"Cosmetics manufacturers," say the editors of The Medicine Show (Simon & Schuster), "have shown considerable imagination in the promotion of cosmetic products supposed to soften or hide the adverse effects on the complexion of aging, nerves, fatigue, weather, temperature changes and soaps. Yet no authoritative evidence exists that any cosmetic product ... will add to any individual's natural beauty or restore youthfulness to aging skin." Now, take a peek behind the scenes at Villa Spainlouis, a giant in the cosmetics industry. It was run by Cort Pauley, a man who could make or break people, who bartered human values at every turn, as long as it was good for Spainlouis. And caught in the shameless current of business was Nila Wanzer, a woman who sought love in a wasteland....
CHAPTER ONE
Three years Nila Wanzer had worked for Villa Spainlouis, and she had never, to this day, tired of approaching the glittering Fifth Avenue facade of this largest, most prosperous of America's cosmetics houses. Their general offices, laboratories and promotional departments taking up two entire floors of the squat, antiquated Harnell Building-the other three floors tenanted by much less illustrious businesses, these clients entering by a separate, side entrance-they had opted to decorate the building's face in a French chateau mode.
There were gleaming-white window boxes filled with red roses. A sham tower rounding accommodated the antique-green main entrance; gleaming, gilded fleur de lis emblazoned on ribbon-bedecked shields hung rakishly across each stained-glass window. The masonry was fake battlement blocks, purposely chipped and striated beneath the stark white paint. A curved, bas-relief scroll above the door, splashed with gold fleur de lis on a field of corn-flower blue, boldly announced VILLA SPAINLOUIS.
Approaching the main entrance one could easily imagine himself transplanted to a rustic, French setting. This in the midst of crusty, bustling, grimy Manhattan. There were mornings when Nila actually felt happy to enter the offices, felt privileged to work there.
The illusion was further magnified upon entering those leaded, many-windowed doors. There was a tiny, vaulted foyer, carpeted in soft, pale pink, its lavender, gilded walls leading to a charming peak. And here, a blank wall with a rose-garlanded hand mirror painted on it, a monstrous replica at least twelve by eight. A lady's toilet-mirror, bone handled, gilt-decorated.
Another Villa Spainlouis was emblazoned on the wall above the mirror. While underneath, in flowing, flowering script: Through the Looking Glass.
Dainty, carpeted, curving steps led up to the actual mirror glass. Where, after appropriate pause (during which the visitor could survey his appearance, make hasty, last minute repairs), an electric eye activated sliding rollers, the mirror parted in the center, admitted the Spainlouis' guest, employee or whatever.
And now, coming down a softly graduated, spiraling ramp, there was additional fantasy land. A white-carpeted anteroom was revealed, in which different windows opened on views of beautiful women. Some were in flowing negligees, some in just undies, one totally naked, her back discreetly to the viewer. They were at their varied dressing tables, all in the process of beautifying themselves.
One, a blonde, brushed her hair. A brunette applied eye make-up. An auburn-haired beauty painted her toenails. A raven-haired vixen-the nude mannequin-applied powder to her shoulders and bosom.
Each tableaux was done in life-like detail, the viewer felt he might reach out and touch this flesh-and-blood vision.
Now Nila Wanzer swept through this gallery, entered the deserted receptionist's office, saw the silk upholstered Louis XIV chairs along one wall. While the opposite wall featured a blown-up construction, simulation of a fussy, frilly boudoir, the dressing vanity draped with clouds of gauzy, pink tulle, assuming outward aspects of a holy shrine.
On the vanity surface, a random scattering of Spainlouis beauty preparations. On the mirror sentimental mementos were affixed. A diaphanous white gown was draped on the vanity bench, indicated that its owner had just left, would return momentarily.
It was a stunning, haunting display, and Nila never failed to pause, study it; she never quite escaped the goose-flesh the mock-up triggered.
And today, Miss Wanzer arriving a half hour early, anxious to be at her desk before her new boss arrived, there was time and peace to linger.
For a moment she froze before the sham boudoir, she surveyed the products on show, the artistic balance of the layout. Old Geller had really done himself proud on this one, she mused. And immediately wondered what Cort Pauley, the new owner of Villa Spainlouis, wunder kinder of the financial world, would think of the tableaux.
Then her eyes veered, she caught sight of herself in the large, oval mirror. And like any woman who'd ever come upon a mirror, she arched her body, turned, appraised her appearance, was vastly pleased with what she saw.
Considering I'm an old warhorse of 29, she thought, I don't come off too badly. Which was the truth. For this was a woman in the prime of her physical beauty, a woman who might have been preserved in wax all her years, awaiting just this supreme moment of bloom, of presentation. Here I am, the reflection called. Won't someone come and take me?
But not just anyone. Someone special. Someone cut from mystic, holy cloth. Someone to make my heart ache, to make my brain spin, my senses soar.
Idiotic gobbledygook, she snapped.
Men like that were extinct. In all these years she had never found-to use current vernacular-a man who could turn her on.
The fact was that Nila Wanzer had never found a man she felt was the man for her. The fact was she was still-reluctantly, admittedly-a virgin.
And not particularly proud of it.
Scared would be more accurate.
She often wondered if she hadn't set her goals too high, if she shouldn't settle for something less than her idealized model major general. For as the years went by, saw her daily become more set in her ways, she despaired of ever meeting the right man-
A man who didn't think-like most of the men she'd known-that a dinner, drinks and dancing entitled them to mauling privileges, to take their date to bed. A man who still had some romantic ideas about love, a man who knew how to revere and treat a woman, who could fan love slowly, lovingly, enduringly.
Was such altogether too much to be expected in this day and age?
Nila shrugged the thoughts away, concentrated on her appearance, rearranged a stray wisp of red hair that fell in temptress floss over her narrow, smooth forehead. She turned her body, bent her back, studied her seams. She couldn't afford to appear dowdy today.
The dark navy suit was perfect, it accented her subtle, refined curves; it was chic. Her girdle tamed her slightly opulent thighs and buttocks, gave her rear an elegant, taut flare, it made her lean belly a cunning, gradual ellipse.
Nila was a tall woman. Even in flats she stood five-eight. And purposely wearing black, kid pumps today, the heels at least three inches-
She was a statuesque virago, a commanding hunk of woman. And yet not horsy or unfeminine in any respect. Stylish, distingue, her breasts understated, yet adequate, she exuded a touch-me not regality. That peculiar type of smoky aloofness that invariably drives men to lustful fits.
Her complexion was glowing, peaches and-cream. A quality she enhanced with Villa Spainlouis' new eye and lip make-up named First Blush. Her nose was aquiline, flared delicately at the nostrils, her mouth thin, elegant, the merest trace of sensuality to the underlip.
And to accent this imperious, quiet beauty-
Eyes of the most crystalline green. Cool, impersonal, eyes that dared and taunted, eyes holding mysterious promise. Promise that made men overstep themselves, live to curse their brashness from that day forth.
In a word: Vision. Vision of beauty. Glimpse into paradise.
Small wonder men forgot how to act, tinned to greedy, animal clods in Nila's company.
Now, abruptly, Nila shuddered, turned from the mirror. And remembering her reasons for reporting early, she progressed down that long, carpeted corridor, went through those pink, silk-draped arches into the business offices.
Approaching the elaborate office belonging to Villa Spainlouis' president, upon whose door, she sensed deep dread. How was she, after Christian, supposed to adapt to a rumored ogre like Cort Pauley? If those stories about his vicious business tactics were true-
And why should she doubt them? After all, hadn't Pauley summarily cut the Spainlouis staff in half-factory, executive and clerical echelons alike-without so much as a second thought? This three months ago when he'd first taken control of the company, just before Christmas? Hadn't he been working behind the scenes ever since, like some vengeful, vindictive Machiavelli?
And today, this very morning-He was actually going to materialize, to be a flesh-and-blood administrator, be more than a phantom, terror-inspiring Dracula.
Granted the others had seen him. The wheels--Bryon Sorel, Wyman Mackey, Ed Trapp and Marshall Scotti-had met with Pauley. But has secretary had yet to lay eyes on the apparition. And beyond the brusque, incisive memoranda he left on Nila's desk, testament of nocturnal visits to the office-
Only curiosity. Only dull fear.
Now Miss Wanzer inserted her key into the lock, swung the door open, surveyed her immaculate, tastefully decorated domain. She felt a strange sense of completeness, of home-coming even, at the reassuring scene, at the sight of her cleared-for-action desk which served as outer bastion to Cort Pauley's office.
Without a doubt, Nila was the total career girl. There was scant time for snug appraisals. For even as she closeted her coat, she jerked as if stuck with a pin. As, at that moment, the intercom lit up, its snarling buzz freezing her in place.
She panicked. It couldn't be. He-Mr. Pauley--couldn't already be in his office. He couldn't be summoning her already. Not just like this!
She hurried to her desk, brushed at her hair as she went. The switch was thrown. "Yes? Mr.: Pauley?"
"I thought I heard someone out there. Will you come in, please, Miss Wanzer?"
Swiftly Nila gathered her notebook, a pencil. And as an afterthought, the appointment calendar, the interstaff bulletins. Still she paused outside his door, sucked in deep breaths. Then she jacked her shoulders back, assumed a ramrod posture, entered the office.
She wasn't quite ready for what she saw. For though Cort Pauley's picture had been splashed in all the New York papers at the time he'd bought Spainlouis, the pictures had been misleading. They had been prettified if anything.
The man was tall, perhaps six-one, his posture slightly stooped. His hair was tawny, fairly straight, hung in a stiff, rumpled plait over his forehead. His face was long, angular, something haggard, intense in his eyes, in the mocking curve of his mouth. And though immaculately dressed, he still managed to give his clothes a slept-in look. It was immediately evident to Nila that here was a career-oriented man, that nothing else mattered in his life.
He was definitely not handsome. Nor was he ugly. The description fell somewhere in between. There was a hardness to that face, an almost elemental homeliness. One moment it was diffident, the next it was confident, arrogant. It was the play of expressions on his features, the piercing blueness of his eyes-sad at moments, cruel at others-that Nila noticed first.
His eyes swept up and down her body, lingered at her legs, at her breasts. And now on her face. She could tell he was pleased, that he approved of her severe business uniform, of her no-nonsense manner. "I am speaking to Miss Wanzer?" he said finally. "I hope I didn't surprise you. I couldn't sleep, decided to come in early. It will become commonplace, you'll discover."
"Yes," she stammered. "I'm Miss Wanzer."
"Pleased. I've been looking forward so much to meeting the girl who took such excellent care of things here during this ... awkward ... interim period. You are extremely efficient, Miss Wanzer."
Nila flushed with pleasure; she wondered at the idiotic quickening of her pulse. "Why thank you, Mr. Pauley. Coming from you that's an extreme compliment."
"Hardly. Efficiency is its own compliment. I admire efficiency in men or women. But in women it's especially unique. Rare, almost."
"Thank you again, Mr. Pauley." She thought his ability to put her so quickly at ease remarkable. And coupled with the sincerity in his eyes, in his words-
"Do you mind starting right to work? I know it's early, but...."
She sat down before his desk, arranged her note pad. "Not at all, Mr. Pauley. I'm ready any time you are."
Nila couldn't help but compare Pauley's dictating habits, the logical, quick turn of his mind to those of her previous boss. Which wasn't fair, she concluded. For Christian hadn't been himself at the last; he'd been preoccupied, beset with worries. Spainlouis had been floundering, nothing had seemed to help. Perhaps his sellout to this Pauley man had been a blessing in disguise.
At any rate, Cort Pauley was a virtual dynamo. He dictated at a breakneck pace, barely paused, every word and phrase crisp, succinct, getting to the heart of the matter. Nila marveled at his choice of words, thought him a minor Hemingway. She'd certainly hate to be on the wrong end of Pauley's wrath as some of these balky suppliers were.
An hour fled past. Now they turned to inter-office matters. Again she was amazed at the insights he had into the most minute workings of Villa Spainlouis, from shipping room procedures to involved lab reports. And this after only three months?
Small wonder he was regarded as a financial wizard, that he had a personal fortune--at 42-in excess of $10 million.
He'd earned it. Every single dollar of it. All by his vicious, little self.
The dictating pace slowed. And Nila's fingers cramped, her back stiff, she breathed a fervent sigh of relief. A few last interoffice memos and he sat back, slumped slightly in his elegant, black-upholstered chair.
Nila was amazed to find it was 10:30 already. Where had the time got to?
"I think that should do it for now, Miss Wanzer. I assume you'll be delegating most of this. I'll have other more important things for you later this afternoon. I want you free." The words were soft suggestion on the surface, icy command beneath. "I'll see Mr. Sorel at eleven. Please inform those girls who are cooperating on the nail test that Doctors Allen and Tully will be here at three instead of two."
He forced a smile, glanced at her hands. "I see you're included. How do you like the new polish?"
"Fine so far. But I did notice some chipping. Another thing...."
"Yes?"
"I like the metalicized polish, but I don't much care for the color coding. A woman doesn't feature herself as a monochromatic nonentity. Personally I don't like matching lipstick, eye make-up and nail polish. There should be room for individuality."
"A good point, Miss Wanzer. But you forget we're in business to sell cosmetics. If we can make our customers think they need the whole kit to come off well, we stand to make money. Thank God the majority of American women aren't as independent as you."
His eyes fled to her legs, to her sexy, spike heeled pumps, dull black with needle toes. "Another case in point," he smiled. "I see you're not wearing the rounded toe, the lower, thicker heel."
Nila shrugged, stood in place, felt her thighs tingle. "I happen to believe a woman should dress for a man, not those limp-wristed designers who dream up those kooky monstrosities. I think I'm still woman enough to know what men ... their lip service to the contrary ... really like."
"Well said, Miss Wanzer," he smiled, a slightly patronizing something in his eyes. "If I may get personal for a moment?"
"Surely, Mr. Pauley." She froze inside, knew she'd let her opinionated manner do her in again. Would she ever learn to keep her mouth shut?
"You're a very tall woman, Miss Wanzer. Most tall women tend to minimize their stature by wearing flat heels. Now what if you had come in here this morning, found that I was a short man? What would your reaction have been?"
Nila sighed, plowed ahead. "I personally don't care how tall or short a man is. It's what he is that counts. Napoleon was a short man. I'd have been proud to have walked at his side, all five-eight of me. I'd have been proud to have been his woman."
Pauley beamed. "What an original outlook, Miss Wanzer. Quite refreshing. I'm sure that you and I are going to get along famously. I like people who speak their minds." He paused, the warmth faded. "Up to a point, of course. Another question: I see you're wearing First Blush lipstick. How is it? Any irritation? Any bleeding?"
"No, none whatsoever."
"How about eating? Does it rub off?"
"No, not that I've noticed."
"And what about kissing?" he said briskly.
"I can't comment. I haven't kissed anyone lately." He was amused. His grin made Nila feel happy inside, and she smiled also. "More the pity, Miss Wanzer. Your men friends must have hearts of stone. You are a very beautiful woman. A credit to Villa Spainlouis."
"Thank you, Mr. Pauley." Again she marveled at the way he could so suddenly switch from infectious gaiety to chilling abstraction with a mere flicker of his eyes. It was obvious she was being dismissed.
"Mr. Sorel at eleven," he reminded, then signaled her back. Scribbling on a scrap of paper, he handed it to her. "One last thing. Call this number. Tell them tonight. The usual, at the usual time. My address is there."
Nila was patently puzzled. "Is that all there is?" Pauley apparently relished her discomfiture. Whatever the call's meaning was, he got a kick out of assigning it to his secretary. "That's all."
And feeling very self-conscious, wondering what impression she'd made on her new boss, Nila left his office. She was conscious of the fact that his hard, mocking eyes were on her legs and bobbing buttocks every step of the way.
It was 3:30 p.m. and Nila was somewhat dazed, wearied by the day's swift pace. One thing was certain with Mr. Pauley's arrival-things might be hectic at Spainlouis from now on, but never dull.
The medical check on the lipstick and nail polish was still going on. She and the other girls in the executive offices had been summoned first. She'd been surprised to find Cort Pauley present. Which was something Lenelle hadn't done; he'd left supervision of the tests to Ed Trapp, the lab supervisor, but to Pauley, apparently no detail was beneath his personal attention.
Nila hadn't missed the electric current that had pervaded in the testing lab when Pauley entered, had stood in silent observation. The girls present had subtly cooed and preened before the man, which irked Nila no end. As she realized now that she too, had acted giddy in her new boss's presence.
She muttered a mild curse, attended to a last minute flurry of calls, memorandum, typing assignments, sought to bury her disturbing thoughts in work.
But there was an interruption, as at that moment Bryon Sorel stormed into her office. Byron Sorel, the Spainlouis expediter, the muscle and mouth man. The Spainlouis trouble-shooter. The same Sorel who, with Christian Lenelle, Ed Trapp and a few other long-buried adventurers, had, back in 1939, in a west-side loft, begun Villa Spainlouis. Mixing their ingredients in washtubs, existing on a hand-to-mouth basis, they'd given birth to this, one of the greatest cosmetic houses in the world.
Byron Sorel. Who now bore the amorphous, catchall title of general sales manager.
He was a slightly beefy man, short but imposing. In his early fifties, still handsome though balding, his hawk-nose enhancing more than detracting. His skin was on the coarse, choleric side, peppered with liver spots. Any discrepancy in male attractiveness was made up by his charming brio, his enthusiasm and unflagging good humor. He knew how to influence people (women especially), he knew how-as he so often put it-"To make them come around."
It was Sorel's oft-proclaimed credo that: "There ain't no woman living, who, given the proper place, time and circumstances, isn't a pushover for any man really in there pitching."
A $50,000 a year man at Spainlouis, a natty dresser, a bon viant in every respect, married but 'looking', he had long contended that he and Nila were long overdue in the indulgence of that eternal bedroom tango. Or as he put it: "Your schooling's been neglected, baby." The comments were easily shrugged off because the very open, clownish manner in which they were delivered. Nobody ever knew whether or not he meant them. And those females who had found out were eternally sorry.
"Where's the big boss?" Byron asked.
"In the lab. Control check."
"I don't suppose I coulda seen the jerk anyway. Him and his appointments."
Nila smiled sarcastically. "For you, Byron, he'd make an exception."
Sorel sat on the edge of Nila's desk, a thing he knew irritated her. "How about it, Nila, baby? How do you like the man? Level with me."
"Seems all right to me. I'll hold off on making judgment until later. One thing. He sure knows this business inside out. I thought he'd throw his weight around. But so far he's been a perfect gentleman. Not like some execs around here I know...."
Sorel smiled weakly. "Honey ... is that any way to be? You know I moved heaven and earth to make you my steno when Lenelle checked out."
"I know. I had to fight tooth and nail to stay here. You and Gisele getting along all right?"
He leered. "Fine. That doll talks my language."
"I thought she would."
"Now don't you go putting on airs, too, Nila. We're all in this together." She noticed him staring at her legs where her skirt had climbed above her stocking tops. Hastily she pulled her dress down. "I still say you'n me could have some wonderful times together."
"Forget it," she snapped. "Can't you get it through your head? I'd be awed by your age."
"Fun-eee," he grumped. "Your loss. I would've been good for you. I hate to think of a beautiful, mature hunk of female like you wasting yourself on some young squirt. Some yo-yo who wouldn't know the first thing about breaking you in. A sensitive, high-spirited filly like you."
Nila sought to turn the salty conversation off. "I'm afraid Mr. Pauley won't be back this afternoon. How about first thing tomorrow morning?"
"Knock if off, Nila. This is old Byron you're talking to. He still carries some weight around here. Mr. Pauley. Used to be Christian in the old days."
"Give the man time. He only started today."
"That cut-throat started when he was three. Damned vulture, that's what he is."
"Loyalty, loyalty, Byron," she twitted.
Byron rose, made exaggerated show of examining Nila's thin, exquisite legs. "One of these days, queenie. I don't give up easy. And when we do tangle you're gonna be sorry. All that precious time wasted." His eyes glittered. "Talk about stems...."
"Good afternoon, Byron."
"Why don't you change your mind? I could get you switched. Come work for me."
"Fat lot of work that'd be. I'd be running eight hours a day."
He paused at the door, smiled back, not the least bit offended. "One of these days, Nila. Once you've had it with a real pro...."
Then he was gone. And smiling fixedly, Nila turned back to her work. Suddenly she jumped. As she realized she still hadn't placed that enigmatic phone call for Pauley. And how had such an important thing slipped her mind? The woman's voice, repeating the phone number, was harsh, indifferent, made Nila feel uncomfortable. And when Nila had relayed the vague message.
"That's kind of short notice, honey. But tell him okay. Nine-thirty."
Even as Nila hung up she heard the woman make sotto-voce reminder to herself. "That'll be Corinne." Nila puzzled that one for a long time. Until, remembering a dozen things to be finished before five, she attacked her cluttered desk.
While, at that same moment, in Byron Sorel's private office, just he and his shapely black-haired secretary, a green, 23-year-old kid named Gisele Tocco in those luxurious confines:
"Please, Byron," the ingenue beauty whined, "not just like that. You know that makes me feel cheap." The plea never fazed the sexually aroused Sorel. It was always the same. Every damned time he got anywhere near that Wanzer twitch. Talk about getting a man hotted up! "Skip the act, sugar," he snapped. "If your daddy wants a little peek...."
"Yeah. If you'd just be satisfied with just a peek."
"Turn around baby," he wheezed, his tone more threat than plea. "You know what I dig."
Slowly the voluptuous tart, a dusky item with large, lustrous eyes, a pouty mouth, turned. Even as she dui so she raised her skirt in back, displayed her stocking seams. Almost instantly she felt his hot fingers sliding on her bare thighs above her stockings, plucking at the elastic of her garters.
"More," Sorel gulped.
Gisele felt a cool breeze on her perky rear as the skirt came all the way up and she gigglingly wriggled her bottom at him. A hot flame lanced her thighs as his hands climbed, cupped and pinched those luscious globes. "Beautiful, baby," he gloated. "Simply beautiful."
Things happened swiftly then. As, both of them carried away, both wanting to conclude this then and there-Gisele arranged her skirts, locked her trembling legs. While Sorel peeled down the jam-packed black panties. Now his lips traced maddening, erotic circles in the small of her back, his tongue stabbed at those sensitive dimples.
Gisele went crazy, began to rock her rear. As the combination of his kisses, his fingers on her silk glossed legs, finally got to her.
"Damn!" she cursed. As the phone rang. To keep up appearances, she leaped for it "Mr. Sorel? One moment."
A minute later Sorel deserted her. "Pauley wants to see me," he excused. "Sounds sore. Rain check, baby, okay? Tonight? Your place?"
The vixen's dark eyes smoldered with frustration, with traces of raw, undiluted lust. Her hands grazed his lower body in premeditated tease. "Tonight, man. You better be there. You fail me, I'll drag somebody in off the street. I swear...."
He fingered her nipples roughly through her sweater. "Tonight, you mink. I'll be there."
Then he was running to answer the summons from the all-powerful Cort Pauley.
CHAPTER TWO
Nila's candid opinion of Gisele Tocco was well warranted. The girl was an unabashed nympho; Gisele herself would have been the first to admit as much. Adding, in the bargain, that she was dedicated opportunities as well. The fact that Gisele was Sorel's present mistress, had been from her second week as his secretary, was common knowledge in the slavery echelons at Villa Spainlouis.
Strangely enough Nila didn't censure Gisele for her lax standards. After all, if that's the way she was made, if she had the courage to accept her salacious nature for what it was, and no qualms, who was to say she was wrong? Gisele was doing something she apparently enjoyed, she was sharing the wealth.
And was reaping handsome material benefits in the bargain. That apartment Byron maintained for her was definite case in point. And though Nila hadn't seen it, she assumed that Gisele drove a hard bargain, that it was a luxurious love nest. Considering the expensiveness of the hole she shared with Doris, the big bite rent took out of her monthly earnings, Nila almost envied Gisele's morality.
If a girl was going to pass things around, she might as well realize tangible reward for her generosity. The apartment wasn't all. In confidential moments Gisele intimated that there were jewels, a fur scarf, occasional clothes, items of spicy lingerie. As well as surprises almost every time Byron came to call.
Tonight, in her so-so apartment in the high East Seventies, particularly edgy and embittered for some unexplainable reason, doing her nails, her face in a facial pack, Nila thought, What a way to go!
And who was to condemn?
Wasn't Gisele having all the fun?
And what was the great stone maiden having?
Besides the Monday night blues? One of her funks when nothing seemed quite worth the candle any more.
With one eye she watched Lucy's stupid antics on TV. While with the other she observed Doris' swoopings and twitterings as she prepared for a date (her second within a week) with George Arvey, a Spainlouis minor exec, a man whom she'd accidentally introduced Doris to at lunch one day, the two career girls working in shoulder to shoulder buildings.
In between she did her nails.
Doris was 24, a cute, batty-eyed blonde who'd been put on earth for only one thing. To get married, turn out an even dozen equally pretty, batty-eyed and empty-headed children. George would be good for her; they were even-Steven in the brains department.
Nila recognized her thoughts as so much sour grapes and felt mildly ashamed of herself. Doris Holling was a sweet, wonderful kid; she deserved the best life had to give. And while she was no brain trust, exasperating at times, she was just what the doctor ordered for Nila. After the tensions of her days at Spainlouis, it was good to have a gay, Pollyanna type around the apartment. They were perfect antithesis, foils for each other.
"Tell me more about this Cort Pauley," Doris called in flight. "Sounds fascinating. You say he's forty-two and already a multimillionaire? I could learn to like a man like that. Is he married?"
"No. But I hear he has been. Twice. Both fizzled."
"Poor boy."
"Poor boy nothing. He was probably so busy counting his money, he never had time for his wife. That's all he ever thinks of. Business, power ... his career."
"Sounds like somebody else I know," Doris needled.
"Maybe. But I think if I ever found the right man I could forget career."
"That's your big trouble. Your right men come straight from King Arthur. All Holy Grail material ... "
"I'm not that bad. It's just that they all have to start pawing right away. Ugh. If they'd just once...."
"So they paw, Doris giggled. "Let 'em. Up to a point. Just enough to keep 'em interested. From what I hear they get over that feisty stuff during the first year of marriage. And then...."
"Maybe I don't want them to get over it. Maybe I d like it. Only on a different ... a respectful ... basis."
Doris shrugged into her light spring coat. "Honey you are mixed up. Make up your mind, will you?" She turned. "My seams straight?"
"Fine. You look beautiful. Should be fighting George off all evening long." She winked. "Ah, love."
"What do you think?" Doris switched the subject. "About this Pauley?"
While they waited for Doris' date Nila filled her in on the day's happenings. "Sounds like a real weirdo. But if he's worth than much money...."
"Is that all you think about? You remind me of that Tocco woman."
"Well, stranger things have happened. Do you suppose he's interested? You're so beautiful, Nila.
I can't see what's the matter with these men nowadays."
"Forget I mentioned it."
"Well I don't see why not. Any man would give his right arm for a gorgeous doll like you. All you have to do is...."
"Gorgeous dolls are a dime a dozen," Nila interrupted. "He can have any woman he wants." She laughed. "Doris, this is ridiculous. I only met him today."
