With his forefinger he stroked from the bottom to the top of her parted outer lips, pausing to give a circular stroke to her rising clitoris.
He kissed her lips and reveled in the thought that they were moist from the bathtub steam. The beads of sweat on his upper lip merged with those on hers and the electricity of love flowed through a solid contact, tingling both of them with its special current.
As Rankin played with her vagina lips, Purity hunched forward. The bottom of the tub squealed against her smooth skin. Waves of warm water rippled over his testicles, hips and flanks and produced additional thrills for his throbbing cock.
His lips left hers and his hand retreated from her bosom. He was now ready to concentrate on the legendary inter-play of cock in cunt.
His fingers spread her vagina lips even farther apart. His cock, waiting nearby, easily slipped inside, advancing inch by inch into her hot cranny.
Rankin arched his body and lifted his cock almost completely out of her before slamming it back home with vengeance.
The warm water did seem to increase her pleasure. Her cunt was tingling so excitedly, though, that she wasn't sure whether it was the water that made it feel better or merely the fact that she was finally getting the kind of screwing she'd craved for weeks.
Wham! Wham! Wham!
With hot and frantic hydraulic drivings, they writhed and pounded against each other underneath the water.
Deeper and deeper Rankin plumbed her-thrusting, exploring and delighting in both their reactions.
He was pumping up and down so fast that water shot over the top of the tub and splashed onto the floor.
Purity had her arms around his neck, clinging desperately to him. Wham! Wham! Wham!
They derived so much enjoyment from each other-and for so long a period of time-that both wondered if they would ever reach an orgasm. Perhaps they wouldn't-perhaps the warm water made an orgasm impossible-perhaps they would have to get out and lie on the tile floor and screw and screw and screw until they....
CHAPTER ONE
The girl's name was Kathy Meyers.
She was young-about nineteen or twenty-and her slim, neat figure was topped by a pretty face and a crop of long, blonde hair. Her eyes were her most compelling feature. Large, round, dark and sensual.
She sat perched on the edge of a chair, nervously folding and unfolding her hands in her lap.
She had been in his office for ten minutes and Otto Hahn, the film producer, had barely glanced at her.
"Where is that damn thing?" he muttered, rifling through a stack of papers. "It has to be here someplace."
Hahn, a short, bald man of fifty, liked to do everything fast. Especially work. In the little while that Kathy had observed him he'd barked two letters and three memos into a dictaphone, read script snyopses and extracted data from half a dozen sheets of paper on his desk.
Suddenly, he found the information he was looking for. He smiled, made a notation on his memo pad and then, shoving the papers in a drawer, tilted back in his swivel chair.
His cold, beady eyes appraised her thin legs and small, pert bosom.
"What did you say your name was?" he asked.
"Kathy Meyers," she said softly.
"Oh, yes. I remember now. I saw you in the cafeteria yesterday and asked the casting director to send you around. He said you were an actress. Tell me, Miss Meyers, are you a smart one or a dumb one?"
Kathy smiled faintly.
"I don't know, Mr. Hahn," she replied. "I'm no Vassar graduate, but I think I'm fairly smart."
"The smart ones, my dear, are the actresses who'll do whatever they have to do to succeed. The dumb ones are those who believe they can succeed without doing it."
Kathy felt a shiver run up her spine. She realized what Otto Hahn was referring to. Sex. He had a reputation in the motion picture industry for his crude and callous conquests. It was rumored that he had slept with every woman who appeared in major roles in his films, no matter how young or old they were.
Kathy had heard the rumors a hundred times since coming to Hollywood two years ago. She'd heard them and, because of them, when she'd recognized Hahn in the studio cafeteria, she'd given him a long, meaningful stare. It was no more than a passing glance, really, but the message had obviously gotten across. Otto Hahn had stopped the casting director near the coffee machine and inquired about her.
"I'm a smart one, then," Kathy said as boldly as she could. "I'll do anything to get into pictures. I've been here two years without any success, and I'm tired of being a nobody."
Hahn surveyed her slim body once more. His eyes caressed her breasts and then settled on the patches of white flesh showing above her knees.
"Come here. I want you to do something."
Kathy took a deep breath. She was scared stiff. She'd never been in a producer's office before, and this would probably be the only chance she'd have to impress someone as important as Otto Hahn. She had to make the most of it. If not, it was back to the ranks of the faceless extras.
Trembling slightly, she approached the desk. Hahn got up quickly and came around to meet her.
"Get down on your knees!" he demanded.
Kathy sank to the floor.
"What are you going to do?" she asked.
"Nothing. You're going to do all the work."
He unzipped his fly.
"Take it out," he said. "I want you to suck my cock."
Oh, my God, Kathy thought. I can't do this. I can't!
But she did. Her hand slid inside the opening in his pants and gripped a pillar of hard flesh. His cock grew fully erect as she touched it.
"Hurry up! I haven't got all day!"
Kathy guided the swollen member through the slit and her eyes nearly popped out. She had expected it to be short and stubby. Instead, it was thick and long and as solid as an iron bar.
She licked the knob gingerly and then vacuumed the pulsing cock into her mouth. Hahn stood perfectly rigid, his feet spread widely apart and a wicked gleam on his face.
"That's it! That's the ticket to stardom!"
Kathy began sucking and tonguing it. Slowly at first and then, when she came to like the taste of it, with great enthusiasm.
What a fantastic prick, she thought. It's so big and delicious. Oh, God! I've just got to get it in my pussy. I've just got to!
Now and then she released the cock from her pretty mouth so she could lick the stem from the base to the enflamed tip.
Hahn groaned and grunted with every lick and tiny tremors shot through his thighs.
When she slithered it back into her mouth, it was with such gusto and finesse that he had to grit his teeth to stop himself from screaming.
His hands were at the back of her head, digging into her silken blonde hair, as he implored:
"Oh, suck it! Suck it! It's lovely. Lovely."
Her mouthing became wilder. Wilder and rougher. He started pumping his hips in a mock-intercourse movement. Moving them in time with her skillful blowing.
"Suck. Suck. Suck!" he gasped.
Kathy attacked his cock relentlessly. As he neared his climax and she sensed it, she grasped the hot stem and jerked it back and forth in her hand while her mouth concentrated on the knob. The first signs of his coming struck the back of her mouth and she whipped his cock out so that he could spill the remainder on the floor.
She kept jerking his rod until the last drop of pleasure had been drained.
"Okay, you can let go now," he said casually.
Kathy returned his member to him, and he slipped it back inside his pants.
"Well," she said, climbing to her feet, "am I smart enough to get into movies?"
"It's a little early to tell," Hahn said. "You've passed the first test, though."
He picked up a script and started reading it. Kathy was being dismissed.
"Mr. Hahn, I'm not in the habit of sucking strangers' cocks," she said angrily. "Particularly when the stranger ignores me afterward."
Hahn looked up from the script.
"I'm not ignoring you," he said. "You must understand, Miss Meyers, I'm a busy man. I have many things to do during the normal working day. Call me tomorrow afternoon. We can have dinner together tomorrow night. All right?"
"All right, I'll call around three," she replied.
"Good. And don't worry about your career. I enjoyed your performance this afternoon. I'm sure we're going to become good friends, and I'll soon have a nice, fat role for you."
He was intently reading the script as Kathy closed the door behind her and left the production building.
CHAPTER TWO
Paul Scott was in bed when the studio called.
"Hello, Scott here," he said, yawning.
"Mr. Kazan wishes to speak to you," a feminine voice informed him. "Please hold the line."
Paul yawned again and glanced at the bedside clock. Nine-thirty. What was Kazan doing at the studio so early in the morning? He usually didn't get in until after ten. Not that Paul would dare ask him. Kazan was the president of Olympic Films and, as such, was beyond questioning by any of his underlings.
"Paul, I've got a chore for you," Kazan said. "How long will it take you to get down here?"
"Twenty minutes."
"Fine. And bring a suitcase. You're going to Nevada for a couple of weeks."
Sure, chief, Paul thought sarcastically. I'll go wherever you want as long as you keep paying me so well.
They both hung up.
Paul jumped out of bed and strolled to the adjoining bathroom. In the full-length wall mirror he caught a glimpse of his nude torso.
Heh, not bad, he mused. You're a pretty good-looking speciman for an old man of thirty-three.
He was too. His body was lean and muscular and lightly tanned from contact with the California sun. And his handsome, roughly hewn face and curly black hair would be enough to make him a movie star himself if he wanted to be. However, that was definitely the last thing he wanted to be. He preferred the life he was leading now.
He was the official number-one troubleshooter for Olympic Films. His job included everything from soothing tempera mental actresses' frayed nerves to arranging publicity stunts. It also had its more adventurous aspects. He had been called upon to persuade a blackmailer to stop hounding a homosexual actor, he had slept with a rival studio owner's wife to learn some production plans, and he'd posed as a stupid director to convince a wealthy oir man to drop his option on a book that Olympic wanted to turn into a film.
Practically everything and anything. That's how Paul Scott defined his job. He'd go to almost any lengths to please Kazan. He liked variety in his life and, by comparison with what he did, most actors had it dull and routine.
Paul plugged in an electric razor and gave himself a thorough shaving. Then he returned to the bedroom and put on a pair of slacks and a plaid sports shirt.
As he was buttoning the shirt, the girl in the big double bed stirred. Her head came up from the pillow and, sleepily, she gazed at him.
"What time is it?" she asked.
"Early. Go back to sleep."
The girl sat up and the sheet fell away. Her breasts were firm and heavy and, looking at them, Paul had an urge to resume the activities that had lasted through most of the night.
He walked to the bed and, bending over, planted a kiss on one of her rosy nipples. The girl giggled.
"Oooooh, I like that," she said. "Is there more where that came from?"
"You bet," Paul said, gazing into her sea-green eyes. "But I've got to get down to the studio. They've got an assignment for me."
The girl tossed her hair. It was jet-black and cascaded down her shoulders, settling on the tops of her ivory breasts. She reached up and, taking his hand, led it to her bosom.
"Play with me," she said. "Please don't go."
Her tits were too tempting to resist. Paul sat on the bed and fondled them. The palms of his hands rubbed the nipples and they sprang erect.
The girl's eyes sparkled, and she said:
"Squeeze my breasts. Squeeze them hard!"
He did what she requested. He cupped a breast in each hand and applied pressure.
The girl moaned and squirmed as he repeated the action five or six times.
"Please," she begged. "Take off your pants."
"But I just put them on," he protested lamely. "I've got to go. I've got to get ... "
Ahhh, to hell with it. Kazan could wait.
Paul released her breasts and leapt to his feet. He unbuckled his pants and, taking them off, tossed them on a nearby chair. He wasn't wearing any shorts and the girl winked at his partially stiff cock.
"I think he's waking up," she said. "He must be a light sleeper."
"Well, let's give him a reason for staying awake," Paul said.
He lifted the sheet and flung it aside, exposing the girl's naked body. She was beautifully made. Below the plump breasts was a flat stomach, flaring hips and a pair of shapely legs. Between the legs lay the black, hairy hole that he knew was a perfect fit for his horny cock.
Paul dropped onto the bed. The girl unbuttoned his shirt and he wiggled out of it. She kissed the nipples on his hard chest and toyed with tufts of his hair. He fondled her breasts once again, weighing each of the heavy melons in his hands and giving them a few hard squeezes.
They came together for a kiss. Their bodies pressed and their hands sought out curves and crevices to touch as their lips met.
The girl's tongue darted between Paul's lips and licked the inside of his mouth. His hand was in her crotch, probing the thick outer lips of her vagina. When her tongue shot into his mouth, he jabbed his fingers into her pussy. Tiny flares of sensation raked both of their bodies. He stroked the walls of her tight little hole and felt her juices gushing and running.
When their lips parted, Paul slid down on her and pulled a nipple into his mouth.
"Bite it," she pleaded, gasping. "Please!"
Paul nibbled on the rubbery tip and the girl went wild with desire. She dug her fingernails into his back and her teeth sank into his shoulder.
He nibbled, sucked and licked the nipple for several seconds. His cock was rigid now. Rigid and throbbing-quivering with the need to be shoved up her wet, eager pussy.
However, his cock would have to bide its time. For a little while longer, anyway. Paul slithered farther down on her, kissing her navel and lower abdomen before his head dipped into the soft, white flesh of her inner thighs. Her cunt was a willing subject for his lips. It seemed to welcome him by opening wider as they plunged inside.
"Mmmmm ... aaaah ... ooohhhh!"
The girl was making low, animal-like noises in her throat. The noises changed into a loud, constant moan when Paul's tongue found the target he was seeking, her clitoris. Once the bliss button had been located, he banged it over and over again with the tip of his tongue."
"Oooooommmm!"
The girl writhed like an insect impaled on a pin. Her hands were on his head, pressing him, prodding him.
He didn't need prodding; he was enjoying every moment of it. There was nothing on earth Paul enjoyed more than a girl's cunt. He loved the feel, look and smell of them. But as much as he was deriving fabulous pleasure out of tonguing her, he couldn't deny his cock its rightful claims on her cunt any longer. It was aching unbearably, pulsating with a desperate need to be rammed up her moist cavern.
Paul withdrew his mouth and shifted his position. A powerful lunge joined their bodies in a delicious union. His cock went up her cunt like a hand in a glove.
Her hot, wet tongue stabbed into his ear and her hips lifted in a wild thrust that buried his cock in her-right up to the edge of his balls.
She began grinding her buttocks up and down, and Paul picked up her tempo, sinking and withdrawing his rod in a steady, frantic rhythm that soon filled his loins with erotic sensations. The pace changed into a mixed bag of dives and retreats; sometimes fast and furious, other times slow and easy. The girl allowed Paul to assume complete control. Her hips altered speed only when his did.
They rode on. When Paul felt his climax lingering dangerously near, he pulled up on the reins and lay motionless on top of her, his shaft resting in her torrid cunt. Then, when the danger had subsided, he would charge off again, burrowing deeply into her cunt with his throbbing cock, then withdrawing it almost to the end of the knob.
Several times he stopped for the sheer joy of having her milky white breasts at his beck and call. He would suck them vigorously or fondle them as though they were precious works of art. Then he'd resume his wonderful excursion into the depths of her mount of Venus.
"Wait, Paul! Stop!" she panted. "Get off ... "
He knew instantly what she wanted. The girl had displayed a taste for playing the male role during their night-long frolic. Paul pulled his cock out and rolled onto his back. A moment later, the girl was climbing into the saddle. She straddled his lower legs, then moved up until her bushy vagina was hovering directly over his huge, swollen prick.
"I'm going to fuck you, Daddy," she told him. "So lie still and let Mama show you how it's done."
"Do I need lessons?" Paul chuckled. "I didn't realize I was such a lousy lover."
"I'm only joking, believe me. You make love like you were born to nothing else."
She took his cock in one hand and rubbed the knob gently against her vagina lips. Both she and Paul were lashed by lascivious thunderbolts. But the thunderbolts were definitely of minor consequence compared to what was to come next.
The girl inserted his rod in her opening and came down gracefully on it, gobbling it up inch by inch until it was entirely swallowed and all that could be seen was the mingling of their pubic hair.
For some reason or other, the dominant position made her cunt even tighter. It closed in on his cock and squeezed it in a vise-like grip. There wasn't a fraction of an inch of slack space between their parts.
The girl rotated her hips, and molten thrills sped through their bodies.
"Beautiful," Paul said in appreciation. "Just beautiful!"
The girl rocked from side to side and up and down. The four-way movement quickly brought them to a state of frenzy.
Her rotating became more abandoned and her giant breasts jiggled and bounced so provocatively that when he knew his climax was roaring in on him, he reached up with both hands and grabbed them.
He squeezed her breasts as hard as he could as the girl gyrated wildly on his cock, cursing, sweating, and pumping every ounce of pleasure she could out of him. His climax was a tidal wave of bliss. It swept him from his toes to his head.
The girl kept riding and bucking throughout; then, finally, when it was over for both of them, she rolled off him, exhausted, and lay gasping for breath.
"Wow!" she panted. "That was some fuck."
Paul got up and dressed. The girl crawled beneath the sheet and watched him as he packed some clothes and his electric razor in a blue flight bag.
When he took the .45 from his bureau drawer and zipped it inside the bag, she arched her eyebrows.
"What's that for?" she asked.
"In case I run into some people I don't like."
"Well, if they're girls, you shouldn't worry. Just show them what you've got between your legs and they'll do anything to make you like them."
Paul finished packing.
"Thanks for the compliment, but I think I'll take the .45, anyway. Say-do you want to stay here awhile?"
"How long will you be gone?"
"Maybe a couple of weeks."
The girl shrugged.
"Why not? I've got nowhere important to go. Didn't your mother tell you about picking up girls at parties? We're the worst kind of females, you know. Men bring us home and we set up housekeeping."
Paul picked up his bag and opened the bedroom door.
"That's okay with me. I like having you around. You're very entertaining."
"Thank you, kind sir," the girl said in a teasing tone. "I'm glad to be of service. Any time."
The girl blew him a kiss and he blew one back at her, then he walked through the living room and left the apartment.
Elliot Kazan was a pioneer of the film industry. He'd started as an extra in silent movies and within three years had formed his own company and turned it into a multi-million dollar enterprise.
Today, Olympic Films remains a leading power in the trade, but like many other companies, it was in the precarious position where one or two bad pictures could wipe it out.
The reason was the high production costs. It was no longer possible to do a film for one hundred or two hundred thousand dollars. The budget for one picture frequently ran as high as two or three million. Therefore, with such a great investment in a single flick, Olympic went to extraordinary lengths to ensure everything would go smoothly.
One such length had been the hiring of Paul Scott, its ace troubleshooter.
Kazan sat behind his mahogany desk in his big, luxurious office and regarded Paul with irritation.
"You're late," he said. "You told me you'd be here in twenty minutes."
"I'm sorry, sir," Paul retorted, dropping his lean frame into a deep-cushioned seat. "But the traffic was heavy."
As usual, Kazan was immaculately dressed in an expensive three-piece suit. He was a tall, raw-boned man in his mid-sixties whose stern features were a valid indication of his true personality.
"Anyway, Scott, we've got a dilly of a problem," he said. "Marcus wired me from Rome in the middle of the night. It's Sonia Lombardo again."
I should've guessed it, Paul groaned inwardly. What was it this time? Another divorce scandal?
"I know what you're thinking," Kazan said. "And you're wrong. She isn't getting divorced again. Or if she is, well, that isn't our problem."
Kazan offered Paul a cigarette from a silver box. Paul declined and Kazan took one himself.
"You'll have to play this one by ear, Scott," he said, lighting his cigarette. "Because we have no idea what she's up to. Apparently she got drunk and crawled into the sack with Marcus' brother. During the course of the evening, she made all sorts of allusions about quitting us in mid-picture and coming into enough money to retire on. You know she's due in today, don't you?"
"Yes. I read it in the Times. It's for the Nevada flick, I imagine."
"Hmmm. The western with Jack Wynn. Shooting starts in Vegas tomorrow. The thing is, Scott, we've got her on a three-picture contract and I have no intentions of letting her go. Also, if she runs out on us before the Vegas picture's finished, it will cost us a fortune to make up for her loss. We'd have to bring in someone else and re-shoot her scenes and that just ain't in the budget. It might ruin us."
Paul settled back in the chair and gave a low whistle.
"Whew! That's some problem. I gather you want me to set on her-to make sure she doesn't skip."
"Right. But I also want to find out what this sudden windfall thing is all about. If she's coming into sufficient money to retire on-at the level she lives at-then it's a threat to future working agreements. There's nothing worse than a rich actress. When they're rich, they feel cocky enough to walk out on pictures left and right. The least little annoyance and they fly the coop."
"I thought she was rich already. I mean, being married to that Italian Count."
"He hasn't much money. That's why he works in the diplomatic corps-to draw a regular salary. They live extremely high, you know. Maintaining her villa pretty well eats up what she earns. That and her cars and clothing."
"And wild parties. I've been to a few of those."
Kazan flashed one of his rare smiles.
"Really?" he said in a bemused voice. "I envy you, Scott. You make less money than I do, but you sure as hell have more fun."
Paul rose from the chair.
"Do you want me to meet her at the airport?" he inquired.
"Yes. The plane arrives in half an hour. She knows you're coming. Marcus told her. She thinks you're handling her personal publicity for the picture, and Marcus informed her that you'll probably be with her day and night."
"Day and night?" Paul grinned. "That should be interesting."
"The studio plane is at your disposal. The pilot's standing by, and when you meet her off the New York flight, you're to fly immediately to Vegas. I've booked suites for you at the Palms."
"Okay, Mr. Kazan."
Paul turned and headed for the door.
"Good luck," Kazan said.
"Thank you."
Good luck, all right, Paul thought. With Sonia Lombardo, I'm going to need it.
Sonia Lombardo was spoiled, conceited and tempera mental. But she was also a gorgeous hunk of femininity and there were few males who didn't fall under the spell of her physical charms. Paul included.
All the way out to the airport in the cab, he thought about his previous contacts with her. Twice he'd flown to Rome to handle the press for her when she became involved in sordid divorce cases. Both times he'd found her difficult to get along with, but, gazing at her beautiful face and body, he'd felt a strong inclination to throw her on the nearest floor and screw her to death.
Her husband, however, had interrupted his lewd thoughts. He'd appeared from nowhere on both occasions and Paul had gone home with an unfulfilled yearning tugging at his penis.
Someday I'm going to get that broad, he had told himself. I'm going to fuck her until her cunt goes dry.
Now he was bound for a third meeting with her. Professionally, it would be another headache; she sure wasn't going to tell him outright what she was up to, and he'd have to find out through some devious means.
But, disregarding the problem she gave him, he would have to admit that he was looking forward to seeing her again. Maybe this time he'd satisfy that craving in his loins.
The cab pulled into the airport, and Paul alighted at the front entrance. He went inside and had a coffee in the VIP lounge with the airlines' public relations man. He told him what flight Sonia was on and asked him to conduct her to Olympic's private plane. Then he walked back outside and strolled to the small runway where the company aircraft sat, its pilot ensconsed behind the joystick, reading a magazine.
It was a fairly large plane and was decorated with modern furniture and a bar.
A young girl Kazan employed as a stewardess on a part-time basis mixed Paul a drink, and he settled on a sofa, thumbing through a script someone had left on the coffee table.
Duel In The Desert, it was called. The tale of a tight-lipped, strong-willed cowhand whose mail-order bride overcomes his resentment to her city ways and winds up helping him raise cattle and fight Apaches.
It was an average script, neither good nor bad, but Paul realized it would be box-office dynamite.
Jack Wynn would be the cowhand and Sonia Lombardo his mail-order bride.
Paul laughed to himself. That was some casting. From what he heard about Wynn, the aging cowboy actor wouldn't know what to do with Sonia if she were handed to him naked on a platter. He'd probably try to milk her, Paul mused.
There was a blur of movement in the doorway and Sonia was suddenly there. Beaming and thanking the public relations man for escorting her to the plane.
There were three other men with her: a faggot hairdresser, a faggot secretary and a faggot acting coach.
Why is she always surrounded by queers? Paul wondered for the hundredth time since he'd first set eyes on her. In Rome, at her villa, even most of her servants were bloody faggots.
The bevy of queers fluttered about and took seats in a corner, chattering like old women about the horrors of flying. Two non-stop flights had taken them from Rome to New York, then from New York to Los Angeles.
Sonia marched down the aisle alone.
Paul tossed the script back on the coffee table and rose to greet her.
She was breathtaking. The skin-tight silver lame dress clung to her ripe curves and bulges. It was hiked high above the knees to exhibit her perfectly shaped legs and, Paul could tell, was obviously drawn taut across her well-rounded buttocks.
