair and blue eyes, the other shorter and darker but equally lean. The shorter one had black hair that was combed back and had a pleasant luster without seeming highly greased. Both men wore casual clothes that were expensive-looking.
Either of them would have qualified as the sort Terry was looking for. But two men together....
Her coffee arrived and she sipped it black.
Anyway, she thought, this was too close to Cole City. Picking up a man was safe only in a large city like Los Angeles, where the odds were strong that she wouldn't be seen by anyone who knew her.
"Excuse me," a voice said at her elbow. It was a pleasant voice, firm but tinged with humor.
She looked at the tall blue-eyed man.
He was smiling in a way she liked. "My friend and I were wondering if you'd care to ioin us. It's such a gloomy day, maybe we could brighten it up for one another."
Terry just looked at him. He had a refreshingly direct pitch and she liked that. But how could she accept? After all, there were two of them.
She smiled. "I'm sorry. I have to be on my way."
"That's a pity," he said, his eyes warming her already. "We were just about to order something to eat and the food would taste a lot better if we had some pleasant company to share it with. Why not take a few minutes and have a steak with us?"
Terry was tempted in spite of the circumstances. As a matter-of-fact, she hadn't eaten. "Well, I . .
"Come on," the tall man said and reached to pick up her cup and saucer.
She'd never had anyone move in and take over quite so confidently before. If she hadn't liked his looks and manner, she would have frozen him fast. But she did like this man. It was too bad he wasn't alone.
She walked with him to the booth.
"I'm Garrett Alden," the tall man said. "Call me Gar. This is Harry Pastor." He gestured toward his dark complexioned friend who now also was standing.
Terry introduced herself.
They all sat down, began to chat, and ordered luncheon.
The conversation, as they ate, had been innocent enough. Terry had learned that the men were real estate developers out of Los Angeles who were headed south to look over some property. At least, that was what they told her and she saw no reason to doubt it. She told them that she lived in L. A. also, and that she was just out for a drive. She had, of course, removed her wedding and engagement rings right after she left the house.
As the threesome finished lunch, Gar remarked, make the day a lot more fun. You could leave your "It would sure be nice if you could ride along with us, car here and pick it up when we come back this way."
If only there weren't two of them, Terry thought and neither man had shown any inclination to flake off. Business considerations were holding them together, she assumed.
"I don't think I should," was Terry's smiling answer.
"Why not?" Harry Pastor countered. "You have any better way to spend a dreary afternoon? Our car's a '64 Caddy, luxury all the way."
This argument didn't impress Terry, who drove a T-Bird herself.
She said, "It sounds all right, except I don't know you and...."
"You know we're males," Gar said with a grin "I hope you've concluded that we're reasonably civilized."
"But there are so many of you," Terry replied pointedly.
"Oh!" Gar pursed his lips and looked at his friend across the table. "Well, boy, shall we flip a coin to see who takes the bus back to L. A.?"
"Now, wait a minute," Harry said. "You know we've got to give a joint approval on the Escondido land."
"This isn't going to work out," Terry remarked, blushing slightly through a smile. "I think I'd better just say good-bye to you boys right now."
"And do what?" Gar asked with a frankly questioning stare.
"Go on with my drive, of course."
"All alone?"
"Certainly alone."
"Sounds very dull."
Terry asked boldly "Well what do you suggest?"
"What do I suggest," Gar murmured, staring vacantly across the table as if he were giving the matter deep thought. Then he turned toward Terry with a smile. "Well, I could say that while two is undeniably company, three is not always a crowd."
"Just what does that mean?" Terry asked, feeling a tickle of excitement.
"Mmm." He shrugged. "Just that three can sometimes have fun in ways that aren't possible for two."
The tickle grew into a generalized excitement. These two come on like gangbusters, she thought. While marveling at Gar's boldness, her interest had been aroused by the substance of his remark. Three having fun together. What had he meant by that. . specifically?
"What the hell?" Gar said, apparently encouraged by her look. "We're all free and over 21. How about it?"
Terry thought, It's as if I had a sign on me that says I'm available. This guy's a real sharpie.
"I didn't hear your answer."
"Where are you going, anyway?" Terry asked. She had warmed to the idea of going with them but didn't care particularly to be dragged around through the rain to look at real estate.
"Where would you like to go?" Harry shot back.
Excitement had mounted for her. She tried to take a grip on herself but found it did little good. Her inner nature was seeking its head.
"Some place cozy," she said, her voice dropping an octave.
"Oh, we can manage that without strain," Gar replied in a confidential tone. "We can get just as cozy as you want, and just as quick as you want, too."
What am I letting myself in for? Terry wondered desperately. But now it was too late to back out. The lure of a new thrill was too great. These men were the sort who would show her the kind of time she liked. She could tell that. They were appreciative males. It still bothered her that there were two of them. It frightened her a little. But at the same time, it also stimulated her.
Why no? she asked herself finally. Why the hell not?
She said in a whisper, her lips moving very close to Gar's ear, "Let's get real cozy. And right now."
Harry Pastor's lips parted as he stared at her from across the table.
Gar beamed. "Baby, you've got yourself a deal!"
They went to a motel.
Rain beat against the windows and Terry's heart kept time with it as she sat between the two men and sipped Scotch.
"Ever gone this route before, baby?" Gar asked, his eyes twinkling at her. "Two and one. I mean."
"No." Terry swallowed back a lump in her throat. "I never have."
She felt very ill at ease. She was uncertain and afraid. But the daring of the situation continued to goad her. She was a kicks girl and this was going to be a big one; she could feel it.
The charge she'd gotten in the past from displaying her body to a strange man, with just the two of them alone, would be as nothing compared with giving herself to one man while another watched.
And these men would appreciate what they saw, she was certain. They'd appreciate that and they'd let her know they did. There'd be none of the impersonal, detached sort of treatment she'd gotten from Bob Phillips who had behaved as if her body were some sort of trophy to be won, rather than the object of sensual delight she knew it to be.
These men would know what to do with a woman, all right. They would know how to caress her and kiss her and finally thrill her with the warmth of their lust. First one, she thought, and then the other. The notion was such a heady one that she dared not dwell there in advance. Just let things happen, she decided. That's the only way.
"You know, you're quite a gal," Gar was saying. "I could tell right away that you were class. It stands out on you all over. Yet you're down-to-earth, too. No jazz. Most chicks have to be kidded and babied along, but not you."
Terry wasn't sure she liked that, but she said, "Maybe that's because I'm no baby. I've been around enough to know I like men. And the way I feel, why fight it?"
Harry, the dark one, grinned all over. "That's what I like to hear! Damn it, Gar, this chick's got the right idea!"
"Thanks," Terry murmured and took another drink of Scotch.
Gar sipped and took a long look at her. "Just what is it you like most about men, Terry honey?"
She gave him a throaty laugh. "Now, how is a girl supposed to answer that one?"
"Tell the truth," he replied.
"You embarrass me." Terry took the rest of her drink. She was beginning to feel it by that time. This didn't keep her from holding out her glass for more, however.
Gar obliged her.
"No need to be embarrassed, doll," Harry said. "You're among friends. Tell us what your little heart desires and, who knows, we might just be able to give that to you." He laughed and the sound of it was dirty. Terry liked Gar much the better of the two men.
Gar stood up. "T don't think we ought to ask her to say it, Harry. Anyway, actions speak a hell of a lot louder than words. Why don't we let her sort of show us what she likes."
Terry didn't care for the turn the conversation had taken. After all, it wasn't anything about them that she wanted so much as to get their reactions to her. She decided to take the initiative and lead things along the proper way.
"I like men to be nice to me," Terry said. "I like that most of all."
"Hey. hear that, Gar boy?"
"We'll be nice to you, Terry," the blond man said, reaching to run his fingertips along her arm.
His touch was electric. It immediately awakened the nerve endings beneath the surface of her skin.
"Do you think I'm pretty, Gar?" she asked, fighting against a physical urge to throw herself immediately into his arms. She was feeling a stronger physical desire than usual, evidently because of the way Bob Phillips had left her.
"Pretty?" he echoed. "I think you're beautiful! Hell, I think you're just about the most damned beautiful female I ever saw!"
"Really?" she asked coquettishly. Oh, this is nice, she thought. And I can tell he really means it.
"The only trouble is," Gar went on, "that I can't see enough of you right now. Isn't that right, Harry?"
"It sure as hell is!" Harry was quick to agree.