Doris shrugged. "Romances have to start someplace. Ooops! There's George. See you later. Don't wait up." Then she dashed out of the door, her party heels clattering an excited tattoo down the echoing corridor.
And Nila was left quite alone. To her nails. To Lucy. To her galling thoughts.
She wondered at the increasing disquiet in her soul these past months. What transformation was taking place within her? Where once she'd been able to settle for mere career, where her mind had been full of angles whereby she might gain office advancement-
The prospect seemed sterile, empty now. She couldn't begin to comprehend the physiological changes that affect a woman when she nears thirty. She didn't know that while with some women the prime sex urge is at post adolescence, most women's sexual drives reach their peak at thirty. And where once she'd been able to quell these drives with devotion to work, with concerts, movies and reading, busy distractions of all kinds-
More and more often of late she thought about her future, saw it looming in pointless emptiness before her. What did it matter if she rose to more influential positions in the years ahead? So what? A $15,000 salary? A $20,000 salary even? Lately it simply hadn't seemed important.
A heaviness filled her as she thought of Doris and George. Why couldn't she compromise? Why did she have to be so critical? Why must her Prince Charming be cultured, responsible, morally upright, possessed of lofty goals and ambitions? Why must he be gentle and respectful, considerate and sensitive? Why should he love fine music and art? The theater, good books?
And just where in hell does a girl find such a man? The assembly line must have broken down years ago. And only the creeps were left.
Creeps like Harry Conover. It made her physically ill to think of him, to remember the grunting, panting animal he'd turned into as they'd parked before her apartment building that night two weeks ago. If ever she'd come close to being raped-
He'd called twice since that night, but she'd refused to talk to him. Mere thought of him nauseated her. It seemed she could feel his hot fingers on her thighs at this very moment.
She squirmed involuntarily, wondered what was infecting her, making her like this. All wild, feverish inside.
Even more alarming: Why did vision of Cort Pauley's smug, hard face hang before her eyes? Why this nettling excitement to think of him, to remember their conversation? Why these liquid stirrings deep in her body? And now, even more disturbing-
She was back in that car with Harry Conover again. Only something was drastically wrong. For now he was changed. His face was transformed. It was Pauley she fought now.
A shudder smashed Nila. Abruptly she was up. Her nails finished, she dropped her robe as she ran for the bathroom. Cold shower time, baby, she lashed herself acidly, talk about women with high standards!
Byron Sorel was naked. And in the luxurious pleasure pad he maintained for Gisele, the mood intimate, seductive, he kneeling on the floor before the sensuous, provocative tart, she sprawled on an immense plush chaise, a furry bowl on legs-
At Sorel's insistence the lights were out, the room's only illumination provided by three, thick, tall, colored candles mounted on a four foot high candelabra. The FM radio played soft romantic music, a musky, aphrodisiac scent emanated from the candles. As well as the scent of expensive Scotch, the scent of lust-driven bodies.
While Gisele, sipping Scotch, sprawled in the embrace of the white, imitation fur, her spiked heels digging into the underlying foam, writhed and sighed in delight. As dear twisted Byron, his incipient pot pulling, went through a very unique fetishist routine.
He'd got to her stockings by now, he slatheringly, painstakingly smoothed them onto her legs, he snapped them to her garters. And with every touch and smoothing, an equally deranging kiss on her ankles, on her calves. Now her thighs-
In a spate of sexual excess she raised her legs, dropped them over his shoulders, slid and drummed her slippery, leather heels along his naked back. She almost jumped out of her skin when he dropped his head, pulled down the silky, lace-crazy panties he'd brought specially tonight, kissed that quaking, dusky bowl of her belly. She was possessed of the most savage urge to raise her knees, stab her heels into his flabby back.
But she didn't. Instead, she tightened her legs about his shoulders, she held him to that delicious adoration. "Byron, baby," she cooed thickly, "you are. hot to go tonight, aren't you? You've never been quite this crazy before. Ooh! The way you do me. You make me want even more." Her giggle was lewd. "If you know what I mean."
He chuckled. "Yeah, hon, I know what you mean. Forget it. Unless you're willing to play the same kind of games. Just let me know."
"You know I don't do that kind of stuff, baby. But if you really love me...."
"Forget it, I said." He disengaged her legs, snapped the black nylon back, pulled away. "That love jazz works both ways." Rising, he stood over her, his eyes going fanatic as he looked down on the dusky vision in black lace. His face pained, small whimperings in his throat, he seemed to get just as much boot from watching her as he did from touching her.
He'd thought the white, round chaise lounge a foolish extravagance when Gisele had suggested it. But when she'd painted a glowing picture of the way-out lovemaking they'd conclude on it-the $200 had become peanuts.
Seemingly he'd never get tired of looking at Gisele sprawled in that white, sunken circle of fur, of the dark contrast of her olive flesh, clad in evil, extreme black silkies against that background. The thrust of her high, firm boobs, looking for all the world like the noses of torpedoes pointing heavenward. The flare of that juicy waist, those bouncy hips and buttocks. Then those fantastically turned calves and ankles, those tiny feet thrust into the wicked exaggeratedly high-heeled pumps.
Small wonder Darlene had been complaining about his lack of interest around home lately. That schnook!
She'd be lucky if she got any by this time next year. Once Gisele latched on, took charge-
There just wasn't any left for anybody else.
Except maybe Gisele. For a while she did draw certain lines--Talk about bold, educated hands!
"Please, dolly," she slurred now, looking for all the world like a sloe-eyed panther as she pleadingly reached and arched for him. "Come back. Kiss me some more like that. Touch me. That wonderful way you do. I'm going crazy for you. By-ron...!"
He couldn't resist her. Shortly he was on his knees before her. And now, with reverence to match that he'd observed in dressing her in the fetishist lingerie, he began to disrobe her, his urgency undeniable now.
All of which the volatile voluptuary abetted, enjoyed, praised with a pagan will. Arching, grinding and writhing her body, her hands and fingers bold, saucy, inventive, her voice a continuous growl, she cheered him on. The brassiere came away first. And holding her breasts herself, the heels of her hand punching them in on each side, she brought her devilish, carmined nipples close, held them like a double-turreted mine for his greedy lips.
And as his mouth consumed as his lips tortured those screaming nibs: "Oohee, baby...." she squealed. "That is fantastic. I loves that. Oooh. Love Gisele's lollies...."
Abruptly an idea hit her. She jerked away carefully, reached for her drink. "Here, lover. This way. You know Gisele goes crazy for this." And now, sprawled on that lounge, her legs spread in a hoyden, upside-down, she dipped her fingers into the Scotch, painted each nipple with liquor. "Ooh, that's cold ... makes Gisele's pinkies burn. Take the oowie away, Byron...." The man chuckled. This sex cat! He thought. She'll be the death of me yet. Immediately he dipped his head, began the wild reverence.
As he did so his hands continued to slide slavishly on her legs, on her waist, belly and hips. And now, both hands capturing, cupping, pressuring and roiling-A double-barreled onslaught, sensation unlimited-
"Wow, darling," she choked. "You know how to handle a woman. I feel like I want to scream. Byron! I feel so crazy! I feel dirty, rotten dirty. Soon, baby, soon. I can't stand much more of this. Take my clothes off. Come up here, Farmer Jones. Come plow me."
It was Sorel's turn to want to howl. "You little witch," he gloated. "You hot-pants witch. You sure know how to turn a man on...."
He made a sick, prolonged ceremony out of undressing her, he wallowed, reveled in her youthful beauty. In the wanton appreciation of lust. Gisele exhibited. Every man in the world, he thought, should have at least one night with a wildcat like this.
Her panties were stripped away. He moved to unsnap her garter belt. But then thought better of it. "Gisele? Do you mind? If we take care of things this way? With this junk on? I get monster boots that way. You won't think I'm a nut or anything?"
She giggled. "Sure I'll think you're a nut, baby. But a nice nut. So long's I get kicks too."
Almost as if in gratitude, he lingered at her belly, at her hips; his kissings and nippings making Gisele squirm and groan with erotic glee. And when his lips slid ceaselessly up and down the velvety hummock of her thighs, between stocking top and pelvis, made her roll frenziedly on the lounge-
"Baby," she gasped. "Don't torture me like this." But Sorel wasn't ready yet. He extorted his favorite appetizer from her. And when she was standing before him, his lips carving a pepper-hot trail across her quaking belly, he began turning her. Not once desisting with the kisses, the sight of her in black stockings, the tease garter belt maddening him, dissolving him to so much panting, whimpering mush, he circumnavigated her whole body with his lips.
Until Gisele's back was to him. Then, his hands around her, cupping her breasts-He dropped his head to the small of her back, he began kissing there, let his lips swirl about those electricity-charged dimples. He let his lips slide lower, beneath that black, stiff elastic, he found those smooth, pneumatic rounds. And kissing, kissing-
He quite literally drove dear Gisele out of her vapid little skull.
And when she could stand no more, when her breathing came like a spring storm-She wheeled, fought him, virtually leap-frogged him, fell upon the lounge. "Now, damn you!" she demanded. "I can't wait a minute more."
"Now," Sorel laughed thickly, his desire at absolute peak, the knowledge that this woman was actually dying to have him possess her was a fantastic, evil goad. "Oh, yes now, you hot-tailed little pig."
The derogatory words triggered even more lust in the nympho's psyche. And she purred, swiftly swung her legs up, adjusted to receive that deliriously-desired thrust.
The scene of her in that fur basket, Gisele scrambling to arrange gaily colored pillows beneath her head, under her back, was last straw for Sorel. With a chuckling, guttural growl he flung himself upon Gisele.
She screamed with sheer joy as he penetrated her, she clawed at his back to crowd him, she twined her legs, pattered her heels against his flanks in gleeful excess.
The bodies merged, locked. Froze momentarily. Then in savage, impatient flow, slamming and rocking and arching-
Pink bodies on white fur. Theirs was truly a hedonistic, voluptuary delight.
While at that same moment, moodily staring into space in his sumptuous rooftop suite at the St. Regis, a small glass of rare, imported cognac in his hand, Cort Pauley was thinking some very dark thoughts. Dressed in a luxurious, silk-paisley dressing gown, naked beneath, he awaited Corinne's arrival, cursed the tramp's occupational affliction-tardiness.
At 9:50 p.m. the tramp hadn't appeared as yet. Miss Wanzer had assured him the call had been made, the appointment was verified. A wizened smile formed on his lips. Had that dumb-bunny tumbled? Man, the look on her face when he'd told her to call! Nobody could help but suspect. Especially once they heard Tillie's gravelly voice.
He snuffled to himself, wondered why it was he enjoyed putting the female flunkies in a squeeze like that, why it added extra delight to the act of ordering his sex like other people would order a steak.
He cursed softly. Dumb question. He knew damned well why he loved making his secretaries perform the unpleasant task. In some small, childish way it was his way of rubbing their noses in it, paying them back-womankind-for the shafting he'd got at their hands.
Women like Rhonda, his first wife. Beautiful, imperious, frigid Rhonda. Twelve years ago. Had it been that long? Seemed like only yesterday. At any rate if one was to judge by the way the psychological scars still burned, by the way her memory inspired an almost insane rage within him.
And yet this-this filth-was mother to his only child. Mother to his lovely, innocent Denise.
He shook his head savagely, took a deep drag of his drink, fought to shut out the thoughts of Denise and Rhonda at the same time. And thought of his ultimate, male stupidity as well.
That he'd believed-could ever believe-that a self-centered, greedy vampire like Rhonda could ever love him. That he'd deluded himself time and time again, made excuses for her frigid bitchiness, had at rare occasions convinced himself that it wasn't his money, the endless luxury and materialistic comfort it could buy she loved. No-she'd truly loved him.
How stupid can some men be?
Why couldn't he see how Rhonda had bled him, how she was interested only in herself, interested in the furs and jewels and cars and Dior dresses he'd brought her. Interested only in hoarding, storing up for that eventual separation. For that rainy day that must inevitably follow divorce.
It wouldn't have hurt so much if he hadn't actually been madly in love with Rhonda himself. If he hadn't turned himself inside out to make alibis for her coldness.
Three years? Had they really stuck out that sham marriage that long? Had he really thought marriage-a woman-worth all that grief and heartache. For the sake of the kid, he'd told himself at the last, when things had gone too far to ever be reclaimed, regenerated again.
The cognac was gone. Angrily he strode to the side-board, poured himself another healthy jolt. Then, as the most bitter remembrance of all hit him, he started, froze, seemed to cave in on himself. And his shoulders hunched as if he'd just been hit, his head down-
No, he raged, no! Don't think about that!
But the thoughts wouldn't be suppressed. Especially in the morbid, vindictive mood mantling him tonight.
He'd gone to Chicago that week. An important merger action that had come to a head unexpectedly. The legal and financial details had taken less time than he'd expected; he'd flown back two days early.
Arriving home late that Wednesday night-they'd lived in Long Island then-he'd thought to surprise Rhonda.
Surprise it was. Ghastly surprise. But mostly for him.
The house had been dark, the servants dismissed. He'd assumed Denise was sleeping; the dull night light in her room was the only illumination.
A quick peek into her room, a regenerative appraisal of that angelic, sleeping face. Then he'd crept toward their bedroom, had been on the verge of stealthily letting himself in, when he'd been frozen in place, stunned to the core of his being.
As he heard the two people talking in the bedroom. Sighing would be a better description. As he instantly recognized the voices. One belonging to his beloved, aloof Rhonda. And the other-
His stomach all but turning on the spot, he'd waited, listened, couldn't make himself believe. And then, rage taking him, unable to endure the betrayal a second longer-
He'd quietly entered the room, flashed on the lights. If he lived to be a hundred he'd never forget that perverted tangle of bodies, those lewd positions. He'd never forget the deranged hatred in Rhonda's eyes as she jerked her head from that perfumed cove, as she cursed.
"Honey," Sally Wilcox's reedy voice gasped. "What is it?" Then the raven-tressed female, Rhonda's best "friend", had turned her head, looked out at him from beneath the arch of Rhonda's pelvis.
They'd had a Mexican divorce within the month.
Cort Pauley's eyes swam, he cursed himself for reviving the ugly thoughts. And I need explanations? he snorted. As to why I act the way I do. Treat women-women like that Nila Wanzer witch-the way I do.
Especially as Miss Wanzer reminded him of Rhonda. That imperious, prissy way of hers, those snake hips, those refined, sexless cannons of hers. Miss Career Girl personified. Hell! No wonder I needed stuff tonight.
His eyes narrowed to vindictive slits. The only way I'll ever want stuff again. Cash and carry. At least then you know where you stand. And what man living, in the servitude of matrimony, ever, for one minute, knows just where he stands?
A savage fireball of hatred filled his heart at that moment; he actually wanted to scream, to pound the wall.
Stupes, all of you! Miserable, gulled stupes!
His introspections-at that most disastrous of moments-were suddenly interrupted. As his buzzer sounded.
Moments later the tall, beautiful blonde named Corinne was admitted to the luxurious suite, stood in cold, cynical pose in the middle of that extravagantly appointed living room. "Hello, Cort," she smiled wryly, dread openly apparent in her eyes. "That time again?" His eyes were cold as a snake's. "That time, Corinne. You're late. You want to get with it?" He pointed to the envelope on the table. "Two hundred. Want to count it?"
She forced a smile, slipped out of her silk-lined coat. "I trust you, Cort. I don't like you. But I trust you."
"You aren't paid to like me. You're paid for just one thing. To haul. You know that."
"Please, Cort. Spare me the vile tongue."
"Skip it," he snapped. "I said it's late. I've got a big day tomorrow."
Corinne shrugged. "Undress? Like before?"
"Like before."
They didn't bother to turn out any lights, they didn't bother to go to the bedroom. Right there, in the living room, Pauley sitting on the davenport's edge, watching intently:
The call girl stripped before him, peeled away her slinky, skin-tight gown. The slip came up, was thrown aside. Now, in some navy blue panties, matching brassiere, black, seamless hose, rapier-heeled patent leather pumps-She came to Cort, undid his robe tie, began slipping it off his body. Moments later he sat in a swirl of paisley silk, totally naked, his manhood arrogantly exposed.
Momentarily Corinne faltered, quailed before the icy, unrelenting stare in Cort's eyes. "God, Cort," she breathed, "who got to you? Why does it always have to be like this? Why can't there be a little affection, respect even? If you could just pretend a little. A little love...."
He snarled. "There's love for you, slut. Are you going to take care of it or not? I haven't got all night." She stood a moment longer. Then, sighing heavily, still in her lingerie, hose and heels, she came to him, knelt on the floor before him. He chuckled as she gingerly touched him. He fell back into the cushions. "Yeah, piggy," he gloated. "There's love all right." Slowly Corinne dropped her head. The man chuckled as her hair tickled his thighs. And now the chuckles changed. To a hissing, harsh humming. "Oh, you doll...." he rasped.
Professional that she was, Corinne adjusted for better purchase. She attended him more skillfully, she forced herself to sham pleasure, abandon at her work.
Cruelly Pauley caught her hair in his fingers, forced her almost beyond the limits of her endurance. There, he thought. Go, you slut, go! This is what all women need. Once a day. Twice on Sundays.
But at the end he forestalled Corinne. With a coarse oath, he disengaged her. He watched her while she finished stripping. And then, on that davenport, the lights still glaring down, a vengeful light in his eyes, chuckling, he came over her, plunged to her. He took special delight in Corinne's pleas, in her outcries of pain.
And thus the warped, twice-crippled man meted out a token, counterfeit punishment on an indifferent world. A world that hadn't quite turned out to be what he expected at all.
Alone in her apartment on East 70th Street, Nila twisted restlessly in her dark bed, found sleep impossible. And even after her shower, her attempt to distract her thoughts, channel them to less incendiary things-
The need was still there. The frustrations, inexpressible drive still rendered her helpless. Until, as she did on other rare occasions when she was thus beset, she surrendered. And wanting the release to last a long, long time tonight, wanting to purge herself for weeks to come-
A special way. A way she'd discovered quite by accident one night when similarly plagued by sensual needs.
And once committed, actually savoring the erotic fires building up within her-She steepled her knees, drew her nylon nightgown into that valley, arranged its folds just so. Her hands gathered behind her buttocks, pulled the folds tight.
Then in a soft, slow, sawing motion-
Evenly, gradually she built up speed, exerted more pressure.
Until, as she verged on victory, as her pulse drummed in her ears, as her breathing came swiftly, harshly-
What was wrong with her? What was happening? Why, now of all times, did she find herself thinking of Cort Pauley? Even more astonishing: Why did she wish he could be here with her now? Doing this for her? And other things as well?
Shortly there was no more time for such thoughts. As she moaned, suppressed a scream. And she knew she'd be all right for a few more weeks now.
CHAPTER THREE
IN DEFERENCE TO NILA's SOMEWHAT EXALTED ROLE AS his secretary Cort had asked her if she would participate in a new make-up foundation test. And yet, it wasn't actually a request; it was more command than anything else.
But it didn't matter. During the past weeks Nila thought she'd come to understand her new boss's moods, his intrinsic character. And while she still stood on her own two feet, dared question his decisions at rare moments, she found herself gradually sublimating her independence, she was immersed in a perpetual daze-happy and despondent in streaks-she virtually fell over herself to please him, to anticipate his every whim and wish.
Which was very much unlike Nila Wanzer.
For executive secretaries don't achieve that questionable status by being yes men. Or yes women, as it were.
Thus, this morning in Lab Test Room B at exactly 10:40 a.m.-
There were four of them in the room, all drawn from the secretarial staff. Gisele Tocco, Thelma Prasser, Jean Slater and herself. Constituting test group number four. All of them, at that moment, with sweaters or blouse off, waiting self-consciously in their slips.
The testing routine was unvarying. A wide strip of the new base was painted on the back of each of these chic, lovely guinea-pigs. The doctors detained each girl, studied the painted area for immediate reaction, if there was any, it was duly noted, a plastic bandage was placed over it to protect it in progressive stages of irritation, the test group would report for recheck the following morning.
Nila Wanzer had endured countless such tests. On everything from fingernail polish to eye shadow, lipstick to perfume. And while the ingredients on each and to promotion, these tests must still be made. Spainlouis to promotion, these tests must still be made. Spainlouis being a colossus of the cosmetic industry, they couldn't afford to put a new product on the market without extensive testing. Irritations, blotching, other side effects would besmirch their immaculate reputation, result in loss of business or-horror of horrors-in even more damning (prestige and financially) lawsuits.
This must be avoided at all costs.
And here, behind the antiseptic table, the tubes of cosmetics, the alcohol, the cotton swabs laid out in regimental order, Dr. Bernard Allen, Dr. Thomas Tully, two of America's most eminent doctors of dermatology. Wasting their talents on something as petty and insignificant as Candy Cane, the Christmas promotion.
It was enough to make one question America's sense of values.
But then, who was to knock it? On a rock solid retainer of $40,000 annually, the work routine minimal, their laboratory chores undemanding, what doctor eminence in his field be damned, wouldn't jump at the chance?
Now Nila was called to the table, gave her case history to Dr. Allen. She'd given it a hundred times before, but every time it was the same thing all over again. She smiled indulgently as chubby little Dr. Tully took his usual liberties with his specimens. She made no protest as he caressed her arm, squeezed his pudgy fingers between her bosom and arm, dug his knuckles into the side of her left breast. If that's how he gets his jollies, she thought indulgently, let him.
Now the cold swipe of alcohol on her back. A closer, supposedly accidental nudging of her breast in the process. The cold sting of evaporation. The eternal: "You have a lovely complexion, Miss Wanzer. You should take every precaution to protect it." Now the application of the test base, the close watch for initial reaction.
"Reaction negative," Allen snapped. Which Dr. Tully fastidiously noted. The bandage was placed over the swabbing. "Tomorrow morning at ten-thirty, Miss Wanzer."
She turned away, found herself instantly flushing. As she found that unbeknownst to her, Cort had entered the lab, was now staring directly at her. The fact that Wyman Mackey, the promotional director, was in his wake didn't faze her at all. Why, after all this time, so many different men smirking at her, should this man affect her this way?
But then her embarrassment turned to pique. As she instinctively realized that Mr. Pauley wasn't looking at her as a woman, he was regarding her merely as another test specimen. Damn his eyes, anyway! she thought.
"Anything showing up thus far?" he said, his eyes contemptuous as he saw how the doctors all but clicked their heels at his presence. It was a contempt Nila sensed also. That men could be bought so cheaply. "Nothing, Mr. Pauley," Tully hurried to answer. "I think this one's going through without a hitch. Time will tell, though. We'll take a hundred tests and...."
"Three hundred," Pauley snapped. "No less."
"But, Mr. Pauley," Allen interceded, "we've always taken a hundred tests. Mr. Lenelle...."
"Mr. Lenelle," he shot sarcastically, "is no longer with us. Mr. Pauley is in charge now. We have too monumental a reputation at stake to risk it with slapdash testing."
"Yes, sir," the two doctors chorused, reminding Nila of Tweedledum and Tweedledee. "Three hundred tests it is."
Nila smiled, turned to leave. "Oh, Miss Wanzer," Pauley called after her. "If I might see you for a moment."
She returned, finished a last button on her suit jacket. "I see you're wearing the new promotion."
"Yes, Mr. Pauley. August Wind. I like it very well."
"You'd never notice," Mackey interrupted. "You've got it on so light. Some loyalty...."
Nila bristled. "Sorry it doesn't meet with your approval, Wyman," she snapped. "It just happens to be a personal theory of mine that make-up is supposed to enhance a woman's features, not camouflage them."
"Consider yourself put in your place," Cort said, risking the luxury of a smile. "You should be in promotion, Miss Wanzer." His eyes twinkled with obvious mischief. "What I meant to check was the durability of the lipstick. When you kiss, for instance?"
Her smile was equally saucy. "It's the same as last time. I still haven't researched the kissing aspects." And with that she flounced out of the room, headed back to her office. Again she was positive Pauley was watching her every step of the way.
Later that morning, after finishing some dictation, Pauley allowed himself to become slightly personal. "I like the way you spoke up to Mackey this morning, Miss Wanzer."
"Thank you, sir."
"In fact I like many things about you." Nila cursed her stupidity as she felt her pulse rev up. What's with you? she challenged. You some schoolgirl or something? As quickly her expectancy fell. "I like the way you generally handle yourself. You're efficiency personified. You have confidence, you aren't afraid to express honest opinions. I'm sure we'll capitalize on your talents before we're through."
"I'm flattered, Mr. Pauley."
"You shouldn't be. You must be well aware of your abilities. I'm only commenting on what should be perfectly obvious to any one who comes in contact with you." He paused. "If I might get personal, Miss Wanzer ... "
"Yes, Mr. Pauley?"
"I'm wondering about marriage prospects. In light of your future with Spainlouis, of course. Are you interested in someone at the moment?"
"No," she smiled wryly, wondering what he'd say if she spoke the truth, told him just who she was interested in. "I guess I'm not the type. I'll probably die in the harness. There just hasn't been time for things like that it seems."
"Oh? Most women make time."
"Not this woman." She hurriedly attempted to dispel aura of formidability in his eyes. "I'm sure, however, that one of these days...."
"I certainly hope so. You're too beautiful a bloom to die on the vine...."
"Why, thank you, Mr. Pauley. That's the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me." Then, her judgment blurred, she foolishly rattled on. "And you? Are you married?"
"No," he smiled thinly. "And I'm sure you knew before you asked. I was married. Twice. With some people once burned is twice warned. But not me. It took me two lessons before I learned." His eyes grew very dark, very bitter, almost as if he was angry at Nila for bringing up the subject. "I have some very dour outlooks on male-female relationships en toto, I'm afraid."
He forced a crooked grin. "If I once get started on my opinions of marriage, of women in general ... I mean in a romantic sense, of course ... I'd advise you to pick up your skirts and run. It wouldn't be nice at all."
Nila's heart sank. Now she'd got it straight from the horse's mouth. But at the same time she sensed an inexplicable compassion and pity. Just seeing that desperate look in his eyes, that crumpled something about his mouth-She was touched deeply, filled with the most idiotic, compulsive yearning to know Pauley better.
"Yes, Mr. Pauley," she breathed, feeling that she'd just been scolded somehow. I won't bring the subject up again."
"Now about this policy conference this afternoon," he said. "If you'll buzz the proper offices, remind them. Mr. Sorel especially. He's been pretty hard to track down lately. I want him present this afternoon."
"Certainly, sir." With that Nila retrieved her note pad, scurried from the office, a strange sense of defeat dogging her.
Back at her desk she composed her notes, readied herself to call the offices of all the policy executives. But for long moments, her thoughts, her remembrance of the just-concluded exchange with Pauley immobilized her. What had those women done to him? To cut him up like this? Those eyes-the way he looked at me like someone had torn the heart out of him, left him an empty shell, devoid of feeling, fit only to concentrate on career, on amassing wealth and power.
Idiot! she lashed herself, shaking up from her reverie. Moonstruck idiot! What do you think you're doing? Feeling sorry for a strong, self-possessed man like this? A man who can't see you, any woman, for dirt. You think he needs your pity? Forget it!
But it was easier said than done. God, she wailed inwardly, why this urge to know him, to touch him, to understand him? There was no denying the compulsion. If I could just touch him, talk to him intimately! If I could get to know what they did to him. If I could help him in some small way! Once just once-
And now, as Nila felt her eyes flood and blur, she truly cursed herself. She used words she'd seen on rest room walls, a rare thing for her.