Her bosom was something else again. High, firm and full. Bouncing slightly as she walked.
He had that urge again. To throw her on the floor and shove his cock up her lovely cunt as far as it would go.
"Hello, Paul," she purred, extending a hand. "It's nice to see you again."
He shook her hand and looked into her big, blue eyes.
"I'm pleased to see you too," he said.
"Heh ... Mr. Scott..". " she teased. "Don't look at me that way. I'd swear you want to eat me."
Oh, boy, do I ever, Paul murmured to himself.
"Am I staring?" he said. "I'm sorry. You are a beautiful woman, you know. I'm sure you're used to having men stare at you."
Her lush, red lips parted in a smile that showed her perfect, white teeth.
"It happens all the time, but I'm not used to it. When the men are as handsome as you, Paul, it's still an exciting event."
They sat on chairs opposite each other.
Her mouth returned to its normal formation-a half-pout that gave her a half-child, half-woman appearance and drove her male fans crazy with desire to kiss her.
Paul, a fan from way back, was working on the same desire, when one of the faggots approached them. It was her secretary, a delicate young man wearing eye shadow and sporting painted fingernails.
"Do you want to dictate some letters now?" he asked her.
"Might as well," Sonia replied.
Then, as the man took a seat on the sofa and produced a notepad and pencil, she glanced at Paul and sexily added:
"There's nothing you want me to do, is there, Paul?"
He purposely riveted his gaze on her packed bosom.
"No," he answered. "Go right ahead, Sonia. What I have for you can wait until later."
Damn it, he thought. She keeps giving me hints that she's hot to trot. If only I can get her alone long enough, I'll discover whether or not she really means it.
One thing was encouraging: her husband hadn't made the trip with her.
The plane taxied down the runway.
Sonia dictated letters, and Paul, with little else to do for the short flight to Vegas, retrieved the discarded script and read it a second time.
CHAPTER THREE
Kathy had expected dinner with Otto Hahn to be a memorable experience. After all, he was a famous producer and, doubtless, he'd take her to a swank restaurant where they'd converse with his fellow celebrities while eating the finest foods available.
It was an experience to remember, all right. But for a different reason from what she had anticipated.
To save time, Hahn had pizza delivered to his office and they munched away in silence, Kathy skimming a movie magazine and Hahn laboring at a furious clip, firing off memos into a dictaphone and rejecting a pile of scripts.
At nine-fifteen, Kathy grew tired of watching him work and scanning the same magazine. She curled up on the leather couch against a far wall and dozed off to sleep.
Shortly after ten o'clock, Hahn shook her by the shoulder.
"Come on-wake up," he said. "I'm finished here. Let's go have some fun."
"Gladly," Kathy said, jumping up and patting her blonde hair in place. "I'm bored to tears."
"Life can't always be exciting," Hahn commented. "Particularly when you're a big-time producer like I am. You have to work harder than when you were starving in order to keep one step ahead of the pack snapping at your heels."
They went downstairs to the parking lot and drove away from the studio in Hahn's red Jaguar. He steered a course across town and they headed into Beverly Hills.
Eventually they reached their destination-a rambling, two-story mansion surrounded by lawns, fountains, flower beds and trees.
"Is this where you live?" Kathy said with awe.
"Heavens, no," Hahn said firmly. "My house is much bigger than this dump."
"Whose is it then?" Kathy asked hopefully. "A film star?"
"No. A friend of mine. He invited us over." He turned toward her and put his hand on her leg, rubbing the area slightly above her knee. "He's a writer. He's done a western we're making right now. Duel In The Desert. We're doing the outdoor scenes in Nevada and then coming back to do the indoor stuff on the lot. I'm going to Las Vegas tomorrow." He caught hold of a section of soft flesh and squeezed it affectionately. "Be a good girl tonight, Kathy, and I'll take you along." He squeezed again-harder than the first time. "Be a real good girl and I'll do better than that. I'll get you a part in the picture."
Kathy's heart skipped a beat.
"Is that a promise, Mr. Hahn?" she asked.
"Yes, it is. I said yesterday that you'd passed the first test. Well, tonight's the second and last test. The writer and I are very good friends. We share things, if you know what I mean. Do what I ask and the role's yours."
"How big a part is it?" Kathy asked boldly.
"Big. The second love interest. About twenty-five minutes in screen time. You'd be noticed by every director and producer in the game."
"All right, Mr. Hahn," she said with determination. "Tonight you can do what you want with me. Anything."
Hahn smiled and his hand retreated from her leg.
They got out of the car and walked to the front door.
Kathy was surprised by her own reaction. She wasn't the least bit nervous; in fact, if she were asked how she felt at that very moment, she'd have to say calm, cool and collected. And happy. Yes, it was true. The prospect of surrendering herself to another stranger somehow made her quite happy.
She loved sex, really; and when one thought about it, why, it was the ideal way to make business deals, wasn't it? Trading highly enjoyable orgasms for fame and fortune. Why didn't everyone do it?
Hahn had been the first, and his writer friend-if she interpreted Hahn's words correctly-would be the second.
Who would be the third? Or the fourth and fifth? Yes, by golly, there would be a third, fourth and fifth, wouldn't there? Because now that she was getting the hang of it and had overcome her initial nervousness, she could see no reason at all for not going on like this forever.
Arthur Perkins was the writer's name. An Englishman, he'd been in Hollywood for ten years, churning out westerns and mysteries and commanding one of the top salaries in the industry.
He wore a tweed suit, had a silk scarf around his neck, and he wasn't too good looking. A man of forty-eight, he had a lantern jaw, beagle-like eyes, a lumpy nose and a protruding stomach.
However, Kathy had resolved to take him on-when and if Hahn gave her the go-ahead-and she didn't care if he looked like the Loch Ness monster.
If he has a cock, she thought, that's all I require to nail down that part in the picture.
There was another girl there too. A stacked redhead who called herself Purity Lee. She was a starlet, she said, and Arthur Perkins was helping her with her career.
The foursome had a drink in the tastefully furnished living room. After the drinks were served, Perkins dismissed his Puerto Rican maid, telling her to go home to bed.
When the maid was gone, he hugged the bosomy starlet, who was sitting on the sofa next to him.
"We had the maid last night," he said nonchalantly. "It isn't true what they say about Latin women. She was frigid, wasn't she, darling?"
"Terribly frigid," Purity answered just as casually. "Arthur had his tongue up her cunt for half an hour before she said it was nice. And her climax ... oh, I'm telling you, it took hours and hours. Arthur came twice and I had to finish her off with my hand."
Hahn laughed, and Kathy, though she couldn't see the humor in it, laughed along with him.
"Why don't we have a swim?" Purity suggested, climbing to her feet. "There's a pool in the back yard."
"I've got a better idea," Perkins said, rising. "Let's go into the den first, and then we can have a swim afterward."
Kathy and Hahn drained the last of their drinks and then followed Perkins and the starlet across the room and through a large carved-wood door.
Kathy observed Purity's walk with envy. She had a great figure. The hip-hugging slacks seemed welded to her firm, round buttocks, and the sweater seemed an inadequate container for the big breasts straining against the cashmere material.
The den turned out to be a room with one piece of furniture-an enormous bed. Or, more specifically, an enormous mattress covered by an expanse of red silk.
"That's the biggest bed I've ever seen," Kathy muttered.
"Hmmm," Hahn replied. "We've had six in it at once."
"Get the lights, will you, darling?" Perkins said.
Purity swivel-hipped to the wall and flicked a switch. The lighting changed from normal white to an erotic red glow.
Hahn closed the door and began unbuttoning his shirt.
"Okay, everybody strip," Perkins commanded.
Kathy didn't hesitate. She unzipped her miniskirt and let it flutter to the floor. Then she clutched the elastic rim of her panties and peeled them down over her rump.
She felt the heat rising in her thighs. Around her the others were stripping and flinging their clothing on the floor. It excited her to watch their bodies emerging from beneath their clothes. Strangely enough, it was Purity who excited her the most.
Kathy was conscious of her own thin frame-her frail legs and doe-like breasts. And Purity. God, she was lush. The starlet's slacks lay in a heap near her feet; and when she yanked her sweater over her head, Kathy saw her enticing melons bobbing in the black, silk bra.
Hahn, of course, was finished stripping first. He was too fast for all of them. Standing naked, patiently waiting, he cut an odd figure: short, stubby, bald and possessor of a tremendous penis that was now climbing erectly.
Kathy licked her lips at the sight of it. She was dying to have it in her mouth again.
She unhooked her bra, and her small breasts were released from captivity. She then kicked off her shoes and, bending, removed her stockings. When she straightened up, she was nude.
She looked at Purity. The redhead was removing her final garment, her bra. She undid the clasps and her bosom swung free.
Both of the men stood gaping at her naked breasts, especially at the pinkish nipples that extended a good inch beyond the base.
"Holy cow!" Perkins exclaimed. "I've been banging you for a week and I still can't stop myself from gawking at your cans. They're fabulous."
Perkins' cock, Kathy noted, stiffened and lifted in the air as he ogled Purity's ripe breasts. It wasn't a bad size, but Hahn's penis was unfair competition for any man. Hahn's cock was about two inches longer than Perkins' and twice as thick.
Yet Perkins' cock wasn't to be sneezed at. If you liked cocks-and Kathy did-then you had to admit that it had the necessary visual appeal to start women twitching.
And Kathy was twitching.
Her cunt was itchy and her thighs tingling and her breasts were hot. The presence of two erect members and Purity's voluptuous torso had struck a match to her sensual fires.
"Let's have a race," Perkins said to Hahn. "The last one to come has to pour the second round of drinks for everyone."
"Fine," the producer agreed. "But may I make a suggestion? No mouths allowed. A straightforward, unadulterated jerking contest."
"Wonderful!" Perkins beamed. "Okay, girls, do your stuff."
Kathy was a trifle confused as to what she was required to do. But when the two men lay down on the mattress, she caught on immediately. They were side by side, their legs were split wide open and the bottom halves of their bodies dangled over the edge of the bed.
Kathy and Purity descended to their knees. They crouched between the men's legs. Kathy was with Hahn and Purity with Perkins.
"Hold it a minute," Perkins said. "Why don't we swap girls? I'd like to see what your sexy little blonde can do, Otto."
"Certainly," Hahn said. "Purity's boobs will make fascinating viewing for me. It will be a pleasure to have them near."
The girls quickly switched partners, crawling on all fours. Then, crouching as before, their faces a few inches from the men's genitals, they waited for the starting signal.
Purity was overwhelmed by the height and width of Hahn's dick. It shot straight up, pointing straight up toward the ceiling like a big hunk of steel. She gazed at it with awe, and as Kathy had done earlier, ran her tongue over her lips.
"Please, Mr. Perkins," she pleaded, "can we have a warm-up before we begin? Just a little sucking. Nothing serious."
"Okay," Perkins sighed. "If you insist. But only for a moment."
Purity lunged at Hahn's swollen cock as if she were a hungry python. She clamped her lips around it and vacuumed almost all of it inside her mouth. She sucked it energetically for several seconds and then released it, licking the knob with a series of rapier-like strokes.
Kathy was curious about Perkins' shaft. She wondered how it would feel in her mouth. As Purity tongued Hahn's purplish tip-doing things to the producer that Kathy herself had longed to do-she bent her head forward and introduced Perkins' cock to the moist, warm interior beyond her lips.
It felt good, his cock. Although she preferred the sheer bulk of Hahn's huge stinger, she liked the neat way Perkins' rod fit her mouth. It was neither too big or too small-a perfect size. She could get most of it inside without too much trouble, a feat she could never hope to accomplish with Hahn.
It was hard too, and pulsing, and was every bit as tasty as Hahn's had been.
She sucked it slowly and methodically, and when she took it out of her mouth, it was to plant a row of kisses on the knob. Her lips traveled down the stem to the flat region from whence the penis came. On an instinct, she took the balls in her hand, kissed them tenderly, then sucked one into her mouth where she rolled it around with her tongue.
"Ohhhh! Heaven forbid!" Perkins yelled. "No more! Stop! I'll come too soon if you don't."
Kathy opened her mouth and the ball toppled out, rejoining its brother.
"That's it for the warm-up," Perkins said jokingly. "It's too much for my poor nerves. I'm an old man, remember? I'm not a young stud."
Both girls withdrew from their companions' crotches. Each took a firm grip on a penis and watched for Perkins' signal.
Hahn was somewhat glassy eyed. He raised his head from the mattress and craned his neck to peer at Purity's succulent body. Her breasts were rising and falling with her measured breathing, and he stared at them, enthalled by their size and form.
"Talk to me later about a picture Arthur and I are doing," he told the redhead. "Kathy's in it and I think I have a part for you too."
"Thank you, Mr. Hahn," Purity bubbled.
Hahn put his head back on the mattress.
Kathy was as pleased as Purity was by his remark. He had said she was in it. That meant she had passed the second and last test. Her willingness to play games with his friend Perkins had persuaded him to be nice to her.
"Go, girls, go!" Perkins suddenly declared.
The signal had been given. The girls started jerking.
Purity, her breasts bouncing wildly, went at Hahn's cock with furious movements, squashing it with her fingers and pumping on it like a runaway piston.
Kathy was more skilled in the art of jerking men off. She had done it before-many, many, many times-in fact, to her uncle and the oversexed schoolteacher in the small New York town where she'd grown up. Quick, desperate motions, she knew, were not the answer.
She held Perkins' cock tightly, but not roughly, and built up a constant rhythm. Up and down. Up and down. Her fingers stroked gently, applying pressure now and then and rapidly loosening again.
"Ouch!" she heard Hahn cry. "Don't be so rough. You're hurting me."
"I'm sorry, Mr. Hahn," Purity said. "I don't do this too well without using my mouth."
Kathy smiled to herself. She knew she and Perkins were going to win.
She maintained her steady pace-jerking easily, fluidly, with a deft hand, until she saw the muscles tighten in Perkins' legs and thighs.
He was ready to come.
She increased her speed and asserted pressure on his shaft. He raised his buttocks off the mattress, and, cursing violently, he fired his load into the air, barely missing her head.
She ceased stroking only when the muscles were limp and his cock lost some of its rigidity.
Glancing at the other couple, she noticed that Hahn was entering the homestretch. Purity was laboring frantically, jerking for all her might, and he was shouting something about pain as his climax hit him.
Perkins got up from the bed and, bending, presented Kathy with an affectionate kiss on the forehead.
"Very good work, my dear," he said. "We must do this again sometime. Perhaps in half an hour or so. If you can stay."
"I can stay," Kathy said. "I don't have anywhere I have to go tonight."
"Good."
Hahn rose and, wearing a disgruntled expression, padded barefoot out of the room. "Where you going?" Perkins inquired.
"To mix the drinks," Hahn said. "I can use one. That girl practically ripped my cock off. I'll have to show her how to do it properly."
"Well, serve the drinks at the pool," Perkins said. "The neighbors won't be able to see you, so don't worry about that. There's a high wall around the back yard." He started across the room, tracing Hahn's route. "Come on, girls. Swim time."
Perkins walked through the door and left the two actresses sitting on the floor at the foot of the bed.
"Those men are horrible," Purity said, pouting her lips. "They never think of their women. It's always them and their fun. Sometimes I wish I'd never come to Hollywood."
"Where are you from?" Kathy asked.
"Dallas, Texas. I'm a farmer's daughter, believe it or not. My father had a ranch outside the city."
"Does Perkins always do it this way?" Kathy inquired. "I mean, the jerking-off bit?"
"Yes. They're birds of a feather, he and Hahn. Perkins has never laid me the proper way. It's always this or with his mouth. Even when he has lots of people here it's just a succession of acts for his own gratification, and I nearly always go to bed feeling frustrated and unfulfilled."
Kathy gazed at Purity's body and puzzled about how anyone could be so sick. Purity was exotic fruit, ripe for the plucking. Perkins must be mentally ill or he would realize that her gigantic breasts and full buttocks were made for screwing.
Kathy's eyes dropped to the V-shaped patch in the juncture of her thighs.
That was made for screwing too, she thought.
It's a mighty alluring snatch she's got there. How could a man resist ramming his cock up it?
Impulsively, Kathy reached over and touched Purity's breast. She ran the tips of her junglered fingernails down one slope and into the ravine.
"You're very lovely," Kathy said huskily. "You are built like a Greek goddess."
"Really?" Purity said lightly. "I'd rather have a body like yours. You're so trim and athletic looking. I have to exercise all the time to keep in shape. Obviously, you've got the kind of figure that stays the same. You're the lucky one, Kathy, not me."
Purity didn't cringe or show any reluctance to have Kathy's fingers skim the valley between her breasts. However, when Kathy's hand came up over a slope and touched a nipple she displayed a definite reaction.
She closed her eyes and emitted a low moan.
"I'm not a Lesbian," she said softly, "but I'm so desperate to have someone satisfy me. If you want to, Kathy, if it doesn't repel you, please make love to me. Please make me come!"
Kathy wasn't a Lesbian, either. But she had had an affair with one in New York City. Her drama coach, a warm, motherly woman who had seduced Kathy one afternoon when they were alone in the studio.
The affair had lasted three months. Kathy had emerged from it more convinced than ever that she preferred men to women, but it had been so enjoyable that she realized she would probably do it again if she found someone attractive enough.
Someone like Purity, for instance.
Kathy trapped the nipple between her fore-, finger and thumb and rubbed it vigorously. Purity groaned.
"All right," Kathy said. "On the bed."
Hastily they both got up and threw themselves on the mattress. Purity shut her eyes again and Kathy went to work on her.
Grasping her own small breasts in her hands, she rubbed the nipples hard against Purity's twin peaks. Then, lying on top of the redhead, she kissed her long and hot on the mouth. Purity's tongue mingled with hers.
She was hungry for gratification, all right. Perkins and Hahn had employed a brand of "me only" sex that had left her yearning for a partner who would take the trouble to send her all the way instead of merely turning on her motor and leaving it to run down by itself.
She French kissed Kathy with passion, and when their lips separated she kissed the blonde's eyes and nose and the slender white column of her neck.
Kathy's hands were everywhere. Probing recesses and mounds. Feeling the opulence of her buttocks, caressing her delicate nipples, ploughing through the silky strands of her flaming-red hair.
Then they were in the core of Purity's desire. Exploring. One hand opened the lips hidden beneath downy soft hair, and the other hand ventured inside.
"Do it to me," Purity begged. "Frig me, Kathy! Frig me!"
Kathy's fingers obeyed her feverish instruction. They dipped deeper inside-three, then four fingers crammed into her as far as they would go.
The sides of her vagina were velvety; moisture flooded her cunt like water bursting through barren earth.
Purity kissed Kathy's breasts. She bit the nipples-sharply, greedily-and Kathy was jarred by lustful sensations.
Purity was a novice to Lesbian lovemaking. She was at her best in the standard man-woman coupling. However, she was learning fast. Whatever Kathy did to her, she repeated on the blonde's body. Her hands roamed Kathy's frame as freely and lovingly as Kathy's hands had roamed hers.
Kathy frigged her. She stroked her fingers back and forth in the wet hole, creating-as she had with Perkins-a consistent movement that didn't skip a single beat.
Purity was swimming in a sea of joy. She clutched Kathy's narrow buttocks, one in each hand, and pressed them hard. Then she placed one hand on Kathy's hairy twat and caressed the outer lips.
"I want to do it to you too," Purity said throatily.
Kathy slid off her without missing a stroke. They were side by side now, close together, and Purity's hand found easy access to her companion's cunt.
Kathy gasped as the lush redhead's fingers stumbled upon her clitoris and concentrated their action in that super-sensitive little switch.
They were completely locked in amorous combat. Each one was swiftly, rhythmically fingering the other's cunt and producing indescribable spasms of delight.
Their breasts were pressing, nipples upon nipples, and their lips met time and again for heated kisses.
The stroking grew even more intense.
Their bodies bucked and squirmed and they were both grunting and uttering weird sounds in their throats.
They climbed and climbed and climbed. Then they reached the summit and were plunging headlong into an eternity of bliss.
Purity shrieked and tore into Kathy's back with her fingernails.
The eternity faded and died.
"What's going on in here?" Perkins said, racing into the room, a drink in his hand. "I heard someone scream."
"Nothing," Kathy said, pulling her fingers from Purity's smoldering twat. "We were just having a little experiment."
Perkins grinned.
"I'll be damned," he said. "You two were making it, weren't you? The next time you do that, would you please tell Otto and me in advance? We'd like to watch."
He wheeled on his heels and strolled out again.
"Pervert," Purity declared. "He doesn't like sex unless it's unnatural."
"I guess it takes all kinds to fill a world," Kathy said.
"It sure does. All kinds."
They got up and walked, hand in hand, toward the back yard and a dip in Perkins' swimming pool.
CHAPTER FOUR
Landing in Las Vegas, Paul Scott encountered a major disappointment. A Rolls Royce met the plane at the airport, and a portly, distinguished man got out. It was Sonia's husband, the Count. He had arrived by commercial airline the previous day, he said, and was attending to some business in the gambling mecca.
"What business?" Paul inquired. "What could a diplomat have to do in a sin city?"
He didn't answer. He took Sonia by the arm, and the two of them disappeared into the back seat of the Rolls.
Paul collected his bag from the plane and walked to a nearby cab stand.
The Count had been very brisk with him. He hadn't replied to his question-even though Paul had made it seem an innocent one-and he hadn't offered him a lift to the hotel.
"Are you going to the Palms?" the faggot hairdresser asked, running up behind Paul. "We could share a taxi."
"No, thanks," Paul said tersely. "I like to ride alone. I know it's a queer habit of mine, but it's the only thing queer about me."
The homo took the hint. He shrugged his shoulders and moved off to join his friends.
Paul went directly to the Palms and checked into the suite Kazan had booked for him. Three rooms appointed in a rich French motif of gold and blue colors. For two dollars, the bellboy phoned the desk and relayed the news that Miss Lombardo's suite was located on the same floor as his. Right next door, in fact.
Old Kazan thinks of everything, Paul thought.
He unpacked his clothes and slipped the .45 under the pillow on his bed. Then he went downstairs for dinner.
The three faggots ate at a table near his, and he listened to what they were saying, hoping they might drop a clue that would help him solve the Sonia Lombardo puzzle. But all they talked about was who was and who wasn't queer in Hollywood.
Prior to going to bed, Paul put in a call to Bugsy Seymour, a private detective he had often used on Nevada jobs.
Bugsy had a bad reputation in the business and several times came close to losing his license.
His reputation was bad because of the jobs that people like Paul handed him. Wire tapping.
Paul told him Sonia's room number and when she'd be on the set. Then he hung up and went to sleep, confident that by tomorrow afternoon he'd have a pipeline into the movie queen's suite.
The first day's shooting went badly. The film crew had taken over a sprawling ranch fifteen miles from downtown Las Vegas.
Olympic Films was paying the owner a thousand dollars a day to have a two-week vacation in San Francisco and to give its men control of the property.
The director Harvey Rankin was clean cut, thirty years old and given to wearing turtleneck sweaters. He had been chosen for Duel In The Desert by Otto Hahn after he'd won an award on his TV series, The Gunslinger.
It was his first full-length picture and he was going crazy already.
"Hey, are you Paul Scott?" he shouted, storming across the empty corral to greet the troubleshooter. "I've got to talk to you."
"Yes, I'm Scott. What's the matter?"
"It's Jack Wynn. Everyone's here and raring to go and he won't budge. I thought if you talked to him...."
"Not me," Paul said. "I've got other problems."
"You're the troubleshooter, aren't you?"
"Yeah, but not for Wynn. I have a special assignment this time out. Personal publicity for Sonia Lombardo. Nothing else."
"Please!" Rankin pleaded. "This is my first picture. If I miss a day's shooting without a good reason, it will look bad for me."