"I know you've got a damned good-looking figure hidden underneath all those clothes, and it seems such a shame to keep it covered up."
"I don't really have to keep it covered," Terry said, thrills throbbing like drumbeats for her....
This is coming alone just right, sh: thought. There are two of them and they're both staring at me, and now I'm going to strip and show both of them my beautiful body. Then I'm going to watch them each get so excited they can hardly stand it. The wildest!
"Show us, kitten," Harry said. "Take something off."
Terry tried to clear her throat of its excitement-caused congestion. "I could take my dress off, I guess," she said slowly, exerting all the control she could muster as to keep her voice steady.
"Hell, yes!" Harry responded.
Gar sipped some more Scotch. He was playing ft cooler. "Anything you like sweetie. You just do this any old way you want."
"Well, let's make it the dress," she decided.
At the moment Terry didn't mind anything, for she was in the process of unzipping the back of her dress, then slowly wiggling it up as she remained seated, and easing it around her hips and past the trunk of her body and off. She looked from Gar to Harry and saw exactly what she wanted to see in the eyes of each. A wave of pure pleasure swept over her, followed quickly by an urge to go further.
"I guess I don't need the slip," she said.
"Oh, hell no," Harry agreed. "What does a girl need a slip for, anyhow?"
She glanced at Gar.
"Sure, take it off, baby," he said. "I want to see all of those long lovely legs."
Again a sharp twinge of pleasure went over her.
She grasped the elastic of her slip, lifted off the chair, and quickly swept the slip down and kicked it away.
"Zoftic...." Harry breathed with almost reverent feeling.
Gar's blue eyes were glinting. Terry knew the look. It meant that the tall man was getting ready to make a move. She tingled with anticipation.
It gave her a mighty thrill to be seated there in front of these two men in just her stockings, pants and bra. The stockings were a sheer sand tone, and the bra and panties were white with a delicate pink lace trim. As she breathed deeply her overloaded brassiere moved excitedly. Her middle move also, her navel just peeping over the elastic rim of her pants. Excitement had given her flesh a pinkish hue all over. Her legs seemed extraordinarily creamy, and the exposed tops of her breasts had a succulent appeal.
"Do you want to see more?" Terry inquired, deciding to throw restraint to the four winds now. She stretched, reaching for the hooks on the back strap of her bra.
"Honey," Harry said, "I'm the world's biggest looker!" He paused, then leeringly added. "And from what I can see, you've got two of the world's best boobs!"
"I wouldn't say they're the world's best," Terry drawled as she separated the bra strap and prepared to peel the garment away. "But, then, you don't like women to look like cows, do you?"
"Hell, no!" Gar said. "Yours are just right, Terry. Now, let's see, huh?" And, with that, he reached out and yanked the bit of nylon connecting the brassiere's cups. It came away, the cups coming with it and the ribbons sliding down Terry's arms.
Her breasts trembled in pink-nippled nudity.
"Damn!" Harry husked.
Gar grasped Terry's breasts, one in each hand.
"Easy, easy...." she whispered, thrusting her chest out at him as he began to squeeze the delicate satin-skinned mounds.
A great surge of pleasure went through her as she saw the rapt expression on Gar's face.
Oh, he's never seen a better pair than mine, she thought. He's going ape! He wants to kiss them, I know. He wants to take one to his kiss and love away!
Harry Pastor had jumped up. "Hey, save some of that choice material for me, friend."
"Don't worry," Gar said, still staring at the way Terry's pink and white flesh was responding to his hands.
"There's enough for both of us."
From the corner of her eye, Terry could see that the dark-haired man was beginning to undress. The way he was tearing at his clothes, he acted as if he couldn't possibly hurry fast enough.
As for Gar, he was continuing to tease her breasts with one hand, squeezing, shaking gently, while his other hand had begun to tour her middle, working its way to the top of her pants, stroking gently.
She watched the change that occurred on Gar's strong handsome face as his fingertips continued.
Harry, nude as a post, moved to them. "Let me too, huh?" he demanded.
"Sure," Gar said, moving from Terry. "I've got to get undressed. Just don't rush though." He squinted at Harry warningly.
Terry didn't consider what his remark may have meant, and she barely heard Harry's reply which was, "Don't worry, I know the script, daddio."
She was too excited by what Harry was doing and even more excited by the look on his face, to say nothing of the startling evidence of his need.
She accepted Harry's hands eagerly as he sat beside her and began to grasp at her chest. Then he bent forward and offered his lips to her. She knew the edges of his teeth and his warm breath. She stretched and pressed herself to him, her head turned to the side, her eyes closed, her hands open and grasping at the air.
She didn't know just how she happened to get to the bed, with Harry and Gary at either side of her.
She didn't know exactly how she lost her panties, either. She had only a vague impression of the nylon sliding from her.
Now she was in the process of losing her stockings. There was a man kneeling at each side of her and each was removing a nylon. Then her satin garter-belt was being stripped away.
She was gloriously and deliriously naked, and the men were kneeling on the bed and gazing at her. She saw desire burning in four eyes at once. She had never had such an experience before.
Then, as she thrashed, she knew another special thrill. Two male heads were bending forward at the same moment and two eager mouths were tormenting her breasts. Two sets of lips were against her.
How wild to have both loved at the same time!
She was quivering all over and moaning, and she didn't fight as the men began to twist her, turning her face-down upon the bed.
Harry suddenly appeared in front of her and she found herself staring at him. At the same time, Gar was lifting her at the middle.
"What are you going to do?" she heard herself asking. Her brain was in a dizzy whirl.
"What do you think, baby?" Harry responded, and then he forced himself closer and she seemed powerless to resist it.
As she kissed him, she knew Gar's fingers running all around her middle.
"Ready?" Harry gasped. "I'm ready," Gar said.
Harry pulled away and helped to hold her as Gar started. But this isn't right! She thought wildly. Good Lord, this isn't right at all!
Right or not, that was happening. He hurt as Gar continued.
No, no, no!" Her mind cried. But all she could do was whimper.
Now thf pain had eased.
This was the strangest sensation she'd ever known. Gradually she began to find him not unpleasant.
By this time she didn't mind at all that Harry once more moved to her. She accepted him and made passionate love to him and, for once in her life, didn't seem to feel the least bit cheated that she couldn't see the expressions of her lover. Either lover.
The most exciting thrills were engulfing her, overcoming everything else. She couldn't think. All she could do was sense. It was as if her mind was completely numb and her every nerve was running riot.
Gar's touch was persistent, Harry's hands were caressing her breasts, both at the same time. She responded eagerly. She felt herself soaring higher and higher until fulfillment seemed almost within her grasp. Still that eluded her, however, and the ascent continued. Oh, God, she had never experienced anything that even remotely compared to the loving of the moment!
Then, suddenly, when she felt as if she couldn't stand another second, there was the most glorious burst of ecstasy and she tossed and opened her eyes wide just in time to see Harry cresting his own peak. She collapsed to the bed and, in another few moments, Gar also was finished.
She lay there for what seemed like an eternity, not feeling, not thinking, not seeing.
From somewhere far away she heard the men talking together and laughing. Then a sense of shame and humiliation began to take possession of her.
She had to get out. She had to leave right now.
As she sat up, Gar Alden rose from his chair to stand before her. In his hand his belt dangled, swaying back and forth.
Terry stared at it as if hypnotized.
"Where are you going, baby?" Gar said with a sadistic leer. "Don't you know we've just begun?"
CHAPTER TWELVE
After Greg had awakened that afternoon, had noted the time, and had discovered that he was alone in the house, he showered and shaved. Then he got dressed.
He decided he should go to work. After all, his business couldn't run itself.
He drove to the restaurant in downtown Cole City where he had his office. He went to his desk and tried to concentrate on the correspondence, bills and requistions which had stacked up since morning.
It was no use.
All he could think of was the terrible mess in which he found himself. He was facing a prison term for something which really had not been his fault.
He dared not think of what might happen next.
Even if Bob Phillips could somehow succeed in beating the charge against him, which seemed almost out of the question at this point, his marriage would never be the same. Terry didn't look at him in the same way any more.
She had tried to be brave and to encourage him and make him believe that nothing was changed between them, but he had seen the difference in her eyes. , He hadn't tried to approach her as a husband since the trouble had started. He had wanted to, but he hadn't been able to bring himself to. He felt that wouldn't be right. He felt, most of all, that she wouldn't want any more.