Then when they'd done their deadly work, routed her maudlin thoughts, she made her phone calls.
And returned to reality, she could almost discredit the crazy thing that had happened to her.
There were eight men present in conference room A at 2:00 that afternoon. A disgruntled Byron Sorel, sales manager, sat exactly opposite the firm's president. Ed Trapp, chief chemist, flanked him. Wyman Mackay, ad-promotion, sat beside him. Across the table and next to Pauley was Marshall Scotti, production manager. Doctors Tully and Allen, had also been asked to sit in on the media session. As well as Matt Kurtz, the firm's legal advisor.
Then, to take pertinent notes: Nila Wanzer.
Everyone sat stiffly, apprehensively, made bum jokes and small talk as they waited for Pauley to begin the meeting. It was the first general media session they'd had since Pauley had officially taken over. A few studied the agenda bulletin Nila had placed at each place. Some doodled on pads. A thing that evidently irritated Cort Pauley.
"Gentlemen," he said finally, standing, fixing each of them with a baleful, slightly contemptuous glance, "this meeting will set a precedent, I hope, as a working meeting. We have many things to discuss today, I expect each of you to carry your full weight. This is, in a sense, a brainstorming session, I'm seeking new ideas on the Christmas promotion. So everyone keep on your toes."
Sorel exchanged a sarcastic smile with Mackey. While the others mostly kept their eyes glued to their agenda sheets. When Pauley glared at Sorel, the man assumed a serious, respectful mien.
"The main project," Pauley continued, sitting now, "is the Christmas promotion, the Candy Cane line. I don't know who chose this name ... you, Wyman, I expect ... but I don't mind telling you I'm not happy with it. To be blunt, it stinks!"
"But, Cort...." Mackey defended. "We can't just ditch it like that. The ad agency's already working on it. They're making preliminary mock-ups, packages, banners, bottles, the whole works....
"They'll have to junk the whole works," Pauley snapped. "You had no authorization to order that campaign."
Mackey rose in self-righteous indignation. "Perhaps not, Cort. But in the old days Christian left those decisions to me. He...."
"Perhaps that's why Christian almost drove this business into the ground during his last year here. That's why Spainlouis lost ten million in sixty-five. I'm going to say this once more, and I won't say it again. Christian Lenelle isn't here any more, I am. His business policies will be decided by me, I don't care how damned small they might be. At least until this outfit is on a solid footing once more."
A deadly silence fell on the room. Nila averted her eyes, thought that Pauley was going out of his way to make enemies. She was certainly glad it wasn't in her domain to make policy.
"We are selling only one thing here. Pauley continued. Illusion. Call it romance if you like, call it hope even. I prefer illusion. The stuff we put in those bottles, as you well know, is nothing more than mineral oil, glycerin, high-whipped lard, chalk and chemical dyes. All of it supposedly sterile, germ-free, safe for use on the human skin.
"Those lipsticks we sell cost us five cents each. The tubes cost us more than the gunk itself. Are you telling me we're selling lipstick for two bucks? No, we're selling these women sheer illusion. If they use First Blush make-up they'll be beautiful for hubby, for the meter man, for their lover, whichever way they want it. Or so we've made them believe.
"We're selling advertising. It all begins in the brain, works its way down the body, into the arms and fingers. And finally, into the pocket book. That's what's keeping all you gold-bricks in those cushy jobs of yours.
"Last year the cosmetics industry grossed roughly fourteen billion. I'd venture a guess that their actual costs were less than four-billion; advertising took up another five-billion of that total. Which leaves something like five-billion in profits. Our aim, gentlemen, in simplest terms, is to get out share.
"Okay, enough of this. You didn't come here for statistics. You came here to do a job. To sell cosmetics. And we have to understand that basic premise. How many over-the-hill bags plunked down seven bucks a jar for our Nutrient X, our miraculous skin rejuvenating cream, last year? How about it, Byron?"
"Offhand, Cort. I'd say roughly, about two million or so."
"Two million. Can you feature that? When the stuff costs us two-bits a bottle to make? When it's been officially proven by the A. M. A., the F. D.A., a whole gang of other A's, that estrogen hormones are absolutely useless as a skin restorant? That the only benefits accruing are from the cream base itself? Which is nothing but specially treated mineral oil?
"And so long as we don't hurt anybody, so long as we don't make any false claims for our product, the F. D. A.'ll leave us alone. After all, lets face it, when did mineral oil ever hurt anybody's skin? You put enough on a piece of shoe leather, it's bound to make it soft. Just by virtue of application and constant massage."
Pauley laughed. "The ironic part is that if we took an honest mark-up, charged a dollar a jar, the dumb broads wouldn't touch it. They'd rush off to some other company that charged higher prices. Illusion, you see, doesn't come cheap. Even the suckers know that."
Pauley became impatient. "Enough of that. I've made my point, I think. Back to the Christmas promotion. Candy Cane is definitely out. Now, let's see some of you earn your money. From the floor. Some alternate names. Something romantic."
Instantly everyone fell silent, squirmed. Pauley stared disdainfully at Mackey. "How about it, Wyman? You're supposed to be the big idea man."
Mackey shrugged. "I don't know, boss. You don't just pull those things out of the air." He paused, his eyes lit up. "How about Christmas Lace?"
"Christmas Lace?" Pauley sneered. "That's romantic? Reminds me of that white collar my grandmother used to wear. And what's with this Christmas shtick? We've gotta sell this thing the rest of the year too."
His eyes skewered Mackey like a bug on a pin. "Something you old timers should remember from my predecessor. That's the fact that Christian Lenelle knew how to sell. He knew that our business begins in the bedroom."
Now he stared each man down. "Lenelle's only trouble was that he got careless, he started resting on his laurels. Looks to me like that's the same thing the rest of you are doing." He chuckled tauntingly. "Only substitute keister for laurels. I'm here to warn you. Either start hustling or clear out."
His eyes came to Byron Sorel, stopped. "And that means all of you." His face was hard, fanatic. "Spainlouis is going to be the world's biggest again. I mean that! Those of you who want to fade out like Lenelle did ... Just keep gathering moss."
He turned on Nila. "Make a note, Miss Wanzer. One week from today. Another skull session. I want some ideas for the Christmas promotion. From everybody!"
He ruffled through his papers. "Now. On to other things."
Among the other things was a report by Dr. Tully on a totally new breakthrough on the skin rejuvenator horizon. A Swedish doctor had discovered a new vegetable hormone, had offered its development to Spainlouis. There would be a crash program, the Paris labs were already commencing intensive research, the New York and Oakland labs would soon follow suit. There was strong evidence that this was the miracle skin treatment the beauty industry had sought for centuries. And now, Spainlouis had the corner on it.
"You might think about names for that one too, while you're at it," Pauley interjected here. "And none of this Nutrient X jazz. Something with sex appeal, with pizazz."
A routine critique on departmental procedures under the Pauley regime followed. Blunt, hard-hitting criticisms of each man present fell like hammer blows. Until the defiant, belligerent Byron Sorel was finally reached.
Cort Pauley let him have it with both barrels.
"We have been getting altogether too many gripes from our wholesalers and dealers, Byron," he accused. "Too damned many shipments have been arriving late, in bad order. In too many cases orders have been bollixed up, people are getting the wrong thing. It doesn't take much of this to break down dealer morale. And once the competition gets it's foot in the door...."
"That ain't my department," Byron protested. "That's production. That's the way Christian always...."
"Damn Christian!" Pauley bellowed. "And damn you! I hear that feeble excuse one more time, I'll throw somebody out on their ear. That's your beat, understand! You're the sales manager. You see to sales."
A partner in Villa Spainlouis since its inception, Sorel had never been spoken to like this. His face went livid, his jaw tensed, bulged. "So?" he called back, not intimidated. "Who's kicking?"
"Hollister in Chicago for one. Telco in St Louis. But you'd know that yourself. If you ever stayed in your office long enough to read your mail."
"Okay," Sorel alibied lamely, "so I'll fly out and talk to them. Straighten things out with them. Old Jake and I are...."
"You'd fly nowhere, Sorel! Why don't you try fixing the problem at this end? Where it exists? I'm sick of this gadding around of yours, this never finding you in your office. While you're out glad-handing, buying dinners, broads ... anything to nail down orders."
"We used to...."
"We used to do a lot of things in this business, Sorel. When it was penny-ante action. But now were top dogs. We've got the products. They come to us. We treat them right, we ship on time, and ship the right thing. You get that? Forget this wheeler-dealer bit. Quit freeloading! Start earning your money!"
Pauley's scowling face was a foot from Sorel's. "You either shape up or ship out, Byron. You haven't got Lenelle here to carry you along for old times' sake any more. I mean that. You've got a week to get those accounts straightened out or get out!"
For what seemed an eternity after Pauley finished, the room was still as a tomb. While Sorel, disgraced, humbled, stared at the table, his jaw working, his eyes defiant, vengeful.
Now, Pauley's voice strained, sibilant: "That will be all for today, gentlemen."
Sorel bolted out of the door like someone had tied a can to his tail.
Nila pretended to organize her notes, was the last to leave. She felt drained, wooden as he departed. She was glad she wasn't a man, that she didn't have to face a thing like that which she'd just witnessed. And beyond this:
Why had Pauley done it? What had driven him to single out one un-likely victim like that, ride him so viciously, so unmercifully?
"No, Byron," Gisele protested. "Not now. Not when you're in this kind of mood. Please, you'll tear my dress."
The door to Sorel's inner and outer office was locked. The intercom was turned off. So far as anybody else knew he'd checked out, had dismissed his secretary as well. And now, Gisele backed up in one corner of his inner office-
The humiliated, furious man was passing the buck. He was taking out his anger and frustration on some one else. Someone immeasurably weaker, more helpless than Cort Pauley.
"Shut up!" he spat. "I'll tell you when and where. Lay there like the good little piggy you are, take whatever I wanna dish out. Unless you want your tail booted out of this office for good. Out of that fancy apartment as well."
"Please, Byron. What's got into you? You're hurting...."
"It's not what got into me," he chuckled sadistically, tearing away her bra, twirling her nipples painfully, "it's what's gonna get into you." His hands tore at her dress. "Get outta those rags, you pig. Before I rip 'em off you."
Now, in just her garter belt, hosiery and shoes, Byron merely dropping his trousers, the hapless secretary became whipping boy. She was thrown back onto the leather davenport, she moaned a last protest. As with one ruthless lunge, the man took her.
The late afternoon sun glistened on her olive skinned arms, cm her agonized face as she dazedly strained against his cave-man assault. "Byron ... this isn't like you."
"It's me baby," he snuffled. "You better believe it. Here, take this! How does that feel?" He pinched her, sharply, made her scream. "I said ... how does that feel?"
And Gisele knew what he wanted now. She pumped sincerity into her voice. "That feels wonderful, Byron, simply wonderful."
His body worked faster, more brutally. "The words, you animal. Use 'em! All of 'em. Tell me."
The paean to lust began. And shortly, as his victory neared-His own vicious, guttersnipe litany began. And the sick whines-
CHAPTER FOUR
A STRANGE DETERMINATION--PRODUCT OF MANY doubts, frustrations and disenchantments-had formed within Nila during the past weeks. A change in her whole philosophy which, so far as she could see, dated back to Pauley's arrival at Villa Spainlouis.
She slept poorly, moved in a listless trance during her working hours. Nights in her apartment were torture; she flung herself into meaningless activities, all excuses to escape those four walls, to kill time. There had been one date, but it had amounted to absolutely nothing; the man had been a deadly bore.
Only when she was in her private sanctum, when Pauley was present when she was attending to vital chores relating to him, did she seemingly come alive.
Only then did her life have any meaning.
And where had her goals gone? Where once she'd found her career sufficient, where once her work had been all-Why this gnawing emptiness now? This indescribable yearning, a virtual longing for dependency.
How could such be? The cold, efficient Nila Wanzer, automaton deluxe? Actually wanting someone to lean on? Wanting someone to take care of her, protect her?
And what lunacy, what idiotic adventure would result from a recklessness like that which infected her now?
What, actually, did she want?
Even the momentous, exciting things brewing at Spainlouis didn't seem to register as they would have in times past. An electric current seemingly pervaded, there was talk of nothing else but the new skin reinvigorator. The first Paris reports were in, and though only the higher-ups were supposed to know, the entire office staff buzzed about the glowing first tests, the miracle hormone was to be the salvation of womankind.
The Christmas promotion was foremost, of course, and little by little the blockbuster campaign was falling into shape. The name hadn't been chosen as yet, but on the morrow-Still another media conference loomed.
And if that wasn't enough there were the thousand-and-one details of any routine working day. The testing reports, the marketing summaries, the correspondence with dealers, with suppliers, with independent laboratories developing potential products. There was the matter of training department store demonstrators, assigning their itineraries, seeing to expenses and salary for same.
There were letters from cranks who were dissatisfied with the Spainlouis line; there were constant requests from charitable organizations who thought the cosmetics industry-a guilty party by its very association with vanity-should contribute to countless causes. Ironically enough, some of these censuring sources actually asked for shipments of Spainlouis products to be given as door prizes, or even (laughably) to be raffled off at church bazaars and the like.
All of which, eventually, crossed Nila's desk. As, true to his word, the fanatical Pauley was keeping his finger in almost every pie. It was Nila's job to screen these reports and correspondence, to okay, in his name, the countless assignments and vouchers. For as his personal secretary, a very savvy female, a pillar of the firm, she was allowed to make such minor decisions.
She was truly Cort Pauley's right hand man.
And as such she was subject to a barrage of wheedling, suggestions, prying from the rest of the administrative staff, there were countless attempts to curry favor with her, get the inside track on pet projects and projected programs.
One might think, Nila often mused, with pressures like these, that there wouldn't be time for the doldrums in which she found herself. There shouldn't be time for nagging thoughts.
Like, for instance, thoughts of Pauley.
Especially when they were so preposterously stupid, so hopeless and futile!
Relationship? What relationship?
He dictated, commanded, sent her on a thousand different errands. He was puppet master, she the puppet. She was a well-oiled machine that sat in the corner of the office, merely waited for him to turn her off and on. And beyond that?
Relationship? It was to laugh.
This morning Nila sat on her side of Pauley's desk. Dressed in a very flattering pink gown, her legs looking exceptionally sleek, her hair perfect, her eyes bright and alert for a change, her face smooth, clear and velvety, she'd thought he'd notice her. But no. There was only the pile of correspondence, the appointment schedule, the routine long-distance calls.
She was used to his madcap pace, she could anticipate many of his demands by now. And though she realized that she was invaluable, that no other woman living could step into her shoes at this moment, it still wasn't enough. If Cort didn't notice her as a woman, as a person even-
Now, at long last the dictation was finished. She awaited last minute instructions and reminders. She noted her skirt had climbed, but in fatalistic challenge left it. Perhaps Cort would notice that. She purposely rocked one leg over the other. His eyes settled on her lovely legs, flicked away.
"You will remind the staff of the media meeting," he said. "Ten, I think. We're overdue on it already. The Christmas season'll be on us before we know it." Nila smiled wryly. Christmas. And it's only April.
"By the way, Miss Wanzer, what was your reaction to that last meeting? Lots of deadwood there, huh? I was wondering ... any ideas on the name?"
She averted her eyes. "That's hardly my line."
"I suppose so. But just out of curiosity. A female reaction. How about that Christmas shade? Romantic?"
"It's rather dark for my tastes. Especially with the light trend. But then, I suppose a dark shade ... in the lipsticks especially ... is seductive."
"I agree. Then that nut comes up with Candy Cane."
"That was unfortunate. But it was only tentative."
"Tentative, hell! They'd have used it if I hadn't lowered the boom."
Nila fell silent, felt that eternal rush of hot excitement within her. A feeling no other man had ever been able to inspire within her. She particularly loved these moments when they exchanged semi-personal remarks. When he treated her like more than a machine. "I have thought about that name...." she said.
"And what did you come up with?"
"Well ... keying on the lipstick color ... it's got a lot of orange in it ... I thought of brandy! The way brandy glistens by candlelight ... by firelight. Perhaps Brandy by Candlelight? Maybe firelight would be better. That suggests peace, a more intimate sharing...."
"Hey!" Pauley said, his eyes glowing, "that's great! You've got an ear for advertising, Nila ... Miss Wanzer. If I didn't need you so damned bad here I'd can that Mackey, give you his job. I'll bring that one up myself tomorrow. You don't mind? If we use it, I'll see to it that you get your cut."
Nila flushed in pleasure. "I didn't expect anything like that. It just came to me."
"Let things like that keep coming to you. I think that's a winner. Now start working on that new skin lotion."
She laughed gaily, felt a sudden lift in her heart. "I'll do that little thing." She rose. "Will that be all, Mr. Pauley?"
His eyes impaled her, held her. "That's a very pretty dress, Miss Wanzer," he said. "You should wear pink more often; it flatters you. Not that you need flattering. I like your hair that way."
"Why, thank you, Mr. Pauley." Now her heart truly soared.
"You are beautiful." Suddenly his mouth firmed. "For a woman, that is. I suppose that's all they have to trade on."
The hopelessness was back. "That's a very cruel thing to say, Mr. Pauley."
He never flinched. "Perhaps. Only it happens to be the truth. Once a person takes stock, faces reality. I speak from experience." He grimaced. "Painful experience."
Nila's stomach constricted; she knew that insane yearning again. She wanted to reach out to him, gather him in her arms, hold him. She turned, averted her face. His words brought her back with an astonished gasp.
"Tell me, Miss Wanzer," he said, matter-of-factly. "The truth, please. Do you think I'm a son of a witch?
Everybody else around here does."
It was an incredible thing for a man in his position to say, one of the most revealing insights he'd ever given her. "Mr. Pauley," she stammered, "I'm sure that's not so."
"The truth, Miss Wanzer. I have no pretty illusion myself. Sometimes I think I'm a son of a bitch myself. God knows I haven't gone out of my way to win any popularity contests around here."
"You're being much too hard on yourself."
"I suppose you think I'm an ogre too. The way I fired all those people when I took over. Christmas and all ... "
"It did cause lots of talk. Bitterness was bound to develop."
"I know. I wonder if people ever stop to think what it's like to be in my shoes. Sure, they see the power and the money, a stratum of attainment. But they don't see the terrifying responsibility, the pressure. If they had to live my life for just ten minutes...." He ducked his head, his mouth a fixed snarl.
He looked at Nila directly. "What they don't realize is the pitiful shape this house was in when I bought it. We had a reputation, and that's about all. How close to disaster we were they'll never begin to know. It was a matter of firing all those people or going under completely. None of you would have had a job, understand?"
His voice rose, became a growl. "Of course I can't tell anybody that. T don't have to explain any thing to anybody. But short-sighted creeps that they are, they'll go on hating me till the day I die." His fists clenched now, his face was anguished. "The hell with them."
"Mr. Pauley...." Nila thought to cut off the embarrassing breakdown.
"No, let me finish. This company still isn't out of the woods. There are still too many people here who aren't hauling their weight. I inherited them from Lenelle, took them on a stopgap basis until I could do better. After all, I needed somebody with experience, somebody who knew the inner workings. And they're letting me down."
His eyes were bleak. "Do you ... do any of you realize I'm gambling, that I stand to lose my entire fortune on this venture? If I don't bring Spainlouis out of this? Those fools!" His voice broke. "What they did to this company...."
Abruptly he got hold of himself. "I'm sorry, Miss Wanzer. I guess I got carried away. I had to tell somebody. It gets so lonely at the top sometimes. I hope I didn't embarrass you. I won't let it happen again."
"It's perfectly all right, Mr. Pauley. I've never thought about things quite like that. I'm glad you told me. I...." She shuffled in place. "If you ever...." She caught herself in time.
While her mind raged: If you ever want to talk to somebody again-Please, Cort. Talk to me!
Back at her desk she buried her face in her hands, actually stifled hot, choking tears. That man! That poor, lost man! And she thought how close-how disastrously close-she'd come to running to him, embracing him, comforting him. The ache had been almost intolerable; she'd wanted to howl.
And now, at long last, Nila had to face herself, she had to admit the truth. There was no mistaking this terrible thing that had happened to her. She was in love with Cort Pauley-hopelessly, childishly, deliriously in love with him!
What was the trite, common expression? Head over heels in love with him!
And where was the future? There was none, absolutely none. For maimed, embittered, a conditioned hate response to women inbred within him-thinking them all vain, petty, spiritually bankrupt, nothing but scheming gold diggers-he wouldn't look up from his blasted power-lust long enough to see women as they really were.
God, she thought, after all this time, after all my fancy dreams, my idealized fantasies of my Mr. Wonderful-Of all the men I might have fallen for--Not sensitive, not handsome, not cultured. A bullheaded, self-centered, ambition-driven man, a man in whose eyes a woman would eternally take second place. If there was any place at all for her in his life, she concluded dourly.
And there wasn't, she raged. There never would be.
What was the use of ever hoping? It couldn't be! It simply couldn't be!
Nila felt like someone had just gouged out her heart with a rusty spoon. God, how do people get themselves into things like this?
Of all the men I could have fallen in love with, she refrained, fighting the choking fire in her throat. He doesn't qualify on any count. Except for that most important one of all-I love him with all my heart.
She wanted to scream with frustration. She wanted to crawl into some dark corner and cry her eyes out.
Yet, even in the midst of this deadly impasse, there a grim restlessness prevailed, vengeance prowled her heart. Vengeance against a world that had thrown her into such an emotional snake pit. A fanatic determination festered, grew, gained irresistible strength.
Nila wasn't one to drink much. But tonight, a driven woman, she'd purposely courted alcoholic limbo, she'd cost her date (one Bruce Ryan, a top-notch Spainlouis road representative, a handsome, suave operator of thirty, a man who'd worked two years to batter down the "Great-White-Goddess' " defenses) a pretty penny in drinks.
And now, rocky to the point of slurred speech, she was ripe for the kill. Ryan, already counting coup, mentally carved what he hoped was the first of many notches on Nila's bedpost.
Amazed at the ease with which things had gone tonight (the fact that Nila had invited him up to her apartment for a nightcap without any prodding on his part definitive proof of her fall from grace), he was positive he'd score before another hour was out. Conceited male that he was, he wondered if he hadn't given up too soon those other times he'd tried dating her.
Of course he couldn't begin to know of the destructive forces at large within Nila. He couldn't know that what had begun as idle, self-amused conjecture in the earlier part of the evening, had now, liquor-fueled, assumed the status of a holy vow. He couldn't know that this was a rebound, that Nila had decided, once and for all, to prove something to herself. To find out once and for all what this human mystery-as regards man and woman-was all about.
Until, somewhere along about I p.m., a third rum Manhattan singing merrily along the wires, she'd made up her mind. Damned if she wouldn't do it! she thought woozily.
And since Doris had gone upstate to visit her parents for the weekend (it was Friday), since she didn't relish the idea of returning to that empty apartment, adding another lonely night to the too many lonely nights preceding it-
Since it was fait accompli that she couldn't have Cort under any circumstances, that he'd never see or accept the love she held for him-Why shouldn't she find out what the whole thing was all about? She'd saved herself for that one right man. And now that he'd come and gone, hadn't even seen her-who or what was she saving herself for?
It was that time. Time to find out once and for all.
After all, she'd concluded fuzzily as they'd taxied to her apartment, as she'd let Bruce kiss her, maybe she'd waited too long. For all she knew she was doing herself physical harm by remaining chaste. She'd giggled to herself. Who knew? If she didn't get with it soon, the damned thing might heal over.
And so-
"There's just whiskey, honey," Nila said, swaying her way back from the kitchen. "Not even any mix. Will that do?"
"Fine. Drown a couple ice cubes." He smiled at her wolfishly, all but licked his chops. The dark green satin, a figure-hugging thing, the matching pumps, her sleek, slim legs triggered even more lust in him. The way her coppery hair was slightly disheveled, the gamin, almost licentious glint in her eye. Brother-
Nila returned with the drinks, placed them on the cocktail table before the davenport. Then, in case Ryan still hadn't got the message, she found soft music on the radio, proceeded to turn off all the lamps in the room but one. This she turned to its lowest level.
Her eyes mischievous, smoky, she made an exaggerated show of crossing the room, arranging herself beside Bruce. Now, baby, she thought tipsily, your move.
"Nice place you've got here," he said. "You've got excellent taste."
Nila didn't answer. An erotic tingling deep in her body, she sipped her drink, stared at him over the rim of her glass, her look, teasing, unmistakable.
Her heart hammered with expectation when his right arm rose, dropped about her shoulders. And while she'd had men embrace her, paw her before, this was quite different. She'd never been wild to surrender before.
She made no protest, let herself go limp as Bruce drew her closer, as he lifted her chin, positioned her mouth. Her eyes went to sultry half mast. She sighed, purposely let her lips drift apart.
So that when his lips closed that gap, compressed on hers, Ryan found a saucy, pointed tongue already poised, eager to play. His head swam, his legs began to tremble. The doll must be on make-out pills.
He sighed in gratitude, crushed that elegant, pliant body to his, he kissed with feverish, greedy passion. He brought his tongue to play. And as the two demons fenced and invaded, as their heads abandonedly rocked-
His left hand dropped slowly, came to rest on the silky surface of Nila's knee. Slowly, cautiously not wanting to spook his quarry, he began sliding his hand on her calf. And now above her knee, gingerly venturing his fingers beneath her skirt.
Nila, an enervating dizziness and impatience invading, made no move to stop him. And when he bent her back still further on the davenport, poured kiss after kiss to her flaming, bruised lips, she surrendered to that exotic oblivion. She wallowed in mounting, burning sensuality. Her nipples felt hard, like they were on fire.
More, she thought. Oooh, baby wants more. She exulted in her abandon, courted intensification of same. A tremor ripped her, a long, yearning sigh broke from her throat.
At which Ryan went wild, was positive that it was all routine from here on in. And perhaps, had he been more patient, the bird might have been in the hand.
But no, greedy, arrogant male to the core-
He slipped off the davenport, knelt on the floor. Still holding the kiss, grinding his lips mercilessly into hers, the sadism inspiring even more sexuality, he slid his hand up inside the smart bolero jacket she wore over the flouncy blouse, he began fondling and roiling her taut, blooming breasts.
And when Nila tolerated this, when her body began to switch, her sighs coming fast now, he gently unbuttoned the jacket, began working on the blouse buttons. Then, his arm at awkward angle, he slipped his right hand inside the cup of her black brassiere, he captured that entire, smallish, exquisite breast in his palm.
Nila lurched, moaned, thought the sensation incredibly delicious. And yet she wondered at her wanton surrender. After all these years of restraint, she mused. All of a sudden I'm such a pushover? Oh, Brucie. That feels so good-
Everything happened as if in a dream after that. With Nila dazed, intoxicated, desire-infected, a limp, compliant victim, letting him move-her, do anything he wanted to her. All too soon she found herself lying in just her lingerie, her clothes a balled tangle on the floor. She found herself with her knees up, her high heels digging into the upholstery.
Then her nipples knurled, actually stung. As the black nylon brassiere was deftly unfastened, pulled from her. Then the pain was lifted. As Ryan's lips affixed themselves to those troubled tips, as his tongue laved and soothed in a vastly beautiful way.