"Okay," Paul sighed. "I'll give it a try. Where is he?"
Rankin pointed to the ranch house steps. Wynn was sitting there, chewing Bull Durham.
They walked in his direction, and, as they walked, the familiar Wynn physique took shape-six feet, four inches tall, broad shouldered, leathery faced, dressed in dusty cowboy clothes.
"Why won't he work?" Paul asked.
"He says he wants his regular horse. He won't do a scene without it. The public doesn't know the difference, but I can't convince him of that."
Wynn glanced up as they approached. He recognized Paul and flashed a friendly smile.
"I reckon this young fella's been tellin' stories about me," he said, spitting tobacco onto the ground.
"He says you won't work, Jack. It's none of my business. I'm strictly Sonia Lombardo's baby on this trip, but the old man-Kazan-he won't go for it. He might fly out here and box your ears for you."
"Let him," Wynn said, taking another chunk of tobacco. "I haven't had a good scrap in weeks. You know what they've done? They brought me a horse that looks like Nell but ain't her."
"They're identical," Rankin put in. "Nobody in the audience will know the difference. Besides, Nell is on her way. Can't you do a couple of scenes, and when Nell arrives...."
"If Nell arrives," Wynn interrupted. "I don't trust you fellas. You're thinkin' why should you get Nell if I'll settle for this pony." He glanced at the horse in question, a black animal tied to a hitching post a few feet away. "Sonny boy, there is a difference. Nell's a she-horse; this here critter is a he-horse. Or maybe you don't know there's such a thing as different sexes."
In the distance, a car pulling a horse trailer turned off the main highway and roared up the dirt road to the ranch. All three men watched its progress. The trailer finally stopped near a circle of cameras and lighting equipment, where the technicians and other actors were having an extra-long coffee break.
Inside the trailer, a horse whinnied.
"Son of a gun!" Wynn said, lighting up. "That's Nell!"
He pulled himself erect-towering over the two men-and ambled, slightly bow-legged, across the yard toward the trailer.
"How does he know it's the right horse?" Rankin asked.
"Easy," Paul said. "The horse must've told him."
"You know, Scott, that guy gives me the creeps.
He isn't normal."
"He's a big man. Six foot, four inches."
"I don't mean his size. I mean the way he behaves. He hasn't even looked at Sonia Lombardo yet, and that isn't normal. You think maybe he's a homo?"
"I hope not," Paul laughed. "Because if he is and he makes a pass at me, I might have to surrender. I'd hate to be his enemy."
"Yeah, so would I."
The shooting began fifteen minutes later. Wynn mounted Nell and a mobile unit followed him across the bald desert for a reel in which he was pretending to hunt for stray cattle.
Sonia's three faggots were on the set most of the morning. The acting coach helped Sonia with her lines and the other two minced about watching the filming.
In the afternoon, they went back to town. Most of the crew members and Wynn were bedded down at the ranch itself, and for the others Olympic had arranged limousines back and forth from Vegas. The faggots took a limousine, and Paul trailed them in a new Ford he'd rented at the hotel.
Sonia would be busy all day at the ranch. She'd be doing a love scene with Wynn, and that always required a great deal of time. Wynn would handle women in romantic clenches as if they were reptiles and he was frightened of being bitten.
The queers, Paul figured, might tip him off to something-that is, if they were on to something themselves. He had been given no suspicion that they might be, but he didn't have anything else to do, anyway.
The trio went straight to the Palms, and Sonia's room. The secretary had a key, and there were some letters he wanted to pick up.
Paul rushed into his suite and was relieved to see the equipment sitting in his bedroom, where Bugsy had left it for him. He put on the earphones and switched on the tape recorder.
"Well, la-dee-da for you," the hairdresser was saying. "So your old boy friend is a member of the U.S. Marines. That doesn't impress me at all."
"Oh, yeah?" fired back the acting coach. "Well, it's a darn sight better than your background, Ronnie. We all know if it hadn't been for Sonia, you'd still be pimping on Forty-second Street-and for girls too."
"A queer quarrel," Paul moaned. "That's all I need."
"Would you ladies please shut your pretty mouths," the secretary bellowed. "I'm trying to read."
Paul had to congratulate himself on being able to distinguish one of the faggots from the other. Not only did they all look similar-slim, limpwristed young men who pranced and seldom walked-but their voices also had a similar highpitch lilt to them.
What in the name of heaven, Paul asked himself again, is Sonia doing surrounded by all these faggots?
He received the answer a minute later.
The Count entered the suite. Paul heard him exchange brief words with the secretary in the outer room and then walk into the bedroom where the hairdresser and the acting coach were apparently lounging on the bed.
Bugsy had done a thorough job. He had bugged every room in the suite and the sounds were coming through, loud and clear.
"Hello, boys," the Count said warmly. "What are you two doing here? It's too early in the day for sex, isn't it?"
"It's too early with him!" the hairdresser fumed. "He's been cruel to me again."
"Now, Vito," the Count scolded him. "Don't be a mean boy. I can't have you two fighting. Sonia has been acting up about your presence here as it is."
"The bitch!" the acting coach said. "What has she been saying?"
"If you must know, she says she's sick and tired of having a houseful of faggots around her. She says she tolerates you only because of me and her toleration is getting thinner every day. So please, fellows, don't cause a fuss. No more fights-especially when Sonia's near at hand. Okay?"
That was a surprise to Paul. The Count was a queer.
Paul grinned from ear to ear.
Wow! that meant that he was probably passing up his opportunities to bang Sonia and that meant she was probably anxious for a piece.
"Okay," said the hairdresser.
"I'll try," chimed in the acting coach.
"Good. Now kiss and make up," the Count ordered.
There was a rustling noise as the two men reached for each other on the bed. A long silence, then:
"Damn you, Ronnie. He said kiss and make up. He didn't say to goose me."
"I thought you liked being goosed," the hairdresser said.
"Only when I know it's coming. You took me by surprise and I got a scare."
"All right. I promise I won't do it again without telling you first."
A dresser drawer opened and closed.
"How do you like it? My new bathing suit," the Count inquired.
"It's very modest looking. Completely black," answered the hairdresser. "I prefer pink or green ones myself."
"Hmmm. Well, it will do me. I'm going swimming in the pool downstairs."
"Can we go to the party tomorrow night?" the acting coach asked.
"Certainly. We're all invited. You can go drag, if you want. Sanchez doesn't care what people wear or do at his parties."
"Oh, good," the hairdresser said. "I can wear my strapless cocktail dress."
The Count departed.
After the hall door shut behind him, the hairdresser laughed and rolled on the bed.
"Boy, if he only knew," he said. "He thinks Sonia doesn't want us around."
"She wants him to think that," the acting coach said, "so he won't be suspicious."
"We'll be rich and the poor Count will be left holding the bag."
"An empty bag at that," the acting coach chuckled.
The secretary came into the bedroom. "I'm finished. Let's go."
"Do you think the Count will wear drag at the party?" the hairdresser asked.
"Never," said the secretary. "He wouldn't be caught dead in homo gear. He has his image to protect."
They left the suite.
Paul turned off the tape recorder. He put the earphones on his bed and paced the room briefly.
What was it all about? The three faggots and Sonia were conspiring to do something that the Count was being cut out of. Didn't they say he'd be left holding the bag too? That sounded as though he would have the money or access to what they were after, and, in the end, he'd be done out of it.
Anyway, there was no use trying to fit the puzzle together yet. Too many of the pieces were missing.
Paul put in a call to Bugsy.
"Who is Sanchez?" Paul asked.
"Could be a Mexican-American," Bugsy replied. "There's a lot of them living here. In what connection did you hear his name?"
"A party tomorrow night. I don't know where or when, but I'd like to know. If it's interesting, I'd better crash it."
"A party, heh? Well, that can only be one guy-Romero Sanchez, the disposed dictator. He has a place in the desert and he holds three parties a week."
Bugsy knew plenty about Sanchez. He had been thrown out of power in a small South American nation and replaced by a regime dedicated to ending corruption.
Sanchez had rented a lavish place near Vegas and his parties were renowned for their wildness. There were rumors of call girls and male prostitutes being flown in from New York and Los Angeles to please the guests, and teen-age virgins imported from Mexico to please the host.
Sanchez traveled in high social circles and was a friend to many industrialists, film stars, politicians, bankers, etcetera. He reportedly had brought millions of dollars with him on the flight from his native land and was spending it at a furious rate.
Paul decided that he was undoubtedly his man. Someone like Sanchez wouldn't pass up a chance to entertain Sonia Lombardo and her companions. Or the Count, either, for that matter.
Bugsy told Paul how to get to his ranch and then dropped a cautioning line:
"Be careful, Paul. He has some tough playmates on his staff. Real thugs of the killer variety."
"Thanks, Bugsy. I will."
He hung up.
Yes, he'd have to crash that party, all right. Perhaps Sonia's get-rich scheme had a link with Sanchez and his millions. Well, he'd have to be there, snooping around, if he was to stumble upon any clues.
The sun beat down on Las Vegas like an avenging devil. It was one of the hottest days in years, the waiter had told Paul.
People walking on the sidewalks were dripping sweat; the streets were bulging with stalled cars.
Fortunately, the Palms was fully air conditioned, and Paul was sitting in cool comfort in the downstairs restaurant, eating a thick T-bone steak.
An unexpected visitor joined him. Otto Hahn.
"Mind if I sit down?" Hahn said, dropping into a chair without waiting for a reply. "I hate eating alone in strange places."
Paul doubted that. He knew Hahn fairly well from business run-ins at the studio, and he figured him for a hard-shelled customer that nothing could disturb.
"Go ahead," Paul said, as Hahn picked up the menu. "Make yourself at home."
Hahn ordered fried chicken and asked the waiter to bring him a phone as well.
He lit a fat cigar, blew some smoke in the air, and then regarded Paul with a cold eye.
"I heard you were handling publicity on this pic," he said. "I want you to do me a favor. I've got a girl with me-she's out shopping right now. I'm getting her a part and I'd be grateful if you'd give her a push. Maybe drop her name to a couple of columnists."
So that's why Hahn had joined him. He wanted to please some chick who was putting out for him. He probably thought she'd give him an extra-special blow job if he arranged to have her name in the columns.
"Sorry, Otto. No dice. I'm working exclusively for Sonia. On Kazan's orders."
Hahn screwed up his face in a sour expression.
"Who's doing the publicity for the picture then?"
"Nobody. They're going to do the whole thing from the studio publicity office when we get back to L.A. They figure it will be better, because Sonia and Jack will have more to tell the press-you know, material about their hardships while filming in the desert."
Paul had recalled the publicity arrangements from an inter-office memo he had glimpsed a month previously. It hadn't meant much to him at the time, but he'd remembered it nonetheless.
Hahn grunted.
"I guess they're right," he said vaguely.
The chicken and the phone arrived at the table at the same time.
Hahn butted his cigar and reached for the phone, shoving the chicken aside.
He called an agent in L.A.
"Listen, Morris, Marlene Gale is supposed to come up here tomorrow to do a film for us. Duel In The Desert. She's got the second lead. Well, I've changed my mind. I don't want her. What? I don't give a shit if she has got a contract. Tell her to rip it up. What? Yeah, well, if she doesn't rip it up she'll never work for Olympic again. Yeah. Okay. Good. What? No, nothing like that. I've got another girl for the part. Tell Marlene there's a Tony Corizon pic coming up next month and she's down for the second lead in it. I'll give you my word, the part's hers. Okay? Fine. No, you haven't heard of the girl I've got. She doesn't have an agent. She isn't big enough. She says nobody wanted her. What? Sure; I'll tell her to call you, and you two can get together when we fly back. Her name's Kathy Meyers. A bit skinny but a nice kid. What? No, I haven't the slightest idea how well she can act. I'll find out after the picture's done. Who cares, anyway, in a movie that's got Lombardo and Wynn. Okay. Okay. Fine. Great. 'Bye."
He replaced the receiver in the cradle and looked at Paul.
"Something the matter, Scott? You seem upset."
"The girl you mentioned-Kathy Meyers-is she from New York?"
"Yeah. I think she's done off-Broadway stuff but I'm not sure."
"Oh."
"Why? You know her?"
"Could be. What does she look like?"
Hahn's eyes became riveted to an object over Paul's shoulder.
"That's who she looks like," he said. "Slim and pretty, and oozing sex appeal."
Paul turned his head and saw her.
Hahn's Kathy Meyers and his Kathy Meyers were one and the same.
The trim blonde actress was stepping across the room, carrying an armful of parcels. When she spotted Paul, she stumbled from the shock of recognition and one of the parcels hit the floor.
A waiter picked it up for her. She said something to him and then wheeled and marched back out the restaurant door.
The waiter came over to their table.
"The young lady said to inform you that she has taken the parcels upstairs," he told Hahn. "She said she has a headache and won't be down for lunch."
"Stupid broad," Hahn muttered. "Ahh, well, it saves me money. I won't have to pay for her meal."
Paul pushed his half-finished steak away from him and, paying the bill, went for a long walk in the streets outside.
CHAPTER FIVE
Kathy had made it. She was where she wanted to be-right up there with the film stars she had admired for so long from a distance.
The second lead in a Wynn-Lombardo film. Yes, she'd be noticed, all right. She was extremely pretty and, as Hahn had pointed out, she oozed sex appeal.
But she also had something that that idiot Hahn didn't even realize-she could act. She was a far better actress than half of the cows in Hollywood.
This picture could do it for her. Push her to the top of the profession. The offers would be pouring in as soon as it was released. You could bet on it.
Paul Scott cruised the sweltering pavements of Las Vegas, thinking of Kathy Meyers and the times they'd had together.
He went into a few gambling casinos and tried his luck at the wheels, but he really wasn't in the mood and he didn't bat an eyelash as he dropped fifty dollars here and seventy dollars there.
For the most part, he walked.
He had loved Kathy Meyers in the old days. Back in New York. But did he love her now? No, he was certain that he didn't. When he'd seen her at the Palms he had registered surprise-as he had when he'd heard Hahn mention her name. Surprise-and maybe nostalgia-but not love.
No, Paul Scott wasn't the type of man who loved women anymore. Bitter experiences had taught him a simple lesson-never become emotionally involved with chicks. Enjoy them-reap all the pleasure you can from their delectable bodies-but never, never become emotionally involved.
He remembered, though, how it had been with Kathy. That summer three years ago. In New York.
Paul had been in Viet Nam. Not as a soldier, but as a reporter for a wire service. He had discovered that front-line journalists got paid three times as much as those who hung around the bar in Saigon's Caraville Hotel, and he had signed up for combat duty.
"You're taking over for a good man," the news editor had told him on the long-distance phone from Australia. "He was up in the front lines for three months before he-ah-well, before he died. Keep your stories short and keep your head down. Mostly, we can color stuff on the boys themselves; who they are, where they come from, whether they want to go home for Christmas-that sort of stuff. Oh ... good luck."
After Paul hung up and strolled back into the bar, he told some of the newsmen gathered there that he'd been accepted for combat reporting.
"It was nice to know you, Scott," one of them had sneered. "The last guy lasted only three months. I hope you beat his record."
"Never mind the last guy," somebody else had said. "The one before him was there four days before a Cong blasted him in the back of the head."
"Keep your head down, Scott. Just try to keep it down."
Paul tried. He stomped through the swamps and jungles with four different units and sent back reams of highly readable copy. He beat his predecessors' record by three months, although twice he came close to dying in machinegun ambushes on mountain trails.
At the end of six months, he returned to Saigon and toured the brothels with a group of his colleagues.
The Vietnamese girls were slender and child like, and in the sack they performed beautifully, dedicating themselves to pleasing their customers.
He normally didn't frequent such places back in the States, but when you've been up front for six months, without seeing hide nor hair of a fuckable broad, you take to them like ducks to water.
He extended his brothel tour to one week in a particularly pleasing spot. Upstairs over the Ho-Lin Bar. He spent fifteen hundred dollars on a variety of sloe-eyed lovelies and sauntered out into the sunshine again one morning and took a taxi to the Caraville Hotel.
From the lobby, he phoned the news editor at the wire service's head office in Sydney.
"I'm quitting," he had said simply. "I've had enough."
He flew to Honolulu and from there sailed to San Francisco on a freighter. He wanted to rest, and when the ship finally docked, he was in good shape.
On a whim, having several thousand dollars and nothing to do, he grabbed a plane to New York. He would take in some plays and buy some clothes and then look for work when his money ran out.
Ironically, after surviving the Viet Nam's hell, he was a victim of New York's inferno. The day he arrived he was struck down on Fifth Avenue by a mad sniper. The fellow went berserk and sat on a department store roof firing a .22 into the crowd below. Paul got it in the leg and arm. He collapsed to the sidewalk, and after the police gunned down the sniper, he was rushed to the hospital.
The first face he saw, after the surgeons removed the bullets, belonged to Kathy Meyers. She was a nurse at the hospital, and when Paul woke up he engaged her in conversation.
"I gather I'm in a private room," he'd said, peering around him.
"Yes, Mr. Scott," she'd said. "The wards were crammed. A truck hit a bus, and we've got forty casualities. If you think it's too expensive here, I can try and find you a bed somewhere else, tomorrow."
"No, this is fine," Paul had said. "I came to New York to spend money, so why not spend it on a private room?"
He was in bed, garbed in the striped pajamas the hospital had provided. Kathy was standing beside him, preparing to take his temperature. She was fresh and neat in the white, starched uniform.
"You don't look like a nurse," Paul had said jokingly. "All the nurses I've ever had were old bags or young ones with pocked faces."
Kathy chuckled.
"I'm definitely a nurse. But if it makes any difference to you, I'm only doing this for a little while. I'm trying to save some money. I'm an actress. If I save enough, I can do more off Broadway plays without starving to death."
She seemed young to Paul. Very young.
"How old are you?" he'd asked.
"Me? Twenty-one."
She put the thermometer in his mouth, and he waited until she took it out again, before saying:
"I hate to be picky, but you're not twenty-one. "
The girl wasn't offended by his remark. In stead, her eyes glittered. She was amused.
"How old am I then? Twelve? Thirteen?"
"More like sixteen or seventeen," he'd said. "You have an adult way of talking and walking, but underneath it all, I'm positive you're still a teen-ager."
The girl had smiled, scribbled his temperature on a notepad and shoved the thermometer and the notepad in her uniform pocket.
"I'll tell you a secret," she said waggishly. "Because I'm quitting pretty soon; and, besides, I've got a hunch you wouldn't tell on me, anyway." She had lowered her voice and moved closer to the bed. "I'm seventeen."
"How can you work here?" Paul had asked. "You surely haven't had training, if you're that young."
"I have a friend," the girl had said softly. "Dr. Alcock. He's the chief surgeon here. I met him at a musical. We had seats next to each other. He said he had influence and he'd get me on staff without having any experience."
Dr. Alcock, heh? I wonder what you had to do for him in return? Paul had wondered.
"He must be some doctor," Paul had said lightly. "Sending an inexperienced nurse to tend his patients."
"Why not?" she had shrugged. "He couldn't care less about medicine. He's sick of sick people. He says he gets depressed looking at them. Having me here somehow amuses him."
I bet it does, Paul had thought. And what else about you amuses him? Playing with your young, eager body?
"See you later," Kathy had said, heading for the door. "Don't reveal my secret."
"It's safe with me," Paul had assured her.
"Besides, no one would believe it if I told them."
He was in the hospital for a week. His wounds healed nicely, leaving slight scars, and after the third day of lying on his back, doing nothing, he was ready for some action-preferably sexual action.
Kathy Meyers was his target. It surprised him that he, a thirty-year-old man, could be so attracted to a mere slip of a thing who had logged only seventeen years on earth.
What surprised him even more was the extent of his attraction. He was in love with her.
She came to his room every day, and, perched on the edge of the bed, told him of her ambitions. She would work off-Broadway for small fees and pray that a producer spotted her and decreed that she was meant for bigger and better things. Eventually, if the producer didn't come seeking her, she'd take the big step and move to Hollywood-for she'd give anything, she'd said, to be a film star.
Paul kissed her one day. She fell into his arms and her lips pressed on his with more knowledge than her seventeen years would suggest. Her tongue slipped into his mouth. His hand unbuttoned the front of her uniform and caressed her breasts.
A bell rang in the corridor and she hurriedly jumped up. She had to be on duty on another floor.
That night, Paul was awakened from his sleep by the presence of a female form in bed next to him. A woman was there, gently touching his dozing penis, her lips kissing his ear and the hairline near it.
It was Kathy.
Her uniform lay on a chair and she was naked.
Paul kissed her lips, tenderly. His hands found her breasts and cupped them. His palms rubbed in a slow, circling motion and her nipples hardened and grew into tough little points.
As he had suspected, she was an inexperienced nurse but an experienced lover.
He learned this the moment his lips quit hers and she blurted out:
"Paul, Paul! I've wanted to screw you since the first minute I saw you. God, I'll crumble and die if I don't have your cock inside me."
Those were brazen words. The kind of statement that only a female well versed in the sexual arts could make.
Kathy's hand had crept inside the slit in his pajamas when she'd gotten into bed. Now it was moving. Gently stroking, nudging his sleeping giant until it awakened and throbbed in her fingers.
"Wait a minute," he had said. "I'll take off the bottoms."
She took her hand away and he wiggled the striped pajamas down over his muscular hips-stopping when they reached his knees.
"That's good enough," he'd said, anxious to feel her hand on his cock again.
She obliged him without his having to ask. The fingers coiled around the stem and pumped a wave of thrills into his loins.
Paul moaned.
"Oooo, that's nice," he said.
"You're hung like a horse," she'd said. "Your cock's gigantic."
She worked with it for some time, pulling, massaging and stroking. Magically, in her hand, it seemed to grow larger than Paul had assumed possible. It sprouted from his loins like a huge, thick flagpole.
He loved what she was doing-the sweet agony was making his head swirl-but he wanted to be inside her as much as she had professed to have him be there.
"No more, darling," he said quietly. "It's my turn now."
She let go of his incredible tool and he buzzed her hard nipples with his lips before sending his hand on its mission down below.
Anticipating his purpose, Kathy's legs scissored open to allow him freer entry and her pussy gaped at his cock like a hungry begger contemplating a banquet.
He paid brief homage to her curly, soft hair-petting it and marveling in how smooth it felt-and then his fingers plunged deep into her steamy cunt.
She was tight, but not too tight, and her box easily gobbled up all four fingers that he offered it.
"Ooooeeee," Kathy uttered. "I-I'm ready."
She was too. Her cunt was hot and squirting juices, and her hips squirmed like a snake caught on a spear.
Paul yanked his fingers out and moved his thighs in a lightning-quick thrust that scored a direct hit on her craving cunt. The tip vanished inside her, past the moist, clasping lips of her cleft.
She wanted all that he could give her. She was burning with pleasure and the expectation of more of the same.
She grabbed his buttocks and prodded him to shove more of his cock into her hole. He fed her another inch, then another, then another.
She opened up like a flower, and he was pleasantly surprised to discover that as tight as her hole had seemed, it had the ability to expand and take as much as he wanted to deliver.
He delivered almost all of it. Half an inch, perhaps, was remaining outside her frothing pussy.
He felt a million little trickles of pleasure grinding through his system. The trickles became massive rivers when Kathy's cunt muscles suddenly began squeezing, trapping him in a sucking constriction that made him stiffen even harder inside her.
Her cunt was unbelievable!
It was actually performing on his cock, squeezing as though it were a hot, unrelenting suction cup.
Paul lay within her, not moving, allowing her cunt to work its magic.
He was disappointed when Kathy exclaimed that she couldn't do it any longer-her cunt muscles were exhausted.