Suddenly, for a reason he couldn't have explained, he thought of Carol Phillips. Of all the people he knew, her reaction had been the most sympathetic. Bob didn't know what a lucky man he was to be married to a woman like that, Greg thought.
But, then, it hadn't been her husband who had cheated on her, had it? Her husband hadn't brought shame down upon them, which threatened to destroy everything they'd worked and lived for all their lives.
Damn! He slammed his fist against the top of his desk, mussing the papers in front of him and hurting himself. It didn't matter what happened to his papers, or to his hand.
Nothing mattered.
Nothing in the whole damned world.
He sat there and stared across his office at the opposite wall, trying to make his mind go blank. Thinking didn't do any good.
Run, a voice said. You could run.
The idea had occurred to him a number of times in the last couple of days. But each time, as now, he dismissed it. What good would running do? He would be leaving behind everything that was important to him; his wife, his home, his business, the respect of the community. He might just as well go to prison.
He thought again of Carol Phillips.
Why does she keep popping up in my mind? he wondered.
The only answer, was that, when he'd been at her home that morning, she'd given him honest sympathy, without the reservation he'd encountered on the part of others, even his own wife. Carol didn't seem to condemn him at all.
Maybe I could drop over to see her now, he thought. Bob wouldn't mind. After all, we're old friends. There would be nothing wrong. I have to talk with someone who understands.
Greg got up and walked out of his office.
He noticed the peculiar look on the face of his secretary as he passed her desk. It was a look he was getting used to. It seemed as if everyone looked at him that way now, even when they smiled and tried to cheer him up or, worse yet, when they tried to act as if they hadn't heard anything about his trouble.
Even Bob Phillips looked at him that way. Hell, even Terry did!
About the only one who hadn't was Carol. What she'd shown him that morning was true friendship and understanding. She was certainly a rare person.
Greg had always admired Carol-in the way of a man who is in love with his wife but not entirely blind at the same time, to the existence of other women in the world. He had admired Carol's girlish beauty, her genuine sweetness. There had even been times when he'd been conscious of a wish that Terry possessed the simple honesty which radiated from Carol's face. But then this wish had vanished in the realization that Terry was a different sort of woman; a vibrant, voluptuous woman who was made for passion and equipped with all the feminine wiles that lend spice and excitement to any game.
He hadn't ever seriously wanted to exchange Terry for any other women he'd met. He loved Terry too much.
But still, there was something about Carol....
He drove to the Phillips house, conscious that he was perhaps doing something that he shouldn't, something that Carol might not understand. As for Bob, well, Greg wouldn't be there when Bob got home. He would just stop in for a few minutes and he and Carol would have a little talk. Then he would feel better and he would leave. He might even be able to return to his office and get some work done before the day was completely gone.
It was raining and he drove slowly.
Lousy weather, he thought. As if everything else wasn't bad enough, it had to rain. Hell, the sun hadn't come out for more than a few minutes at a time for the better part of two weeks.
Sunny California!
He parked in front of the Phillips house, pulled his raincoat about his neck, and got out. He walked quickly up the walk.
He rang the door buzzer.
Inside the house, Carol Phillips set down her glass and stared at the door. A man, she thought. A man. Then: Oh, I don't want a man today. I don't I don't....
She got up and took a couple of seconds to gain her balance.
She was wearing a blue sweater and a plaid pleated skirt. Her golden hair was loosely styled, as usual, and the overall impression she conveyed was one of girlish sweetness except, of course, for the smell of liquor and the somewhat watery condition of her eyes.
Carol had taken five drinks in the last hour-and-a-half, which was a somewhat more rapid rate of consumption than was usual for her.
She thought of the possibility that the person at the door might be another salesman, or even one of the salesmen she'd entertained in the past.
No, she didn't want to see a man today. She didn't.
She opened the door. "Greg!"
"Hi, Carol," he said with a wan attempt to return her smile. "I had to talk with somebody."
"Sure, Greg. I'm real glad ta'see you. Come in huh? Get out'a the lousy rain." She stepped back and held the door for him.
His smile deepened gratefully. "Yes. Yes, thank you."
As she took his hat and coat, he noticed the smell of liquor. He looked at her closely. "Are you all right, Carol?"
She laughed giddily. "Nev'r bett'r. Fact, I'm wond' rful! I'm a HI drunky, I s'pose, but there's nothing wrong w'that, is there?" She lurched against him and he was aware of her softness and warmth.
He wrapped his strong hands around her arms. "Carol, what is it?"
"What's what, Greggie?" She pursed her lips and inclined them toward his as she pressed herself dose to him.
He began to react in an elemental way.
"I've never...." He hesitated, then started over: "I've never seen you like this before."
"You haven't?" She laughed and rubbed his nose with hers.
Even as he was reacting to the unexpected intimacy between them and to the vulnerability of her condition, he was also conscious of a tenderness toward her. Carol wasn't the sort who drank for kicks. There was something wrong. There had to be.
Greg eased her gently away from him and helped her cross the living room to the sofa.
Once there, she jerked herself away and her pretty mouth assumed a pout. "Don't treat me like a damn baby!" she said.
She flopped on the couch and then her manner changed completely as she looked at him. She became an alcoholic flirt. "I'm not a baby, Greg. Defnitely not. You want'a find out?"
"Carol," he murmured
"Si' down." She waved an arm irritably. "You want a drink? Cm on. Hav'a drink with me."
"All right," he said quietly. She lifted the whiskey bottle and spilled a little as she poured nearly three ounces in a glass. Then she straightened slightly and said, "Oh, tha's my glass, isn't it. Here. I'll go get 'nother one."
He took the glass tentatively and placed his other hand on her arm. "Maybe you've had enough, don't you think?"
"Wha' d'you mean, enough?" she flared in sudden anger. "Wha' right d'you have t'tell me how much t'drink? I'll drink all I damn well please."
"All right, Carol," he said. "But I'll get the other glass. You stay right here."
As he walked to the kitchen, Greg thought about her situation. If Bob were to come home and find him there, both of them drinking and Carol as stoned as she was, what would he think? What would any husband think?
What was the matter with her, anyway? Greg wondered. This wasn't like her at all.
The poor kid, he thought. There's something really eating at her. I guess I'm not the only person in the world with troubles, after all....
He brought the glass to her, but she was already sipping from the other one. I ought to make her quit, he told himself as he sat down beside her. He poured a small amount of whiskey into his glass and swallowed it in a gulp.
"Ooo," she said, looking at him in awe. "How c'n you drink th' stuff like that? I should think it would set your throat on fire." She lurched against him again. "You nuts' be a real man. Tha's the only explanation I c'n think of. A real man, huh?" And, before he had a chance to fend her off, she had pressed herself against him with her lips at his mouth.
The fact that Greg Warner was indeed a man proved itself at that moment. Carol was warm and sweet and so available, and this realization was having a tremendous impact for him.
He made a conscious effort to remember that Carol was the wife of a good friend and that he, himself, was married to a woman he loved. But these arguments faded as soon as they'd crossed his mind like puffs of smoke upon the wind. He turned his head slightly and kissed Carol.
It wasn't much of a kiss and it was over quickly, with Carol leaning back and giving him a mischievous look. "How was that, huh? Don't you like t'kiss me? Oth'r men like t'kiss me pretty good."
"Tell me, Carol," he said, leaning to look her directly in the eyes. "Are you and Bob having trouble?"
"Bob." She laughed sourly. "There's no troubl with Bob. Things are jus' like they've always been an' always will be. Forevr' 'n ev'r."
"You don't love him?" Greg blurted.
"I hate him," she said thickly and with extraordinary feeling. "I hate him worse than I ev'r hated anyone."
Greg's eyes narrowed and he didn't say anything. He was looking at her lush, slightly parted pink lips. They seemed babyish and womanly at the same time. That was the essence of Carol's appeal, wasn't it, that she was a child and a woman wrapped in one?
"Bob's my friend," Greg thought aloud as he moved closer to Carol's mouth.
"So what?" Carol demanded. "D'you think that'd m keep him from your wife? Maybe he has taken her, huh? He's known jus' about ev'ry other woman in town. Why should Terry be th' excep'shun?"
Greg moved back slightly. He had heard that about Bob Phillips, of course, but Greg had never been one to pay much attention to gossip. All sorts of things were said about people and most of them were either altogether untrue or distorted. But, hell, for Carol to know about it, Bob must be a lot worse than Greg had though.
Greg said, "Do you want to talk about it, Carol?"
