John Deering was at the mercy of two crazy women in an old, creepy house. How had it happened to him? And what terrible secret lived there with them? Alex Comfort, in his study, Sex in Society, tells us: "It is unfortunate that so much which is written about early sex experience and teenage behavior is written by men and by unmarried women-for perhaps the key problem of sex education, physical, social and moral, is to give boys, who in our culture are the more sexually aggressive, some rudimentary insight into the way in which girls' responses differ from their own ... For the girl, every act of penetration, then or later, is an invasion of her body by forces outside herself. She can never feel quite the same toward a man who has 'known' her thus, even if only once-many boys are staggered by the change in her attitude which one act of intercourse can bring about, and her intensity may scare them off. Women are neither biologically nor intellectually 'weaker vessels' and neither sex should be brought up with such illusions, but they are, in our culture, more vulnerable to rejection-this can be as traumatic to them as denigration of his virility to a boy, and its effects can be as lasting. Love in its various manifestations is, after all, the justification for living at all, and gives us all our most rewarding, as well as some of our bitterest, moments."
CHAPTER ONE
There was no question about it-the big-titted brunette at the other end of the bar was definitely giving him the sexy eye. He deliberately looked away from her juicy reflection in the back bar mirror, took a draw on his cigarette, looked back at her quickly. She smiled faintly. He took another drag, blew the smoke across the bar at the mirror. Momentarily, the smoke clouded his view of her. A moment later he again saw her dark lusty eyes boring into his, still by way of the mirror. She's looking for something, he thought-maybe she wants to get laid. He grinned. This conjecture was so obvious it amused him.
He snubbed out his cigarette, wished he had sufficient, funds to offer her a drink. She looked nice. It would be pleasant to become acquainted with her, to get to know her well. He shrugged. He'd have to forego this adventure. A guy can't pick up a broad without dough. He picked up his glass of beer, sipped it, put it down, glanced in the mirror again. She was still giving him the bold eye. This time she smiled broadly, got down off her stool and walked over to htm.
"Hi," she said. He could smell the expensive perfume she wore.
"Hi," he said, his pulse racing slightly.
She did not wait to be asked, but pulled out the stool next to him, sat on it, her skirt crawling high on her thigh. He glanced at her legs, noting how perfectly shaped they were. He almost moistened his lips but refrained from it. He did not want to appear too eager.
She leaned close to his ear, said, "Well ... you buy or do I?"
He turned on his stool so that he was facing her, looked her squarely in the eye, smiled. "I'd like to," he said. "The fact is, I'm broke."
She laughed, and he saw how even and white her teeth were. "I had an idea you might be," she said softly.
He sat up slightly straighter, looked at her dark eyes again. Was she putting him on? There was nothing in her eyes that seemed to suggest it, but you could never be certain about some women.
"How could you tell?" he said, a trifle more coolly than he had intended.
She was still smiling. "When a guy is broke and he sees a girl that he'd like to ... well, he has a certain look about him. That's how I knew."
"Sorry," he said. "That's how it goes. If you're broke, you're broke."
She brushed her long straight black hair out of her eyes. "Don't be embarrassed because of it," she said. "It happens."
He grinned at her. "Yes. Yes, it does," he agreed.
She crossed her legs, the one nearest him being on top of the other. As she did so, her skirt crept higher, revealing the silver-colored garters that were fastened to the black nylons. In spite of not wanting to stare rudely at her, he did so. She caught him doing it, smiled.
"Do you like my garters?" she asked. "They're called Sin Seed. How about that for a brand name?"
"Very nice," he responded, but he was not talking about the name of the garters.
"I've been sitting over there watching you for some time," she said. "I guess you know that."
"Yes," he said. "I do. I've been watching you, too."
It was her turn to twist around on the stool, facing him. "Look," she said. "I don't want to offend your male ego, but may I buy you a drink?"
He did not hesitate. "Yes. If you'll let me buy you one back some other time."
"All right," she said, and ordered two drinks from the bartender. Neither of them spoke until the drinks were brought. Then she said, lifting her glass, "Here's to ... us."
He lifted his beer. "Right," he said. "And here's to seeing you again when I'm flush."
They drank, set their glasses down at the same time.
She turned again, looked at him, smiled nicely. "May I ask you a personal question?"
"Depends."
"Not too personal."
"All right. Shoot."
"Are you out of a job?
He picked up his glass, tasted the beer, set the glass down. "Yes. Does that show, too?"
"Sort of. I'm psychic, maybe."
He grinned. "Wanna tell me more about myself?"
She shook her head. "Would you like a job?"
"I might. You have one for me?"
She bit her lips, looked away, took a sip of her drink, looked back at him. She is lovely, he thought-she is the prettiest woman I've seen today. That black dress is just right for her, what with all that black hair and those nice dark eyes. He saw her bite her lips again.
"I have a job for you ... if you can cut it," she said slowly.
"Tell me about it," he said, interested.
She picked up her glass, drained it. "Drink ip. Come with me. We can't discuss it here."
He finished his beer, set the glass down. "All right. Why not."
She walked swiftly from the bar and he followed her. Outside, the sun was shining brightly. It was a hot July day. He saw her take sunglasses fro er black purse, put them on. They caused her to look even more exotic than without them.
She took his arm. The touch of her fingers was pleasant, nice. He was not certain of it, but he thought she squeezed his arm a bit. That, too, was pleasant. She steered him around a corner and they walked to a parking lot a short distance away. When they arrived beside a green Ford, she let go of his arm, took keys from her purse, unlocked the door, rolled down the window on the driver's side to cool the car off. She gestured and he took it to mean she wanted him to walk about the car, which he did. She opened the door, and he followed her example by rolling down the window on that side.
"We'd better wait a minute," she said. "This car is like an oven."
"Yes," he said. "It's a hot day."
They got into the car finally and she started the motor.
"Where are we going?" he asked with curiosity. "To my aunt's home. What's your name? I have to know it."
"John Deering. What's yours?"
"Almost the same as yours. Joan."
"Joan what?"
"Joan Herlick."
"Glad to know you," John Deering said, and meant it.
She smiled, backed the car around in position, drove out into traffic. He discovered she was an excellent driver, handling the car expertly. He did not speak again until much later. He saw her swing the car into a driveway.
"This your aunt's place, Joan?" he asked.
She nodded. "Your future employer, John," she said. "I guess you could call her an employer."
"What is it I'm supposed to do?" he asked.
She did not answer him immediately, but fumbled getting the car keys into her purse. Finally, she looked up at him. "I think I'd better let her tell you that," she said.
Both of them climbed out of the car and John stood looking about at the place. The lawn was well-kept and very large. There was fine-looking shrubbery all around the edges of the yard. He turned his attention to the house, noted it was a mammoth place built of stone. It was not a new residence. It appeared to have been there for a long time. Everything about the place locked like money.
"Your aunt," he said. "She must be wealthy."
She came around the front of the Ford, took his arm again, and again he thought she squeezed it a little. "Yes. My aunt is a very wealthy woman. That is, she will be later on. She's thirty-nine. Don't let her kid you she is thirty. That's what she'll try to do, probably."
John thought this somewhat odd, but he said nothing about it. "What is her name?" he inquired as they walked up the stone steps to the door. "Julia Ainsworth."
"Does she want a gardener or something?" he asked with curiosity. "If that's what she's looking for, it lets me out. I know nothing about such things."
Joan Herlick laughed softly. "Not exactly a gardener, but ... it does have something to do with ... planting."
He stopped in his tracks just before they arrived at the door. "I know absolutely nothing about planting," he said seriously.
"Oh, yes you do," she said mysteriously. "You'll see what I mean when she talks to you."
She took another key from her purse, unlocked the large door, pushed it. It did not go all the way open. He pushed it open farther and they entered a long hallway. It was cool in the house and quite dark, he noted.
"Stay here," she said in his ear. "I'll be right back."
"All right," he said, and grinned. He felt a bit ridiculous about all this, but did not know why.
He waited for her to return. She did not. He became slightly impatient, put this feeling down. He knew being impatient was one of his defects, tried hard not to succumb to it. He waited some more. Still she did not return. He saw a door off to his left and down the hall a few feet. He went to it, saw it was not closed all the way, pushed it open a few more inches, looked in. It was a mammoth room, filled with all sorts of different types of furniture. The carpeting was a dark maroon in color. He thought it was unusual but attractive. John had something of an eye for color. He looked about the room again, saw a fireplace at the far end. He also saw a man sitting in a chair. The man's back was turned to John. John was about to leave the doorway when the man turned, saw him, got to his feet, walked slowly over to him. John noticed that the man had about the same coloring as he had, was about the same height and possibly weight. The difference between them was that the man was probably fifteen or even twenty years older. John was twenty-seven.
"Hello," the man said, smiling in a slightly unpleasant manner. "Please come all the way in."
John felt as if he had been caught eavesdropping. His face slightly warm, he pushed the door all the way open, went a few feet into the room, looked back at the man. It is amazing, John thought, how much we look alike. The same brown hair, brown eyes, same build. If I were as old as he ... He did not finish the thought, for the man was speaking. "Please have a chair, Mr.-"
"Deering," John said. "Thanks. I will." The man pointed at a straight-backed chair. "Sit there, if you like. I'll sit over here where I can see you better."
For the first time, John noted that the man seemed to be quite effeminate. As the man sat down, he crossed his leg, allowing the leg to swing back and forth much in the manner of a woman.
The man leaned forward slightly. "You know," he said, "we do look alike. Splendid!"
John Deering wondered what was so splendid about it. "Yes," he said politely, wishing he had not come to the door in the first place. "I noticed you looked somewhat like ... myself."
"The resemblance is remarkable," the man said, swinging his leg harder. "I hope you don't mind my saying that, Mr. Deering."
John allowed a smile to cross his face. "Not at all," he murmured.
"I'm Keith Ainsworth," the man said. "I must say Joan did not make a mistake. I'd say you were just the man for the ... job."
John noticed the slight pause before the word "job". He murmured something or other, sat quite still on his chair as the older man seemed to study him from head to foot.
"Remarkable," he said softly. "Positively remarkable. She picked the right man."
"Are you her uncle, Mr. Ainsworth?" John asked, for something to say.
"Y-Yes. I'm married to her aunt, that is. I suppose...." Here he paused again, went on finally. "I suppose Joan explained in part at least what your duties were to be."
John shook his head. "No. She said her aunt would do that."
Keith Ainsworth looked distressed, and John was certain that was the word for it. His hand flew to his mouth as he looked straight at John. "Oh dear," he said effeminately, "that does pose a problem, doesn't it?"
"Does it?" John said, puzzled.
"Afraid so. What a bore," the man said. "Quite embarrassing, too, Mr. Deering."
"Why so?" John asked, his curiosity whetted further.
Ainsworth uncrossed his legs quickly, stood up, sat back down, fluttered his hands about, re-crossed his legs, his upper leg swinging back and forth again. "Damn," he muttered. "Oh, damn."
"I beg your pardon," John said, thinking he had not heard the man correctly.
Ainsworth fluttered his hands about again, stopped it, looked over at John", pressed his lips together. "I just believe," he said deliberately, "that I shall let my wife do the talking to you."
John said nothing. There was nothing to say.
Ainsworth wiped his brow with a handkerchief. "Would you care for a drink, Mr. Deering?"
John grinned slightly. "Yes. Thanks."
Ainsworth got to his feet, crossed the room to the liquor cabinet, turned about. "What are you drinking, Mr. Deering?"
"Bourbon," John said, "will be fine."
Ainsworth brought him the drink. The glass was well filled. It was not an ordinary shot-glass, but a much larger one. He also brought John a glass of mis with plenty of ice in it. John raised the glass slightly-the man was not looking at him now-held it there, shrugged, drank from it. John put the glass on a nearby coffee table. He did not bother with the mix.
Ainsworth went back to his chair, a drink in his hand, sat down, drew one leg up in under him as a woman might. The guy is very womanish, John thought-well ... he can't help that, I suppose. He waited for Ainsworth to speak, wishing Joan would come back from wherever she had gone.
"I daresay, Mr. Deering, you are puzzled," Ainsworth said, not quite meeting John's eyes.
John picked up the drink, sipped it, set it down. "Somewhat," he said.
Ainsworth shook his head. "For a moment there I was tempted to tell you, but on second thought I'll stick to my original decision and let my wife talk to you."
"About what?" John asked, more puzzled than ever. "Do you mean the job?"
Ainsworth frowned, then smiled, then frowned again. "I suppose you could call it that, if you wereer-liberal in yourer-" He broke off.
The door of the room came open and John got to his feet, seeing it, was Joan Herlick.
"Did you think I'd forgotten you, John?" she asked, smiling. She looked at Ainsworth. "Apparently, you two have met. Right?"
Both men nodded.
Joan was not smiling now as she turned back to Ainsworth. "Did you tell him?" she asked her uncle.
John saw Ainsworth turn his eyes away. "No. I said nothing at all about the ... matter."
Joan looked at John. "Will you come with me, John?"
He got to his feet, grinned. "Sure. Lead the way."
"Just a minute," Ainsworth said nervously. "I'm not sure that I want to-" He broke off, turned his back on them.
John looked at Joan. She bit her lips, brushed her hair out of her eyes. "Uncle Keith," she said firmly, "it is no affair of mine. It is your affair, yours and Aunt Julia's. I'm only doing, and against my better judgment, what you two asked me to do."
Ainsworth turned back around, regarded her gravely. "I'm sorry, Joan. I should not have said that. Please take Mr. Deering ... to see your aunt."
"Come along, John," Joan Herlick said.
"All right," John said. He turned to the man. "Glad I met you. See you again." It struck John that this was somewhat of an asinine thing to say if he were going to be working about the place, which he was not at all sure he would be doing. There was something fishy going on here-he could sense it.
Joan Herlick walked out of the room and John nodded at Ainsworth and followed her down the hallway. They went up an open staircase together. Neither of them spoke until she paused in front of a door.
"Listen," she said. "Believe me, I'm sorry I brought you here. Why don't you just cut out? If you want to, I'll drive you back downtown to the same bar."
"No use in going there," John said. "I'm flat."
"I'll give you some money," she said.
He shook his head. "Thank you, no. I already owe you for a drink."
"Seeing my aunt is not what you may expect it to be," she said, and he noted she, too, seemed nervous now.
"You told me she had a job for me. That's all I know about it."
Joan Herlick bit her lips hard. "I wonder if you're going to like the offer," she murmured softly.
"I beg your pardon," he said. 'T didn't quite hear you."
She brushed her hair back, impatiently this time. "I hope you aren't the type to get mad," she said mysteriously.
"Get mad at what?" he asked, becoming more puzzled with each passing moment.
She sighed. "I'm keeping strictly out of this. My aunt will have to explain it to you. All I was supposed to do was to find you."
"Find me? Why me?"
Joan Herlick bit her lips still again. "Well ... not you exactly. Someone like you, I should say. Now that I've brought you here, seen something of what you are like, I'm not sure I-"
"Why not just rap on the door," he said, grinning, "and let me see your aunt? Wouldn't that simplify whatever it is that is bothering you?"
She looked at him for a long moment. He was considerably taller than she and he could not help glancing down the front of her low-cut dress. He could easily see more than half of her bosom. It was a delightful sight, although John Deering would not have used that word in describing them-he would have called them great. He inspected them carefully as she turned her head slightly so that she could not see him doing so. The breasts were marvelous. They were large and rounded in just the right way to be enticing-looking. He could see the nipples through her dress; they seemed large, pointed. He felt a wave of excitement pass through him. He wondered what she would do if he gave way to his desire to slip his hand down the front of her and feel them. He had an idea that, given the proper circumstances, she would not object strongly. He suddenly had a strong impulse to try it. It was then that she turned and faced him directly. He wondered if she were really psychic, if she could read his thoughts at the moment.
She said nothing, but rapped lightly on the door.
No one came to open the door, but a voice called out, "Come in, please."
Joan Herlick opened the door, motioned for John to follow her. He saw immediately that they were in a bedroom, but it was the largest bedroom he had ever seen. You could have put a half-dozen ordinary ones in it and had plenty of room left over.
"Hi, Aunt Julia. I found a man."
John thought the way she said it was extremely odd. He looked across the room, saw a blonde woman lying in bed, She was not an unattractive woman.
"John, I'd like you to meet my aunt," she said.
"How do you do," he said gravely, noting that Julia Ainsworth was looking him over carefully
"I must say, Joan," the older woman said, "you found one that looks a lot like Keith. I certainly hope he's man enough to-" She broke off.
John felt his face burn ever so little. He stared at the woman in bed, who, in turn, continued to stare at him.
Joan turned to John. "I'll leave you two alone now. Come downstairs to the big room, where you were, Mr. Deering. I want to talk to you myself, after you've finished here."
So, he thought-in front of her aunt she calls me "Mr. Deering," and the rest of the time I'm just plain John. He wondered about this momentarily, then forgot about it.
Joan left the room, closing the door carefully after her.
John stood there looking at Julia Ainsworth, wondering what kind of a job it was she had for him. He noted she was still looking him over. He decided he had better move. He walked slowly toward the bed, pausing near the foot of it.
"Mrs. Ainsworth," he said, "Joan told me you had a job for a man."
The woman rose on her pillows, and as she did so, her nightgown slipped off one shoulder, revealing a breast. She paid no attention to this and John had the mixed feelings of enjoying the sight and wishing she would cover herself.
"What was your name again, please?" she asked. "I've forgotten it."
"My name," he said, "is John Deering."
"John Deering. Any relation to the Deerings in Lampshire?"
"Not that I know of. I happen to have no family."
Her eyes widened. "No family at all?"
"Not that I know anything about." Her exposed breast bothered him. He could hardly take his eyes from it.
She glanced down, saw the breast, ignored it. "Good," she said, half-smiling. "It's better if you don't have a family."
John stared at her eyes now. "What is the job?" he inquired patiently.
She sat up straighter and the other breast was exposed to his view. "It's not exactly a job. Joan didn't explain it to you?"
It was a question he found difficult to answer because of her appearance. How could a man concentrate on answering the questions of a strange, attractive woman when she was half-naked and apparently unconcerned about it? John Deering fought to gain control over himself, succeeded, finally.
"N-No," he said, stammering the word. "Your niece didn't talk about the job. She said you'd do that."
"I see."
"I also met your husband and he told me you would discuss it with me," he finished.
She scratched herself beneath the left breast. John found it difficult not to smile. Somehow he found the strength not to. The truth was, he needed a job badly. He was really broke, "Mr. Deering," she said. "Do you have a present job?"
"No."
"Do you have any prospects of a job?" He shook his head, wondering if she was reading his mind.
"Will youer-consent to stay here in the house for a few days, perhaps a week or so? You'll be paid, of course, for each day. Sav, fifty dollars a day."
John was puzzled all over again. "You mean you want me just to hang around the house, do nothing, for fifty a day?"
"Yes. Exactly."
He frowned. What the hell was this? "I don't understand you."
"No, I don't imagine you do. After a few days, perhaps sooner, we'll explain what we want you to do for ... us. In the meantime, you remain here, take it easy, get paid for it. Is that fair enough?"
"Who," he said gravely, "do you want me to murder later?"
She laughed, covered her breasts with her nightgown. "No one," she said. "Anything but that."
He shifted about on his feet. "May I ask you a question?"
She tapped her lower teeth with her fingernail, looked at him curiously. "I suppose so. What is it?"
"Why can't you tell me now what the job consists of?"
She smiled, erased the smile. "For one thing, I don't feel up to it. I'm supposed to be ill today. Doctor said so. Actually, I'm not. I'm just lazy today. The second reason-I want to ... study you for a few days, Mr. Deering."
His mouth came open. "Study me?"
"Yes. What I have in mind for you is a very ... shall I say, personal matter. I have to decide if you're the man to do it."
"I see. Is that all you wish to say to me?"
She tapped her teeth again. "Yes. You may go back downstairs now, Mr. Deering. One thing. Will you remain in the house?"
John considered. Why not? he asked himself. "Yes," he said.
"Good."
CHAPTER TWO
He withdrew from the room as she closed her eyes, indicating, he thought, that she did not want any further conversation. He walked down the long hallway to the stairs, went down them to the first floor hall and to the door of the front room. It stood open, so he entered, after clearing his throat to announce his presence. There was no need for this, as it turned out. The room had no occupants.
He saw a pack of cigarettes lying on a coffee table, picked it up, extracted one and lit it. He looked about the room, noting the expensive-looking furniture again.
"Wonder what the hell is going on here?" he asked himself aloud.
He sat down on the same chair he had used earlier. Fifty bucks a day for doing nothing, plus a place to live is not bad, he thought. I wonder what she really has in mind for me. Why was she so deliberate about showing me her bosom? I never saw a woman like her before.
The thought of her bosom stirred him. He had little doubt in his mind that she had allowed herself to be exposed in that manner for a definite purpose. She had seemed to be testing him; or so he surmised. He recalled how she had looked him over with those large, blue eyes. Her eyes, he thought, can be damned cold at times. He was forced to admit to himself that most of the time her eyes had been friendly, as friendly as could be. The conversation he had had with her seemed to make little sense to him. She had said she wanted to study him for a few days or a week. Study him for what?"
John Deering shrugged, put her out of his mind. He knew he would find out what was happening in this big old house when the time came.
"Hi," a voice said from the doorway.
John turned around, saw Joan Herlick. "Hi," he said, noting she had changed from her black dress to an even more daring one; a white outfit that showed her bare midriff. John looked her over quickly, decided he liked her in this outfit better. The front of it was cut lower than the black one had been. He could see the top halves of her breasts quite easily. Her stomach is very flat and inviting-looking, he thought.
Her skin is tanned nicely. Her navel turns in, too. Pretty.
"We have no servants right now, John. I'm supposed to show you to your room. Will you come with me?"
She turned, walked out of the room, her buttocks swaying back and forth in an enticing way.
"Coming," he heard himself say.
He followed her back down the hall and upstairs. She opened the door of the first room on the left, stepped back, making a mock bow.
"Enter, master," she said facetiously.
John grinned, bowed back to her. He liked a girl to have a bit of humor about her, even the silly kind. Most girls, women, were too serious about things, to his way of thinking.
They entered the room and John looked around at it. It was not as large as Julia Ainsworth's, but it was still a ridiculously mammoth bedroom. Even the bed was large. It was big enough for a guy to take three women to bed....
"I see," she said, "that you are eyeing the bed. Do you like large beds, John?"
"Depends," he said.
She came closer to him. He could smell her perfume again. It was heady stuff, nice.
"Depends upon what, John?" she asked.
"Whether or not I'm alone in it."
"Oh ... do you like sleeping alone, John?"
He looked at her swelling, pointed bosom, smiled. "No. I hate sleeping alone."
"So do I," she said, and came even closer.
What is she doing? he asked himself, baiting me? "Good," he said boldly. "Then perhaps you will be kind enough to-"
"John," she said, interrupting him. "Be careful."
She was now just a foot from him. He wanted to put his arms around her and kiss her, decided it was too early to try it. Play it cool, he told himself-don't rush it. Once again he could smell the scent of her perfume. He inhaled, let the air out.
"Did my aunt tell you about your new job, John?"
He shrugged. "She was vague about it. She wants me to hang around a few days."
Joan Herlick smiled. It was, he thought, a strange sort of smile. "Yes," she said, and said no more at the moment.
"Yes?" he said. "What's 'yes' mean?"
She laughed. "Nothing. Just thinking out loud."
"I like girls who think 'yes'," he said, eyeing her closely.
She laughed again. "And I like a man who likes girls to be like that."
He grinned. "We seem to be getting somewhere," he told her.
She moved away from him at this. "Oh, no we don't," she said. "We can't. My aunt would be furious."
John was definitely interested in the turn of the conversation. "Your aunt would be furious?" he asked. "Why? What about?"
"If she knew we were talking this way, she'd-" But she did not finish it, just looked up into his eyes with her pretty, dark ones.
John felt a stirring inside him. How he wanted to grab her, kiss her, make love to her. Some way or other, he held himself in, but did not like the feeling of restraint. John Deering was not the kind of man who liked to be restrained where women are concerned. Some restraint, yes, but not this much; not this hands-off bit.
"Know something?" he said. "You're a beautiful girl."
She smiled. "Why, thank you, sir. You're not bad-looking yourself. Those nice, pleasant brown eyes, that high forehead. That-oh, there I go, talking too much."
"Tell me more," he said kiddingly.
She shook her head. "I'm supposed to tell you there are clean clothes for you in the closet over there. Julia ... pardon me ... I mean Aunt Julia wanted me to ask you if you would wear them."
John looked down at his own clothes, noting they were badly wrinkled. You can't sleep on a park bench for three nights running without wrinkling clothing.
"All right," he said, feeling like a kept man or something. "I suppose I do need a change. I'd like to take a bath, too."
"The shower room is at the other end ... over there." She pointed at the bathroom door-apparently it was the bathroom, John could not see inside from where he stood.
"Will you wait while I take a shower, Joanie?"
"Hey," she said. "I like to have you call me that. Please keep on with it."