Sighed, sealed and delivered, Ryan gloated.
Then he made his mistake. Still attending her breasts, he left his free hand slide down her body. To her waist, to the puffing bowl of belly in the stiff, satin paneled girdle. And now to that very heart of her femininity-
He closed his hand, pinched harder than he intended. And supremely confident, cocksure, he chuckled thickly. "Oh, baby," he gloated. "What a beautiful little...." He used a basic vulgarism.
The pain in that tender area, coupled with the crude language, worked with stunning effect upon Nila. And where conscience, innate decency had been helpless against her raging lust-This insult, trademark of every contact she'd ever had with men her whole life long, proved effective, dispelled passion instantly. Nila felt like someone had just splashed cold water on her, had slapped her in the bargain.
"Those long legs," he continued unwittingly. "Sexy gams ... They drive me crazy. When I think about those wound around me...."
And she felt cheap, mean. She felt crawly, knew that if she didn't escape this animal's touch this very moment she'd vomit where she lay.
Abruptly she rolled, pulled away from the overconfident man. "No!" she gritted. "That's it, Bruce. Don't touch me again. Get out! I want you out of here."
He came up on his knees, his face anguished as if in actual pain. His eyes bulged, his mouth gaped and fluttered as he sought for words. "Baby," he groaned. "What is this? What kind of games you playing anyway?" He began to crawl toward her.
And seeing him like that, reduced to his basic animality, ready to rape her if necessary, Nila recognized a basic truth. I love Cort, she raged, I love him more than life! If I can't have Cort, I don't want anybody! What could I have been thinking? If I never have a man-If I never find out-
She raced for her room, slammed the door, locked it. And when she heard Bruce working the knob, slamming the panels with his fists, when she heard his thick, stertorous gruntings, his whines of frustration-
"Get out, Bruce," she grated. "There's a phone in here. I'll call the police, I swear, if you aren't out of here in two minutes."
"You teaser!" she heard him bellow. "You dirty rotten teaser! You're lower than filth. To come on like you did, practically rape me. What're you trying to prove? You know you want it. Open up, damn you! Before I knock this door down."
Nila adapted her most imperious tone, virtually chewed out the words. "I'm warning you, Bruce. Out. Right now. Before I call the police. You'll have more trouble than you bargained for. You had your fun ... your feel. That's it."
She heard his wounded gurglings, his poundings became less forceful. Now they stopped altogether.
Until finally, his pitch of passion extinguished, he regained control. Still he stood outside that door, cursed Nila, called her every rotten name under the sun. Which she didn't mind, actually felt she deserved.
She heard him roaming the living room, preparing to leave. At the last he returned, shouted his repetitious epithet at her a last time. "Teaser. Rotten teaser." The embellishing words he used now were unutterably vile.
Then he was gone; he slammed the door furiously.
But Nila didn't hear. For she was now sprawled on the bed, face down, great, shrill barks of agony wracking her. She sobbed uncontrollably.
CHAPTER FIVE
THAT FOLLOWING MONDAY MORNING AT 10:30, Marlene Lang returned to haunt the already amply troubled Spainlouis domain. And Nila Wanzer, standing guard outside Pauley's office, was stunned, was sure she was seeing a ghost. And when she could finally speak:
"My God, Marlene. You're the last person I ever ... "
"Surprise, surprise, Nila. The bad penny returns. How've you been?" She surveyed the office, assessed Nila. "Looks like you made out okay since the change over. Pauley in?"
"Yes...." Nila said, caught flat-footed. "But he's busy. I'm afraid that without an appointment ... "
"Save that stuff for the peasants, Nila. Give Pauley a buzz, tell him who's here. He'll see me."
Stupidly, not knowing just what to do, Nila did just that. Even as she called Mr. Pauley, she stared at Marlene, took in her chic-yet-somehow-flashy suit, her hairdo, her over-heavy makeup. Try as Marlene might to effect supreme confidence, there was something missing in that once-beautiful face. Things hadn't gone well at all for the one-time Spainlouis figurehead. Nila knew intermixed glee and pity. Even arrogant, lord-it-over-the-help mistresses get their come-uppance sooner or later, she thought.
"Mr. Pauley, Miss Lang is out here. She'd like to see you. She insisted I ring you."
"Lang?" he said incredulously. "Marlene Lang?"
"Yes, sir."
There was a long pause. "Send her in, please." Marlene shot Nila a victorious, taunting smile as she sailed into Pauley's office. "Cort, darling," Nila heard just before the door slammed shut.
And Nila sat in fuming, puzzled silence, trying to figure this unexpected turn.
Nila's mind slipped back. To the time when Marlene Lang had been a nationally known household name. When the beautiful blonde, 22 then, working herself up from a secretarial job, had become Christian Lenelle's mistress, had become "Lady Marlene" on the Spainlouis-sponsored TV series, had done all the commercials for the house.
And if this hadn't been enough there were the magazine advertisements, the newspaper spreads, the personal appearance tours all over the nation. Until Marlene's smart, elegant features were known everywhere, her face synonymous with Villa Spainlouis.
"The Spainlouis Girl" she'd been called. At least until Lenelle, the whole crew, had grown careless about keeping the Spainlouis image in perfect repair. Until Lenelle had become more interested in boudoir than business.
At the end, as the TV show was withdrawn, as their ad accounts had diminished, Marlene had faded into the background, had been content to be a mere kept woman.
When Lenelle had sold out, Marlene had checked out with him.
And now she was back.
No good could come of it, that was certain, Nila concluded acidly. That cheap tart had always meant trouble.
Now, thinking of her alone in there with Cort, she knew jealousy. And to counteract the irritation: There was no doubt about it, Marlene's beauty was on the wane. Her make-up had been all but troweled on, the crow's-feet lines about her eyes were noticeable. Her birdy jumpings, her facial twitchings indicated too much booze. The four months since her departure had obviously not been good ones. What had happened between her and Christian?
"Christian's just been impossible," Marlene was telling Pauley at that moment, she sitting before him, her skirts purposely high, not caring at all that an abundance of white thigh was displayed. "Ever since he sold out he's been like a caged animal. He drinks too much, is constantly in a foul mood. I just couldn't take it any more. We're all done. I came to you straight off, Cort. In the hope that you might have something for me. I've been going crazy too. It's not easy, after working all your life, to suddenly have nothing to do." Pauley stared at her intently, let his thoughts race. How the mighty have fallen, he mused. "And just what, Marlene, have you in mind? To do, I mean?"
"I don't know exactly. I don't expect I could do the TV stuff any more. But I do know the ropes. Maybe I could do some sort of publicity work, hit some of the conventions or something. I think I could still sell lots of cosmetics for you."
Pauley considered the proposition. And plagued by an uncharacteristic guilt, a feeling that he owed this girl-one of those people responsible for building Spainlouis up once-upon-a-time-something, he hedged. "Perhaps you've got an idea there. I'd have to give it some thought. We don't do much of that sort of thing any more. But that doesn't mean we couldn't."
"It doesn't have to be that," the girl smiled, staring directly into his eyes, her look sultry. Already she was speculating. Rapacious, avaricious she-cat, she imagined herself installed as his mistress. "I can do anything. I was a secretary before I became Lady Marlene."
"Well. I hardly think we should expect you to do anything like that," Pauley said, cursing this nagging sense of obligation. "Perhaps you might be interested in helping train our demonstrator girls. Our present instructor isn't working out."
"Wonderful," Marlene said. "I did that for a while too. I could pick it up quickly."
"I'm not promising anything, Marlene. But I will give it some thought. If you'll leave your address with Miss Wanzer...."
Marlene's face fell slightly. Selfish egotist, she'd expected to be hired on the spot; she'd truly believed Pauley would jump at the chance to hire her back, her dubious reputation to the contrary.
"Surely, Cort," she barked. "I can't tell you how much I appreciate your seeing me, this consideration. You'll let me know as soon as possible? I do have other prospects." She rose, gave him a leisurely thigh flash in the process.
"It's been wonderful seeing you again, Cort," she offered her hand. "I think it would be the most exciting thing in the world to work with you. I've heard the most fascinating things about you."
Then she was sauntering from his office, taking deliberate pains to lock her knees, the trick causing her hips to roll exaggeratedly, making her perky buttocks bob and chum like twin pistons inside her tight skirt.
Byron Sorel was waiting outside his office when Marlene emerged from Pauley's sanctum; he greeted the tigress-bodied female effusively, his face wreathed in genuine joy. "Marlene, baby," he chuckled, "I heard you were here. It's all over the place. God, if you aren't a sight for sore eyes. C'mon in, we've got lots of talking to do."
After the cold reception from Pauley, Sorel's sincere welcome helped restore her confidence. And once inside Sorel's inner office, she clung to him, actually let her eyes film over. "Byron, baby," she sighed, "it is good to see you again. Everything's gone to hell."
"Yeah, I heard."
"You heard? From where?"
He winked. "Oh, I got sources. You know the old king. Finger in every pie."
"It's the truth. He's drinking like a fish. Nobody can get along with him. He's like a ship without a rudder. Ever since he sold out. I tried to talk him out of it, but he wouldn't listen."
Sorel's smile was sly. "Christian had no choice. We were going under for the third time. He did the wise thing. I wish I'd been as smart."
"Oh? How is this Pauley jerk? I hit him for a job, he kinda put me off."
"A real square. Spit-and-polish from the word go. Rims this place like a concentration camp."
"And business?"
"Business? We got business coming out of our ears. A regular guy he ain't. But business he knows. How's Christian?"
"Like I said, a regular alky. He was stone drunk when I walked out on him. Besides, I think he's got himself another woman."
Sorel chuckled. "Another broad, huh? Sounds just like old Christian, a guy who loves a good time."
"A sinking ship," Marlene snarled. "I got off just in time. Her eyes narrowed. "Hey, you wouldn't happen to have a drink around here?"
"Drink? Hell, yes. What's your pleasure? Scotch, brandy or plain booze? God, honey, this's gonna be just like old times. You don't mind it straight, do you?"
"It's booze. That's all that matters." She took the offered glass, sighed, sat, took a greedy, almost desperate swallow. "Mmmm. That saved my life."
And after a pause: "So Pauley's a creep, huh?"
"Double creep. A regular tin god." He tapped his head. "But he's got it up here. He's turned this place upside down, got everybody sweating blood."
"So? What's the gripe? So long's you're coining it."
"Money isn't everything. I don't particularly relish being treated like a flunky. When Christian was here I got respect; I was a member of the firm." He frowned. "Damn, if I hadn't been scared, sold out my stock like I did. If I'd had sense enough to scratch up some loot, take those options I had...."
The voluptuous-bodied blonde sucked at her drink, giggled resignedly. "If, if ... The story of my life."
"But I ain't all that down and out. I got plans. This guy ain't gonna ride roughshod over me forever. Not with all I know about this business. I know the ins and outs, kiddo. I got connections."
"I've heard that kind of talk before. Yellin' in a cistern is what it is."
"Oh yeah?" Sorel bristled. "That's what you think. Listen, Marlene, we've got a new gimmick ... a skin lotion that's gonna set the industry on its ear. We're goin' to the top, the sky's the limit. I got a few ideas."
"Like what?"
"Like getting hold of this company. I got ways. You know Pauley's only got thirty-five per cent of the stock? A little finagling could be managed there. And if I really wanted to play dirty...."
"Yeah?"
"Supposin' I got my hands on that new formula. I'll bet Crevier, Lady Lovely, houses like that'd pay a fortune for this baby."
"You wouldn't do a thing like that."
"Wouldn't I? You don't know how much Little Caesar bugs me, Marlene. I'm already feeling out Trapp. He ain't interested yet, but give me time. I'll find a way. And when I do...." His face darkened, his lips compressed in thin, vengeful line. "I'll harpoon Pauley, I'll show him who the real operator is."
"Got it all figured out, haven't you?" Marlene smirked mockingly, holding out her glass for a refill.
"Not quite. But I've got angles. I'm getting there. Dear Cort's gonna get one helluva surprise one of these fine days."
Marlene discounted Sorel's boastings; she'd heard his repertoire before. Byron was a whiner from way back. And more concerned with her own greedy needs, her rocky future, she asked,
"How's this Pauley with the ladies? Understand he's not married. Maybe he's ripe for a loving little item like me."
"Forget it, Marlene. Pauley ain't interested."
She wriggled in her chair, showed her legs, breathed her fabulous breasts to high, pointed prominence. "Let me worry about that. I've got ways to get men interested."
"Not Pauley. He's been burned bad. Twice."
"Proof positive. There's no fool like an old fool. If he got shafted once, still went back for more...."
"Not the way he got shafted. I've heard that his first wife was a Lez. He came home unexpectedly one night, actually caught her diving."
Marlene grimaced. "Uh-oh."
"The second one sold him a real bill of goods. Kept him at it morning, noon and night. He thought he had it made. Truth was even then she wasn't getting enough. A nympho was what she was. A ritzy nympho, but a nympho just the same. She took care of only high-class-type milkmen and delivery boys. And all of Pauley's spiffy men friends besides."
Sorel's chuckle was ugly. "Oh yeah, he's sour on dames. He orders 'em out of a catalog when he needs 'em now. Pity any mouse who tries to get close to him again."
Marlene pursed her lips. "Sounds like a real tough customer. I'll have to figure a new approach." She stirred impatiently. "Hey, Byron, ain't it almost time for lunch? How about popping? Take me some place where I can get a decent drink. I need a martini the worst way."
Sorel sneaked a look at his watch. "I think so, baby. In honor of the occasion." His lip curled derisively. "That is if the old drill sergeant ain't wandering around out there."
A moment later both of them skulked from the office.
Shortly after 2:00 that afternoon there was a brief break in Nila's schedule. She used those few moments for a breather, wondering at the fact that Pauley hadn't once mentioned Marlene Lang's visit to him. She also pondered the restlessness possessing her boss today. He'd been short, abstracted all day long.
Nila had her suspicions about what was hacking Cort, making him surly and jumpy. She got like that every once in a while too. It had something to do with a very special deficiency. She blushed, felt jittery to remember the last time that affliction had hit her, and how she'd handled it.
Handled, she frowned. What unsavory phraseology.
While, all the time, there was proof positive. For, not more than a half hour ago, as tag end to other business, he'd given her that number again, repeated that same cryptic message. The man was hurting; that was the short and sweet of it.
And now, her heart aching, wild with frustration to think Cort had to turn to outlets like this when all the time she was there, ready and willing to-She stopped the thoughts in mid-flight, mentally slapped herself.
Baby! Have you lost every last speck of decency?
Her secret, chained-up love for Cort continued unabated. Continued? she taunted. It gets worse with every passing day. Every time I'm with him, every time I look into his eyes, see the dark torment there. She shuddered. One of these days I'm going to throw myself at him, crawl before him, beg him to notice me, use me. Any way he wants. As a door mat, as a whipping girl-
Any way! Any way at all!
If he'd just see me, realize I was alive. If he'd wake up to the fact that I'm flesh and blood, that I've got feelings too. If he'd let me show him what real love was, what a real, self-sacrificing woman was-
She blinked back tears. But no, it was hopeless. He was blind. His eyes had been cauterized by other women-vicious, venal excuses for women.
Please, Cort. A chance, that's all I ask.
And now, faced with this stomach-turning message to what she was certain was a call-house. When she wanted that chore. More than anything else in the whole world.
An insane thought came to her at that moment. And when her mind stopped spinning: Why not? What did it matter? If she'd purposely set out to give herself to that egotistic, greedy Bruce Ryan-to that low animal-did such a thing as pride live in her soul any more?
Indeed. Why not? What did it matter? What did anything matter any more? Only Cort. Only letting him know somehow-by fair means or foul-that she loved him.
Nila was amazed to find herself trembling like a leaf, to find that she was actually determined. Finally, shakily, the words composed in her mind, she began to dial the number Cort had given her. She had to be sure.
Again the nasal, harsh voice. The parroted repeat of the phone number. "Yes. May I help you?"
"I'm calling for Mr. Cort Pauley," she stammered.
"Nine-thirty tonight."
"Fine. I can arrange that. The usual?"
Here Nila deviated from Cort's instructions. "No, he'd like something different tonight."
Irritation tinged her voice. "Well, honey ... what kind of different? Can you be more explicit? Damn ... why can't he call himself? Is he there? May I talk to him?"
"No," Nila lied, her heart hammering, "he's out at the moment. He merely said something different."
"You know what this is all about, miss? I mean...."
"I ... I think I do. It's a girl isn't it?"
"Check. I can give him Corinne; she's his usual. Margo's free. And Sylvia. Hey, tell you what. Why don't you check with him, call back?"
Vastly relieved, not knowing how she was going to terminate the conversation, Nila said, "Fine. In about an hour. I don't like this any better than you do. But, you see, he's an extremely busy man."
The madam's voice was skeptical. "Honey," she snapped, "no man's that busy." Then she hung up.
Now Nila truly shook. Her head seemed to be on fire, her eyes were feverish. Was she that strong, could she see this thing through?
Forty-five minutes later Nila dialed the number again. "Mr. Pauley has had a change of plans," she said. "Forget the whole thing for tonight. He'll be in touch."
At 4:45, as Cort Pauley left the office, he stopped at Nila's desk. "Close up, please, Miss Wanzer," he said. His eyes seemed particularly disturbed. "Did you manage that call?"
"Yes," Nila feigned innocence. "It's all arranged."
"Good." He turned back. "One last thing. Call Miss Lang first thing tomorrow. Tell her to report Wednesday. We'll find something for her to do."
Nila couldn't conceal her surprise. Her eyes demanded explanation of this foolish, unnecessary hiring. But he avoided her gaze, his expression as confused as hers. He didn't know why he'd chosen to nurse a viper either.
"Good evening, Miss Wanzer. See you tomorrow." For a long time Nila sat staring at that closed, paneled door, a strange, cunning smile curving her lips.
At exactly 9:30 Nila positioned herself outside the door to Cort Pauley's suite. She gulped, fought the savage tremors that threatened to fell her where she stood. Making last minute adjustments to her clothes, to her hair, she wished there was a mirror so she could make a last-minute appraisal of her too-obvious dress. Of the body-hugging, seductively slitted pink satin dress with the daring, plunging neckline. Of her rhinestone choker, the fussy little hat. Of her iridescent pink hosiery, the witchy, stiletto-toed and heeled black patent pumps.
Of her vamp-inspired lingerie as well.
Her heart nearly hammered itself out of her chest. She couldn't retreat now. She must see this through. She mustn't fail, she couldn't fail! Her hand came up; she rang the bell.
Now a white-faced, jaw-gaping Cort Pauley, dressed in just a red silk dressing gown, stood before her.
And her voice calm, a sibilant, piteous pleading in it: "Yes, Cort, it's me. I ... I'm here. Since I can't be anything else to you ... at least let me be your mistress."
CHAPTER SIX
Fob what seemed an eternity they both stood in paralyzed, swaying silence, Cort struck totally dumb by Nila's appearance, by her incredible challenge. Until finally:
"What is this, Miss Wanzer?" he gasped. "I don't understand. I was expecting...."
"I ... I know...." Nila fought for composure. "I know just who you were expecting."
"You do?" he said bemusedly.
"Corinne. Or perhaps Margo. Or Sylvia. They're your regulars, I understand." A hard, small moue formed on her mouth. "But I came instead, Cort. Her voice snagged. "Please, Cort. I came instead. Won't I do?"
"Do? You don't know what you're talking about. This is absolutely insane."
"I do know what I'm talking about, Cort. I'm sure I can do you ... please you any way you desire." Her eyes burned with liquid fire, yearning rampant in them. "Please, Cort. Try me. That's all I ask."
"Miss Wanzer, you seem to ... "
"Nila. Won't you call me Nila?" An eerie sense of being in charge, a metaphysical confidence gradually took Nila. "Please, may I come in? What I have to say isn't meant for hallways."
"Yes ... of course, Miss Wan ... Nila. Come in. I'm curious. I'd like to know what thus is all about." The door closed behind them, the fur cape drifted off Nila's shoulders, fell in a heap cm the carpet. She breathed deeply, brought her petite breasts to full thrust, she fought to dear her head. She felt a sense of triumph as she saw the hungry way Cort's eyes slid over her body, took in the sexy dress, the evil shoes. He stepped back. "Nila?"
Still she remained frozen, poised, a vision of refined beauty. Even though her intentions were hardly refined. She took several more deep breaths, steadied her hands against her sides. Then, her eyes wild, boring into his:
"What this is all about," she sighed, "is that I've done a foolish, completely inexcusable thing, Cort." Her voice wavered, grew weak. "I've let myself fall in love with you."
He jerked, imperceptibly backed away. "Nila ... "
"No," she said, new force in her tone, "don't talk. Let me finish." She drifted into the spacious, elegant room, Cort following as if hypnotized. She saw his glass of cognac, picked it up, took a leisurely sip.
"You say that's impossible," she said now. "You forbid me to be in love. With you, with anybody. Oh, yes, I can almost hear you now. The great executive, the powerful business wizard. I forbid you, Miss Wanzer."
She passed her hand over her eyes, slumped for the briefest second. "Oh, I wish it was that easy. But that isn't the way things happen."
"You're talking nonsense, Nila."
"I said let me finish. I think, by shamelessly compromising myself like this, I've earned that right. I tried not to fall in love with you, Cort, truly I did. I thought up every possible reason in the world why I should hate you, why this was no good. But it didn't work. All I had to do was look into your eyes, dear, see you smile ... and none of them mattered for anything."
She stared at him, her smile a crooked, pitiful squiggle. "Just like I'm looking at you now." Her voice dropped to sibilant whisper. "I do love you, Cort. I can't help myself. I'd do anything for you, do you understand? Anything. Even ... this."
"Nila, be reasonable. You're becoming melodramatic."
"I'm sure you find this melodramatic, Cort. I knew you'd think that. But if that's the way it seems ... I'm sorry. I just want, just once in my life, to reach you, to touch you. To make you see me. As a woman. A woman who loves you more than anything else in the world."
She took another sip of his cognac, shivered. "I realize it's hopeless. Love isn't something you turn off and on like a faucet. I realize you don't want my love, you don't want anybody's love. You've been hurt ... terribly ... you don't want any more to do with women. You don't want to get hurt again. I can understand that, honestly I can."
"But that doesn't kill my love, I can't stop thinking that I've got something to give to you. Something good and honest. Something real, something none of those other women gave you."
His face twitched, his eyes narrowed. "This has to be some kind of money making scheme. You women are...."
"No, Cort" she spat. "We aren't all the same. Don't shut me out, Cort, give me a chance!"
"What do you want, Nila?"
"That should be quite obvious, shouldn't it? To love you ... that's all I ask. You don't have to love me, you don't even have to respect me. But please ... let me love you. And if not even that...."
Her voice broke. "Use me. Just like one of your call girls. Take me to bed. I don't care. Only don't ignore me, don't look through me any more."
"This is utterly ridiculous. You must be on drugs or something. This can't be the same woman I left at my office less than five hours ago."
"I'll be good for you, Cort. I'm not a tramp, believe that. I'm a virgin; there's never been anyone else. I've waited ... hoped to someday meet the right man." She looked away. "And now ... of all the men I could have chosen ... A self-pitying, whimpering crybaby. An empty, selfish excuse for...."
"Miss Wanzer!" he growled. "That will be enough. I don't know what you're on, but...."
"Pulling your rank, Cort?" she smiled tiredly. "That's typical, I suppose. You're afraid, aren't you? I'm something quite unexpected. Something you can't cope with. And when you can't cope, you run, you hide, you try to shut out the world. Isn't that right, Mr. Pauley?"
"You're being very unreasonable, Nila. Who are you to set yourself up as judge and jury? You don't know anything about me."
Her smile was slightly arch. "No, Cort, I don't know the truth about you." She seated herself in a chair, crossed her legs prettily. "But I'm willing to learn. I'm a good listener." She held up the almost empty glass. "Do you suppose I could have one of my own? It's very good, whatever it is. Strong, but good. Maybe if we both drank enough of this we could...."
"I hardly think that's wise. I think you should go. Before we both do something we'll be eternally sorry for."
"Go? Hardly, Cort. I've demeaned myself, I've crawled. I--have to see this through first. Please? A drink?"
Shaking Ms bead slowly, he brought miniature snifters, poured more of the rare cognac. And as he handed Nila hers, sat a distance from her on the davenport: "I can't quite believe all this. It's happening so fast. That you'd purposely cancel my ... ah ... appointment ... choose to substitute ... offer yourself like this."
She sipped her drink, felt the potent liquor cut in. "Believe, Cort. Women in love have done stranger things." Her voice lowered. "Believe me, this is no schoolgirl infatuation. I'm old enough to know my own mind. I'm well aware of the jeopardy, career wise, I'm placing myself in. I've thought it out. I'm willing to ... do this, see this through."
She stared at him levelly. "Well, I'm waiting, Cort. Tell me what those women did to you. To make you like this, to turn you so bitter. To make you hate the whole world, every other woman in it."
His smile was coldly contemptuous. "All right, Miss High-and-Mighty. But remember, you asked for it." Nila felt like her heart was on fire, like someone had kicked her in the stomach when Cort, in no-hold's barred language, told her about the night he'd discovered Rhonda in a woman's arms, when he called a spade a spade, graphically described just what he caught them doing. She wanted to sob, when he told her that he'd actually loved Rhonda, had revered her, had never doubted her love up to that moment. Then, when he looked at her, when Nila saw that dark, tormented glitter in his eyes--
"Not very pretty, is it?" he said. "But the best is yet to come. What happens when you try to recover, to rebound from a thing like that, when you try to believe in humanity, in love again? I tried, Nila, God but I tried! Two years later I met Wendy. Who was going to be my salvation. She had the same hue, Nila.
"Let me love you, let me prove to you that women are good, that they want more than luxury, security.'" His voice became mimicry of female speech. " 'Give me a chance, darling.' "
His fists clenched, it seemed the cords in his forehead would rupture his skin. "And not more than a year later, in a locker room at my club ... Two of my best pals, Gregg and Bill. They didn't know I was there. Comparing notes, talking about how many times they'd each had my precious Wendy, discussing the various ways they'd had her."
Nila closed her eyes, shook her head savagely back and forth. "Oh, Cort. No...."
"Oh, Cort, yes," he grated. "I didn't let on, I kept my silence. Then, a week later, I followed Wendy when she went to one of her 'Civic Club meetings'. I saw her pick up this slob, I followed them out into the country. At the proper moment I opened the back door of that car."
His stare was almost hypnotic. "Suffice it to say there was a lot of scrambling and screaming. Suffice it to say that I didn't see dear little Wendy's face for almost thirty seconds. Talk about out on cloud nine...." Nila buried her face in her hands, emitted a single, tearing sob. "Cort! I'm so sorry...." Now, involuntarily, out of her head with the yearning to touch, to hold and comfort, she flung herself at Cort, tried to embrace him.
He flung her back. "No!" he snarled. "Not again! I won't get burned again!"
The violence of his rejection stunned Nila. And she realized-against ugly odds like these-that she was defeated. There was no way to penetrate this armor, to breach this wall of hatred. She'd gambled. And lost.
But still a deranging curiosity, a reckless determination buzzed inside her, made her entrails chum, her heart hammer. Any small shred, she found herself thinking, any scrap. Animal, bestial or otherwise. But something! I have to know! Once and for all.