The disappointment faded immediately, however, when he slid his big shaft halfway out of her and then drove it home again. The bed jarred, and Kathy bit her lip to keep from screaming.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Paul lashed into her with precision and strength. Bang. Bang. Bang.
His cock slammed at her time and again. The bed shook and squeaked, and Kathy held onto his buttocks, delighting in the knowledge that her hands were feeling the source of each and every powerful thrust.
Paul screwed her like a madman. Her rump bounced up and down. Her breasts struck his chest. She gasped and moaned and saliva ran from the corner of her mouth. Bang. Bang. Bang.
They were both swamped with eroticism. It was good, so good.
Neither of them had any understanding of time or place. They were in a land of their own creation. A planet consisting solely of excruciating joy.
His cock, her cunt-so perfectly did they fit, so beautifully did they respond to each other that neither he nor she would've claimed they were separate parts.
On and on and on he rode.
Her eyes closed and she began writhing. Her lips were drawn back and her teeth shone. She was entering the throes of a powerful climax.
She embedded her fingernails in his flank and her glittering white teeth sank into his shoulder.
Paul kept riding her, fast and furious. He came while she was still coming. His load rifled from his cock and up into the unseen reaches of her belly and he was swept from his heels to his groin with a feeling of incredible rapture.
Her cunt closed in on his cock once more. It gripped his squirting rod and milked it until they were both empty and every last portion of love juice had been taken from both their parts.
Paul left his cock in her long after they were finished screwing.
They talked and smoked cigarettes and later made love again.
He was crazy about her. He couldn't define why or how he'd fallen for her, but he had.
The day before he was due to leave the hospital, Kathy was in his room talking to him. She had told him the first time they'd made love that she'd had her first man when she was thirteen. Now, in the course of a conversation, she said she was fifteen when it happened.
"Kathy," Paul said earnestly, breaking the light-hearted mood they had been in, "you didn't tell me the truth the other night. Either that, or you're lying now. Please, whatever you do, don't lie to me. That's one thing I can't stand in a woman. Deceit. I don't care if you cheat so much as if you try to pull the wool over my eyes. A man feels foolish being lied to."
"Of course, darling," Kathy said sweetly. "I'm sorry. It won't happen again. I promise."
"Okay. Remember, you've agreed not to lie. Now tell me-are you having an affair with Dr. Alcock?"
Kathy's eyes clouded and she fidgeted with a button on her uniform.
"Would you be mad if I was?" she asked.
"No. I expect such things in life. I just want to know where I stand with you. Who you're screwing is important to me."
Kathy bent over the bed and kissed him.
"No, Paul," she said, straightening up, "I'm not having an affair with Dr. Alcock. He wanted me to, of course, but I refused. I'm leaving this job next week, anyway, so he's resigned himself to letting me get away."
Somehow, for some reason, Paul didn't believe her.
But he decided not to say right then. He had a way of finding out the truth. A method called simple observation.
Yesterday, he'd overheard Dr. Alcock's secretary complaining to an intern that the old goat made her stay out of the office for an hour every afternoon.
"I know what he's doing in there and I've got a good mind to report him," she'd said. "I would, you know, if I thought it would do any good. The trouble is, he's got so much influence here I'd probably be the one who'd be fired."
"What's he doing?" asked the intern. "Illegal operations?"
"Not quite. It's girls. He gets nurses in there and does things to them. Indecent things."
"How would you know that for certain?" the intern had wanted to know.
"I peeked once-through the keyhole. He had a young nurse in there. He was-well, being indecent with her."
The intern was summoned by a doctor and the conversation ended.
Was one of the girls Kathy?
Paul had asked her and she'd denied it. But he had to be sure that she was being truthful. He didn't want a relationship with her if it was founded on lies.
He could screw women and didn't care if they lied a mile a minute. But he wanted to consider his relationship with Kathy as being different. If it was to be a long-term thing, then he wanted it to be straightforward and devoid of lies and intrigues.
He was to check out on Friday afternoon at five-thirty.
Rising and donning the frayed dressing gown supplied by the hospital, he walked out of his room shortly after noon and found the seat he wanted in the sun room.
The seat afforded him a perfect view of the door to Alcock's office. He turned the chair so that Alcock's visitors wouldn't be able to see his face, but, by glancing sideways, he could get a good look at them. He read a spy novel, his gaze drifting from the pages to the doctor's door.
Two hours went past.
Alcock's secretary left for lunch and Paul put himself on a stiffer alert. Two nurses arrived, left some charts in his office, and came out again. An orderly arrived with a tray containing a sandwich and coffee for the doctor.
Then the secretary returned from lunch.
Paul was growing weary of his self-appointed task. Perhaps no one would come today and....
Kathy came down the hall. Without seeing him, she walked into Alcock's office. A minute later the secretary came out, looking miffed, and strode down the hall.
From her attitude, Paul gathered it was occurring again. Alcock had told her to get lost for an hour.
Paul waited. He intended to sit motionless for three or four minutes-to give them time to warm up. But the curiosity was too intense. He just had to see what was happening.
He leapt from the chair, tossed the novel on a coffee table, and walked to Alcock's door. Moving inside, he found himself in the secretary's tiny chamber, a green-walled, sterile enclosure with a desk and a couple of chairs.
He closed the door to the hall and stole his way to the big oak door marked Private.
He did what the secretary had said she'd done. He got down on his knees and placed his eye in line with the keyhole.
Kathy was definitely having an affair with Alcock.
She was reclining on a leather couch, kissing the older man passionately. His hands were under her uniform, tugging her panties.
The panties glided over her knees and ankles and, laughing merrily, she kicked them off.
"Come on, Doctor," she implored him. "Give it to me. Get that big instrument of yours up my cunt and perform your operation."
The doctor, a silver-haired man in his sixties, laughed and unzipped his suit pants. His cock sprang out-a short, red object that reminded Paul of an uncooked weiner.
Alcock hiked Kathy's uniform above her waist and both he and Paul had an unobstructed view of her pretty little cunt.
The doctor lowered himself on top of her.
She grunted as his tool knived into her pussy.
"Doctor! Doctor!" she yelled. "That's the medicine I want. Oh, yes, feed it to me. Feed it to me!"
Paul watched and waited. He was through with Kathy. She had lied to him and he felt he could not trust her anymore. He was going to let her know that she'd been seen with Alcock, but the moment wasn't ripe yet for his sudden intrusion.
He waited until she was well under way, sailing in an ocean of lustful sensations, clawing and biting at the doctor; her hips lifting and falling with his thrusts.
Paul tried the door knob. It turned slowly in his hand, but the door wouldn't open. Alcock had locked it from inside.
Paul got up, his body seething with fury. He stepped back several feet and took a lunge at the door. It almost gave way on his first attempt. Quickly, before the lovers inside could cover their act, he rammed the door again with his tough frame.
This time it collapsed. It swung in on broken hinges, and, to the sound of shattering wood, Paul barged into the room.
Kathy and the doctor were too far gone to stop. They'd heard the first lunge and knew there'd be a second, but they were beyond caring.
The doctor's ass was thumping wildly; her cunt was glowing and burning as he drove thrust after thrust into it.
Paul presented her with a long, hard stare; the kind of look she'd remember after he was gone from her life. Remember and ponder with regret.
Then he turned and walked away.
The last memory he had of Kathy was the sound of her and Alcock reaching a mutual climax, grunting and cursing and thrashing about wildly on the leather couch.
CHAPTER SIX
Paul returned to the Palms and had dinner sent to his suite. Even while eating, he sat with the earphones on, listening for some sign of evidence that would clear up the mystery surrounding Sonia Lombardo.
None came. Sonia got back from the desert and complained endlessly about the love scenes with Wynn. He had botched them, it seemed, and they'd have to try again tomorrow morning.
"He's a strange fellow," the Count said. "Some people say he must like men, because he despises women so much. But it isn't true. Ronnie has a source in L.A. who says he made a pass at him and Wynn broke both his arms."
"I wonder what he does like," Sonia said vaguely. "Children?"
They went out for dinner and when they returned it was for more complaints about the picture. Sonia didn't like Rankin, either. He was too young to tell her what to do, she said. She was a star, and what was he? A baby who knew damn little about movies and how they were put together.
They climbed into bed and fell asleep.
"Well," Paul sighed, "at least he didn't make love to her. I would've been so jealous, I might've gone through the wall and joined him."
The second day's shooting was much smoother than Paul had expected. Wynn braced himself-and obviously it took some doing on his behalf-and went at Sonia in a bedroom scene as if he were a kid claiming an ice cream cone.
Sonia and Rankin were pleased with him, and Wynn, soaking in their praise, congratulated himself on his performance.
You done it like you meant it, he told himself. You swept the little filly right into your strong arms and kissed her. You're a champion actor, okay. No doubt about that.
A herd of cattle were ushered into the corral.
Wynn ambled up to Rankin, who was setting up equipment, and told him proudly:
"You ain't seen nuttin' yet, sonny boy. I'm goin' to knock your eyes out with this one."
The scene called for Wynn to rescue his second lead-Kathy Meyers-from amongst the cattle where she'd fallen. He'd pull her from the corral as a maverick bull was bearing down on her. He'd then kiss her on the grassy slope nearby.
Paul observed the scene from the sidelines. He stood amidst a jungle of equipment and technicians, and Kathy didn't notice him.
The scene clicked off like clockwork. Wynn jumped into the corral, yanked Kathy through the railings, and carried her to the grassy slope.
"Thank you," she said, mouthing the lines she'd learned the night before. "I was so scared, I was going to faint when you grabbed me."
"Think nothing of it, ma'am," Wynn said, lying on the grass beside her, leaning on one elbow. "I'm glad you weren't hurt bad."
"How glad?" Kathy said, batting her eyes at him.
"Glad," he said awkwardly. "Just glad."
Rankin rubbed his hands together gleefully. They were playing it beautifully. They wouldn't have to re-shoot it.
Kathy ran her fingers through Wynn's hair and pulled his head down to meet hers. She kissed him-hard-on the lips.
He kissed her back, and his hand moved onto the outside of her bosom, feeling her bra through the blouse, as the camera suddenly shot up into the sky, leaving the rest, of course, to the viewer's imagination.
Wynn and Kathy climbed to their feet.
"How'd you like that one?" Wynn said to Rankin. "Sexy enough for you, sonny boy?"
"Perfect," Rankin beamed. "Keep this up, Wynn, and Rudolph Valentino will shudder in his grave-even he couldn't compete with you."
Wynn climbed onto his horse and rode over to the ranch house where twenty extras were waiting, dressed in Indian gear.
Rankin had no worries about the next scene; it was an action reel and Wynn was always superb when battling marauding Indians or gunning down an obnoxious villain.
This time it would be Indians. They would attack the house, and Wynn, single handed, would fend them off and save Sonia Lombardo from their designs on her body.
Kathy got up from the slope, patted stray hairs into place, and started toward the ranch house. She was anxious to watch the scene.
Wynn had done a good job on her. His kiss had set her body tingling and there was a subtle itch in her crotch. He was a big man-real big. What would it be like to make out with him? He must have a huge penis-simply huge.
In addition to that prospect there was the fact that he could help her in her career. He was an important person in Hollywood. One of the biggest box-office draws for over ten years. An affair with Jack Wynn would bring her publicity undreamed of. Every columnist in the world would be vying to interview her. She'd be a celebrity, and when Duel In The Desert came out the public would flock to see it, if only to stare at her and Jack together.
Kathy was passing the lights and cameras deserted by the film crew-they were using another stock of equipment at the house-when someone stepped in front of her and blocked her path.
"Hello, Kathy," Paul said.
She turned to one side and tried to elude him, but he caught her by the arm.
"You're not going anywhere," he said. "Not until we have a talk."
She faced him, and as their eyes met, he released her arm.
"What do you want, Paul?" she said grimly. "You didn't have to follow me out here."
"I didn't follow you. I work here too. I'm Sonia Lombardo's publicity agent."
She seemed surprised.
"I didn't know you were in the film world," she said. "I thought you were a journalist."
"I was when I met you. But I got a good offer from Olympic and took it." His eyes narrowed, and when he asked the next question she avoided them, looking at the ground. "So you're Hahn's latest conquest. Is he as good in the hay as Alcock was?"
"Paul, I know you'll never forgive me for that. But it had to be that way. I lied to you about Alcock because lying is a way of life for me. It always has been and it always will be. I'm not capable of being honest and sincere with men."
"I was in love with you," Paul said softly. "I wanted to be with you for a long time."
"And now?" she said, peering at his face again. "Aren't you in love with me now?"
"No. My standards for behavior with women have changed somewhat. I fuck them a lot, but I love them a little."
"That's a blunt way of putting it," she said.
"It's the truth. I really enjoy women, but I don't get all hung-up emotionally. So you didn't have to run out of the restaurant when you saw me yesterday. I wouldn't have caused you any heartaches."
That was true too. Paul realized that nostalgia was all he felt for the incident that had occurred between them that summer in New York.
Looking at her now, he knew he wasn't in love and, even if she wanted him back again, he'd reject her.
It was all in the past. All that mattered to him was the present and, as far as women were concerned, the number-one project in his mind was the seduction of Sonia Lombardo.
"You mean we can be friends?" Kathy smiled. "You don't hate me and I don't have to feel guilty about what I did with Alcock?"
"Yes. Friends. There's no reason why we can't be."
He extended his hand for her to shake.
She squeezed it warmly and then gave him a quick kiss on the cheek.
"There," she said happily. "It's sealed with a kiss."
He smiled at her and then strolled over to the house, both of them very, very pleased that they'd reached a new understanding and wouldn't have to spend their lives in Hollywood trying to avoid each other.
How was she going to waylay him?
Jack Wynn stayed in the ranch house at night with the film crew and some of the other performers. He never went into Vegas and she hardly ever saw him walking alone.
It was a dilemma to Kathy. She wanted to get him off somewhere and screw him silly, but how and where?
A cameraman inadvertently solved her problem. She was standing beside him during the lunch break, chomping on a sandwich lifted from a big table strewn with food. Hahn was inside the ranch house, making a long-distance call.
"That Wynn, he's a weirdo," the cameraman said. "I've worked six pictures with him and he has used the same routine. Every lunch break he insists on eating with his horse. Alone in the barn. A first-class nut. If the public only knew, they'd laugh him right out of pictures."
Ahh, Kathy thought. So he eats with his horse in the barn, does he? And alone.
She noticed Wynn sitting on the ranch house porch, going over dialogue with Rankin and Sonia. They were discussing the scene they'd do after lunch.
Kathy put her half-completed sandwich on the table and took a final gulp from her coffee cup.
"Excuse me," she said, leaving the cameraman by the table and heading toward the house. "I've got something to do."
She walked briskly past the trio on the porch and rounded the corner. In doing so, she nearly collided with Purity Lee.
"Hi, honey," Purity said. "Remember me?"
"How could I forget?" Kathy said. "What are you doing here? Did you get a part?"
"Yup. Otto Hahn phoned me at Perkins' pad last night. He said you were sound asleep and he just had a spur-of-the-moment decision."
"He gets lots of those at night," Kathy said, bemused. "Usually I have to wake up and help him with them-you know-by pulling his dick until it hits oil."
"Well, anyway, he said he'd decided to take me and you to a party tonight and he wanted me to fly out. I said I had a job interview today and he said to cancel it-I could have a role in his film, instead. So here I am, rootin' and tootin' to go."
"He didn't mention any party to me. But if he said I was going, I guess I am. I have to be nice to him awhile longer-until the editing's done and the picture's ready for distribution. Then I can find somebody else to be nice to."
"Me too. I don't know what he wants us to do at this party, but I'm damn sure I'm willing to do it."
"I'll see you later," Kathy said, stepping past her. "I've got business to attend to."
"Okay. 'Bye."
Kathy continued on her route to the barn. When she came to the old two-story building, she looked in every direction and then, positive she wasn't being observed, slipped inside.
She climbed up to the loft and lay down in a pile of hay.
She just made it under the wire.
A few seconds later, Jack Wynn entered the barn. He closed the door behind him and shouted:
"Anybody here?"
There was no reply.
He locked the barn door and, smiling, walked over to the stable. There were two horses there. In separate stalls. He stopped by a black mare and, taking two carrots from his pocket, handed one to the animal. He chewed on the other carrot himself.
"It ain't been too bad today, Nell," he said. "I did a love scene real good with Sonia and another one pretty good with a new filly by the name of Kathy something-or-other."
Kathy stood up and quietly started down the ladder.
"I ain't really hungry," Wynn said, tossing his carrot to the ground. "What I need is a bit of lovin'."
Well, hold on, big boy, here I come, Kathy thought.
She was stepping off the bottom rail when she noticed Wynn was doing something peculiar. He had unzipped his fly and he was playing with his limp cock. It hung like a piece of slack rope, and he was massaging it.
"Come on, sonny," he said to his penis. "Get right up there so I can get myself some hi-jinks."
My goodness, Kathy thought. Jack Wynn, the king of cowboys, is going to masturbate. Oh, if only his fans could see him now!
The rope lost its slack.
His cock shot straight out from his loins, a rigid, quivering pillar of flesh.
Kathy's throat went dry from lust at the sight of it. It was bigger than Hahn's even. Jeez, it must be the biggest cock in the world!
She ran toward him and when he whirled around, startled by her footsteps, she dropped on her knees at his feet.
"Let me have it," she begged. "Stick it in my mouth, up my ass or in my cunt, but for heaven's sake, don't waste it playing with it yourself. It's too good to keep for your own gratification."
She grabbed at it with frantic fingers. Wynn, an old hand at ducking attacking Indians, ducked her. Her hand missed. She grabbed again-he jumped to one side-she missed again.
"Please!" she said. "Don't tease me! Let me have it!"
Wynn caught hold of her arms and lifted her to her feet.
"I'm not teasing, little lady. I have no intention of allowin' you or any other woman to get their greedy hands on my priceless pecker."
He turned her around, roughly, and exerting pressure on her arms, forced her to march to the door.
"Open it and get," he said, releasing his grip.
Kathy was in a daze. This was hardly the reaction she'd expected. Men normally craved her; she had never once in her varied screwing career been refused.
She unlocked the door and slipped through it.
Well, she thought, I suppose there's a first time for everything. Even sexual rejection.
Inside the barn, Wynn bolted the door again.
Gripping his cock in one hand and massaging it so it wouldn't get soft, he conducted a thorough search of the barn-including the hayloft-to make certain that Kathy something-or-other was the only person spying on him.
Convinced that she was, he returned to the stall Nell was in.
"Damn women," he said to the horse. "They think they've got the only cunts in the whole universe worth botherin' about."
He placed a small wooden stool near Nell's rear end and climbed on it, then added:
"Ain't so, is it, old girl? If they were only more like you, then maybe I'd try one of them now and then. But they ain't. They just ain't."
With that, Wynn put his hands on Nell's big rump and shoved his cock deep into the horse's twat.
Yes, siree, he thought, pumping to beat the band, this is better any day than those dainty little holes women got to offer.
Much better. Much, much better.
CHAPTER SEVEN
As it turned out, Paul didn't have to devise a scheme to crash the Sanchez party. He received an invitation to escort one of the principal guests.
"Romero Sanchez is having a party tonight," Sonia Lombardo said. "Would you like to be my escort?"
"Most definitely," Paul replied. "But what about your husband?"
"He has someone else to go with," she said matter-of-factly. "A man he met at lunch today."
"I don't know why he'd rather take a man than you, but I suppose that's his business."
"Yes, Paul, it is. We give each other free rein. Within limits, of course. The Count doesn't bring his lovers home, and neither do I."
He doesn't have to bring them home, Paul mused. There's already a bountiful supply there-working in the villa.
They were standing in the lobby at the Palms, waiting for the elevator. They had ridden back to Las Vegas in a company limousine with Rankin and Purity Lee.
The red-haired starlet had her eye on Rankin and Paul had his on Sonia. It was a strange ride. All four chatted about the film, but at least two of them had their minds on a more interesting subject. Sex.
Rankin invited Purity to the bar for a drink and Paul was left alone with Sonia. The elevator doors opened and they got on.
"Did I mention how well you speak English?" Paul asked. "You don't have a trace of an accent."
"My mother was an American," Sonia said.
"That isn't what your press releases say."
"I know what they say. My father was shot by the Germans for aiding downed American pilots during the war. My mother died working as a volunteer in a hospital for lepers. The truth is, Paul, my mother was a high-priced call girl for German officers in Rome and my father was her pimp. They both died when a B-29 dropped bombs on a German officers' club while they were there negotiating a deal."
"Who raised you after that?"
"An aunt, until I was twelve. Then I learned to raise myself. It wasn't hard. I picked up a lot of ideas watching my mother when she had customers who liked to be watched."
Paul shook his head.
"Poor kid," he said. "You've had it rough."
"Had, yes. But not now. I'm in clover these days and soon...."
She cut her sentence dead and Paul was left with the impression that she had been about to say something about her future.
After a short pause, she added:
"Anyway, Paul, I'm happy now."
The elevator halted at their floor and they alighted.
Sonia stepped ahead of him and he feasted his eyes on her famous torso; tumbling, black hair; firm-packed bosom; nipped-in waist; flaring, exquisitely rounded buttocks, as well as lithe, fatless legs.
Jeez, he thought, I've just got to get my hands on that body. It's fantastic.
"Sonia?" he said, as she reached her door. "What?"
"I've got something to show you. Can you spare a minute?"
"Sure," she said, shrugging her shoulders. "Why not?"
Paul unlocked his door and she followed him into the suite.
The way she walked also fascinated him; with a self-assured strut that made her buttocks grind up and down with piston-like precision. Her bosom moved too. Bouncing ever so slightly, it tempted him every time he looked at it-especially today in the tight, red-knit dress she was wearing.
"I'll be back in a minute," Paul said, going into the bedroom. "Make yourself comfortable."
The bedroom door closed behind him.
"Make yourself comfortable," Sonia whispered aloud. "Well, I think I'll just do that, Mr. Scott!"
She walked swiftly to the window and shut the Venetian blinds, plunging the room into semidarkness.
What was it Paul wanted to show her? It didn't matter, really.
What she wanted to show him would be much more imprtant.
She took hold of the zipper at the back of her dress and jerked it down. Then she wiggled out of the wool material, pulling it over her head and tossing it on a chair.
Her shoes and stockings came next. She peeled them off hastily and stacked them alongside the dress.
In her pink panties and white bra, she was a delicious vision. Her breasts bulged over the cups and her jet-black cunt hair peeked out from beneath the crotch of her flimsy panties.
She unhooked the three tiny clasps holding the bra and it fell to the floor. Her breasts were bigger than anyone would assume, bigger and whiter and firmer and topped by two large, raspberry-colored nipples.
Her breasts swayed from side to side as she pushed her panties over her rump, past her knees and to her ankles. She stepped out of them, one leg at a time.
She was stark naked-almost glowing with sensuality and desire-when Paul walked back into the front room.
Both of them suddenly burst out laughing.
Paul was naked too!
He had retired to his bedroom and stripped off his clothes, determined that he wouldn't be cheated out of banging Sonia this time.
"How funny. How really funny," Sonia said, her breasts shimmering from her laughter. "I thought I would be surprising you. Instead, we surprised each other."
She dropped on the sofa, laughing, and Paul fell at her feet.
They both laughed for a good three minutes, then, as the laughter drew to a close, Paul's eyes slowly focused on her legs and crept upward.
His expression changed to a look of deadly seriousness. His eyes played with her snatch, her waist, her breasts, and her lovely blue eyes.
She became aware of his intense staring and her eyes met his in an exchange of frank, undiluted longing.
"The joke's over," Paul said.
"Yes," she said huskily, "I know."
He began kissing her legs. Working his way inside, he let his lips carve a path up the soft flesh of her inner thighs, stopping when they nudged the edge of her pubic forest.