"All right," he said, grinning down at the top of her pretty, dark head. He could see the white part in her hair. It made him feel good, for some reason. "All right," he repeated. "But you didn't answer my question."
"Oh ... I forgot what it was, John."
"Will you wait while I take a shower and change my clothing?"
"Do you want me to, John?" she said, and softly.
He swallowed hard. "Yes. I might be lonesome in this big house without you near."
"Oh, you're kidding me, John."
He laughed. "Just the same, hang around, will you? I want to ... talk to you."
"All right, John. I'll just sit on the bed and wait for you."
Please lie down on the bed, was his thought, but he did not say this. "All right. It won't take me long. I'm a fast shower man."
"I like a fast man," she said suggestively.
"How about you? Are you fast?" he said, feeling bolder about things now.
She smiled. "That's a secret, John. Go take your shower."
He pulled off his coat and shirt and undershirt, started to remove his pants, caught her looking at him, smiled, stepped into the bathroom and completed undressing. He turned on the water, stepped under it. It felt good. He had not taken a shower in four days. He stayed under it longer than was necessary, enjoying himself. He stepped out, finally, dried his strong male body with a Turkish towel. He stood there looking at himself in the mirror for a moment. He needed a shave, found a razor, took care of the matter swiftly.
He started to step out of the bathroom when he realized he had not pulled on his pants yet. He reached for them, missed them. They fell to the floor at his feet.
"Hey," she said from near the doorway, "what a body you've got, John. Were you ever an athlete?"
He stared at her, saw the strange look in her dark eyes, grabbed for his pants, started to pull them on.
"Are you going to spoil it, John?" she asked.
"W-What?" he stammered.
"Leave them off, "she said quickly.
It startled him. "Did I hear you right?"
"Yes. I think you did. I said don't put on your pants, John."
He laughed nervously. "You must be kidding."
She walked away from the door, turning her back to him. He pulled on his pants in a high state of excitement. Her meaning was very obvious. He liked the idea. He could always remove the pants. It would be no trouble at all. Right now, however, he wanted them on. He wanted them on for an obvious reason.
He was sexually aroused and did not care to expose himself at this point. There was just a trace of the shy boy left in him.
He walked into the bedroom. He saw she was closing the door that led to the hallway. She turned around, after locking it. "We must be very careful not make any noise. You know what I mean. My aunt must never know about it."
John moistened his lips; they were excessively dry. She was ready. Fine. So was he.
He stepped over near the bed. "Come here," he said, and was surprised at the huskiness of his voice.
She smiled tightly, walked slowly toward him. "John," she said, stopping momentarily, "do you think I'm terribly bold?"
"No," he said tensely. "I think you're just great."
"That doesn't answer my question." She came closer to him.
"No, I don't think you're bold, as you put it. I think you're ... a passionate girl, nothing else."
"Yes," she said, coming close and putting her arm about him. "Yes, I am very passionate, John."
He put his arms about her, then lifted her chin, looking down at her pretty face. "I want to kiss you," he said simply.
"Please do, John."
"Do you want me to, really?"
She nodded. "Very much, John."
He bent Ins head kissed her lightly on the lips, then withdrew his mouth, feeling the chills running up and down his spine.
"Hey," she said. "That gives me goose-bumps."
He laughed tightly. "It's supposed to, Joanie."
"Give me a few more," she said, looking up at him. her dark eyes glowing. ' "All right. I'll try."
He kissed her lips, held it for a long time, finally pulled away. He saw that her eyes were closed.
"Oh ... John ... I wish I hadn't brought you here," she murmured.
He studied her face. "Why? Why do you say that, Joanie?"
"Because...."
"That's not much of a reason."
"It's not my place to ... tell you, John."
"You mean it's your aunt's affair, the reason I'm here?"
She opened her eyes. "Of course."
"What does she want of me?" he heard himself ask, wishing he would have kept his mouth closed about it.
"You'll find out, John. You may not like it."
"Like what?"
Again she shook her head. "My aunt or uncle will have to tell you that."
"Why," he said, "are we talking about them? Why are we talking at all?"
"I don't know," she said. "Kiss me again ... please?"
"Kiss you?" he said. "I think I'm not going to stop there, just kissing you, Joanie."
She jerked away from him. "What do you mean?" she asked, her face a study.
"I mean," he said, "that you are doing something ... nice to me."
She ran across the room, stopped, turned around. "Oh, no," she said tensely. "We can't. My aunt would find out about it."
"We won't let her," he said, looking at her heaving bosom.
She came back to him slowly. She is a strange girl, he thought. What's going on inside of her? Apparently, she wants me to love her, but is afraid to let go-all the way. He put his arms about her. "I'm going to kiss you, first," he told her.
She looked doubtful. "Don't ... go any ... farther, John ... please ... I won't be able to ... well, you know."
"No," he said. "I don't know. What do you mean?"
She leaned back, looked up at him strangely, pressed her bosom against him. "I mean ... oh, I don't know what I mean." She looked frightened, he thought.
"All right," he said and released her just to see what she would do.
She did the wrong thing, as far as he was concerned. She turned, ran to the door, unlocked it, stepped out into the hallway and closed the door after her.
"I must be a damned fool," he muttered. "What did I do wrong?" One moment she had wanted him to leave off his trousers, had let him kiss her and returned it with passion; the next moment she had changed completely, turned and ran from the room. One thing he knew for certain: He was a vastly disappointed man.
CHAPTER THREE
He found plenty of clothing in the closet.
Most of it looked as if it had never been worn. He selected a dark suit, put it on. He looked at himself in a mirror, decided he looked good in it. The suit, of course, belonged to Keith Ainsworth, who was of the same build as John. Thus the nice fit. He stood looking at himself, wondering what he was supposed to do now. He did not like the idea of wearing another man's clothes, but his own were a mess. He shrugged.
He found cigarettes in the room, lighted one, stood inhaling it. He wished he had a drink. No one had said anything about his staying in the bedroom. He left it, went down the stairs to the front room, looked in. There was no one in the room. He entered, went to the liquor cabinet, poured himself a long drink of bourbon, carried it to a sofa, sat down and began to sip it. He could tell it was expensive stuff by the way it tasted, went down. John Deering liked good whiskey.
A few minutes later he heard someone at the front door. Recalling Joanie had told him there were no servants, he waited until he was certain no one else was going to answer the door. He pulled it open. An elderly man stood there. He had white hair, a trim white mustache. He carried a dapper-looking cane.
"Hello there," he said to John.
John thought he looked surprised. "Hello," he said back to the man.
"Is my son at home?"
"I suppose you mean Mr. Ainsworth."
"Yes. Keith Ainsworth. Do you know if he's in?"
"No. I'm afraid I don't. I-"
The man looked John over swiftly. "Mind telling me who you are?"
"My name is John Deering."
"Do I come in or are you going to make me stand on the veranda?"
John stepped out of the way, said nothing.
The white-haired man smiled slightly. "I see you're going to let me in. Thank you, young man."
He entered the hall and John closed the door.
"I need a drink," the man said. "Come with me to the big room."
John nodded, not knowing what else to do, followed the man into the room. The man went directly to the cabinet, poured himself a good-sized hooker of brandy, turned about.
"How about you, young man? Will you have one?"
"I have one already," John said. "Thanks."
"I'm Harvey Ainsworth," he called over to John. "My son is Keith."
John said nothing but, "Glad to know you, Mr. Ainsworth."
Ainsworth brought his drink over to where John was standing, looked him over from head to foot. "You look something like Keith, young man, except he's older than you and...." Here he looked John straight in the eye. "I hope," he went on, "that you aren't a big sissy like he is."
John said nothing, just looked at him.
The old gentlemen flushed a trifle. "Sorry," he muttered. "Didn't mean to sound rude. I retract that last statement."
"Quite all right," John said evenly.
The old man sat down heavily, his cane clattering to the floor. He made no attempt to retrieve it, but looked up at John. "Do you work for my son?" he asked.
"I believe so," John said.
"You believe so. Don't you know?"
"Not for certain. Not yet, that is."
"I see." The old man took a drink of his brandy, coughed a bit. "Cheap stuff. My son never did know how to order good brandy. Takes a man to do that."
John thought he was bearing down quite hard on his son, but said nothing. This was none of his business.
The old man again seemed to be studying John. "You look like a rough-and-ready type," he said. "What did you do before working for my son, if I may ask?"
John picked up his drink, took a sip. "Nothing," he said.
"Nothing? Make a living at nothing?"
"Sometimes. Sometimes no."
The old man was quiet for a time. Then: "I don't suppose you know if my son's wife is about the place, do you?"
"I believe so," John said.
"Would you mind going and finding her? I want to talk to her."
"No. I wouldn't mind, but I believe Mrs. Ainsworth is ill and in bed."
The old man made a face. "Hell, she's not ill. She's just putting on some kind of act. I know her. Go fetch her, young man."
"I'm sorry. I don't believe she would like that."
"Never mind what she likes. Just tell her I'm here, that I want to speak to her."
"All right. I'll try."
"Good for you, young man. I like to see a man try."
John thought that was rather an odd statement under the circumstances, but he did not remark on it. He excused himself, left the room, walked down the hall to the stairs, went up them to Mrs. Ainsworth's room. He rapped on the door.
"Who is it?" she called out to him.
"John Deering. Mr. Harvey Ainsworth is downstairs. He sent me up to ask you to come down and speak with him."
"Come inside the room, Mr. Deering," she said.
He opened the door, stopped in his tracks, his mouth flying open. She was sitting up on the bed, her shoulder straps down, exposing both of her breasts again. He moistened his lips nervously. Was this deliberate, too? It looked that way.
"What's the matter, Mr. Deering? Haven't you ever seen a woman before?"
He did not care for her tone of voice, but she was his employer, supposedly, so he held his tongue. He said merely, "Yes. I've seen women before, Mrs. Ainsworth." He managed to inject the right amount of politeness into his tone; just enough without overdoing it.
She glanced down at her bosom, looked up at him, smiled thinly. "You don't approve of me, Mr. Deering?"
"I came to deliver a message, nothing more, Mrs. Ainsworth."
"Look here," she said, but not too sharply. "I asked you a question. Please answer it. Do you approve of me?"
"Of course," he said, and meant it, partially. He certainly had no objections to her doing what she was doing. He, in fact, found it exhilarating sexually. He knew that he was rigid. He wondered if she could notice this.
Her eyes wandered down his front, came to a stop. Her lips parted. "Why, Mr. Deering," she said. "How nice."
He cleared his throat, did not know what to say to this, said nothing. He knew she was staring at him there; her eyes were wide; they held a lustful look, he thought, but could not be certain.
"Mr. Deering," she said. "Never mind that old fool downstairs. Come over here a moment."
He hesitated only a fraction of a moment, walked slowly around the bed, stopped just a foot from her. He knew she was going to do it even before she did. She reached out her hand, touching his prick through his pants. She left her hand there for a moment, drew in her breath slowly, let it out. He did the same, only faster.
"Excellent," she said softly, withdrawing her hand.
He did not know what to say, so again he remained silent.
"I think you're going to work out fine," she said, her voice sounding strange. "Now go down and tell the old man I can't see him ... tell him I'm too ill today."
John moved away from the bed. "All right," he said quietly, surprising himself by his calmness. He went to the door, pulled it open.
"Mr. Deering," she said. "As soon as you get rid of him, come back. I want to ... talk to you."
"All right," John said, and left the room. He went downstairs to where the old gentleman was sitting, still sipping his brandy.
"Mrs. Ainsworth told me to tell you she can't see you today. She is too ill, she said."
Harvey Ainsworth snorted, finished his drink, got to his feet, bent over agilely, picked up his cane. "She's a damned liar," he sputtered. "Tell her I'll be back tomorrow, maybe sooner. Tell her she'd damned well better see me then, young man."
John nodded, started to move toward the door.
"Good-bye, young man. No, don't bother. I'll see myself out."
"Good-bye, Mr. Ainsworth," he said, and watched the old man walk to the hall, open the front door and leave.
John turned and walked briskly up the stairs to Mrs. Ainsworth's room. He saw the door was partially open, pushed it farther open, entered. She was sitting on the bed in exactly the same manner. He closed the door slowly, turned and looked at her, excitement running through him. He recalled her touching his cock. He noticed he was perspiring a little. It was a hot day, but it was cool inside the stone house. His sweating was caused, he knew, by being highly aroused.
"Come here, John," she said, using his first name for the first time.
He walked over to the bed, saw her looking at him in a certain spot. Her breasts were still uncovered.
"Do you think I'm pretty, Johnny?" she asked.
"Yes," he said, almost blurting it.
"You mean you think the upper part of me is pretty?"
He frowned, not understanding her.
She pulled the sheet off her legs. He gasped at them, saw that both legs had been amputated below the knee. She had no feet. Otherwise her legs were beautiful, he thought. They were well-shaped, tanned, firm-looking. There was, he discovered, something wildly sexual about her legs being that way. He swallowed hard.
"Now ... do you think I'm pretty?" she asked, glancing at him sharply.
"Yes," he said. "You're very pretty, Mrs. Ainsworth."
She frowned slightly. "Are you putting on an act?
"No. I meant that. You're very pretty."
"My feet being off ... doesn't repel you?"
He took a breath, let it out slowly. "Of course not. Did you have an accident?"
She sighed. "I used to have the nicest legs in our set. Then, three years ago I was in a car wreck. Had to have them taken off. I wear artificial feet, of course. It's a great nuisance."
"I should imagine so," he said, not able to take his eyes off her legs.
"Are you sure you don't mind the way they look?"
He shook his head. "I find them ... er ... fascinating."
"Good," she said, and sighed.
He wondered what she would do next. She disappointed him-she did nothing. Nothing except to cover her legs with the sheet, lay back on the pillows and look at him.
"My husband," she said softly, "is not quite a man."
John felt the hair on the back of his neck doing something. He just looked at her.
"Before my accident, I used to manage to find plenty of ... male companionship ... but now ... well, I'm somewhat handicapped, you see."
"Yes," he murmured. "I can understand that."
"I think you'd better leave now, Mr. Deering," she said, and turned her face away from him.
"You mean leave the house?" he blurted, feeling disappointed.
She turned her head, looked him in the eye, smiled. "My goodness no ... just the room ... and only for the time being."
"All right," he said, and turned to go.
"John," she said. "Did I hurt your feelings?"
He turned around. "No, Mrs. Ainsworth. My feelings are not easily hurt."
"You are disappointed, then?"
He found it in himself to smile. "I'll get over it."
"Do you really think I'm pretty?"
He was surprised at her pressing this so much. "Yes. Yes, I do."
"Good. That'll make it a whole lot easier."
He frowned slightly. "Mind telling me what?"
"I'll tell you in a few days, maybe sooner, John."
"You're very mysterious," he said, but grinned.
"No, I'm not. I just have to be careful."
"About what?" he asked, hoping she would come out with it.
She smiled. "That will have to wait a while, too." He walked to the door, opened it. "Good-bye then," he said.
"Good-bye-but only for now, Mr. Deering," she said candidly. "All right."
He walked into the hall feeling let down. She had gotten him aroused, then sent him away. He decided he would look about the house for Joan. No, Joanie, he corrected in his mind. I need someone. I've never been so up in the air in my life as I am now. He wondered what really was the matter with him. He was acting like a sexually aroused schoolboy. John Deering had been kicking about the country long enough to be able to handle temporary rejection. Hell, he had known that many times.
He went down to the large room, poured himself another drink, drained the glass in one fast gulp. He had another, left the room, walked down the hall searching for Joanie. He found her in what she later called the music room. There was a grand piano in the room, stereo, a television set and assorted pieces of furniture. Joanie, at the moment he entered, was sitting at the piano playing a simple tune. He stood in the doorway listening to her. She played fairly well, he thought. He walked up behind her, placed his hands on her shoulders.
She jumped up and screamed.
"Hey," he said, taken aback. "What's wrong with you?"
She seemed to be having trouble regaining her breath. "You s-startled me," she gasped.
"I'm sorry, Joanie," he said gently. "I didn't mean to."
"Oh, it's all right," she said, sitting back down on the bench. "For a moment, I thought you were my uncle Keith, you looked so much like him ... in a way, that is."
This surprised him a little. He could not picture Keith Ainsworth as being the type who would put his hands on a girl, especially after what he had just learned from Mrs. Ainsworth.
"I don't really look like him, do I?" he asked.
"No. Not really. Only to the casual glance. You're much more masculine than he."
"Thanks," he said dryly.
"No. I mean it. You are, John."
For some reason, this line of talk made him uncomfortable. He changed the subject. "What was that you were playing?"
"Minute Waltz," she said. "Did you like it?"
"Yes."
She turned about quickly on the bench, looked up at him, bit her lips. "You must think I'm an awful dope."
"Why do you say that?"
"The way I acted ... in your room."
He shook his head. "I don't think you're a dope. I think you're nice, pretty and sweet."
She smiled. "Why, thank you, John. You said that very nicely."
"One thing puzzles me, though," he said, looking down into her eyes. "Why did you want me to leave my trousers off?"
She actually blushed. "Oh, I'm just awful, John." She struck a minor seventh chord, probably to cover her embarrassment.
"I don't think so," he said, and leaned over suddenly and kissed her bare shoulder.
She shivered, laughed. "Boy," she said. "That gives me goose pimples, all right."
"Seems to me I heard you say that before, that goose pimple thing."
She laughed, struck another chord, released it, turned around on the bench. "You know something?" she said.
"What?"
"I think I'm getting a crush on you."
"Good for you. How big a crush?"
She held her hand aloft, spacing her thumb and forefinger a few inches apart. "Like so," she said, smiling.
"That's not a very big crush," he said, sitting on the bench beside her. It was nice having his body against hers. Hers was nice and soft and ... well, pleasant to the touch.
"Maybe it's a little bit bigger than that," she said.
He looked down the front of her dress. He could easily see most of her bosom. He felt it happening to him. "Would you like to ... go somewhere?" he asked, looking her in the eye now.
"Where?" she asked, looking innocent
CHAPTER FOUR
He put it bluntly. "Up to my room."
She looked around the room quickly, as though fearful someone might have heard him.
"I don't know, John," she said slowly. "I just don't know."
He stood up. "All right. Forget it."
"Don't be annoyed at me, John. I'm afraid my aunt will find out, if I do."
"Is she your keeper?" he asked bluntly.
Joan frowned. "I live in her house. I have to be careful not to make her angry."
"Why should she be angry? I don't belong to her. You don't belong to her."
She got up from the bench, placed her hand on his arm. It felt nice. He wanted to grab her, kiss her hard, but restrained himself. She pressed her body against his and he felt the delicious heat and softness of it. He became much more aroused.
"John...." she said and stopped.
"Come with me," he urged. "Ever since I met you, you have been getting me all excited. I think you want me to love you as much as I want to."
"Let's go up ... to your room, John," she said, surprising him. "Come on."
She walked swiftly from the room. He followed her, caught up with her, put his arm about her waist. She pulled away from him.
"Wait," she whispered. "Someone might see you."
They went up the stairs together and he pushed open the door of his room. He saw her hesitate for a moment, then she stepped inside. He closed the door, put his arms about her. She sighed, leaned against him. He was sexually erect. She must have felt it; she drew back a little, looked up into his eyes, pushed her cunt against him, sighed again.
He led her to the bed, noted she was shaking, wondered if she was really that frightened of her aunt; frightened or whatever. He found this difficult to believe. He thought her shaking must be due to excitement, hoped it was.
He pushed her down gently on the bed and she lay there on her back, staring up at him. "Did you lock the door, John?" she whispered.
He got up, slightly annoyed at having to do this, went to the door and locked it. He came back to the bed, got on it with one knee. He placed his hands down on the bed, one hand on each side of her, lowered his body down so that he could kiss her. He did so. She kissed him in return. Her lips were very wet, nice, warm, soft.
He straightened up, looked down at her, still holding himself up with his hands. "You're beautiful," he said softly. "You do wild things to me, Joanie."
She did not speak. She simply lay on her back looking up at him and waiting for him to make his move, apparently.
He lay down beside her, resting on his elbow, looked at her neckline, felt the urge to touch her there. He placed his hand on her lower throat, let it run down her body a few inches. Her flesh was unbelievably smooth, soft, pleasant to the touch. He unbuttoned the top button of her blouse, then the second and third buttons. She lay still, looking at him. He shoved his hand down inside her blouse, knew then that she was wearing no bra. His hand crept down over a breast, feeling the soft roundness of it, the rise and fall of it as she began to breathe faster. He found the nipple, let his fingers play with it momentarily.
"John!...." she breathed. "Oh!...."
He moved his hand over to the other breast and she stirred on the bed, drawing one leg up. He looked down, saw her skirt had crept high on her thighs. He saw the silver-colored garters. What had she called them? Sin Seed? Something like that. Despite his intensity, he smiled a little at the thought. He withdrew his hand gently from her breasts, placed it on her thigh.
"Oh ... John...." she breathed.
He ran his hand up her thigh. She stiffened, moved her leg.
"Don't fight," he said softly. "Relax, Joanie."
He found the elastic of her panties, tugged at it. Her panties were very thin, very smooth to the touch. He could feel the heat of her pussy through them easily. She stirred again, her knee striking his forearm. The touch of it set him off in great shape. He wanted to yank her panties off, and make a sudden, even brutal move, but held himself in. He knew he had to go slower, not frighten her into refusal, which could easily happen.
He tugged on the elastic again, drew her panties down slowly. She did not raise her hips to help him. He had to inch them down, first one side, then the other, using only one hand.
The other hand was on her breasts.
She sighed, moved her legs again. This movement helped him. He pulled the panties down her thighs almost to her knees. He let his fingers lightly play around with her crotch. She pressed her legs together. He frowned slightly, slipped his hand between her legs, tried to part them.
She jerked away from him, jumped to her feet, smoothed down her dress, after yanking up her panties, just as the knock came on his bedroom door. He got off the bed, swore softly to himself.
She looked at him, and he at her.
Whoever was knocking on the door kept it up.
"Of all the rotten luck," he muttered.
"Where can I hide?" she whispered.
He moaned softly. "Go into the bathroom, close the door, if you feel you have to."
She ran lightly across the carpeting, entered the bathroom, closing the door after her. He stood there. The knocking continued.
"Who is it?" he called.
"Keith Ainsworth. Let me in a moment. Want to talk to you."
John Deering silently cursed Mr. Keith Ainsworth, but he walked to the door, unlocking it and pulling it open a few inches. But Keith Ainsworth was not about to be kept standing in the hallway, John noticed. He pushed the door farther open, stepped past John and into the room. John saw him look at the bed quickly.
"Better not let my wife catch you lying on the spread," Ainsworth said, smiling. "She'll give you the very devil. She's very fussy about such things."
John looked at him. He had not moved from the doorway.
Keith wrinkled up his nose, seemed to be sniffing. "Perfume, Mr. Deering? My heavens, I didn't think you were the type."
John continued to look at him.
Keith walked around the bed, patted it, smoothed out the few wrinkles. "There. Now it looks all right again. If you want to lie down, Mr. Deering, for a rest, remove the spread first."
John said nothing, wished the guy would clear out, but what could he say? It was Ainsworth's home, not his.
Keith walked toward the bathroom door, stopped, turned about facing John. He smiled, started to pull the door open, did not do so, but walked back across the room.
"You said you wanted to talk to me," John said.
"Yes. Yes, I do, Mr. Deering. I'm ordering steaks from the caterer. Wanted to know how you like yours-rare, medium, what?"
John cleared his throat. "Any way," he said, surprised to find his voice shaking slightly.
"All right. I'll make it rare for you. Man like you needs lots of ... raw meat, I'd say. Wouldn't you, Mr. Deering?"
John shrugged. He had gotten the implication. "It's your party, Ainsworth," he said.
Keith placed the back of his hand on one hip, laughed hard. "I would scarcely call it a party, Mr. Deering. We are merely hungry."
Damn the guy anyway, John thought-why couldn't he beat it?
"A rare steak will be fine," he heard himself say.
Keith Ainsworth walked to the door, put his hand out, caught the edge of it, looked at John over his shoulder, smiled. "Very well, Mr. Deering, rare it shall be. Don't muss up the bed. Remember."
"I'll do my best," John said gruffly.
"Come now. Don't be touchy. I'm only giving you fair warning about my wife."
"Thanks," John said dryly.
Keith Ainsworth stood there smiling at him for several moments. He doesn't really look like me, John thought with some relief-he has the same coloring, a similar look, similar build but that's all. His muscles are flabby, his expressions are entirely different. It made him feel better to know these things. He had been told he looked exactly like Keith Ainsworth-and this was scarcely a compliment, not to a man such as John Deering.
"I'll see you later, Mr. Deering. The steaks will be here in an hour or so, maybe longer. Someone will come up and let you know when. Good-bye now." He smiled at John.
John merely nodded, closed the door after he had left.
He walked over to the bathroom door, pulled it open. "All right, Joanie," he said. "He's gone."
There was no answer from her; nor did she appear. John stepped into the room, saw another door leading off it at the other end. Frowning, he crossed the ridiculously large bathroom, pushed open the second door, saw another bedroom; it looked about the same as his. Joanie was not in the room. He crossed the room, opened the door leading to the hallway. She was not in view.