She froze, stared pityingly at him. "No," she murmured, "I can't top a story like that. I can't ask you to trust, to try again." Her eyes narrowed. "But there is one thing I can do ... one last female thing."
His eyes were skeptical, taunting. "And that is?" Nila struggled to her feet, stood before him, her eyes boring his. "I an give you this much comfort." Her hand floated behind her, to the trick zipper the gown boasted. "I can give you this."
There was a soft, metallic hiss. Then the pink material floated down like a gauzy cloud, puddled at her feet. And Nila stood in just the strapless, lace encrusted brassiere. In the trim, black long-leg girdle, the black garter straps chewing into the top of her taut, pink stockings. She shifted slightly, gave him semi profile of her legs, of her elegant breasts, her smooth belly.
For a long time he sat transfixed, his mouth working, his eyes bulging. He was unaware that his robe had fallen away, that he was revealed to Nila's eyes. And though this was the first time she'd ever seen a man totally naked, in that proud state of arousal; she was not repulsed or frightened. Instead she sensed fleeting joy. At least she was still woman enough to evoke this sort of response from Cort.
For the first time he was noticing her. Really noticing her.
Small victory. But victory just the same.
Now he spoke. "Please, Nila, stop. You shouldn't. You'll hate yourself afterward. We'll both hate ourselves."
"So?" she taunted. "I don't mind...." She was stunned by the sudden heat that seared her loins, "I won't hate, I won't be ashamed. I'll be glad. I'll know...."
Her hands drifted to the special clasp in the cleft of her brassiere. "Because I love you, Cort," she parted, fell away, slid down her body. Her breasts seemingly vibrated, sprang up from that containment, the nipples instantly puckered, coming to turgid attention. A shudder went through her; her knees felt like they were made of soup.
Defiantly she posed, offered herself. "Look at me, Cort," she seethed. "For once in your life see me. I'm a woman, a passionate flesh-and-blood woman. Not a machine. Look at this, damn you! React for once. Look at this body ... this instant lay."
"Nila...."
"You want this, don't you? Strings or no strings. Isn't that right? You're still that much of a man, aren't you? Act like you're alive. Here I am. Come take me."
Her hands gathered her breasts, held them in proud offering. She was a regal Amazon, her waist trim, curvy, her suppressed buttocks still voluptuous, her legs sweeping, flaring taunt in the high-heeled pumps. And when his gaze swept to that beautiful face, saw the hysterical yearning and bewilderment in those features-
He was man, elemental and selfish. Thinking of only one thing. The ultimate possession of this glorious, virginal body. And consequences, aftermath be damned.
Esthetics definitely didn't enter at that moment.
He was up, across that gap in two steps. His gown half on, half off he came to Nila, gathered her into his arms, drove his hard, questing lips to hers. His arms were like iron bars around her, he actually hurt her breasts where he clenched her to his bare chest. But it was a hurt she gloried in, endured gladly. For Cort, her man, was holding her, kissing her. Cort was hurting her.
Anything he wanted-
She broke from the kiss, blubbered like a love starved ninny. "Cort, dear Cort ... My darling...."
They were kissing again, his hands were beneath her girdled buttocks, he was bunting, tucking, grinding himself to her belly, there being no mistake as to his excited state now.
"Nila...." he groaned. "You are beautiful, so beautiful. A gorgeous hunk of woman. And if we can't have anything else ... I want you. Please, please...."
"I'm here," she keened, the ecstasy, the impatience dizzying her, making her feel like she'd lost total control of her senses, "darling, I'm here." She floated, she yawed and veered, was seemingly weightless, existing outside of herself. "For you. I want you." She gasped. "So much. I ache inside, Cort. I'm dying."
He broke the savage kiss. "This was, Nila." He led her through the suite, brought her to his dark bedroom. "Here, on the bed. Let me undress you."
Nila seemingly sank into a swoon, barely noticed the cold sheets on her naked back. The bedroom door was open, she could see Cort-all of him-silhouetted against it as he worked to strip her.
Her shoes were off, his lips swept along her long, lissome legs, the sensation incredibly maddening, detonating a fiery tingling, deep inside her body. A tingling that made her want to scream.
Now Cort peeled her lovely stockings. And caught up in an erotic trance himself, the uniqueness of Nila's self-sacrifice stunning him, making him forget his warped pose, he wanted to prolong this love, he wanted to give to this generous woman. His head dipped, he felt a soul spinning rapture as he kissed her bare knees, her calves, her ankles.
And Nila writhed at the clawing, tearing wildness the kiss inspired within her. In her eagerness she clawed at the girdle herself. "No, Nila," he choked, "let me. Please...."
For long moments he sat looking down on Nila's throbbing, clenching body, he sent his fingers on delicate safari over her black-silked tummy; he delved into that secret valley. Until Nila felt she'd go mad at any moment.
And thinking of the way Bruce Ryan had loved her-
There was no comparison.
Now the panties were stripped away. Cort's eyes feasted on that rose-gold copse; he marveled at the way the errant light played in that coppery floss. Then his hands came to pay homage. While, his lips, simultaneously, fluttered to those aching, hot mounds, his tongue set the fuses of her nipples afire.
Even the pangs of fear, her baffled curiosity and expectation, were forced to retreat, cower before this onslaught of ecstasy. She'd never known such frenzy, such bliss, such raging impatience. If it didn't happen soon--Nila moaned, pinioned her clawing hands, substituted Cort's back for the true target of her frenzy.
And now, growing bolder, more pagan by the moment, her curiosity an overpowering juggernaut-Her hands slid further, came along the ridges of Cort's hips. And then, an even more evil desire filling her-
She gathered; she caressed. She knew the total substance of man.
She was glad Cort was tall, glad that when they kissed, when his body twined to hers, his legs crushing her thighs together, trapping that infernal fire in a singular tinder, they fitted from end to end.
All fear routed now, no room for doubt, for second thought in her being, she was barely conscious of her words. "Now, darling," she choked. "Please, please. I can't wait. Soon. I have to know. Soon, my love...."
She prayed that she wouldn't be too clumsy, too inexperienced, that Cort would be patient with her. Now, as he came over her, as he tenderly slid his knee between hers, she opened herself instantly. Sighing, she let him arrange her knees on each side of his hips. Trance-like she brought her fingers to him; thrilled at his domination, she actually guided.
As she felt that first hot contact, she stiffened, gritted her teeth, resolved not to cry out at the pain. But still, when Cort determinedly, wisely forced her, refused to relent at her squirmings, she couldn't help the hissed, whimpering outcry of pain. Her body thrashed reflexively to eject him, her hands clawed his back involuntarily at the unbelievable pain.
Then, almost as quickly as it had begun, the pain diminished, became dulled somehow. She felt like she was anesthetized, as if she floated on a cottony cloud. Now, quite gradually, a new singing, stunning, electrifying sensation began deep within her psyche. It was as if she were suddenly revitalized, reborn. All senses were alert, vibrant, she strained and reached for every delectable iota of sensation. "Darling," she choked, "I never ... It's good, it's fantastic...."
Her legs and arms flailed, her body fought to adjust. She felt like she wanted to jump out of her skin, like she was flying in forty different directions at once. And wild not to miss a single sensation of this blessed union, she wailed, "Teach me, Cort. Tell me what I must do. I don't want to disappoint you."
He laughed softly. "You're doing just fine. Nila, I didn't believe. You are a virgin. You feel like you're turning me inside out. You hurt...." A sigh exploded from him. "But, dear God, what a magnificent hurt." Now an eerie, ethereal wailing began in Nila's brain, it seemed she couldn't get her breath. She floated in an ion-charged atmosphere, the scent of pure oxygen was in her nostrils. She felt complete; she felt more complete than she'd ever felt before in all her life. A snarling, demented fury consumed her. She wanted to bite, to scream, to curse.
Lightning flashed on the horizon of her consciousness, a thunderous rumbling swept across the plain of her sensuality. She felt weak, so weak. That pain, that insufferable-yet-glorious pain! She wanted to gather that cataclysmic thunderhead; she wanted to wring it like a mop, squeeze every pearl of glory, of delight from it.
"Darling!" she called at that most supreme moment. "I love you. Don't turn away from me. Let me love you, that's all I ask. Love, love...."
Then sobbing uncontrollably, she achieved that sublime transport. She screamed, rocked and clawed. She was initiated into that most awesome of life's mysteries. For the first time in her life she felt total, complete, worthy. For the first time in her life she knew what it meant to be a woman!
They were both self-conscious afterward. Dressed, sitting in the living room again, they tried to orient, verbalize, rationalize this incredible turn. And where Nila had hoped that this most intimate of communications would break down Cort's monumental wall of reserve and bitterness, she was doomed to disappointment.
If anything he was more close-mouthed, fidgety, he refused to discuss what had just happened; he refused to recognize any relationship existing between them. "We'll have to talk about this sometime," he repeated endlessly. "Sometime when we're at arm's length from it, can evaluate it with true perspective. We'll have to talk about this."
Finally Cort insisted that she leave. Their parting was stiff, strained; Nila was positive he merely tolerated her last pleading kiss.
Then, with last bitter turn of the dagger: "Here," he said as he let her out. He opened her purse, dropped the plain white envelope into it. "Something for you." It was only when she reached the elevator that she opened the envelope. Dazed, unsuspecting, she shook out the contents. And when she saw the two, crisp, one-hundred dollar bills, when she realized their humiliating significance-
She clung to a pilaster beside the elevator, almost drew blood as she stuffed fingers to her mouth, fought to stifle the hawking, helpless sobs that tore her throat.
CHAPTER SEVEN
None of the principals accompanying Marlene Lang to the Retail Druggists and Cosmetics Convention in Chicago were present that bright, gay early afternoon in mid-May when the irresponsible alcoholic disgraced herself-and the Spainlouis name-before teeming, hooting throngs in crowded McCormick Place.
But whether or not they were there, the damage was done; it was disastrous, irreparable. Had either Byron Sorel or Cort Pauley been there they might have headed off the scoop-happy reporter-photog who just happened to be present when the fracas started, merrily snapped pictures, fled to make the late afternoon edition.
And four martinis at lunch, stolen drinks at President's Row, a bar-restaurant enclosed in the vast exhibition hall, can raise holy havoc indeed. Especially in someone like Marlene, someone hell-bent on self-destruction.
But Sorel, Pauley, even the confident Nila Wanzer, were not present. They were otherwise occupied.
Nila in her hotel room, her portable typewriter perched on a coffee table, frenziedly pounding out some rush reports that must foe relayed to New York before 5 p.m.
Pauley, in the board room of Taraval Pharmaceuticals, a small-time supplier of proprietaries, a jobber by-and-large. A company he was attempting to incorporate into the Spainlouis empire, intending to convert it almost totally to crash-program production of the new skin reinvigorator that was living up to advance notices, was in last testing phases. Acquisition of the company was vital. If they were to take the nation by storm it was mandatory that they have this modern, centrally located intermediary.
But one would never suspect the desperation in his heart this afternoon. As, facing down the board of directors, rattling off doomsday statistics a mile-a-minute, virtually predicting the day Taraval would go under, he badgered, derided, counter-argued. He bargained, convinced the spell-bound group that he was a prince of generosity by offering the ridiculously low bid.
Before he was finished-It was all cut-and-dried. Before the month was out Taraval Pharmaceuticals would be ingested into the body politic of Villa Spainlouis.
And while Pauley fought with all the cold-blooded determination and brilliance at his command, burned himself out to strengthen the Spainlouis kingdom.
There were others, besides Marlene, who chipped away at those none-too-solid foundations.
People like Sorel, who was calling at the palatial Evanston home of one Mrs. Ernestine Humleker, a fabulously wealthy widow who was a key pawn in his scheme to take over Villa Spainlouis. A woman who held a block of 20,000 shares of Spainlouis stock. A woman he must control lest his stratagem be shot down in flames.
At that same moment that Pauley was slaying the Taraval dragon-
"I simply don't understand this," Mrs. Humleker was saying. "You say the company is in trouble, that the present management is running it into the ground? I can't understand that. I use Spainlouis products myself; I have implicit faith in the company. They've always paid a good dividend ... except for that one year, of course ... there've been two splits in the past ten years. But I understand that Cort Pauley had purchased the company, that he's doing wonders with it."
"I don't mean to contradict," Sorel weaseled. "But Mr. Pauley's interested in only one thing, money. He buys these companies three, four at a time, makes money on the ones he can bring up, dumps the others as a tax loss. His heart's not in cosmetics, not the way Mr. Lenelle's was. And, Mrs. Humleker, if you'll take the word of an insider, what he's doing to the company is going to result in disaster. And who's going to lose? Certainly not Mr. Pauley. It's going to be the public, his employees, the stockholders."
"Dear me, this is all too complicated to me."
"And when the sky falls in, there sits Mr. Pauley, smiling, with a beautifully balanced tax report."
"I'm just not sure, Mr. Sorel. You say you have an important backer, that you're willing to pay ten dollars over par? I can't understand why you'd be willing to bet on a dying horse."
"We feel there's still time to save Spainlouis," he said suavely. "If we can just get control, oust Mr. Pauley, put the house back into the hands of people who really care about cosmetics, about the American woman."
"I'm all confused. Do I have to decide now? Can I have a few days?"
"A few days, Mrs. Humleker," he threatened subtly. "But no more. Time is slipping away. We are in contact with other large stockholders. We can't keep this option ... at that price ... open for very long." Mrs. Humleker worked her hands worriedly in her lap. "My, Mr. Sorel. You make this all sound so ominous."
While, back at the exhibition hall-
Miss Drummond was having a very difficult time with Marlene, who was supposedly her superior at the Villa Spainlouis display booth. But now drunk, loud, impossible as she was, causing heads to turn-
She tried to keep Marlene out of sight as much as was possible. But the woman, at that insufferable peak of self-importance that only a messy drunk can attain, would not be relegated.
Since returning to Spainlouis Marlene had been assigned to publicity and dealer liaison, her job mainly being to look beautiful, smile at the right time, meet and entertain dealers, pump up their egos, influence orders. At the Retail Druggists Convention she presided over the extravagant display booth, greeted visitors. And, with Miss Drummond, presented cosmetic demonstrations at staggered intervals during the convention day.
Marlene had done a good job for Spainlouis up until convention, Pauley had been confident that she'd carry on in the same manner at the show. Sorel had held secret doubts, had held to the theory that once a lush, always a lush. And using Marlene as a pawn also, waiting for the buried time bomb to go off.
There were varied elements that triggered that lethal charge. One, the awe of Pauley, of her job, that had gradually worn off. Until, finally, considering herself a member of the family, Marlene had slacked off, had become careless in concealing her rampant alcoholism. Two, the fact that it was spring, a violently balmy, beautiful day.
Finally there was the crucial ingredient. This the four martinis Sorel himself had premeditatedly spooned into Marlene at lunch. Before he'd defected, figuratively sat back to see what would develop.
"Hot in here," she repeated constantly, her voice thick, bawdy, "so damned hot." Until finally she removed her jacket, strutted around in brazen display, actually enjoying the male ogling, inviting same with lewd winks and grins. It was when she began harping on her wish to strip completely, frolic in the sun, that Miss Drummond became really worried, worked to get Marlene out of sight.
Out of sight proved to be Presidents Row. And Marlene returning at exactly 2:32 p.m., the fuse was touched off.
Hudson Cosmetics, pushing a new leader called Mexicali Nights, had hired a three-piece mariachi band, had imported them directly from Tiajuana for the occasion, had instructed them to wander the floors of the hall, play their bouncy, peppery music at all hours of the day. And now, strolling past the Villa Spainlouis booths.
Marlene staggered up to that small stage area upon which they conducted their make-up application demonstrations, she began to make like a go-go girl. Which the bored musicians dug the most. Stopping in their tracks, they zeroed in on the obviously tipsy woman, instinctive appreciation of a potential explosion hitting them.
A crowd gathered, they slapped and hooted their approval. Drunk as she was, Marlene was suddenly (in her own eyes) the star of the convention. She basked in the sudden limelight; she went even wilder on the podium. And, the heat getting her (internal as well as external), she teasingly began toying with her blouse buttons.
Which the males in her audience saw and encouraged. A few, self-conscious "More's" and "Take it off's" came up to Marlene. It was a thing the strip house-blooded mariachis closed in on immediately. Suddenly their music became bump and grind, very exciting, pulse-quickening stuff indeed. If ever sexuality was captured in music-
Marlene's dance became even more frenzied, blatant eroticism quickly took over. And she was unbuttoning her blouse, glorying in her power over these men; she was slithering it off her body. The cries mounted, the mariachi music blasted. As of that moment a female psyche went amok.
The crowd multiplied, jammed closer, and animal fever infected that audience.
Marlene teasingly unzipped her skirt, let it drop at her feet. She kicked it languidly into the audience. Now, inch by inch, she was drawing up the crazily patterned slip, she was revealing her smoky hose, her spicily conceived garter belt, a bikini-type thing, panty and girdle in one. Now her jam-packed, bursting-at-the seams brassiere, perfect match to the patterned slip and girdle. The slip went sailing into the crowd.
The tumult was deafening, the band was in its glory. Marlene's grindings and writhings were the essence of raw sex. Twice Miss Drummond mounted that stage, tried to pull her drunken, out-of-control superior off. Each time she was rewarded with slaps and curses, taunts from the audience, was sent fleeing. Marlene in her element, queen of the world; she wasn't about to stop now.
Now her hands flirted with the snaps at the back of her brassiere; she was actually in the process of undoing it.
Finally, just as the bra drifted off, as the flashbulbs snapped, caught the explosion of those pink tipped melons from their nylon cages, as the crowd roared its approval, two slow-witted amphitheater guards had sense enough to charge the stage, cut the performance short.
But by then it was too late. The damage had already been done.
Cort Pauley was livid with rage when he arrived at McCormack Place, heard of the laughing stock Marlene had made of the Spainlouis name. Instantly he grabbed a cab, fled to the Palmer House. Minutes later he was hammering at Marlene Lang's door.
Nila appeared. "Where's that no-good, brassy witch!" he raged. "Let me at her!"
Nila tried to protect Marlene. "She's sleeping. I'm trying to sober her up. Please, Mr. Pauley, she's in no condition to...."
His wrath was something to see, psychotic, terrifying. Nila awed, cowed, she fell back before him. "Please, Mr. Pauley...." she murmured.
He shoved past her, found Marlene, still groggy, trying to rise on her bed. Fully dressed, shoeless, her face vapid, streaked. "I'm sorry, Cort," she blubbered. "I didn't mean to ... I don't know what got into me. Please, I'm sorry. You gotta give me another chance."
"I don't gotta give you anything," he mocked her, his lips a savage line. "All I'm giving you is notice. You're done, you rotten lush. You've got the night in this room, and that's it. Clear out, go back to Lenelle. You can drink yourselves to death together."
"Please, Cort ... Oh, I didn't...."
"Fired! Do you understand! If you so much as show your face around me again...." He turned away. "God, God ... Of all the dumb stunts to pull."
He turned on Nila at the door, the pain in his eyes, his tone much the same as a father might use the first time he bails his son out of jail. "What happened to you people? You and Sorel? Why didn't you watch her? Someone should have been there."
He didn't wait for an answer, but turned, hurtled out of the room, his curses torn from between clenched teeth.
It was 7 p.m. before he tracked down Sorel, bearded him in his hotel room. "Where'n hell you been goofing off? I leave you jerks alone for two minutes and all hell breaks loose. You know what's happened?" Sorel's eyes furtive, he shammed contriteness. "Yeah, boss, I heard. It's a shame. What got into that nut...."
"Why didn't you keep an eye on her, Byron? Do I have to do everything myself?"
"You hired her, Cort," Byron riposted. "How was I to know she'd go off the deep end? I can't be everywhere at once. Just because you farmed her out to me don't mean I'm gonna be her baby sitter. I can't follow that lush around."
"Why didn't you kill that newspaper story then? If you're supposed to be such an operator? God, they're murdering us out at that convention. And after all my work to pull this outfit out of the muck...."
"What d'ya want me to do, Cort? I'm sorry I wasn't here. I was out chasing orders. But like I say...."
"Not much anybody can do. The harm's been done. Get on the phone, spread some money around. Keep this out of the New York papers, buy those prints if you can. Go up to ten grand if you have to...." His face contorted with rage. "That witch, that skid row witch!"
"It ain't as bad as you think, Cort. After all, she's just an employee. A company can't be responsible for every dumb thing some employee does. You get something to eat; you'll feel better afterward. Meanwhile I'll get on the phone, see what I can do. I'll call you around nine."
Now it was Pauley's turn to be contrite. "I'm sorry I jumped you, Byron. I know it's not your fault. Just one of those things. Had to take it out on somebody."
"It's okay, boss. That's what I'm here for. I'll check with you later."
But as Pauley left Sorel was once more alone, he made no move toward the phone. Instead he took the newspaper, carefully clipped the photos of the near nude Marlene, the accompanying news report, from it. On a piece of hotel stationery he scrawled:
Dear Mrs. Humleker, Just in case you haven't seen this item. Sincerely, Byron Sorel.
He shoved the letter and clippings into an envelope, sealed and addressed it swiftly, a smug, self-satisfied smile on his face all the while.
Down in the dining room Nila Wanzer saw Cort Pauley enter, pretended she didn't see his double-take, the way he purposely avoided her, chose a table in an isolated corner. The cut hurt, and she stabbed at her salad viciously, vented spite in that small way. You'd think, she'd raged, he'd 'be over his snit by now, that after-what we've had-he could at least join me at dinner. That was the least of the amenities she might expect of the man.
But then, she concluded acidly, Cort Pauley's not a predictable man.
And as telling example: The $200 fee he'd given her after that fiasco in his suite. Her thoughts fled to the lovely spring outfit she'd brought with the money, a hard-boiled mood prevailing. After all, if she'd earned it-
Now she reviewed the weeks since that night, she ached inside to remember the awkwardness of the morning after, the price it had cost her to appear at the office, face him across that desk.
Strangely enough it hadn't been as bad as she'd expected. Cort, not losing his cruel aplomb for a moment, had acted as if none of it had ever happened, he made no reference at all to the disaster. Neither by words, actions, or secret glances.
It was an eerie thing. There were disoriented moments when she actually caught herself wondering if that night had really happened.
Thus the days had passed, the initial hurt of his sadistic rebuff gradually fading, the old warmth and affection flooding back, filling the vacuum. Until it was the same as ever. Try as she might to hate him, she could not. All his crudeness, his show of insane tern tier this afternoon-his indifferences, she ignored. She was hooked. Sweet and simple. No matter what he was, no matter how he'd humiliated her, she loved the man. And come what might-
Her eyes blurred now. She stabbed her salad more vengefully, whispered choice curses-at herself-beneath her breath.
It was 9:30. And in his hotel room Cort Pauley paced the floor like a caged animal, wondered at this vast dissatisfaction nagging him. Why had he let that thing with Marlene hack him so intensely? Why had he blown up like he had? Even more unsettling: Why did this afternoon's victory at Taraval now suddenly seem so empty? Why had everything-every blasted thing-seemed to utterly pointless of late? Why did he feel like he was disassociated with life, like he was only half a man? A hollow shell?
Just when he'd thought he'd regained control, when he'd convinced himself that career and power were sufficient to his life.
For some strange reason he found himself thinking of Nila. Hadn't she looked lovely, eminently desirable down in the dining room this evening? He'd acted like a bull-headed boor by not joining her. He was sure she'd seen him come in, hadn't missed his slight.
He frowned, turned off the thoughts. Sorel had called a few minutes before, had apologized for his inability to do much about that thing with Marlene. The story had already gone out on the wires, money spent on the prints would be wasted since the photos were already in the public domain. But if Cort wanted him to keep trying-
Why did he have the feeling that Sorel had been laughing at him throughout the conversation?
Summarily his reverie was shattered. As a timid tapping sounded at his door. Impatiently he strode to it, flung it open. And was astonished to face a sober, shame-faced, drowned-rat version of Marlene Lang there. Her eyes pleaded with his, her whole pose one of remorse.
"Please, Cort, let me come in. I have to talk to you. Give me a chance will you?"
His face dark, he stepped back, shrugged her in. Considering her condition this afternoon, Marlene had done wonderful things with herself. Dressed smartly in a black, linen suit, black kid pumps,, her hair done beautifully, only her face reflecting minimal ravages, she was a sexy, alluring package of female merchandise. Fie couldn't help see the way her eyes searched his, appraised her effect upon him, sought storm warnings.
Cort felt a sadistic, cat-and-mouse calm sweep him. This should be interesting. He'd string along, see what developed. "What's on your mind, Marlene? I thought I'd made myself fairly clear this afternoon." She huddled in the chair across from him. "Please, Cort. Won't you reconsider? Words won't begin to express how I feel about what I did. I was stinko, I didn't know what I was doing. I know that's no excuse, but...." Genuine tears streamed down her cheeks. "Don't you understand, Cort? If you throw me out, I'm all done. I won't have any place to go. I'm scared.
If I don't have anything to hold onto...." Her voice choked. "God, what's going to happen to me?"
"That's none of my concern, Marlene. That's a bridge you have to cross yourself. Maybe a good sanitarium. There are places like that. I gave you a Chance .. God knows why ... and you muffed it."
"Please, Cort, don't do this to me. Don't you see what I'll become?"
"Surely you don't expect me ... Spainlouis ... to nursemaid you all your life."
"Anything, Cort," the desperate woman pleaded. "I don't need a fancy job. A secretary, a receptionist. Just give me a chance." Her face was an anguished mask. "I'll do anything for you, Cort. If you'll just forgive, if you'll take me back."
Her face screwed into simian cunning. "How about it, Cort? You and me? Right now? I'll prove it to you. You could use a girl couldn't you? This convention's been a drag. A little fun, some excitement? I'm a lot of woman, I'll give you a real time. Anything. Only let me prove how sorry I am...."
He regarded her silently for long moments. "You really mean that, don't you?"
"Of course I do, Cort. Please, say yes. I'll show you stunts you never dreamed possible...."
"So?" he smirked. "Prove it."
The desperate, cheap female froze momentarily. Then, moving as if in a trance, she rose, began unbuttoning her suit jacket. "Sure...." she faltered, her eyes drilling his. I'll prove it."
The jacket came away; she arched, brought her magnificent breasts to piquant, explosive thrust. "There. How about that? Wouldn't you like a face full of those? They're good, Cort, not too many men have gotten to them."
The strip tease became even more lewd. Thinking that she was getting to Cort, that she'd won, Marlene went to outrageous extremes to tempt the man. Thinking that once she got Cort onto that bed, once she used every trick in her copious bag-
She removed the crimson slip, revealed the tense lingerie she wore beneath, she revealed her fabulous, opulent body. A lesser man would have melted, disintegrated into clawing lecher right there. But Pauley sat calmly, displayed only polite interest. Marlene posed lewdly in the sheer red panties, in the matching brassiere. An ensemble overlaid with enchanting black lace, the medley of color doing wonderful things for her golden body. Cort saw her nipples, erect and dark, through the nylon. And lower on her body the light caught in the muted golden snarl, that delightful swell was plainly visible.
"You want me, don't you, Cort?" she slurred huskily. "You want me naked, on that bed. Like all men want their women." She advanced, stood before him, her exotic perfume enfolding him in a heady cloud, she blatantly offered her body. "Touch me, baby. Anywhere you want."
