Swingers Sex Weekend
by Richard London 


FOREWORD 

A weekend in the country sounded like just what the doctor had ordered. 
Maybe Brian would lay off the booze, and maybe she could have a little peace 
of mind, for a change. 

But Jennie was wrong. 

Almost dead wrong. 

After a proposition from the lady of the house, and a survey of the basement 
torture room, she realized that this was going to be no ordinary weekend. 

But what she didn't realize was that she would become a very integral part 
of the planned activities, and also, that she would enjoy them! 


CHAPTER ONE 

In the mirror, Jennie watched him cross the bedroom to stand behind her. 

"I told you seven sharp," he said. "Why the hell aren't you dressed?" 

She saw the red rims around his eyes and knew he had been drinking. All day, 
probably, though he was still steady on his feet. She hated the smell of 
alcohol almost as much as she hated him. Glancing away, she picked up the 
comb and began to pull it through her hair. 

Brian moved closer and she felt his big hand on her arm. 

"Put that damned thing down and talk to me," he said. 

He hadn't raised his voice. He didn't have to. The sharp points of his anger 
struck at her like darts thrown at a board. Sighing, she dropped the comb 
onto the dresser and turned around on the stool to face him. 

His grip tightened as she moved. The fingertips dug into her arm. 

She wasn't afraid of him. Just bored. She despised the fleeting look of fear 
in his blue eyes, the beads of perspiration along the bridge-of his nose. At 
thirty, his face had already grown gaunt with deep lines of worry. 

Still, she had married him, knowing what he was. And she had to live with 
him. There was no sense in aggravating him more than he had already 
aggravated himself. Tonight could be the most important night of his life. 
It could bring him recognition, favor. Perhaps even money. 

As gently as she could, she loosened the grip of his fingers on her arm. 
"I'm almost ready," she said. "I just have to finish my make-up-" 

"Well, get your face on and let's get the hell out of here." He stepped away 
from her and jabbed in his shirt pocket for a cigarette. "I told the 
Whitmans to be there by seven-thirty." 

"I'm sure they will be," she said caustically. "At least, she will." She 
turned her back on him and leaned toward the mirror. The reflection of the 
flare from his cigarette lighter caught her eye. She watched him bring the 
lighter up to his cigarette. His hand trembled. For a moment, she allowed 
herself to bathe in a flood of self-satisfaction. 

Brian walked away to the window and became absorbed in watching. Space, 
probably, she thought. He always stared at space. Or women. She picked up 
the lipstick brush and flicked the sable tip into position. 

She had never met Leigh Whitman. Had never met any of the others, either, 
though well-meaning friends had kept her informed of Brian's activities. In 
the beginning, she hadn't really cared. All that had mattered then was that 
he stay away from her. Completely. A miserable pregnancy and a still-born 
child had stifled in her any desire for sexual relations with him. The fear 
of becoming pregnant again had become a monster standing forever between 
them. Forcing her to reject him time and time again. She had tried to 
explain to him that if he would only wait a little while, her terror would 
subside and she could be a wife to him as she had been before. Yet months 
had passed, long months of bitterness, of increasing drunkenness for Brian, 
before she could tolerate even his touch. And when finally she had wanted 
him, it was already too late. 

Deftly, Jennie wielded the tiny brush, painting on the mouth that made her 
look seductive and attractive to all the world. She could have wept at the 
futility of it. Behind her Brian puffed nervously on his cigarette and 
continued to stare morosely out the window. Sometimes she envied him his 
ability to concentrate with such absorption on total nothingness. She could 
never for a moment forget the aching throb of her loneliness, her need to be 
fondled and loved. But not by Brian. Not any more. 

"There," she said finally, surveying the paint job she had just finished. 
Not bad, she thought. Not a gray hair to mar the smooth dark coils, not a 
wrinkle to tell the world how she had suffered. She stood up and brushed 
crumbs of powder from the front of her dressing gown, then untied the sash 
and let the robe fall from her shoulders. 

Brian stubbed out his cigarette on the brick ledge outside the window and 
tossed the butt into the street. "Which dress?" 

"I thought the black one. With the emerald necklace." 

He went to the closet and lifted the dress off its hanger. For a moment he 
glanced from the dress to Jennie and back again. He shook his head. "Not 
tonight," he said. He tossed the dress carelessly onto the single bed and 
turned back to the closet. Quickly he rifled through the long row of gowns. 
Lifting out a bright red silk, he held it toward her. 

"But, Brian, in this weather-" she started limply. 

"In this weather," he said flatly. "I want you to look very special 
tonight." 

"I'll look like a fool," she said sharply. "It must be ninety five outside." 

He jerked the dress toward her and she knew better than to argue with him 
further. She had always hated the dress. It was one of the many he had 
bought for her and brought home in the very early days of her pregnancy. It 
made her look like a whore, all breasts and behind and not much else. Yet he 
liked her best that way. When he liked her at all. And tonight he liked her 
because tonight he needed her. 

She raised her arms and let him help her into the dress. Her muscles ached 
with fatigue and frustration. She felt the throb of a headache beginning to 
creep up from the back of her neck. 

Brian slid the clasp up the long runners of the zipper and turned her around 
to face him. 

She watched the glint of appreciation dart across his eyes. A film of 
perspiration clung to the hairs above his upper lip. It had been a long time 
since he had looked at her like that. A long, long time. And she didn't want 
it now. 

"You look pretty great," he said. The fingers of his right hand twitched 
nervously, as though wanting to touch and yet afraid to make the move. 

"I'm glad," she said coldly. "I wouldn't want to disappoint your friend, 
Mrs. Whitman." 

He looked as though she had slapped him in the face. "Why the hell did you 
have to say that?" he rasped. "I meant for me, Jen. Remember me? The guy you 
married." 

She heard the drunken whine creeping into his tone. Yet the outrage inside 
her would not lie still. "What a mistake that was," she said, plunging the 
knife of her words deep. 

"You didn't think so five years ago," he whined. "You thought I was great 
then. Didn't you, Jen?" 

She watched him take a step toward her and knew that he wanted her. Now. On 
the most important evening of his life. With a hundred people waiting for 
him. A half hour late already. And he didn't give a damn about anything now 
but her. Not about anything. 

And she didn't want him. She didn't want him. She didn't want him. 

Over and over the words reeled across her brain. I hate you, I hate you. I 
don't want you. And yet even as she heard them, she knew the words were all 
lies. She felt herself beginning to relent, her knees going weak beneath 
her. As firmly as she could, she stepped back away from him. 

"I was nineteen then," she said. She could hear the tremor in her own voice. 
"And you were an artist. With a beard." She smiled inwardly, almost fondly 
at the recollection of Brian's youthful fuckiness. Yes, she had loved him 
then. Loved him desperately for the first three years of their marriage. And 
then- 

"You knew what you were doing," he said gently. "And if you loved me then, 
you could love me now. If you'd try just a little. We haven't changed all 
that much. Have we, Jen?" 

A peculiar warmth had begun to spread through her. A feeling, not so much of 
desire for him, but of a desire for the past. The good days, before her 
pregnancy, before his unfaithfulness, his deceit and betrayal. And foolishly 
she wanted to trust him now, to believe the words he was saying to her, the 
promises he would in a moment make to her. 

And still her pride would not let her give in to him. The humiliation, the 
pain she had suffered were too strong, too clear in her heart. She put her 
hand on his arm and held him away from her. 

"You know why it happened," he said, his voice almost a whisper now. "I 
would never have looked at another woman if you-" 

"Stop it, Brian," she said harshly. "I don't want to hear it. Don't you 
think I went through just as much as you did? If not more." 

"I know, baby," he crooned. "I know." His fingertips touched her arm, gently 
now, soothingly. 

She shook off his touch. "You failed me when I needed you most," she said. 
"When I needed you to stand by me and help me get over-" She could not speak 
the words. She could still not accept the reality of their dead son, of 
their dead love. Tears burned in her throat. Yet she turned from the 
comforting shoulder he offered her and stepped away from him. 

He followed her. "I know I'm a bastard and a louse and all the other things 
you've called me in your head." 

She leaned forward across the dressing table and gave her appearance a final 
check. She knew everything he was going to say. He had said it all before. 
Picking up the comb, she clicked her fingernails idly along the teeth. She 
braced herself for the onslaught of his words. 

Brian stood close beside her. He made no attempt to touch her now, but she 
could feel his breath hot on the back of her neck. She wanted to turn and 
shove him away from her. She wanted to scream. She wanted to do anything to 
make him stop. And yet there was no stopping him. 

"It's all in the past," he said. "I've told you that a million times. I 
haven't been near another woman for months." 

"What about Mrs. Whitman?" 

"Son of a bitch," he swore furiously. He spun away from her and stalked 
across the room and then back to her. "What the hell's the matter with you?" 
he said finally. "I'm trying to save this pile of crap you call a marriage 
and-" 

"Why bother?" she said archly. "I think it's just fine the way it is. You do 
as you please and I'll do the same. You go play pottsy with Leigh Whitman 
and I'll find a little playmate for myself. That's what you want, isn't it?" 

The disgust was bright in his eyes. "You know damned well it isn't," he 
breathed. "I want you, Jennifer. I always have." 

"But it so happens that Mrs. Whitman owns half interest in one of the best 
galleries in the city." She knew that she was being far crueler she needed 
to be. But she wanted him to squirm. Just a little. like everything else 
about him lately, she hated him for this. "I remember," she went on, "when 
you had enough confidence in your work not to have to sleep with anybody in 
hopes of getting it shown." 

"I've been trying to tell you for six months," he said, "that I'm not 
sleeping with Mrs. Whitman or anybody else. She-likes my stuff and she's 
willing to help me." 

Jennie snorted. "I'm sure she-likes your stuff," she muttered. 

"What?" 

"Nothing," she said. She nearly screamed it. "Let me alone, Brian. Just let 
me alone." She blinked her eyes to clear away the tears threatening to spill 
over. Why did he have to taunt her so? Why did he have to lie to her? 
Everybody knew that he had been sleeping with that damned Leigh Whitman. 
Everybody. She'd heard it from a dozen sources. 