"Damn it," he said aloud. "This isn't my day."
He retraced his steps back to his room, stood by the bed, wishing he had a drink. He decided to go down to the large front room and have one.
He stepped out into the hallway, heard a noise in one of the rooms farther along the hall. He stood still, listened, started to walk toward Mrs. Ainsworth's room. When he arrived there, he saw the door was open a few inches. He looked into the room, saw her lying on the floor, trying to get up, apparently.
He knocked discreetly, called out. "Are you hurt, Mrs. Ainsworth?"
"Come in," she called back. "I fell out of this fool of a bed."
He entered the room, went over to her. He wondered, idly, why she did not get up on her own accord. Not having feet would not prevent her from drawing herself back up on the bed. By now, he thought, she should be able to do that. Handicapped people are often very smart and clever about handling themselves in emergencies.
He could not help noticing that her nightgown was high on her hips. She was exposed to his view. He tried not to look at her cunt, but found it next to impossible not to do so. She has a beautiful body, he thought-she must have been ravishing once, before her accident. She still is, he thought further-no mistake about it. There is nothing about her that repels me, as she feared there might be. I find her damned pleasant to look at, feet or no feet.
"Mr. Deering," she said. "You have a faraway look. Mind helping me back in the bed?"
He acted swiftly. He bent over, picked her up easily, held her in his arms longer than was necessary before placing her on the bed. Her body was very warm and soft. He felt the same stirring taking place inside him. He wanted to pick her up again, tried to think up an excuse for doing so, found one.
"I don't think you are quite comfortable," he said lamely, and slipped his arms beneath her body, lifting her.
Immediately, her arms went about his neck. He was not certain of it, but he thought she sighed. Her breasts are lovely, he thought, as they seemed to press eagerly against his chest.
"You're very strong, Mr. Deering," she said softly.
"You're not very heavy," he said. "You're a nice little woman."
She laughed. "Thank you. I haven't heard anything like that in years. Makes me feel good, Mr. Deering."
"I mean it," he said, still holding her. He liked the feel of her soft lush body in his arms. I'm some guy, he thought. One minute I'm after Joanie, the next minute I've forgotten her and am all worked up about Mrs. Ainsworth. Thinking this caused him to grin without realizing it.
"Something amusing you, Mr. Deering?" she asked, her lips close to his face.
"I was just thinking," he said. "Want me to put you down now?"
Her answer was to wrap her arms more tightly about his neck. But then she said, "If you want to, Mr. Deering. Personally, I find this stimulating."
And so do I, he thought. "I'd just as soon hold you," he said, smiling.
"Why, Mr. Deering?" she asked.
"Why what?"
"Why do you like holding me?" He smiled again. "A good question. I think the answer is obvious. You're a lovely woman."
She surprised him a little by kissing the side of his face. "Thank you for saying that."
"My pleasure," he said, and meant it, wishing she would do a repeat on the kiss job.
She again surprised him and pleased him by doing exactly that, only this time she found his mouth with hers, held it. His sexuality came into being instantly. Her hips, he knew, were touching him there. He heard her sigh, felt her lips on his again, more wetly this time. She finally pulled her face from his, looked at him with her large blue eyes.
"Oh ... Mr. Deering," she sighed. "You make me feel so good."
He started to kiss her but stopped as he heard the voice from the doorway. "Well ... what's all this, may I ask?"
John turned his head, saw Keith Ainsworth standing in the doorway. He calmly placed the woman down on the bed, straightened up, looked her husband squarely in the eyes.
"Your wife," he said casually, "fell out of bed. I picked her up. There seemed to be no one else about to do it."
Keith Ainsworth laughed, came into the room farther. John saw him glance at his wife with amusement. "She often falls out of bed, don't you, dear? She manages to do so when there are outsiders around."
John looked quickly at Mrs. Ainsworth, looked at her husband. He hates the sight of his wife, John concluded swiftly. And she has no feeling for him at all. I can tell from their expressions.
"There's no need to be rude, Keith," she said quietly. "Mr. Deering happened to see me on the floor and was kind enough to help me."
Keith Ainsworth turned and walked to the door, stopped, turned about, looking at John. "I'm not being rude to her," he said. "I was just stating a fact, Mr. Deering. As far as your holding her is concerned, I couldn't care less. Matter of fact, if you want to crawl in bed with her, help yourself. I'm sure you will be welcomed with open arms ... and, I might add, opened legs. Good-bye for now, Mr. Deering. Enjoy yourself."
John only stared at the man. He could not think of a thing to say. When Keith had left, he turned to the woman on the bed.
"I'm sorry," he said gently.
She closed her eyes. "Think nothing of it, Mr. Deering. What he said is true, every word of it."
"You must be very lonely," he said, still keeping his tone gentle.
A look bitterness came over her face, but it was there for only a second. Then she smiled.
"Things," she said, not very originally, "are tough all over, so I hear."
"Yes," he said, thinking of his flat wallet. "They are, sometimes."
She sighed. "I suppose now you want to clear oat of here, Mr. Deering, now that my husband has created a bit of a scene."
He shook his head. "No," he said. "I don't."
She sat up on the bed, her gown slipping down off her shoulders. "You mean you want to remain in the house after that?"
"Yes," he said. "If you want me to."
The gown slipped off her other shoulder. Now both of her pointed, lush breasts were exposed to his view. She paid no attention to them.
"I want you to," she said softly. "I like you, Mr. Deering."
"Thanks," he said, more gruffly than he intended.
She had opened her eyes; now she closed them again. "You're a strange man, Mr. Deering," she said, at length.
"Am I? Why do you think so?"
"I can't explain it ... I just feel it. Call it intuition, if you like."
"What," he said carefully, "does your intuition tell you is about to ... happen?"
She opened her eyes, regarded him pleasantly. "I'm flattered, Mr. Deering, but you can't. Not yet, anyway."
He moved closer to the bed, his sexuality more in evidence than before. "Why not?" he asked, pressing her.
"Because . .
"That's not much of an answer. Why not?"
"I told you before, Mr. Deering. I want to study you for a while."
"Study me? What for?"
"My purpose in having my niece bring you here, Mr. Deering, was so that T might have-" She broke off. "Sorry," she went on. "I don't want to tell you now. Later I will. Please be patient with me."
John was anything but patient at the moment. He wanted to do exactly as her husband had mentioned-crawl into the bed. He knew he had better not try. Not then. There was something in her face that told him he had only to wait and all would be....
"Mr. Deering," she said, interrupting his thoughts. "Do you really think I'm pretty?"
"Yes. Very much so."
She sighed. "I just wanted to hear you say it again. I think you will have to leave now, and thank you for helping me."
He felt a stubborn streak taking over. "Supposing I don't want to leave your room. What then?"
"You're a man, Mr. Deering. What could a little helpless woman do if you decided to ... have your fun?"
He studied her face, knew she did not mean this, not really. She seemed to be testing him. He was torn between giving way to his sexuality and using common sense. Wait, his mind whispered to him-if you rush it, if you go ahead with it, she will not like you. Let her have the say, at first anyway.
"I don't want to force myself on you," he said more coolly than he meant to.
She smiled. "Good for you, Mr. Deering. You've just won a battle, haven't you?"
"I'm not sure," he said. "Have I?"
"I think so," she said. "Don't feel badly, Mr. Deering. You see, I have plans for you ... and for me."
Too bad, he thought-it was the wrong thing for her to say. "Mrs. Ainsworth," he said coolly. "I'm sorry. I won't have anyone else making plans for me."
She glanced at him sharply. "I see. You like to make your own plans, is that it?"
He returned her sharp glance. "Yes," he said, and turning about, walked out of the room, closing the door gently behind him.
"Mr. Deering," she called after him, but he did not stop. He walked down the stairs to the front room, found the bourbon bottle, poured himself a giant of a drink, downed it in one, fast gulp. He had another, walked over to a window, stood looking out of doors.
I'm a damned fool, he told himself. Why did I say that to her? That's no-way to come on with a woman. It was stupid, the stupidest thing I've ever said or done. I could kick myself. He thought about it for a time, then let go of it.
He turned, after a few moments, and headed for the upstairs portion of the house. His sexuality would wait no longer, not another minute. He had been in the house for only a few hours, but already both of the women had repeatedly thrown themselves at him, only to draw back away from him when he became aroused by their advances.
Now, he was going to have one of them, or else.
CHAPTER FIVE
In the sexually frustrated state of mind he was in it did not matter to him which of the two women he met first. Either one would do. He bounded up the stairs, came to a stop in front of Mrs. Ainsworth's door. He tried it, found it locked. How could she have locked it? Did she have some way of crossing the room without attaching her artificial feet? She could have crawled, he thought. For that matter, perhaps she could walk, after a fashion.
Why am I thinking about this? he asked himself, and rapped loudly on the door. "Who is it?" she called. "John Deering. Let me in "
"No. Sorry. I can't open the door."
He cursed, walked away, went to his room, looked in. He had no idea of why he did this-there was no one in his room, of course. He wondered where Joanie's room was, began to search for it. He found it. It was located at the far end of the hallway. Her door stood open and he saw her lying on her tummy on the bed. He stepped inside, closed the door with something of a bang.
She jumped, looked up at him with frightened eyes. What the hell is wrong with her? he thought. She's as nervous as a kitten.
"John," she said. "I didn't hear you knock."
"I didn't knock," he said evenly. "Why did you cut out on me, leaving the bathroom the way you did?"
She looked at him, looked away, started to sit up on the bed, apparently thought better of it, lay on her side facing him. "I don't know," she said. "I suppose I was afraid my uncle would catch me in the room."
"He knew you were there in my room. I'm sure of it. Why are you afraid of him? What power has he got over you?"
Her eyes became defiant. "No power over me, John," she said quietly. "But it is his house, not mine."
"Nuts," he said. "You said that before. What's that got to do with it?"
"Got to do with what?" she asked, looking innocent.
He threw up his hands. "Come on. You weren't born yesterday."
She turned on the bed and as she did so, her skirt flew up, revealing the creamy flesh above her stockings. He stared at her, wet his lips. They were very dry. Both of these women had a way of driving a man nearly crazy.
"Do you really want to make love?" she asked, smiling faintly.
"No," he said, sarcasm creeping into his tone. "I want to know the way to the North Pole. I have a need to know where it is. Thought I'd drop into your bedroom and ask you."
She surprised him by laughing heartily. "You're a very funny guy, John. I don't think you realize it."
"I don't feel very funny," he admitted, calming down almost instantly. He walked over to the bed, stood near her. He caught the scent of her perfume. It was pleasant, nice, just as it had been before.
Sit down, John," she said and sat up herself.
"If I do, will you promise not to disappear?"
She smiled. "I promise, John." She patted the bed with her hand.
He sank down beside her, put his arm about her, pulled her up to him, kissed her wetly. She pulled away a moment later, sucked in her breath.
"You," she said, "must be the most passionate man on earth."
Despite his intensity, he smiled. "I doubt that, but there's something about you that gets to me."
She tapped her lower teeth with her fingernails. "Does my aunt have the same effect on you, John?"
He felt his face burning a little, but did not avoid her gaze. "I didn't come here to talk about your aunt. I came here because of you."
She rolled onto her back, her bosom jutting straight up. He could see the outline of her nipples through the thin blouse. It excited him all over again. He placed his hand on her there. She just looked at him, made no effort to either encourage or discourage him. He unbuttoned her blouse, slipped his hand beneath it, feeling her breasts. Still she lay there looking up at him with her dark eyes.
"Don't you like that?" he asked huskily.
"Y-yes, John."
"Do you mind if I?...." He bent his head a trifle.
"No, John."
"You mean you don't want me to?"
"I mean I don't mind, John."
He unbuttoned the remainder of the buttons, pulled one of her breasts out, stared at it momentarily, lowered his head, took the nipple between his teeth lightly.
She cried out, pulled his hair hard.
He straightened up. "Is that a whacky sort of thing or is it passion?" he asked her.
She bit her lips, looked away from him.
"Well?" he persisted. "What is it?"
She did not answer him. He stared into her eyes for the moment, lowered his head again. This time she rolled over on her side. He followed her, placed his face on her tit. She sighed this time, began to rub the sides of his face. He felt the thing happening for the umpteenth time. He reached down, lifted her skirt, pushing it up over her hips. She lay still, then rolled over on her back.
"You really want to, don't you?" she whispered.
"Yes," he said unsteadily. "Of course I do."
"I don't know if I should or not."
He looked at her. "For Pete's sake, make up your mind."
"All right, John. I've made it up."
"Good," he said. "It's about time."
"Just a minute," she said. "I'm going to tell you something, first."
He looked at her dark eyes. "All right. What is it?"
"When I picked you up in the bar. Haven't you wondered about it?"
"I did, yes. Not now I don't."
She sat up quickly, looked at him strangely. "You mean my aunt has talked to you about it?"
He did not want to discuss her aunt right then. "Can't we talk about her later?" he said, feeling the stirring inside him growing stronger.
"No. Right now. Do you know why she had me pick up a man and bring him here?"
"I can guess," he said. "She's a very lonely woman."
"That's part of it, John, but there's more. Didn't she tell you the rest of it?"
"No. Nothing."
"Well ... then I can't, can I?"
"You've got me," he said, shrugging and wishing she would stop all of this. "How would I know?" Joan Herlick sighed. "All right, John. Go 'head.
Do what you want to do. I don't mind."
"You don't seem very enthusiastic," he said.
She lay down on her back, moved her legs farther apart. "I'll show you how enthusiastic I can get, John Deering. You just do your part and don't worry about me. I'm not dead, you know."
He laughed tensely. "That's the way I like to hear you talk.
She said nothing, just looked at him, her lips parted, her breath coming faster.
He ran his hand up her smooth leg, sucked in air when he felt the texture of her skin. He was getting a bit frantic too, as he moved about on the bed. She inserted her knee between his legs. It was a passionate move on her part; it set him up in fine style. He removed her knee gently, spread her legs farther apart, lay between them. Her panties were not on her, he discovered. He again sucked in air, prepared himself, thrust at her almost savagely.
She cried out when he struck the spot.
He moved rapidly. He was in no condition to take his time, to allow her to catch up with him. There was no time for any of these things. His movements became hectic, and soon she was moving with him pushing her cunt up to meet his savage battering.
It was delicious, this feeling of warmth.
He could not keep it going for long. It was not humanly possible for him. He had been worked up to a high pitch too many times that day.
He let go, went limp on her.
She lay quietly, only her hard breathing told him she had enjoyed this brief act of Lovemaking.
He raised himself, finally, looked down at her face. Her eyes were tightly closed.
"Sorry to be so quick," he said. "Number two may be coming up soon."
"I liked it, John," she said. "It was heavenly."
Heavenly was the word all right, he thought. I wouldn't have used it, but it jits perfectly. "Hey," he said, feeling much better. "I think I like you."
She opened her eyes, gazed into his own, which were but inches from hers. "Kiss me, you big ape," she said softly.
He bent his head, touched her lips with his. She kissed him wetly, again and again.
"Hey," he said. "You surprise me."
"You thought I was a stick, didn't you, John?"
He laughed. "Not exactly a stick. I thought you were afraid of me."
"I was," she said quietly.
"Are you ... now?"
"No."
They jumped almost guiltily when the loud, short knock came on the door.
"Hey in there," Keith Ainsworth called through the door. "Come downstairs. The steaks are getting cold."
"How about it?" John asked her. "Do you want a steak or do you want something else?"
"What is the something else?" she said, smiling.
He showed her what he meant by pressing his cock against her.
"I'd rather have this," she saM, "but if we don't go down and eat those steaks, my uncle will be angry."
He raised himself, moved away, got to his feet, gave her his hand, pulled her to her feet, kissed her. "All right, we mustn't make your uncle angry. He might bite us."
She looked at him strangely. "Don't underestimate my uncle, John," she said quietly. "He can be very cruel and vicious."
"Are you coming down or aren't you?" Keith Ainsworth called.
"Coming, Keith," Joan said, and standing on her toes, kissed John's mouth quickly.
John heard Keith Ainsworth mutter something or other and walk away. He went to the door, opened it a crack, looked into the hall. "All right," he said. "He's gone." He turned about, saw the strange look was still on her face. "What's the matter with you?" he asked. "Are you that scared of him?"
She smiled tightly. "I'm not afraid of him," she said, but he saw her lower lip was trembling slightly.
"Let's go down and eat those steaks," John said. "I won't let him hurt you."
She nodded and together they went down the stairs to dinner.
It was later in the evening that both Joanie and Keith Ainsworth went to their respective rooms, leaving John alone downstairs. He sat in the front room drinking bourbon and thinking about this odd household. He knew, now, why he had been brought there. He had been hired to be a lover to Mrs. Ainsworth.
Mrs. Ainsworth had sent her niece out looking for a man who would fill the bill. Mrs. Ainsworth was a very passionate woman, it appeared. She needed someone to love her. She was in no condition to run around looking for men. Very likely, she had not been loved in a long time. Her husband, obviously, was not a man in the sexual sense. John thought he was a homosexual, but of course he had no way of knowing this for certain. The man's actions, his manner, the things his wife had said about it-all of these contributed to John's opinion of him. John was not the type of man to deal savagely with homos; he knew they could not, usually, help being what they were. Nonetheless, thinking about the guy gave him a feeling of something akin to disgust.
He got up, poured himself another drink, went back to the sofa, stretched out on it, one hand under his head, the other hand holding the glass. He stared up at the ceiling for a time, tried to think further about these people.
He heard a sound near the doorway, looked up, saw Mrs. Ainsworth, dressed in slacks that came down to the shoe tops, standing there.
John sat up, then got to his feet. "Hello," he said, trying not to stare at her feet.
She walked across the room very well. He was surprised, but tried not to show it. One could not have told, at a casual glance, that she had artificial feet. She walked over to him, perhaps a bit slowly, but there was no awkwardness in her stride. Apparently, she had learned well how to use the feet.
"John," she said, using his first name this time.
"Are you sitting down here all alone?"
He smiled slightly. "Yes. Won't you join me? Can I get you a drink?"
"Yes, thank you, John," she said.
He got her a drink of brandy, brought it back to her, watched her as she took it, sitting down on the sofa without any trouble at all. She looked up at ban he coyly, thought.
"How does it taste?" he asked, for something to say.
She smiled. "I don't know. I haven't tried it yet." She took a sip, put the glass down. "It's all right. For once, Keith got the good brand."
He cleared his throat, tried to think of something more to say to her. "What does your husband do?" he asked.
She glanced at him sharply. "What?"
He repeated his question, sorry now he had asked it. He could not have cared less what Keith Ainsworth did for a living.
"Oh ... Keith? ... Well, he doesn't do anything, really."
John looked at her.
"He never has done anything except make other people miserable," she said.
This was a ticklish subject. John steered clear of it. He sat down beside her, smiled slightly. "You walk very well," he heard himself saying bluntly.
She nodded, took a sip of her drink, put the glass down again. "It took a lot of practice. I didn't think I was ever going to learn to do it."
He studied her face, saw the fine-textured skin, the regular features, the blue eyes. She is a damned good-looking woman, he thought. "You look good in slacks," he said.
"Are you trying to tell me something, John?" she asked, smiling.
He felt his face grow a bit warm, was annoyed by it. She had a way, sometimes, of making him feel much younger than he was. He could not explain this, even to himself.
"Could be," he heard himself say.
"Tell me more and tell me directly, John."
"You're very nice," he said lamely.
She laughed, then frowned slightly. "I suppose you're wondering why I came downstairs."
"No. Not especially. You said you were supposed to be ill. That's all I know about...." He broke off.
"Know about me, John?"
"I guess so."
She took another sip of her brandy, put the glass down, moved about a bit on the sofa. Her knee came in contact with his leg. It felt nice, exhilarating. There was something about this woman that got to him, even as there was with Joanie. He was intrigued by this woman and her ... well, her handicap. Strange, that the fact of her having no feet should set him off, but it did. Maybe there's something wrong with me, he thought wryly.
"Do you know why my niece brought you here, John? she asked abruptly.
He hedged. "Possibly."
"All right," she said. "Let me hear you say it."
"I prefer not to."
She seemed to study him. Her eyes, he thought, are lovely. Her bosom is also lovely.
"John," she said, "I told her to go out and look for a nice-looking chap, to bring him home, if she found one. She found you, brought you here. I liked your looks. I-" She paused.
"I know that part of it," he said. "But why did the chap, why did I, have to look like your husband?"
She narrowed her lids. "Oh, you're beginning to figure things, are you?"
"A little."
She sighed. "I'm a very lonely woman, John." He nodded, did not speak.
"I'm going to be very frank with you, John. I had intended waiting a few days, possibly a week or longer. I'm going to tell you. I have sized you up, I think, as the men say. You seem to be the right sort. You-"
"Right sort for what, Mrs. Ainsworth."
She glanced at him. "Please call me Julia when we're alone."
"All right ... Julia," he said, liking the idea.
"My husband and I have little money, John. His father is very rich. He has a will. He is going to leave everything to his grandchild with Keith and me as ... well ... you know what I mean. We'll benefit from it, too." She paused, looked him over carefully. "Now do you know what I'm getting at, John?"
"Yes. You have to have a child."
She looked away from his probing eyes, nodded. "That is correct."
"And...." here he took a deep breath before going on, "your husband is ... incapable of giving you that child. Is that correct?"
She did not look at him. "Yes, John."
"So ... you are hiring me, so to speak, because I look somewhat like him, to be the father. Is that correct?"
She looked at him now. "Yes. Does it make you feel badly, John?"
He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "It's a strange deal," he said. "I don't know how I feel. I-"
"We can't allow his father to find out about it. He has to think it is Keith's child."
"You mean, will be Keith's child, don't you? It hasn't taken place yet, you know."
"Are you going to turn us ... turn me down, John?"
He laughed. "This is the craziest thing I ever heard of. I find it hard to believe."
"I suppose you do. It is rather wild, isn't it, in a way?"
He nodded. "You'll never get away with it. The old man has already seen me. He'll suspect whatever ... happens."
"I ... we have to make the try, John. If we fail, Keith and I will be without funds."
"Haven't you heard about artificial insemination?" he asked. "Seems to me that would be more practical."
She avoided his gaze again. "That's out," she said. "The doctors won't let me do it that way."
"Why not?" he asked bluntly. "It's being done every day."
"Because ... of my medical history." He frowned.
"What's the matter, John?"
He sighed. "I'm not sure I like being hired as a stud," he told her bluntly.
She put out her hand, pressed Iris arm. "John, don't look at it that way, please."
He stopped frowning, looked into her pretty eyes, saw the nice glow in them. "How else can I look at it?" he asked.
She was silent for a moment. "I shouldn't have told you. I should have played the woman and seduced you-let it go at that."
"But that wouldn't have worked. I might have left afterward and you wouldn't know if you were with child or not."
She laughed lightly at this. "The thing does sound wild," she said. "It sounds wild even to me."
"Look," he said. "Don't misunderstand me. I find you attractive. I would like nothing better than to make love to you."
Her eyes glowed. "Would you, John, really? You aren't just saying this to make a woman like me happy, are you?"
"No. I mean it."
"That's very nice of you, John."
He shook his head. "I didn't say it to be nice."
"John ... would you kiss me?"
He bent his head, kissed her hungry mouth. She kissed him, kept on kissing him, her lips very moist and soft. Finally, he pulled away, looked at her. Her bosom was rising and falling rapidly.
"I like you so much, John," she murmured.
"Do you want ... to ... go ... up to your room?" he asked, studying her.
"You mean you...?"
"Why not? That's what I've been hired for."
"Please ... don't put it that way."
"All right. I'm sorry. I retract that. Do you want to go upstairs, Julia?"
She looked around the room. "Yes, if you'll carry me, John."
"But suppose someone sees me carrying you?"
"No one will, John. I know."
He picked her up easily, carried her to the doorway, started to walk toward the stairs. She kissed the side of his face, his ear, his neck, and it caused the sexuality of him to come into being. He was liking the place more and more. What guy, he thought, has two lovely women who want to have love made to them all the while? Beautiful, he thought further-just beautiful, this setup.
"John," she said suddenly, clutching at his shoulders. "Put me down."
"What is it?" he said, lowering her to her feet.
"Someone is at the front door. I heard them."
He frowned. Of all the lousy luck. "I don't hear anything," he told her, but then he did. It was the doorbell.
"Will you answer it, John?" she said. "I'm not supposed to be down here." She started up the stairs.
CHAPTER SIX
He looked at her. She went up the steps a bit awkwardly but not very much so. "All right," he said. "You go to your room. I'll see who it is, get rid of them, and come up later."
"Good," she said.
He waited until she had disappeared, then went to the door and opened it. It was the old gentleman, Harvey Ainsworth.
"Hello there, young man. You still here?"
"Yes," John said, and tried to block the entrance.
The old man stepped around him, peered down the hall. "I want to see her, young man. I'm going upstairs."
There was nothing John could do to prevent him short of restraining him physically, which he was not about to try. He stepped out of the white-haired man's way, said nothing.