"Hell, no!" she snapped. "I don't want to talk about a thing." Her mood changed and she smiled naughtily. "Y'know what I really want to do?"
"No," he replied, half-fearing what she might be about to say.
"Lean clos'r," she told him, pulling against his back.
They were embracing loosely and he was inhaling her perfume which had overcome the smell of the liquor. His lips were against her soft hair. Her warmth taunted him.
Her lips moved against his ear: "I want to...." She used a word which Greg had never expected to hear from so sweet a girl.
A wave of lust, born of general frustration and several days of denial, surged for him and he was unable to control it.
Dit he want to? That was the question. Bob Phillips was his friend, but ... Oh, hell!
Almost before Greg knew what was happening, he was embracing Carol hungrily, his lips seeking and finding hers After hesitating for only a moment, one of his hands slipped down her side all the way to the hem of her pleated skirt. He continued until he found one of her nylon-covered buttocks in his hand.
Somehow the sleek nylon of Carol's pants made her buttock more exciting, in a way, than it would have been nude.
But. as exciting as that was, it didn't make Greg want Carol's panties to remain on. That made him feel exactly the opposite. Made him want to take Carol's panties off. In fact, he felt as if he couldn't get Carol's panties off fast enough.
And so, after patting her once, and twice, through the sleek nylon panties, he reached to the waistband of her skirt. His fingertips located the elastic of her panties and curled around it. One-handed, he began to pull at the elastic in a determined effort to strip away Carol's panties.
"Y'can't get 'em that way," she gasped as she pulled her lips from his.
She lurched to her feet, then quickly whisked her skirt and petticoat up. She looked at him over her shoulder. "There! Now y'can."
Greg stared at the sight before him: two perfect shapes of smooth pouting flesh, sheathed by the pale pink pants, with garters running below them and tugging at the tops of her tight stockings. What a vision she was!
He put his hands out as Carol continued to watch him over her shoulder, her skirt and slip pulled around at her waist and held securely at her front. He grasped one clad buttock in each hand. His fingers tested their give, and then he wobbled them. They were not overly plump, but they certainly weren't skimpy, either.
Moving with sudden wild urgency, Greg yanked at her panties and tore them down, baring her completely. He stripped her pants past her knees and let them drop the rest of the way. Then he bent to help her step from them.
Greg could not resist the impulse to lunge forward and press his lips in a passionate caress. He kissed gently and Carol cried out in excitement.
"Ohhhh, wow!" Carol exclaimed as he straightened up and turned her around to face him. Her flushed countenance had a dizzy look. "I've never been kissed like that before!"
Greg didn't say anything as he eased her to the couch. Now he was through with games. And he didn't want to talk, either. He wanted only to act. He knew he was doing wrong, but he couldn't stop.
He removed Carol's blue sweater, pulling it over her head and tossing it away. Then he reached to unhook and strip away her pink brassiere.
She had adorable nipples; paler in color than his wife's. They were sweet, almost virginal-looking. And Carol's breasts, though smaller than Terry's, were delicate in form and very tempting.
He took a breast to each of his hands and couldn't decide for a moment which to kiss first. He chose the right one and leaned forward until his lips brushed the pink sensitive flesh. Carol moaned.
After he had finished temporarily with that breast, he went to the other one and repeated the treatment. By that time, Carol-her inhibitions banished by the liquor she'd consumed and her entire body aflame with passion-was groping for the slide fastener on his clothing.
She found it and pulled.
Her hand became busy.
He raised his face from Carol and quickly pressed her backward against the sofa. He tore off his coat, loosened and tossed away his tie. then pulled at the buttons of his shirt. He popped a couple of them in his frantic haste.
"Hurry, darling," Carol implored.
He thought: I'm married. This isn't like the time with Greta. This time I'm acting of my own free will. Carol's husband is my friend. This is as wrong as wrong can be!
And then he started.
Carol cried out in open-mouthed joy as he took her.
He set a slow but dynamically powerful pace and Carol responded perfectly to his virile needs.
Greg couldn't remember any time in his life-and that included Terry-when that had been so good. He had never known such utter possessiveness, and yet such freedom with any woman. He was flying! Flying right among the stars.
Carol gasped and murmured her appreciation. Still he kept working.
"Oh, you're such a man!" Carol exulted. "Man! Man! Man!" She kept repeating the word and then she switched to other terms.
He felt as if he could continue forever. He'd never known such a sensation of power and command before.
Carol was crying, "Oh-oh-oh," and suddenly he knew she was at the very portal of fulfillment, to explode like molten lava.
He followed her to the couch and kept working. She gasped and cried as if she wanted to be free, but he didn't alter his pace an iota. Soon he saw excitement gaining a hold on her again, and it wasn't long before she was right with him as before.
Gradually he upped the tempo and, to spark her along, he began to talk in the most stimulating terms he knew. She threw them back at him as she worked in ever-increasing intensity, and then they were carrying on a monosyllabic conversation which, at one and the same time, made no sense and made all the sense in the world.
Finally Carol's wild piercing scream was shattering his consciousness and he himself was finishing in a burst of sheer sweet glory as brilliant as the sun.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
At the very moment his wife lay naked and gloriously (if drunkenly) fulfilled in the arms of his friend and client, Robert Phillips was ringing the doorbell of the Hoefer residence.
Greta and her plump girl friend. Esther, had been in the house together all that day and by this hour of the late afternoon were dozing side-by-side, naked, on Greta's bed.
She sat up with a start, then delivered a sharp slap to Esther's behind.
"Hey!" the fat girl responded and rubbed herself. "Get dressed," Greta hissed. "There's someone at the door. It could be Mother. Maybe she decided to come home early and forgot her key. We shouldn't have fallen asleep in here."
Esther groaned petulantly and sat up.
Greta herself scrambled off the bed in search of the panties, sweater and jeans which she'd taken off shortly after Esther had arrived that morning and had not touched since. She took her panties, pulling them up and wiggling until they were in place. The elastic snapped against her navel.
"Hurry, damn it," she implored sotto voce to Esther, then bent to pick up her jeans.
Outside the house. Robert was about to turn away when he heard a sound on the other side of the door. He waited and the door opened.
"Hello," he said to the slim brown-haired girl who stood there. "Are you Greta?"
"Yeah." Her expression was one of puzzlement as she pushed at her badly mussed hair.
Robert took in her appearance and on the basis of what he'd recently learned about her, drew the correct conclusion. He smiled suggestively. "I didn't interrupt anything, I hope."
"What do you want?" she asked in a flat voice.
"My name's Robert Phillips. I'm Greg Warner's attorney. Can T come in?"
Greta stared at him in surprise, then apprehension. "No. You shouldn't even be here. Mr. Romero told me I wasn't to talk with you or Mr. Warner or anybody else about the case."
"Well, Romero doesn't need to know about this," Robert said with a confident little smile. "I'm sure that after you've heard what I have to say, you won't want to discuss my visit with him."
"Yeah?" She was reluctant but curious at the same time.
"Let me in, hm?"
"Well...." She stepped back and pushed at her hair as Robert walked past her.
"You alone?" he asked pointedly.
"Sure. Why?"
"I just wondered."
He walked to the old-fashioned davenport at the far side of the living room and sat down. "Mind if I smoke?" he asked.
Greta shrugged. "Go ahead."
After he'd inserted a cigarette between his lips, he held the pack out to her.
"I'm underage, you know," she told him.
He laughed gently. "Come on, now, Greta. You don't have to kid with me."
"I don't know what you mean." She was seated on the edge of an overstuffed chair across from him.
He gave her a long look, one which he'd cultivated for use on reluctant witnesses in the courtroom. "I admire your imagination and your nerve," he said finally, "but I don't have an awful lot of respect for your reasoning power. The ploy with Greg Warner was really a very childish one."
Her eyes narrowed but she didn't say anything.
"You should have realized, Greta, that since Terry is Greg's wife and very much in love with him, she'd be willing to do whatever would be necessary to get him off, even if it meant disgracing herself."
There was a change in Greta's eyes. Then her back straightened and she retorted, "Say what you want to say and be quick about it. I shouldn't even be talking to you."
"All right Here it is: Terry's told me all about you and her. What's more, she's prepared to tell the whole story in court. She will, unless you get with that witness friend of yours and make sure she forgets what she saw on the road from Atmore that night. If Esther Fant decides she isn't sure who was in the car, or whether the car checks with the pictures of Greg's car that will be placed in evidence, the State won't be able to prove a case against Greg and there won't be any reason for Terry to testify.