"Jennie, look at me," Brian said roughly. He made a move toward her, then 
paused, as though reconsidering his action. "Look at me." 

She turned her head away so that he would not see the tears. Never did she 
want him to know the pain he caused her. She wanted him to believe only that 
she hated him as he must surely have hated her to have run out on her as he 
had. Yet in her heart she knew that it was not hate she felt, but only hurt 
and rage and frustration. 

Gently, very gently, he put his fingertips on her chin and forced her to 
look at him. 

"I love you, Jennifer," he whispered. "Why won't you let yourself believe 
that?" 

Jennie swallowed hard to keep back the sob, but the sound of her anguish was 
loud between them. He moved in close to her then, taking her in his arms, 
cradling her against him like an infant. She felt herself relaxing and 
buried her face against the hard muscle of his chest. 

His fingers stroked her hair, then trailed down to the side of her neck. He 
touched her with infinite tenderness, lulling her senses into a state of 
unreality. For a long moment she forgot the despair, the unhappiness that 
had taken over their lives. She closed her eyes and let her thoughts drift 
back in time, to the good days, the gentle days. The days and nights of love 
and laughter, and more love. 

He had held her like this then. The first time they had lived through a 
thunder storm together. In a tiny motel cabin by the ocean, with the waves 
thundering in, banging up the beach almost as loud as the thunder rolling 
overhead. He had held her like this then. His hands had circled slowly on 
her back. Wooing her, lulling her, putting her into a hypnotic state. 

And she felt his hands now, circling on her back as they had done then. And 
she could not separate the reality from the dreaming. He bent his head and 
his tongue trailed along the side of her neck and into her ear. 
Spasmodically she caught her breath and clung to him. His hands sought 
lower, cupped under her ass, pulling her close. 

She felt the surge of his lust, sensed her own need rising to equal his. And 
she knew then that it was not the past, but the now. And that he had tricked 
her, had deceived her with the magic of his body against hers. She pulled 
herself up stiff and tried to break away from him. 

Brian held her tight. His arm braced across her back, smashing her tits flat 
against his chest. 

"Not this time," he breathed. "If I have to rape you." 

Jennie set her shoulders and struggled against him. "I hate you," she 
muttered, "I hate you." 

She heard the metallic slide of a zipper. Felt him fumbling at the hem of 
her dress. She ducked her head forward suddenly and bit savagely at the side 
of his neck. 

"You bitch you!" He grabbed hold of the slick red silk and yanked hard. 

She tried to break away from him as the dress ripped off her. He grabbed her 
wrist with his free hand and twisted her arm up behind her back. 

"I said, not this time, Jennie." He spun her to face him. 

She realized too late that he was far drunker than she had imagined. Drunker 
and a lot more dangerous. The anger ebbed out of her and in its place rose 
fear. Never had she hated him so much. Yet good sense warned her not to 
fight him. 

Brian flung her backward onto the bed and she did not try to resist. And 
then he was on top of her, his moist lips hunting hers greedily. His mouth 
mashed down against hers. 

Jennie whimpered as her teeth cut against her lower lip. In pain and 
revolted by the savagery of his attack, she twisted sideways, trying to get 
away from his touch. 

Brian ground himself into her. "I could kill you," he said against her ear. 

He didn't bother to fumble with her panties. He grabbed them at the elastic 
and ripped them off, as he had done with the dress. 

Jennie groaned and turned her head away as far as she could. She began to 
count slowly, almost prayerfully. 

Pain ripped through her as Brian plunged roughly into her cunt. She bit hard 
on her lip and let the tears roD freely down her cheeks. Desperately, 
furiously Brian pounded into her, again and again. Still she did not 
respond. There was no pleasure for her. And, after awhile, not even pain. 

He rolled away from her and lay on his back. His eyes focused on the 
ceiling, absorbed with nothingness. 

She felt the slime of his sweat sticky across her stomach. Her cunt ached 
from the force of his lust. She turned her head to look at him. 

"I hope you're satisfied," she said. 

Without answering, Brian sat up on the edge of the bed and ran his long 
fingers through his hair. The blonde strands had matted together with 
perspiration and when he took his hand away, long strings of hair fell 
across his forehead. 

Jennie studied his face closely until she felt sure that all the fight had 
gone out of him. "You'd better be," she said then, "because you'll never do 
that again." 

Brian grunted. When he looked at her, she saw that his eyes were bleary and 
blood shot. 

Without thinking about what she was going to say, Jennie launched into it. 
"I'm leaving you," she said. "Heaven knows, I've got enough reason. Plenty 
of witnesses will back up the adultery bit and that's all I need in this 
state." She waited for a response, but when he said nothing, went on. "So 
you'd better hope Mrs. Whitman will support you, because I can cost you a 
lot of alimony. 

She finished her speech limply, all. the steam knocked out of her by Brian's 
lack of response. She watched him narrowly, waiting for him to put up the 
arguments he always did when she threatened to walk out on him. How much he 
needed her, how he could never paint again without her. 

Instead, Brian dug another cigarette out of his shirt pocket and lighted it. 
He stood up then and started toward the door. "You'd better put on some 
clothes," he said. "If you're coming." 

"You sound as though you don't care." 

"Frankly," he said, "I don't give a bloody fuck what you do." 

Jennie watched him leave, listened to his footsteps click along the hall and 
down the stairs. Despite everything that had happened between them, this was 
the first time Brian had ever said that he no longer cared. And certainly 
the first time he had ever abused her physically. And yet, in her heart, she 
could not really blame him for what he had done. You could only drive a man 
so far. Even a weakling like Brian. And then he would take no more. 
Remembering her repeated rejections during the past months, she was probably 
lucky that he hadn't murdered her. 

Still, there was as much wrong on his side as on hers. If only he had stood 
by her, during those months of anguish. This wouldn't have happened now. She 
had been ready to love him, to be the wife he wanted. 

She paused in the middle of a thought and remembered the last words she had 
flung at him. Divorce? No, she didn't want a divorce. She really didn't. She 
had said it in anger, rage, really. 

Well, she didn't have time to think about it now. She wouldn't miss the 
opening for the world. Leigh Whitman would be there. And if she had any 
intention at all of saving the little that was left of her marriage, she'd 
better start sizing up the competition. 

Not that she was sure, she reminded herself, that Brian was worth it. But if 
he was- 

Disgusted with herself and the incoherent whirl of her thoughts, Jennie 
jumped up from the bed and ran toward the bathroom, stripping off her bra as 
she moved. 

 CHAPTER TWO 

New York steamed quietly in the August heat. The moment she left the air 
conditioned comfort of their home on Bedford Street, Jennie felt her 
carefully-groomed appearance begin to wilt. She touched fingertips to her 
hair, smoothing back an imaginary whisp. The smell of rotting garbage and 
the conglomerate sweat of the city's millions filled her nostrils. The 
throbbing in her temples took on a tom-tom beat. 

Head high, heels clicking briskly on the concrete, she set off in the 
direction of Seventh Avenue, peering anxiously up the street for a cab. It 
was already eight-thirty. And, although the delay had been Brian's fault, he 
would be angry that she had arrived so late. 

At the corner she hailed a cab and directed the driver to an address on East 
Twelfth Street. Leaning back against the seat, she closed her eyes and 
turned her head toward the window, in no mood for chit-chat with the cabbie. 

Jennie knew that Brian would be stinking drunk by the time she reached the 
gallery. He always got that way when he had every reason to remain sober. If 
only she could avoid him all evening, she might be able to prevent a scene. 

It seemed hardly-likely. Her fingers tightened in her lap, anticipating the 
embarrassment of the evening. Around her, the Village crowds straggled along 
the streets bound on finding a good time, yet too warm to hurry in search of 
it. A portrait painter sat in the center of a street corner gathering, with 
his charcoals rejuvenating the old and beautifying the homely. It was all a 
scene she knew intimately and loved, yet now she saw nothing of it. The cab 
stopped for a light. A grimy old man selling flutes for a quarter, leaned 
through the window and tootled almost into her ear. She barely noticed. All 
of her stretched forward, up the blocks to the gallery, anxious to be there, 
more anxious for the evening to end. 

A renovated store at street level, the gallery stood tucked in between a 
warehouse and a second-hand bookstore. Behind its plate glass window, a 
small, hand-lettered placard announced the opening tonight of an exhibit of 
the works of Brian Dunbar, noted Village artist. Inside she could see 
perhaps fifty people, milling like cattle between the whitewashed brick 
walls in a space meant for half the number. From where she stood, no one 
seemed to be paying the least attention to either the art or the artist. 
Champagne glasses and cigarettes waved animatedly and she could hear the din 
of conversation and an occasional laugh. 

Gathering all her strength, Jennie stepped forward and shoved open the 
warped wooden door. For a moment she paused just inside the threshold, 
searching through the crowd for a glimpse of Brian. No one came forward to 
greet her. Glancing at faces, Jennie realized that she knew barely anyone in 
the room. Most of them, she had been told, were friends of the Whitmans, 
invited by Leigh to appreciate the new talent she had discovered. One or two 
at least would be reviewers. Few of them would be friends of Brian's or 
herself. No surprise, considering the state of their marriage. They rarely 
went anywhere together anymore . 'No one came to visit. 

Jennie sighed and stepped into the fray. She had no idea where Brian might 
be hiding. At the moment, it was almost a relief not to know. For it was 
obvious from the sntaches of conversation she caught that Brian Dunbar, 
noted Village artist, had not set the art world on fire. Moving slowly among 
the gossipers, stopping now and then for a brief word, Jennie made a casual 
survey of the collection as it had been presented for the world to see. She 
knew them all, the sweat and the love that had gone into them. Nudes, 
mostly. Modern Madonnas and muscular young men. Sex on a rampage, unrequited 
passion splattered across canvass for all the world to see. But a sick, 
distorted passion, reeking of anguish and fear and hatred. In Brian's hands, 
sex became no longer a symbol of joy and regeneration, but the symbol of the 
world's destruction. 