He slid his hands along her shimmering legs, up along her nylon caged buttocks, in the smooth concavity of her back. And now he took that ultimate liberty, pinched and cupped her lightly.
Marlene giggled, skipped away, posed in lascivious taunt. "Tell me, Cort. Which first? My bra? Or my panties? What do you want?"
His voice snarled, cut like a whiplash. "Want, baby?" His eyes were cold, contemptuous. "What do I want? Why, slut, I want you out of here. As fast as those rubbery little legs can carry you. Out! Do you understand? The show was fine. But it's getting boring now."
For a long time Marlene stood frozen, her eyes wide, staring uncomprehendingly. "Cort," she wailed. "You can't mean that. You want me, don't you? In bed?"
"I wouldn't touch you with rubber gloves, pig. God, you're just like all the rest of them. You think all you have to do is drop your pants and a man's gonna jump through hoops for you. The conceit! The supreme conceit! "
Suddenly he was up, advancing on her. His voice ragged he said, "Out, do you hear!"
The door was open, the dazzled, paralyzed Marlene found herself being flung into the hallway. "My clothes!" she shrieked, covering her red sheened body with her hands.
He threw her suit and slip at her. "Go on down in the lobby," he spat. "Put on your little show there!"
Then he slammed the door, locked it, shut out the stream of curses Marlene shrieked against it.
He slumped into a chair, buried his face in his hands, fought the crushing sense of tiredness, of disgust. Is this all the world amounts to? He raged. Eternal cesspool? Is there no decency, no understanding? Is there no compassion?
At that moment he felt lonelier than he'd ever felt in his whole life. He knew the ultimate meaning of despair. Of defeat.
It was 1 p.m., Nila was just preparing for bed, when she heard the rapid knocking on her door. Pulling a robe over her undies, stuffing her bare feet into slippers, she ran to answer.
"Cort!" she gasped as she saw the half-drunk, wild-eyed man standing there. "What is it? What's happened?"
He pushed his way into her room, stared about owlishly, a pained, puzzled expression on his face. The incredible, thrilling words came in a rush: "Nila, don't throw me out, don't hate me...."
"But Cort...."
He flung his arms about her, buried his lips in her throat, he rocked his face in that cranny. "Nila, I'm lonely, I'm afraid," he choked. "Nila, I need somebody. I need you...."
She braced him, wrapped her arms around him, felt like her heart was on fire. Her eyes flooded with tears, and she ground her body against his; she tightened her grip, felt like she'd faint. Could there be any greater victory, any greater happiness than this? "My darling, my darling," she called.
Somehow she managed to stand, to support the man. She gloried in his hard, dependent body against hers, caressed his head, waited for the tremors to stop.
Then, as he calmed, the question that had to be asked: "You need me, Cort? Is that it? But what is it you need? Me? Or my body?"
He moaned like a tortured animal. "I need you, Nila," he repeated, no real answer there.
She shrugged, was sorry for the accusation. "What does it matter, baby?" she sighed. "I'm not proud, you must know that. My body ... me ... what does it matter? You came to me, that's what's important.".
She tried to guide him. "Here, honey. On the bed. I'll undress you. Please, Cort, it's all right now. Stop. I understand...."
She Opened the bed, helped him into it. She undressed him with loving care. Already her body was burning with animal desire. And though she hated herself for it, feared that Cort might not be up to taking her tonight, she still couldn't quell her lust.
Then the lights were out, they were in bed, their arms about each other. They were kissing, grinding their bodies together. Passion slammed Nila like a huge hammer. Panic filled her to think that Cort might not-
Shortly her fears were banished. Drunk Cort might be, incoherent and dazed as well. But he was still man. And not having had a woman since that last time with Nila, after-effects of Marlene still lingering, his need was instantly reborn. "Please, Nila," he sighed. "May I? You'll let me? I haven't ... since that time you...." She shushed him. "Yes, Cort, darling. Of course. I want you too."
Then, as he tried to kiss her breasts, as his hand slithered down her belly: "No, darling, there's no time.
Now, I have to have you now."
She moaned, shuddered, adjusted her body, splayed her legs in pagan welcome. A long wail, half pain, half ecstasy, seared her throat. Then, as she knew that fantastic, cleaving presence, as she knew that total peace and ease, knew she was woman-
"Darling," she wailed, "you came to me. I feel so proud. That's all that matters. You came to me." And as his body rose, as his lips burrowed into her throat, as he called her name over and over in ragged refrain, made a prayer out of it-
As the silky, exquisite glide began, as that fantastic heat, that breathless tension grew deep inside her-She stood on the lip of a volcano, stared down into seething, bubbling fire, was drawn to it. She leaned, fell, began that long, floating descent-
"I love you, Cort," she called. "I'll always love you."
He choked her name a last time, plunged faster, sheathed himself in that painful scabbard. And even though he didn't declare such, Nila had stunning premonition that the seeds of love had at long last been planted within him. But for now the worshipful emphasis he put on her name, the reality of this so-glorious commitment was testimonial enough for her.
Then the guttural cries of impending victory grew in his throat: "Again!" she screamed in enchanting, innocent awe. "Darling, it's beginning all over again!" Cort chuckled through his agony, thought this woman dear, sweet, beyond any feeble description he might evolve.
"Here, baby," Byron Sorel gloated, "let me put these on you. I always have some handy. Just in case. I get my kicks this way. You don't mind?"
"Mind?" Marlene said fuzzily, "why should I mind? Anything that makes sex better is A-okay by me. Man, that booze is hitting home. I feel human again."
The naked woman lay on the bed, arched and squirmed her body to abet Sorel as he dressed her in the fetishist garments. The black satin brassiere with the nipples cut out, the matching panty girdle that was cut in the V, that now exposed that blur of gold and pink in an extremely maddening way. Now he began to smooth her black stockings he attached them to the garters.
And finally, the black pumps.
"Oh, baby," he slobbered. "If you had any idea of what this does to me. God, I love my dollies like this."
Marlene laughed thickly, reached for him boldly, bore down, made him cry out. "I get kind of a rough idea."
"Here, come stand by me. Walk for me, let me see you in those torchy duds."
She rose unsteadily from the bed, staggered to the center of the room. "Y'd never know, an hour ago, in Pauley's room...." She scowled. "That dirty, rotten...."
"Honey," Sorel wheedled, "not now. Later. We'll figure a way to shaft that lousy no-good. You'll be my ace in-the-hole. But for now...." He actually clutched himself, his face registered anguish. "First things first. Walk baby, please. Sell that body of yours."
His words were pinched, thick. "Those nipples, Marlene. They stick out like cute, pink doorbells. Talk about frames...."
She came to him, ladled her breasts to him, actually fed him first one nipple then the other. She swayed, adjusted her legs when his hands began to explore and probe her most intimate treasures. "I'll give you just fifteen minutes to cut that out," she giggled.
And as Sorel slurped and squealed in his throat: "Tell me about your plan, Byron. How d'ya intend to shaft Pauley? Where do I fit in? I'd do anything to get even with that rotten sadist. You know what he did to me?"
"You told me," Sorel grumped. "Forget him, will you? I've got plans, let it go at that. You play along with me and you'll earn y'rself a pretty piece of change." Shortly neither of them had need for words of any sort. As Sorel's need finally overcame him.
And then, Marlene still dressed in the kinky garb, giggling thickly at the innovation, let the man have his own way.
She stood on the floor, her palms on the bed, her body in extreme angle. Her legs spread, she sighed, wriggled as Sorel, standing behind her, came to her. And his fingers twirling her nipples all the while, Byron," she shrilled. "You think of the craziest things."
It was only the first in a long chain of crazy things.
CHAPTER EIGHT
"The chauffeur's name was Atkins. He wore a dark, blue twill uniform, was respectful, extremely distant. He'd called for Nila shortly after 12:30. As per Cort's instructions, she'd been, ready, her overnighter packed, her misgivings and excitement somewhat quelled.
And now, the sleek, specially appointed Lincoln limousine purring effortlessly through the Connecticut countryside, the flow of green fields and forests, the wash of blue skies particularly comforting to her eyes, the tiny post-card villages drifting in and out of sight, she gradually relaxed, sank into the cushions, told herself that this was what she wanted to do.
And consequences, ulterior implications be damned.
It was June now, an unusually dry and sunny June, the kind of overture to summer Nila had desired for years now. The kind of summer she (smilingly, lazily now) thought the world owed her.
Nila sighed, squirmed deeper into the cushions, closed her eyes, a luxurious grin playing at her lips. She thought of all the things that had happened during these past two weeks. The topper to which was this surprise invitation that she visit The Oaks, Cort Pauley's country place, spend the weekend, meet his daughter Denise.
Things were going as well as could be expected at Villa Spainlouis. The new vegetable hormone had excelled their wildest dreams. Named now-Spring Kiss, a thing Wyman Mackey's staff had come up with-it had passed final tests, was already in production, awaiting FDA approval before being released on the market. Which was indication of just how confident Pauley was that the formula would be approved.
And, apparently, the faltering cosmetics firm was out of the woods. They had a rocket by the tail, there was no way to let go now. The fiasco in Chicago had taken its toll, granted. But in time it had faded, Spainlouis stock had rallied, the tipsy performance by Marlene was remembered with an almost affectionate way in the firm's offices.
Where was Marlene now? What was she doing? Cort had told Nila about that last night, how she'd attempted to buy her job back with her body. There were lots of things Cort told her about himself, about the business nowadays.
Nila had heard rumors to the effect that Marlene Lang was still in New York. But as to what she was doing to survive, she had no idea. She hadn't chanced to see her anywhere. Nor did she want to. She hoped she'd seen the last of that trouble-making tramp.
And as for Nila and Cort? Nothing had changed in their relationship. At least on the surface. But underneath, in that communion of mind and heart, vast transformations had taken place. For though there'd been no words as such, no declarations, Nila was positive he loved her, that he'd soon manage to rout the phantoms of his embittered past, come to her on equal terms.
As evidence: This desire to have Nila meet his daughter.
There was other evidence as well. Tokens of growing love that decried words. The quick, ardent looks he sent her as they worked in the office. Those times when, in seeming offhandedness, their hands brushed, when he placed his palm firmly on her back as she left him. Benign benediction. A calling out besides, intertwining of needs. Nila-be near, help me. I need you.
More testimonial than that Nila didn't really need.
Then there was that late afternoon when they'd been back from Chicago a week. And Cort, edgy, restless, had given Nila that hated number to call again.
Nila had appeared at his suite at 9:30 that night, had thought she'd read fervent relief in his eyes as he'd admitted her, had wordlessly, shudderingly gathered her into his arms, kissed her long and hard.
Afterward, in the darkness of his bedroom, his lovemaking had been gentle, leisurely, he'd dragged each prelude to inordinate lengths, he'd had her deliriously begging for him before he'd finally taken her.
Even more telling: There'd been no insulting envelope when she'd left-close to dawn-that morning.
And yet, to this day, he'd never articulated his love. There had been only the physical, mystical indication.
Which was, Nila supposed, enough. For wasn't she glowing, more vibrant and alive than she'd ever been before in her whole life? Wasn't she happier than she'd ever, in her wildest dreams, believed possible? Weren't there days when her feet never seemed to touch the ground? When a small smile from Cort made her heart throb and burn, made her want to shriek with joy, proclaim her love from the top of the Empire State Building?
Oh dear, she thought, emerging from her reverie, rummaging desperately in her bag for a handkerchief, don't start that again, Nila. Not now. You'll ruin your make up. And when you'll be meeting Cort in just a few minutes-
She regained her composure just in time. For now Atkins turned, said, "We're approaching The Oaks, Miss Wanzer. The property starts here. Perhaps you can see the house in the distance."
Nila could. She was awed, thrilled, as the great stone house, replica of an English mansion, came into sight. There was a porcupine prickling of chimneys from the roof, the walls were ivy-covered, the multi-paned windows twinkled in happy welcome. As they drove up the winding, oak-flanked drive, she marveled at the rolling, verdant lawns, she estimated that there must be at least twenty rooms in the house. And yet it seemed warm, friendly, there was no forbidding coldness or stodginess about it.
A moment later they swept past a fabulous bank of flowers and shrubs, rolled to a stop in the flower centered, circular drive. "Here we are, Miss," Atkins said, opening the door, immediately going for her bags.
And as they entered that vast, elegant foyer, as she saw the chandeliers, the magnificent, curving staircase leading upstairs, she was even more enchanted. Cort had told her about the house briefly. But he hadn't led her to believe it was this lavish, this warm and beautiful.
She wanted to just stand, luxuriate in the mood, in its stunning impressiveness. But Atkins denied her. "This way, Miss Wanzer. I'll show you your room." Then as he left her: "I'll tell Mr. Pauley you're here."
Nila was in the living room. Waiting and admiring simultaneously, her amazement growing by the moment. So preoccupied was she that she didn't see the spindly, somewhat gawky girl enter. Something uncertain, frightened in her eyes, Denise stared at the lovely, poised redhead, shrank slightly. And then, finally screwing up courage enough: "Good afternoon, Miss Wanzer," she said in a cracked voice. "Father told me to come down and entertain you until he was free.
He's on the phone." Some disapproval shone in her eyes. "He's always on the phone."
"So," Nila said, her heart immediately going out to the child, "we meet at last. You're Denise, aren't you?" Nila's smile was warm, sincere.
"Yes, Miss Wanzer. I'm glad to have you here." But she wasn't one bit glad, Nila knew. What she was, was a well-trained little robot, product of an overzealous governess. Miss Parker, had Cort told her?
"And I'm glad to be here. Won't you come over here, sit by me?" She noticed how painfully shy. how much drain on trained poise it took for the child to advance, sit beside her on the davenport.
And what masquerade have they got you dressed up for today, Denise? she thought. That black wool pinafore, the white, long-sleeved blouse. Those white socks and black shoes? That costume went out with Kate Douglas Wiggen. Nila was immediately glad that Miss Parker was away for the weekend. They'd undoubtedly have tangled.
Denise was overly thin, her mouth overlarge for her small face, her teeth slightly distended. She wasn't a pretty child, was painfully conscious of the fact and had retreated (perhaps with Miss Parker's help) into herself. Her eyes were beautiful, a soulful light in them; she had lovely, tawny-yellow hair that hung at shoulder length. Dressed as she was this afternoon she reminded Nila of a forlorn Alice Through the Looking Glass.
She could definitely see the resemblance to Cort. In that intensity of gaze, in that aura of unmistakable withdraw! that mantled her. Instantly she felt sorry for Denise, saw--in her mind's eye-another little Denise of yore. A mother-dominated child who'd had to fight desperately to establish any identity of her own. A gem-hard, brilliant independence that had seen Nila through her entire life.
At least until she'd met Cort.
She wanted, at that moment, to reach out, touch Denise's cheek, hug her close. In that way to reassure, to make up to that lost self, for some terrible wrong an adult world had done to it. But she knew Denise would be embarrassed, shocked even, and she resisted the impulse.
"I brought you something, Denise," Nila said softly. "Do you like to read?" She handed her the gift wrapped book.
"I love to read. Almost more than anything else. There's a place back in the woods where I go sometimes. I take my book and...." Abruptly Denise cut herself short.
Nila's heart tipped, righted itself. God, she warned, don't get carried away, don't get maudlin. "I wish I'd had this book to read when I was a girl. I discovered it quite by accident five or six years ago. It's a favorite now. I use it to escape."
The child eagerly opened the package, was careful not to tear the paper, crush the ribbon. Nila couldn't help but notice the disappointment on Denise's face as she saw the book, a copy of Margery Sharp's The Rescuers. For that brief instant her training slipped, she was an outspoken child again. "Oh ... but it's a baby book...."
Nila loved her for the frank reaction. "No, Denise," she smiled, "not a baby book. A grown-up book. Once you've read it you'll find out for yourself. She laughed, touched Denise's hand. "Sometimes we have to grow up before we can truly appreciate 'baby books.' "
The child was mortified. "I'm sorry, Miss Wanzer. I ... It's a beautiful book. The pictures are so lovely."
"That's all right, Denise. My mother once gave me a Winnie-The-Pooh book. I never learned to like it until I was eighteen. But I think this book will grow on you faster than that. Especially the pictures." She winked. "Give it a chance will you?"
The smile, still uncertain but thawing, warmed Nila, gave her confidence. Denise, she thought, you and I are going to have a wonderful time together. She stood, took Denise's hand. "I'd love to go outside. Would you show me the gardens? It's such a beautiful day."
Denise was uncertain. "But shouldn't we wait for Daddy? He might think it rude if I ... "
"Rude, schmood," Nila chuckled. "What do we care? If he'd rather be with that old telephone than two nice young ladies like us...." She pulled Denise in conspiratorial escape. "C'mon, we'll play hooky. It's that kind of day. We won't let him find us."
Denise giggled excitedly. Then she was running, leading the way.
With no ulterior motives whatsoever, her only desire being to draw Denise out, make her happy, Nila decided to make this weekend Denise's. She and Cort would have to take second place temporarily. And yet it wasn't a clear cut decision, she never outlined it in so many words. Events fell into place like stepping stones, developed of their own accord. A quick, natural rapport was established between them.
Where that next hour and a half went Nila never knew. For when Denise had shown her the gardens, she took her to the stables, proudly introduced her pony, Muffin. Then she guided her to the edge of the woods, stopped short, a strange tension suddenly inhibiting her.
"Miss Wanzer?" she said, a wistful something in her voice, "would you like to see my secret place? Where I go when I want to hide from everybody?"
"Nila's throat ached suddenly. "Of course I would, Denise. But only if you're sure you want me to see it. Adults have a way of intruding, spoiling things, you know."
Denise's eyes agreed. "I want to show you, Miss Wanzer. Very much."
"All right then. But first, let's get something settled. If you're going to show me your secret place, you have to call me Nila."
Denise frowned. "That isn't polite, Miss Wanzer. Miss Parker said that a child must always...."
"Oh, foof on Miss Parker," Nila said with comic vehemence. "She's forgotten how to live. Nila? Please?"
"Yes," she said dutifully. "Nila. This way...." Denise's secret place was breathtakingly beautiful. There was a copse of trees, a small hill upon which she could sit, stare down at the chattering stream below The faint path, the arrangement of logs and stones, indicated to Nila how often the child came here. Her heart ached as she imagined the lonely, grossly neglected girl-fleeing here to ponder the inconsistencies of parents, of martinets like Miss Parker, of life itself, in this sylvan setting.
"Sometimes deer come here," Denise said. "I watch them drink. They don't seem to mind me at all."
When it was time to return to the house Nila's eyes momentarily flooded as Denise shyly, almost as if afraid of rejection and rebuke, put her hand into hers.
Nila took it, held it firmly.
Cort was waiting for them when they arrived. "And where did you two get to?" he asked, his eyes brightening as he looked at Nila.
"Denise took me on the grand tour. The gardens, the stables. All sorts of things." She didn't betray Denise's secret place.
Nila didn't miss the change that came over Denise in her father's presence, the way she quickly withdrew her hand when he appeared. "Yes, Miss Wanzer," she said, her voice thin, prissy and proper.
After dinner they sat in the living room. Because it was a cool night Nila asked if they might have a small fire in the fireplace. While Cort made it, Denise went to her room, got into pajamas and robe. Her eyes glowed with delight when she found Nila sprawled on the floor before the fire, all lamps save one out.
Primly she perched on a footstool, smiled stiffly. "Come down here, Denise," Nila urged. "Sit by the fire with me."
"I shouldn't, Miss Wanzer. Miss Parker says that cultured people don't sit on the floor."
Nila's eyes flashed. "You know my opinion of Miss Parker. Come. Sit by me. Please?"
Gradually some of the child's uncertainty faded. Little by little she let Nila pull her close, she actually cuddled in the curve of her belly and thigh, stared thoughtfully into the flames. Dear God. Nila thought, what kind of monsters are these? The kid's starved for love, for a kind word.
"Would you like to have me read to you, Denise?" she said. "From your new book? Get you started?" Denise fidgeted. "I don't know. I don't think I've ever had anybody read to me. Except for records...." Nila turned, sent an accusing stare at the meditative Cort where he sat in a large Windsor chair. His eyes flickered, remained impassive.
"Go bring the book, dear."
For the next half hour Nila read, communicated her enthusiasm for the book to Denise. She knew an intense sense of peace as Denise rested her head on her thigh, stared at the fire, giggled and sighed in all the right places. Together they studied the illustrations, commented on the details. And when the chapter was finished:
"What a charming book," Denise sighed. "I'm sure I'm going to love it."
Nila thought her use of the word charming particularly archaic, quaint somehow. She was deeply touched.
Reluctantly Denise pulled away. "I think it's time for me to go to bed," she said.
Nila pulled her back, kissed Denise softly on the side of her forehead, gave her an affectionate squeeze. "Good night, Denise."
The girl rose, sent a timid look at her father. But he only stared into the flames. "Good night, father."
"Good night, Denise."
She turned to Nila. "Good night, Nila," she said, the departure from protocol an intentional defiance.
"Good night," she said. God love you for that, baby.
Then she and Cort were alone, strangely reticent and silent, both staring fixedly at the fire. Finally he rose. "I think I'll turn in, if you don't mind, Nila."
"Surely, Cort. I'm tired myself." And thinking of what would happen upstairs shortly, she didn't think his brusqueness one bit strange. She was glad for it.
He saw her to her door. Stopping, he kissed her gently on the lips. Nila felt a searing heat low in her body, wanted to drag him to her bed then and there. "Thank you, Nila, he said.
"Thank you for what?"
"For being so good to Denise. She likes you; you drew her out. I was watching from the window this afternoon. And that thing tonight. You were very beautiful together."
Nila thought it was a lovely thing for him to say.
There were no more words. Abruptly Cort wheeled, went down the hall.
Slowly she entered her room. She took her time with her shower; she chose a particularly seductive perfume, dressed in the new, bewitching nightgown she'd brought especially for tonight.
Finally she was ready. She extinguished the lights, lay back to wait for the house to quiet down, for Cort to come to her. The silence, the night birds and crickets outside, seemed particularly beautiful, soothing. She let her thoughts race, she envisioned the very special love she and Cort would share tonight.
Perhaps an hour elapsed before Nila finally realized that Cort wasn't coming to her bed tonight. Cort! she screamed inwardly, her frustration a terrible thing. How could you? When I was looking forward so much to sleeping with you, having you beside me all night long, making love with you, talking to you?
Then the frustration turned to rage.
But in time, as reason had replaced fury, she realized that this was, after all, the greatest compliment of all, this was his way of honoring her. She and Denise-together in this house-the only two decent things that had ever happened to him. Could he tarnish this decency by illicit, furtive midnight skulkings?
Nila understood. She felt proud. She did feel honored. And yet, she concluded archly, the pangs of desire still stirring within her, I wish he'd found a different way to show his love and respect.
Lord. How will I ever get to sleep now?
But if Nila was being honored, being left alone at that moment, there was another, back in New York City, in an apartment Byron Sorel had arranged for her, who was not alone. A well lit broad named Marlene Lang.
The bedroom was dark, a warm breeze swept across her naked body. An even more disastrously drunk Ed Trapp was sprawled on his back on the bed. While Marlene gigglingly hovered over him, ran her fingers maddeningly, exploringly over him. As the expression goes: From his guggle to his zatch.
The events leading to Trapp's presence in Marlene's bed had been seemingly circumstantial. He and Byron Sorel together this Saturday night, a "boys night out" sort of thing, they had, somewhere along the line, accidentally bumped into Marlene Lang. The drinking had begun in earnest then.
Sorel had suddenly developed pains, had bowed out early, asked Ed to see Marlene home. More drinks then. And finally, one thing leading to another-
Marlene's apartment. Marlene's bed. Both naked, both out of their heads with lust, working up to a savage, flat-out bedroom tussle. With the blotto, unsuspecting Trapp thanking his lucky stars at this incredible stroke of luck.
"Please, baby," Marlene wheedled now, her words slurred, her tone petulant, "won't you do that f'r me? Marlene loves her boys to love her like that. She goes ape f'r it. Please, Eddie. Be a sport."
"I can't," he groaned. "That ain't nice. It's perverted. I don't dig that bit ... "
At which Marlene chuckled evilly, began to let her body turn on the bed, began to kiss his chest. Now his belly. "If Marlene does it f'r you?" she coaxed.
Trapp snickered. "I don't know, baby. Why don't you go ahead, show me how it's done. And maybe later...."
"No maybe about it. Once I get started ... I got ways t' make my boys perform. Ummm ... here, don't be shy ... I'll do you good ..
Then she achieved her goal; her hands arranged, her words became muffled. She worked with devilish, practiced efficiency. Christian had dug this the most. And before she was done with him-He'd been wild to play the same way.
She was almost immediately successful with Trapp also. He groaned and wheezed and twisted. "Dear lord, baby...." he gasped. "Dear Lord ... I never thought...."
At first he pushed Marlene's offering away; he cursed her. But gradually, as she worked at him more sadistically, made him groan, as she re-offered and re-offered. The prospect became appealing.
And finally-
Trapp wasn't fighting any more. Instead he was pulling Marlene to him, his grip frantic, ruthless. And where he'd expected initial repugnance-
He was too drunk, too lust-ridden. He found the self-surrender evil, delightful beyond compare. He thought it fantastic. What have I been missing all these years? his befuddled brain called.
Now they were knotted in depraved, grunting knot; they were fighting for better purchase, fighting to excel. And in excelling, to drive their partner to even further excess.
So busy was Trapp that he never noticed the closet door that slid open. He could see Byron Sorel, encumbered with piles of specially purchased infrared photographic equipment. He couldn't, of course, see the infrared flashes that stabbed the darkness.
Brother, Sorel thought as he worked, watched through the special finder, chose his shots carefully, got Trapp's face framed clearly, now maybe you'll talk turkey when I ask you about that Spring Kiss formula; now maybe you'll play ball with me.
He fought to stifle a chuckle as Trapp really went wild on Marlene. Or maybe you'd like a set of these pics sent to your loving wife. Maybe you'd like having them flashed around the office?
He tripped the shutter more swiftly now. Hey, Eddie, he gloated silently, I thought that was perverted. Talk about converts. Go, Eddie, Go!
CHAPTER NINE
What'n hell you talking about., Mike? What d'ya mean the market's tightened up? There's nothing new here, I tell you! That's a lousy, stinking rumor. You trying to hold me up or something? I can't swing prices like that! A hundred-ten? That's up ten since last week."
Byron Sorel was in his office, talking via phone with one of the two shady brokers Bonoforte had put him onto. Mike Travis had been quietly buying small lots of Spainlouis stock for two months now. And up until today things had been going their way, nobody was tumbling at all to the fact that something was in the wind.
But now, overnight seemingly, the price on Spainlouis stock had firmed up, everybody was hanging on, waiting for developments. At the first immense, saturation shipment of Spring Kiss was ready to hit the market.
And Sorel was scared. Scared bad. His secret backer was getting cold feet. Granted, Ernie would own a big block of some highly profitable stock. But when you've been expecting all along to take over a company, take profits from the inside out-
How in hell-Sorel cursed-did the news leak out?