"As a matter-of-fact," he went on, "if Esther gets in touch with Ed Romero and tells him she's decided that she isn't sure, he'll probably call you in. All you'll have to do is say you want to drop charges, and it's my guess Romero will. That way, everybody will be happy. No?" He smiled.
Greta stared at him coldly. "You're taking an awful lot on yourself, aren't you, coming to me with this?"
"I don't think so. You don't want your intimate secrets to be broadcast from a witness stand in open court. Getting revenge on Terry isn't going to be worth that."
A look of cunning came into Greta's eyes. "Terry won't want it, either, will she?"
"Of course not," Robert said, blowing smoke. "But she stands to lose everything if she doesn't talk. She's got a lot more at stake than you have. That's where you miscalculated, Greta."
"I thought wives couldn't testify when their husbands are on trial," Greta said.
"They can't be forced to testify against their husbands," Robert corrected. "But they can testify jor him. It isn't often done, because usually a wife's testimony doesn't carry much weight. But in this case...."
Greta studied the man across from her. "How would it help Greg any for Terry to tell the court about her and me?"
Robert had been prepared for this argument. He answered it smoothly: "It will throw your whole story open to question. Then, when we go on to examine your relationship with Esther Fant, that will just about blow the case sky-high and you with it."
Robert hadn't been sure that there was anything improper between Greta and Esther. It had been pure conjecture on his part. But, then, he hadn't said he would prove there was improper conduct. He'd only said the relationship would be examined.
He could see, from Greta's reaction, that his conjecture had been correct, however.
Greta flared. "How do I know Terry will testify about the things you said?"
"She told me about them, didn't she? Her husband's entire future-and her own-is at stake here, Greta."
Greta broke eye contact with him and looked down. She said, "I think Terry's bluffing," but her tone lacked conviction.
"Are you prepared to gamble on that?" Robert asked, leaning forward and slashing now as he stepped up his verbal attack. "Think of what your mother will say when she finds out, and your friends, everybody else in town. Tt will ruin you, Greta. Think of this girl, Esther, too. Think what it will do to her, even if we can't prove that there's something going on between you two. You know yourself that the mere suggestion will be enough for most people."
Greta glared at him "You're just trying to scare me. It would only be Terry's word against mine and Esther's."
At that moment Esther Fant appeared in the doorway. Her face revealed that she'd overheard the conversation. She was fully dressed but her hair was nearly as disheveled as Greta's.
She said to Greta, "Listen, when I got into this, I didn't know that anything might be said about...."
Greta turned on her angrily: "Will you shut your fat stupid mouth!"
Esther recoiled as if she'd been slapped. "Don't go talking to me like that, Greta Hoefer."
"Then keep quiet! You don't have to tell this fink a damned thing!"
"So there is something to tell, hm?" Robert said, smiling. He quickly added, "Of course there is. And don't you think I can check up on you two, find out how you've been spending your time and where? Then I can put each of you on the stand and ask you some embarrassing questions in open court."
"Greta!" the fat girl said in fear.
Robert turned to her. "If you don't want this to happen, you'd better back out right now. The only thing to do is to call Ed Romero and tell him you've been thinking it over and you've decided you aren't sure if it was Greg Warner you saw in that car. Tell Romero you're not even sure if the car was a Buick. Tell him it might have been a Chevrolet. After all, it was dark and drizzling."
Greta leaped to her feet. "Get out of this house!" she screamed.
Robert stood but continued to talk, now in a thoughtful tone: "Let's see. Maybe if I were to ask the neighbors right now just how long you two girls have been together in this house today, it's possible one of them might have noticed when Esther arrived. How long ago was it, Esther? Was it long enough to cause people to wonder, maybe? Particularly after a suspicion is planted in their minds?"
Esther, on the verge of tears, turned to Greta. "I can't go through with this! I won't! I'm getting out of it right now!"
"Then you'll call Ed Romero?" Robert pressed. "You'll tell him you aren't sure you saw Greg Warner that night and you aren't even sure about the car?"
"Yes! Yes!"
"You dirty, lousy...." Greta leaped at the other girl, her fingernails like talons as they dug into Esther's tangled hair.
Robert moved forward, grasped the slender girl by the arms and held her while Esther escaped from her grasp. He twisted Greta sharply and she fell backward to an upholstered chair.
He said to Esther, who was cowering at the other side of the room, "Why don't you make that call to Romero right now, hm? Just be sure you don't say anything about my being here." He glanced at Greta. "That goes for you, too. If either of you try to make trouble for me, I'll follow through with this thing and ruin both of you in this town. And I'm not kidding, either."
Esther hesitated for only a moment. Then, with an apprehensive eye on Greta, she moved to the telephone. Greta didn't try to stop her.
When Robert left the house, it was with virtual assurance that he'd destroyed the State's case against Greg. His first reaction was, of course, elation. But then, as he began to drive, the sense of triumph began to lose its edge.
He would draw a big addition to the fee he'd already collected from Greg. Career-wise, what he'd accomplished would prove a boon. The community wouldn't know how he had managed to get the charges against Greg quashed, but Robert would get the credit for doing it, just the same. People who knew a thing or two would admire him for being able to kill the case before it got to court, and thereby sparing his client the adverse publicity of a trial.
The day had been a big one for Robert all the way around. That morning hadn't he also possessed Terry Warner?
It was strange, he thought, that he should feel anything less than total satisfaction with everything that had taken place. But he was not satisfied. Why?
He wrestled with the question as he drove slowly in the direction of his home. He found his thoughts strangely centered about Greg. His client would now return to a normal life, and pretty soon the stigma of Greta's charges would pass. After all, nothing had been proved. For all anyone knew, the whole thing could have been completely groundless.
Was that what rankled him? Robert wondered suddenly. Was it the realization that Greg was going to get off free?
As he thought about it, it came to him clearly that underneath he had been hoping Greg would be convicted of the charge. From a standpoint of self-interest, Robert had wanted to win the case. And he had done everything possible to do so. But he now saw that, at the same time, he'd been hoping he would not succeed and hoping that Greg would go to prison.
This momentary insight came and passed without revealing to Robert the reason for the way he felt. His mental censor still stood guard and, though momentarily incapable of withholding all the truth from Robert's introspective probing, it succeeded in preventing the basic reality from being seen. That would have been too painful and too destructive of Robert's peace of mind. His censor, after all, was looking out for him.
And so Robert was uncertain and troubled.
His conscious mind had to work out an explanation for the way he felt. It had to seize upon something.
Suddenly the answer came to him. The secret desire of which he had momentarily been aware-the desire to see Greg suffer had been suppressed and there had arisen in its place a respectable rationalization: He was troubled because he hadn't revealed certain vital information to his client. Yes, that was it.
Robert knew what he would have to do.
He would have to tell Greg about Terry and Greta Hoefer.
After all, wasn't Greg his friend? And wasn't Greg also his client? Didn't Greg have every right in the world to know that it was his own wife who had caused him all his trouble? Wasn't Robert morally and ethically obligated to tell him?
Robert's features twisted in a peculiar smile.
Yes, he was obligated to do it. He had to. There was no choice.
Terry would hate him for it. Well, good enough! He didn't give a damn for her, anyway. She'd been no better than any of the rest. None of them amounted to a damn when that was said and done. It was just that a man had to have a release every so often and they offered the only way.
The only way? Robert caught himself thinking.
Yes. The only way! Absolutely.
Robert thought of his father.
Strange how the mind jumps from one thing to another, he commented to himself. For what earthly reason would his father's image arise now?
But it had always been that way. Ever since his father's death, Robert had caught himself thinking of the old man at the oddest times. Right after he'd loved a woman, for example, or when he was planning to seduce one. Other times, too, odd moments such as the one just now.
Why?
He had no answer, so he let the matter drop.
Ahead of him was a service station with a telephone booth at the side. He debated quickly as to whether he should call Greg from there or wait until he got home. The phone booth won out. After all, he didn't want Carol to overhear what he was going to say. She would ask a lot of stupid questions and later she might blab about it to someone else. It wouldn't do to have the story get all over town.
No. This had to be kept between just himself, Terry, and Greg.
He pulled his Plymouth into a service station, got out, and fished for a dime in his Docket as he walked resolutely to the phone booth.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Reg had arrived home just minutes before the telephone rang. He'd discovered that Terry had not returned, but this hadn't worried him. He assumed she was with a woman friend, or perhaps with Clara.