She felt the touch of cool fingers on her elbow and involuntarily started. 
Turning quickly, she found herself smiling into the chubby, good-natured 
face of Jake Potter, Brian's one real friend. 

"Hello, Jake," she said, giving him a quick peck on the lips. 

"Fine time for you to show up," he chided. "Where the hell have you been?" 

She tried to avoid meeting his eyes, a nice trick, since they were exactly 
on a level with her own. "I was delayed," she said limply. "Where's Brian?" 

Jake grinned. "Probably piled up in a corner somewhere. You know Brian. He 
was lit when he got here. And then-" He raised the champagne glass in his 
right hand and swung it toward her. "Want a drink?" 

"No, thanks," she said quickly. The one thing she didn't need in her life 
now was a hangover. "How has it been going, Jake?" 

Jake's grin widened. "Great. Just great." 

Jennie had always known that he was a lousy liar. No matter how hard he 
tried, he couldn't cover up the sadness in his soft amber eyes. "No, Jake," 
she said gently. "I mean, really, how is it going?" 

Jake shrugged and took a sip of his drink. "It stinks," he said flatly. 'But 
what the hell do you expect?" He glared at her defiantly. 'These rich 
bastards don't know art when they see it." He waved his arm in a wide circle 
and the champagne slopped over the side of the glass. "They're a bunch of 
pigs, you know that." 

Jennie smiled. "I also know they're the ones who can afford to buy 
paintings," she said. She turned then and ran her glance quickly along the 
paintings lining the far wall. Her nose wrinkled ever so slightly. "They're 
not very good, are they?" 

Jake followed the line of her glance. He looked very tired. "Not anymore," 
he said. "Five years ago, yes. He had it then. "But..." He shrugged. 
"Something happened." 

She nodded. "Urn hum, he married me." 

"I didn't say that," Jake said defensively. "You don't have to. I know it 
myself." She paused a moment to say hello to a face she remembered vaguely 
from somewhere. "We've had a lot of trouble," she went on, turning back to 
Jake. "You know. The baby and everything. I don't have to tell you, Jake. 
You've been the one friend we've had through all this." 

"Yeah," Jake grunted. "I know." 

She watched him raise the glass for another sip and the way the light 
reflected off the soft red fuzz on the back of his hand. "I suppose this 
will ruin his chances for a showing at the Whitmans' gallery," she said 
slowly. She had meant it to sound like a statement. Yet a faint tinge of 
hope lilted her words into a question. 

Jake laughed shortly. "Oh, I wouldn't say that." 

Something about the tone of his voice riveted her attention. "I don't 
understand." 

Jake nodded toward a tall, beautifully dressed woman at the far side of the 
room. "She's the only one with sense enough to realize the boy's got 
talent." 

Jennie did not even hear his words. She had become absorbed in the minute 
scrutiny of the woman who had become her competition. A woman in her early 
forties with short-cropped pepper and salt hair and the most gorgeous 
profile-from end to end-that Jennie had ever seen in her life. Leigh Whitman 
was a competitor worthy of careful consideration. Tall, slender and every 
inch a woman, she had gathered around herself now a group of the youngest 
and handsomest men in the place. Jennie noticed their faces, all of them 
held in rapt attention, all of them eager and enchanted. Whatever Leigh 
Whitman had, any woman would have given her right arm for it. Including 
Jennie. But at the moment, Jennie concerned herself with only one thing: how 
the devil would she win Brian back from this stunning creature? 

And speaking of Brian, once more she made a hasty survey of the faces 
hovered around Mrs. Whitman. Brian's was not there. Relieved at least by 
this small favor, she started to turn her attention once more to Jake when 
she noticed Mrs. Whitman take leave of her admirers and make her way toward 
them. 

"She's coming over here," Jennie breathed, startled into a kind of terror at 
the thought of facing the enemy at such close range. 

"Why not?" Jake said. 

Jennie couldn't think of an answer. Instead, she stood frozen to the spot as 
Leigh Whitman approached and extended her hand. 

"You're Jennifer," Mrs. Whitman said. 

Jennie could not identify the trace of accent that tinged the words. It 
sounded like a combination of many tongues from many lands and lent an air 
of mystery to the serene face and deep green eyes. 

Smiling stiffly, Jennie accepted the outstretched hand. 

"And you're Leigh. I've heard so much about you from my husband." She tried 
to keep her tone light, tried not to hint at the resentment she bore this 
woman. But she felt the weight of her jealousy and fear heavy on her tongue. 

If Leigh noticed her discomfort, she gave no indication. She merely turned 
to Jake and handed him her empty glass. "Be a dear, will you?" she said. 

"Yes, ma'am," Jake said eagerly. He went off quickly through the crowd. 

Jennie watched him go, almost hating him for his eagerness. Even Jake, the 
perennial bachelor, running like a hound after a bitch in heat. 

"What are you thinking?" Leigh's deep voice interrupted her thoughts. 

Startled, Jennie averted her glance. "I was simply thinking that you 
certainly know how to handle men." 

Leigh laughed deep in her throat. "And is it so difficult?" she said. Her 
eyes roamed slowly over Jennie's tight-packed gown, then back to her face. 
"I think you have all that's required." 

Flushing with confusion, Jennie tried to answer and found the words stuck in 
her throat. Instinctively she knew that she could never get the better of 
this woman in any way. There was something about her strangely challenging, 
disquieting. And for all she tried, Jennie found herself speechless and 
terribly ill at ease. 

Still oblivious of Jennie's confusion, Leigh continued. "Men are, after all, 
only little boys with long tails. And little boys are no problem at all." 
She flashed a smile that seemed to brighten the whole room. But her 
attention was for Jennie alone. 

"I suppose you're right," Jennie managed, unable to apply any thought to the 
conversation at hand. All she wanted in the world was to get away from the 
woman, have a chance to think, to make plans if she could think that 
clearly. For obviously, she could not simply dismiss the woman as a rival 
for her husband. 

And speaking of husbands... 

"Did Mr. Whitman come with you?" Jennie asked suddenly. Then, facetiously, 
she could not resist adding, "I've never heard my husband speak about Mr. 
Whitman." 

The woman laughed easily. "Dirk? I couldn't drag him to one of these 
affairs." She put her hand lightly on Jennie's wrist. "I suppose you have 
the same thing with Brian. Dirk's a bit of a fanatic in his own way. He's 
got a collection of antique cars and nothing, but nothing, can take him away 
from them." 

"Except you," Jennie put in. 

For the first time, the woman's composure cracked just slightly around the 
edges. Well, maybe not cracked, Jennie decided. But definitely chipped a 
little. So there was something not quite perfect about this splendid and 
apparently complete creature. Whatever it might be, Jennie determined, she 
would find it out. And somehow she would use it. Use it to ruin the woman 
and get her forever out of their lives. Brian would make a name for himself 
without Leigh Whitman's help. And if he couldn't... 

The fingers tightened on Jennie's wrist. "Not all marriages are as 
successful as yours," Leigh said quietly. 

Jennie stared at her stupidly. The woman's tone had sounded completely 
honest. Yet how could she call her marriage to Brian a success? How could 
anyone who knew either one of them? 

Jennie opened her lips to speak, but was saved the necessity by the 
reappearance of Jake. 

"Here you go, Mrs. Whitman." He handed over the glass with a bow that, for 
Jake, was quite courtly. 

Mrs. Whitman released her hold on Jennie's arm and accepted the drink. 
"Thank you, Jake," she said, giving him a smile as radiant as the one she 
had lavished on Jennie only moments before. 

He's blushing, Jennie realized. Poor Jake. Even I fluster him. He couldn't 
possibly know how to deal with a creature like this. 

Gently, she took Jake's hand and linked her fingers with his. She could feel 
the heat of his palm burning against her own. "You didn't happen to fall 
over Brian, did you?" 

Jake blinked his appreciation. "He's asleep on a chair back in the corner," 
he said. "Over there by the punch table." He nodded in the general direction 
of the back of the room. 

"Oh, yes," Mrs. Whitman said. "I almost forgot what I came over to say. I've 
invited you two out to Oyster Bay for the weekend." She tilted her head 
slightly and smiled down into Jennie's eyes. "Brian accepted, but I'm not at 
all sure he'll remember by morning." 

The last place in the world Jennie wanted to spend any weekend was in Leigh 
Whitman's home. "Well, I ... " She hesitated, feeling Jake's urgent signal 
through his trembling hand. She glanced at him quickly. The message in his 
eyes was clear. " ... I'd be delighted," she finished. "When will you be 
expecting us?" 

"Friday evening," Leigh said. "Early. Brian knows the way." 

In spite of her own insecurity in the situation, Jennie did not have the 
feeling that Mrs. Whitman was being snide. And for just a moment, she had a 
flicker of doubt concerning rumors she had heard about Brian and his 
patroness. Still, when a woman looked like Leigh Whitman, a husband would 
have to be a little queer not to be tempted. Anyhow, thinking about it 
wouldn't help a thing. They'd take this little trip this weekend. And she'd 
know soon enough for herself. 

Jake nudged her and Jennie realized that Mrs. Whitman was waiting calmly for 
a reply. "Of course," she said quickly. "We'll see you then. Friday evening. 
Early." 

"Fine." Leigh said heartily. "I think you'll like Oyster Bay." She paused 
and the green eyes darkened. "And I hope you'll like us." 

She smiled then and was gone, swallowed up quickly in the circle of young 
men waiting eagerly for her return. 

"Well?" Jake drawled beside her. 

"Well what?" Jennie snapped. 

"And what do you think of the madam?" 

Jennie hit back the flow of nasty words on the tip of her tongue. No reason 
why she should spill out her fears to Jake. He'd only laugh and call her a 
jealous cat. Which she was and she didn't need to hear it from him. 

"I think she's charming," she said. "No wonder Brian's so attentive to her 
most of the time." 