"She'd better be willing to see me this time, too, young man. I'm getting tired of her avoidance of me."
"She's upstairs, I believe," John said quietly.
"Of course she is. I know that, young man. The point is ... oh, the hell with it. If you see my son, tell him I want a talk with him, too."
The old man walked briskly down the hall and disappeared up the stairs. John stood there momentarily, feeling frustrated again, shrugged finally, walked back into the large room, picked up his drink. He lighted a cigarette, sat down, smoked it, had two drinks, besides the original one. He waited for the old man to come down, but he did not do so. A half-hour passed. John got to his feet, went out to the hallway, peered at the stairway.
Keith Ainsworth was standing at the top of the stairs. He appeared to be listening, but John could not be sure of this. The way he stood, the way he leaned forward, seemed to indicate he was listening to something. A moment later, John saw him turn and walk out of sight.
John stood there for some time. He wondered where Joanie was, if she was in her room yet. He recalled with satisfaction the love scene he had had with her. It had been damned pleasant. Thinking about it made him want her again. He was not a guy who wasted time when he wanted something. Up the stairs he went, stopped at the top, looked down the hall. He strode down in the direction of Joanie's room. As he passed Mrs. Ainsworth's door, he saw the old man standing at the foot of the bed talking to her. She was in the bed, sitting up, apparently listening. John went by the door quickly, not wanting her to see him. He went to Joanie's door, rapped softly. She opened the door almost immediately. She was in her night clothing. He saw she was wearing shorties. She looked nice, lovely.
"John," she said, and bit her lips.
"I'm coming in," he said.
She shook her head. "You can't. You have somewhere else ... to go now."
He felt his face growing warm. "No. I want to come into your room. I have nowhere else to go."
She looked at him closely. "Yes, you have. She just told me a few minutes ago ... before Mr. Ainsworth came."
"Oh, I see," John said. "And what did she tell you?"
"She said ... it was time." John laughed. "I have something to say about that."
"She said you were willing, John." He frowned. "Mrs. Ainsworth," he said, annoyed, "talks too much." She was silent.
"All right," he said. "You don't like hearing an outsider criticizing your family. So what?"
"I didn't say that, John."
"Are you letting me in or not?"
"I want you to, John, but I can't let you."
"Why not?"
Her bosom rose and fell, she sighed. He saw the bold look come into her eyes. He knew she wanted him badly. Neither of them had gotten enough of the other that first time. He stepped into the room all the way, closed the door.
"There," he said. "I'm in. You'll have to scream for help."
She smiled a little. "Who would come to rescue me? There isn't anyone."
He put his arms about her, pulled her close to him. He was ready again. He knew she knew it. She pressed her stomach against him. He pulled her closer still and once again she pressed against him.
"Oh, John," she said softly. "You touch me and I turn into a regular nympho. What is it you have?"
"It's not what I have, it's what you have that does it, Joanie."
She sighed. "But we can't. You have to ... have to...."
"I don't have to do anything, Joanie. I think you know what I mean."
"But she expects you to and if you ... make love to me, you may not be able to love her."
He threw back his head and laughed. This whole bit struck him as being absurd as well as funny.
"What are you laughing about?" she asked, drawing back.
He pulled her against him once more. "Nothing," he said, and picked her up and carried her to the bed. He stood holding her aloft for a moment, then he lowered her gently.
"John ... don't do this thing ... not to her."
"For Pete's sake," he said, exploding a bit, "I'm not under any obligations to her."
"I know. But still-"
"Nuts," he said. "You want to or don't you?"
"Y-yes," she said, and closed her eyes and lay still on the bed.
He was thoroughly aroused. He stripped off her shortie panties, drew them down and off her legs. She crossed one leg with the other, the knee slightly bent, as if to hide her cunt partially. He licked his lips, thought-I'm getting to be a lover-boy. I want it every hour on the hour.
He lay down beside her, ran his hand up her back, let it come to a stop on the small of her back. He rubbed her there for a moment. She moaned, turned on her back, parted her lips, opened her eyes, looked up at him lustfully.
"Hurry, John, please?"
He needed no encouragement. He prepared himself, moved above. She spread her legs, sighed deeply as he thrust at her. He moved slowly for a time, gradually increasing the tempo. Her loins stiffened, she shoved them upward.
"Joanie," he gasped. "I can't get enough of you."
"Nor I ... you," she sighed.
She began a circular motion with her hips and this set him up in great shape. The inner heat of her pussy was tremendously pleasing. It seemed to surround him completely. He thrust at her harder and she cried out from the pleasure of it. He could tell. She wrapped her long legs about his and, closing her eyes, began to moan constantly as he worked.
"Now ... John...." she gasped.
He increased the speed a great deal, stroking hard.
She cried out again.
He felt it happening and, when it did, she pulled his hair so hard it hurt him. He paid no attention to this. Pain was a part of love, wasn't it?
"John...."
He kept it going as long as was necessary, even longer. He finally stopped, lying there above her, savoring the delicious feel of it.
"John...."
He could hear her, of course, but her voice sounded as though it came from some distance away. It was strange. He raised himself, saw her glance over his shoulder, felt her body go rigid.
"John...."
He realized then that it was not Joanie speaking but someone else. He straightened up, turned about, saw Mrs. Ainsworth in the doorway. Her face, he noted, was very white.
"John...." she repeated. "I am very angry with you."
What do you do in a situation like this? You do what John did. You get up from the bed, you calmly rearrange your clothing, you walk to the door, you go past the woman standing there, and you walk to your room and close the door.
Then-if you are John Deering-you go to the bed, you lie down-and laugh your head off.
When he had ceased laughing, he sat up, thought, What a crazy household-you can't make a move around here without someone interrupting you. This thought started him laughing again, which he kept up for several minutes. The look that had been on Joanie's face was enough to ... to ... something or other, he didn't know what. Enough to convulse a guy. Perhaps that was it. And the look on Mrs. Ainsworth's face was enough to cause a guy to double up.
Both of them had been embarrassed more than he had ever seen in his entire life. Probably, he thought ruefully, I should have been, too. Maybe I don't have as much sense as they do.
This started him laughing all over again.
He stopped it when he heard the knock on the door. Oh, brother, he thought-here it comes. She's gonna kick me out.
He got off the bed, went to the door, opened it. Mrs. Ainsworth stood there. She looked at him coolly.
"All right, Mr. Deering. You can take off my husband's clothes, put on your own and clear out. I've had enough of you, I'm afraid."
He studied her. "You don't mean that. Your feelings have been hurt. They shouldn't be. I'm not your husband."
"I'm fully aware of who you are, Mr. Deering, and now I know what you are. I want you to leave immediately."
He shook his head. "Sorry. It's too late. You can't order me around. I won't let you."
"It is my house, not yours."
"No. It isn't my house, but I'm not talking about a building. I'm talking about myself. You can't order me out. Not now. I intend to remain and go through with your little scheme ... your little scheme, I might add, to defraud your father-in-law out of his money."
Her face blanched. "You wouldn't dare tell him that."
He did not want to be rough with her, but a little firmness was in order, now that he had gone this far. "Why not?" he said. "You just said you knew what I was, implying that I'm a scoundrel, so why shouldn't I hold that threat over your head?"
"I'm surprised at you, Mr. Deering, I really am. I did not imply you were a scoundrel, but I see you may be, at that."
"I may be," he said, and grinned at her. "After all, you had me picked up and brought here. You didn't know who I was. For all you know now, I may be an escaped murderer."
Her face went white again. "I wish you wouldn't say things like that. You frighten me."
"Mrs. Ainsworth," he said patiently, "I don't care if you're frightened. Not now, I don't. You just tried to boot me out."
"Well," she flared. "You made me angry. You made a perfect fool out of me."
"How so?" he inquired, raising one brow.
"By ... making love to my niece. You had no right to do that."
"Who says so?" he said, making it sound impudent on purpose.
"I do," she said firmly. "Goodness knows, it was humiliating enough to ask you to do a certain something for me ... but to actually catch you-oh, you made me furious."
"And you're still furious, aren't you, Mrs. Ainsworth."
"Yes, I am," she said fiercely.
He surprised her. He reached out, picked her up in his arms, held her high.
"Put me down," she sputtered.
"I will when I feel like it," he told her.
She struggled, lucked at him, but it was of no use. She seemed to realize this, stopped struggling, "I can't fight you," she complained. "You're much too strong for me."
"Good for you," he said. "Now you're acting like a woman."
"I hate you," she said, spitting the words out.
"No, you don't, Mrs. Ainsworth. You're just angry because you can't order me about."
"Don't be too sure of yourself," she said angrily.
She, he thought, is a strange woman. She is angry at me, but at the same time her eyes are filled with lust for me. She isn't fooling me. She wouldn't think of putting me out of her home. She is only trying to show me that she is boss around here, that I am an intruder, more or less, that I am nothing and she is everything. Well, it won't work. I've seen too many dames like her before. I won't have a dame ordering me around. I suppose that's why I never married. I couldn't put up with some broad getting out of line with me at every turn.
"What are you thinking about, Mr. Deering?" she asked her lips close to his ear.
He noticed most of the spitefulness was gone from her tone. He smiled nicely at her. "I was wondering if I could make up to you a little."
Her eyes grew stormy again. "No, you may not. I wish you'd put me down, Mr. Deering."
"Do you now," he said, making his voice sound like an Irishman in vaudeville.
"What are you-a comedian?" she asked. "Put me down."
"If and when I put you down, Mrs. Ainsworth, it may be on a bed. How do you like that?"
"Oh, you...." she sputtered. "You make me angry."
"Very well. We will now have a brief recess for madame to become angry."
"Why you...."
He laughed. "I've half a notion to make love to you, madame," he said.
"You'd better not try."
"You really shouldn't talk like that to me, you know. I'm bigger than you."
"Put me down!"
"Sorry. I'm not ready to put you down."
She scratched at his face, dug his skin with her fingernails. A bit of blood ran down his face. He looked at her eyes, saw the horror in them, grinned at her. "Aren't you ashamed of yourself, Mrs. Ainsworth, drawing blood like that? What did it accomplish for you?"
"I'm sorry, John," she said, her eyes strange.
"I have never done a thing like that before in my life."
"Don't let it bother you. It doesn't me."
"Aren't you even mad?"
"No," he said. He carried her over to the dresser. "There's some Kleenex in that box. Wipe the blood off my face."
She reached out her hand, got the tissue wiped his face gently. "I don't know what came over me," she said in a small voice. "I just went nuts for a moment."
"Sure," he said. "I know that."
"Who are you?" she said, her tone odd. "Where did you come from? I've never met a man like you before."
"Is that a compliment?"
"I suppose so. I wish you'd put me down. I feel like a child being held up like this for so long."
"My dear Mrs. Ainsworth, I'll put you down when I'm damned good and ready, and not before."
"Who ever told you, you were so all-fired important?" she demanded, kicking at him again.
He held her still. "Stop that," he said. "Those feet of yours are sharp."
He saw the look on her face and instantly was sorry he had said it. He tried to think of something that would assuage her feelings, but nothing would come to mind. He felt like a heel; John did not care for feeling like a heel. He studied her eyes, saw the look of hurt change gradually into something else, he could not tell what. He acted on impulse, kissed her mouth swiftly, drew back, looked at her. There was a slight suspicion of a tear in her eye. She blinked once, stared back at him, grinned.
"I can't figure you out," she said.
"No. I suppose you can't. You're too used to pushing your husband around, aren't you? You can't do that with me and it puzzles you."
She stiffened in his arms. "I don't push him around. There's nothing there to push."
He changed the subject. "Your father-in-law came to see you, didn't he?"
"I don't want to talk about that," she said. "Please ... put me down."
He carried her to the bed, lowered her to it. She lay there looking up at him. She had the strange look in her eyes now. Very strange. She moved over a little, suggestively.
CHAPTER SEVEN
It was not lost on him. He sat down beside her, looked at her bosom, let his eyes travel down her lovely body. She was still wearing her slacks and they fitted her like skin. Everything about her lower body was revealed by them. He found the sight of her interesting, nice.
"You're very pretty," he commented, meaning it. "And you, you're very rough, Mr. Deering."
"Yes," he said. "Sometimes I am." He lowered his head to her bosom and pressed his lips on her there. She gasped, tried to straighten up, to get away from him, but he held her firmly with his hands as he continued to caress her.
"Please, Mr. Deering ... stop this. I demand that you stop it."
He paid no attention to her protests. While he did not intend to go the whole distance with her, he thought it about time to let her experience what was coming up for her later. He had to duck her hands as she struck at him, crying out at him at the same time. He finally caught both of her hands in one of his, held them away from his face.
"Mr. Deering," she cried. "This isn't the time or place for what you're doing. Please stop it. Do you hear me?"
He straightened up, grinned at her. "Supposing I don't want to stop it. What then?"
"I'm asking you to stop it," she cried. "I'll tell you when I want you to-"
"No," he said firmly. "You won't tell me anything of the kind. I'll tell you."
He picked her up from the bed, carried her to the door, took care to set her down on her feet so she would not fall, opened the door, gave her a gentle push. He stepped back from the door, looked at her, seeing the surprise and disappointment in her eyes. He saw something else, too-undisguised lust.
"When I'm ready for you, Mrs. Ainsworth, I'll come to your room," he said politely, and slammed the door in her face.
He heard her cry out at him but did not open the door again. She rapped on it, tried the knob. He held the knob so she could not turn it. Mrs. Ainsworth, handicapped or not, needed to be taught a lesson. She was altogether too much the bossy type, the type that says, "I want this, I want it now." John did not go for this. Nor would he ever go for it.
It was the following evening that he walked into the music room looking for Joan. He had not seen her all day; nor had he seen Mrs. Ainsworth; she had remained in her room, apparently. He thought he had heard Joan enter the music room while he had been in the front room having a drink. He looked about, did not see her at first. Then he discovered her lying on a sofa at the far end of the room, her eyes closed. He walked over to her, stood looking down at her.
"Hey," he said. "Are you taking a nap?"
She opened her eyes. "Hi," she said shortly, and closed her eyes again.
He sat down beside her, took her hand in his. She opened her eyes again. "You don't sound very friendly," he said.
She gently withdrew her hand. "After what happened yesterday, I can hardly look anyone in the eye."
He laughed. "Next time we'll have to lock the door."
She bit her lips. "My aunt is furious with me, hasn't spoken to me today at all. I went to her room to speak to her and she wouldn't let me in. Even my uncle is angry."
"Why is he angry?"
"He's in on this thing, too, you know. He wants you to get it over with and leave. It's as simple as that."
"He's quite a fellow," John said dryly, "He's vicious," she said. "Just plain vicious. I'm afraid of him, what he might do."
John was mildly surprised. "He doesn't strike me as being the vicious type."
"Well, he is." She held up her arm. "Look at my wrist. He burned me with a cigarette this morning."
John saw the red, angry-looking burn on her wrist. "Why did he do that?" he asked, puzzled.
"He ordered me to stay away from you, told me I had to avoid you. He said I was gumming up the works."
"I see. He wants me to devote my-er-energies to his wife. Is that it?"
"Yes. To put it bluntly, yes."
He said nothing, watched her as she reached over to the end table nearby, picked up a piece of paper and handed it to him. He saw it was a check made out to him by Keith Ainsworth for one thousand dollars.
"What's this?" he asked. "My paycheck?"
"Uncle Keith has gone out. He told me to give this to you. I have a message for you. He wants you to do your job-that's the way he put it-and clear out. He wants it done tonight."
"Your uncle is taking quite a risk, giving me a thousand bucks," John said coolly. "He apparently doesn't know much about theer-due process of having children."
She did not speak, nor did she look at him.
He put the check on the table. "What would you think, Joanie, if I told you I'm not going to oblige them?"
Now she glanced at him sharply. "But you have to. We're depending on you."
He glanced at her even more sharply. "What do you mean, 'we're depending'? Are you in on this thing, too?"
"Yes," she said, after a moment's hesitation. "None of us has any money. We can't starve to death."
"Any of you people ever consider going to work?" he asked dryly.
She flashed him another sharp look. "You're a fine one to talk, John Deering. You don't have a job."
"True. But I can get one whenever I feel like it. I don't depend on phony schemes to keep me in dough."
"Phooey," she said. She sat up, smoothed her dress down. He caught a glimpse of flesh above her stockings, got an idea. He considered it briefly, spoke. "I won't be able to-take care of your aunt."
Again she smoothed down her skirt, tried to pull it down on her legs. It was too short to be pulled any farther. "Oh, damn," she said, apparently to herself. She looked up at John, seemed to realize what he had just said. "Why not?" she asked, her lips parted in pretty fashion.
He said it carefully. He had no clear idea of why he was doing it this way. Perhaps it was for the fun of it. "Because your aunt does not affect me properly."
"You mean you can't...?"
He nodded, trying hard not to grin. He saw the worried look on her face. She frowned, bit her lips. "But you have to, John, you simply have to manage it"
"Nope. I've tried," he lied, still trying not to grin. "I can't swing it with your aunt. I'm sorry, but she leaves me cold."
She was silent for a time. Then: "John, I have an idea. I have an effect on you, haven't I?"
"You know the answer to that," he said, eyeing her shapely legs, wondering if they were as moist as they had been the day before.
She squeezed his hand. "Then I can get you-excited, shall I say?-and you can ... well, you know, go and see my aunt while you're still ... you know."
"I think that's a great idea," he said, pretending it was.
"Wait a minute," she said, seemingly growing cautious. "You just told me you weren't going to oblige."
He thought fast. "True. The reason I wasn't is because of what I just told you."
She got to her feet, took his hand. "Come on. We'll go upstairs to my room. You can get yourself all set and then-"
"And then I call on your aunt. Is that your plan?"
"Y-yes."
He had to fight to suppress the grin that wanted out. "All right, Joanie. Upstairs we go."
They walked out into the hall and as they headed for the stairs, the doorbell rang. She stopped. looked around wildly, made a face. "Darn," she said. "I forgot. That must be Mark Harkins. I'm supposed to have a date with him tonight."
John felt a slight stab of jealousy. "Tell him you don't feel well," he suggested. "Get rid of him."
She shook her head. "No. I wouldn't lie to him. He's nice."
John felt the second stab of jealousy. "Oh, the hell with him," he said, annoyed. "I'll tell him to beat it."
"You will not," she said almost angrily. "What's so special about this guy?" The doorbell rang again.
She looked away from him. "All right, I'll tell you. He's very rich and I'm going to marry him."
John walked away from her, his heart thumping crazily. He stopped at the foot of the stairs. "Okay," he said acidly. "Go answer the door, baby. Me, I'm going upstairs where there's at least a partially decent woman."
"John," she said her face looking agitated. "I hope you aren't mad at me."
He looked her up and down. "You make me a trifle sick," he said, and went up the stairs without looking back once. She called to him, but he kept on going until he reached his room. He entered, picked up the bottle he had brought up earlier, uncapped it and drank from it. John was annoyed and jealous. This surprised him. He had no real reason to be jealous. Hell, he'd just met the girl the day before. The truth was, he wanted very much to have her, and have her now. Instead, she was going out with some jerk. John knew instinctively, without ever seeing the guy, that Mark whatever-his-name-was was a jerk. When this thought hit him, he smiled. What's coming over me? he asked himself. I must be flipping. Maybe he's an okay guy. (He did not want to believe this.) Have I fallen for this girl? It looks like it. He found that this thought intrigued him and irritated him as well.
He went over to the bed, carrying the bottle, lay down and stared at the ceiling. He had not closed his door, and some time later he heard voices talking in the hallway below. The door slammed and he knew Joanie had left the house with the guy.
John got up from the bed, his face flushed from several long drinks of whiskey plus his resentment, which he could not understand. He walked to the door, left the room, went down to Mrs. Ainsworth's door, rapped on it
"Come in," she called to him.
He pushed open the door, stepped into the room, looked at her. She was in die bed, sitting up. Her shoulder straps, as usual, were down. He looked at her large, pointed breasts, moistened his lips.
"I've come to do my job," he said shortly.
She seemed to be studying him. He walked across the room to the bed, looked down at her. Her lips parted and she drew in her breath sharply.
"Something wrong with you?" she asked.
"Hell no. I just told you why I'm here."
She pulled one shoulder strap up in place, then the other. He walked around the bed, yanked the straps back down.
"Stop that," she said. "How dare you?"
"Nuts," he said. "Your husband just paid me one thousand bucks. I'm going to earn it and cut out of here."
"But I don't want you to-"
"I don't give a damn what you want," he growled.
He yanked the cover off her body, threw it aside. He saw the strange wild look in her eyes, paid little attention to it. She tried to move away from him, but he grabbed her, held her down on the bed, parting her legs forcibly.
"John," she gasped. "Please ... not now. Don't force me."
"Go to hell, lady," he said, and prepared himself.
"What's come over you?" she cried. "You're acting crazy."
"Could be," he said, and crawled between her legs. She cried out, but he paid no attention to her protest.
He made quick work of it. Finally, she lay still and let him do as he wished. Had he not been in such a state of anger he would have enjoyed her immensely, but the way it was, he felt little satisfaction when he arose from her body.
"There you are, my dear woman," he said angrily. "I hope to hell it works for you. If it doesn't, get in touch with me at Mac's Bar downtown. That's where I'll be for a while. If it doesn't 'take,' call me. I'll come back."
She looked up at him, her eyes filled with lust. "John, don't leave me, please. Lie back down and love me nice."
He glared at her. "I've been paid for one performance, not two. Next time, in case it's needed, it'll cost you two thousand. Good-bye."
"John," she called to him as he stalked to the door, yanking it open. "Please don't go."
He walked to his room, stripped off the hated clothing belonging to Keith Ainsworth, found his own and put it on. He had one more drink from the bottle, ran down the stairs, entered the music room looking for the check. He received a shock. The check was missing. He looked everywhere for it.
"Joan took it," he said aloud. "Damn her!"
He turned around and went back up the stairs. He entered her room, walked to the foot of the bed. "Your niece stole my check," he said, putting it harshly and unfairly because he was angry. "I'll need some money."
"In the dresser drawer over there," she said quietly, pointing.
He strode to the dresser, yanked open the top left-hand drawer. By chance, it was the correct one. He grabbed up a small stack of bills, counted it. There was about two hundred dollars. He shoved it in his pocket, turned and walked to the bed, looked down at her.
"Two hundred," he said bitterly, "on account."
"John," she said softly. "Please ... I don't know why you are so enraged, but don't go."
"Why shouldn't I go?" he said. "I've done my job as far as anyone can tell at this point."
She sat up, her shoulder strap falling again. "I guess you have a right to be angry, John. You like my niece a lot, don't you?"
He looked at her. "She's okay. I'm not crazy about her."
"Good," she said, and lay back down. "She's not the type for you, John, believe me. All she thinks of is money."
He thought, You're a fine one to be talking about that, but he said nothing about it.
She looked at him lustfully again. "I'm very lonely, John."
"I just got through," he said, interpreting her remark correctly, he thought.
"But you just went through the motions. I want you to ... love me, John, really love me."
He drew in his breath. "All right," he said. "II do my best."
"Thank you, John. I don't mean ... love me ... in the usual sense ... I mean...." She looked at him suggestively, pulled up her nightgown, baring her legs.
"You want me to be a pimp. Is that your proposition?"
"I wouldn't call it that, John."
"What would you call it?"
"I call it love, John." She wriggled her hips.
He looked at her again. Her eyes are full of lust, he thought. This woman is ready for anything. "All right," he said. "I'll do it on one condition."
"What is the condition?" she asked, breathing hard now.
"That you ... go ... first, Mrs. Ainsworth."
She smiled nervously. "But that-"
"You heard me, Mrs. Ainsworth. You go first and then I'll-"
"You promise, John."
"I just told you, didn't I?"
Her eyes were narrow now, but he could still see the wanton lust in them. Something wild happened to him. He was no longer angry. He forgot about Joan. For the time being she did not exist.
"Lie down, John," she urged him.
He thought hard for a moment, yanked off his clothing, lay down beside her. "I'm cutting out of here when this is over and done with," he told her.
"All right, John," she said, breathing very hard. "You'll have to do as you wish, of course. You're a man-" Her voice trailed off.
He drew in his breath. "You may commence, Mrs. Ainsworth," he told her.
She sucked in her breath audibly. "I've never done this-" Again she broke off.
"There's a first time for everything, Mrs. Ainsworth. Get on with it."
She did.
Later, he left the place, walked all the way downtown to Mac's Bar, proceeded to get very drunk.
CHAPTER EIGHT
It was about six weeks later on that he again entered Mac's place and walked up to the bar, pulled out a stool and sat down. The bartender-John thought it was the same man who had waited on him the time Joan had approached him-came over, took his order, brought him the double whiskey.
"How are you?" the bartender said. "Your name John Deering?" John nodded.
"A young woman has been in here three or four times looking for you. She asked me, when I saw you, to deliver a message."
"What is it?"
"She said you have to come to the Ainsworth place."
"Thanks," John said.