She might have gone shopping with someone and the two of them might have decided to take dinner out. Terry did that sometimes. Greg didn't mind because he could always drop in at one of his own restaurants.
Driving home from Carol's place he had been severely troubled by what had happened there. There was not only a sharp sense of guilt over what he had done to Bob and to Terry, but he was aware also that a new and powerful influence had entered his life. He wasn't sure he knew how to cope with it. He wasn't even sure he understood what it was. But he couldn't doubt its existence. It was real-even awesome in a way and it centered around Carol Phillips.
When he thought about her, a wave of tenderness came over him. She had told him many things after they'd made love. He was sure it hadn't been the liquor speaking, though he didn't doubt that the liquor had made it possible for the truth to come out.
Carol was leading an empty, desolate life. That much was clear.
This knowledge, coupled with his own reaction when he was with Carol, caused him to wonder just how rich his own life really had been. But he set this thought aside with the wry realization that his life was apt to be a lot less rich from now on. After all, he was almost certainly facing a jail sentence.
The ringing telephone interrupted these somber thoughts. He walked over and picked up the receiver. "Hello."
"Hi, Greg." Robert Phillips' tone was bright "Got some great news for you."
The sound of Robert's voice sharpened the sense Of guilt which had been troubling Greg. For this reason he didn't respond to the other man's apparent cheerfulness. Anyway, what was there to be cheerful about? Bob most likely had some minor technical triumph to report and that was all just something to show Greg that he was working for his money.
Greg sat down wearily. "Yeah, Bob?"
"Brace yourself now," Robert said, his enthusiasm building. After a dramatic pause, be proclaimed, "You're off the hook!"
"What?" Greg didn't think he'd understood. Bob couldn't have meant that!
"You're off the hook," Robert repeated more slowly. "Greta's witness has backed down. She's no longer sure of what she saw on the road that night. She called Ed Romero and told him. Not only that, but Greta's going to ask that the charge against you be dropped. In view of this, there's not a chance the case will be pressed."
Greg slumped in his chair. It was as if he'd suddenly been relieved of a hundred-pound weight. His mind tried to accept and adjust to what he'd heard.
"Hey!" Robert said. "Are you there, boy!"
Greg cleared his throat. It was with great seriousness that he asked, "You aren't putting me on, are you? Making the thing sound better than it is?"
"Hell, no!" Robert said. "I wouldn't do that. True, I'm guessing when I say the charges will be dropped. But it's a professional guess based on experience. In my judgment, you can relax."
"Thank God," Greg murmured solemnly.
Robert hesitated. "Now I've got to tell you something that isn't so good. This is tough to do, Greg, but T feel T owe it to you."
"What's that?" Greg asked, only half-aware of what his friend and attorney had just said. Greg was still trying to adjust himself to the apparent fact that he would not be going to jail. It hadn't ever occurred to accept and adjust to what he'd heard.
"Hey!" Robert said. "Are you there, boy?"
"I found out the reason behind Greta's actions in the first place. This is what made it possible to convince her she'd better bow out."
"Go on," Greg said, now alert.
"Is Terry there with you?"
"Terry?" Greg was puzzled. "No. Not at the moment."
"It's just as well," Robert said. "You ought to have a little while to get used to what I'm going to tell you before you talk with her."
"What the devil is it?" Greg demanded, sitting upright.
"Just this: There was a thing between Terry and Greta. An affair. Terry broke it off and Greta got you in trouble as a way of getting back at Terry."
Greg jumped to his feet. "What?"
"It's the truth Terry told me herself."
"You mean it was a Lesbian thing?"
"Yes."
Greg resumed his seat slowly. "I don't believe it, Bob."
"I know how you must feel. It pretty well knocked me over, too. But it's the straight scoop. Now Greta has an affair going with the girl who was going to testify against you, Esther Fant. I found them together over at Greta's house. It was Esther who broke down when I threatened to drag the whole mess into the open."
Greg had scarcely heard the final part of the explanation. His mind was grappling with the second profound shock it had received in the fast few minutes, this one even greater, in a way, than the first.
Robert was still talking: "I'm sorry as the devil that you had to find out this way but, as I said, I fell obligated to tell you, not only as your friend, but as your lawyer."
"Yeah. Sure, Bob. I'm grateful." Greg's tone was lifeless.
Robert hesitated, "I hope you and Terry can find some way to work this out."
"Yeah."
"Well, I won't bother you any further. I know you probably want to think. Just relax about the prosecution, though. I'm pretty sure you're out of danger."
"That's great to know," Greg said without enthusism. "Thanks, Bob. Thanks very much."
"Sure thing boy. I'll keep you posted." The phone clicked dead.
Greg stared at the instrument for a couple of seconds, then slowly replaced it on its cradle. Terry, a Lesbian.
It was unbelievable. It was as if he were having a crazy nightmare. It couldn't be true. Terry had always been so responsive to him.
But Greta had practically admitted it, according to what Bob had said. And she certainly wouldn't be withdrawing her charge unless it was the truth and she was afraid of it coming out in court....
Greg sat there staring at the blank wall a few feet in front of him.
I should be happy that I'm practically a free man, he thought. I should be jumping in the air. My life's been restored.
In another way, though he went on, my life's been ruined. Terry meant everything to me. Without her....
And then the vision of Carol came to Greg's mind, together with the remembrance of that afternoon. "Carol."
How did he really feel about her? She was Bob's wife. There was guilt because of that. Especially now, in view of what Bob had done for him.
Greg bent forward, his head resting in his hands.
Things were so mixed up that he wasn't sure exactly what he felt. Relief over the failure of the prosecution? Bitterness about Terry? Guilt? Love?
The front door of the house opened and Greg looked up. Terry stood in the door.
"Hello, Greg," she said simply and headed toward the central hall. She had hardly looked at him.
"Wait."
She stopped and turned around. There was something peculiar about the way she looked, he thought. Or was it merely that he was seeing her in a new light now?
"I want to talk with you," Greg said, trying to keep his voice under control. "Come in here and sit down for a moment."
She took a deep breath and seemed to hold it. "I've got the most splitting headache, Greg. Can't it wait?"
"Come here and sit down!" he ordered.
She looked at him closely, then complied.
"First, I want to tell you that I'm not going to jail." Greg's tone was almost matter-of-fact.
"Darling!" Terry brightened.
Her husband lifted a restraining hand. "I guess I have you to thank for it," he went on, eyeing her closely.
"I don't understand."
"Don't you?" he asked, his tone becoming harder. "Didn't you have a talk with Bob Phillips and tell him what he needed to know in order to get that Hoefer girl off my back?"
"Greg " Her eyes, at that moment, confirmed the truth of all that Bob had said, if any confirmation had been needed.
"It worked very well," Greg continued, his dark eyes boring into hers almost like slivers of steel. "Greta's witness caved in and Greta herself is dropping her charge. Bob thinks the D.A. will wash his hands of the case."
Terry remained silent and stared at her husband.
"Well, speak up, darling," he said. "Let's hear your side of the story."
"Just what have you heard?" she managed to ask.
"Bob told me what you told him. He had to. He's a friend. Not only that, he's my lawyer and there's such a thing as the lawyer-client relationship. It's a matter of ethics. But, then, such things might be beyond your understanding."
"Greg . .
He moved up to her quickly and grasped her arm, "Speak up, tramp!"
"Greg," she almost sobbed. "I said what I did to help you. Can you imagine how it made me feel?" Her eyes were tortured.
"How it made you feel? Well, how the devil do you think it makes me feel!" He laughed bitterly. "Here, all the time I thought we had a real thing going for us, the greatest love match since Anthony and Cleopatra, in and now I find out you were cheating on me. And not with a man, either. That would have been bad enough. But you were cheating on me with a woman!" He was shouting the words at her by the time he finished.
"Greg! No! It isn't true! I just made it up."
"Made it up, hell!" he replied. "Bob couldn't have gotten Greta Hoefer to pull out of the case if you'd made it up. It's the truth!" He struck her across the side of the face.
Terry shrieked.
Greg grasped her arms tightly in both hands and shook her back and forth.
"No, Bob, don't. Oh, God, don't...."
He released her and swung his open hand against her other cheek. She fell to the side, losing her balance and collapsing on the rug. She moaned, then sobbed, her face buried in her hands.
"I could hardly believe it when Bob told me," he railed. "And that burns me all the more, to think that you had me so completely fooled."