Jake shook his head. "You got it all wrong, kid," he said quietly. "She's 
got a couple of dozen guys dancing on her string. But not the way you think. 
She-likes company and they're trying to con a fast buck. Most of 'em never 
got a cent out of her. But right now she-likes Brian, real well. And he 
needs her, Jen. That's why..." He shrugged. 

'That's why I have to spend the weekend at Oyster Bay with her and her nutty 
husband." 

Jack grinned. "He's not so nutty. He's got her and more money than the U.S. 
mint." 

Despite his good cheer, Jennie could find little encouragement in Jake's 
words. It was possible, maybe, that Brian spent five or six hours a day with 
the woman-every day-and had never gone to bed with her. Possible. Maybe. But 
even so, a cozy weekend at the beach would change all that. Even with her 
husband lurking down in the garage. 

A thought struck Jennie that almost amused her. She wondered if she had been 
invited along to lure Dirk out of sight and leave Brian alone with... 

The sound of shattering glass brought an abrupt end to her thinking. 
Automatically, her attention shifted to the back end of the long room, where 
Brian had been sleeping. 

In the sudden, awful stillness of the room, Jennie knew that her instinct 
had been right. Through a forest of legs, she saw her husband, sprawled on 
his face in the debris of the broken punch bowl. For a long moment, no one 
moved. Suddenly Brian let out a bellow like the mating cry of a bull ape and 
the crowd closed in around him. 

Dragging Jennie by the hand, Jake shoved his way toward Brian's prostrate 
form. Elbows dug into her and a thin pointed heel cut sharply into her 
instep. She swore inwardly, but kept the shadow of a smile pasted across her 
lips. 

They joined the semi-circle of craning necks peering down at him. No one 
stepped forward to help. A woman kept saying, "He tried to pick it up. He 
was going to throw it." 

Jake let go of her hand and went to kneel beside his friend. Jennie watched 
him pull a handkerchief out of his back pocket and dab at a cut on Brian's 
chin. At the sight of blood, even the shadow of her smile faded. Quickly she 
moved in beside Jake. 

She looked down at the bloated face, the alcohol soaked body of her husband. 
Revulsion and disgust choked up in her throat. Yet she was all wife now, 
ready to defend him, fight for him, die for him. She could tell him later 
her private opinion. 

"Is he all right, Jake?" She kept her voice low yet loud enough to quiet the 
chattering around them. 

The crowd pressed closer. Jennie felt them closing in, like vultures at a 
feast. She hated every damned one of their shiny, disgusting faces. She 
hated them and she wanted desperately to tell them so. But she bent closer 
over her now unconscious husband. Her hand moved to caress his forehead. 

"Nothing a bath won't cure," Jake said, but loudly, hating the vultures as 
much as she and not caring if they knew it. "We'd better get him out of 
here." 

A pair of legs broke clear of the forest. "I'll drive you." 

Jennie recognized Mrs. Whitman's voice. She wanted to tell the woman she 
could drop dead for all any of them cared. She wanted to tell her to take 
her damned gallery and-But instead, she turned to smile up at the woman. 

"That's very kind of you," she said. The sweetness cloyed in her mouth. 

"I'll go bring the car around front," Leigh said. "I had to park halfway to 
Brooklyn." She didn't wait for an answer. 

Jennie glanced across at Jake. "Well?" 

He reached out to pat her hand. "You played it beautifully," he said. "I 
couldn't have written the scene better myself." 

Jennie helped him roll Brian onto his back. The front of the white silk 
shirt was torn and stained, but there was no sign of blood nor of damage to 
Brian himself. 

He waved a hand for assistance and two men stepped forward. Jake took most 
of Brian's six three hugeness on his own back. The crowd moved aside to let 
him through. 

Jennie watched the crowd. Some of them were shocked, some of them repelled, 
most of them simply amused. Stupid, stupid people. Stupid people with their 
money. Noses in the air like they smelled a pile of crap. They didn't even 
deserve one of Brian's paintings. 

Not that she'd have to worry about that. 

She shook the thoughts away from her. No time for regret, for ?elf pity. She 
could hate Brian all she wanted to. But it was herself that she hated more. 
The time had come to start righting a few wrongs in their life. 

She took a deep breath and pulled her chin high. Then, without glancing to 
either side, she stepped forward and followed Jake's squat figure toward the 
gallery door. 

 CHAPTER THREE 

Jennie set the coffee pot on the kitchen table and pulled out a wrought iron 
chair. A faint breeze drifted in on the midnight air, the first breeze in 
weeks that had even stirred the filmy curtains. She tugged at the window to 
let in whatever breeze she could find. The window stuck in its frame. 

Sighing, she gave up the attempt and slumped down in the chair. Even the 
house seemed against her tonight. This lovely old house, only ten feet wide 
and three stories high, that they had bought for almost nothing and put 
together with their own hands. She laughed. The windows didn't work, the 
plumbing leaked, the doors sagged. What did an artist and a beautician know 
about putting together a house? Or about anything, it seemed. 

They couldn't go on like this. This way, they weren't going anywhere. Brian 
was drinking himself straight into the grave. And she? She was probably in 
worse shape than he was. Nervous as a cat. Filled with hate, for everything. 
Nothing pleased her anymore. Nothing. Somewhere in her heart she loved him 
as much as she ever had. And she believed that he was the same way. But too 
much had happened between them. Too much that neither could forgive. Or 
forget. 

She heard the sound of Jake's footsteps coming heavily down the front 
stairs. She wanted to relax and smile for him. She tried but she couldn't 
make it. The worry lines etched tiredly around her mouth. 

Jake glanced at her, then reached for the coffeepot. He poured for both of 
them. "He's asleep," he said. "I got him cleaned up as much as I could." 

She watched him pull out a chair and sit down. The delicate chair looked 
foolishly small beneath him. She tipped cream into her cup, then a mound of 
sugar, her movements slow and measured. "He's finished, isn't he?" she said 
finally. 

Jake snorted. "Well, he sure as hell did his best to be," he said. He took a 
long drink of the hot coffee. "But I wouldn't worry too much, if I were you. 
Mrs. Whitman still seems to be on his side." 

"Oh, she gives me a pain," Jennie snapped. 

Jake laughed. "So I've gathered. And damned if I know what special charm 
Brian has for her. The condition he's in, I don't know why a woman would 
even look at him," He glanced up quickly. "I don't mean you," he said. 
"You're in love with the guy." 

Jennie sighed. "Don be so sure," she said. 

He looked at her quickly. 

"Ah, come off it, Jen. You know you've got a thing for Brian. God knows, I 
wish sometimes you didn't. I think you could do better for yourself." 

She looked at him sharply. "I thought you were Brian's best friend." 

"Yeah, sure. I love the guy, too. But that doesn't mean I don't know what a 
bastard he can be." He put his big hand over hers. "I always did think he 
gave you a rotten deal after the baby died." 

"Well, it doesn't matter anymore, Jake," she said. "I'm leaving him." 

Jake stared at her blankly. 

"I don't believe it," he said flatly. 

She pulled away from his hand and turned sideways in the chair, away from 
his probing eyes. "I have to," she went on. "I'm killing him this way. We-we 
have nothing together anymore. You know that. No understanding. No love. 
No-" she hesitated self-consciously. 

"No sex," Jake finished for her. 

"Well, almost," she admitted. "Something happened tonight before the 
opening. Oh, I don't want to talk about it, Jake. It doesn't make any 
difference, I tell you. I've just had enough. And I'm sure Brian has too." 

"Yeah?" 

"Yes. He told me so tonight." 

Jake shook his head, slowly and ponderously. "I still don't believe it," he 
said. "But if you do mean it, well, I'll do whatever I can to help." 

She smiled warmly. "Thanks, Jake. But I think Brian will need help more than 
I will." 

"If you think that, then you'd better stay with him." 

Jennie had no answer, as she never had an answer when she really needed one. 
She blinked at him helplessly, wanting him to answer for her, wanting him to 
tell her that whatever she did would be the right thing. 

"Look," he said after a while, "I'm not going to tell you to go. I like you 
both too much. But if you do-" He shrugged. 

"You'll understand?" 

"Understand, sure," he said. He looked down at his cup, apparently absorbed 
in studying its contents. "I'll even marry you, if nobody else'll have you." 

"Jake, I-I don't know what to say. I-" 

"Don't say anything, Jen," he said. "Not now." For a moment he gazed at her 
intently. Then, suddenly, he burst out laughing. 

"What's so damned funny?" she snapped. 

"We are," he said. "You know, if I wrote this dialogue into one of my plays, 
I'd get hooted off the stage." 

She saw his point. But she was too close to tears to risk a good laugh. 
"This isn't a play," she said sharply. "It happens to be my life, corny as 
it is." 

He pushed back his chair and got up. "It happens to be my life, too," he 
said quietly. "And that's why I'm laughing, Jen. Because I might cry if I 
don't." 

She watched him narrowly, standing there leaning toward her, his face all 
wrinkled with nervousness, his reddish hair bristling, glinting in the 
light. And she waited, a little afraid, not wanting to hurt him. 

"I know I'm not much to look at," he said. "I mean, I'm fat and getting a 
little bald and my behind's pretty close to the ground. I guess you could do 
a lot better than me." 

She wanted to say something, anything to stop him. Anything to save him the 
embarrassment of rejection. Yet even now she could not hurt him, could not 
speak the words. 

"But I'd be good to you, Jen," he went on. "And I can take care of you. I'm 
making good money now, with this television stuff. I'd give you a nice 
home-" 

"I know that, Jake," she said gently. She had to say it now, before it was 
too late. Even more gently, she went on. "You're the dearest friend I have 
in all the world, Jake. The only friend, really. And I love you as a friend. 
But-" 

"But not as a lover," he interrupted. He shook his head. "You know, we're 
still doing this corny bit with the dialogue. Why the hell don't we act like 
a couple of sharp kids from the twentieth century?" 

"What do you mean?" she said innocently, completely thrown off guard by his 
change of tactics. 

He shrugged and his big hands raised in a gesture that rendered her 
innocence foolish. "You know what I mean," he said simply. 