He had been working for the past month at a promotional deal. He had been in charge of a large group of young guys passing out soap samples to the public. Consequently, he had a few dollars in his pocket, enough to repay the two hundred he had accepted from Mrs. Ainsworth. It had rankled him, having to take that money-not at the time, but later. For a week now he had not been working, had considered several times paying a visit to the Ainsworth home. Now seemed like a good time to do it. He would not have fully admitted it to himself, but he wanted to see both women. Especially, he wanted to see Joan.
He caught a cab, gave the driver the directions and some ten minutes later was let out in front of the large stone residence. He paid the cabbie, walked up to the door, punched the bell button.
He knew a moment of pleasure when Joan opened the door. She was wearing the briefest of briefs and a halter that barely covered her nipples. He sucked in his breath at the sight of her lush body. He had almost forgotten how appearing she was.
"Hello, John," she said. "You look prosperous. I'm glad to see you."
"Hello, Joanie," he said quietly, but he did not feel quiet. His heart was hammering. "I'm glad to see yon, too."
He noticed she was barefoot. There is always something very sexy-looking about a young beautiful girl who is in her bare feet. John felt his heart picking up in speed by the moment. He let his eyes travel up and down her body, noting again every detail of it.
"Did you get my message?" she asked, taking his arm and leading him into the hallway. She closed the door and once again he noticed how cool it was in this large house.
"Yes. The bartender gave it to me."
"I'm so glad you came, John. I've missed you terribly."
Not half as much as I have you, he thought, but merely said, "That's nice to hear, Joanie."
She steered him into the front room, let go of his arm, walked to the liquor cabinet. "I'll bet you want a bourbon," she said. "Right?"
"Thanks," he said, watching her from across the room. She's terrific, he thought-why did I get mad at her the other time? I've just about forgotten the reason.
She brought the drink, handed the glass to him. "There," she said. "I made it a triple shot."
"Thanks. Are you going to get me drunk right off?"
"I might. Drinking breaks the ice," she said, smiling.
"Ice? What ice?" he said, playing along.
"None, really. I'm very fond of you, John. You ought to know that."
He waited for her to get a drink. Then he motioned toward the sofa and she nodded, sat down. He sat beside her, closely. He could catch the scent of her perfume just as he had weeks ago. It was a pleasant and familiar odor. He wanted, suddenly, to kiss her, but made no overt move.
"How is ... everyone?" he asked guardedly.
She laughed. It was a pleasant sound to his ears. He realized suddenly that he might be in love with her. Might be. He could not be sure. Love was a damned peculiar thing, he knew. One minute everything was beautiful, the next minute it stank. How to keep it beautiful? Well, people had been trying to figure that one for centuries. A few people managed it; more did not. He was certain of this. His thinking was interrupted by the sudden entrance of Keith Ainsworth.
The man came into the room, stopped cold when he saw John. He turned about, started to leave without speaking.
"Hello," John said carefully.
Ainsworth turned about facing John. He shifted his glance to Joan. "What's he doing here?" he demanded of her. "I thought I told you to keep him out"
John got to his feet, looked at the man, looked at Joan, looked back at Ainsworth. "I was invited here," he said evenly.
Ainsworth glared at him, glared at Joan. He snorted, turned on his heel and left the room.
John sat down again. "What's that all about?" he asked her.
"I don't know. He's been acting strange lately. He's angry all the time. He struck my aunt the other day, hurt her quite badly."
John took out his pack, offered her a cigarette, which she refused. He lighted one for himself, sat quietly smoking it, thinking about the man's actions. He could arrive at nothing, so he put him out of mind.
"Joanie," he said.
"Yes, John?"
"Did she have her ... I mean ... what happened with her?"
Joan laughed tensely. "She's all right."
"I think you know what I'm talking about," he said evenly.
"Sure. I said she's all right."
He pulled out his wallet, extracted two hundred dollars, handed it to her. "Give this to your aunt, please. I had to borrow it from her the last night I was here."
"All right, John. She put the money in a drawer of a table nearby. She came back, sat beside him more closely than before.
"The message," he said carefully. "What was it about?"
"Nothing. I just wanted to see you," she said, smiling. "Do you mind?"
He was about to reply when Keith Ainsworth entered the room again. "Go up and see your aunt," he told Joan. "She wants to talk to you immediately."
Joan put her drink down, said, "All right." To John, "Excuse me. I probably won't be long."
John stood up as she left the room, looked at Keith Ainsworth, who had walked to the liquor cabinet and was busy pouring himself a drink. John saw him toss it off, cough, pour himself another. He drank this too, all of it, slammed the glass down hard, came toward John. He spoke:
"You know something? T hate the sight of you."
John took a drag on his cigarette, let the smoke drift out slowly. "Why so?" he said. "What have I done to you?"
"You've turned my wife into a sentimental slob. Now since you were here, all she can think of is love, love, love. She even wants me ... me, mind you, to try it with her. Makes me sick to my stomach. Anything I can't stand is for a woman to-" He broke off, took another drink, coughed.
John tried hard not to grin. He knew this was a serious deal with this womanish man. In a way, he felt sorry for him, but only in a way. In another sense, he felt disgust at having to listen to the guy. It is difficult, sometimes, for men to treat homos with any fairness at all; this was one of the times. John suppressed his desire to ridicule the guy. He simply turned away from him.
"Damned bitch," he heard Keith Ainsworth muttering. "Awful thing."
John picked up his own drink, finished it, set the glass down. Keith Ainsworth walked across the room, stopped by a window, peered out of doors at something. He turned about. "Here comes that Mark Harkins," he muttered.
John recalled that this was the name of the man who had taken Joan out that last night he had been in the house. He was surprised not to feel the stab of jealousy he had known that night.
Ainsworth went out of the room, presumably to the front door. John heard him tell the man that Joan was not in. Evidently, Keith did not care for him, either, John thought. The other man tried to argue with him about it, but John heard the door slam hard. A moment later, Keith Ainsworth returned to the room, picked up his drink and drained the glass.
John wished Joanie would hurry and return. He did not care to stay there with Ainsworth. One thing he knew-if Ainsworth kept knocking off shots of whiskey at this rate for long, he'd be plastered fairly soon. John turned slightly and saw him toss off still another glass of whiskey. Ainsworth slammed this glass down hard, too, walked across the room near where John stood.
"Lousy, stinking world," he muttered, and walked by John and out into the hallway.
John grinned, sat down on the sofa, feeling a sense of relief that Ainsworth had decided to leave. He noticed his glass was empty, so he refilled it, returning to the sofa. It was more than ten minutes before Joan came back to the room. She stopped in the doorway, looked at him.
"John," she said, her face set-looking. "She wants to see you. Will you go up to her room?"
"I don't think so," he said quietly.
"Why not, John?"
"I seem to be too mixed up in this family already. I don't want to get any further involved."
"Poor Aunt Julie, John. She so much wants to see you."
"I see," he said a trifle coolly. "So that's why you wanted me to come back ... so your aunt could see me."
"No. That's only part of the reason, John. I wanted to see you, too."
He stood still as she came close to him. He felt her arm go about him, felt the warmth of it against his midriff. She placed her head on his chest; her hair brushed over his nose and lips. He kissed it, felt his heart beginning to hammer again.
John," she said. "I know why you're being so stiff toward me. You think I'm going to marry Mark Harkins, don't you?"
He knew this had been bothering him, perhaps only subconsciously. "Are you, Joanie?" he asked, letting his lips brush over her hair.
"No. I told him to not ever come back here."
"He was here just a few minutes ago."
"I know. My uncle told me he sent him away."
John felt better, his heart began to beat even faster as he felt her body move up against his. He wanted to pick up, carry her up the stairs to her room and....
"John," she said. "Stay here all night, will you?"
"Are you the boss here, or is your uncle?"
"I'm not. Why do you ask that?"
"You uncle doesn't like having me around. He said so."
"He doesn't like anybody or anything these days. Nothing."
"Do you want me to stay, Joanie?"
"Yes. Very much."
"All right. I'll stay."
She leaned back, looked up into his eyes. "The more I see you, the better I like you."
"Ditto," he said, feeling very good now.
She was silent for a time. Then: "Won't you please go up and let her look at you? You don't have to remain there for long."
"All right," he agreed. "In a moment."
He drew her up closer to him, his sexuality returning with full force, and even more potently than it had the other time he had been in this house. She must have felt this, for she sighed and pressed her nearly nude body tightly against his cock. He brushed her hair with his lips again. Her hair smelled clean and fragrant, wonderful. He wanted to hold her like this for as long as he could.
"Will you go up now, John?" she asked, her face buried in his chest.
"Do you want to go up with me?" he said, hoping she would.
"N-No. I don't believe so, John. It would be better if you went alone to see Aunt Julia. She's really quite fond of you."
That's what I'm afraid of, he thought, but did not say it. With reluctance he released her and she stepped away from him. He looked at her for a long moment. "You're even prettier than you were before," he told her, and meant every word of it.
"Thank you, John. That's very nice."
"It's also true."
She smiled. "I hope so."
He walked to the doorway, stopped, looked back at her. "I won't be gone long. Will you wait here for me?"
"Yes."
"All right."
He looked at her longingly again, left the room, strode down the thickly carpeted hallway to the open staircase, went up it, taking two steps at a time. He arrived in front of Julia Ainsworth's room only to meet Keith coming out of it.
Ainsworth scowled at him. "Where are you doing, Deering?"
"Your wife. She wanted to see me."
Ainsworth swore. "All right, go in and see her, but don't stay long."
John held his temper. After all, he was in the man's house. "I don't intend staying very long," he said quietly.
"After you've seen her," the man sneered, "why don't you clear out and leave us alone?"
John just looked at him. Keith Ainsworth swore again, walked away. John saw him go down the stairs. What was wrong with the guy? Why should he care if John went in to see his wife? He knew why John had been brought here in the first place. If he wasn't man enough to take care of his wife and had to hire someone else to do it, why should he be resentful afterward? John grinned as he thought of the phrase "hire someone else." It was not flattering to have someone hire you for such a purpose. Or did it matter, really? he asked himself.
He shrugged, not knowing the answer, pushed open the door, stepped into the room. Julia Ainsworth was sitting up in bed, as usual. When she saw him, a smile came over her face; she jerked her shoulders about, the straps falling down, exposing her breasts. John knew now that this was deliberate. He had suspected it before, but this time he had caught her doing it.
"Put your straps up, Mrs. Ainsworth," he said, even before saying hello.
She looked at him, the smile died on her face. She brushed her blonde hair away from her eyes, drew up the straps, tried another smile, apparently for size. John smiled back at her, walked over to the bed.
"Hello," she said, finally.
"Hello, Mrs. Ainsworth. How are you?"
"I'm fine. You?"
John nodded, letting that be his answer. He stood there looking at her, wondering what she was thinking.
"I sent Joan out to look for you, Mr. Deering."
So ... he was "Mr. Deering" this time. Part of the time she called him that; the rest of the time she called him John.
He thought he might as well be blunt about it. "Didn't it work, Mrs. Ainsworth?"
She shook her head. "I'm not going to have a child, if that's what you mean."
What else would I be meaning? John thought. "I see," he said, smiling. "Well, I did my best."
"Yes," she said. "And so did I. But we weren't good enough. I asked you here ... to make a request of you."
"Sure, I know. You want to try again. Right?"
She looked away quickly, found strength somewhere, apparently, looked back at him-this time straight in the eyes. "Yes. Will you ... please?"
He just looked at her.
She flushed a little. "I'll give you one thousand dollars this time."
He could tell this sort of thing was humiliating her. He looked away from her, walked slowly around the bed, coming to a stop near her. He noted she was looking at him lower down on his body. He saw the quick lust come into her blue eyes. She narrowed the lids, moistened her lips. He turned about, walked back to the foot of the bed. He was not so sure now that she was humiliated.
"Well," she said. "Will you or won't you?"
"I don't know," he said. "It depends on things."
"What things?"
"Yourself, for example."
"What do you want from me besides money?"
John fought to hold his temper again. "I don't want your money. This time I'm not hard up."
"I am," she said, looking him in the eye.
"For money?" he said suggestively.
"No. Not for money. For something else."
He played along with it. "For what, exactly?"
"For you, John," she said, using his first name.
He turned and walked to the door, stopped. "I had an idea that this was what you wanted to see me about. Sorry."
He walked from the room. She called out to him, but he kept on going, went down the stairs to the front room. There was no one there. He felt disappointed Joanie had promised him she would wait. Perhaps she had gone to the bathroom. He got himself a drink, stood in the middle of the room sipping it. He thought about the woman upstairs. He was sorry for her, in a way. In another way, he thought she was something of a fool.
It was several minutes longer before Joan entered the room. She smiled at John ran over to him, threw her arms about him. She placed her head on his chest and again he felt his heart hammering. She looked up at it with her pretty dark eyes.
"Did she ask you, John?" she surprised him by saying.
John looked down at her, frowned slightly. "Yes. How did you know that?"
Joanie bit her lips, flushed a little. "I guessed," she said, but her face indicated she knew.
John pushed her away from him gently. "I turned her down flat, Joanie. I don't want any part of that bit."
He was surprised by the look that came over her face. "You did what?" she screamed.
"I turned her down, Joanie."
She jumped away from him. "You can't do that, John. You can't do it."
"Why not? I have the say of it, no one eke does."
"Because," she said slowly, "if you don't do as she asks, then I will not have anything to do with you."
"You don't mean that, Joanie," he said, shocked. Her face was set. "Oh, yes I do. I mean every word of it."
He shook his head. "Joanie," he said gently. "I won't allow you or anyone else to force me to do something against my will."
"Well you will do this, John Deering, or you can just get out of here," she yelled at him.
He looked at her coldly. "I see. So that's the way it is."
"That's the way it is. John Deering," she yelled angrily.
"You pulled a boner, Joanie. A big one."
"I don't care what you think I pulled. Either you do what you're supposed to, or you can go to blazes."
He examined her eyes, saw the fury in them, tried to comprehend it. He could not. "Why," he said, "are you so worked up?"
She flounced out of the room without saying another word. He put his drink down, walked to the hallway, looked down it, saw her going up the stairs.
"Joanie," he called, "come back."
She stopped, turned around. "I hate you, damn you," she yelled at him, turning about and walking all the way up the stairs.
He stood there momentarily, having an almost overwhelming desire to follow her. He put the feeling down, walked to the front door, jerked it open angrily, walked out of doors. He went up the street, walking slowly, his mind slightly confused.
There was one thing of which he was certain: This was the craziest situation he had ever been caught up in-and caught up in it, he was. He knew he could not get along without Joan. She had become a part of him, it seemed. He swore softly, increased his pace, strode to the nearest intersection, looked for a cab, found one, climbed in, slammed the door.
CHAPTER NINE
For the next several months he went almost daily to Mac's Bar, hoping either to see her or to have the bartender deliver a message from Jean. Such was not the case. He neither saw her nor received a message. He had just about given up ever seeing her again when he ran into her on the street one day. It was October and a bit on the chilly side. A wind was blowing her skirt up, and perhaps this was what first caused him to notice her. She was standing on a corner, apparently looking for a bus or cab. He spied her, walked up behind her. "Hey," he said in her ear.
She whirled about, saw him, started to smile, stopped it and frowned instead. "Hello, John," she said, and that was all she said.
He looked at her. She was wearing a simple, black dress that fit her perfectly. She had a jacket on, of sorts, and under it, a thin, white blouse. He noticed the top button of the blouse had come undone. He wanted to button it in order to touch her, and he did not want to. He saw her hold out her hand as a cab approached. The fact of her doing this hurt his feelings a little. Fortunately, for him, the cab was already in hire. He smiled when she swore softly, mildly.
"Joanie," he said. "I own a car now. Can I give you a lift?"
She turned around, looked him up and down. "You look quite prosperous. I'm glad to see you doing so well."
He knew she was putting him on in her own peculiar way, but he merely smiled at her. "Where are you going?" he asked. She was silent.
"Where are you going?" he repeated gently. "Let me drive you."
She smiled briefly. "All right, John. Looks like I'll never get a cab."
"Come with me," he said, hoping she would take his arm. She did not do it, however, and he felt disappointed.
The car was in a parking lot nearby and he took her there. They climbed in, he started the motor, looked at her. "Home?" he asked.
She nodded, did not speak. All the time he was driving her to the Ainsworth place, she remained silent. When he pulled into the drive and cut the motor, he looked at her again.
"Are you still angry at me, Joanie?"
"No," she said. "Want to come inside?"
He was surprised at her invitation. He had thought, by her coolness, that she was still provoked at him, although why, exactly, she should be, escaped him. Surely she was not that much interested in the money that would come to the Ainsworths if they had a child.
Or was she?
He followed her up the stone steps to the veranda, his eye not missing the swaying movement of her buttocks. He knew it would take very little to get him excited over her. Just looking at her beauty did that.
"Come along, John," she said, and opened the door herself, not waiting for him.
He did not care too much about the manner in which she was treating him. She seemed short, abrupt, not as pleasant as she had been. She's still annoyed at me, she thought. No use in her denying it; I can sense it.
He closed the door behind them, stood looking down the hallway. The maroon carpeting was gone. It was green now.
"Come in the big room, John," she said. "At least, we can have a drink together."
He did not like this at all. The way she said it implied she was not going to have anything more to do with him.
"All right," he said quietly.
He walked into the room, stood by the door, watched her as she fixed two drinks. She carried them over, handed his to him, did not look at him. He took a drink, put the glass down, took hers from her gently, set it down, put his arms about her and kissed her mouth. She did not respond, nor did she try to break free of him. He raised his head, looked down at her. Her blouse was unbuttoned about halfway now. He could see the tops of her breasts. This caused something to happen. She apparently realized this, for she quickly broke away from him, stepping back several feet.
"No, John," she said. "The answer is no."
He was slightly nettled. "I haven't asked yet."
"But you were about to. I know how you are."
"Is that bad?"
"You let me down," she said, picking up her drink. "So I won't let you. Not any more."
He did not know whether to be astonished or amused. "I didn't let anyone down, Joanie," he told her. "It's not my fault if nature is stubborn sometimes."
She downed her drink, went to the cabinet, poured another. I've never seen her put it away that fast, he thought. He watched her as she drank another, larger drink, poured a third.
"Are you trying to get high?" he asked, smiling.
"Why not?" she said, listlessly.
"What's the matter with you?"
"Nothing," she said quite sharply.
He took a deep breath. "I'm sorry to say this, Joanie but I find your attitude somewhat silly."
"Is that so?" she said, flaring a little. "There's no law that says I have to let you make love to me."
"Just the law of nature," he said.
She wrinkled up her nose. "I brought you here that first time for a purpose. I wanted my aunt to be happy. She wanted a child. Her husband ... well, why even mention him? I told her I would find a man for her. I found you. I let you make love to me to ... keep you interested in staying here long enough for her ... for the service. But you-" she broke off.
"Nuts," he said calmly. "Don't kid me. You had a ball making love with me."
She quieted down immediately. "All right, John. I admit it. I did. But I won't let you again."
"Who's asking you?" he said sharply. "Stop flattering yourself."
"I don't want to quarrel, John."
"And who's quarreling?"
She smiled. "We seem to be getting off on the wrong foot, John. I-"
He put his arms about her quickly, pulled her close to him. "Listen," he said, "I happen to like you a lot. There's nothing I'd like better than to get off on the right foot with you. I-"
She interrupted his words by standing on her toes and kissing him. He was surprised at this. Pleasantly surprised. He held her up tightly to his body, placing his hand at the small of her back. He was sexually erect again and knew she knew it, for she sighed, kissed him wetly, drew back and looked up at him.
"I guess I'm a fool," she said softly. "I tried my best to refuse you. I can't. You can have me if you want me, John."
"Of course I want you," he said.
He picked her up, carried her out of the room and up the stairs. He did not care that Keith Ainsworth stood at the top of the stairs watching him, a sneer on his weak face. He brushed past Ainsworth, not even looking at him. He carried her to her room at the far end of the hall, opened the door, kicked it shut, put her on the bed. She lay there looking up at him, her lips parted, her breathing ragged.
He lay down beside her, removed her dress, she had to sit up to get it over her head. He gave it a toss. She did not even notice this, apparently.
"Oh, John ... what it is you do to me? I love you so."
He started to kiss her when the door burst open. John looked up, annoyed, saw Keith Ainsworth. The man's face was contorted with rage.
"What do you think you're doing?" Ainsworth yelled at him. "Turning my home into a brothel!"
John got up slowly from the bed, looked at Joan, saw the fear in her eyes. For the moment, he did not care whose house it was. He crossed the room, grabbed Keith by the scruff of the neck and the seat of the pants and threw him out of the room. The man struck the wall of the hall, bounced to the floor. He lay, looking up at John, his face twisted with hatred.
"Get out of my house, you!" he shouted at John.
"Shut up!" John said.
"I'm going to call the police!"
"Help yourself. You do that and I tell your old man about your little scheme."
Ainsworth got to his feet, cursed, walked down the stairs. "I'll take care of you," he said. "You just wait and see."
"Silly ass," John said lightly.
Ainsworth must have heard him. He stopped, turned around, "You think you're such a man, Deering. Why don't you go back in and ask her what her husband is gonna think about this, as soon as I tell him?"
John stared at him, turned away, walked into the room. Joanie was sitting up on the bed, her face looking strange. John could tell she had heard her uncle's words. The man had screamed them-anyone within a block might have heard them.
"Well?" he said, looking at her. "You heard him. Is it true? Are you married?"
She looked away from him. "Yes," she said listlessly. "At least I went through the process of being married."
"What's that mean?" he asked, puzzled and angry as well as hurt.
"It means," she said tonelessly, "that I got stuck, too."
"What?"
"My aunt and I. Both of us," she said. "I don't understand you."
"Mark was one of my uncle's friends," she said, looking at him carefully, oddly.
"Oh for Pete's sake, you mean you married a homosexual, too?"
"Looks that way."
"What are you," he demanded, "a fool?"
"I suppose so, John."
"Why did you marry a guy like that?"
"I thought he had ... money."
"And it turns out he hasn't?"
She pulled her dress on over her head, smoothed it down, got off the bed, looked across it at him. "He hasn't a dime. He married me for protection, I guess, just as my uncle married my aunt."
"Protection? What are you talking about?"
"He's a politician of sorts. They cannot have their ... habits known to the public."
"Of all the crazy things I ever heard, this is the craziest." He paused, sucked in his breath. "Why did you lie to me? You told me you were through with the guy, something of that nature."
"I didn't want you to know, John. I'm having the marriage annulled."
"I should think so," he said bitterly. "You're nuts. You know that? You're absolutely nuts."
He started for the door. "Don't leave, John?" she begged.
He stared at her. "When you get your annulment, call me at the Fairview Hotel," he said. "And don't call until you do."
It was another six weeks before he heard from her, the day after Thanksgiving. He had a bit of a hangover, having gone out the night before, and when the phone in his hotel room rang, he picked it up irritably.
"Yeah," he said, thinking it would be the desk downstairs.
He heard her clear her voice, knew it was Joan. "John," she said. "You told me to call you. Everything has been taken care of."
His irritation vanished. It was nice hearing her voice even though it sounded a bit different from the way he remembered it. He pictured her in his mind; her long dark hair, her dark eyes, the black lashes and eyelids, the cream-colored flawless skin. "Hello, Joanie," he said softly. "How are you?"
"I'm okay. How are you, John?"
"Now that I hear your voice, I'm all right," he said. "I've been working pretty hard. I-"
"Would you...." She stopped, cleared her throat again. "Would you come out to the house, please?"
"Why not meet somewhere?" he suggested. "Or I'll pick you up at the house and we'll go for a drive, or to a movie or something."
"Anything you say, John," she said, her voice low. "I just want to see you, I don't care where it is."
He glanced at his wrist, but did not have his watch on. "What time is it?"
"It's about one o'clock. You sound sleepy. Did I wake you up?"
"No, but I haven't been out of my room yet today. Look ... I'll come out at two o'clock. Is that okay, Joanie?"
"Yes. I guess I can wait that long, darling."
The word "darling" really sent him. He smiled to himself. "I like that," he said, "that word."
"'Darling'? I'm glad you do, darling. Please hurry, won't you?"
"Yes. I'll take a shower and shave and get dressed and be there before you know it."
"All right, darling," she said. "But hurry."
"Good-bye, baby," he said, and hung up.
He drove into their driveway at five minutes before two o'clock. He jumped out, almost running to the door. He pressed the button, waited. He was disappointed that Joan did not come to let him in. When the door was opened, he saw the old gentleman, Harvey Ainsworth. The old man stood looking at him, stroking his white trim mustache. He looked nervous, John thought.
"Come in, young man," he said. "I was just leaving."
"Hello," John said, and stepped by him into the hallway.
"Good-bye, young man," Harvey Ainsworth said, and went out of the house, leaving the door open.
John closed it, walked down the hall, turned into the front room. There was no one in it. He went to the music room and found Joan sitting at the piano. She was not playing; she was merely sitting on the bench. John saw she had a tall glass of something in her hand. He coughed purposely and she turned around.
He noticed almost for the first time that she was wearing pajamas. He wondered about this. Why wasn't she ready to go driving, or whatever?