Terry looked up at him, her make-up streaked and running. "All right! All right! You've heard what Bob had to say, now let me tell you something else. Do you know what happened in his office this morning, what your precious friend and lawyer made me do? He made me...."
She went on to tell him, the words tumbling over one another in her blind anger at Bob Phillips, at the men who mistreated her earlier that afternoon, and at the fate which had now turned her moment of victory into bitter defeat.
She told her husband everything and in the bluntest possible terms, realizing as she did so that it was a mistake. But she seemed unable to stop herself. She had to lash back for the way the world had treated her that day, even though it meant her own destruction.
Greg stood and stared, unable to stop her or make any response, as she went on to tell him of the scores of times she'd deceived him with her visits to Clara. Finally, when she was through, she fell forward against the carpet and sobbed, her face pressing the wool nap and her delicate hands clenched against it.
Greg once more was hardly able to accept what he had heard. It was monstrous! Unthinkable! And yet he knew that it must be so.
Strangely, he no longer had any desire to beat his wife or even to curse her. He felt nothing at all. He was emotionally numb.
Later, as he packed his things and carried them out to the Buick, he thought of Carol Phillips and of his purported friend and benefactor, Bob.
He and Bob had deceived one another, but Bob had done it cynically and in a malicious way. What had happened between Greg and Carol had stemmed from honest need on the part of each of them.
Carol had to get away from Bob. There was no doubt in Greg's mind about that. She was headed for ruin if she went on as she was going.
Now Greg had to have Carol, as well. He needed her desperately.
He resolved to have things out between Bob and himself, and now was the time to do it.
He backed his Buick out of the driveway and headed it in the direction of the Phillips house,
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Robert closed the front door of his house and looked around. He didn't see his wife and it was quiet.
"Carol?"
There was no answer.
He walked down the hall and to the bedroom. She was not there.
It wasn't like Carol to disappear at that hour of the day, he thought. She knew he liked her to be around when he got home.
He retraced his steps through the house and went to the kitchen. He opened the cupboard and checked the amount of whiskey remaining in the open fifth. He often did that, making careful note of the level each time. It was way down from the day before. Carol had been drinking, all right.
Bob checked the back yard and satisfied himself that his wife was not around the house.
The Phillips had only one car, but Carol could have called a taxi. Or she could have borrowed a car from the Petersons, next door. Helen Peterson had let Carol use their old Rambler in the past. It wasn't likely, though, that Helen would have loaned it to Carol if Carol was drunk, Robert reasoned.
He got the telephone directory, looked up the number of the local cab company, and dialed. He waited impatiently for their board to be answered.
After a woman's tired voice had responded, Robert Identified himself by name and address and went on: "I'm trying to locate my wife. I think she may have called for a taxi this afternoon. Would you check your records for me and see if one of your cabs picked her up?"
"I'm sorry, sir, but...."
"Look," he snapped, "this may be serious. I'm an attorney here in town and if you don't cooperate, I'll hold you accountable."
"Well ... the woman hesitated, then asked, "Can you wait a moment, please?"
When she came back on the line she said, "One of our drivers did call for her, about an hour ago. His next check-in was from the bus station."
Saying an automatic thank you, Robert returned the phone to its cradle.
He was stunner!. Carol had told him nothing about having to take a trip. The only conclusion he could draw was that she had left him. Of all the damned, stupid things!
It was because she was drunk, he felt certain. She would never have done it otherwise.
He raced through the house, heading for the bedroom closet. When he got there, a quick look confirmed that she had indeed packed some of her clothes. Also there was a suitcase and an overnight bag missing.
The silly child! He thought.
He opened the front door of the house just as Greg got out of his car and headed up the walk. "Greg!" he said. "What the devil are you doing here?"
The other man moved quickly up to him. "Can't you guess?"
And then Greg swung, catching Robert completely by surprise. The left hook connected solidly and a right to the midsection toppled Robert onto the lawn.
He gasped and sputtered. "What in the name of hell is the matter with you?"
"You told me about Terry," Greg snapped. "All right, she had a few things to say, too. You didn't figure on that, I suppose."
"Greg, now, see here! You've got to get a hold of yourself." He was getting to his feet.
Greg was ready for him. He swung again. This time Robert made a feeble effort at self-defense, but it was ineffective in the face of the other man's superior weight and physical prowess. A combination of punches grounded Robert again. This time blood trickled slowly from the corner of his mouth. He rubbed at his face and cursed vilely.
"Where's Carol?" Greg demanded.
"What the devil do you want to know for?"
"I was over here this afternoon," Greg told him.
It was dark but the commotion which the two men had caused attracted attention from next door. The Petersons stood on their front porch and, across the street, the Belfords had also come out.
Greg didn't care who heard him as he went on: "I found Carol the way I imagine she's been quite often lately, thanks to you. She told me what kind of life she's had. We made love. I was ashamed of it afterward, but now I'm not. Now I realize I need her, and I think she needs me, too. I want to see her. I want her to tell me and, if her answer is what I think it will be, I want her to tell you."
"She isn't here," Robert said, staring at the other man.
"Where is she?"
"I don't know."
Greg bent over him and grasped the front of his coat. "The hell you don't! You were headed out of the house. I'll bet you were going to meet her. Now, where the devil is she? Or do you want some more of the treatment I just gave you?"
"No," Robert said quickly. "She's at the bus station. The cab company told me."
"You mean she's leaving you?"
"That's how it looks." Robert's tone was much more bitter.
Greg released him. "I'm glad. It's something she should have done a long time ago." He turned away, heading back to his car.
"Are you going after her?" Robert yelled.
"Hell, yes! You can come along, if you want. Let Carol make a choice between us."
Robert slumped. "Why should I? What the devil difference does it make, anyway?"
Greg stared at him for a moment, then went on to the car and climbed in. The Buick roared away from the curb.
Robert sat there, staring after it.
Deep inside him there was a voice that barely seeped into Robert's consciousness: He's won, after all. You thought you had hurt him, but he's out on top. He had his freedom and. he's going to have your wife. He's shown you up. He's a man and you're not. Your father was right. He's always been right.
Al Peterson called from next door, "You okay, Bob? You need help?"
Robert turned to him. "Mind your own damned business," he growled.
In Cole City's bus station, Carol Phillips sat at the coffee shop counter and stared into a cup of coffee. It was black and acrid. It made her sick to swallow it. But she knew it would help her. If nothing else, it would keep her awake.
She needed to stay awake now. For awhile. Not for long, though.
Soon it would all be over and she could sleep for the rest of eternity.
She had thought of merely leaving Bob, of moving back to Los Angeles or somewhere and building a new life for herself. But she couldn't face up to the prospect.
Even the liquor she'd consumed that afternoon hadn't given her enough courage to do that.
It had given her the courage to seduce one of Bob's friends, a man whom she had known, along with his wife, for several years. He was a man in trouble, a man nearly at the end of his rope. He'd been easy pickings, she guessed she'd made a fool of him, in a way, but far worse was what she'd made of herself. And he had merely been the last in a shameful series. Well, there would be no more. There would be no more of anything. When she heard the call for her bus, she forced the last of the coffee down, dropped some change on the counter, and headed for the loading area.
She wasn't drunk any more. She was weary, more than anything. Weary of life. Her head felt tight and it throbbed with dull persistence. She could see clearly, though, and she had her balance. She could think, also. At least, she could think well enough to know that there was only one thing to do and that she mustn't delay doing it.
She had purchased a ticket for a town somewhat smaller than Cole City, which was located half-way between Cole and LA. She had chosen that particular town because it happened to have a very high bridge. It wasn't screened, like many such bridges in other cities, because in this particular town remarkably few persons had ever killed themselves. Carol had been impressed by the bridge some time ago when she and Bob had first driven over it. Since then they'd gone that way several times. Each time she'd told herself that it would make an ideal place, if the time should ever come.
Now it had come.
She was going to use it.
She'd packed some clothes and taken them with her so that Bob would assume she'd merely moved out. She didn't want him alerting the police before she'd done what she had to do. At least, that had been her rationalization.
It would have been simpler to have left a note, but she hadn't been able to bring herself to write one. She simply hadn't known what to say. She'd seen no hope in the world of making Bob understand. Anyway, at the time she'd left the house, she was still pretty high. It had been all she could do to clean up the evidence of Greg, throw some clothes in her suitcase, and call a taxi, let alone to try to compose a note to her husband that would make any kind of sense.