"I'm hung up on you, Jen. I always have been. I guess that's what it means 
to be in love with somebody. Anyhow," he sighed, "I want you any way I can 
get you. Even if I have to marry you." 

Jennie's right eyebrow arched with amusement. 

"Well, I guess I should thank you for being honest," she said. "I don't 
suppose it would do me any good to act the part of outraged innocence?" 

"Hell no," Jake said bluntly. "I mean, I know you haven't fooled around 
since you've been married, Jen. I guess you think maybe Brian's done enough 
for the both of you." 

"Go on," she said calmly. 

"Well, what the hell do I have to do, draw pictures?" he said. A tinge of 
annoyance touched his words. "You said you're leaving him. So if you're 
leaving him, you need a place to go." He shrugged. "So you might as well 
shack up at my place." 

Jennie laughed lightly. "That's what I've always liked about you, Jake. No 
starry eyed romance with you. Everything spelled out neatly in four letter 
words." She grinned, bemused at her thoughts. 

"You got anyplace better to go?" he asked levelly. 

She stared at him for a moment, not seeing 

Jake, the man she had called her friend, but a stranger. Jake, who had been 
gentle, considerate, always willing to help. And maybe you could say that's 
what he was doing now. Helping. In his own clumsy way. But he'd sure picked 
a hell of a time for it. How could she tell him she needed to be alone, to 
think, to plan? How could she make him understand that she needed someone to 
love her, not just a body beside her in bed? 

But maybe he would love her. Maybe he would. And God knew, she needed 
somebody. Without Brian- 

Without Brian was something she didn't want to think about. Not yet. Not for 
a long, long time. Maybe someday, she would be able to think about him, 
about them. But now she needed to forget. Needed to lose herself in the arms 
of another man. Needed to find herself through a man's love. 

"Well?" Jake said. 

Jennie stood up slowly and held out her hand. "Well, like you say, Jake. 
What the hell? Where else have I got to go?" 

He took her hand and stepped back to look at her. His eyes probed at her 
closely, stripping away her clothes, searching into every pore of her. 

Jennie felt her stomach convulse with revulsion. She had never seen Jake 
like this before. His eyes narrowed with lust, his face red, his neck 
bulging against the tight collar. She felt like a pig on a platter. And she 
hated him, hated him, hated him. 

Yet she offered herself. 

He pulled her to him suddenly and kissed her full on the mouth, his tongue 
going deep against hers. He gripped her ass cheeks and ground his cock hard 
against her. She felt the rise of his passion. And suddenly she could not go 
through with it. 

She put her hand against his chest and tried to shove him away. "For God's 
sake, not here," she said. 

Jake held her tight. "Why the hell not? Who's gonna know?" 

"Brian-" 

His mouth mashed down on hers, choking off her words. She felt herself being 
lifted, carried toward the living room. His tongue moved against her lips. 
She gagged. 

He got her to the couch and dropped on his knees beside her. "Don't give me 
a hard time," he whispered. "You want it as much as I do." 

His hand inched up the inside of her thigh. And then he was cupping his hand 
against her snatch, circling slowly. 

She felt her body catch fire, the warmth spreading upward and outward, 
reaching into every part of her. And she knew that he was right. She wanted 
it as much as he did. Every bit as much. And she didn't care if it was Jake 
or Brian or a chimpanzee. Two years, two years. Her love-starved body 
screamed out to him. Her back arched, her legs spread wide to welcome him. 

And it was good. So good. She met the driving force of his powerful thrusts, 
moving rhythmically beneath him, urging him on. Not wanting to let him go. 
Not wanting ever to let him go. 

And when she came, she clung to him desperately, clutching him to her with 
her knees, holding him, holding him- 

She lay beside him on the couch, her hand caressing his still hard prick, 
still wanting him. It had been perfect, for the brief instant it lasted. 
Perfect, yet she felt as though her appetite had been only whetted. Maybe 
there wasn't enough in the world to satiate the lust raging through her. 
Maybe no man could do it. Maybe there would always be this emptiness, this 
need that no one could fill. 

Jake sighed and licked his lips. She turned her head to look at him. 

He lay on his back with his eyes closed and a schoolboy grin on his face. A 
smirk. She wanted to take the damned smirk and shove it down his throat. Yet 
she couldn't blame him. Not for what had happened, surely. She had wanted 
him to. She had, she realized suddenly, been wanting someone for a hell of a 
long time. Jake just happened to be the first one who asked'. But he 
wouldn't be the last. Of that she would make sure. 

Jennie touched his lips with her finger. 

He kissed her finger and made a grab for it with his lips. 

"Huh uh," she said. "Next time." 

He opened his eyes and looked up at her. "You mean that?" he said. 

"What?" 

"Next time?" 

Jennie sighed. "Why not?" 

Jake sat up, the self-satisfied grin still plastered across his face. 
"Yeah," he said. "Why not?" He patted himself. "Nothin' like-" 

"Don't get any grandiose ideas," Jennie said sharply. "I need you, I admit 
that. But you haven't got any exclusive rights to the property." 

"Let me worry about that," Jake said. "All a woman needs is a good man to 
keep her in line." 

Jennie laughed. "And you're the man." 

"Yeah," Jake said. "I'm the man who can do it." 

Jennie stood up and smoothed down the front of her dress. Let him think what 
he wanted, she decided. He wouldn't get in her way. Nothing could. She was 
even with Brian now. And before she got finished, she'd made Brian look like 
a saint. 

 CHAPTER FOUR 

Jennie awoke at noon. For a moment she lay still, listening for a sound of 
movement from Brian's room. Hearing nothing but silence, she breathed a sigh 
of relief. She had a lot of thinking to do before she was ready to face 
Brian. Thinking-and planning. Despite Jake's offer to support her, she 
realized that she would be better off finding herself a job. A place of her 
own to live. 

She swung her feet over the side of the bed and stood up and stretched 
luxuriously. She felt wonderful, just wonderful. All of her relaxed, the 
tension gone out of her back and thighs. Funny, what a difference a little 
physical satisfaction could make to the whole being. But really, not funny 
at all. How easily she could become a slave to her desire. Letting Jake and 
others like him possess her, use her, demanding and wanting nothing in 
return but the pleasure of the moment. 

If only Brian had understood and tried to help her, when she needed him 
most. When, for months, her body had yearned for fulfillment and her mind 
had screamed in terror. 

The memory of her suffering rushed in on her and she shuddered 
involuntarily. How could any man understand what she had been through? The 
terrible, terrible longing for love, to create a child as a product of that 
love. And the equally terrible dread of losing another child. It was a fear 
she hadn't been able to stare down. A demon that stalked her constantly, 
turning desire to revulsion, love to hatred. 

Jennie sighed and pattered barefoot into the bathroom. Her face in the 
mirror over the sink looked tired and drawn. Quickly, she brushed her teeth 
and rinsed. Jake had promised to be back by one with the "Times." And 
himself. A lousy review, if any, for Brian. And for her. 

Realistically, Jennie accepted the fact that she wanted him for that. She 
didn't give a damn for Jake. Not really. And she was realistic enough to 
admit that, too. 

In the bedroom, she chose a white silk shirt and a pair of slacks tight 
enough to keep Jake around as long as she wanted him. She checked her ass in 
the mirror and realized that she had put on a few pounds. She liked the 
added fullness of her figure and she smoothed her hand over her rump, 
knowing that Jake would not be the only man in her life. 

She didn't even think about Brian that way now. Though he was certainly 
better than Jake. But, except for the weekend, she was finished with Brian. 
For good. As a final act of loyalty, she and Jake had agreed that she stay 
with Brian till after the visit with the Whitmans. For the sake of 
appearances. After last night's fiasco, Brian would need all the help he 
could get. 

Smoothing the heavy mass of her hair back from her forehead, Jennie caught 
it with a clasp and fastened it tight at the base of her skull. She pinched 
her cheeks deftly for a dash of natural' color. Without make-up, she looked 
sixteen. And innocent. Not that she expected anyone to be fooled by the 
appearance. But it was good for her morale. 

She stepped into the hall and moved cautiously along toward Brian's room. 
The odor of alcohol hung heavy in the stagnant air. She inched the window up 
halfway, careful not to make a sound. 

Brian grunted and rolled over. 

Jennie held her breath. When he was quiet once more, she leaned over the bed 
and surveyed the sleep-swollen face. The cut on his chin had closed up, she 
noticed, hardly visible now through the morning bristle. The skin of his 
cheeks looked pasty and there were sick blue rings under his eyes. Even in 
sleep, his fists were clenched, as though to fend off an unfriendly world. 

Well, he could stop fighting, Jennie thought. A few more days and it would 
all be over. He'd probably let his beard grow and move back to a loft. And 
he'd be happier that way. Just as she would be happier. 

She hoped. 

Quietly, she closed the bedroom door behind her and went quickly down the 
stairs and out to the kitchen. The sun glinted hotly through the dusty 
panes. The tiny room smelled airless and suffocating. She opened the back 
door to let in the morning air and switched on the small fan by the sink. 

She never ate breakfast. Even at noon. A cup of hot coffee and a couple of 
aspirin. Orange juice sometimes for a chaser. She made herself a cup of 
instant with hot water from the tap and drank it straight. Then she set the 
tea kettle up to boil. 

She leaned back against the sink and lit a cigarette from a crumpled pack on 
the cupboard. She didn't smoke, really. Brian always said she fumed. And she 
was fuming now. 

It wasn't so much that she had anything against Jake. But a girl had to look 
out for her own interests. And she was damned bored with being poor. Oh, 
they managed all right, if you called pinching pennies managing. But they 
were in hock up to their ears. The house was mortgaged and they had even 
borrowed on the insurance. A girl-likes a new dress once in a while. And 
Jennie was tired of mending seams. 

Jake would do for a starter. And then- 

The front door chime sang through the house. Jennie glanced at the pussy cat 
clock. Not quite quarter of one. But it would be Jake, she knew. Impatient, 
anxious to possess her, to assert the manhood he had promised her. She 
sighed. Poor Jake. 