"Hello," she said dully.
He grinned. "Aren't you gonna call me 'darling'," he asked jokingly.
She stared at Mm. He was startled by the look of her eyes. She looked ... drunk. He walked closer to her, caught the strong odor of alcohol.
"W-What did you say?" she stammered.
"Over the phone you called me 'darling'. I wanted to hear you say it in person."
"'Darling'? Phone? What are you talking about?"
He looked at her eyes again. They were red, cloudy-looking. "Hey," he said. "You look like you've been hitting the juice pretty hard."
She looked at him in a dull manner, lifted her glass to her mouth, drank from it, spilling some of the whiskey on her pajamas. "Yeah," she muttered. "What about it?"
He was taken aback. "Nothing," he said. "Nothing at all. Why are you ... well, you don't sound the way you did over the phone."
"Didn't call you on phone," she muttered thickly. "You made a mistake."
He was slightly annoyed. "You just called me an hour ago. Don't you remember it?"
She took another drink, again spilling some of it. "I didn't call nobody," she said thickly. "Must have been my aunt."
He went close to her, took the glass from her fingers, set it on the piano. He bent over, picked her up in his arms. "How did you get so lushed-up in one hour?" he asked, puzzled.
She did not reply.
He looked at her sharply, saw her eyes were closed. "She's passed out," he muttered aloud.
He carried her upstairs to put her in bed. He tried the door of her room, found it locked. He tried it again. Frowning, he carried her to the room he had slept in. This door was unlocked. He put her on the bed. She lay still, breathing irregularly. She's really drunk, he thought. I hate to see her like this. Why did she drink so much?
Her breasts, he saw, were exposed. He looked at them, felt almost no desire for her. He had an aversion for drunken women. He studied her face, felt a wave of pity, something, sweep over him. It must have been hell finding out she was married to a guy like Mark Harkins was supposed to be. Well, it was her own fault, wanting to marry money. At least, that was what she had admitted to him. Women, he thought-who can figure them?
"I can't," he said aloud.
He got a towel from the bathroom, wet it, brought it back to the bed, wiped her face, bosom and arms with it. He dried her with the other end of it. She did not stir. She seemed to be out cold.
He stood there for some time looking at her. Later, he walked from the room, knowing keen disappointment. He had waited a long time to see her, to love her, and now-he had found her drunk, almost senseless. He started to go down the stairs, stopped, turned about, strode to Mrs. Ainsworth's door. He rapped lightly on it.
"Come in," she called.
He opened the door quickly, just in time to catch her slipping the shoulder strap of her night gown down exposing a breast. He stepped farther into the room, closed the door, tried not to grin. He did not really feel like grinning, but the act of catching her prompted it.
"Hello, Mr. Deering," she said, smiling nicely. She sat up straighter in the bed, the other strap slipping off the other shoulder.
He stared at her, tried not to look at her breasts, which was what she wanted him to do, of course. He heard her clear her throat, and a suspicion hit him.
"Mrs. Ainsworth," he said slowly. "You called me an hour ago and pretended it was Joan. Why did you do that?"
Her face flushed slightly. "Whatever are you talking about, Mr. Deering?" She cleared her throat again.
He shrugged. So she wanted to play games. "Nothing," he said. "Forget it."
"Forget what, Mr. Deering?"
He did not answer. He saw her move on the bed, her breasts bouncing as she did so. She glanced down at herself, then up at him, smiled boldly. "Does this annoy you?" she asked.
He shook his head. "No."
"All right, Mr. Deering," she said, moving again, and again it caused her breasts to bounce. "I'll confess. I did call you. I did pretend it was Joan."
"Odd thing to do," he commented, moving closer to the bed.
"It was the only way I could get you to come, John," she said, using his first name now.
He took out his pack, lighted a cigarette, keeping his eyes on her. "So...." he said. "I'm here. What about it?"
She smiled at him, and he saw the lust in her eyes. Here it comes, he thought-her proposition to crawl in bed with her. Well ... why not? S-he's a desirable woman. I even like her, in a way. He smiled back at her, tried to think of something to say.
"Your niece. I just found her drunk downstairs. She looks like she's been hitting the bottle pretty hard of late."
Mrs. Ainsworth stopped smiling. "Yes, I know," she said softly. "Poor dear. She's been all upset since she killed her husband."
CHAPTER TEN
For a time, the room seemed heavy with silence. John walked away from the bed, going to the window that overlooked the rear yard. He almost forgot about the cigarette in his fingers. It burned him slightly and he shifted it about, getting a better hold on it. He examined his fingers, saw they were not burned badly, forgot about it. He took one more drag on the cigarette, put it out in an ashtray. He turned, walking back to the bed.
"What happened?" he asked.
"I wasn't there," she said, not looking at him.
"But you know what happened, don't you?"
"Car accident," she said briefly.
"He was killed?"
"Of course."
"When?"
"Three weeks ago. Don't you read the papers?"
"I didn't see that."
She shrugged, did not speak.
"You said," he went on, "that she killed him. Why put it that way? That's harsh, isn't it?"
She cleared her throat. It sounded just as it had over the phone. She had fooled him then. Was she fooling him now?
"John," she said. "I misspoke when I said she killed him. I should have said he was killed."
He did not know why he should think of it, but he said, "I didn't see your husband around the house. Is he out?"
She laughed-nervously, he thought. "Keith is quite ill. He's in his room across the hall. He keeps his door locked most of the time. The doctor ... was here some time ago. Heer-" She stopped, bit her lips hard.
"I saw his father leaving the house as I entered," John said. "He seemed nervous."
She laughed shortly. "Is that so? he has nothing to be nervous about except all that money of his."
"I take it," he said slowly, "that you got me here for a purpose. Is it the same one?"
She moistened her lips. "You must think I'm a terrible person."
He shrugged. "All of us have our problems, our little defects."
"Very well put, Mr. Deering. I mean, John. I'm so used to calling you by your last name."
Big deal, he thought. Aloud he said, "You still think you should have an heir. Is that it?"
She smiled, but it came off badly. "I was hoping-" she said, and stopped again.
"Mrs. Ainsworth. Have you any idea of how wild this idea of yours really is? Do you ... can you imagine how absurd it seems to me?"
"I suppose it does," she said. "To me, it is very important."
"Try your doctor," he said. "You'll get better results."
"My doctor won't let me ... for a very good reason, John."
"Mind if I ask what the reason is?"
"I prefer not to tell you, but I will." She paused, went on, "My mother lost her mind, John. That's why the doctors won't let me have a child ... artifically."
"Heredity?"
"Yes. The type of insanity she had is the type that can be inherited."
He studied her, not knowing whether to believe her or not. She moved about on the bed, her breasts once again bouncing about enticingly. He felt a stirring in his loins, tried to put it out of his mind, but it came back. Unconsciously, he wet his lips.
"Don't you like me, John, not even a little bit?"
"I guess you're okay," he said.
"Then why all the fuss? You're a very virile man, and I know you are a passionate man. So why not? I'm willing even eager for you."
"When a man makes love to a woman," he told her, "he does so because he wants to, not for some other reason. Men are not like women. We have no other motives for lovemaking except desire. That's the way nature built us."
She looked at him, smiled strangely, reached up and pulled her nightgown off her torso altogether. "Look at me, John," she said. "Don't I cause desire in you?"
He went to the foot of the bed, stood looking at her lush body. He nodded after a moment.
She threw the cover off her body, raised herself, drew her gown off, lay there writhing her hips about, her lips parted, her eyes filled with lust.
"Come to me," she said softly. "I need you so."
He walked around the bed, stood near her. She reached her hand out, letting it come to rest on his fly. He heard her suck in air. A tight smile crossed her face. She laughed nervously, pressed her hand down firmly on him. He knew he was ready, and so did she.
"Please," she begged, looking up at him with her lustfilled eyes.
He swallowed. He had come to make love to Joanie and here he was being propositioned by Mrs. Ainsworth. He let his eyes travel over her breasts, felt desire come stronger in him.
She withdrew her hand and he knew a feeling of relief that he could not have explained. "All right," she whispered. "So you don't like me very much."
He moistened his lips. "I didn't say that," he muttered.
"Then ... why net, John?"
"I don't know. Something is bothering me, I guess."
"Don't I ... bother you, John?"
"Yes. Very much so."
"Then ... come ... to me, John. Love me, please?"
He saw the lust mounting in her eyes. Hello, he thought-she's not talking about a child, she just wants love. Aloud he said, "How do I know your husband won't come in while I'm-?"
She snorted. "You're not afraid of him, surely."
"I didn't mean it that way. I-"
"John," she said so softly it was almost a whisper, "what do I have to do to interest you?"
He recalled the last time he had made love to her. She had made love to him, actually. He smiled tightly, did not remind her of it. "Nothing," he said. "You already interest me."
"Then ... please?" She studied him. "Don't make me beg for you."
"I don't mean to. It's just that this is so damned cold-blooded. I kept thinking about why I was brought here in the first place."
"I just want you, John, not the child. Not now, anyway."
She had pulled the sheet over her legs partially. Now she moved about on the bed, her lips parted, her hips writhing. John felt suddenly very foolish about all this. He slowly removed his coat, his shirt, his shoes and socks. He left his trousers on for the moment. She stared at his bare chest, reached out her hand, pulled a few of the hairs on it.
"You're so masculine," she sighed. "More than anyone I've ever known."
He smiled tensely. She was quite a woman, herself. He lay down beside her, let his hands run over her breasts. She sighed deeply, parted her legs suggestively. He saw the move, lowered his other hand to her cunt. She sighed again, writhed her hips. I've never seen seen such a woman as this one, he told himself. She's dripping with desire.
She reached over, found his zipper, tugged on it.
"May I?" she asked almost timidly.
"You are, aren't you," he said.
"Oh, John, I do so love having you here with me. I can never get enough of you."
"Sure, I know," he said somewhat sarcastically, but not meaning it to come out in this manner. "You're a lonely woman."
She stiffened. "Don't be unkind to me, John. I couldn't stand to have you be unkind to me."
"I'm sorry," he said, and meant it. "I didn't mean to say that. It just slipped out."
She snaked her hand inside his trousers, grasped his prick. He sucked in his breath as she ran her fingers lightly up and down, took her hand, pulled it away, shoved his trousers down. She sighed and reached for him again.
He went above, parting her legs, and she cried out as he touched her cunt. He was now very ready to take her. She kept trying to grasp him, but he moved about without trying to thwart her efforts and she finally wrapped her arms about him, pressing down on his buttocks as he sought to gain the desired situation.
She held her loins up and he frantically thrust at her, found the cunt, pressed down hard.
She half-screamed when this was accomplished.
"Oh, Mr. Deering," she muttered. "You're so wonderful."
He scarcely heard her, so intent was he on making the proper movements. He shifted his weight slightly and she moved beneath him, wrapping her legs around his, holding his body rigidly against hers.
"Take me, darling," she breathed in his ear. "Take me hard, darling."
He grunted, did not reply. He increased the speed of his movements gradually until he had the tempo he wanted. He kept it that way as she moaned, sighed and cried out, alternately going from one to the other. He felt the terrific inner heat of her. It made him weak momentarily, but strength returned immediately. He sucked in air as fast as he could, but it did not seem to be sufficient.
He kept on battering her savagely, enjoying every intense moment of it. No matter which way he moved or turned, her loins followed his eagerly, frantically. This woman was highly sexual as well as love-starved, and the combination of the two of them working for deep satisfaction was a wild, hectic thing. Her footless legs were wrapped tightly about him, as were her arms. She had surprising strength, as he had noted before. She began to rake his back with her fingernails, but he scarcely noticed it.
"John!...." She cried out, as he struck a particularly sensitive spot. "Oh! ... my darling!...."
He moved faster thrusting with all the strength he had in his body. She thrust her loins up at him fiercely, and it happened in one long, straining moment.
"Oh! ... darling!...." she gasped, as she felt the release.
He rested his entire weight on her. She seemed to like this immensely, for she again writhed her hips beneath him as though demanding more of his harsh treatment.
He lay still above her, gasping for air.
"Darling! ... can you ... again?"
He raised himself, holding his body above her with his hands, looked down into her eyes. He saw there was still lust in them.
"Wait a moment," he said. "Let me get my breath."
"Oh! ... John! ... I need you so! Take me again."
He did not reply. He was too busy attempting to get his breath back to normal. This time it had been amazingly wonderful. He could scarcely believe it. There was something sexually wild about this woman that nearly drove him crazy with desire.
"You're somethin'," he said, sucking in more air. "You really are."
"I'm so glad you love me, John darling."
He studied her eyes. Hell, what was wrong with her? He hadn't told her he loved her. He thought about this for a moment, dismissed it. She was being carried away, that was all. He had not broken contact; he could feel the heat of her surrounding him.
The moisture was hot, maddeningly delicious. He wanted to remain in this position forever. She moved her loins again and again he felt the moisture on him. She still had her arms about his neck. Now she pulled his face down to hers, kissed him wetly on the mouth. This caused a new reaction in him. She obviously felt it, too, for she began to writhe her hips in faster tempo. He was tired, but tried to go along with her, desire mounting all over again.
"John darling ... you're such a man. Oh, I can't get enough of you."
Beneath him, she moved almost violently. She appeared to be the aggressor, momentarily. He found his strength returning fast. He slipped his hands beneath her buttocks, holding them firmly in his strong grasp. He pulled up hard on them as he plunged at her recklessly.
She screamed with delight. At least it sounded like delight to his ears.
He moved faster, and she once again kept her loins in place, following his up and down with perfection of movement. It was as if they had practiced this move for years, together. He felt chill after chill pass up and down his spine. His breathing was a hoarse thing, and so was hers, eventually. She caught his ear between her teeth, and bit down hard on it. She ran her tongue over the sides of his face, doing this alternately with biting him. This nearly drove him crazy with desire.
He seemed to have no control over it now. It was out of his hands. Her terrible urgency spurred him on until he was moving at a rate of speed so rapid it threatened to disrupt the whole affair.
But it did not. At least, he gave a long low sigh-and it was over.
He dropped off to sleep a bit later. He was not aware of being sleepy, just tired. He had moved off, lay beside her warm body, his arm beneath her neck. She had turned on her side facing him sr that her bosom brushed against his chest. It had been a comforting thing, the touch of her flesh in this manner. And then it had happened-sleep came to him unexpectedly.
When he awakened, the room was dark, and for a moment he did not know where he was. He sat up on the bed and it came to him. He felt strange. John seldom fell asleep during the daytime. He reached over, groping for her. He felt nothing but the bed. He lay back down, his hand beneath his head, staring at tehe darkness. He caught the scent from the pillow. It was the scent of cologne. A curious thing happened to him because of this.
He immediately became hard again.
He grinned sheepishly, sat up on the bed, rubbed his chin, grinned in the dark, got up from the bed. It was totally dark in the room. He groped about, found a switch, turned on the lights.
He blinked.
The light was strong. It hurt his eyes momentarily. He walked across the room, opened the door to the hallway, peered out. He had no idea of why he did this; probably he was looking for Julia. He noticed he was still erect, and it surprised him. You'd think that after two acts of lovemaking, a guy would be....
He stopped thinking. He had heard a crashing noise down the hallway. He walked down it quickly, tried the door to the room in which he had left Joanie. It came open and he stepped into the room.
He received a minor shock-she was not in the bed or the room, either, for that matter. How could she have left the room? She was too drunk to walk. Wait a minute, his mind whispered. It's later now; she has sobered up.
He looked about the room, having switched on the lights, turned off the lights, closed the door and walked unsteadily down the stairs. The hallway was dark. He went to the music room, for no particular reason, turned on the lights, looked about. Neither Joanie nor Julia Ainsworth was in the room. He noticed the music that had been on the piano was scattered about the floor. He saw that a window was up at the far end of the room and there was a slight wind blowing into the room. He took out his pack, lighted a cigarette, inhaled it, let the smoke out. He turned about, switched off the lights, walked out into the hall, went up it to the large front room, peered in. He could see nothing, found the switch, turned on the lights. They were not here, either. Where could they be? He did not think Julia ever left the house. At least she should be around somewhere.
He walked to the liquor cabinet, poured himself a drink of bourbon. He stood there sipping it, wondering where they had gone.
It was some minutes later that he heard another noise. This one came from the front of the house. He went to the hall and to the front door. He opened it, saw Harvey Ainsworth standing there holding an umbrella. John looked at the dark sky, noting it looked like it was about to rain.
"Well," Harvey Ainsworth said. "Do I come in or don't I, young man?"
John stood back. "Sure. Come in, Mr. Ainsworth."
The old man entered the hall, put down his umbrella. "Doorbell on the blink?" he asked. "I was pounding on the door for several minutes. Thought you were all dead in here."
"I seem to be here alone," John said guardedly.
"I suppose they went out to get more Benzedrine," the old man said, looking disgusted.
John looked at him, could not think of anything to say.
The old man walked into the front room, put his umbrella in a corner, sat down on the sofa, looked at John. "You have a surprised look on your face, Mr. Deering. Mean to tell me you didn't know about it?"
"About the Benzedrine? No, I had no reason to know it."
"Don't know much about it, I take it."
"No. Not much. I know it makes you high if you take enough of it."
"But you've talked to both Joan and Julia. Haven't you noticed how much they talk all the time? They hardly ever stop talking. That's one of the things Benzedrine does to you."
"Yes," John said. "Now that I think of it, they do talk a lot. I seem to have spent most of my time in the house talking to them, or listening to him, I should say, I suppose."
"Talk, talk, talk. That's all they do when they're taking the stuff. Talk an arm right off a man. I know. They've done it to me, both of 'em." The old man leaned forward, looked at John strangely. "Benzedrine makes some women very passionate, too. Did you know that, Deering?"
"No. As I said, I don't know much about it, just what I've heard."
"Makes 'em passionate as hell. It's no good for a man, though. Makes him worth just about nothing, sexually, but women ... whew!"
CHAPTER ELEVEN
John wondered, idly, how this old man knew so much about it. Maybe he was not as old as his years. John went back to the liquor cabinet, got his drink, carried it to where the old man sat. "Mind getting me a brandy, young man?"
"Sure," John said. "Big one?"
"Big one," the old man said. John brought him the brandy. The old man thanked him, tasted of it, made a face. "My son still doesn't know good brandy from bad," he said. He put the glass down, looked up at John, fingered his trim white mustache. "I'm going to ask you a question, Deering. I'm supposed to stay out of this altogether, but I see no point in doing so any longer.
I-" He stopped, picked up his brandy, took a sip, put it down again. "How are you making out with my son's wife?"
John stared at him, hoping his face was not betraying him. "I beg your pardon," he said quietly.
The old man grinned, waved his hand about. "Oh, come now, young man. I know all about it. I was the man who paid you the ten thousand dollars. Twice, I might add."
John said it slowly, evenly. "I know nothing about any tener-twenty thousand dollars, Mr. Ainsworth."
"You mean they didn't give it to you forer-services rendered?"
"I'm afraid," John said a trifle stiffly, "I don't know what you're talking about."
The old man nodded, fingered his mustache. "All right, Deering. Play it your way if you wish. I'll keep out of it. I want to know just one thing, then I'll shut up. Is my daughter-in-law going to give me a grandchild?"
"How would I know anything about that?" John said, still playing it cool.
The old man regarded him severely. "I have a feeling something's wrong. Is something wrong, young man?"
"I wouldn't know," John said, annoyed at his questioning.
"I see. You won't talk about the matter. Is that it?"
John carried his drink to a chair, sat down, lighted a cigarette, and looked at the old man.
Should he talk openly to him about this crazy matter or should he continue to play the part of the ... the what? his mind asked him. He did not know.
"I think I know what's wrong, Deering. They cheated you out of the money, didn't they? They probably offered you a small portion of what I handed over to them, telling them to give it all to you. Is that true?"
John took a deep breath. "Yes," he said shortly.
The old man frowned. "I never saw such greedy people. None of them, my son included, ever did a day's work in their lives. They're a sorry lot, my people, I'm sorry to say. Joan is the best of the lot, but even she is-" He broke off, then said, "Tell me this, young man. Is, Julia going to have a child?"
"I couldn't say," John said coldly.
The old gentleman sighed, "I don't have much time left on this earth. I want a grandchild more than anything else. My son ... he's worthless ... he's a-well, he's not a man. He disgusts me. I suppose I should be more tolerant of him; he can't help being the way he is. In a way, he can't. In another way, there is no reason at all these days for a man to be ... homosexual. Any doctor of endocrinology could correct that, in time." The old man leaned forward. "They can inject certain hormones, perform operations on a man and remove his homosexuality. Did you know that, young man?"
John was surprised. "No," he said. "I never heard of such a thing."
"Unfortunately, the public at large doesn't know it, either. I made something of a study of it, talked to some of these fine doctors. I tell you, young man, the things an endocrinologist can do nowadays is unbelievable. This is truly an amazing science."
John said nothing. He did not know what to say.
"I've told my son about these matters, but he won't do a thing about it. He, damnit, wants to be the way he is." The old man sighed again, looked over at John. "Wish I could have a son like you, young man. You strike me as being a real man."
"Would you like another brandy?" John said, wanting to get him off the subject.
"No thanks. I don't like this junk my son buys. I came here to have another talk with him, by the way. Do you know where he is?"
"I understand he's Dl," John said carefully. "He may be in his room."
"Harvey Ainsworth got to his feet. "I'll just go up to his room. I tried to talk to him this afternoon, but his wife wouldn't allow it." The old man walked out of the room leaving John alone. A moment later he returned to the doorway, stuck his head in, grinned at John.
"I hope you can give her a child, young man," he said. "I'll see to it you're well paid for your efforts, even if they have cheated you."
John felt his face burning. Damn this old man, anyway. He talked to John, as if he were some kind of professional stud, or something. John was irritated and to alleviate this, got up and fixed himself a strong drink, draining the glass quickly. He got another, carried it to the sofa, lay down, his hand behind his head.
There was a loud clap of thunder and John looked over at the window, saw it was raining hard outside. Lightning flashed, followed by more thunder. It was extremely dark out of doors now. John continued to look at the window, now and then taking a swallow of his drink. He wondered where Joan and Julia were-he found it difficult to believe what the old man had suggested-that they were out somewhere buying Benzedrine. He had no basis for not believing the old man; he just found it hard to believe. Joan Herlick had not struck him as being an addict of any kind. Julia was something different-she might be; she could become fairly wild, at times.
He wondered if being wild sexually had anything to do with the taking of this particular drug (or the other way around)-the old man had said something about it, but maybe the old man was a blow-hard, pretending to knowledge that was nonexistent John knew that some old men seemed to like nothing better than to try to impress a younger guy with their erudition, real or phony.
He heard a sound, looked up, saw Harvey Ainsworth entering the room.
"Damned fool," the old man growled. "Won't let me in his room. Wouldn't even answer when I called through the door to him."
John sat up, placed his drink on the coffee table. The old man, he saw, was red-faced, looked angry. He watched him as he crossed the room and angrily poured himself a brandy. The old man went to the window, looked out at the falling rain.
"Looks like a cloudburst," he muttered. "I'll not be able to go home in this storm."
"I doubt if it will last long," John commented. "Rain this time of year usually doesn't."
Harvey Ainsworth swore, walked back to where John was. "That damned son of mine," he sputtered. "He drives me crazy." He finished off his drink, threw the glass angrily at the fireplace. It shattered into many pieces. He picked up his umbrella from the corner, walked to the hallway door, stopped. "Goodbye, young man. Do your best for me, won't you?"
John felt like telling him to go to hell, but he just stared at him without speaking.
Harvey Ainsworth walked out of the house into the pouring rain. John went to the door, closed it, for the old man had left it open, probably because he was angry and upset. Rain had already blown in and the new, green carpeting was wet near the doorway. John returned to the room, lay down on the sofa and waited for the women to return from wherever they had gone.
He must have dropped off to sleep again, for when he awakened, his glass was lying on the carpet, its contents spilled. He sat up, rubbed his eyes, saw the glass, picked it up, put it on the coffee table.
He did not see her standing in the doorway.
"Hi," she said, and he looked up, momentarily startled.
He got to his feet. "Hello, Joanie. Feeling okay now?" He looked at her eyes closely. They were not red as they had been. In fact, she did not look as if she had had a drink all day. He was surprised. "I've been waiting for you," he went on. "Did you go out?"
She did not answer immediately. He looked her over, saw that she was not wet, that she was wearing briefs and the narrow halter that barely covered her nipples, let alone her bosom.
"What's the matter?" he said. "Can't you talk?" He looked at her eyes as he asked her, saw they were large. He recalled having read somewhere that Benzedrine makes the eyes large; it also sobers people up fast.
She ran into the room, threw her arms about him. "I'm so glad to see you," she murmured, placing her head on his chest as she so often did. "I've missed you so much, John."
Apparently, he thought, you forget I saw you earlier in the day. Aloud he said, "How does it happen you aren't wet if you were outside?"
She drew back, looked up at him wide-eyed. "I haven't been outside. I've been sleeping in my room."