He rose quickly and his lips ground onto hers while his body coaxed her to lie on the sofa, on her back, and to permit him to lie on top of her.
Her breasts were so urgently warm against his bare chest that he could no longer delay the moment when he'd be fondling them. His hands reached to the heavy mounds, felt their shape and weight, and then squeezed them with gusto, as though he were crushing over-ripe tomatoes in a supermarket.
Meanwhile, Sonia's tongue shot into his mouth. She was an expert at French kissing, and the tip of her tongue licked the roof of his mouth before running back and forth against the surface of his tongue.
He groaned. Her tonguing had set fire to his loins and his penis was now a sturdy cudgel, ready to do battle with her challenging cunt.
His hands stopped squeezing and his fingers hastily gripped the nipples and rubbed them to and fro. The-nipples became hard, standing erect and pulsing.
Paul broke their kiss and slid down on her fabulous body.
As his lips closed on a nipple, sucking it into his mouth, Sonia's hand found his penis and stroked it gently.
Sonia's breasts were so enchanting that Paul didn't want to play favorites. He switched back and forth from one to the other with such speed that Sonia almost began to think that each of her tits was being sucked by a separate mouth, continually.
He sucked at her nipples for sometime, bathing in carnal delirium as her hand coaxed his cock on to greater and greater heights of pleasure. Sonia was delirious too.
"Paul," she declared, "I'm burning alive!"
Paul spat out her breast and used his hand to remove her fingers from his throbbing dick.
"I've got another purpose for that," he said. "You can have it back later."
He pulled himself up on her and kissed her lush lips once more. His hand touched the sex queen's mons veneris. He employed the tips of his fingers to play among the fleecy curls and to massage the soft flesh hidden amongst them. But his fingers were restless-they deserted the aperitif and sought the main course.
On the lips of her charming pussy, he found a meal fit for a king. He stroked the lips individually, up and down, and when not stroking, his fingers ran along the outer sides and the tops.
Then they tickled the edges of her gaping cleft.
"That's nice," Sonia sighed. "Real nice."
The fingers dipped inside and located the woman's erect clitoris.
When the fingers stroked that creamy-wet button, Sonia gasped:
"Oh, I'm dying! Oh, Paul, oh, oh, oh!"
His fingers quit the clitoris and his other hand jumped into action, steering his penis to the entrance of her wondrous slit.
He sent his tool halfway up her on his first lunge.
"More! More of it!" she hissed. "I want all of it-every damned inch you've got!"
With a couple of jabs, he shoved the stiff rod all the way in.
They were both churning with lust. Their eyes were gleaming and their breathing came in an irregular flow. Sharp, rapturous thrills rocketed through their bodies.
He worked her slowly, grinding her with a succession of long, deep strokes.
Sonia rotated her hips in time with his easygoing stride. Her butt would rise from the sofa and his cock would sink completely out of sight in her hot cunt, and then, when her buttocks descended to the sofa again, his cock would be almost totally exposed for a few seconds before launching another downward assault.
Paul's hands slipped under her buttocks on one of her upward lifts, skimming over the slopes, astonished by their marble-like smoothness. He decided to explore the ravine and jammed three fingers into her hole.
"Whooeee!" Sonia screamed. "That feels good! Turn me over and put your cock in there!"
Paul whipped his fingers out at the same time he yanked his member from her pussy.
He slid off the sofa and Sonia flipped over onto her stomach.
Her buttocks were mountains of taut flesh, towering between her slender waist and trim legs.
Paul didn't normally go in for this sort of thing. Only three or four times had he believed a woman's rump so irresistible that he had to put his cock in it. Sonia's butt was undeniably the most irresistible he'd ever encountered.
Paul climbed onto her. He parted the cheeks with his hands until he spotted her rose-bud anus.
"I hope this doesn't hurt," he said, lowering himself toward it.
"It's happened too often to hurt now," Sonia admitted. "I get it this way all the time."
He aimed the head of his cock at the tiny aperture. He lowered himself another inch or two and his cock made contact, the knob nestling just inside the hollow between her cheeks.
His cock was pulsating madly. He lunged forcefully and penetrated her more deeply, burying nearly all of his rod in her quivering bum.
"Is it all in?" she asked. "I want it all, Paul. Don't keep any back."
He lunged a second time and felt the tighter skin near her rose bud give way, allowing his cock to push right through and touch rock-bottom.
He was fully embedded in her.
Sonia's hand snaked around behind her and felt his balls. Her thumb probed the area between the balls and the base of his prick and discovered that not one bit of his tool remained on the outside.
"As they say in America-yippee!" she hooted. "You've got it all in. Oh, baby, do I feel filled. Absolutely stuffed. Oh, my bum's going to burst! Screw, Paul, screw! Ram the hell out of me back there!"
Paul commenced pumping. His shaft raced up and down in her tightly hugging aperture.
It felt glorious. Like fucking between two huge breasts. His cock was squeezed in as though a giant fist had hold of it.
He had intended to give it to her slow and easy, but it was so wonderful that he lost track of his intentions.
He rode her with complete abandon. Fast and hard.
Her rump squirmed and trembled and emitted waves of heat.
He lay as flat out on her as he could, shoving his hands under her upper torso and struggling to find her breasts. When he found them, he grasped one in each hand and squeezed them from time to time.
He was flinging his cock into her buttocks at such a rapid clip that her butt became a blur to him.
"Keep it up! Keep it up!" Sonia yelled. "I-I'm coming!"
He was too. He squashed Sonia's breasts and, galloping furiously, fired his hot sperm into her remarkable rump.
They had a smoke afterward. Sonia produced two gold-tipped Russian cigarettes from a package in her dress pocket. She rec-lined on the sofa and Paul sat on the floor, his back against the sofa and his head touching her stomach.
"I've wanted you for a long time," he told her. "Even before I met you in Italy. I saw some of your films and said to myself, 'Paul, fella, that's for you."'
"And now that you've had me, how do you feel?"
"Great. You're a terrific lover. The screen doesn't do you justice. You're even better than any camera can indicate."
"So are you a terrific lover," she said. "Somehow, I thought you would be. I've been considering making it with you for a long time too. Practically since the day I married that faggot. Oh, in case you don't know it, the Count is a homosexual."
"Is he?" Paul said, faking surprise. "One would never guess."
"He tries to keep it a secret. He's concerned about his job; the diplomatic corps is touchy about having queers in its ranks."
"Why did you marry him, Sonia? For his title?"
"Partly. I thought I'd like being a Countess, but oddly enough, I never use the title. I would feel stupid if I did. No, I guess the main reason is because I figured he was rich."
"And he isn't?"
"Hardly. He's up to the aristocratic ears in debts."
"Can't you live on your own earnings? You must get plenty for your pictures."
She handed him the remains of her cigarette and he butted it, along with his, on the hardwood floor.
"I've tried to, Paul, but I like living it up too much. I have a sickness about money, you see. I do get plenty, but I want plenty more. I want millions, in fact."
"Come on," Paul said, hoping to lead her into a confession. "What would you do with millions? You'd still live the same way, wouldn't you?"
"No, I wouldn't," she said sternly. "I'd give up films. I'd move someplace where no one knows me and live quietly, in absolute luxury, for the rest of my life."
"Impossible. There isn't a place on earth where Sonia Lombardo isn't known."
She looked at him with narrow eyes.
"Sonia Lombardo, yes, but if I were someone else...."
For the second time that day, she suddenly terminated one of her own sentences.
After a brief pause, she changed the subject by saying:
"Never mind, Paul. Money's too serious a subject for lovers. Let's discuss something else."
"Like what?"
Her hand traced a line from the top of his hair to his mouth. He kissed her fingertips, tenderly.
"Like sex," she said in a kittenish voice.
She pulled her hand away and sat up. Her legs suddenly split and zoomed outward, one dropping on each side of Paul's head. She shifted her hips forward and brought her crotch up hard against the back of his head.
It felt warm and comfortable and Paul let his head rest there.
"Paul," she said in a low tone, "why don't you turn your head around? The view's much better on the other side."
Paul grinned and, teasing her, tickled the bottoms of her feet.
She kicked her legs in the air, giggling.
"Don't! I'm ticklish! Oh, Paul, stop! Stop!"
Paul stopped. He scrambled on the floor, switching his frame completely around so that her legs were now lying on his back and his face was even with her crotch.
"I think I should have a snack before I go to the party," he said. "Or maybe I should say-a snatch."
"Hmmm, yes," Sonia said pleasantly. "Don't go on an empty stomach. Eat, please. Be my guest."
His lips dived into her black pubic flower. He swept his mouth all over the region, hungrily licking and sucking her wet slit.
"Eat, Paul, eat! I love it! I love it!"
"Just a minute," he said, withdrawing his mouth.
"What's the matter?"
"Nothing. It's just that I want you to do me too."
He moved up beside her on the sofa but with his head at her legs and his thighs near her head.
Instantly, she devoured his limp penis and rolled it about on her tongue. Then, as she began sucking it, he directed his face into her hot pussy.
He opened her vagina lips with his fingers and, carefully picking his spots, alternated between sucking the inner walls and poking at her shivering clitoris with his tongue.
Her pussy tasted good to him.
It's filled with honey, he thought, and I'm a bear getting my breakfast.
His cock vaulted erect as her mouth stroked it. Then his cock fell out and her tongue had a field day licking the upper length of his penis and paying particular attention to the knob and the sensitive underside.
Her head descended again and his rod was taken swiftly over her tongue and to the back of her throat. She sucked contentedly on it.
Paul neglected the rest of her cunt now and gave his undivided concentration to the clitoris. He banged it mercilessly with the tip of his tongue.
His action had a highly noticeable effect on Sonia. She squirmed and cursed and, driving her pelvis into his face, gripped his head with her thighs.
Sonia released his cock from her mouth so she could present it with a final licking spree. She ran her tongue over every inch of it. At the knob, she increased the pressure of her licks, knowing full well that a hard tonguing here was something men really appreciated.
Paul grunted and twisted his body in a fit of passion.
She grabbed his penis with her teeth and sucked it back inside her torrid mouth. She sucked it hard-at a breakneck speed-and her head nodded up and down as she went to town on it.
The searing heat from their bodies enveloped them like a cloud.
He had planned to whip his cock out of her mouth and to have it gouging deep into her furry pussy when his climax came. But it was too late. The dye had been cast. He couldn't have withdrawn his shaft from Sonia's miraculous mouth for all the flags in Red China.
She came first. Her thighs hit the sides of his head like two slamming doors. She held him there; perhaps frightened that he would suddenly pull out before she was finished, and he remained her prisoner until her cunt contracted violently and filled with a fresh load of juices.
Then she went limp. Every part of her except her mouth. She was determined to make him come too, and, throughout her own climax, she had maintained a steady, if somewhat slow, sucking motion.
Her sucking shifted into high gear, becoming faster and more deliberate. She bent to her task with the resolution that she'd do it all night if she had to. But, of course, she didn't. Shortly after she climaxed, Paul zoomed off into an explosion that raked his body with hot flashes.
Sonia left his cock out of her mouth just as the breakers hit; his sperm roared up through his stiff rod and captapulted into the air.
He lay in mindless ecstasy, motionless, until reality made its inevitable return to his senses.
Sonia put on her clothes and went back to her suite to change for the party.
Paul took a shower, dressed in a neat, blue suit and, while waiting for her to announce she was ready to leave-she would rap three times on his bedroom wall-he idly switched on the tape recorder and, stretching on his bed, clamped the earphones on his head.
He thumbed through a copy of Playboy, halfheartedly listening to the sound of Sonia having a bath and getting dressed.
When her telephone rang, he perked up.
"Hello," Sonia said, answering it.
"One moment please," said an operator. "Los Angeles calling."
Paul placed the Playboy on the bed and listened intently.
After a short pause, a male voice asked:
"Miss Lombardo?"
"Speaking."
"Dr. Malo. Everything is prepared. We have a room for you and you can arrive any time."
"I'm paying you for secrecy, Doctor, as well as service," Sonia said angrily. "Has it occurred to you that your call can be traced here later? My disappearance is going to cause a bombshell; every reporter in the world will be looking for me-not to mention the people I told you about the unsavory characters I'll be trying to elude."
"Now, now, Miss Lombardo," the doctor said, attempting to soothe her. "Your secret is safe with me. That twenty thousand dollars has sealed my lips forever. I've had clients like you before, you know. You're not the first and won't be the last. Some of them have been as famous as you-they pretended they died in accidents and I arranged new lives for them. As for this phone call, I'm making it from a telephone booth, and it's positively untraceable."
"Oh, I'm sorry, Doctor. I'm a bit jittery. My life is at stake in this affair. I can't tell you the details, but if certain people catch up with me, they'll kill me for sure."
"They won't catch up with you. Two weeks in my clinic and you'd be able to stand in the same room with your husband and he won't recognize you."
"And it won't be painful?"
"No. The plastic surgery part of it is very minor. Simply a small change in the structure of your nose. Your hair will be permanently colored blonde and you'll be treated with medicines that will change the pigment of your skinnot much, though, but it will make you darker-as though you have a deep, brown tan. Your walk will be different and we'll teach you to talk in a different way. Your voice will be lower and huskier. Sonia Lombardo will no longer exist."
"I hope so, Doctor. I intend to go where they'll least expect, and I can't be recognized or, as I say, the game will be over for me."
"Rome?"
"A good guess, Doctor. Yes, Rome."
"I'll be looking forward to having you here, Miss Lombardo."
"Thank you, Doctor. Good-bye." They both hung up.
Paul made a move to take the earphones off, but fortunately changed his mind. Sonia picked the phone up again and made a telephone call to Los Angeles.
"Arlington 3-4567, please," she told the operator.
"Yes, ma'am."
The phone rang twice and then a man answered it.
"This is a big night for telephone booths," Sonia said. "I just received a call from one and now I'm calling you at one."
"I'm glad you called," the man said. "There's a jerk outside banging on the glass. He's mad because I won't let him in."
"Anyway, Mr. Clinton, I wanted to tell you that all is going well at this end. I should be able to finish my transaction within the next day or two and then I'll be in L.A."
"At Malo's clinic?"
"Yes. He just asked me if I was going to Rome afterward and I said I was."
"You don't trust anybody, do you?"
"Well, one never knows, does one? My enemies will be trying every possible way to find me and they might stumble on him."
"So he sends them to Rome and we just keep on having a ball in Mexico."
"Individually. We won't be together, you know. Once I've paid you off, you're on your own."
"Right. Well, don't worry about me. With fifty grand I have no intention of returning to the States. I'm going to buy a small hotel on the Mexican coast and kiss the crass, commercial world good-bye."
"Okay. I'll call you at the same number next week. At the same time. By then I'll have the money, and maybe I can give you a definite departure date.
"Fine. 'Bye, Miss Lombardo."
Both phones clicked dead.
Sonia walked to the wall and banged on it three times. She was summoning Paul to join her.
He took off the earphones, combed his hair in front of the bureau mirror, and thought about the two calls.
Sonia Lombardo was going to become another person. The two-week session in Malo's clinic would alter her physical appearance so much that no one would suspect she was the missing actress.
By the sounds of it, she was also going to steal some money. A great deal of money. But from whom?
It wasn't difficult to see where Mr. Clinton fit into the picture. Paul had recognized him immediately. He was a do-anything-for-a-buck flier who Paul had employed several times in the past-once for a tricky smuggling of gems across the Mexican border for a persistent actress. Yes, Ace Clinton was onto the best deal of his life. Fifty grand for taking Sonia illegally across the border.
He would keep his word too. He had often talked to Paul about wanting to retire in Mexico and run a small hotel. And he was slippery enough to have his name changed too, and Paul doubted that anyone looking for Clinton, trying to connect him with Sonia, would ever find him.
Paul crossed to his bed and shoved his hand under the pillow.
If there were-as Sonia claimed-some unsavory characters involved, then he'd better carry his gun, just in case.
His hand failed to find it. He picked up the pillow and was surprised to discover that his .45 was missing.
Undoubtedly, someone had taken it!
CHAPTER EIGHT
Romero Sanchez's house was at the end of a paved road that shot straight out into the desert, about half a mile from the main highway.
"He must like privacy," Sonia commented, as Paul steered the rented Ford to a halt in the parking area.
"Either that or he has a thing about sand," Paul said.
They got out of the car and, walking through a forest of parked vehicles, came to the front of the mammoth ranch-style building.
Paul rang a buzzer and a uniformed servant ushered them into the house.
The living room was immense. A small swimming pool was in the middle of it and ten or twelve guests were splashing about in it. Forty or fifty other guests stood in groups or sat on the expensive furniture, drinking and talking.
A six-man band played Bosa Nova music in a far corner and some couples were dancing.
Numerous heads turned and people whispered Sonia's name as she and Paul made their way to the bar. Paul ordered two Scotches.
A swarthy, middle-aged man in a Pierre Cardin suit approached them.
"Miss Lombardo," he said with a marked Spanish accent, "it is so charming that you could come. I'm sorry I didn't greet you at the door, but I have to run as it is to keep up with those guests already inside."
"That's all right, Senor Sanchez," Sonia said.
"Oh, this is my escort-Paul Scott."
He looked at Paul, turned on a warm smile and shook his hand.
But something in his eyes told Paul to be cautious. A shadow had passed over them when Sonia said Paul's name.
"Have you been to one of my parties before, Mr. Scott?" he asked pleasantly, his dark-brown eyes losing the murky quality that had put Paul on his guard.
"No, I haven't had the pleasure, I'm afraid."
"Pleasure is the proper word, Mr. Scott. I believe in ensuring that my guests have a good time. I go so far as to arrange a special floor show. Tonight's entertainment involves a young lady from Mexico City who will shortly lose her maidenhead." He spotted someone signaling him on the other side of the room. "Ahh, I must go now. Have a good time, Miss Lombardo. Perhaps we'll talk some more later."
He walked off into the crowd-a short, thickly built man whom Paul guessed to be in good physical shape.
He was the kind of man, Paul thought, who would work out daily in a private gymnasium.
He sipped his drink and watched Sanchez move toward the man who had motioned to him. A tall, bullet-headed character in dark sunglasses.
"Who's the guy with Sanchez?" Paul asked Sonia. "The chief executioner in his old regime?"
"Pretty close to the truth," she said in a low voice. "That's Pedro Costa, the former head of his secret police. He's Sanchez's personal hatchet man now."
The two Spaniards talked for a moment and then disappeared down a corridor.
Paul now knew-or felt he knew who Sonia was planning to rob. Romero Sanchez.
There had been an edge to her voice when she'd spoken of Costa. A sharpness of tone that indicated she was leery of him, and, if she was leery, Paul figured, she must have a reason. Like realizing that it would be Costa who Sanchez sent after her if she succeeded in stealing his money.
Paul wanted to snoop around in another part of the house.
He put down his drink and asked Sonia to dance with him. As he anticipated, the moment they were on the floor, a man standing nearby recognized her and, licking his lips like a thirsty wolf, cut in.
"I'll be back," Paul told her. "Don't let this big bad wolf do anything to you."
Sonia giggled and her dancing partner simply shot Paul a dirty look.
Paul elbowed a path for himself through the noisy crowd.
At one point, he was accosted by an ugly woman in a strapless gown.
"Hello, sweetie," the woman said through half an inch of ill-chosen makeup. "Care to dance?"
"Definitely not," Paul said. "I have a wooden leg."
Then he realized who the woman was-Sonia's faggot hairdresser sailing in full drag costume, wig, dress, falsies and all.
"A wooden leg?" the hairdresser said merrily. "My, that might be interesting to see. Does it come off at night?"
The two "women" standing with the hairdresser, the secretary and the acting coach, both burst out laughing. The secretary laughed so hard his wig slipped.
Paul pushed his way past them and moved to the full-length windows at the rear of the room. Stepping through an open portion, he walked into the large patio behind the house. Six or seven people were there, quietly drinking at small tables.
Paul strode past them, walking confidently as though he knew where he was going.
He kept close to the wall and didn't slow down until he was clear of the brightly lit patio. He rounded a corner and, in the pale moonlight, saw a partially opened window. He pushed the window up and crawled through it into the dark room within.
He was in a bathroom. He found the door and opened it a few inches.
Peering out, he saw that a well-lighted corridor confronted him. Doors ran off the corridor on both sides and there wasn't a soul in the vicinity.
Paul stepped into the corridor and shut the bathroom door behind him.
He moved to another door and tried it. The doorknob turned slowly in his hand. He opened the door a few inches and looked through the gap.
A lavishly furnished bedroom.
A bedside lamp was on and Paul had an excellent view of the two nude bodies on the bed.
They were both males. One of them was the Count and the other was a stranger.
They were fondling each other's limp pricks.
"Was it love at first sight for you too?" the Count asked.
"Oh, yes," said the stranger. "The moment you came into my soda fountain I knew I had to have you. Especially when you ordered; a banana split, you said. Some symbolism. My hand shook as I peeled the banana for you and placed it in the ice cream. Oh, I pray you won't leave me. I'm so crazy about you."
The Count stroked his friend's penis and used his other hand to caress his balls.
"I have to go away tonight," he said. "On business. In fact, it's almost time for me to go. But don't worry, my dearest, I'll be back next week."
"How do I know you'll return?" his friend said with concern. "You're a Count, and what am I? A soda jerk. There's such a cultural and economical difference between us."
"Nonsense," the Count scoffed. "Love crosses all barriers." He noticed that his stroking had prompted his companion's penis to leap fully erect. "Besides, I can't resist your banana split. It's so tasty."
The Count's cock had also been prodded to life. It swelled in his friend's hand, and the soda jerk gazed at it with love and understanding.
"Golly," he said, "when I see a cock like that, I feel like standing up and saluting. Viva Italy-or whatever it is one says when one wishes to praise your country."
They were massaging each other's cocks with vigor when Paul closed the door.
The next room was also a bedroom. Empty. He ducked inside and prowled through the drawers. They had nothing in them.
He went back into the corridor and tried the third door.
Another bedroom.
Good grief, he thought, this whole section of the house must be reserved for Sanchez's guests-or the ones who want privacy in which to make out in.
Otto Hahn was in the third bedroom with Kathy Meyers and Purity Lee.
Hahn stood naked near the foot of the bed. Kathy and Purity were also in their birthday suits and, from what Paul surmised, they were taking turns sucking the bald producer's towering hard-on.
"Magnificent!" Hahn exclaimed, as Purity gobbled up the cock newly released from Kathy's mouth. "It would be difficult for me to say which of you has the sexiest mouth. You both feel so good. But I do have a special word of praise for you, Purity. Your sucking has improved tremendously since our first encounter."
His voice was raspy and high pitched, and Paul gathered they'd been working on him for some time. He seemed to be near his climax.
"Purity, to the back again!" Hahn commanded. "Kathy, take charge of the front. You have been selected to finish me off."
Purity left his cock and hurried to the rear of the producer. She dropped to her knees and pushed her face into his buttocks. She held the cheeks apart with her hands and licked the inside of his rump, over and over.
Kathy, meanwhile, crouched at his feet in the front, sucking his cock as though it were a big lollipop.
"Yeah! Oh, yeah! Give it to me, girls! Both ways! Oh, yeah! Don't stop! Don't you dare stop! You'll be stars! Both of you! Stars!"
He was walloped by his orgasm on the last word and his dialogue became a meaningless babble of obscenities.
Paul closed the door and wondered what could possibly be happening behind the next portal.
He never got a chance to find out.
"Do precisely what I tell you, Mr. Scott," said a heavily accented voice behind him. "I have a gun in your back."
Paul glanced around. It was Pedro Costa, Sanchez's hatchet man. The gun was a snub-nosed .38 and the steel barrel was pressing Paul's spine.