Damn, damn! Of all the lousy times for a break like this! If I get my hands on some blabber-mouth secretary-
"Well I just can't swing it, Mike. Lay off, hang tight. Keep your ears open. I'll see if I can find a way to shake those prices loose. Check. I'll let you know." He was on the verge of hanging up. Then, at the last moment, "Hey, Mike. That Humleker dame? You getting anywhere with her?"
He cursed at Mike's reply. "That dumb old bat! She don't even know why she's holding on. She's always trusted Spainlouis products? That's the same snow job she gave me. Unless she's smarter than we think. God, if we could just crack her I'd have it made. Twenty thousand shares'd put me in the driver's seat, Pauley couldn't even wiggle."
He paused, listened. "Yeah. That's right. Just keep trying. And whatever you do, don't let on there's a big buyer in the market. You'll get yours, Mike. But you muff this, you get what Paddy shot at. Okay. Keep in touch. Yeah. Bye."
For long moments Sorel sat at his desk, scowling, his mouth working in agitation. He'd feared just such a turnabout. Hell, the minute those Wall Street vultures get wind of something cooking at Spainlouis-
His stare became, if possible, even more baleful. This would mean playing his trump cards. And he hadn't wanted to do that just yet. If he could have got Spring Kiss on the market, got the dolls sold on it before bombing it. Then there might be a chance of salvaging the market, paying off the losers, building the lotion up again.
For, without a doubt, Spring Kiss would be the biggest thing to hit cosmetics since Queen Nefertiti.
And he had to scrub it before it even got off the launching pad.
He shrugged, smiled. So? If control of the company was at stake-Which was more important? His piece of the deal or nothing? And nothing could easily mean concrete overshoes in the East River. If he knew! Ernie Sorel sighed heavily, pushed himself up from his desk, went to his private files, unlocked them. Then, a particularly vulpine smirk on his face, he removed the plain brown envelope.
Time to look up poor Eddy, he thought.
While at that same moment, seated behind her desk, Nila was finding it all but impossible to get at the huge pile of work on her desk. She also stared into space, her expression far from malevolent. Instead it was blissful; it was obvious she was intensely enjoying the pictures reeling off before her mind's eye.
She'd been at Cort's suite again last night. She hadn't, in fact, grabbed a cab home until sometime after 2:30 a.m. this morning. This only after Cort had awakened again, had come to her with a primitive, straightforward hunger.
And unlike the separate love events before, had taken her with no prelude whatsoever, had charged her like some sex-famished animal. She'd found some special, aboriginal delight in the direct approach. Even now, remembering the quickness of her own response, recalling the sensations-devilish, searing, filling her with an awesome sense of evil incarnate-she felt a savage constriction in her belly, she actually sighed, squeezed her legs together.
Nila, she scolded. Get hold of yourself. You're getting to be a regular sex fiend.
Cort had done something during that last bout that he'd never done before. Where previously their love had always been relative silent, a melange of sighs, breathless endearments on her part, description of sensation sometimes escaping her, last night Cord had participated in a crude, yet strangely thrilling, satisfying way.
Toward the end, as his bucking, cleaving body had truly gone wild, had sent Nila to her third, swift glory, as his own release had hung in that tense, agonizing balance-he'd begun to groan. And something hard to believe from Cort-he'd cursed, begun to refer to himself (as well as to her female equipment) in a vulgar, coarse way. He'd compared himself to all varieties of excavation machines, he'd used words commonly written on latrine walls.
The most incomprehensible thing about the manifestation was the light-of-day realization that the excess had brought even more devastating, more eviscerating passion, more sensation to the act than ever before. She'd been turned into a wild animal, she hadn't minded the words, had become oblivious of her own violent grindings and thrusting reciprocations. Even more appalling: At the end she'd even used some of them herself.
When they'd achieved their completion the sensation had been ragged, tearing, terrifying. She'd felt like great charges of electricity had seared and ripped her. In her excessive abandon she'd even wound her legs around his waist, had hung on for dear life.
How had Cort said it? "Those beautiful, long legs," he'd gasped. "God, they feel like they're wrapped around me twice! Like they're gonna jam me all the "
Nila shook her head, felt crazy, feverish all over again. That man! That madman! She squirmed, pressed her thighs even more tightly together. If he was here right now-His words rolled in her brain, over and over.
And where once Bruce Ryan had made almost similar comment, the lapse proving his downfall, almost turning her stomach-When Cort had said that last night, it had stunned her, she'd actually growled and shrieked as sudden glory slammed her; she'd dug her teeth into his shoulder, drawn blood. From Cort the words had been thrilling, proper, had been vainglorious compliment.
And even at this moment-
"There," he'd said as they finished and he breathlessly drew away, "that's for Saturday night. I think you know why I didn't come to you. It would have seemed profanation somehow. After that evening with you and Denise. I called home last night. She talked of nothing else. Nila, Nila, Nila ... What'd you do? Hypnotize her?"
"All the time. No, Cort, nothing so complicated. I merely saw her, treated her like a human being. That's something you come by awful hard."
"I know. But I've got my reasons."
"Denise has nothing to do with those reasons."
He'd kissed her to silence. "End of sermon. At least you understand why I didn't pay a midnight call."
"I understand, darling. I did feel honored."
Honored, she mused now. What a feeble word to express my true feelings. To express the love I feel for you, Cort. Without you-
Even thinking of life without Cort made her want to cry. To wither and die herself.
Abruptly she got control of herself, shut off the morbid thoughts. And this is happiness? she wisecracked.
Moments later she was typing like a small-scale hurricane.
Byron Sorel found Trapp in Test Lab D with
Doctors Allen and Tully. Along with five girls from accounting, all stripped of their sweaters and blouses, all applying their daily quota of Spring Kiss to neck and shoulders, answering a routine set of questions posed by the dermatologists.
Sorel's eyes immediately narrowed, a leer molding his features. He particularly watched a raven-haired creature named Mona Bashn. A white-skinned beauty with one of the most impressive sets of boobs he'd ever seen on any girl. Big, round, sharp, they poked great, fascinating starbursts into the front of her black slip; they seemingly rested on the lab table at which she sat.
A dull ache made itself known low in Sorel's body. There's life in the old boy after all, he thought. He advanced, stood behind Mona. "Honey," he said, sotto voce, "those shouldn't be out without a keeper."
Mona flushed, sent him an angry look.
"Mr. Sorel," Dr. Tully snapped. "Please!
If these girls are good enough to cooperate, lend themselves to our research program, the least they can expect is immunity from insulting remarks."
"Sorry, doc," Sorel grinned. "You too, honey. I didn't realize I was thinking out loud." He looked across to Trapp. "Hey, Ed. Can I see you a minute?" Alone in Trapp's office, Sorel smugly, high-handedly laid things on the line. Without going into any unnecessary detail, he told of his hatred of Pauley, of his plans to shaft him.
In addition he outlined what monetary benefits would accrue to Ed Trapp should he cooperate with him.
"You must be out of your mind, Byron," Trapp snapped. "To think you can buck somebody like Pauley. He eats small-time operators like you for breakfast every day."
"It can be done," Sorel blustered. "I've got connections."
"Forget it. It might be done. But not by you. I've got my reasons to hate Pauley too. Thanks, but I'm not betting on a dead horse."
"Maybe you ain't got any choice. Maybe I've got you by the short hairs."
"What are you talking about?"
Sorel threw the envelope on the desk. "Here's what I'm talking about. Take a look, Ed. Real hot stuff." Skeptically Trapp tore open the envelope, spilled out the glossy five-by-sevens. Instantly, as his eyes focused, as he recognized the two people comprising that disgusting pretzel, his face went white, his mouth gaped. He seemingly shrank where he sat.
"Where...." he said for want of anything better, "where'd you get these?"
"Never mind, Ed," Sorel hissed, enjoying the way Trapp squirmed, the way his eyes darted to the pictures, then away. Then back again. "We talk business? Or should I send a duplicate batch to Shirley? Maybe even to the great Cort Pauley himself? He cackled thickly. "Dare me?"
Slowly Trapp turned the pictures face down on his desk. He sat stiffly, his eyes closed, great beads of sweat on his brow. "My God," he intoned. "Of all the rotten, filthy tricks. I always thought you were an unprincipled degenerate, Byron. But this...."
"Look who's calling who a degenerate. Look at those pictures, buddy. Hey, Ed. This is your life!" Sorel dissolved into gales of laughter. "God, if you could see your happy face. Was she good? She must've been. Look at the happy smile on this one...."
"Shut up!" Trapp growled. He gathered the pictures, stuffed them into the envelope. "All right, Byron. You got me where you want me. What do you want me to do?"
"I want you to louse up that formula on Spring Kiss. You know how. You know every skin irritant in the book. I want this promotion to fall flat on its face, see. I want Pauley in lawsuits up to his ears."
"You must be crazy. What're you gonna do with a sick company like that? Even if you do win?"
"Let me worry about that, huh? We're not going to doctor all of that stuff, see? Maybe one out of five bottles. We'll have some repeat trade, we'll build on that. Women'd wipe bear fat on their kissers if it removed wrinkles. The ones that get results'll come back. But by then we'll be running the company."
Sorel drew up his chair. "Now listen, stupid. And listen good. This is the way I want this thing done...."
A half hour later a grinning, walking-on air Byron Sorel arrived back at his office. What he wanted to do was celebrate, pitch a real drunk. But since that was out of the question, since there was a media conference at 1:00 this afternoon-
The next best thing. As, at that moment Gisele Tocco, looking especially beautiful this morning, just returned from coffee break, entered his office with a sheaf of correspondence in her hands.
She'd do. She'd do very nicely.
"Honey," he leered. "I feel that way this morning.
Lock up, huh? A quickie?"
"You must be out of your mind, Byron. At ten o'clock in the morning? That phone'll be ringing, you've got a ten-thirty appointment with Mackey, you...."
"Lock the door, baby. I ain't just talking. We'll tell 'em we went to Florida." He cackled. "When really we're gonna go to the moon...."
The girl saw the sick, psychotic look in his eyes, quailed. When Byron got like this-
Gisele went out into the outer office, locked the door, she took the phone off the hook.
Her stomach wrenched violently as she reentered Byron's office, saw him drinking brandy neat. Saw that his shorts and trousers were thrown over a chair as well.
She sighed resignedly, closed and locked the inner door.
"Here we go, doll," he clicked. "Over here, give old Byron a peek at those goodies."
Catering to this particular weakness of Sorel's, Gisele turned slowly, made a tease show of drawing up her skirts in back. She wore mint-green panties today, a white, lace-decorated garter belt beneath. Woodenly she swayed, collapsed one knee, then another, gave him the show she knew he expected.
He was snuffling now, his voice thick, his breathing stertorous. "Over here, dolly. Let me get my hands on those yummy little melons."
His hands slid on her buttocks, pinched, gathered, lifted and manipulated them. Now they careened down her nyloned legs, made her squirm and jitter. He began peeling her panties down in back. She felt queasy as his lips, his hot breath closed in on that erogenous hollow. Now his darting, sliding tongue.
Finally he took off her panties, forced her to pose in just the garter belt and stockings. Carried away, he even bent, etched maddening spirals on her tummy with his lips.
"Prime, baby," he gloated. "Prime. What a way to start the day. Here, Gisele. This way today."
"No, Byron," she pleaded. "On the couch, on the floor. But not that."
He wordlessly pulled her forward, dug his fingers into her thighs. She knew he'd bruise her shortly if she didn't capitulate.
And then, still wearing her high heels, holding her skirts up around her waist, she hobbled forward. Until she was straddling him. Sorel chuckled, slouched down in the chair. Inch by slow inch Gisele lowered herself, felt his fingers guide her.
And she standing, flexing her knees in steady rhythm, he in a half reclining position-
Celebration indeed!
CHAPTER TEN
Spring Kiss was placed on the market on July 15. The multi-million dollar promotion had blanketed the nation, had filled feminine hearts with breathless anticipation and hope. So that by the time Spring Kiss actually hit the retail outlets, they were practically standing in line to buy the miracle product.
Sales were phenomenal. Over a million bottles were sold in the first two weeks. The mystery formula actually working, the users ecstatic, recommending the skin rejuvenator to their friends, sales zoomed even more unbelievably during that first week in August.
But then, suddenly, from out of nowhere, disaster struck. As the delay-fuse time bomb Ed Trapp had installed in the formula finally exploded. Continual application of the lotion-in those selective shipments-caught up with the users. First there were small, red blotches on their faces. Then tiny pimples which the women (still yearning for a miracle) ignored. But when the pimples began to fester, when the blotches spread, caused severe discoloration all over the women's faces-
At first there were just a few letters of complaint, some from dealers who'd been forced to refund on Spring Kiss. Some from customers themselves, a few of these accompanied by a doctor's affidavit which actually pinpointed the harmful ingredient in the emollient.
Instantly Cort Pauley was alerted, he called for an emergency investigation at Villa Spainlouis; it was verified that a foreign ingredient had insinuated itself into the carefully guarded formula.
Telegraphed directives were sent to every dealer advising him to quietly withdraw Spring Kiss from the market, tell avid customers he was sold out, that new shipments would be in shortly. The Spainlouis plants in Chicago and Oakland worked overtime. And even though the batches made at these locations were found nontoxic, they were pulled also, replaced by fresh, triple-checked supplies.
By then the letters of protest, the initial lawsuits, had become a flood tide. Matt Kurtz and his legal eagles were doing some round-the-clock work of their own.
A lesser man would have jumped off the top of the nearest building, would have whimpered and gone under. But Cort Pauley was no lesser man; he'd weathered crises like this before. He marshaled his forces like a field general, mapped a logical, clear-cut strategy. With the backing of his own personal fortune, he settled claims out of court in every instance, he bought good will in every way possible, was thankful that the virulent irritant had infected only 20 per cent of Spring Kiss's buyers. Those women not infected, those women delirious about the things it was doing for their complexions, were still using it, were steadfast and loyal to Villa Spainlouis.
He thought he might see the mess through.
Full page ads were taken in America's largest dailies, the women were requested to return unused portions of Spring Kiss, to have it replaced with a fresh, guaranteed non-contaminated jar. It was an apologetic, eat-crow letter, one that explained how quality control had goofed, how every possible technical test was being made to see that such would never occur again.
And as a clincher the American woman was asked to talk to friends who had used Spring Kiss, had not been infected. Does Spring Kiss Really Work? the final challenge was posed. Can You Afford Not To Give This Product a Chance?
The FDA, of course, closed in immediately. But when they were assured that the foreign ingredient had been localized, that it was being screened out, controlled by newly instituted control checks, they gave the product conditional approval.
Cort Pauley began breathing easier, his nerve spasms diminished. By the end of August he thought he'd won.
Ed Trapp had been immediately summoned to Pauley's office, had been held accountable for the mistake.
"How in hell," Cort accused, his face red with rage, "could a thing like this happen? How did that gunk get into the formula in the first place?" Then, all but pulling Trapp out of his chair, shaking him like a naughty child, he spat, "And how come it wasn't caught in quality control? There's a standing order that we spot check twenty-four hours a day when a product's coming off the line."
Trapp had been expertly coached by Sorel beforehand; his answers were tendered with heart-wrenching sincerity. He almost convinced Pauley of his innocence, made him believe it was purely accidental. Almost.
"I don't know, Mr. Pauley," Trapp cringed, avoided his boss's eyes. "Those thing happen. You can't put out a vast quantity of stuff like that, on a rush basis as we did, without having some impurities creep in." Pauley shot a vile oath at the man. "Knock it off, Trapp. You're not talking to some flunky now. I don't buy that. There's something rotten here you aren't telling me. How do you explain the fact that only twenty per cent of those shipments were contaminated? Somebody has to be on the take...."
Trapp stared at his boss with hound-dog pleading. "Mr. Pauley," he choked, overacting at this point, "how can you accuse me of such a thing? I can't explain those lapses. It was coincidence ... you have to believe that ... sheer coincidence."
"And you're a rotten, dirty liar, Trapp. There's something brewing here. And it isn't accidental, either. That's the only explanation you can offer?"
"Yes, Mr. Pauley. Believe me, these things just happen, there's no reason for you to think I'd purposely try to undermine the company. You're letting your imagination get the best of you. You've been working too hard."
Trapp was prepared for what came next. Confident that victory was in his and Sorel's grasp, that Sorel would soon have his chance to honor his promise of a bonus, of a senior-executive position, of rock-solid security in his old age, he felt no quiver of fear as Pauley fired him outright.
"You're done, Trapp. Get your things and clear out. I don't trust you any more. I don't like you. You stink, little man. You sold us down the river." And as a parting shot: "You sold yourself down the river too, chump. You don't know it yet, but you will shortly. Once I figure this mess out...."
The door slammed shut. That phase of the campaign was over.
Another was immediately commenced, as Pauley was informed that the crisis had had marked effect on the market value of Spainlouis stock. And if the lawsuits weren't bad enough, if his fortune hadn't been nicked to the tune of nearly a-million already-
Now there was news that the plummeting stock was being snapped up in wholesale lots, a power grab was in the making. A lawyer was traced down, a man named Charles Bonoforte. A man tighter lipped than a clam at low tide. He positively refused to discuss his transactions with Kurtz, refused to reveal the secret client he was dummying for.
And if his fortune wasn't already being drained at a dangerous rate, now Pauley knew he must enter the market, buy stock himself to shore up his sagging control over Spainlouis.
Haggard, weary from the frantic pace at which he'd driven himself these past weeks, he took another deep breath, plunged into the fray anew. He had faith; he knew that the company would rise again, emerge as the giant of the cosmetics industry. He was willing to gamble that his fortune would be recouped within a year's time.
Now Kurtz and his watch dogs were turned loose on the Stock Holder's Registry, put on unlimited expense accounts, sent all over the country to attempt cornering stock. And failing in that, proxies at least.
Then, Wall Street getting wind of the impending struggle-the Spring Kiss fiasco notwithstanding-jumping on a good thing, the price of Spainlouis stock took a healthy leap.
Pauley worked even harder, drove his staff, his lawyers mercilessly.
Until, finally, late in August, it was ascertained the projections sketchy at best-that the battle was at a stand-off. And when proxies were counted, when all the stock had been gathered in-
Of the 200,000 shares issued (50,000 in Pauley's portfolio from the start) Cort now possessed 85,000. His opponent (whoever he might be; Pauley hadn't been able to pinpoint the same as yet) held roughly 85,000 shares. Which left some 30,000 shares still floating around loose. And meeting with Kurtz this morning, he was handed a setback of the most stunning sort.
"This old dame out in Evanston," Matt Kurtz snapped, the two men closeted in Pauley's office, "a Mrs. Otto Humleker. She's got twenty-thousand shares. As far as I can find out she isn't interested in selling. If we could get her proxy, we'd have it made."
"So? How does the wind blow with Mrs. Humleker? Is she for us or against us?"
"Her lawyer says she's high on Spainlouis."
"Well," Pauley chuckled, "that's the ball game. We've got it made."
Kurtz's eyes darkened. "Hardly. There just happens to be a little hitch."
"Oh? What's that?"
"We can't find Mrs. Humleker. She's a little on the dotty side from what I hear. All of a sudden she's taken a trip to Europe; she's left no forwarding address. It's a smelly deal. I can't help but think that our competition's got to her. That if she won't sell to them, surrender her proxy, they've arranged to keep her out of the country until after that stockholder's meeting next month."
"That leaves us on shaky ground. Can't you rustle up more stock? There must be some floating around."
"Can do. But that Humleker stock is critical. I've got no idea how much those guys have got cornered. You're going to have to pay through the nose for whatever you get. And that still doesn't guarantee a thing."
"So," Pauley said, falling back in his chair, suddenly feeling twenty years older, "I pay through the nose. I'm in over my head already, might as well go for broke."
"Okay, Cort. You're the boss." He rose.
"Don't give up on that Humleker dame. Hire some detectives if you have to." Then, as Kurtz left, he slammed his fist into his hand, cursed. "Damn! If I'd only kept on my toes, got wind of this sooner...."
Now he slumped even further, stared into space, let the vicious circle of thoughts begin to spin in his brain. Who was out to get him? He started at the farthest periphery of conjecture, began ticking off the many business enemies he'd made in his lifetime. He evaluated and sifted, remembered grievances, the intensity of hatreds. He estimated the net worth of each, his ability to corner the market.
And as the spiral narrowed, as countless names were discarded, as he came to his own inner circle. Byron Sorel's name came up. And was almost instantly discarded.
Sorel was a dissident, a blustering, clumsy sorehead. And though Pauley didn't wholly trust him, he'd been satisfied with his work of late. Certainly, he concluded, a mere dressing down wouldn't inspire a plan as far reaching as the one now threatening him. Sorel didn't think that big.
And more conclusive: Where would Sorel get money, backing like that?
His thoughts spun off again, went into more rarified, intricate planes of financial intrigue.
Nila, close to Cort as she was (personally as well as career wise), realized exactly what deadly crisis he faced. She was caught up in the deadly games being played; she contacted that same virulent fever, that contagion of tension and danger. And while she couldn't begin to advise Cort, she'd been at Spainlouis long enough to entertain certain suspicions of her own.
It was all too neat, there were no loose ends. It had to be an inside job, a thing of long planning, infinitely careful ground work. She knew of only one person capable of masterminding such a strategy. A person who usually was discredited, regarded as so much wind and bluster. The man who had been Christian Lenelle's second-in-command during Spainlouis' earlier days.
Byron Sorel.
Add to this the inevitable scuttlebutt, rumor mongering that is lifeblood of any business office, the petty gossip of supposedly rattle-headed secretaries. Over the years Nila had acquired a fine ear for nuances, she'd been able to pick the meat out of many flighty, tinny "hen sessions." And lately there'd been too many oblique references to the furtive comings and goings of Sorel.
Talk concerning the didos that went on inside his office between him and Gisele Tocco. Someone had seen him in the company of Marlene Lang one night. And hadn't he put the fear of God into Ed Trapp that one morning?
But the clincher, from Faye Nader, the switchboard operator: "You'd think he was Mr. Wall Street himself.
This broker and that broker. I never heard what he was buying. Maybe he's got a hot tip. Maybe if I got friendly with him, passed out things like Gisele does...." Little by little, things long in progress began falling into place, made sense. Until, only an hour ago, during coffee break, when she'd offhandedly said to the guileless Gisele, "I heard Byron's a good man on stocks. I've got a little nest egg. How's about a tip?"
At which Gisele had smiled blankly, hadn't realized she was being pumped. "I'd love to, Nila. But he doesn't say. Always clams up when I'm around."
"But he is buying stock?"
"Oh sure. For months now...."
And Nila had experienced that unfailing flash of intuition. She'd have bet her life on that recognition.
Now her brain spinning, a wild, crazy plan forming in her mind-
She hadn't liked the way Cort had looked lately. Like death-warmed-over, something desperate in his eyes, like he was going to crack at any minute. Like one more reversal would send him over the edge of sanity. There were moments, seeing the toll the past weeks had taken on him, when she wanted to sob, to actually die with pity for him. When she wanted to gather him in her arms, rock him, comfort him. If there was only something she could do-
Like last night, in his bed, when Cort had told her about Mrs. Humleker. "They can't find her," he'd said. "Not a trace. It's weird. And if they don't find her soon...." His voice had actually broken. "God, I'd give my right arm to know where she is."
Nila knew Sorel was the key link. She'd bet her life on it. Just as well as she knew that if she went to Cort with her suspicions, sent him to nail Sorel to the cross, the wily man would deny everything, weasel out of all complicity. And would be that much stronger, that much more indomitable for the scrape. Forewarned is forewarned.
Cort could never beat him then.
And what change would defeat-a defeat in a realm where he'd always been successful-effect within him? Wouldn't he turn even further against the world? And in the final outcome-Against her?
There was one way to help Cort. The only way. All other alternatives, she knew, led to disaster. For Cort was in a trap, it was impossible for him to escape. Inch by inch the spiked walls were closing in on him. One way. One way to get Sorel to talk.
Dear God, help me, she thought. Cort, please understand and forgive. I'm doing this for you, to save you. Because I love you, because I can't stand to see you unhappy. For if they crush you-
What chance, what place for me? What place in your shattered life?
An insane drumming began in her brain, a fiery determination grew. Now she rose, arranged her clothes, freshened her lipstick. And knowing that Gisele was in the copying room-
She entered Sorel's office without knocking, leaned against the door framing with sultry curve to her spine, arms crossed to boost her breasts, one ankle over the other. Her smile was lewd, her eyes shone with seductive glitter. "Hi, Byron," she slurred. "Busy?"
His eyes instantly went lustful, they slid lazily down her refined, sexy body. "Never too busy for you, baby doll. What can I do for you?"
She closed the door, sauntered toward him, sat on the edge of his desk, let her skirt climb, reveal the white of one thigh. "Alone? Maybe we should talk."
His eyes clamped to that exposed flesh, his mouth worked rapidly. "Yeah, Gisele's out for a while. Talk about what?" His hand took a testing swipe at her knee. "You know what I'd like to talk about, don't you?"
She languidly brushed his fingers away. "That too, maybe. But later." Her eyes bored into his. "Byron, I want to know what'n hell's going on around here. Something's in the wind. I feel like I'm getting caught in the middle, getting squeezed. I don't like it. I've got lots of years in here at Spainlouis. And if it's gonna fold up, I want to know. I want to be the first rat in line."
His smile was venal, smug. "Depends on which side of the river you're on," he said. "Things're in the wind all right." His hand returned to her knee. This time she let him play. "There's gonna be a shakeup. You might be surprised who's gonna come out on top."
"You?" she smirked.
"Could be. Wanna string along?"
Her eyes slitted, her smile was wanton invitation. "You know me. Always looking out for number one." She started, controlled herself as his fingers slid on her bare flesh above her stocking tops. "You call it, Nila," he said softly, his breath sibilant, his eyes becoming excited. "I ... we can always use a bright girl like you. Hell, you know as much about the business as I do."
She made her breath husky. "You really think so? Maybe we should talk about this. Some place private?"
"Hey...." His hand became bolder, climbed higher beneath her skirt, tickled and caressed. Nila fought to endure his touch. "You've changed, baby. How come?"
"Like I said, I'm looking out for number one. There are all kinds of ways for a girl to get ahead. Talk, Byron?"
"Sure thing. How about tonight?" She let him play a moment longer, then slowly, teasingly removed his hand.
"Name the place." He tried to regain his erotic beach-head. "No, Byron. That's not nice. Later, maybe."
"My pad. I've got a place in town. That the kind of thing you mean?"
Her sultry wink was answer enough. "Write down the address, Byron."
"You ain't putting me on?" he said, his face twitching with lust. "You'll show?"
"I'll show, baby. I know what side my bread's buttered on." Slowly, giving her buttocks exaggerated grind and wiggle, she left the office. "Nine-thirty all right?"
"I'll be waiting, dolly."
Back in her office she leaned against the wall, fought her rebellious stomach. To think I let him touch and handle me that way, she railed.
The only way, the words refrained ceaselessly. Black terror took her. What if Cort finds out? What will he do? Dear God, if he ever finds out another woman's turned rotten on him-
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The prospect of the grisly evening ahead lying heavy on her conscience, Nila had been drinking steadily ever since her solitary dinner. Drinking courage, courting an amoral limbo, she had (remembering their deadly potency from somewhere in ancient history) put down three martinis before it was time to catch a cab, set out for the address Sorel had given her this morning.