She thought about Greg.
He was a real man. It was too bad, she decided, that she hadn't met him, or someone like him, a long time ago. But then, everything was too bad, wasn't it? Life itself was too bad, when it came to that. It was too bad she had ever been born.
She boarded the bus. not looking at the driver or at the passengers who were already seated inside. She found an empty pair of seats, took the one by the window, and stared out.
An elderly woman was walking across the dimly lit concrete from the waiting room. She stopped to speak with the bus driver.
As Carol continued to stare through the window, the door to the waiting room served as the focal point for her gaze. And yet she had no reason to watch it.
She certainly didn't expect anyone to come after her.
She didn't want anyone to, she assured herself.
Anyway, how would Bob know where she'd gone? He might not even have gotten home yet.
And Greg.
Greg.
Thinking about him gave her some slight degree of comfort. As shameful as the incident between them had been, she was forced to admit that no man had ever thrilled her as Greg had that afternoon.
She leaned forward and pressed her face against her hand.
It was at this moment that Greg burst through the doorway Carol had been watching just moments before. He glanced around, saw the bus standing with its door open, and an elderly lady being helped aboard by the driver.
Greg looked up at the windows.
He didn't see Carol His gaze checked each window, from front to back, and he saw Carol's face at none of them.
He hesitated.
Should he check inside?
More than likely her bus had already pulled out. But as long as he was there, he thought he might as well make sure.
He walked to the door of the bus.
The driver gave him a casual glance but said nothing as Greg climbed aboard and peered down the dimly lit aisle between the seats. He still didn't see Carol. He moved forward, searching each side of the bus with his earnest gaze.
He felt a sudden exultation.
There she was. She had just lifted her head.
He moved quickly to her side.
"Carol, darling." He reached across the seat and seat and down to take her hands in his.
She stared at him. Then suddenly she began to cry.
He helped her up and to the aisle. "Come on. You're getting off."
"No, Greg. Oh, no, T can't! Please...."
"You are," he said firmly. "I've got a lot to tell you. My car's right outside. We're going to get your bags off this bus and then you and I are going to have a talk."
She went with him. She didn't have the will to resist. At the same time, however, the truth was that she didn't want to resist him.
She hadn't really wanted to die.
They retrieved her bags and then they drove to a restaurant. They took a quiet booth and ordered dinner. Carol was surprised to discover that she actually had an appetite.
They talked. Greg told her everything that had happened.
Gradually the world grew much brighter for both of them.
When they were through with dinner, he said, "There's only one thing for us to do. We are going to drive to Los Angeles, where no one knows either one of us, and we're going to check into a motel." He grinned. "Do you agree with me, or will I have to get rough with you?"
Carol smiled back at him. "I agree, darling. I agree to everything. But, as for getting rough, maybe you should, if you will the way I like."
He took her hand in his. "You mean, the way we did this afternoon?"
"Yes," she replied. "But with a little difference."
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Carol cuddled close to him as they drove and, finally, when they reached the motel and were inside the room, she threw herself to his arms.
"Oh, Greg, darling, I've needed you for so long. I've been so lonely...."
He didn't speak but framed her lovely face between his strong hands and tilted it upward to receive his kiss. His lips found hers easily. All the while her hands were gripping his back, holding him with all her strength as if she was afraid he might try to get away.
But getting away from Carol was the last thing in the world that Greg wanted.
After they had kissed for what seemed like an eternity and his desire for her had mounted higher, he gently but quickly began to remove her clothes.
She stood before him, luxuriating in a succession of dizzying thrills that traveled through her, as he deftly took off her every garment.
Then she said, "Now let me undress you, darling. Please let me undress you."
He consented to her request, and gradually she bared his rugged frame, the deep broad chest that was topped by a medium profusion of dark hair, the strong legs and feet.
Carol gazed at him when she was through. "Oh, I'm so glad you love me! To know how much you want me, thrills me right to my toes."
He took the two steps needed to close the space between them. They touched, then with their arms around each other and her delicate soft-firm breasts crushing against his torso.
They kissed deeply and with lingering passion as Greg let his fingers tour her back, over her buttocks, her legs.
Carol took her lips from his. "If I ask you to do something. Greg-something you may think is funny-will you just go ahead and not give me any argument?"
He nuzzled her around the ear as he continued to gently squeeze and caress with his hands. "Of course, darling. Anything. You know that."
Carol took a deep breath and, when she spoke next, her voice had roughened slightly: "Then spank me, Greg."
He leaned back and looked her in the eyes. "Spank you?"
"That's right. Spank me."
A little smile crept over his face. But it wasn't derisive. He was merely surprised and trying to understand.
"I want you to," Carol went on earnestly. "I need to be spanked. I need that very much."
"Do you really think so?" he asked.
"Yes, I do. If you love me, you will, Greg." She felt the courage to go on: "And not only now. You will all the time. Whenever I do anything that's naughty."
"All right," he said. "Bend over my knees."
He sat down on the edge of the bed and helped her. He stared at her lovely smooth bottom.
It's a shame to strike anything that lovely, be thought.
Carol was not as extravagantly rounded, as voluptuous, as Terry, but very neat and nice and girlish. He raised his right hand. Then he brought his hand down. Smack!
The sound was sharp and stinging and Greg knew that his blow had stung her. She had whimpered softly and clutched his legs.
Smack again.
Smack. Smack. Smack.
He was getting in the spirit now. and he began to derive a strange sense of pleasure from the exercise. Smack. Smack. Smack.
Carol was moaning and holding to his legs for dear life. "More, more," she pleaded. "Don't stop now!"
And so he didn't stop. He continued to spank her.
He spanked and spanked her, knowing that he was giving her pleasure which overrode the hurt, and realizing, at the same time, that he was enjoying himself.
Finally his hand began to ache and his arm was tired. He stopped.
Carol looked at him, her eyes tearful, and she sobbed, "Now, love me. Oh, please love me, Greg. Love me like I've never been loved!"
He lifted her and placed her gently in the center of the bed.
He took a few moments to mold her delightful breasts with his hands and kiss each up-thrusting peak. He bent and kissed her again.
"Oh, Greg...." she moaned, her fingers in his hair, Suddenly he was up, his face looming near hers, his brawny arms going around her.
Carol cried out softly and twisted. "Oh, you're such a man! My wonderful lover!"
And then she began physically to love him with a degree of passion she had never expressed before. Of all the men she'd known, only Greg had awakened this complete response for her.
She knew that there would be no other man for her. Only Greg. Only Greg from now on, forever.
For his part, Greg was experiencing an elation he'd never known with Terry. Carol's response was strong and sweet and real. As good a performer as Terry had been, she'd never been quite this way.
Greg worked slowly but surely and in perfect rhythm, setting the pace for both of them. The thrill seemed never-ending.
Carol gloried in the excruciating pleasure. Oh, he was wonderful! She had never felt so thoroughly possessed.
On and on, lifting both of them to a realm of rare delight that only the most passionate of lovers attain. Gradually Greg increased the pace faster and faster.
As if powered by a single force that had gone wild and was beyond all possibility of control.
Carol's face contorted as her head moved from side to side and her fingernails made red furrows on Greg's back. Greg had his head down, his teeth against her smooth shoulder.
Carol triumphed. And he did, too.
They tossed and quaked through the final throes of their mutual ecstasy. Then they were still.
Greg found her lips with his own as their arms tightened once more about each other. After a time, be lifted his face just far enough to say, "I love you, I love you," his lips brushing hers. She answered him in the same way and then their lips once more locked and held.
In mere moments, Carol found Greg's passion reawakening.
This time they proceeded without any sense of hurry, utilizing subtle variations, and they made love with words, as well.
That lasted for a very long time and, when that was finally over, they each were satisfied to the very depths of their souls.
Miles away, in Cole City, Terry lay alone in a darkened bedroom. Her aching body bore the bruises of the afternoon, but far worse was the misery which afflicted her mind and soul. She struggled to hold back a flood of angry thoughts that threatened to engulf her very sanity in their murky depths.
She had played it all wrong, she now realized. All wrong from the beginning.
At his house, Robert had cleaned up and gotten dressed to go out. But then he had stopped in the living room and sat down. The place was very still.
He walked to the kitchen and opened the cupboard. He took down the bottle of vodka.
There were times in a man's life, he decided, when the only thing to do was to get drunk.
A man's life?
The thought-phrase echoed in his consciousness again and again.