"I'm sorry," Paul said. "I didn't realize you wouldn't like me being a Peeping Tom. Now, if you'd put the gun away, I promise not to do it again."
"Who cares whether you peep or not," Costa said gruffly. "That isn't what Sanchez wants to talk to you about. Now move!"
He prodded Paul with the gun and they walked down the corridor to a door marked "Private." Costa opened the door and motioned Paul inside.
Sanchez was there, sitting behind a large mahogany desk, watching a television set embedded in a book-lined wall. He pushed a button on his desk and the TV screen went blank.
"Sit down, Mr. Scott," he said tersely.
Paul took a chair opposite the desk. Costa stood behind him with the .38 levelled at the back of his head.
"Why are you searching my house?" Sanchez asked. "What are you looking for?"
"The men's room," Paul said. "Then when I saw what was going on in the bedrooms, I couldn't help but stare. I'm sorry if it's causing you some problem."
"You lie badly," Sanchez said. "We know you weren't looking for the men's room, because that's how you got into this part of the house. Through a bathroom window. Here, maybe this will convince you that lying is a waste of time."
He pushed a button and the TV screen lit up. He pushed another button and the bathroom Paul had entered was depicted in living black and white.
"How do you take pictures in dark rooms?" Paul asked.
"Infra-red cameras," Sanchez said. "But that shouldn't matter to you."
"I'm curious, that's all."
"Curiosity can kill more than cats, Mr. Scott."
He pushed still another button.
The cameras were now recording the events in Hahn's bedroom. The two actresses and the producer were on the bed. Purity's mouth was in Kathy's box, chewing with enthusiasm, and Hahn was on Purity's back, grinding his cock into her buttocks.
"I like to amuse myself watching my guests amuse themselves," Sanchez said. "Film people are the most amusing of all. The women will do absolutely anything to please the men."
He hit the button and the screen blacked out.
"Back to business," he said with a menacing glare at Paul. "I would like to know who you're working for. Is it the ruling government in my country? Do they know about my plans? And, if so, how much do they know?"
"I work for Olympic Films," Paul said. "I don't have the slightest idea about anything else."
A bolt of lightning stabbed through Paul's brain; Costa had clubbed him across the head with the gun barrel.
"Don't be stupid," Sanchez said. "We've been suspicious of you since you arrived in Las Vegas. Miss Lombardo said you had been assigned to her as a publicity man, but you were really a trouble shooter for the studio. She said it was plausible that you did all kinds of strange things for Olympic. But she smelled a rat." He opened a desk drawer and held up Paul's .45. "I had someone search your room at the hotel. They found this. Publicity men don't carry guns, do they, Mr. Scott?"
He dropped the gun in the drawer and slid it shut.
"Who are you working for?" Costa said in his ear.
"Olympic Films," Paul said with venom. "They wanted me to watch Miss Lombardo because they had heard a rumor that she might skip out of the picture. I often take a gun on assignments-you never know when you might need one-like right now. I'd give my two front teeth to have a grip on a machine gun trigger."
Costa slugged him again. The butt of the .38 slammed into his skull, not hard enough to knock him out, but with sufficient pressure to explode stars in his head.
Sanchez rose and circled the desk.
"All right, Mr. Scott. Don't tell us. It doesn't matter. We're going to kill you, anyway. We can't take chances, you see. Watch him, Pedro. I'll be right back. I have to make a delivery-" his face broke into a lecherous grin, "-and I have to deliver a certain young lady from the agony of her tight hymen."
He opened a closet door and removed two large suitcases.
"What about what Scott said about the Count's wife?" Costa asked in a quiet voice. "If it's true-if there is a rumor going around that she might skip out-maybe it's got something to do with our deal."
"Never," Sanchez said. "She's as much a coward as her husband is. She knows we'd find her and kill her. She wouldn't dare interfere with the delivery."
He picked up the suitcases and left the room.
Costa sat behind the desk, the .38 pointed at Paul.
"You're a stupid man, Mr. Scott," he said. "You should never have agreed to delve in the politics of another country. It's going to cost you your life. When Sanchez comes back, we'll take you out into the desert and bury you someplace. If you're lucky, we'll shoot you first."
Costa's free hand darted to the panel on the desk and pushed a button. Out of the corner of his eye, he observed the scene on the TV screen. The parking area in front of the house. The Count's Rolls Royce filled most of the picture.
"If you're going to kill me," Paul said, "why don't you tell me what's going on? It won't do me any good, will it?"
"Shut up," Costa said. "I don't like talking to men I'm going to eliminate."
Sanchez appeared on the screen carrying the suitcases. The Count was a couple of steps behind him, immaculately dressed in a three-piece suit.
The Count unlocked the trunk of his car and Sanchez placed the two suitcases inside.
The trunk lid slammed down and the Count hastily locked it.
"There it goes," Costa sighed. "Four million dollars. If I wasn't so loyal, I'd be tempted to steal it."
Four million dollars!
Suddenly, it was all there. All of the pieces of the puzzle fit together perfectly.
Sanchez, the ousted dictator, was using the Count to transport money for him. The Count could easily take it anywhere he wanted without having to stand customs inspections; he was a diplomat and had immunity.
"Where's the money going?" Paul asked.
"You can buy an army for four million dollars," Costa said. "We'll be in power again within the year."
So that was it. A counter revolution. The Count was taking Sanchez's money to the country that had dumped the dictator from office.
"What does the Count get out of it?"
"What else? Money. He's being paid extremely well. Now shut up, Mr. Scott. I'm losing my patience with you."
Sanchez shook hands with the Count and walked back toward the house.
The Count put the key to the trunk in his shirt pocket and opened the car door on the driver's side. He was about to climb inside when the women appeared. Or what looked like women. It was Sonia and her three faggots.
They emerged from the jumble of cars in the parking area.
The hairdresser grabbed the Count by the shoulder and spun him around.
The Count's eyes widened with shock. Sonia had a gun pointed at him.
The secretary stepped forward and, taking the trunk key, handed it to Sonia.
"Jesus Cristo!" Costa declared, glaring at the TV screen and forgetting Paul's presence. "His wife is double-crossing us!"
Paul dived from his chair. His body knived across the desk and struck Costa around the waist.
The Spaniard jerked his arm upward, intending to crash the gun down on Paul's head. But the impact of Paul's weight caught him off guard and he tumbled to the floor, with Paul on top of him.
Paul held Costa's gun hand at the wrist and pushed it down. His other hand lashed out and punched Costa squarely in the face. Before Costa could hit him back, Paul hit him again, landing a punch that splintered the Spaniard's nose and gushed blood over his face.
Paul's next blow, a right to the chin, rendered him unconscious.
Breathing heavily, Paul regained his feet and glanced at the TV set.
The queers had tied the Count's hands and feet and were throwing him into the back seat of a nearby car.
Paul retrieved his .45 from the desk drawer and checked it to make sure Sanchez hadn't unloaded it.
Sonia and the queers were in the Rolls; Sonia was behind the wheel.
As Paul headed for the door, the Rolls backed up and streaked out of camera range.
"Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention, please? I have a treat for you this evening. The deflowering of a supple, young creature imported from Mexico City. I myself will be the instrument that so cruelly and efficiently rids the young damsel of her maidenhead."
Sanchez was standing in the living room, completely encircled by his guests. The lights had been turned off and four servants stood between him and the guests, lighting the region by holding flaming torches.
Sanchez was unaware of what had happened outside. His scheme had been so foolproof to him that he couldn't conceive of anything going wrong. The Count would drive to the airport and fly directly to Sanchez's homeland by private plane.
Paul put the .45 in his waist and crept into the living room. He was in the darkness beyond the circle of guests and was certain no one would see him. He walked slowly toward the front door.
The crowd parted and two more servants appeared, their hands on the arms of a teen-age Mexican girl. She was about fourteen and so frightened that her body trembled.
"Ahh, a tasty morsel," Sanchez said. "I shall enjoy this, my friends. Too bad you can't join me, but there isn't room for more than one."
The crowd laughed.
The servants released the girl and she stood before Sanchez, her eyes closed and her head down.
Sanchez took hold of her thin cotton dress at one shoulder and tore it downward. Half of the cheap material gave way, exposing a sizable portion of her naked bosom.
"Big tits," Sanchez said happily. "Good. I like that in a virgin."
He caught the dress at the other shoulder and ripped it away from her.
Her dark-brown body was naked from the waist I up; her hands were shaking as they attempted to hold the remainder of the dress covering her lower torso.
"Let go of the dress," Sanchez said in Spanish. I "Let go, or your father won't be paid."
The girl started crying.
She dropped the dress, and many men in the audience changed position in order to view her wide, unprotected buttocks.
"If any of you are inclined to feel sorry for the girl," Sanchez said, "may I say that you shouldn't? Her father sold her to my agents for one thousand dollars. More money than he'll earn in ten years. She will be returned to her family-but she won't be returned intact."
The crowd laughed again.
"Get on the floor!" Sanchez demanded in Spanish.
The girl obeyed, sitting on her plump rear end.
"No! No!" Sanchez said harshly. "Lie down! Don't sit!"
The girl lay on her back, eyes open, staring in disbelief, and tears ran down her cheeks.
A man stepped from the crowd and, bending quickly, clasped his hands on her large, brown breasts. He rubbed them energetically and then squeezed them so hard that the girl gasped with pain.
"Do you mind?" Sanchez said good-naturedly. "This is my virgin, after all. If you want one so badly, go out and get your own."
The man went back into the crowd.
The girl made the sign of the cross.
Sanchez unbuckled his belt and his pants fell to his ankles. His hefty, brown cock looked as solid as a piece of granite.
He dropped to his knees and, grabbing her ankles, forced her legs open.
"There it is," he yelled. "Her little treasure chest."
Paul reached the front door but hesitated before going outside.
The poor girl. He couldn't run away and leave her like this-at the mercy of that sick Sanchez.
Sanchez's body covered hers.
The girl was weeping and praying loudly.
Sanchez jerked his buttocks, ramming his cock into her hymen.
The girl's face contorted with pain.
"Ride 'em, cowboy!" a woman in the crowd shouted.
Sanchez jerked again and his rod was past the hymen and securely anchored in her twat.
"Yes, yes, ladies and gentlemen, she's good and tight. It's a great cunt she has. Take my word for it."
He raised his buttocks and slammed into her again.
He obviously intended to screw her slow and easy so the crowd would have plenty to write home about.
Paul slipped his gun from his belt and took careful aim. The flickering light of the torches made it difficult, but still....
He pressed the trigger just as Sanchez was on the rise. The bullet pierced the fleshy cheeks of his rump, and the South American screamed in horror and pain.
The crowd erupted into a million questions:
"What's happened?" and "Has someone shot him?" and "Was it an assassination attempt?"
"Get him! Get the swine that shot me!" Sanchez hollered, rolling on the floor, holding his aching butt.
Paul rushed out the front door and ran to his car.
CHAPTER NINE
When he got into downtown Las Vegas, Paul pulled into a casino parking lot and went inside the building. He phoned Kazan from a booth in the lobby.
The old man was sleeping, but he woke up quickly when Paul explained what had occurred. Paul told him everything, omitting only the fact that he had slept with Sonia.
"Would you please send someone for my stuff at the Palms?" he asked. "I don't want to go back there. Sanchez might have people looking for me."
"I'll take care of it. Leave the rented car in the casino parking lot too. I'll have someone return it and pay the bill."
"Good, sir. Thank you. How about the picture? I'm sure Soma's enroute to L.A. in the Rolls; she won't be back to finish it."
"I'll call Rankin and tell him to get a replacement. Fortunately, we've lost only two days shooting. If we stick someone in tomorrow-anyone, really, with good breasts and a pretty face-we won't lose much money."
"Won't it be hard to get a star on such short notice?"
"We won't need one. Wynn's a big enough name to sell the picture. Tell me, Paul, are there any girls in minor parts who might fill my requirements?"
Good breasts and a pretty face.
Kathy was naturally Paul's first choice, but she didn't have the kind of breasts Kazan wanted-big, sexy cans that would knock out the viewers' eyeballs.
Anyway, he thought, she doesn't need the lead. The part she has is a good one; it would show her off as an actress rather than a sex bomb, and he realized she'd be much happier that way.
So who else was there?
Ahh, yes, the girl he'd seen helping Kathy give Hahn his jollies. Purity Lee. She had a magnificent figure and a very pretty face.
"There's one girl, sir," he said at last. "Purity Lee. Ask Rankin about her. I'm sure he'll agree with me."
"Thanks, Paul. I'll do that. Now what do you want to do about Sonia? Call the police? Or perhaps just let the whole thing take its natural course? Obviously, with Sanchez gunning for her, she'll never do another film for anybody. Therefore, we can forget about her contract. What happens to her from now on is really none of our affair."
"You're right, sir," Paul said. "But if you don't mind, I'd like to follow this assignment through to the end. I'd hate to see her get killed. She seems to have a pretty good scheme to escape him, but Sanchez is a pretty smart cookie-he just might find out about it."
"Okay. You have my permission. Sonia's made a few million for the studio in the past, and I suppose the least we can do for her is keep her alive-if possible."
"Thank you, Mr., Kazan."
"Good-bye, Paul."
"'Bye, sir."
Paul hung up and walked into the lobby.
He had to get out of Vegas. What was the best way?
He thought for a moment and then returned to the booth and called Bugsy Seymour.
"You can get your stuff, Bugsy. I won't be needing it anymore."
"Okay, Paul. I'll send one of my assistants over to pick it up. Did you hear what you wanted to hear?"
"Perfectly. You're undoubtedly the best wire tapper in the world. Oh, listen-I've got another problem. I want to go to L.A. tonight without anyone seeing me. Got any ideas how I can do it?"
"Sure. When do you want to leave?"
"Immediately."
"You're on. I'll drive you myself. I'll pick you up in ten minutes."
Paul dropped the receiver back on the cradle and, having a cigarette in the lobby, wondered what was in store for him in Los Angeles. One thing was a certainty-it wouldn't be dull.
CHAPTER TEN
Paul decided to take the money away from Sonia.
It wasn't any of his affair-as Kazan had said-but, damn it, it didn't seem right to let someone spend all that money on self-indulgence when it was probably stolen by Sanchez from his fellow countrymen.
Paul would take the four million from Sonia and donate it to the new government, asking that they use it to build hospitals or schools for the natives.
Okay. He'd decided to take it from her, but now the question was-how?
Paul looked up the address of the Malo clinic in the L.A. telephone book. It was in the suburbs, on a quiet, residential street. He then called a doctor friend and asked him what the clinic specialized in. The answer was alcoholics; and thus Paul made a second decision-he'd check into the clinic under the guise of a man who was being pursued by the demon bottle.
Sonia wouldn't even know he was there, he reasoned. Dr. Malo would be smart enough to hide her away from the other clients, probably in a private room.
Paul took a cab to the clinic. He had his flight bag with him and, of course, his trusty .45.
It was a large, two-story, cream-colored building way back from the road behind a wire-mesh fence. As there was no danger of the clients fleeing-all of them were there under their own free will-the front gates were wide open and unguarded.
Paul paid the driver and strolled up the roadway past the neatly clipped lawn to the clinic building.
He walked inside and told the nurse at the reception desk he wanted a room.
"You'll have to speak to Dr. Van Dome first," she said. "He's in charge of admissions."
The nurse went for the doctor and Paul gazed at the small cluster of alcoholics sitting around the lobby, thumbing through books and magazines.
Son of a gun, he mused, most of them have red noses-it must be true what they say about drunks and the color of their beaks.
Dr. Van Dome was sour faced and serious. He listened to Paul's tale of woe-the three-day binges, the grief-stricken wife and children and the boss at the tire company who threatened to fire him if he didn't reform.
"How long do you wish to stay?" Van Dome inquired, barely stopping himself from yawning.
"A week or two."
"You'll have to make a deposit. Two hundred dollars."
"Okay."
"Oh, do you want treatment or just drying out?"
"Drying out," Paul said. "I haven't had a snort for three hours, and I want a place to rest while I'm trying to kick the habit."
"Fine. We'll give you a room. When you feel depressed or desperate, you can ring the bell by your bed. The nurse will fetch a psychiatrist for you. Or some medicine. Whichever you prefer. If, after a few days, you change your mind and want the full treatment, please come to see me and I'll arrange it."
"Thank you, Doctor."
Van Dome walked away, and Paul filled out some forms at the desk, using the name O. Hahn. He paid two hundred in cash and the nurse led him up to the second floor where his room was situated.
Enroute, he picked up a newspaper lying unclaimed on a chair.
Once the nurse had left him alone, he stretched out on the bed and read the headlines:
MYSTERY SHROUDS FILM STAR'S DISAPPEARANCE
There were two photos taken from recent Sonia Lombardo movies and a picture of her dancing at Cannes with her husband. The story read:
Police said today they are still baffled by the mysterious disappearance of the movie sex-queen Sonia Lombardo, who vanished while making a film in Las Vegas with cowboy star Jack Wynn.
Miss Lombardo was last reported headed for Los Angeles in a car owned by her husband, Count Alfredo de Vincini.
Three men employed by Miss Lombardo were found in the desert ten miles from Las Vegas on the night of her disappearance. They were wearing women's clothing and were having difficulty stopping passers-by when a police car spotted them.
One of the trio-Wilson Ashley, Miss Lombardo's private secretary-said the film actress took them for a ride in the car and, for no reason he could think of, suddenly pointed a gun at them and forced them to get out.
"I don't understand why she'd do this to us," said Ronnie Francks, Miss Lombardo' s hairdresser. "We were always on the best of terms."
Mr. Francks said the three men were wearing women's clothing because they had been attending a costume party when Miss Lombardo picked them up.
Miss Lombardo's husband told police he had no idea where his wife was going or why.
Meanwhile, Olympic Films announced in Los Angeles that Miss Lombardo has been replaced in the film, Duel In The Desert, by a new acting discovery, Purity Lee.
Miss Lee, a studio spokesman said, is a beautiful, young starlet and a brilliant actress whom it has been keeping under wraps for some time, waiting for the right picture for her. Miss Lombardo's disappearance has provided her with the role which....
Paul stopped reading. He had seen enough.
He threw the paper in a wastepaper basket and smiled when he thought of the three faggots on the desert highway, trying in vain to catch a ride.
Sonia had double-crossed them too. She was some woman. All beauty and more guts than a lion tamer.
Paul changed into his silk pajamas and bathrobe and put on a pair of Italian sandals. He now looked like the rest of the in-patients.
He took the .45 from his suitcase and placed it in the drawer of his bedside table.
Then he went downstairs to have lunch in the clinic cafeteria.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
"Gratitude, Miss Lee. That's what I want. An indication that you appreciate my making you a star."
"I am grateful, Mr. Rankin. Believe me, I am.
What can I do to prove it to you?"
"Strip!"
They were in Harvey Rankin's room at the Palms. Purity had labored through two days on Duel In The Desert, learning her lines by night and during coffee breaks and reciting them on camera all day.
It was a strain on her and she was tired, but the excitement of it all kept her going full steam.
"Strip?" she said, blinking her eyes. "Well, if that's what you want...."
"Naturally, that's what I want. That's what all men want. To lay a beautiful broad like you."
Hearing the word "lay" raised Purity's hopes. Thus far no one had actually, in the true sense of the word, laid her. Perkins and Hahn had used her to meet their own perverted ends and Kathy, a whiz-bang of a lover, still couldn't replace that old six inches of rigid cock that she yearned for.
Purity looked at the young, clean-cut director and told herself it was certainly correct; you couldn't judge a book by its cover. Rankin was the last person she'd have thought would make a demand on her body.
Purity got up from the chair and started undoing the buttons on her blouse.
"No, no, not here," Rankin said. "Come with me. I'll show you where."
He led her into the bathroom.
The tub, she noted, was half-filled with scented, slightly steaming water.
"Now," Rankin said. "Strip here."
Purity didn't quite understand, but she was willing to go along with whatever he asked. After all, he was making her a star, as he had said, and she should show some gratitude.
Rankin was rid of his faded denims and white turtleneck sweater in two seconds flat. He tossed them on the tile floor and, sitting on the toilet, took off his shoes and socks and jockey shorts.
Purity took her time. She made her movements slow and languorous; not because she was tired, but because she wanted to entice Rankin so much that when he rammed his cock into her it would be throbbing with pent-up desire.
She hung her blouse on the back of the bathroom door and, unzipping her plaid skirt, let it cascade to her ankles. Stepping out of it, she bent over to unhook the tops of her nylons-the motion pitched her creamy, ripe breasts to the edge of her black silk bra and Rankin could see the pinkish tips of her nipples.
He didn't utter a word. He sat on the toilet seat, his cock growing steadily upward, watching her strip, like a mongoose watching a cobra.
Purity settled her provocative rump on the edge of the tub and removed her nylons and high heels. Her movements made her breasts quiver and bob gently together and some kinky, dark hair push out of the triangle of black silk covering her crotch.
When she stood up, she twisted her torso and, with wildly jiggling breasts, struggled briefly to undo the three clasps behind her back. The last clasp gave way and her twin mounds jutted into unrestricted view as the bra fluttered to her feet.
The panties were the last article of clothing to go.
Rankin's eyes switched from her mammoth breasts to the bulge of her crotch.
She rolled her panties down her legs and her cunt appeared, a pinkish eye staring at him from amidst a mass of downy hair.
She stepped out of the panties. As an added gesture-to ensure his interest in laying her-she took her breasts in her hands and squeezed them, smiling seductively. Her hands ran down her stomach, a finger paused to dip into her navel, and then her hands were both between her thighs, caressing her vagina.
"I'm ready," she said, withdrawing her hands. "My body's yours."
Rankin jumped up from the toilet seat. His cock was a pulsating, red baseball bat.
He scooped Purity into his arms and they kissed. Passionately. His huge rod banged against her crotch, the knob rubbing her sensitive vagina lips as they kissed.
Their kiss was fierce and demanding. Their body heats mixed.
Purity opened her legs and, grabbing Rankin's cock, guided it into her cunt.
Oh, how marvelous it felt; she had ached and ached to have a stiff pecker like this inside her!
But she wanted more of it. The standing position was too awkward and Rankin's cock was only partially buried in her moist cavern.
Purity broke free from his lips.
"Let's lie down," she said. "I need more of it in me."
"Okay," he said brightly. "Get into the tub." His cock popped out.
Purity climbed into the bathtub and sat down at one end. The water was pleasantly warm and she had the nicest sensation as it covered her pussy and eased up her belly halfway to her breasts.
The water rose higher when Rankin got in the other end. It came up to her breasts, warming her nipples.
Rankin sat with his legs doubled up in front of him, almost to his chin. The water lapped at his navel.
"Doesn't that feel fantastic?" he said. "Hot water's an aphrodisiac for me. It sends me right through the roof."
Purity opened and closed her legs quickly, in a motion that sent ripples across the water from her underwater cunt and thighs to his balls and shaft.
Rankin reached his long-fingered hands across the tub and touched her nipples. He rubbed them simultaneously in little circles. They were already hard, but as he played with them, they became harder and more pointed.
Purity sighed with pleasure. She extended a leg into the juncture of his thighs and tickled his testicles with her toes.
Rankin jackknived forward and blanketed her body with his. His hands were under the water, racing through her pubic hair. He laced a bunch of strands in one hand, closed his fist and pulled gently.
Tiny, moaning sounds escaped her throat. Her mouth dangled half open and her eyes gleamed with lust.
Rankin brought his hands above water. He helped himself to fistfuls of her big, spongy breasts and asserted pressure, his knuckles, submerged and the ends of his fingers surfaced.
She moaned louder.
He took one hand away and continued squeezing her breast with the other. The hand on the move sped through the water like a torpedo, it grasped his cock and led it to the doorway of her longing twat.