He started to say, "Well, you weren't there a while ago," but refrained from it. "You look nice in your briefs and halter," he said, and meant it. He could see down the front of her halter and it was as though she were wearing nothing over her bosom. He enjoyed looking at her like this. Even though he had made love twice, he still felt a stirring in him. It seemed he could not get enough of either of these women.
"I understand," he said gently, "that you're a free woman again, though I'm sorry about the accident."
"I don't want to talk about that, John," she said softly, and snuggled her face against him.
"I can understand that," he said. "I don't blame you."
She drew back quickly, looked up at him. "What do you mean by that she asked sharply.
He was surprised by the intense look in her eyes. "Nothing. Why the sharp reaction?"
Again she buried her face on his chest. "Let's don't talk, John. Pick me up. Take me upstairs. I need to be loved."
"All right."
He picked her up in his arms, carried her out to the hall, went down it, up the stairs and to the room he had put her in earlier. He turned on the lights, placed her on the bed. She lay looking up at him, her lips parted, her eyes filled with something he could not fathom. It was not merely lust-there was something else there. He wondered if perhaps she might be high, after all. He shrugged the thought away. If she wanted to talk pills, that was her business.
"Hey," he said. "You're pretty, lying there like that."
She smiled up at him, undid her halter, threw it to the floor. She lay there, her breasts exposed to him. He felt excitement taking over as it always did when he saw her body like this. He sat on the edge of the bed, leaned down, took a nipple between his lips, ran his tongue about on it.
She sighed, began to tug at his hair.
He went to the other breast, did the same thing. She sighed again, louder this time, pulled his hair hard. It hurt.
"Hey," he said. "Don't pull it out. It's all I have."
She smiled up at him tensely. "You've got more than just hair, John Deering."
There was a great flash of lightning outside the window, a loud roll of thunder. The lights in the room dimmed, came on bright again, dimmed once more and went out entirely.
"That's a bad storm," he said, disappointed now that he could no longer see her nudity.
He heard her roll off the bed, run across the floor. "I'll be right back," she told him. He heard her opening the door, run down the hallway. A few moments later, she returned. He heard her come toward the bed, crawl on it.
"I went to get a flashlight out of my room, but my door is locked."
"Didn't you know your uncle is in your room?" he asked her.
She was silent. Then: "I guess I forgot," she said.
"What did you want with a flashlight?"
He felt her roll over on the bed and kiss his face. She found his mouth, kissed it, and he kissed her back. She pulled away. "Silly, I wanted to see you. How can I see you in the dark?"
"You don't have to see me. I look the same as always." He had not intended speaking so harshly. It had slipped out. He recalled what the old man had told him about the twenty thousand dollars, how these women had taken him down the line, cheating him by lying to him constantly. He fought to gain control over his feelings, but the more he thought about it the more annoyed he became. Finally, he sat up on the bed, threw his feet off it; a moment later he stood up.
"What are you doing, John?" she whispered.
"I'm gonna get a drink."
He stumbled in the darkness to the doorway.
"Come back, darling. You can have a drink later," she begged.
But he kept going. He had to get away from her for the moment. He had a wild feeling running through him that he could not understand.
He went down the stairs, feeling his way carefully. Once he tripped and nearly fell headlong. He recovered his balance by reaching out frantically and grasping the stair railing. He stopped for a moment, realizing that had he fallen he would have plunged all the way down the long, steep staircase. He could have easily broken his neck. He heard a sound behind him just as he again started down the stairs.
"Come back, John," she whispered to him "Please don't go downstairs, please?"
He wet his lips. They were very dry, for some reason. "I'm gonna get a drink," he told her. "I'll be back soon."
"But I don't want you to leave me."
He could not see her, could only hear her. She was at the top of the stairs if the sound of her voice was an indication. "For pete's sake," he said, slightly annoyed. "I told you I'd be right back."
She did not speak.
From where he stood, he could see up the downstairs hallway to the door. What he saw surprised him. Through the window of the front door he could see a light in the house across the way. How did it happen that house had lights and this one did not? Maybe it had not been a power failure after all. Perhaps the storm had not knocked out transformers or whatever in the district.
He moved down a step, stumbled again.
"John," she said. "Please come back upstairs."
He drew in his breath, let it out slowly. "All right, if you insist on it. I can't understand why you won't let me have a drink.
He turned around, walked back up the stairs. He felt her clutch at his arm, slip her arm about mm, clinging to him.
"Thank you, John," she whispered.
He put his arms about her waist, steered her back in the general direction of the bedroom door. He found it after a bit of groping. The house was pitch dark; it was impossible to see anything at all. They entered the room. He was surprised when she pulled away from him, shut the door carefully. He heard her lock it.
"What's the matter?" he said, reaching out for her. His arm found her, drew her close. She was trembling. "What's the matter with you?" he repeated.
"I'm c-cold," she said. "Let's get back in bed."
He felt of her face. "You aren't cold," he said. "You're frightened."
"No," she said quickly, too quickly. "You're mistaken. You're always saying I'm frightened. I'm not."
"All right," he said. "Have it your way."
He led her to the bed and they lay down on it together. He had no great desire to make love to her. He had had enough of lovemaking for the time-or so he thought, but when she began to feel about his body, he rose to meet her hands. She unzipped him, snaked her hand inside his pants, found him with her warm fingers. He sucked in his breath, turned over on his side facing her. He ran his hands over her breasts-she had not replaced the halter-heard her sigh deeply.
"John," she said. "I want to. Do you?"
He wanted to tell her to go slow, to cool it, to give him time, but he did not. When she bent her head and kissed him passionately in a certain place, he became very much aroused. She straightened up, spoke softly in her ear.
"I want you so much, darling."
"Then why did you stop?" he asked.
She said nothing, bent her head again and resumed. He thought the top of his skull was going to come off, it felt so wildly exhilarating.
The slamming of the front door-probably it was the front door-downstairs caused their passion to slacken. He started to get up from the bed, but she wrapped her arms about him, hugging him to her tightly.
"Don't go, John. Stay with me," she said, her voice sounding strained.
"Why," he said, "are you so intent on keeping me from going downstairs?"
She did not answer him, but frantically slipped her arms down until she was hugging his hips. He was on his knees then and slowly he sank down on his back as he felt the wet warmth of her lips eagerly seeking him out, heard her breathing coming in furious, little gasps.
He did not know how long he slept afterward.
When he opened his eyes, the .lights were turned on again. He rose, looked for her. She was not in the bed, nor in the room. He saw a bottle of whiskey on the dresser, started to reach for it, decided he would go and look for her instead. He climbed off the bed, went to the door, turning the knob. He was surprised to find it locked. He went to the bathroom, found the door leading into the next room also locked.
He returned to the bed, found his cigarettes, lighted one, holding it off the side of the bed in case he might fall asleep again. Finally, he got the bottle, had a drink from it, then replaced it on the dresser. He climbed back in bed, lay there looking at the ceiling, smoking, wondering why she had locked him in-if she had.
He got up once, went to the door, tried it again. He grinned to himself, went back to the bed again, sat down, reached for the bottle.
He took a long drink this time. He noticed his hands were shaking slightly. It was probably from his earlier hangover, he decided, and promptly forgot about it.
He finished the cigarette, snubbed it out, promptly wanted another. He discovered he had run out of matches. He went to the dresser, looked through the drawers until he found a pack. He lighted his cigarette, tossed the matches on the dresser top, glanced down at the open drawer. His eyes caught sight of an insurance policy. John had sold life insurance a few years before and he immediately recognized it for what it was.
It was a double indemnity policy on one Mark Harkins. The beneficiary was Joan C. Harkins. The amount of the policy was for fifty thousand dollars. One hundred thousand double indemnity.
John studied it for some time, dropped it back in the drawer, closed the drawer. He took a deep drag on his cigarette, turned about, looked at the door leading to the hallway.
He was possessed by a very strange urge. He wanted to hit somebody, something. Once again, he went to the door, tried the knob. It was locked of course. He returned to the dresser, remembering he had seen a ring of keys in one of the drawers. He found it, took it to the door, tried all the keys. None of them was useful. He went to the bathroom, tried several of the keys until he found one that would unlock that door. He stepped out into the next room, crossed over it swiftly, opened the door to the hall, stopped. He heard a sound. He listened intently. It sounded like someone using a hammer. He moved down the hall to the head of the stairs, went down them partway, stopped. He saw them then. Tne two women were on their hands and knees laying carpeting on the hallway floor. The carpeting they were putting down looked like the old one--the maroon-colored carpet. Why were they doing it at this late hour? he asked himself. He glanced at his watch, saw it was half-past-one.
A wild, facetious feeling passed over him. He returned to the room, had one more drink, put on his clothing, walked back to the stairs. He went down them quietly. Neither woman saw him until he was on the ground floor.
He coughed on purpose.
They glanced up at the same time. Neither of them spoke, neither moved. Both were still on their knees.
He walked up the hallway, stepped past them without speaking. He had a grin on his face. He felt good for a reason he did not understand. Perhaps it was the whiskey. He opened the front door, saw the storm had passed.
He looked at the two women, saw Mrs. Ainsworth's steel shoes on the floor near her. The women had turned and were staring at him blankly, each with the same bleak expression on her face.
"Good night, ladies," he said. "I couldn't sleep what with all this carpet-laying and hammering. I'm going to my hotel. Will you kindly get in touch when you need my-er-services again."
He stepped out into the night, closing the door softly.
The following evening the phone in his room rang. He looked at it, let it ring a while, finally picked up the receiver.
"Hello," he said.
"Mr. Deering? Is that you?"
John thought he recognized the voice of Harvey Ainsworth. "Yes, who is this?"
"Harvey Ainsworth. I'd like to talk to you, if I may."
"Shoot," John said good-naturedly.
"No. Not over the phone. Could I come up to your room?"
"You sound as if you were down in the lobby, are you?"
"Yes. May I come up for a while?"
John took a deep breath. He did not care to talk to this old man, but said, "Okay, come up." He told him the room number and hung up.
A few minutes later, there was a knock on the door. He opened it and Ainsworth stood there. John saw immediately that the old man was very white; he looked worried.
"Hello. Come in," John said, pulling the door back.
"Hello, Mr. Deering. I won't take up much of your time."
John shrugged, pointed to a chair. "Have a seat, Mr. Ainsworth."
The old man looked about. "Nice room you have, Mr. Deering." He paused, cleared his throat. "I'll come right to the point, if I may. Did my son and daughter-in-law pay you the twenty thousand dollars, Mr. Deering?"
John studied the old man's eyes. What the hell was this? "I've already told you, Mr. Ainsworth. They did not."
"Yes, I know you did." The old man ran his fingers nervously over his white mustache. He was wearing a Homburg hat and now he removed it, brushed back his white hair, replaced the hat on his head. "However ... they tell me they did pay it to you. Now, who am I to believe, you or them?"
"Suit yourself about it," John said coldly. "Who do you want to believe?"
"I don't know, young man. Why should they tell me they gave you the money if they didn't?"
"Maybe they're lying and greedy," John said even more coldly.
The old man nodded, removed his hat again, once again smoothed down his hair and replaced the hat. "Yes. I know they're greedy, very much so. All they can think of is money." Here the man sighed, looked at John. "Unfortunately, I have no more to give them. I've been wiped out."
"You've lost your money, Mr. Ainsworth. How, may I ask?"
"Holdings in far eastern countries. My company ... everything had been taken over by the government; expropriated, they call it."
John wondered why the old gentleman was relating all of this to him. What had he to do with it? He said nothing, kept looking at the man, noticing how upset he was.
"Well," Ainsworth said, at length, turning toward the door. "If you say you don't have the money, then I suppose HI have to accept that."
"It's the truth," John said.
Ainsworth paused with his hand on the doorknob. "I was going to ask you to return a part of it, Mr. Deering. That's how hard up I am."
"Sorry," John said. "Talk to your son about it. He must have it."
"Yes, of course. Thank you for letting me talk to you, young man."
"Quite all right," John said, and watched the old man as he walked out of the room and down the corridor. A few moments later, John closed the door, lighted a cigarette, and pondered the matter. It was obvious that Keith Ainsworth and wife had taken the old man's money and kept it. Why couldn't the old guy see that?
He stepped out of the room, looked down the corridor, saw the old man waiting for the elevator. He walked down to where he was.
"Mr. Ainsworth," he said. "Tell me something. How was Joan's husband killed?"
Ainsworth turned about just as the elevator doors opened. The operator said, "Down" and he nodded to the man, turned to John. "Auto accident. Joan was driving. Car ran off the road, went down a high embankment. Joan managed to jump out, but Mark couldn't make it."
"I see. Thanks. Good-bye, Mr. Ainsworth."
The old man looked at him curiously, nodded, stepped all the way into the elevator. The doors closed suddenly, John turned and walked back to his room.
It was some time later that he left the hotel, went to the parking lot, got his car and drove to the Ainsworth residence. He parked the car in the drive, jumped out, went to the door, punched the doorbell button.
Julia Ainsworth opened the door. He saw she was wearing only a halter and slacks. The halter barely covered her breasts; the slacks fitted her buttocks like skin. She smiled widely when she saw who it was.
"Hello, Johnny," she said. This was the first time she had called him that.
He looked at her eyes suspiciously. They were very large, but otherwise okay. For a moment, he thought she might be flying by her use of "Johnny" in that tone of voice. "Hi," he said. "May I come in?"
She was all smiles now. "Why certainly. I don't know anyone I'd rather have call on me."
He stepped into the hallway, looked at the carpeting. It was the old one, the maroon one. He recalled their ridiculous action in laying the carpeting in the middle of the night, changing from the light green one back to the maroon, started to remark about it facetiously, restrained himself.
"Come in the front room, John," she said, and proceeded in that direction.
He noticed that she was limping with her steel shoes. She glanced down at them-the slacks did not cover them altogether-saw that one of the shoes was bent quite a bit. When they were inside the room, she turned and asked him if he'd like a drink. He told her "later," looked at her face.
"What happened?" he asked, meaning the bent shoe.
"What?" she said, looking surprised. "Couldn't help but notice you were limping. What happened to one of your shoes?"
He thought he saw a strange glint in her eyes but was not certain of it. Her face seemed relaxed enough. "Oh ... that. Why, I dropped one shoe and it fell all the way down the staircase, bent it a little. I'll have to get a new one as soon as I can."
"Is ... Joan in?" he asked, after a moment.
"Oh...." she said, pouting. "I thought you came to see me, John."
He grinned. "I did."
She deliberately stretched her arms high above her head, causing one breast to pop out of her halter. He stared at it. She did not lower her arms immediately. John felt something happening to him, tried to turn his eyes away from her. He wanted to see Joan this time, but the sight of her breast was fast putting Joan out of his thoughts.
She smiled over at him, glanced down as though accidentally, saw the breast exposed, smiled more broadly. "Goodness," she said. "These skinny halters don't cover me very well, do you think?"
"You look very nice, Mrs. Ainsworth," he heard himself say. "Aren't you afraid your husband might walk in, though?"
She frowned, erased the frown swiftly. "Oh, he's not here any longer. Keith and I are getting a divorce, John."
Sure, John thought-his old man's money is gone, so you're getting rid of him. "I see," he said briefly.
She came closer to him, the breast still hanging out, bewitchingly exposed to his view. "Would you care to ... come upstairs, Mr. Deering?"
He grinned. Whenever she made a proposition, it was "Mr. Deering" instead of John. He looked down at the exposed breast, felt a bit silly about seeing it. Everything about this woman was so confounded absurd ... well, almost everything. In bed, she was not that way, not at all. He wondered what she would do if he grabbed her and made her on the floor. Probably she would welcome it.
"I might, later," he said, in answer to her question. "Right now T want to see Joan."
A furious look came over her face. "You like her better, don't you, Mr. Deering? She isn't a cripple."
He stared at her, saw the dark look in her eyes. Almost immediately it vanished to be replaced by a gender one. Amazing woman, he thought-she can turn her emotions on and off like a water faucet.
"Sorry you feel that way, Mrs. Ainsworth. It's all in your mind. I've never intimated any such thing."
She mumbled something he did not hear clearly. "I beg your pardon," he said. "Nothing," she said clearly. "I apologize for that remark. It was unfair and unkind of me."
"Forget it," he said.
She came still closer. He felt the stirring in him growing. She put her hand on his arm, squeezing his arm a little, looked up into his eyes. Then her arms slipped about his body and she pressed her breasts tightly against his chest.
"Oh. John." she sighed. "You excite me so much. All I have to do is look at you and I'm ready."
He glanced down, saw that both breasts were now exposed and touching him. He wanted to remove his coat and shirt and feel them against his skin, but he did not do this. He put his arm about her, pressed her against him. She must have felt him down below, for she gasped.
"I never saw such a man," she said tensely. "Do you ever think of anything else?" But she smiled when she said it.
He grinned tightly. "Not when I'm with a beautiful woman."
"Am I beautiful, John?"
Why do women always have to be that? he asked himself. "Yes," he said, meaning it. There was no question but what she was beautiful. She was not only beautiful-beauty, he knew, was of no account just by itself-she was not only beautiful; she was passionate, and this is the important thing to a man.
"Wouldn't you like to ... get fresh with me, John?" She pressed her loins against his tightly, making her remark sound almost hilarious.
He grinned. "Yes," he said. "I would, as a matter-of-fact."
She pulled his head down with one hand, placed her wet mouth over his, tongue-kissed him passionately. At the same time she placed her other hand at the small of his back thrust her loins at him, began to move them against him in circular motion.
He could not stand much of this without doing something about it. The passion of this woman was unbelievable, at times. He put his arms about her, pulled her even closer to his body. He knew he was rigid, knew that she could feel his cock. She drew her mouth from his, gasped loudly, covered his lips with more kisses. He ran his tongue into her mouth, tasting the delicious moisture of it. He pulled her down on the sofa, lay upon her and still she writhed her hips against his. He felt her hand go down to her waist, felt her doing something to the button on her slacks, felt her attempt to pull the slacks off her hips. He reached down, yanked them off her almost frantically. She parted her legs, and he crawled between them. Instantly, her legs shot up to wrap themselves about his back. Her steel shoes struck him in the back, momentarily knocking the wind out of him. He sucked in air desperately, got it, was breathing all right now. She placed her mouth on his and again he felt the warm wetness of it. She snaked her tongue into his mouth, groaned.
He started to make his move when a sound came from the hallway. He jumped off her quickly, zipped himself, while she pulled up her slacks, got to her feet, walked away from him a bit.
"Well!" Joan said from the doorway. "I didn't know you were here, John."
John had mixed feelings. He was glad to see Joan but frustrated at being interrupted. His face seemed to be burning. One of these days, he told himself, I'm taking precautions to lock all doors before making love in this house. Everyone around here has a habit of walking in at the wrong time.
Joan came all the way into the room. John saw her glance sharply toward Mrs. Ainsworth. He knew that Joan was cognizant of what had been about to take place. It showed on her face. He suppressed a grin. He could not have cared less. There was something wildly exciting about having these two women vying for his favors. Thinking of this nearly caused him to lose control and burst out in laughter. He held himself in, merely smiled as she took his hand.
"Come, John," Joan said silkily. "I want you to come up to my room for a while. I have to talk to you."
John looked into her dark eyes, saw the lust, looked over quickly at Mrs. Ainsworth's eyes, saw the even greater lust in hers. A wild feeling came over him. He put the thought into words.
"Why don't we all go upstairs," he suggested. He watched the reactions of the women. Joan seemed to be annoyed, Mrs. Ainsworth pleased. Mrs. Ainsworth came over closer to them.
"A splendid idea," she said thickly, "if Joan will agree."
John looked at Joan's eyes again. He saw the growing fury in them, knew she was trying to restrain herself.
She bit her lips, looked at him. "No," she said coldly. "I'll not be a party to such a thing."
Julia looked angry for a moment, but then she seemed to force a smile across her lips. "Why don't we just sit down and have a few drinks together, then?"
Joan was angry-looking now, but John was enjoying this immensely. He would have liked nothing better than to go to bed with both women, but that, apparently, was not what Joanie had in mind.
"Are you coming with me, John, or not?" Joan Herlick asked him quietly.
There was a certain assertiveness in her tone that he did not like, especially. He studied her dark eyes, shook his head. He was not going to allow either of these women to dictate what he should do. He walked to the sofa, sat down, looked at first one, then the other of them.
"One of you," he said casually, "go and get me a drink. Bourbon. A double. No mix."
The two women glanced at him, at one another, neither of them moving. He looked at them, smiled. "You, Mrs. Ainsworth, get me a drink."
She smiled. "Of course, John, darling. Right away."
At the word "darling", he saw Joan stiffen. He also saw her run across the room to the liquor cabinet, saw her get there sooner than Julia Ainsworth, saw her grab up a glass and pour him the double shot. He saw something else. He saw the anger in Julia's eyes at this. John lay down on the sofa, grinned to himself. Beautiful. He could, if he chose, play one woman against the other. They had been playing with him long enough, lying to him, being phony and so on.
Joan brought the drink to him, sitting down on the sofa beside him. "Here's your bourbon, darling," she said, using the same word Julia had used.
"Thanks," he said, taking the glass from her hands. He put it to his mouth, took a drink, set the glass down on the coffee table. He put his arm about her to see what effect it would have on Mrs. Ainsworth. He glanced over at her casually, saw the hate in her eyes. That was the effect it had. At least, he thought it was hate-it looked like it. A moment later, the look was gone. She had done it again-changed her emotions almost at will. He'd have to watch her; she was not predictable. Wait a minute, his mind told him. What are you thinking about? Watch her? Watch her for what? Why isn't she predictable?
His unconscious mind was shoving something up to him, but he could not consciously grasp it. He shook his head, annoyed at himself.
"Drink your whiskey, darling," Joan said, "and then come up to my room with me."
"All right," he said, deciding he had had enough fun with them for the moment, this kind of fun, that is. He reached for his glass, drained it, coughed a bit, got to his feet.
Joan put her arm about his waist and he did likewise to her. They walked to the doorway of the hall.
"Just a minute, you two," Mrs. Ainsworth called out. John stopped, causing Joan almost to lose her balance, turned around. "If you go upstairs, Mr. Deering, I'll-" But she did not finish it.
"You'll do what?" he asked.
She made a face, turned her head away. "Nothing. Go with her, if you think you'd rather. "
John removed Joan's arm from about him. He walked over to Mrs. Ainsworth. "What will you do to me if I go upstairs?" he asked, amused.
She again turned away from him. "Nothing," she said.
"Good," he said. "Don't make threats, Mrs. Ainsworth, not if you don't want to be spanked."
"Don't you dare speak that way to me, John Deering."
"Mrs. Ainsworth, I'll speak to you any damned way I choose."
The two women seemed then to be sticking together. Joan came over to him, touched his arm, said, "Don't talk like that to Julia. I don't like it."
John brushed her hand off his arm. "I'll speak as I see fit," he said. "And to you, also, I might add."
"What's the matter with him, Joan?" Mrs. Ainsworth asked.
"Nothing," John said. "Not a thing. I'll say what I want to say. It matters nothing to me what you two think."
The two women were silent and he studied each of them in turn. "By the way," he said to them both, "I see you got your carpet all laid. A fine job, too, but why do it in the middle of the night?"
Neither of them answered him.
John smiled. "You don't have to tell me, you know. I think I already know why you changed the carpet last night.
The women exchanged glances.
John took Joan by the arm. "But I don't care to talk about that right now. You and I are going up to your room."
She tried to pull away from him. "I've changed my mind," she told him icily. "I don't want you, I won't let you go upstairs with me."
"You don't have anything to say about it," he told her and picked her up bodily.
Joan had done a complete about-face. She struggled, kicked at him. She might as well have saved her strength. She was like a little child struggling in his powerful arms.
"Damn you, John Deering, put me down. I demand you put me down."
He laughed, carried her to the hallway door. "What will you do if I don't?"
He laughed again. "You mean like you killed your insufferable husband?"
CHAPTER TWELVE
She tried to rake his face with her fingernails, but he held her arms against her sides as he carried her down the hall toward the stairs. He heard Mrs. Ainsworth come out of the front room, follow them. He stopped at the foot of the stairs, turned about, looked at her coolly.
"Do you want to join us?" he asked, looking at her heaving bosom.
Joan kicked at him and he had to hold her legs, too. He continued to look at Julia Ainsworth. She bit her lips, her face flushed with anger.
"Put her down, Mr. Deering," she said coldly. "I can't allow you to use force on my niece."
"Nuts," he said. "What you are saying is you don't want me to take her upstairs. You want to be the one, don't you?"
He did not hear her answer, if there was one. Joan was again kicking and struggling so hard he had to divert his attention to her. As she kicked, her skirt flew up on her thighs. He saw the silver-colored garters. What had she called them? Sin Seed? He grinned as he recalled the name. Sin Seed seemed an appropriate term. That was the reason he had been asked here in the first place-the seed of sin had been in the minds of these conniving women. It had not worked out the way they had planned. First of all, the seed had not been planted with success. Secondly, it would not have helped them. Not now. Harvey Ainsworth had lost his money. Because he had lost it, the women apparently had come up with another plan for money. Or at least it appeared that way. The insurance policy on Mark Harkins' life with the double indemnity clause had made John suspicious.