She doused her cigarette at the sink and went out quickly to the foyer. 
Hesitating, she set a smile across her features, hoping it looked real. 

Jake stepped back and took a long look. He didn't whistle, but she got the 
message. 

He took a folded newspaper from beneath his arm. "Not a word," he said. "Not 
even an announcement." 

Jennie stepped aside and closed the door behind him. "I suppose it's just as 
well," she said. "Not even his dear Mrs. Whitman could have been impressed 
after last night." 

"Ah, come on," Jake said. "Some of his stuff isn't so bad. He'll get a 
Sunday review. They're the only ones that count anyhow." 

Jennie went into the living room, with Jake trailing after her. With her 
fingertips, she brushed a film of dust from the top of the coffee table. "I 
hate this weather," she said. "Everything gets so dirty." 

"Yeah," Jake breathed. He moved in close behind her. 

Jennie felt his hands on her hips, felt him dig his cock into her from 
behind. 

"You don't waste any time," she said. 

"What the hell for?" Jake grinned. "I waited all night already." 

Jennie took his hands gently with her own and lifted them away from her. 
"Brian might wake up," she said. "I don't want to make a scene, Jake." She 
turned to face him. "You understand, don't you?" 

"Yeah, sure," Jake said. "Brian. I've waited five years for him to climb out 
of your bed, Jen." He put his hands on her shoulders now and pulled her 
toward him. "I'm tired of waiting." 

The backs of her knees touched the edge of the couch. His hands moved around 
to her back, circling slowly. Moving lower. His fingers toyed with the 
button of her slacks. 

Her hand clasped over his on the button. She shook her head violently. She 
opened her mouth to speak. 

Jake's mouth came down hard on hers. His tongue probed between her lips. 

The fight went out of her. She let herself relax against him, let his hands 
search over her body. Her senses began to spin. 

Without the awareness of motion, she was on the couch. Fingers of air teased 
at her skin. Her back arched eagerly, hungrily, pleading with him to hurry. 

Jake knelt beside her and buried his face in her belly. "So soft," he 
whispered. "So-beautiful." His lips trailed along her ribs, burning a path 
of desire. His mouth moved lower, tantalizing and promising. 

Torturously slow, he caressed her body. The pain of expectancy was 
exquisite, yet unbearable. She needed him, needed him, needed him to hurry. 

She grabbed at his hair, her fingers working convulsively. "Please," she 
moaned. "Please." 

Jake moved up beside her on the couch. "We got all day," he said. He took 
her hand in his and pushed it downward, making her touch and fondle his 
throbbing shaft. 

It's crazy, she thought, how I need him. How I need him. Now. 

She rolled on top of him, pressing herself tight against him. 

Jake sighed. "That's the way I like it, baby," he said. "Just like that." 
His hands gripped her plump ass, helping her. 

Lust raged through her. Furiously she pounded herself against him, wanting 
him, all of him. Inside her head a siren screamed, its harsh voice tearing 
through her brain. 

She felt herself lurching toward her orgasm. 

Jake grunted and she knew he had had enough. 

"Damn you," she murmured. "Damn you, damn you." 

But it was no good. She felt the strength go out of him. Disgusted, enraged 
with her frustration, she rolled away from him. She closed her eyes. 

After a long time, Jake touched her arm. "Look," he said, "I'm sorry." 

She heard the apology, the hurt in his tone. And she loathed him. Loathed 
herself, for letting it happen. "It's not your fault," she said. "You 
tried." 

"Yeah," Jake said. He got up fixing his trousers. He kept his glance 
averted, apparently unable to face the disgust in her eyes. "I guess I'll be 
going." He hesitated. 

She knew he wanted her to ask him to stay. Knew that in failing her, he had 
failed himself. Yet she could not bring herself to say the words that would 
save him. 

"Yes," she said. "I guess you'd better." She stood up beside him. 

"Never mind," Jake said. "I know where the door is." 

She watched him go. He looked older, somehow, more slumped and baggy than 
she had ever seen him before. And for a moment she pitied him. 

But only for a moment. 

From the kitchen she heard the hiss of water boiling out of the kettle and 
onto the stove. Disoriented by her experience with Jake, it took her several 
moments to realize the source of the sound. 

"Turn the damned thing off," Brian's voice roared from the upstairs hall. 
"You want to burn down the house?" 

Prickles of terror shot up her spine. "Brian?" she called. 

"Well, turn it off!" he shouted back. 

Quickly she pulled on the tight slacks and set off for the kitchen on the 
run, the pants still unzipped, her hand clutching at the opening. 

With 'the stove turned off, she leaned back against the sink and drew a long 
breath. What if he had heard? What if he knew? 

She was fastening the button on her slacks when Brian entered the kitchen. 

He stopped just inside the threshold and looked her over carefully. He 
hadn't bothered to shave and the shirt he wore belonged in the wash. 

"I was making coffee," she said inanely, unable to think of anything 
sensible to say. 

"So I gather," he said dryly. "So hurry it up. I've got a head like a busted 
balloon." 

Jennie sniffed. "I don't wonder," she said. "It's not every night you go for 
a swim in a punch bowl." 

He didn't bother to answer. He anchored one hip on the counter beside the 
sink and watched her fill the coffee pot. 

She felt him watching her and the spoon shook in her hand. She had had a lot 
of things to say to him. A lot of things that had to be said. She couldn't 
remember any of them. She touched her palm to her forehead. It felt 
feverish, burning hot. She knew he must see her shame, even if he hadn't 
heard. 

"It was a real son of a bitch," Brian said. 

She realized suddenly that he was thinking about the opening at the gallery 
and not about her at all. Maybe- 

"It was pretty awful," Jennie agreed, glad to keep the conversation on safe 
territory. "But don't worry too much. After all, Mrs. Whitman did drive us 
home. And she repeated the invitation for this weekend." 

She heard the click of his lighter as he lit a cigarette. Wisps of smoke 
curled past her and idled out. the open door. 

"So what?" Brian said. "That bastard husband of hers rides the purse strings 
in that family. And damn, is he tight. The best she can do for me is 
persuade him to show me at the family gallery." 

She set the pot onto a burner and lit a match. "That's something, at least. 
Do you think he will?" 

Brian tugged thoughtfully at an ear lobe. "I wish I knew," he said. "That's 
what this weekend deal is all about." He gestured disgustedly. "She couldn't 
even talk him into coming last night. So I have to take the mountain to 
him." 

Jennie frowned. "You mean, he's never even looked at your stuff?" 

"Just one," Brian said. "That nude I did of you, right after we were 
married. The good one. Leigh bought it." 

"But-" Jennie started to protest. 

"I know, I know," Brian said quickly. He inhaled deeply and blew a spume of 
smoke toward the ceiling. "But sometimes a man can't afford to be 
sentimental, Jen. She wanted the painting. You were running around in a 
two-year-old dress and-" He shrugged. "Every man has his price, as they 
say." 

She sat down heavily on the wrought iron chair. "I'm not sure I appreciate 
my bare ass hanging in Mrs. Whitman's home." 

Brian looked at her squarely. "Why not?" he said. "You don't seem to mind 
showing it anyplace else." 

The scorn, the revulsion in his tone knotted her stomach into a ball. "What 
are you talking about?" she said. It didn't sound innocent even to her. 

"You know damned well what I'm talking about," he said. "I'm talkin' about 
Jake and who knows how many others." 

She pressed back against the chair, wanting to get away from the accusation 
in his words, the guilt in her own soul. 

"You know," he said, "it's a shame you give it away for free. You could get 
a good price on the open market and we sure as hell could use the money." 

"Brian!" 

"Brian!" he mimicked her shocked tone. 

"Don't you Brian me, kiddo. I had your number a long time ago." 

Jennie stood up and gripped the edge of the table with her hands behind her 
back. "Now I DON'T know what you're talking about," she said. 

He leaned away from the cupboard and stood facing her closely. "Oh, don't 
you," he said. He smiled sickly. "Wouldn't it be nice if you were as sweet 
and innocent as you look?" 

She grabbed his fingers as he reached to touch her. "Stop it," she said. "I 
don't know what you're talking about." 

"Did you really think all this time that I didn't know why you kicked me out 
of your bedroom?" He took a step toward her. "Did you think I don't know 
about you and Jake? All the Jakes?" 

She was afraid of him now, even though, for a change, he was sober. She 
watched his eyes as he spoke. 

"You have the guts to tell me you're leaving," he said. "When I should've 
kicked you into the gutter years ago? You're out havin' a ball for yourself 
and I'm supposed to paint? How the hell could any man live with it?" 

Jennie bit her lip to hold back the words. There was no sense in trying to 
outtalk him now. He wouldn't even hear anything she said.. 

He turned and dropped the butt of his cigarette into the sink. She watched 
the slowness of his movements, the weighty unhappiness of the man. And she 
wanted to hate him, for all the things he had said. For the lies-and for the 
truths. But she didn't hate him. She couldn't. 

She wanted to fling herself at him. Shout at him that she loved him. That 
she always had. She wanted him to hear it and believe it. 

He turned back to face her and she knew that it was no use. He wouldn't 
believe her now. Wouldn't believe anything. 

"How long did it take you, Jen?" he rasped. His voice sounded like too many 
cigarettes, too many beers. Maybe he was even crying inside. "How long was 
it after you married me that you started in with Jake?" 

Very quietly, yet with all the firmness she could muster, Jennie said, 
"Yesterday. I swear to you, Brian, just yesterday. After I decided to leave 
you." 

A flicker of hesitation lighted his eyes. Then he grinned. "And I suppose 
Jake seduced you?" he said. 

Jennie glanced away. Too quickly. "Something like that," she said. 

Brian grabbed hold of her shoulders and pulled her forward so hard that her 
head snapped back on her neck. 

"I could kill you for that," he said harshly. "What-" 

"It's bad enough I have to have a wife that's a whore. I don't need you to 
tell me lies about my best friend." 

"But, Brian-" 

"You know damned well Jake would never do that to me, Jen." His right hand 
tightened on her arm. "We've been friends since we were kids." 