With his forefinger he stroked from the bottom to the top of her parted lips, pausing to give a circular stroke to her rising clitoris.
He kissed her lips and reveled in the thought that they were moist from the bathtub steam. The beads of sweat on his upper lip merged with those on hers and the electricity of love flowed through a solid contact, tingling both of them with its special current.
As he played with her vagina lips, Purity hunched forward and the bottom of the tub squealed against her smooth skin. Waves of warm water rippled over his testicles, hips and flanks and produced additional thrills for his throbbing cock.
His lips left hers and his hand retreated from her bosom. He was now ready to concentrate on the legendary inter-play of cock in cunt.
His fingers spread her vagina lips even farther apart. His cock, waiting nearby, easily slipped inside, advancing inch by inch into her hot cunt.
Rankin arched his body and lifted his cock almost completely out of her before slamming it back home with vengeance.
The warm water did seem to increase her pleasure. Her cunt was tingling so excitedly, though, that she wasn't sure whether it was the water that made it feel better or merely the fact that she was finally getting the kind of screwing she had craved for weeks.
Wham! Wham! Wham!
With hot, frantic, hydraulic drivings, they writhed and pounded against each other underneath the water.
Deeper and deeper Rankin plumbed her-thrusting and exploring and delighting in. both their reactions.
He was pumping up and down so fast that water shot over the top of the tub and splashed onto the floor.
Purity had her arms around his neck, clinging desperately to him. Wham! Wham! Wham!
They derived so much enjoyment from each other-for so long a period of time-that both wondered if they would ever reach orgasm. Perhaps they wouldn't. Perhaps the warm water made an orgasm impossible. Perhaps they would have to get out and lie on the tile floor and screw and screw and screw until they....
The explosion walloped them like a Roman candle being dropped from the sky. Searing pleasure burned their bodies from head to toe. They arched upwards, clinging to each other, gasping for the air their coupling had taken from their lungs.
Every nerve vibrated with new life and excruciating release.
Their orgasm came to a halt. They kissed, still out of breath, and left the tub for the bedroom where Rankin suggested they should spend the remainder of the night.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Who was Sonia Lombardo running from?
Dr. Malo asked his mistress, Bobbie Bottomly, to find the answer. A chubby, sweet-faced kid fresh from college, Bobbie often took on jobs for the doctor to supplement her mistress's income-free rent and two hundred dollars a month living expenses was barely adequate for her.
She phoned a friend in Las Vegas, a gambling casino owner she had once balled in a drive-in movie.
No one knew nothing, he'd said. However, an ex-South American dictator named Romero Sanchez was turning the town upside down looking for clues to the actress's disappearance. The rumor was that Sonia Lombardo had stolen something from him.
Bobbie went to Malo's office and reported her conversation with the casino owner.
"Very interesting," Malo said, rubbing his hands together gleefully. "You've certainly earned a fat pay check for this job. I could never have found that out so fast."
"It's my connections," Bobbie said. "I know so many men."
Too many, Malo grumbled to himself.
For, although he didn't mind Bobbie's status as a raving nymphomaniac, it did get a bit tiring when everywhere they went-restaurants, movies or gas stations-Bobbie knew someone due to their sexual mating.
Ann, well.
Bobbie rose and headed for the door. Her cute little bottom wiggled and her large, jutting breasts bounced. She had long, black hair and deep green, soulful eyes that frequently gave men the wrong impression-she looked as innocent as a newborn calf.
"What about my bonus?" she asked, standing in the open doorway. "Can I collect it today?"
"Certainly. Meet me in her room in half an hour."
"Okay," Bobbie said merrily, as she closed the door behind her. "I'll be there."
The bonus. Malo wished he hadn't mentioned it to her. Somehow it seemed all right for him and Van Dome to screw Sonia Lombardo, but Bobbie-well, she wasn't an authentic dyke; she wanted to do it for kicks.
But a man of his age-sixty-three, going on sixty-four-couldn't, no matter how hard he tried, satisfy the appetite of a young girl, especially a young girl like Bobbie whose need for sex was abnormal, to say the least.
Malo picked up the telephone and called information in Las Vegas. He got Sanchez's number and had the operator dial it. A servant answered the phone.
"Mr. Sanchez isn't receiving any calls," the servant said. "He's confined to bed with-ah-the mending of wounds suffered during an accident."
"Is there a phone in the bedroom?" Malo inquired.
"Yes, sir. Next to the bed. But he won't use it unless it's...."
"Tell him to use it," Malo said bluntly. "I have some information for him regarding the disappearance of Sonia Lombardo."
"Yes, sir."
The servant went away. A moment later, Sanchez was on the line.
"Who is this?" he asked. "Do I know you?"
"No, Senor Sanchez, you don't know me. But you will."
"What is it you have to tell me about Sonia Lombardo?"
"Please, Senor Sanchez, don't be so hasty. Stop asking questions and let me talk for awhile. All right?"
"I'm sorry," Sanchez said apologetically. "It's just that I'm so anxious to find her. I'll be quiet. Please talk."
"Good. First of all, let me explain that Miss Lombardo paid me twenty thousand dollars to aid her in her escape from you. I have an incurable thirst for the finer things in life, Senor. I own houses and cars and several race horses and yachts. That twenty thousand was a drop in the bucket for me. Before I received it, it was already spent. So, you see, I am forced by circumstances to be greedy. I must get as much money as I can from everyone I do business with. That includes Miss Lombardo. I understand-or should I say-I guess that she took a great deal of money from you. In exchange for my returning her to you, I would like half of that money."
"Half?" Sanchez bellowed. "That's robbery!"
"Perhaps. The thing is, Senor, it's either give me half or lose all of it. I have no idea where the money is hidden and if Miss Lombardo doesn't tell me, then it will never be found, for I intend to kill her."
"Kill her? No, wait. Don't do that, my friend. Yes, I agree to give you half. Half of something is better than all of nothing."
"Good. I thought we could do business. My name is Malo-Dr. Malo-and I have a clinic in Los Angeles. Miss Lombardo is staying hereunder heavy sedation, I might add. The address is 1958 Dorchester Place."
"I'll be there shortly. I'll come by plane."
"Good. Good-bye, Senor."
"Adios, Doctor."
Malo hung up and tilted back in his chair. Sanchez had agreed to give him half the money, but there was something in his voice the doctor didn't like. He'd sounded treacherous. Yes, like a man who couldn't be trusted to keep his word.
Malo opened his desk drawer and removed the small pistol. It wasn't an ordinary gun; it was a six-cylinder tranquilizer weapon. Each dart inside was soaked in fluid that would render the person shot instantly unconscious.
He put the gun in the pocket of his long, white smock and closed the drawer.
Leaving the office, he met Van Dome in the hallway. They conferred briefly, looking both ways to make sure there was no one else in the hallway.
"How is she?" Malo asked.
"Still out cold. Are you going to kill her now?"
"No. I'm leaving that to someone else-the man she was running from. He's coming in from Las Vegas."
"You made a deal with him?"
"Yes. Half of whatever it is she took from him."
"Money?"
"Yes, I think so. Did you check her car? Maybe the money is in it?"
"Yes. I gave it a thorough search. There was nothing there."
"See you later, Doctor."
"Right-o."
The two men walked away in opposite directions.
Paul came out of his hiding place.
He had heard the entire conversation while standing in an alcove near the door to Malo's office. He had been so close to the two men that he had to hold his breath for fear of them hearing it.
So Sanchez was coming, was he? Well, that confirmed his suspicions about Malo and his claim to change people's appearances.
Paul had done a lot of snooping in the past two days. He'd found Sonia's room and, by peeking through the keyhole, had seen her asleep in the bed.
But he was unable to get inside because the door was locked. Even his knowledge of lock picking had failed him; the lock on Sonia's door was too difficult to work without a key.
He had also found evidence that Malo planned to kill her.
Sonia's room was in a distant wing of the clinic, next door to an operating room. The operating room, however, was practically empty. There were a few unclean and apparently unused medical instruments and an operating table. The only medicine or liquid he could find in the room was a bottle of green fluid marked sodium chloride, a poison that kills immediately upon injection.
Paul checked the green fluid against the loaded needle lying on a tray next to the operating table. They were exactly the same.
It might be far-fetched, Paul thought at the time, but Malo could be guaranteeing clients an untraceable disappearance and then killing them after they've paid their fee and checked into the clinic. Perhaps he'd wheel them into the operating room and they'd willingly submit to the deadly needle, thinking it was a sedative of some kind. Then he'd destroy their bodies in the incinerator in the basement.
Now that he'd heard the two doctors calmly discussing Sonia's death, he no longer believed his theory to be far-fetched. Malo and Van Dome were murderers. They had spared Sonia's life so far only because they might be able to get more money out of having her alive.
Paul left the hallway and ran down the emergency stairs to the underground parking area. He had picked the lock on Sonia's Rolls Royce earlier and taken out the suitcases containing the four million bucks. When Van Dome had searched the car, he'd been too late; the money had been hidden elsewhere.
Paul took the suitcases from the broom closet where he'd put them and walked to the Rolls. He opened the trunk, placed them inside, and closed the lid again. Then he hurried back to the emergency stairs.
The money was safe now. Van Dome and Malo wouldn't think of searching the car a second time.
But Paul wanted more than the money. He wanted Sonia too.
He couldn't just leave her at the mercy of Sanchez. He had to get her out of there before Sanchez arrived. If he waited, the odds would be too heavily weighted against him. Malo, Van dome, and Sanchez, and possibly Sanchez's henchman Costa. Four to one. No, he had to move now. Right away.
Paul flirted with the nurse in the dispensary. It wasn't an easy task-she was ugly as sin-but it got him what he needed.
When she was attending to some paper work, Paul stole a roll of adhesive tape.
He then walked down the hall and entered Van Dome's office. His secretary wasn't there. Good. That would be to Paul's advantage.
Paul moved through the small area normally occupied by the secretary and, without knocking, barged into Van Dome's inner office.
Van Dome was at the filing cabinet, sifting through folders.
"What do you want?" he said. "Have you got an appointment?"
"Don't you remember me?" Paul said, closing the door. "I'm Mr. Hahn. I told you my problems the other day when I registered."
"So?" Van Dome said rudely, slamming the cabinet drawer shut.
"So I've been smuggling booze into my room. Inside hollowed-out radio tubes. I can't help myself-I've got to drink. I need help, Doctor."
"See one of our psychiatrists. If that doesn't help, then ask the nurse for something to put you to sleep."
"And if that doesn't help?"
"Then go out and get drunk, for all I care," Van Dome said with wrath. "I'm sick of hearing drunks' stories. I've had you alkies up to here."
He turned his back on Paul and stood, staring out the window.
"I had hoped you'd understand," Paul said. "You seemed such a warm, compassionate human being."
"Well, I don't understand. I've got other things on my mind, Hahn. Go see the psychiatrist. Don't bug me."
Paul slipped the .45 from the pocket of his bathrobe and pushed the metal tip against the back of Van Dome's head.
"In case you're wondering, Doctor," he said evenly, "that's a gun aiming at your twisted brain. If you don't tell me what I want to know, I'm quite capable of pulling the trigger."
"Listen, Hahn," Van Dome said worriedly, "you shouldn't drink so much. It obviously has a bad effect on you."
"Where's the key to Sonia Lombardo's room?"
"The what?"
"You heard me. The key to Sonia Lombardo's room. I know she's here, Van Dome, and I know what room she's in. But I can't get in without the key."
"I don't have it. Malo has it. He carries it on him. In his vest pocket."
"Are you sure you're not lying? Lying people give me itchy trigger fingers."
"No. Believe me. Malo has it. Now ... "
"One more thing," Paul interrupted him. "Where's Malo? In his office?"
"No, he's gone to Sonia Lombardo's room. Who are you, anyway? What do you want with ... "
Paul whacked Van Dome across the top of the head. The doctor collasped to the floor.
Paul removed the cord from his robe and tied Van Dome's hands behind his back. Then, using the stolen adhesive tape, he assured his silence by taping his mouth.
He put the .45 in his pocket and calmly strolled outsid.?.
Van Dome's secretary was returning to her desk.
"Dr. Van Dome asked me to tell you he had to go into town," Paul said. "His mother's ill. Very, very ill. He said you could have the rest of the day off."
"Terrific," said the girl happily. "There's a sale at the Bon Marche."
She gathered her coat and handbag and passed Paul in the hallway as she scooted toward the front door.
Bobbie Bottomly lifted the sheet and peered under it.
Sonia Lombardo was naked. Stark, raving, fuckably naked!
Her incredible body was spread out before Bobbie like a voluptuous road map; the hills of her breasts, the valley of her crotch and the flat stretches of her stomach and legs.
Sonia's eyes were closed. She was breathing evenly and her breasts moved up and down with the capture and release of air.
Bobbie climbed on top of the sleeping sexpot and kissed her tenderly on the lips.
"Wake up beauty," she said sweetly. "It's lovemaking time."
Sonia remained motionless.
Bobbie kissed her again-harder-and fondled her breasts as though they were precious objects.
"Come on, gorgeous," Bobbie said. "Get with it, will you?"
Sonia didn't budge.
Bobbie's hands grasped Sonia's breasts and squeezed them.
"Hey, what's wrong with her?" she yelled in alarm, when the actress still failed to respond to her advances.
Malo sat quietly in the corner, smoking his pipe.
"She's drugged," he said calmly. "We've had her this way since the moment she arrived. An earthquake couldn't wake her up, but don't let that stop you, Bobbie. Van Dome and I have both had a bash at her and, believe me, she's a good lay."
Bobbie jumped off the bed.
"To hell with it," she said, incensed. "I've been screwed by men, women, children and dogs, but I've never made it with someone who wasn't conscious. It isn't proper, Malo. You've got to be pretty sick in the head to screw a corpse."
"She isn't a corpse," Malo insisted. "She's a good lay. She twitches all over once you get going. Van Dome liked her so much he went back for seconds."
"Which shows where he's at," Bobbie fumed. "And you too. You guys need to see doctors. What you're doing to this woman isn't normal."
Malo shrugged his shoulders.
"What's normal?" he said. "Some people sleep with the same woman for fifty-five years and can't stand the sight of her in the daylight. You call that normal? Well, I don't and yet that's what society says they should do."
"So society's abnormal, heh? Well, maybe so, but that still doesn't persuade me, Doctor. I'm not going to screw Sonia Lombardo."
Inwardly, Malo groaned. If she didn't have Sonia-or someone else tonight-it undoubtedly meant he was in for another frenzied bed session. At his age, he had to have someone screw Bobbie three or four times so she'd be more settled down and willing to take the one or two bashes he could give her.
Malo stood up and, cleaning the ashes from his pipe, put it in his smock pocket.
"I must say that with your track record, Bobbie, I'm really astounded. I always thought you were the type of person who'd make out with a doorknob if I put a safe on it."
Bobbie was about to fire back an equally sharp insult when the door was flung open.
Paul entered the room, brandishing his .45.
"Don't move!" he said. "Either of you. I'm taking Sonia Lombardo out of here and if anyone tries to interfere, they'll be sporting a new hole in their head."
"You'll have to carry her," Bobbie said. "She's unconscious."
"And liable to be so for several more hours," Malo added.
"You carry her then," Paul said, waving the gun at Malo. "We'll use the stairs to the basement. And don't try any tricks, Malo. I'll be right behind you with this."
"Who are you?" Malo asked, approaching the bed. "The police?"
"No, just a friend of Miss Lombardo's."
Malo's hand was in the pocket of his smock.
Before Paul realized it, the hand tilted outward and jerked twice; two darts ripped through the white material and struck Paul in the stomach.
Paul doubled over, holding his stricken stomach. His head whirled and blackness swamped his brain.
He got one shot away before he hit the floor. A bullet that missed Malo by two feet, shattering a vase on a distant dresser.
Paul came to in a small, empty room. The door was locked and the window barred.
He paced the floor and tried to think of an escape plan. It was impossible. He had nothing on him except the pajamas and bathrobe he was wearing. Even his wristwatch was gone. The door opened suddenly.
Bobbie entered, quickly closing it in her wake.
"Hello, Mr. Hahn," she said languidly.
"That's not my real name," Paul confessed. "It's Paul Scott. I might as well tell you because you'll know, anyway, when Sanchez arrives."
"What are you? A secret agent?"
"Hardly. I'm merely a boy scout who was stupid enough to believe he could rescue a distressed damsel. What was in that gun of Malo's, anyway?"
"Tranquilizer darts. You've been unconscious for some time."
"My next question is: what are you doing here? Has Malo sent you to ask me questions?"
Bobbie smiled.
"I came to help you get out of here, Mr. Scott. You see, I'm not all I seem to be. I'm Malo's mistress and as such I'm often called upon to assist him in his nefarious schemes. But I'm also working for the police. They're giving me a small fortune to get the goods on my aging lover."
"Why should the police pay you?" Paul said with suspicion.
"Because they think he's killing people, but they haven't enough evidence to do anything about it. He's a smart cookie. He sneaks people in and disposes of them without anyone knowing they were here. That's a mighty impressive incinerator downstairs; it does a great job."
"Where does the money come in?" Paul asked. "The police don't pay their undercover operators small fortunes."
"No, but their clients do. The money was posted as rewards for information with the Missing Persons Bureau by relatives and families of some fairly important people who wanted to drop out of the public limelight. It's taken me months, but I've gathered sufficient evidence to prove that Malo and Van Dome have murdered thirteen people this year alone."
"What kind of evidence?"
"The best kind. Coded notes in files which I've managed to decode, and some conversations between them that I've managed to get on tape. Those relatives and families are going to make me a very rich young lady."
"So you're ready to collect. Why come and tell me?"
"Because I'm calling the police tonight. I have all the data I need. And I thought I'd be a nice girl and let you get Miss Lombardo out of here before the fuzz arrives."
"Okay," Paul said, walking toward the door. "I appreciate it."
Bobbie placed herself in his path.
"Not yet, Mr. Scott," she said sultrily. "You have to pay me first."
"No, I don't. If you don't step aside, I'll be forced to move you."
"Do that and I'll scream. Then Malo will come running and you'll be right back where you were before I entered the scene."
"All right," Paul said wryly. "What's your price?"
"Your body."
Paul almost laughed. That was the last thing he'd expected.
But he didn't laugh.
He gazed into her green eyes and saw proof in their murky glare that she was deadly serious.
He shifted his gaze to the thick black hair tumbling from her head to her shoulders. Then down over her body.
She was a bit chunky, but far from being fat. Her breasts were big and pointed straight out and her hips were smooth and nicely curved. Only her legs discouraged him. They were short and thickish; but, he noted, they seemed to be well muscled and could probably throw a damn good screw into him.
Paul stepped in closer and kissed her.
Such an innocent face, he thought, as his lips touched hers. She's just a kid.
Her response immediately convinced him that she wasn't such an innocent kid, after all.
Her lips ground hotly into his and her tongue slipped into his mouth, jabbing back and forth in a mock-intercourse movement.
Bobbie pulled away from him, smiling seductively.
"Want to see a neat trick?" she said. "Watch this."
There was a large button on each shoulder of her dress. She undid the buttons and when the second one left its hole, the dress fell down at the front and back, stunning Paul with its sudden show of white flesh. She grabbed the dress at her waist and pushed it down over her hipsfrom there, it floated to her ankles.
Paul didn't know where to look. At her bare bosom or the V-shaped mound between her legs. Both appeared to be equally exciting.
"Wasn't that some trick?" Bobbie said, stepping out of her high heels. "I had the dress specially made for me. I told the tailor I liked to do fast stripteases and he worked very hard to get the kind of thing I wanted. Particularly when I said I'd model it for him."
"Lucky tailor," Paul said.
"I wish his wife had seen it that way. Just as the front collapsed she rushed into the back of his shop and punched him in the face. Some women are such awful prudes. They never let their husbands have any fun."
Paul began stripping. He had no magical buttons like Bobbie and it took him several seconds to get out of the pyjamas and bathrobe, Bobbie stood with her hands on her hips, impatiently waiting.
"Hurry up," she said. "My little hole is itchy and I'm dying to have it scratched."
When he was nude and his clothing lay in a heap near his feet, Bobbie dropped her hands to her sides and quickly approached him.
"Play with my tits," she said sexily. "Make me real hot."
Paul didn't need a second invitation. He kissed her hard on the lips and his hands found her boobs, caressing the mounds and rubbing the long, pointed nipples.
Man, she was built! Her breasts were enormous in his hands. He kept his fingers moving constantly so he could feel as much of them as possible.
Her tongue played tag with his.
He squeezed one breast, then the other. Then his thumbs nudged the nipples, causing them to leap alert.
He resigned from her mouth and kissed her wetly on the neck and earlobes.
"Christ," he uttered, "you're some kid. Your body's beautiful. It feels like silk."
He removed his hands from her breasts and dug his fingers into her back, pulling her against him until every part of the front of their bodies touched.
She worked her leg between his and teased his cock into a savage erection.
Her hot nipples burned holes in his chest.
Paul drew back and dropped his head onto her bosom. He kissed the heaving hills and raked the ravine between them with his tongue before landing on her nipple with his lips.
He sucked her breast like a starving baby. Suck! Suck! Suck!
Bobbie groaned and bit his shoulder.
His mouth released the nipple and his tongue revolved on it, licking gustily until it quivered with sensation.
"I'm ready for you," Bobbie hissed in his ear. "Do me, Scott. Do me!"
Paul guided her to the floor.
"No, wait," she said, as he prepared to mount her. "Let me get on top of you."
"All right," Paul said, rolling onto his back. "Whatever you say."
Bobbie knelt beside him, eyeing his rigid penis.
"What a pretty toy," she said in a childish voice. "Can baby play with it?"
"Sure," Paul said. "That's what toys are for."
Bobbie leaned forward and, taking a breast in her hand, rubbed the sizzling nipple against the knob of his massive hard-on.
Paul shivered with delight.
Bobbie scooped the other breast into her other hand and applied them both to his throbbing tip, alternating from left to right and back again.
Then she caught his cock in the valley between her boobs and pressed her tits hard against it.
His cock throbbed uncontrollably.
"Ain't that wonderful?" she said gaily. "Little Bobbie knows all sorts of tricks, doesn't she?"
"If the others are half as good as this one," Paul said, "they'll have to cart me off to an asylym when you're through. I'll be a sex maniac."
Bobbie gave him a final squeeze and then let go of her breasts, allowing them to swing out and dangle delectably over his crotch.
She leaned over still farther and planted a delicate kiss on the end of his cock.
"If you only knew what cocks do to me," she said hoarsely. "Just looking at them sends tingles up my spine."
She kissed it again and licked a circle around the knob. Then her bow-shaped lips opened and she sucked his rod inside.
Her mouth was heated and wet and felt like a cunt endowed with unique powers as it sucked, strongly, on his cock.
The pleasure was so overwhelming that Paul had to grit his teeth and clench his fists.
Bobbie sucked and tongued his cock and stopped only when she suddenly remembered her initial objective-to straddle Paul and give him a darn good screwing.
His cock slithered out of her mouth.
"I hope we meet again when we both have more time," she said. "Your cock pleases me very much. I'd like to blow you until you come."
"I hope so too," Paul said, relaxing his hands.
Bobbie pushed herself up and over him, sitting in a position which placed her warm buttocks above his knees, close to his towering colossus.
Bobbie rose off his legs and reached under her. Her hand clasped the head of his cock and led it to the lips of her cunt. Slowly, deliciously, she settled back down, smiling benignly as the huge member plunged into the depths of her juicy twat.
"Oh, yes! This is what I live for! Oh, yes! It's beautiful! So beautiful!"
Her sudden outburst signalled the fact that Bobbie had travelled beyond the bounds of human reason and was now totally enraptured by animalistic pleasures.