Joan stopped struggling abruptly. He looked into her dark eyes, saw the anger in them. Her long, dark hair was askew about her face giving her a wild look. She looked as though she could kill him, all right, if given a chance.
He saw her expression change a little. "Please, John," she said, with less sting in her words. "Please let's don't fight with one another. Put me down. No woman wants to be treated like a child. Please, John, put me down."
"Will you behave if I do?" he said.
"Y-Yes. But please don't force me to go upstairs."
He laughed shortly. "Force you? Don't kid me. I've never had to force you. You've always been more than willing." He put her down, and she walked a few paces away from him.
He should not have done this, for suddenly she ran down the hall, dashed into the music room, slammed the door and locked it as he crashed into it trying to grab her. He banged on the door, yelled at her, but she did not answer. He shrugged, knew he would get to her later, walked back to where Julia Ainsworth stood.
"John," she said strangely. "I wouldn't mind being raped."
He grinned, looked at her, saw her face break into a stiff smile. "I don't think you would at that," he said.
"Take me upstairs," she begged. "I won't kick you, run away from you. I want you, John. I want you very much."
He walked toward the front room, taking by the arm. They entered the room and he got them a drink. She did not want to drink hers, but he made her do it. She drank the whiskey, choked a little, and he took the glass from her hand.
"Now," he said. "Where were we before we were interrupted?"
She smiled coyly at him. "Like this," she said, and threw her arms about him, pressing her loins against him and writhing them about.
"I like that," he said, smiling. "You're a passionate gal, aren't you."
She pulled her breasts out, pressed them against him. He felt the hardness of himself. She too felt it, for she pressed her loins harder against his, her breath coming fast now. The writhing of her hips against him did something crazy to him. He wanted to do something wild to her. She sucked in air audibly, began to kiss his mouth wetly. He held her close to him and planted wet kissed on her mouth in return. She broke free of him, finally, stood panting, looking at him.
"Right here on the floor, darling," she said. "I can't wait to go upstairs."
A picture of Joan flashed through his mind. He saw her heaving bosom, her dark hair and eyes, her creamy thighs, the flat stomach, the wide, flaring hips. He knew, then, that he wanted her now, not Mrs. Ainsworth.
"Please, darling," she begged. "Take me on the floor."
He studied her, once more seeing the extreme lust in her eyes. He walked away from her, poured himself another drink, stood by the window sipping it. Gradually, his hard-on began to lessen.
She came over to him, looked at him strangely. "Are you turning me down, ridiculing me?" she asked, her eyes bitter.
"No," he said. "I'm not in the mood at the moment."
"Oh, but you are," she said hotly. "I can tell when you are."
"Mrs. Ainsworth," he said. "Please let me decide how I feel, will you?"
"You want her," she said, spitting the words out. "When it comes right down to it, you don't want me, you want only her. I'm a cripple. You don't want a cripple. Oh, I hate you!"
"Here we go again," he said. "One minute you're this way, the next minute you're something else. What the hell is wrong with you?"
"I'm a woman, too," she said bitterly. "I don't enjoy being treated as second-best."
"Tough," he said, and took another sip of his drink.
He noticed her expression had changed rapidly. There it happens again, he told himself. She can change her feelings faster than anybody I ever saw. Her eyes were softer now, her face relaxed.
"I guess I'm not very smart," she said softly. "I can't compete with Joan. She is holding all of the cards."
"She has no cards at all," he said. Her hand flew to her lips. "You mean you like me better?"
He laughed. "I didn't say that. Isn't all this getting a bit silly?"
"John," she said, coming close to him. "Why don't you stay here ... with the two of us? We could have a swell time, the three of us."
"One thing wrong with that," he told her coolly. "I don't have enough money for you."
"Oh, don't worry, we'll have money eventually, John darling."
"From Mark Harkins' insurance?"
Her face clouded. "Poor Joanie. She won't be able to collect on it. She forgot to pay the last premium."
This struck him as being funny, very funny. He threw back his head and laughed. "That's too bad. So what is your plan now?"
She looked away from him. "Plan? What do you mean by that?"
"For money," he said bluntly. "You obviously can't get any out of your husband when he divorces you. He has no money. I don't have any. Your father-in-law has none now. So what's the deal?"
"Oh," she said softly. "You know about Keith's father losing his holdings. Tell me, how did you know that?"
"He told me."
She came still closer to him, put her arms about him. "Why talk," she said, "when we can spend the time more profitably?"
"You mean like on the floor?"
"Upstairs ... in my room."
"That's all you can think of, that and money, isn't it?"
"What's wrong with that? You seem to like it, too."
He glanced sharply at her. "Do you really want me to live here just so I can love you?"
"Y-Yes," she said, biting her lips.
"But wouldn't the two of you be jealous of each other? Seems to me I just saw evidence that would prove that point."
"We ... could get rid of ... Joanie, darling, couldn't we?"
"You mean kill her?"
Mrs. Ainsworth looked away again. Then she turned back to him, looked up strangely into his eyes. "Maybe," she said.
He laughed. "I'm not a killer. Who would do the job, you?"
"Maybe it wouldn't be necessary. Maybe she would leave, if we asked her to. Then there would be just you and--"
"Just the two of us," he finished for her. "Is that your idea?"
"We could certainly have loads of fun together, darling."
"Mrs. Ainsworth," he said, examining her eyes closely. "Are you high on Benzedrine?"
Her face stiffened and hate returned briefly to her eyes to be replaced by a look of lust. "So what if I am?" she declared. "What's wrong with getting high? You drink a lot, you know."
"I was merely asking a question. I wasn't judging you. I don't care if you're high."
She pressed her loins against him. "Make me, honey," she begged. "Make me instead of arguing with me."
"I wasn't arguing," he said, and picked her up in his arms.
He carried her upstairs, pausing by the music room and seeing the door was still closed. He took her to her room, placed her on the bed. She lay there looking up-at him, her lips parted, her breathing coming fast.
She pulled her slacks down over her hips and lay exposed to his view. He caught his breath at this vision of loveliness, but then did a strange thing. He turned around, walked out of the room. A picture of two silver garters had come to him.
"Come back," she screamed after him. "Come back or else."
He did not answer her, kept on going, walking down the stairs to the music room. He tried the door, was surprised to find it unlocked. He pushed it open, stepped into the room. It was dark in the room. He searched for a light-switch, did not find it. He saw a lamp on a table at the far end of the room. He walked toward it, wanting to turn it on so he could see better. The door behind him slammed shut. He whirled about, saw Joan standing with her back to it, her hands behind her.
"I want to ask you one question, John Deering," she said stiffly. "Do you know about ... things here?"
He moved toward her, stopped, studied her eyes. "Just what things are you referring to, Joanie?" he asked.
"Do you know or don't you?" she said, her face tense.
"You mean," he said casually, "about the two of you hammering tacks into the old carpet last night?"
Her face was a study in something, fear perhaps, he did not know. "Then you know about it," she said, and pulled her hands from behind her. He saw the tiny gun.
"Come off it," he said, taking another step toward her. "Put that gun away."
"No," she said. "Don't come any closer. I want to know what you know."
"I don't know anything," he said, "except that I want to make love to you."
Her fingers trembled, he saw. "Are you sure?" she said, looking uncertain momentarily.
He sprang at her, grabbed the gun from her easily. He looked at it, saw it was loaded. He removed the bullets, put them in his pocket, threw the gun on a chair. "Little girls," he said evenly, "shouldn't play with lethal weapons. They might just go off and kill somebody."
She put her hand to her eyes, began to cry. He made no move toward her, let her cry it out. After a time, she stopped, wiped her eyes with her kerchief, looked at him defiantly.
"Men," she said. "Damn men."
He laughed. "Come on, Joanie, you don't hate men. That's something you've picked up from your aunt."
"My aunt?" she said scoffingly. "She can never get enough men. She's crazy over men."
He shook his head. "No, she isn't. She loved the sensation of being made by a man, but inwardly she hates them. She hates them because none will have anything to do with her now."
"Because of her legs?"
"Sure. I'm probably the only guy since her accident who has-" He stopped.
"You don't have to be reticent in talking about her, John. After all, I was the one who induced you to come here to make love to her. Have you forgotten that?"
"No," he said, and moved closer to her, caught her up in his arms.
"Let me alone," she said, struggling.
"You got away from me once. This time you won't."
"What are you going to do to me?"
"What do you think?"
"But there's ... no bed here." He laughed heartily. "There's always the floor, baby."
"Oh, you wouldn't ... would you?"
"You're damned right I would and what's more, I'm going to."
She sighed. "I can't fight you, can I?"
"You can, but you'll find it won't do you any good."
He picked her up, looked about the room, saw something at the far end. The room, of course, was quite dark, but it looked like the edge of a roll of green carpeting. He carried her over to it, saw there were newspapers covering it partially. He kicked a few of the papers off the green carpeting, placed her down on the roll.
"There," he said, standing above her. "You want a bed. This roll of carpet will make a fine one. Nice and soft-but not too soft."
"John, please," she cried out. "Not here. Make me on the floor instead."
"What's wrong with this?" he said, grinning down at her.
She crawled off the carpet, got to her feet. "Let's go up to my room."
A strange feeling came over him. "Your room is locked," he said. "Your uncle is in it."
"No. Didn't she tell you? My uncle is gone."
"I forgot for the moment," he told her. "Okay, let's go to our room."
"John," she said. "I've changed my mind. "The floor is all right."
"Why," he said, puzzled, "can't you ever make up your mind?"
"Because I'd rather stay downstairs. My aunt-"
"All right. You don't want your aunt butting in. Is that it?"
"Y-Yes."
He knew there was something more to it than this but did not know what it was. These women were playing a kind of game with him, but that was all right. He, too, was playing a game of sorts with them. The difference was, he knew they were playing a game and they did not know he was. At least, he suspected this was the case.
He looked at her, put his arm around her, pulling her lush body against his. She gasped when she realized he was ready for her. Just as Mrs. Ainsworth had done, Joan pressed her loins against him hard. He bent her over backward kissed her lips hungrily. She kissed him back. Her lips were wet and delicious.
He lowered her to the floor. Her skirt flew up and he saw the silver garters. He moistened his lips, ran his hand up her thigh. Her thigh was moist, nice. He felt his cock growing.
He tugged her panties off her hips, off her feet, threw them aside. She sighed and kissed him wetly again. He pushed her skirt higher until she lay exposed to his view. Her lips parted, she began to breath hard.
"Oh, Johnny," she cried. "You make me feel so wild."
"That's how I want you to feel," he said suggestively.
"W-What?"
"I want you to do something first," he said casually.
She looked at him, down, saw he had unzipped himself. "You mean you want me to-" She broke off and he saw she was perspiring a little around the eyes.
"Yes," he said firmly. "That's exactly what I want."
"Oh, Johnny, I just can't do that," she protested.
"Why not?"
"Because ... I never have."
"I think you've forgotten, haven't you?"
She bit her lips. "All right, darling, if that is what you need."
She leaned forward, touching him with her hand. He felt the warmth of her fingers and it excited him. A moment later, he felt something else. He could not see her face-her hair covered it completely. He was glad it did. He did not want to see her face, as she applied her lips.
He lay there enjoying every minute of it. Finally, he thrust brutally at her cunt. It may have hurt her, but he did not care. There was only one thing he cared about at the moment. He thrust harder and again she cried out, but he kept on with it. Finally, she stopped crying out and wrapped her long legs about him, helping him to come, which he did, minutes later.
He lay about her, savoring the inner heat and moisture of her. He did not move or break contact. He wanted to keep it this way for a time. His breathing was still coming hard and fast, as was hers. She moved her loins beneath him and he felt himself growing again.
"Honey," she sighed.
He felt the urge, moved on her, but gently this time.
"Oh, darling," she breathed in his ear. "Do you like this?" he asked, somewhat foolishly.
"Oh, I love it. I love you, too, darling, I love you so much."
Yes, he thought-you love me while you are being pleased by me. Aloud he said, "I'm glad you do, baby."
He moved on her again and she stiffened her body, shot her loins up to him and gasped loudly. "Oh ... that feels so wonderful, darling." She pressed her hands on the small of his back, holding him down so that she might achieve greater satisfaction, apparently. He continued to move slowly and she tried to speed him up, but he would not let her.
He drew her up, controlling her.
She cried out with passion.
"Faster, darling," she gasped.
He said nothing to her, continued to move as he pleased. Again she jerked her hips about wildly, trying to excite him, to speed him, and again he refused to allow her to take over. This was his pleasure, not just hers.
"Please, darling," she sighed. "Love me, love me harder."
He kept on with the slow pace and she bit her lips almost in anger. He raised himself, saw her closed eyes, the strained expression on her pretty face, wondered about her for the umpteenth time. How could such a pretty woman be so ... so what? his mind asked him. He did not know the answer. That is, not yet.
"Hurry, darling," she said once more. "I want you to hurry."
He speeded up a bit but not because she had asked him, because he wanted to. His stroke became longer, going deeper.
"That's Johnny" she cried. "Oh, that's so wonderful."
He knew he had her at fever pitch now, so he made his real move. He withdrew from her, stood up, looked down at her, grinning.
She stared up at him, surprise on her face. "Why did you do that?" she asked him.
"Because I wanted to," he said, and rearranged his clothing back to normal.
"But that's cruel," she sputtered.
"Sure," he said. "Sure it is."
She closed her eyes tightly, opened them. "I don't understand you at all, John Deering. How could you do such a thing?"
"I loved you once. There's no law that says I have to love you twice."
She sat up, smoothed down her skirt, but it still did not cover her thighs all the way. "I think you're just awful, treating me this way."
He grinned. "Sure I am. I'm just awful. I'm an awful guy, always have been."
"Don't you love me at all, John?"
He looked at her, still grinning. "No," he said. "Not at an."
She brushed her hair out of her eyes. "You're the strangest man I ever met."
"Probably."
She got to her feet, walked away from him a short way. "I think," she said bitterly, "that you'd better clear out of here. I'm afraid I don't care much for your attitude."
"Good for you," he said, eyeing her.
"What's the matter with you today?"
"Not a thing," he said, and grinned again.
"Don't you like me at all, John?"
"No."
"But why, John?"
"I don't like women who kill their husbands for their insurance." He saw the brief flash of guilt in her dark eyes and knew he had scored. Her eyes returned to normal immediately, however.
"You shouldn't say such awful things, John."
"I know," he said.
"Are you sorry you said it, then?"
"No. No, I'm not. I have no proof you killed him for the insurance. Only a strange feeling about it"
Her hp curled. "You and your feelings. They are absurd."
"I don't think so. I trust some of my feelings. For example, I have a feeling there is a lot of dried blood on that green carpeting over there." He pointed at the roll of carpeting. "I also have a feeling your husband wasn't killed in a car accident."
"That's not true," she exploded. "He was killed in an accident."
John walked over to the roll of carpeting, kicked off several more of the newspapers, saw the dark spots on it. He motioned to her, but she did not come over to him.
He walked back to her. "There are dark stains all over the new green carpeting. That's why you two women spent half the night putting down the old one. You didn't want me or anyone else to see the bloodstains, did you?"
She turned her back on him, started for the door. She stopped, turned around. "My husband was not killed in this house," she said. "And I did not use a knife on him or whatever you seem to be saying."
He walked over to her again. "You know," he said soberly. "I don't believe you did, not really."
"I'm going to show you something, John," she said quietly. "I'm going to prove to you that he was killed in a car accident."
"Yes," he said. "I have a feeling you are."
"There you go, with your feelings again."
He just smiled at her.
She went to a desk, opened a drawer in it, pulled forth a folded newspaper, brought it back to him. He unfolded it, saw the account of the accident in which Mark Harkins was killed. He read it, all of it, silently handed the paper back to her.
"Looks like I was using my imagination too much, doesn't it?" he said gently.
"I'm afraid so," she returned, and put the paper back in the drawer.
He knew now where he had gone wrong. The knowledge of this caused him to grin. "My apologies, Joanie," he said quietly.
"Johnny," she said softly. "Let's stop all this and you finish what you started, okay?"
"You want me to love you some more. Is that it?"
"Yes, darling, please."
"All right. I will, if you'll do one thing."
"Anything, darling."
He saw the lust had returned to her dark eyes. "All right. You go over and he on the roll of carpet and I'll love you."
She shuddered and he saw it, grinned. "I don't want to," she said. "Let's go to my room instead."
"Why don't you want to use the roll? It's nice and soft."
"Because ... I don't."
He laughed. "I didn't think you would, Joanie. I don't blame you."
He walked over to the carpet roll, drew back his foot, kicked it. He turned around, walked slowly back to her. "I thought so," he said, and grinned at her.
"What are you talking about?" she said tensely.
"Nothing," he said. "Nothing at all."
He grabbed her, bent her over backwards, kissed her mouth. She responded by running her tongue over his, frantically. She tried to pull him down on top of her and succeeded. He fell to the floor with her beneath him. She tried to grasp his cock.
The urge had returned to him. He pushed her legs apart, got between them, effected the desired situation. She gasped and began to pull his hair. He paid no attention to this. It was fun to see her so excited and eager to be loved even though he knew she was now aware that he had something on her and her aunt.
He thrust at her strongly and she raked his back with her fingernails. He kept on with his lovemaking until he felt rather than heard the other woman entering the room. He looked up, after a moment, saw Mrs. Ainsworth standing in the doorway. He kept on loving Joanie, paying no attention to the fact that they had a witness.
"All right, stop that," Mrs. Ainsworth called out.
John kept on with it. He was near the end, and when the end came he shuddered, as did Joanie. She moaned, too, and kissed him wetly on the lips. John straightened up, prepared his clothing, got to his feet. He did this just in time, for he saw that Mrs. Ainsworth had removed her steel shoe and was about to strike him with it. He ducked, caught her arm, the heavy steel shoe flew from her grasp, striking Joan on the face.
The girl screamed in pain, tried to get to her feet, slumped back to the floor. Blood ran from her mouth and nose in great streams. John saw this, realized now why they had changed the carpeting in the hall. Someone else had bled on it, necessitating the changes. Joan's husband? No, it could not have been he. The only person left was Keith Ainsworth. John had not seen him recently. He had been ill his room, supposedly.
Joan stopped her screaming after a time. Neither John nor Mrs. Ainsworth moved to assist her, letting her get to her feet by herself. She groaned, went to the bathroom, was gone from the room for several minutes.
"That's a lethal instrument, your shoes," he told Mrs. Ainsworth. "You ought to be careful with it. I noticed earlier that it was badly bent. Did you kill your husband with it, Julia?"
"You louse," she cried. "Why did you have to come back?"
"I came back to see two charming ladies," he told her, smiling.
"Get out of the house," she said. "You've caused us enough trouble."
"On the contrary," he said. "I haven't caused you any trouble at all. Not yet," he added.
He watched her as she picked up her steel shoe, looked it over, started to put it on. Apparently, there was some of Joan's blood on it. She carried it to the bathroom door, entered the bathroom. John lighted a cigarette, waited for them to return. They did so after a few minutes. They stood near the door, looking at him.
"Well," Mrs. Ainsworth said to Joan. "What are we going to do about him?"
"Joan's face was very red where the shoe had struck her. The bleeding had stopped. She turned to Julia Ainsworth. "Do you suppose we should?" she said mysteriously.
Mrs. Ainsworth sighed. "He's so good in bed. It would be a shame to."
"But don't we have to, Aunt Julia?"
"I suppose so."
John stood across the room from them, watching them carefully. He took a casual drag on his cigarette, turned his head upward, let the smoke curl toward the ceiling.
"If you are contemplating killing me," he said, smiling, "I think you had better not try it."
They just looked at him.
"I know now what happened," he said. "Or I can pretty well guess what it was. I'll put it that way. Joanie killed her husband for his insurance by faking a car accident. However, as you told me, one of you, I think it was you, Mrs. Ainsworth, she couldn't collect the money from the policy because she had stupidly forgotten to keep the payments up."
Julia Ainsworth walked across the room. John noted she was now wearing both of her shoes. She limped a little on the bent one.
"Wait a minute, John," she said, smiling. "Let's don't fight about matters any longer. We admit that Mark was killed in a fake accident. But it doesn't have to leave this room, does it?"
John looked into her blue eyes, noting how large they were. He studied her blonde hair, admitted to himself that she was a pretty woman. He thought he knew what was coming.
It came.
"John," Julia said. "We would really prefer that you stay here with us and be our ... man about the house, let me call it. Neither Joan or I want to argue with you, want to oppose you. Both of us are really in love with you. We-"
"You're offering me sort of a harem deal. Is that it? And what do I have to do to earn it?"
Joan crossed over the room, stood nearby. "Why just be your nice, decent self, John," she said. "My aunt and I are very fond of you. We have said otherwise at times, but the truth is, we need you here. Will you stay with us."
"And keep my mouth shut about your uncle?" he asked, smiling.
Julia and Joan exchanged glances. "What about my husband, John?" Mrs. Ainsworth asked, smiling at him.
"Don't you know?" he said mockingly.
Both women looked at him strangely, he noted. Neither of them spoke.
"The carpeting in the corner over there," he said, pointing. "Don't you know about it?"
Julia Ainsworth bit her lips. "So there's a little blood on it. What about it?"
"There's also a body inside it," John said. There was a long silence.
"I haven't looked," he said, still smiling, "but I imagine you will find Keith in it. How about it, Mrs. Ainsworth?"
She sighed, looked at Joan Herlick, who in turn looked at John. "All right, John," Julia Ainsworth said. "So you've guessed it. What are you going to do, call the police?"
"No," he said. "Why should I?"
She seemed puzzled by this. "Then you'll help us ... dispose of him tonight?"
He did not answer her. "Why did you kill him?" he asked her.
"Because he attacked Joan when he found out about Mark being killed in the fake car accident. You see, John, my wonderful, queer husband, was in love with Mark Harkins." She shuddered. "Horrible man. Man?" She seemed to spit the word out. "He was no man at all. He was a creature. I hated his guts, just as Joan did. I killed him with my shoe. It bloodied his face all up. He ran out of the room upstairs, fell down the stairs, got blood on the new green carpet. That's why we had to put back the old maroon one."
"Yes," he said. "I figured something of that nature. Too bad be spoiled the new carpet."
"You aren't going to tell on us, are you, John?"
"Supposing," he said, moving away from them a bit, "supposing I do keep my mouth shut and stay here with you two. What will we use for money? Am I supposed to support both of you?"
"I have twenty thousand dollars, John," Julia said. "The old man gave it to me for ... you know what."
He nodded. "The old man told me that."
Joan came close to him, touched his arm, turned her dark eyes on him. "Twenty thousand will be enough for the three of us, John. We can have lots of fun with twenty thousand."
He looked at her, grinned. "I can have more fun with it, Joanie."
"You mean you want it all for yourself?" Joan asked, her eyes narrowing.
"Yes," he said. "It belonged to me, not to you women. I earned it."
"We won't give it to you," Joan said hotly.
Mrs. Ainsworth came between them, looked at John. "I guess you win, Mr. Deering," she said stiffly. She turned to Joan. "If we don't give it to him, he can tell the police and then where will we be?"
"I don't want to hand it over to him," Joan said. "We need that money."
Poor Joanie, John thought-as greedy as ever for money. "You have no choice, Joanie," he said gently. "You might as well get the money and give it to me."
"But that's not fair of you," she cried. "You had your fun with us. You don't need to be paid twenty thousand dollars."
"That," he told her, "is a matter of opinion. My opinion is that I do need to be paid the money."
She walked away from him, turned about. "You rotten louse. I wish I had never picked you up in that bar, damn you."
"Too bad," he said, grinning. "You should be more careful about picking up guys. These days you can't ever tell who is a nice guy and who isn't."
"Well, you certainly aren't nice."
"I never professed to be," he said.
"I hate you," she said, and walked across the room. Both John and Mrs. Ainsworth followed her with their eyes.
Julia Ainsworth spoke softly. "Why not share it with us, John? Where else can you find two women to live with you and also let you have your way with them?"
"Is that the way it would be?" he asked her, grinning.
"Of couse, John. Both of us would love you all you wanted."
"I'll bet," he said. "I'll just take the money, please."
She sighed. "It's in the safe in the front room. Come with me. I'll get it. You have to promise, though, that you won't tell on us."
He laughed. "That," he said, "is a promise. I'll never tell the police."
The three of them walked to the front room. Julia went to the wall safe over the fireplace, opened it, took out two packages of money, brought it over, threw it on the coffee table.
"I don't know what we'll do now that you're taking all of our money."
John picked up the loot, shoved it in his pants pocket. "I have a suggestion," he said, and told them what it was.
Their faces were burning, he saw, when he walked from the room and out of the house. No woman likes to be told to take up the oldest profession.
He walked to his car, climbed in, started the motor. He felt of the twenty thousand dollars in his pocket. It was a satisfying feeling. I've got their dough, he thought. And providing the cops don't get them, I'll come back whenever I like and enjoy their charms. They'll never be in a position to refuse me. Never.
He backed the car out of the drive, laughing softly to himself.