"He did, Brian. He did," she said desperately. 

Brian let go of her with one hand. 

She saw it coming, but she couldn't move. His hand caught her on the side of 
the face and spun her halfway around. 

Gasping, sobbing, she gulped for air. Her head felt like it had been smashed 
by a truck. 

Brian shoved her away from him. "I should have done that years ago," he 
said. "You're no fit wife for any man." 

She felt her knees buckling under her. "Brian-" she pleaded. 

"Shut up, will you?" he spat at her. For a moment he stood there, glaring at 
her as though he wanted to finish her off for good. 

Then he spun on his heel and stalked out through the living room. 

She didn't want him to leave her. Didn't want him to go, hating her like 
this, believing the things he believed. 

"Brian!" she called after him. Her feet moved with a life of their own. She 
was running, running, skidding along the smooth waxed floor. 

The front door slammed. 

Jennie stopped in mid-stride. She couldn't very well go screaming through 
the streets after him. 

He'd be back, she told herself. He'd be back. And if he didn't come back-She 
threw herself face down on the sofa, her body shaking with sobs. 

 CHAPTER FIVE 

Jennie watched the first gray light of dawn touch the rooftops of the New 
York skyline. The yellow cafe curtains stirred fitfully, damply limp after 
the night's rain. The rain had helped a little. The air smelled fresher now, 
cleaner. One could breath a little oxygen along with the soot. But the 
forecast said hot. And even the first rays of morning seemed to sizzle the 
earth's dampness into steam. 

She was almost looking forward to the weekend at Oyster Bay. Sand and sea 
and water. A welcome relief after the long months in the city. She had never 
complained to Brian about not having the money to get away. She had promised 
herself in the beginning not to taunt him about keeping up with anybody. She 
had known when she married him that they might never be rich. But then, she 
never had been. 

Sitting now in her own kitchen, surrounded by things that she had chosen 
with Brian, Jennie thought of her mother. She hadn't allowed herself to do 
that for a long time. The woman had been dead for nearly ten years now and 
still it didn't seem quite real. 

It hadn't been until many years after her mother's death that Jennie 
understood the sacrifices the woman had made to raise her daughter. Spoiled, 
willful, vain, Jennie had made demands on the woman that kept her working 
far into the night. Stitching, sewing, making party gowns for others so that 
her own child might have a few of the good things of life. Denying herself 
everything for the sake of her child. Even the medical care and attention 
that might have saved her. 

Jennie had found her there early one morning, sitting in her chair, still 
holding her needle and a blouse that she had been working on. She had been 
fourteen then, and broke. Momma's church had buried her. And Momma's 
daughter had gone out to find a place for herself in the world. 

Jennie traced a finger along the pattern of swirls on the table top. She 
couldn't really blame Brian for the accusations he had hurled at her. He 
knew, after all, the story of those five years before he met her. But what's 
a girl supposed to do when she's fourteen and untrained for anything? Too 
well-developed for the men to let her alone-and too hungry to care? There 
had been no one to help her. No one. Her father hadn't been heard from since 
a week after she was born. 

She had made out well with men. Very well. But never had she let herself be 
just another fuck for anybody. She wasn't a whore, no matter what Brian had 
said. She had gone to school and become a beautician. And she had worked 
hard, earning good money and saving it. Earning herself the right to decency 
and a normal life. And the day had come when she was no longer forced to 
give herself for money, but only for love. 

Love for Jennie had always meant Brian. 

It had been right for them from the start. For both of them. They had met 
over a beer on a warm summer afternoon and two weeks later they were 
married. And for the first three years, life had been like a perfect 
honeymoon. 

Jennie sighed and stood up and went to the sink. She turned on the tap and 
patted droplets of cold water along her cheeks. 

How could anything that started out so simply become such a complicated 
mess? 

Oh, she had realized a long time ago that the thought of her early 
experiences sickened Brian. She understood that. A man-likes to be first 
with a woman. But he was the best she had ever known. She had tried in every 
way to let him know it. Yet it must have nagged at him constantly through 
the years, affecting his work, weakening him as a man, until- 

She glanced at the clock. In a few minutes it would be seven. Nearly sixteen 
hours since he had stormed out of the house. Where had he gone? She had 
called Jake, just on a chance. And Smitty the proprietor at Brian's favorite 
bar. She had even thought of calling the police. But the realization that he 
might have gone to another woman had stopped her. 

If she never did anything else for Brian, she had to find him in time to 
keep then-appointment with the Whitmans. It probably wouldn't make much of a 
difference in the long run. But it was his chance. The only one he had left. 
With a little recognition, a little encouragement about his work, he could 
still pull himself together. Before he reached the stage of alcoholism. Or 
suicide. He had become almost lost enough even for that. 

At eight, when people were up and moving around, she would start calling. 
Everyone. All the women Brian had ever known. Jake could tell her who they 
were. And the hell with her pride. She'd worry about that later. 

It wasn't the thought of calling the women in Brian's life that disturbed 
her so much as the thought of calling Jake. Again. When she had spoken to 
him late in the evening, he had been pleasant enough, even humorous. Yet she 
wasn't at all happy about Jake. If she called too often, he might take it as 
an encouragement to come back and try again. And that was the one thing she 
didn't want. Not with Jake or anybody. 

She ran water into the sink and dropped in a cake of soap. With a sponge, 
she rinsed the inside of a cup and set it on the drain board. She'd drunk 
enough coffee in the past few hours to float a battleship. Yet she wasn't 
hungry. She never could eat and worry all at the same time. And for a 
change, she couldn't get the worry out of her mind. If she didn't find him- 

The front door chime bonged close beside her, once and then again. Startled, 
she let a spoon slip from her fingers to clatter against the sink. It 
couldn't be Brian. If he'd forgotten his key, he'd be more-likely to kick 
the door in. 

Wiping her fingertips hastily on a dish towel, Jennie set her jaw and lifted 
her head high, determined to smile no matter who it might be. 

Her heels clicked smartly along the bare wooden floor. She got the smile 
adjusted and swung open the door. 

Jake leaned with one shoulder against the door jamb, his other arm 
supporting Brian's long, almost limp frame. 

"This belong to you?" Jake said. 

Jennie sighed. "I'm afraid so," she said. "Where did you find it?" 

"Well," Jake said, "I got a-little worried after you called. I spent half 
the damned night lookin' for the bastard. And when I got back to the 
apartment, he was asleep in the hall, propped up against my door." 

She helped Jake drag him through the doorway and pushed the door closed with 
her heel. Together, they maneuvered Brian into the living room and onto the 
couch. 

Jake stood looking down at Brian's prostrate figure. "You know, this is 
getting to be a habit I could live without." 

Jennie followed the line of his vision. "That makes two of us," she said. 

"Maybe the kid needs a doctor," Jake said, not looking at her. 

Jennie realized that Jake was deliberately avoiding meeting her glance. A 
flush of shame warmed her cheeks. "I don't think he's ill," she said gently. 
"Just unhappy, Jake." 

Jake nodded. "That's what I mean," he said. "There are doctors for that 
too." 

Jennie's eyes widened in surprise. "You mean a psychiatrist?" 

"Yeah. like me and all the other guys who're unhappy." 

Jennie smiled down fondly at her husband. "I wouldn't suggest it, if I were 
you. Brian's strictly from the self-help school." 

"Yeah," Jake said. "So I see." He turned and started to edge his way toward 
the door. "But keep it in mind, Jen. I know a real good man, if he's 
interested. 

"Jake, look at me," Jennie said quietly. 

He hesitated, but did not glance up. 

She put her hand on his arm. "Look at me, Jake," she repeated. 

He couldn't manage to face her directly, but she realized that he had tried. 

"You know as well as I do what's the matter with Brian," she said evenly. 
"He knows' about us, Jake. And he thinks I'm reverting to. past behavior. 
You know what I was before he married me." 

She saw the shadow of fear flicker across his eyes. 

"How does he know about us?" 

"I guess he heard," she said. "Or saw-I don't know." She gestured 
impatiently. "What difference does it make how? He knows, that's all." 

Jake pulled away from the touch of her hand on his arm. "Damn," he breathed. 
He glanced at Brian. "He could kill me without half trying." 

With all she had recently learned about Jake, his words surprised her. He 
didn't give a damn about Brian. Or about her. As long as he saved his own 
neck- 

"You don't have to worry," she said. "He won't." 

"What?" 

"I said, he won't. He blames me for everything. After all, a man's best 
friend is sacred. Isn't he, Jake?" 

Jake took another step toward the door. "So I'm as big a bastard as he is," 
he said. 

"You're worse than he'll ever be." Her voice held the faint edge of 
hysteria. She could have smashed his fat, greedy face. 

Jake stood very still, his amber eyes dark with anger. "Take it easy," he 
said quietly. "You're not all that goddamned innocent." He gestured toward 
her. "Look at yourself. You wear your clothes so damned tight, I don't even 
have to take 'em off to know what it looks like. What do you expect from a 
guy, when you shove it in his face like that?" 

The truth of his words slashed at her like a whip. She looked down at the 
front of her dress, tight all the way down as a second skin. She felt him 
watching her. Prickles of apprehension jabbed along her spine. 

"Yeah," he said. "Ripe and juicy and free for the taking." 

His arm shot out and his strong fingers grabbed at her firm tits. 

She lashed out at him with both hands, striking for his face. She heard him 
laugh. Then one hand closed over her wrists and he slammed her back against 
the wall. 

His face moved in close to hers. "You could drive a man crazy," he said 
hoarsely. 

He flattened the length of his torso against her. 

Her head cracked against the wall. Sparks of pain danced behind her eyelids. 
"Let me go," she breathed. "Let me go." 

His hand moved in between them. "I owe you something," he said. "I shouldn't 
have left you hung up like that." 

Beyond his shoulder, she saw Brian stir on the couch. He turned his head 
toward them. 

"Let me go," she said again, almost screaming now, wanting Brian to hear, to 
help her. 

Brian's mouth sagged open. He began to snore. 