"Oh, I'm going to fuck you! I'm going to fuck you until your cock breaks!"
She sat quietly for a moment longer, drinking in the sweet wine of the feeling that engulfed her.
Then she tore loose, riding him with wild abandon, racing up and down on his shaft with her breasts and hair flying in every direction.
Her hips ground at him harder and rougher as she galloped, and he was snowed under by an avalanche of violent thrills.
He lifted his head and tried to catch one of her big, bouncing melons in his mouth. To no avail. She was moving so fast that he couldn't hit his target.
Bobbie's lust-filled eyes saw his need and she leaned closer to him.
God, what breasts, Paul thought. So inviting, so sensual; I've got to have one in my mouth! I've got to!
He snapped at her boobs with his teeth-three, four, five times-and then, miraculously, his mouth made contact, nabbing a nipple. He swept it into his mouth and sucked with all his might.
"Ooooeeee! Suck me, baby! Suck me!"
Paul sucked and Bobbie kept riding him.
Up and down. Up and down. His cock was being battered by her tight cunt as if it were a piece of driftwood caught in a storm.
Paul held the nipple firmly between his teeth and speared it repeatedly with his tongue.
How much longer could they go on like this? Not much. It was all happening so fast. His orgasm would soon roar out of nowhere and overpower him.
He stopped tonguing the nipple but kept his teeth on it. He wanted her breast in his mouth when he climaxed. Somehow, this thought seemed to increase his erotic intensity and he became more determined than ever to have it that way.
"That's it!" Bobbie shouted. "Bite my nipple! Don't let go! I love it!"
Her hips flew up and down in a frantic, blurring motion. Then the whirlpool of their mutual climax washed over them and Bobbie bounced her thighs ravenously on the object of her endless stimulation.
They were both swearing and uttering incoherent expressions of love.
Bliss reigned in the land of Eros.
Then she rolled, exhausted and coated in perspiration, half off of him, her arms dangling limply at her sides.
Sometime during their orgasm, Paul had let her breast escape his teeth; if it was worth a million dollars to him, he could never state precisely when this had happened. His climax had been a completely blank and mindless experience.
Bobbie eased herself off his cock.
She climbed slowly to her feet and went looking for her dress.
Paul placed his hands behind his head and lay there, watching as she found it and pulled it over her marvelous body.
"Come on," she said. "I hate to be a party pooper, but if we don't leave here soon, Sanchez will be here and the game will be over."
Jeez! That's right! Paul had forgotten where he was and what he was there for.
He jumped up and walked to his clothing.
"Oh, Mr. Scott," Bobbie said. "I have a surprise for you."
She opened the door and showed him.
His street clothes were neatly piled on a chair. His gun lay on top of them.
"I wasn't going to tell you," she said, "unless you paid my price."
Paul stepped outside and, looking around cautiously, saw that he was in the basement boiler room. No one else was in the vicinity.
He got dressed and shoved the .45 into his sports jacket pocket.
"By the way," he asked, "you don't happen to know where Malo put Sonia's clothes? I'll need the key to her Rolls."
"Ask and you shall receive," Bobbie said. "Look in your pants pocket."
Paul fumbled around in his pocket and retrieved an unfamiliar key from between his wallet and some loose change.
"You mean this is it?" he said, showing it to her.
"Uh-huh. I think of everything. I thought you'd want it for a quick getaway. Seeing you didn't bring your own car."
"And her clothes? I'd like to dress her before leaving."
"Sorry. That I couldn't arrange. Malo burned them. I stole the car key just before he threw her purse in the fire too."
Paul waved his hands at the boiler room.
"You think of everything, you know. For instance, you said you'd scream if I forced you to move aside and let me out. Well, my dear, we're obviously in the basement and there's no one around who would've heard you."
"I know," Bobbie grinned. "But if I didn't tell a little white lie now and then I'd never get anyone to make love to me."
Paul chuckled.
"I doubt that," he said. "Not with your sexual equipment."
He drew her to him and kissed her lightly on the lips.
"I'm off to slay the dragon," he said. "Call me sometime. My number's in the book."
"Okay, Paul. Don't think I won't." She broke his embrace. "First things first. I'm going to blow the whistle now. The cops will be here in about fifteen minutes, so you'd better hustle."
"Right. See you later."
"You can count on it. So long."
They split up, taking different doors and hurrying to accomplish their separate tasks.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
It was late at night. How late, Paul didn't know, but it must've been past midnight because the TV was off in the lounge and the only sign of life was the night nurse at the reception desk far down the hall.
Paul was peering through the emergency exit door, surveying the deserted hall and the row upon row of closed doors.
He started to push the door open wider, when Van Dome reeled into view. He came around a corner, walking fast, and went into his office.
Damn it, Paul cursed. Someone found him and set him free. Well, Paul resolved, he'd just have to cut the odds down again.
Paul walked into the hall and entered Van Dome's office. He passed the secretary's vacant desk and threw open the door to the doctor's inner quarters.
"What in blazes?...." Van Dome exclaimed, looking up from the papers on his desk.
Paul motioned with the gun in his hand.
"Get up, Van Dome. And don't put your hand in your pocket. I've had that one pulled on me once too often today."
"Who let you out?"
"Nobody. I had a bomb hidden in my rectum and when everyone left I simply took it out and blew the lock off the door."
"Very funny," Van Dome said without humor. "You're cracking me up."
"I'm glad. Maybe you'll keep laughing all the way to the morgue."
Van Dome paled.
"You-you aren't going to kill me?" he said shakily.
"I said to get up, and you haven't moved. I've been known to kill people who disobey my slightest whims."
Van Dome shot up from the chair.
"Good. Now turn around and face the window."
"Please, don't kill me. I haven't laid a finger on her. It was Malo's idea to torture her."
Torture her!
"Why, you rotten bastard," Paul declared, lashing out and striking him across the head with the gun butt.
Van Dome crumbled and fell.
"What a headache you're going to have," Paul said softly. "You've been hit twice in one day in the same spot."
Paul noticed the roll of adhesive tape on the desk, next to the bathrobe cord he had used to tie Van Dome's hands earlier.
Smiling to himself, he went through the same action, taping the doctor's mouth and tying his hands behind his back.
He left him there and, putting the gun in his pocket, hustled to the door.
Poor Sonia. God knows what condition she'd be in when he got there. Malo might've tortured her to death.
Sonia wasn't in the room. Paul dashed back into the corridor and was wondering where she could be when he heard a whimpering noise.
It came from the operating room.
Paul gripped the .45 tightly and slowly opened the door.
Sonia was strapped down on the operating table. Naked. She had regained consciousness and Malo was bending over her.
"Please, Doctor...." she pleaded in a dazed tone. "No ... more. Please!"
"The money, Miss Lombardo. I must know where it is; You must tell me now. Sanchez will be here soon and I'm certain he'll have more persuasive methods to use on you than the mildly painful ones I have been practicing."
Unseen by either of them, Paul moved into the room.
He winced when he had a clearer view of Sonia's torso. It was covered with welts and bruises and tiny cuts.
Malo had a pair of forceps in his hand. He attached the end to one of Sonia's rosy nipples.
"I'm going to cut your nipple off," he said matter-of-factly, "if you don't tell me what I want to know. Then I'll chop the other one off. Then, if you still don't tell me, I'll force you to make love to a Coke bottle."
"Drop that!" Paul said loudly. "H you don't, Malo, I'll kill you."
Malo's head swivelled to one side and looked at Paul in amazement.
"You!" he said. "I knew it; I should've thrown you in the incinerator when I had the chance. Damn Bobbie. She persuaded me to wait until later."
"Stand up and move away from the table," Paul commanded.
"Paul! Help me, Paul!"
Sonia was still groggy from the drugs. Or was it from Malo's swinish torturing? Anyway, she was groggy and Paul realized she might have difficulty getting out of there under her own steam.
Malo got up and stepped back a few feet.
Paul kept his eye on him as he undid the straps holding Sonia on the table.
"I told you to drop those forceps. Now drop them!" Paul demanded.
The forceps went from Malo's hand to the floor.
"And keep your fingers out of your pocket. If you reach for that dart gun again, I'll blast a hole in you big enough to drive a tank through."
Malo shrugged his shoulders.
"All right. It's up to you. You've got the gun in your hand-not me."
"Just remember that. Now get over here. I want you to put your smock on her."
Malo took off the white medical gown and did what Paul requested, propping Sonia up and inserting her arms in the sleeves.
Sonia had passed out again.
Her eyes were shut and her mouth hung open.
"Pick her up," Paul said. "You're going to carry her like I planned to have you do the last time, before you interrupted me."
Malo finished buttoning the smock up the front, covering her nudity. He lifted her from the table and, with Paul close behind him, carried her in his arms into the hall.
They had walked thirty feet and were near the door to the emergency stairs when Sanchez and Costa appeared at the end of the hall, fifty yards away.
Paul dived for the floor, firing twice as he went down.
Costa had his gun out and pumped three quick shots in Paul's direction. All three missed.
Paul heard a thump beside him. Malo had dropped Sonia and fled toward the other end of the hall.
Paul rolled over three times, to give Costa a moving target. A bullet chipped the floor within an inch of his head. Another tore through the sleeve of his jacket.
Paul fired again when he stopped rolling. Costa took the bullet smack in the center of his forehead. Blood spurted out and he sank to the floor like a sack of potatoes.
Sanchez had observed the shooting spree from the safety of a small alcove.
"Wait, Scott, don't shoot!" he shouted. "I'm unarmed."
Too bad, Paul thought. I'd love to put a bullet in your ugly puss.
Sanchez came out slowly with his hands up. Paul glanced at Sonia.
She was breathing normally and seemed to be all right.
Sanchez advanced toward Paul.
Paul got up and dusted himself off.
Malo was nowhere to be seen.
Well, that didn't matter. The police would take care of him. By Bobbie's calculations, they should be here any minute.
Suddenly, Sanchez dropped to his knees and levelled his right arm at Paul. The sound of the gun going off and the sharp pain in his shoulder both struck Paul simultaneously.
Sanchez had a small derringer in his hand. Unfortunately for him, it was a single-shot pistol that afforded him no second chance. He had shot too soon; he had panicked and fired before getting close enough to get a better bead on Paul.
But before he could announce that he was now really and truly without a weapon, Paul bounced off the wall where the impact of the shot had sent him careening, and pulled the trigger until it clicked on empty chambers.
His final two shots ended the ex-dictator's political career once and for all. One ripped into his throat and the other smashed into his skull, entering by way of his eye socket.
Paul didn't have to look at Sanchez and Costa to know that they were dead. The expressions on their faces told the story.
Paul pushed his jacket from his shoulder and examined the wound.
It wasn't too serious, he guessed. But still, he'd better get to a doctor as soon as he could.
He put the .45 in his pocket and lifted Sonia from the floor. It was a struggle getting her down the stairs to the car, but he made it.
He placed her on the back seat and got into the driver's seat. Then he turned on the motor and backed the car through the open doors to the clinic yard.
Lights were going on all over the building. He could hear voices babbling and see figures flashing back and forth in front of the windows.
The gunplay with Sanchez and Costa had caused quite a commotion. No doubt a few would-be reformers would be sneaking out for quick ones after they'd seen the bodies in the hall.
Paul straightened the car out and gunned the engine. , He roared through the front gates and onto the street, passing two police cars on their way in.
The end was also near for the wicked Dr. Malo.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Paul drove straight to the home of his doctor friend.
They had known each other in Viet Nam and the doctor had often done favors for Paul-sometimes for fat fees and other times for sheer friendship.
This time he didn't want to do anything-no matter what the reason. It wasn't right, he argued.
"I can't patch you up without reporting it to the police."
But his arguments grew weaker as the blood poured out of Paul's shoulder and he soon gave in.
He said that the bullet had gone out the other side and no surgery would be necessary. He applied medicine, put on a huge bandage and told Paul to see him again the next day.
"This is the last time, Paul," he said at the door. "I can't go around breaking the law, even if you are my buddy. If you get shot, I'll have to report it."
"Sure, sure," Paul said, bidding him goodbye. "See you tomorrow."
Paul went out to the Rolls and, looking in the back seat, saw that Sonia was still out cold.
He got in and drove to Kazan's colonial mansion. The butler stomped angrily to the front door and insisted that Paul stop ringing the door bell.
"It's three o'clock in the morning, sir," he said. "Mr. Kazan is in bed."
"Get him up," Paul said. "I've got something to tell him."
The butler strode up the spiral staircase and a moment later Kazan appeared in his dressing gown.
"This had better be important, Scott," he barked. "I can't have you getting me out of bed like this."
"It is, sir. Can you step outside with me?"
The two men went through the door and stopped beside the Rolls.
"Who's that in the back?" Kazan inquired. "One of your lovers?"
"Sonia Lombardo."
Kazan pressed his face to the window.
"Good heavens, it is. What's wrong with her?"
"She's been drugged. And tortured too, I might add. But I've got her and the money, and I'm sure she'll be ready to fulfill her contract once I've told her that the money's gone forever."
"What about the man she stole it from?"
"He's gone forever too. He was killed in a gun fight."
"With you, no doubt. I hope it doesn't get in the papers."
"Very unlikely. No one saw us shooting it out. No one except a Dr. Malo who has enough troubles of his own and won't bother with implicating us in anything."
"Good. Well, I'm afraid we can't use her in Duel In The Desert. The new girl-Purity Lee-has worked out fine and Rankin wants to keep her. So does Hahn who says she's one hell of an actress; although I doubt that that pervert would know a good actress if she fell into his lap."
"What should I do with her then?"
"Take her home. Let her rest in the seclusion of your apartment for awhile. I'll have the publicity department cook up some wild tale-she was an amnesia victim or something-and when she's ready to return to the outside world, we'll spring it on the press."
"Will you use her again in pictures?"
"Certainly. There's a Hobart musical going before the cameras next month. She'll have the lead, if she wants it."
"Terrific! I've kind of grown attached to her. I'd hate to see her career go up in flames."
"Don't worry, Scott. With that body, she'll be around in movies for a long time to come."
Paul went around to the back of the car and opened the trunk. Taking out the suitcases, he handed them to Kazan.
"The money's inside-four million big ones. Will you take care of it for me? You know, through your lawyers? I'd like to donate the money to Sanchez's fellow countrymen. To build schools or hospitals."
Kazan beamed.
"Paul Scott, the charity benefactor. I thought I'd never see the day when you'd give up four million dollars just like that. Without batting an eyelash."
"I've got enough to live on," Paul said. "Besides, there's other things in life more important than money."
Kazan picked up the suitcases.
"Name one," he said, retaining his smile.
"Sex."
Kazan's smile broadened and, turning, he headed for his house.
"Take a few days off, Scott. Phone me next week and I'll have a new assignment for you."
"Thank you, sir," Paul said.
He looked at Sonia sprawled out on the back seat.
Take a few days off, heh? And, at the same time, keep Sonia hidden away in my apartment. That Kazan was getting funny in the head in his old age. He was turning into a matchmaker.
Oh, well, he sighed, climbing behind the steering wheel, might as well take advantage of the situation.
Paul had forgotten about the girl.
When he carried Sonia into his bedroom, he saw her sleeping there and it all came back to him. He had met her at a party and brought her home for the night. She had told him the day he'd left for Las Vegas that she'd wait for him, even if it took a couple of weeks.
Obviously, she was a woman of her word.
Paul dropped Sonia on the mattress and pushed her over, up close to the sleeping girl. Then he lay down and shut his eyes. He was thoroughly beat, and seconds after his head hit the pillow, he was sound asleep.
He was awakened by the smell of breakfast cooking.
He raised his head and noticed that he was fully clothed, lying on the bed, alone. He got up and walked into the kitchen.
Sonia sat at the chrome-topped table, wearing Malo's white smock. She was drinking coffee. The girl was at the gas stove, frying bacon in a pan.
"I see you two have met," Paul said.
"Yes. An hour ago," the girl said cheerfully. She looked at Paul's crumpled clothes. "You shouldn't sleep with your clothes on. It's hard to get the creases out."
"I'll try to remember the next time," Paul said.
The girl wore a pair of his pajamas; they were too big for her and she had rolled them up at the ankles and wrists. Her hair was piled atop her head and loosely pinned and she was as cute as a button.
"I hate to ask," Paul said, "but I don't recall your name."
"Connie," the girl said.
"Connie what?"
"Won't plain Connie do? You don't really need my last name, do you?"
"I see," Paul said. "There's a husband somewhere, is there?"
"Something like that."
"Okay, plain Connie it is." His voice became more serious. "Listen, Connie, I'm afraid you're going to have to stay here awhile. Miss Lombardo's disappearance isn't quite ready to be solved yet."
"That's all rights with me," she said. "I've got nothing else to do."
Paul sat at the table and gazed at Sonia. She was pale, but otherwise she seemed okay.
"How are you feeling?" he asked.
"Great. I've had plenty of sleep in the past few days. I feel really rested."
"Like a vacation, heh?"
"Yes, sort of."
She had a strange tone to her voice and Paul guessed why. She didn't want to talk with Connie in the same room.
"You're dying to ask me a million questions, aren't you?" Paul asked.
"No, Paul," Sonia said, her eyes meeting his gaze. "Four million."
"Oh-oh," Connie said. "I've got a feeling I'm eavesdropping. Why don't I go for a walk? You two can talk better without me."
Connie put the frying pan on an unused burner and strolled into the living room.
"I'll be in the bathroom," she announced, "making myself pretty."
"You're pretty enough," Paul called after her. "Don't waste your time."
When she was out of earshot, Sonia leaned across the table and said desperately:
"Where is it, Paul? What did you do with it?"
"Where's what?"
"The money. The four million. I searched your apartment this morning and it's not here. I checked the Rolls downstairs in your garage too, and it wasn't there, either. What did you do with it? Has somebody else got it?"
Paul braced himself before replying. Sonia was likely to scratch his eyes out.
"I gave it back to the people Sanchez took it from. The government in his old country."
Sonia's face sagged with disappointment.
"Sanchez is gone too, Sonia, so you needn't worry about him. He and Costa both died in a gun fight."
He waited for her to attack him. He knew she had a wicked temper and he had certainly given her cause to use it.
But she didn't budge. She didn't even try to slap his face.
Instead, she emitted a long, loud moan.
"Shit," she said. "I've lost the game. I wanted that money so much. So much!"
"You're not mad at me?"
Her eyes contained more sadness than fury.
"A little. But it doesn't matter. The anger will pass. What's the use of being mad? I took a long-shot gamble and lost, that's all. When the chance comes up, I'll just have to try it again. With somebody else."
Paul turned on a warm smile.
"I bet you will," he said. "You're some tiger, Sonia Lombardo. Some tiger."
He hadn't planned it that way. It just happened. The first night he made love to Connie on the couch while Sonia was sleeping in the bedroom. Then the second night he made love to Sonia while Connie was asleep.
However, on the third night, Sonia bluntly complained that Paul's sleeping arrangements were horrible. Because he was alternating between the bed and the couch, she said, she was missing out on her sex every second evening.
"Why don't we all share the bed?" she said. "There's room."
"Why not?" Connie said with spirit. "That'll be fun. I've never tried three-in-the-sack before."
Paul, naturally, was as willing as the two women were. Thus, they holed up in his apartment for two weeks, making love together, watching television between bouts, and sending out for groceries.
Paul phoned Kazan and begged off an assignment. His shoulder wound was acting up, he said. Couldn't he take a two-week holiday at home? Kazan agreed.
Besides the delivery boy from the grocery store, the only outsider to intrude in their idyllic setting was Paul's doctor friend. He came a few times and assured Paul that his shoulder was healing nicely.
Paul was tempted to tell him why; sex, he figured, was the best medicine in the world. It was good for whatever ails you.
Paul didn't have many ails in those two weeks.
He'd make love to Connie while Sonia watched. Or he'd make love to Sonia while Connie watched. And at least once or twice a day he'd make love to both of them at once, sometimes going like a rabbit, jumping from hole to hole.
Finally, the time came for Sonia to return to her normal existence.
The press descended upon her in droves when she turned up at the studio with a publicity man in tow, revealing the details of her prolonged amnesia attack.
Paul and Connie watched from the sidelines and then went home and, saddened but not defeated by the loss of Sonia, made love.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Yes, sir. There it was. In black and white.
The Times had a front-page story saying Duel In The Desert was breaking box-office records across the nation. Purity Lee was hailed as the "freshest screen find in three decades" and "a possible successor to Marilyn Monroe's sexgoddess status." Kathy Meyers was nominated for an Academy Award as best supporting actress.
Olympic was going to make a mint on the picture. A mint.
Otto Hahn was about to put the paper down when he spotted a brief item at the bottom of the page.
It read:
SONIA LOMBARDO DIVORCES COUNT PLANS TWO NEW FILMS
That'll teach her to muck around with royality, Hahn thought.
He tossed the paper on his desk and leaned back in his chair.
His beady little eyes appraised the latest piece of feminine stock to be delivered to his office, a young, sweet-faced girl with dark hair and soulful green eyes.
Bobbie Bottomly.
"I understand you told my secretary you want to be in movies," Hahn said, running his gaze over her bulging bosom. "Tell me, are you a smart actress or a dumb one?"
"Neither," Bobbie said from the chair opposite his desk. "I'm not an actress."
"You're not an actress?" Hahn said, surprised. "Then what's the idea of coming here and taking my valuable time? I only deal in actresses, not ordinary women."
"I'll explain myself," Bobbie said, rising. "I've got a pile of money and I'm not too interested in fame, but I thought I'd get into movies because of the sex involved. I'll be blunt, Mr. Hahn. I like getting laid. Where else can a girl go if she wants a hunk of tail every day? Most men would faint if I walked into their offices and offered them my box. But in movies-well, I've been led to believe that the men in the trade take advantage of the girls." She placed her hands on his desk and leaned toward him. "Mr. Hahn, I want to be taken advantage of."
Hahn tilted his chair forward.
A lecherous grin passed over his round features.
"Go no further," he said, getting up from the chair. "You have found the situation you're seeking."
Bobbie straightened up.
Hahn came around his desk, unzipping his fly as he moved.
"I'll give you some bit parts. All right?"
"I don't care," Bobbie said. "Anything. As I say, it isn't the fame I want. It's the sex."
Hahn's big cock popped out of the slit and he massaged it lovingly.
"Oh, you'll get sex, my pet. You'll get it until it comes out your eyeballs."
"Good grief," Bobbie gasped, pointing at his huge member. "That's the biggest cock I've ever seen. Mr. Hahn, you're the man of my dreams."
"Suck it," Hahn said gleefully. "Get down on your knees and suck it."
Bobbie sank to the floor and grasped his pulsing cock in one of her anxious hands.
She steered it through her soft lips and into her warm mouth.
"Suck, sweetheart, suck!" Hahn shouted.
Bobbie was in paradise. She had found the perfect cock. The taste was like a Parisian delight for a gourmet; the size and weight were also beyond compare with any she had encountered.
She sucked and nibbled and licked and bit and sucked and nibbled and outside, in the corridor, an Olympic Films tour guide was leading a group of. tourists past Hahn's office.
"Behind these very walls, at this very moment," he said solemnly, "decisions are being made which will result in who you will or won't see in your motion pictures."
"Can I peek inside?" a fat woman from Iowa asked.
"No, ma'am," the guide said staunchly. "When these men are working, nothing must disturb them. In artistic endeavors such as they do, they must exist in conditions of supreme bliss and harmony."
"Suck, baby, suck!" came the cry from behind Hahn's wall.
"What was that?" a Milwaukee dentist asked.
The guide cleared his throat.
"I don't know," he answered. "But it sounded like someone feeding a baby. Now, on the next floor we have the costume department where...."
The group trailed after the guide and disappeared down the corridor.