Had it only been this morning? It seemed-the doubtings and soul searchings that had plagued the intervening hours-an eternity had passed since she'd made the irrevocable decision.
Now, at exactly 9:40 p.m., slightly late, she stood outside that apartment door, breathed deeply, fought the tremors wracking her. Lord, she raged, will I be able to see this through? Maybe I should have had still another martini before I started out.
Another? she mused, alter ego, bawdy, irresponsible venturing forth. Baby-you c'n hardly stand up as it is.
Had she been in any other condition, she most likely would have been sickened by the scene confronting her as she was admitted to that apartment. She wouldn't have been able to see her resolve through, would have bolted, run, as if the hounds of hell were at her heels.
"Ooh, Nila...." the all-but-stiff Gisele Tocco exclaimed when Sorel brought her in, "I didn't know ... you ... were gonna be here? Glad y' could come. We're havin' a party. A wunnerful ... party."
"Surprise, huh, baby?" Sorel snickered. "You don't mind a little company do you?"
"The more the merrier," Nila said stupidly, her eyes going out of focus momentarily, a queasy, greasy something rolling in her stomach. There. She was all right again. She would be strong; she could see this debauch through. She appraised Sorel, saw that he was pacing himself, that his years of heavy drinking were paying off. Loaded he might be, but as of this moment still much in charge.
Her eyes appraised the lush, tidy apartment, she gave the opportunistic Gisele credit where credit was due. But if the apartment was neat and tidy, Gisele wasn't. Her hair was disheveled, her lipstick was smear-ed, the front of her low-cut gown showed the ravages of a recent assault. It was evident that she and Sorel had already been priming themselves, conducting preliminary maneuvers.
Sorel took Nila's light coat, threw it aside, immediately let his hand slid down her back, cup and lift her buttocks. His smile was smugly confident. What'll it be, baby? A little drinkie? Anything y'r heart desires."
"I've been drinking martinis," she stammered.
"Maybe we just better put you on gin and tonic, then," he said. "Don't want you passing out before the party gets into high." He turned on Gisele, pulled her away from the bottle-crowded table. "Lay off, will you? You've had enough. Cool it, angel-face."
A moment later Nila had a very strong, gin highball in hand. She was thankful she hadn't had that fourth martini after all. For the drink hit with a vengeance, made her eyes seemingly cross, made her tongue thick.
For if she was too drunk to think, if she didn't manage to wheedle the desired information from Sorel-
Wasn't everything wasted? Hadn't she betrayed her beloved Cort for nothing?
Talk became general then. Loud, raucous, aimless. With Gisele fuzzily asking Nila how come? Since when had she and Byron been so thick?
Which Sorel detoured with an off-color joke that sent Gisele into stitches, made Nila laugh, loosen up slightly. And when Gisele calmed down:
"Tha's okay, Nila," she muttered, apropos of nothing. "If Byron's got an'ther girl, I don' mind. Can' think of a nicer gal to share him with." Then, for the dozenth time: "Oh, boy! Am I stoned!"
Within a half hour the mood became riotous, Nila amazed at how quickly she came unglued. A second drink in her hand, she sat on the davenport with Byron and Gisele, laughed at the flow of blue stories and innuendo, thought nothing of the coarse way Sorel treated Gisele. It seemed her skirts were up more than they were down.
And by 11:00-
Nila couldn't actually remember when they'd taken their dresses and slips off, when Sorel had stripped down to just his shorts. Now they sat in giggling, whooping cluster on the davenport, she was feeling no shame when Sorel pawed her body, kissed her lips.
She fought to bring up a fuzzy thought. There was something she had to do. something she'd specifically come here for-But what?
Certainly not for this hurting hand at her breasts, or these scrabbling fingers in the valley of her thighs.
"Oh, baby," Sorel gloated into her ears, his fingers twirling one of her nipples, "talk about lucky guys. An old rooster like me, with two luscious chicks like this. Some guy's pay a fortune f'r a gig like this. You do like old Byron a little, don't you?"
"I do," she giggled, "I do."
"Nila, do I dig that underwear of yours! Wow, talk about preview of comin' attractions! You oughta wear black satin like that to the office. You'd make the guys die on the spot. Those cute little bombs, those beautiful, long legs. Somebody's hurtin'." He grabbed himself.
At which the head-wobbly Gisele interrupted, fell upon him. "Let's see, Byron," she giggled. "You don' have t' be shy. Y'r among friends. Ain't it so we're friends, Nila?"
"Later, you nut," he chortled. "Save something for later. For when we go into the bedroom."
"A li'l look won' hurt. We better go in there pretty soon," Gisele warned. "I'm gettin' there, daddy-o."
"Good idea," he said. "Why don't you take Nila in there, baby? Show her the ropes? Show her what Byron digs."
Drunk as Nila was, she still made minor protests when Gisele produced the black, butchered lingerie, threw a set at her. "God, I can't wear stuff like that."
"Go ahead. Tha's nothin'. Byron's got some rubber stuff he makes me wear some times. You'll get t' that too. If you stay aroun' long enough."
Some of Nila's intoxication faded. "But why does he need this? I don't understand...."
"Wha's to understand? He digs it, we wear it. After all, he ain't no spring chicken any more. He needs special treatment. An' if this turns him on...."
Nila felt cheap and mean in the special brassiere, in the equally salacious panty girdle, its most essential part missing, the coppery delta of herself seemingly couched in black, silky froth. And as she refastened her nylons, shoved her feet back into her pumps-
"Ugh," she complained. "This leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination." She was relieved that she was slightly more clear-headed now.
When she returned to the living room she found that Sorel, very drunk now, had stripped himself completely. But it was only the beginning of repugnance.
For he commanded them to both stand before him, pose and display themselves in all sorts of outrageous positions. He got a tremendous charge out of their exotic costumes, out of his power over the women. "Gorgeous, gorgeous," he blubbered. "Nila you have got a body on you. I'm only sorry you didn't join up sooner. We're gonna have some marvelous times together. Wowee! Hold those boobs up. Yeah, like that. Talk about y'r burning bushes! I'm getting there, you twitches. Move it. Peddle it ... "
They were commanded to stand before him, to pose themselves even more salaciously, to accommodate his every depraved whim. His hands slid on their sleek legs, walked up their thighs, tickled those obscenely exposed profusions, one black, one orange.
Now he fell back onto the cushions, and his hands ever restless, made the girls lean over him, feed their nipples to him alternately, his comments becoming more vulgar by the second, the vision of the pink nibs against black satin driving him further into carnal frenzy.
He chuckled thickly, made feeble protests as the incensed Gisele began manual reconnaissance. "Quit that, baby," he warned. "Unless you wanna cheat somebody...."
The alcoholic torpor faded and intensified. Again Nila lost track, she couldn't remember coming to the bedroom, she had to keep shaking her head to stay awake. While Sorel's hands, greedy, questing fingers kept tormenting her.
They were in muted darkness now, dim light carrying into the room from the living room. She came alert to find herself poised over the recumbent man's face.
His arms bracing her, she lowered her still bra-trapped breasts to his greedy lips, felt his hot, swirling tongue, his compressing lips on her nipples.
A dazed thought came to her. Gisele.
Where-?
Then she heard Sorel's thick chuckles, his vile encouragements. Accompanied by a murmuring, sighing, counterpoint from regions to the south. As Gisele, drunk enough tonight, had finally capitulated, was honoring Sorel in a way she'd always refused previously.
Sorel attacked Nila's nipples the more ruthlessly now, his body switched and jerked. "Wow," he gasped. "Oh wow."
Abruptly both of their exertions ceased. Sorel cursed softly. Then began to laugh. "I told the nut to lay off the booze. She's gone an' passed out on us...." He pulled Nila down, drove his wet lips, his tongue into her mouth. "We'll hafta' party all by ourselves." He became cruel, dug his fingers into her shoulder. "How about that, baby? You wanna take up where Gisele left off?"
Nila writhed, tried to pull away, the request cutting her alcoholic stupor even more. "No!" she hissed. "I couldn't. I've never ... for any man...."
He laughed cruelly, tightened his grip. "There's always a first time. C'mon, baby. It ain't as bad as you think. You play ball with me, I'll play ball with you. If you like y'r job at Spainlouis. I'll get me a gal who likes to play, you'll be out in the snow."
Suddenly Nila was reminded of her reasons for being in this bed in the first place, her holy vow was reignited, flamed up within her. For Cort, she raged. To save Cort!
Slowly, doggedly she forced herself to pull up, to turn on the bed. And as she assumed the new position, as she gathered her last reserves of strength: "Good girl," he gloated. "That's a good little girl. Y'r jus' like all the rest. Can't resist. Pretend you don' want it. But when the time comes...."
His hand stroked tire nape of her neck, forced her that last few inches.
Then Nila was truly grateful she was drunk; she prayed she was drunk enough that dawn would find this abomination erased from the slate of her brain.
Sorel choked and laughed and twisted. A sick stream of words poured from his lips.
And finally: "Enough, doll. I got other plans f'r you. Man, oh man. Who'd ever think that one day I'd get the high-and-mighty Nila Wanzer in bed with me? Doin' things like this?" He shuddered. "Whew! The old man's hurting. On your back, slut!"
Nila was actually relieved, anxious to obey, surrender to this lesser of two evils. Sorel's boasts of his snow-balling lust were merely that. And as he grunted and tossed atop her for what seemed centuries, she decided he was most vulnerable now. Egocentric, dominating male. Why shouldn't he share his secrets, brag on his accomplishments, detail the brilliant cunning of his superior mind? "Tell me, Byron," she breathed, feeling absolutely nothing at all from his animal thrustings. "About how it's going to be when you take over Spainlouis. I know you are. You're too smart to be sales manager all your life."
Sorel gleefully scampered into her trap. And as diversion during the long haul ahead-
He rattled on, threw caution to the winds. For surely--once a woman had surrendered herself to this extent-she couldn't be suspect.
"And this Humleker woman," Nila prompted as they came to the narrative's close, she squeezing her eyes shut, clenching her teeth, wild to clear her head at this most crucial moment, "what about her? You weren't foolish enough to do away with her, were you?
To kill her?"
"Kill her?" he chuckled. "We killed her with kindness, that's what we did. I got a paid gigolo to take her to Europe. They're having a ball in Switzerland. F'r all I know they're shacked up at this very moment."
"Switzerland? Where in Switzerland."
"Geneva. They got a house there, even. She's workin' up to a first-rate case on the leech."
"What a wonderful idea. Where in Geneva?"
"Nosey li'l doll, huh? Just like all gals. Give 'em a sniff of somethin' spicy and they're all tears. Mozart Street, Nila. You know any more than when you started?"
She giggled. "Mmm,? she feigned passion in order to distract him. "This's good ... wonderful. How can you last so long?"
"Practice, honey, practice." He began to whine like a pig in a wallow. "But time's runnin' out. Here we go, Nila," he chuckled. "Hang on, hang on "
She hung on. And as Sorel gutturally achieved his releases-Mozart Street, she repeated to herself in endless refrain. Mozart Street. He wrote that tinkly, monotonous music. Mozart, Mozart-
Abruptly Gisele woke up, began to mutter to herself. Nila groaned as the drunken wanton climbed onto Byron's back. "Me too," she whimpered. "Me too." The eternal night ground on.
It was noon the next day (a Saturday) before Nila could drag herself out of bed. It was after 3:00 before she was dressed, found courage enough to call Cort. "I have to see you," she said. "I have something important to tell you."
And finally, at 3:45, her face pasty, lined, her elaborate paint job hiding nothing, she was in his suite, facing him as best she could, her eyes furtive. "Geneva, Switzerland," she announced. "'On a Mozart Street. With a paid gigolo. In her second childhood. That's where you'll find Mrs. Humleker."
He listened incredulously as she filled in the details, his eyes searching hers intently, dark traces of premonition already growing there. And when she was finished:
"Where did you hear this?"
"Sorel told me," she lied, her heart suddenly dead, knowing she couldn't make him believe her shoddy story. "I bumped into him at Gino's last night He was stoned to the eyes, bragging a blue streak. I pumped him for all he was worth."
She saw Cort's jaw tighten, she saw the fanatic hurt in his gaze. Hurt that turned to hatred. She reached for him but he pulled away like he'd been burned.
Now, her eyes downcast, her words coming in dogged flow: "Think the worst then, Cort. Multiply it by a hundred." She rose, put on her coat. "But whatever you think, remember one thing. I did it for you. Because I love you."
"Nobody asked for any human sacrifices," he gritted.
He whirled, broke for the telephone, dialed swiftly. "American Airlines? I want a ticket on the next jet to Switzerland. Geneva. Cort Pauley speaking. Yes." Moving like a zombie, Nila turned, started for the door, waited for him to call her back. To at least tell her good-bye. But there was no word from him.
She reached the elevator, started down.
She was amazed that she felt almost nothing, that she had no desire whatsoever to sob.
Why should I? she snarled inwardly. After all, dead people don't cry.
CHAPTER TWELVE
ANOTHER WEEK PASSED. DEADLY, INTERMINABLE FOR Nila, she wandering through her days in a stunned, zombie-like trance. And though she was still Cort's secretary, they might as well have existed on opposite poles of the globe.
In the first place, he was gone the first two days of that week, Nila was left in charge of the store. And, time hanging heavy on her hands, she was haunted by constant, galling thoughts of her self-induced disgrace. During those endless hours she cursed herself, called herself a hundred kinds of fool, wondered what-just what-she'd expected from so vain and egocentric a man as Cort Pauley. How else could such a shallow, power-hungry male react?
There was consolation of sorts; she actually managed to convince herself that she'd done a noble thing, that her intentions had been honest. High and mighty as Cort had acted, he still wasn't too aloof to act on the information she'd so dearly purchased. In that respect, at least, she'd been successful. How Cort handled that information, how successful he was with the cantankerous Mrs. Humleker was entirely up to him, in his hands alone.
She'd done her part. It was none of her concern any longer.
She only wished she could make herself believe that.
Wednesday morning Cort returned. And though they worked shoulder to shoulder through that hectic day, there was no communication; when his eyes met hers they were icy, distant. It was as if they'd never shared one intimate moment, as if their lives had never been intertwined.
His face was impassive when she studied it; she had no idea whatsoever whether or not he'd won with Mrs. Humleker. And she wondered if the man was human at all. If he'd been victorious how could he camouflage it behind this cold, expressionless mask?
There was a final humiliation. In that, on Wednesday night, upon arriving home, Nila found a messenger-delivered envelope awaiting her. Opening it, she found a brief message and another sealed envelope. A cold shudder went through her, a hateful memory was shaken alive.
"Dear Miss Wanzer," the letter read. "In recognition of extraordinary services rendered in behalf of myself and Villa Spainlouis, I am hoping you will accept this token gratuity. Sincerely, Cort Pauley." She was cheated of even this last shred of intimacy. For beneath his name: "President, Villa Spainlouis."
With trembling hands she opened the envelope, spilled out its contents. And stared with a loathing expression at the ten $1000 bills!
Her head dropped; shame, hot anger filled her. Everything, she raged, to Mr. Cort Pauley, has its price. The tendering of money is unfailing salve to his conscience.
Then she began to sob. As she realized that eternal, unchanging truth. Cort, darling, don't strike out at me like this. I don't want your money. I want you!
Late Thursday afternoon, Nila having made no reference whatsoever to the money to Cort, a tense voiced man called the president's office. "Mr. Pauley, please."
"May I say who is calling, please?"
"Mr. Charles Bonoforte. It's rather important." The voice was smug, and Nila instinctively realized that doomsday was at hand, that the mysterious forces bucking Cort now thought themselves powerful enough to lower the boom.
She made the connection, sat back to wait.
Five minutes later Cort buzzed her. "Miss Wanzer," he snapped, no revealing tone in his words, "will you call the members of the board, tell them there will be an emergency session tomorrow afternoon at two o'clock? There can be no absentees. Thank you."
And as Nila began making the calls her mind rebelled. The man's just not human, she thought. He's a monster, an unfeeling monster!
Charles Bonoforte and his secret client were late. And waiting in the ornate board room, the eight other men present, fidgeting restlessly, Pauley sensed only one emotion: amused curiosity.
While they waited Pauley filled the men in on the reason for the emergency session. He summarized the power grab, filled them in on details leading up to this crucial moment, the stratagem his enemies had used. To their anxious questions about his personal strength, he fell silent, only smiled thinly.
And now the room fell silent. As the door opened and a stiffly-smiling Charles Bonoforte entered. Pauley instantly recognized the man who trailed him. In a momentary relapse it seemed contempt played at the corners of his mouth. I should have known, he thought.
Ernie Terranzio and he had crossed swords before. Two years ago, when Pauley had engineered the takeover of Supreme Plastics Corporation, Ernie had been ousted from his luxurious position as Supreme's president, he'd vowed to one day get even. And being no mean operator, vendetta a way of life with him, he was now on the brink of achieving that vengeance.
Or so he thought.
Ernie Terranzio was a man of sixty, squat, dark, his face heavily pock-marked and blotched, a venomous, chilling light in the blue-black pouched eyes. He wore a dark, rumpled suit, brown, scuffed shoes; reminded
Pauley of nothing so much as an obese toad. Paisan. he thought condescendingly. Just off the boat from the old country.
Terranzio wordlessly took his place opposite Cort, frowned. "So, Ernie," Cort smiled urbanely, "you're the boy I've been locking horns with. We meet again. I hope it'll be as interesting as last time out."
Terranzio fidgeted, didn't answer.
"Well let's get this meeting underway," Pauley said. "Mr. Bonoforte? I think you have some sort of ultimatum to deliver?" Then he held up his hand, forestalled Bonoforte. "One more thing. Excuse me a moment, please." He buzzed Nila in the outer office. Will you call Mr. Sorel, please? Tell him I want him in here immediately."
He grinned at the interlopers. "I think Byron should be included, since he's up to his neck in the whole thing. Judas should get his share, don't you think?"
Instantly Bonoforte was edgy; he and Terranzio exchanged wary glances.
Sorel was nervous, extremely hang-dog as he sidled into the room. "Mr. Pauley?"
"Over there, Byron. It's only fitting you should be in on the kill." Pauley smiled graciously at the lawyer. "Mr. Bonoforte?"
The man rose nervously, his confidence slightly riddled; he straightened his jacket. Then, in best courtroom manner, he swiftly outlined the recent stock acquisitions he'd made in behalf of his client; he summarized the extent of their holdings. "Mr. Terranzio has acquired what we consider a controlling share of Spainlouis' stock. He feels he should have a voice in company policy.
"How much stock do you hold, Mr. Bonoforte?"
"Seventy-thousand in outright purchases. We hold proxies on twenty-five thousand Shares. A total of ninety-five thousand of the total issue of two-hundred thousand.
"Impressive," Pauley nodded. "You've been working hard, haven't you, Ernie?"
Terranzio's only answer was an evil grin.
"And what kind of voice," Pauley stared Bonoforte down, "does your client desire? What sweeping changes?"
"He desires that you step down as president, Mr. Pauley. He feels he has a more worthy candidate."
"Mr. Sorel?"
"Precisely. As you know, Mr. Terranzio, like yourself, has vast holdings; he wouldn't care to intervene personally. In light of recent scandals in the company, in view of Mr. Sorel's years of experience with the company, such a move would be to the benefit of all concerned. We should like to settle this privately, certainly not bring it to open conflict at a stockholder's meeting. Spainlouis has already had enough bad publicity."
"And if I . .
. and the board-of-directors . .
. refuse to concede? If I refuse to step down?"
"I don't see that you have any choice, Mr. Pauley. If there is any doubt that we hold the prerequisite stock, the signed proxy cards, we can produce them here and now."
"That's hardly necessary, Mr. Bonoforte. You see, I've already gone to the trouble to gather my own certification of ownership. My attorney will produce such proof momentarily. But I think such is unnecessary."
"Unnecessary? How do you arrive at that line of reasoning?"
"Simple, Mr. Bonoforte ... Ernie." He stared at Terranzio derisively. "The fact is that I hold control of one-hundred-five thousand shares of Spainlouis stock."
He waited for the gasps of disbelief to die down. "Eighty thousand in direct purchase, twenty-five thousand in proxy votes." He paused, pinned Sorel in place with a gleeful grin. "Including those twenty thousand shares belonging to Mrs. Otto Humleker." He removed a signed proxy card from his inner pocket. "In case you'd care to examine same...."
Terranzio exploded. "Sorel, you bastard!" he spat, leaping to his feet. "I thought you told me you had that batty old broad all sewed up. You had things arranged."
Sorel went white. "I did, Ernie. I swear to God, I did. There was no way for them to get to her...."
"There was a way," Pauley said evenly. "Let it go at that."
"I'll get you for this, Sorel," Ernie stormed, ignoring Bonoforte's efforts to calm him. "You don't cross me like that and get away with it. You said this was air-tight, that we couldn't miss...."
"Mr. Terranzio," Bonoforte clung to his arm, was flung aside for his pains. "Please...."
The man stormed from the office, Bonoforte chasing him. He turned at the door, shook his fist at Cort. "I ain't through with you yet, Pauley," he shrieked. "I'll get you, wait and see. If it takes me the rest of my life...."
Cort stood erectly, his smile infuriatingly mocking. "I'll be waiting, Ernie," he said softly.
Sorel attempted to sneak out in the general confusion. But Kurtz blocked his way, sent a reminding glance to Pauley.
Sorel shrank before the board's collective contempt. "Mr. Sorel," Pauley taunted, his sarcasm low key, perfectly appropriate, "has been thinking of retiring lately, gentlemen. And I think, that so long as we're all gather-ed this afternoon ... that we should cast a unanimous vote to accept that resignation. All those in favor...."
The way the man skulked from the board room, beaten, seemingly withered, with no words of retort, was vengeance enough so far as Pauley was concerned. And knowing Terranzio as he did, he wouldn't have wanted to be in Sorel's shoes for anything. He was positive that Sorel wasn't long for this world.
Now the board room was empty. Pauley sat alone in this arena of his most recent, most satisfying victory. His hands folded, his head bowed, he wondered at the fast fading sense of victory, at the flat taste in his mouth, the crushing emptiness he felt.
Now that the fight was over, handily won, there was seemingly no point to his existence any more. He thought of the one person most instrumental in this victory.
Suddenly he wanted to sob. He realized he had never felt so lonely in all his life.
It was almost 5 p.m.; the long, climactic day was drawing to a close. And though it hadn't been said in so many words, Nila knew that Cort had won. She'd seen the swarthy, unkempt man storm from the conference room. And later, a defeated, gray-faced Byron Sorel. But Cort had said nothing, had let his face betray no emotions at all. And now, tidying up her office-
The buzzer sounded. "Miss Wanzer. Will you come in please?"
She automatically grabbed her note pad, entered the office. "Close the door, please ... Nila."
She obeyed, turned, felt her knees actually turn to rubber. As she saw the wild, burning way Cort was staring at her. She sank into the chair desperately. Before she fell, before this insane giddiness betrayed her completely.
And then, crazily, unbelievingly-
Cort was kneeling on the floor before her, he was rolling his head in her lap, his arms were going around her waist, he was burrowing himself tremblingly to her. The great Cort Pauley was actually sobbing.
Her heart swelled, her eyes filmed. Reflexively her fingers twined in his hair, stroked and comforted.
"I didn't know, Nila," he choked, his lips moving on her thighs, his breath hot there, his tears dampening her through her clothes, "it's taken me all my life to find out."
"Cort, what...."
"I didn't know what love was. With any of the others. With Rhonda or Wendy. I was sleep-walking. They never loved me, I never really loved them. I never knew ... until ... you."
He looked at her. Nila wanted to die at the grief, the genuine remorse etched in that pleading face. At sight of the purgative tears streaming down his face.
"How can you ever forgive me?" he called, his voice breaking. "I've been such a fool, such an insufferable, blind fool. That you could have done a thing like that for me ... to help me. Because you wanted to help me ... in the only possible way I could have been helped."
His voice rose. "When you knew all the time what my reaction would be! When you knew my stupid, bull-headed mind as well as you did!"
"I loved you, Cort. That's all that mattered. I still love you. I can't change that."
His head plunged down, be burrowed, sought warmth and comfort. So like a little boy, she thought. A beaten, lost little boy. He needs love. Just like Denise needs love. Cort, my darling.
"I love you, Nila," he gasped, "I realize that now. How could I not have realized it? How could I have been so stubborn, so suspicious? I love you, Nila. T want you to marry me, be my wife. I'm unworthy I know. But I want you to come live with me."
Nila's eyes were blinded with tears; soft, quaking sobs broke from her. "It's all right, darling. I understand. You had your reasons, you had to strike out at somebody. It's not too late. Tell me again."
He looked up, his eyes afire with emotion. "I love you, Nila. With all my heart. I'll be a good husband, a good man. I can still learn. I swear ... "
They kissed then, their faces slid, the taste of salt strong on their lips.
Now his face fell into her lap again.
Finally, when his racking sobs subsided, signaling a transfiguration, a rebirth-When he lay quiet, at peace in her arms-
Reluctantly Nila pulled him up, helped him to his feet. A perfect peace and certainty in her heart, she knew it was time for them to go.
There must be more private places than a business office, she concluded.
"Good night, Denise," Nila said, tucking the glowing happy-faced child into bed, kissing her lingeringly on the cheek. "Sweet dreams." Looking down at the girl, she was amazed in the change that these two months she'd been mistress of The Oaks had made in the child. She was actually gaining weight, asserting herself; an entirely new personality was being forged.
She kissed Denise again, felt her stiffen unmistakably. Nila saw the child staring past her, at her father, a wistful yearning in her expression. "Good night, Father," she said.
Nila's eyes locked with Cort's. Please, darling, they implored.
He leaned, sat on the edge of the bed. Then awkwardly, a lifetime of reserve to break down, he reached for Denise, kissed her hard on the side of the face. "Good night, baby," he murmured, his voice grave. "Sleep well."
"Good night, Fa ... Daddy," she said, her smile rapt.
"Thank you, Cort," Nila breathed, holding him close, as now, both of them in their night clothes, both lying before a roaring fire in the living-room fireplace, they prepared to savor their time of day.
"For what?"
"For that thing up in the bedroom. You don't know how much Denise needed that. To know her father loves her. I think that's what's been wrong all these years."
He stared into the flames. "I've got so much to learn," he muttered. "How can a man live so long and still know virtually nothing about life?"
Nila studied his hawk-like face, saw his hard, lean chest where his robe had fallen away, and felt incipient stirrings of desire within her. "You sell yourself far too short, darling," she sighed. "You know a great many things about life."
"Like what, for instance?"
She drew him down, kissed him passionately. "This, for instance." And proud of her need, proud to play the aggressor tonight, she guided his hand inside her negligee, to her naked, lust-troubled breast. "And this."
A moment later she was sprawled full length on the thick, fluffy rug. Her negligee lay in a frothy, seductive cloud beneath her. The firelight danced on her glorious, velvety body.
Now Cort was naked, trembling in need. And as he gently lowered his head to those throbbing breasts, as his lips captured that first nipple-
Nila sighed thickly, shivered, seemingly dissolved to so much pliable, submissive mush.
His lips and hands wandered, savage fires were suddenly out of control within her. She surged, welcomed him.