Jake's fingers tore at the skirt of her dress. She felt him yanking it up, 
caressing her naked thigh. Touching her cunt greedily. She hadn't bothered 
with panties. They wouldn't have stopped him for a minute. 

The force of his drive lifted her nearly off the floor. She sagged against 
him. 

The sound of Brian's snoring filled her ears, pounded inside her head. She 
shut her eyes to close out the sight of him. She wanted to die. Right here. 
Right now. 

Jake pumped at her relentlessly, savagely. 

She felt like he was trying to rip the guts out of her. Her body screamed 
with pain. She heard her ass slapping against the wall. But there was no 
ecstasy, no burst of sensation. Only the pain. 

He had held her against the wall with his body. Now, as he moved away from 
her, she felt her knees buckling under her. 

He didn't try to stop her fall. She went down on her knees. And then she was 
sitting on the floor, her legs curled under her. 

"Remember me for this one," Jake said. 

She heard him turn and walk briskly toward the door. It slammed shut behind 
him. 

For a long time she sat there, hunched over miserably, hugging her legs 
against her. She had gotten what she deserved, finally. What she deserved 
for all the years of using men. What she deserved for the way she had 
treated Brian. She couldn't even feel sorry for herself. The ugly bruises on 
the insides of her thighs, the hot pain shooting up her back. She deserved 
all of it. And more. 

Slowly, Jennie pulled herself up, using the wall for support. Brian still 
snored unconsciously on the couch. He would never know what Jake had done to 
them. Probably wouldn't believe it if he had seen it for himself. It was 
better that way. Let him cling to Jake, if he wanted to. He needed someone. 
And God knew, Jake probably wasn't much worse than she herself had been all 
these years. 

In the downstairs lavatory, Jennie ran cool water into the sink and cupped 
her hands. She buried her face in the soothing liquid. The jangle of her 
nerves throbbed through her. With a shaky hand, she outlined a soft mouth 
and touched a powder puff to her cheekbones. 

Both she and Brian would need a lot of repairs before they were ready to 
face the Whitmans. Remembering the business before them, Jennie felt a 
sudden charge of energy and set hastily to work. 

The job of sobering up Brian was something that had become almost second 
nature by now. 

Sobering him up for an appointment, sobering him up to feed him, sobering 
him up to shove him in front of the easel to paint. She poured a tall glass 
of tomato juice and opened a fresh vacuum can of coffee. Maybe she ought to 
let him sleep for a while, at least get the rage out of his system. But she 
didn't want him to face Dirk Whitman looking like a drunken ass. 

Kneeling beside the couch, she forced him to raise his head enough to 
swallow the tomato juice. Dribbles of it ran down his chin and she wiped 
them off with the napkin she had remembered she would need. 

He gulped noisily and gagged. His hand struck out clumsily, shoving away the 
glass. 

"You're going to drink it," she muttered, "if I have to pour it up your 
nose." She held the glass firmly to his lips. 

Finally the glass was empty. He hadn't opened his eyes, but she knew the 
juice would work like a magic potion. It always did. With his stomach-Brian 
hoisted himself to a sitting position. Still with his eyes closed, he shoved 
himself away from the couch and lurched toward the door of the lavatory. 

She stepped forward to help. He brushed her aside and went into the tiny 
room. 

She heard the sound of him retching, heaving like he wanted to turn himself 
inside out. She leaned a shoulder against the wall and pressed a palm to her 
forehead. It killed her to see him like this, to watch him killing himself. 
And yet there was no way for her to help him. Maybe no way for anyone. 

He was finished finally. She heard him gasping convulsively for air. She 
went into the room and stood beside him. 

"Can I help?" she said. 

"Le' me alone." He reached for the tap and sent cold water splashing into 
the bowl. 

Jennie held out a wash cloth. "Here," she said. "Put this on your head." 

He struck out at her savagely. "Le' me alone." 

From long experience, she ducked the blow easily and stepped back out of his 
reach. "There's coffee in the kitchen," she said. "Let me know when you're 
ready." 

She left him then, moving briskly through the living room and out to the 
kitchen. She poured water from the kettle into the coffee pot and set it 
aside to drip through. Idly she realized that neither of them had eaten for 
two days. She wasn't hungry now. With enough aggravation, they could keep 
the food bills down to nothing. Except for the coffee. 

She set out mugs for both of them. In a minute he would come in, throw 
himself down on a chair, drink three mugs of coffee and apologize. He hadn't 
gotten beyond that stage yet. He still apologized for everything. It was 
like he had never in his life done something for the sheer hell of it. But 
always because he had to. Because he couldn't help himself. like he was 
driven, by fear or maybe the demon of his genius. But forever driven. 

She filled the mugs and sat down at the far side of the table, facing the 
door, waiting for him to appear. She had no idea if he would remember the 
scene between them yesterday. She. never knew what he might remember. Or 
forget. Sometimes he lost a whole day. And then he would be frightened a 
little and for maybe a week he would remain sober. And then he would forget 
the fear, too. And the drinking began again. 

She heard him bump heavily against a chair and stiffened, wary of facing 
him. Afraid for herself, but more afraid for him. 

He did not sit down at the table. Instead, he took the cup and carried it to 
the sink. She watched him take a swallow, then set the cup on the cupboard. 

She waited for him to say something. Even hello. Or drop dead or anything. 
But he stared at the tip of one shoe and seemed to have forgotten that she 
was there. 

She could stand almost anything better than the silent treatment. The 
God-awful torment of being ignored. In a good fight, she could fare as well 
as anyone. But like this, she sort of shriveled up inside and died. 

Finally she could stand it no longer. "Well?" she said. 

He looked up at her as though he had never seen her before and didn't much 
like what he saw now. "Well what?" 

A pulse began to throb sickeningly in her throat. She had never known, him 
like this before. And she didn't know how to handle him. The wrong word now- 

"Jake brought you home," she said. 

He grunted. 

"He found you in the hall outside his door. Passed out." 

He shrugged. "So?" 

Her eyebrows arched in surprise. No shame, no apology? "Jake thinks you 
should see an analyst," she said evenly. "You're going to kill yourself if 
you keep drinking like this." 

"Do I give a damn what Jake thinks?" he said savagely. "Or you? Or anybody 
else?" He poked his chest with a forefinger. "Me. That's what I care about. 
Do you hear me? Me." 

It was a new line for Brian. But if he meant it, it was the best thing she 
had ever heard. He still had a lot of life ahead of him. And maybe, if she 
was lucky, maybe after he got himself straightened out, there would still be 
a chance for them. Maybe he would want her then, as she still wanted him. 

"Brian," she said tentatively, "maybe if we got away from the city for 
awhile, we could see things more clearly. You know, get a new perspective on 
life and work out all the things that have gone wrong between us." 

He took another swallow of coffee and kept his glance averted from hers. "I 
thought you were leaving me," he said. 

That much he hadn't forgotten. And if he remembered that, he must also 
remember- 

"I didn't mean that, Brian," she said gently. "I was upset and hurt-" 

"And you thought we could just kiss and make up?" 

She opened her lips to speak, but he cut her short with a wave of his hand. 

"It's not that simple, Jennifer," he said. "I want a divorce now. On the 
grounds of adultery." 

He grinned and her heart sank. 

"Like I said, all I care about now is me." He paused to let the point sink 
in. "And I've already been to the lawyer." 

 CHAPTER SIX 

From her seat several rows behind him, Jennie stared at the top of her 
husband's head. It had been a relief to find the train crowded with families 
getting an early start on the weekend. He hadn't spoken a word to her since 
early morning, except to tell her to hurry the packing. And she certainly 
had nothing worth saying to him. 

He had phoned Leigh just before they left to arrange for someone to meet the 
train. Ordinarily they would have borrowed Jake's car. But today, neither of 
them had mentioned it. For her part, Jennie would have been happy never to 
see Jake again. But she had no intention of letting Brian have an 
uncontested divorce on his grounds. And she would need Jake as a witness. 

It seemed almost impossible to Jennie that her future should depend on 
someone she had come to despise as much as she had Jake. His selfishness, 
his greed revolted her to the core of her being. At her worst, she had never 
been low as Jake was low. She had never tried to deceive anyone about her 
intentions. And what little she got, she paid for in full. 

Yet she had come to understand Jake well enough to realize that this time 
she would have to be deceptive, even dishonest in order to get what she 
wanted from him. If she could only make him believe that she had been 
overpowered and won by his display of masculine virility ... With an ego 
like Jake's, it wouldn't be too difficult at all. 

She leaned an elbow on the window ledge and turned her attention to the 
scenery flitting past the window. Behind her a child that had been fussy 
since they left the city began to cry. Passengers, nerves already frayed by 
the stifling heat of the stuffy car, the reek of cigarette smoke and dust 
and bodies, shifted restlessly and grumbled among themselves. She hardly 
noticed the noise or the discomfort of the car. She was seeing trees, for a 
change. And flowers and grass. Even a cow. She had hoped that one day she 
and Brian might be able to afford a place on the Island. A quiet, safe 
place, away from the city's noise and filth. A place to raise children and 
grow old together. 

She glanced at him then, wondering if he still remembered the plans, the 
dreams they had once shared. 

His head tilted back against the seat and he appeared to be sleeping. He had 
sobered up completely, she knew, but even now, he looked like he was 
sleeping off a hangover. Something about the way his head hung to the side, 
drooping, bobbing with the motion of the train. He looked spineless somehow, 
limp like a rag doll thrown down on the seat. 

She could hate him all she wanted to now. He had made it clear that he hated 
her. Yet, looking at him, she felt the rise of all the old ambivalent 
feelings she had always felt toward him. Feelings she had never been able to 
straighten out in her head. Feelings that made her want him when she hated 
him, reject him when she loved him. And she knew that it would never change 
for her. Not really. Now that he had rejected her, she wanted him more than 
she ever had before. 

But thinking was useless. She needed to do something. Something active and 
positive. And maybe this weekend, away from the pressures of the city ... At 
least, they'd be sharing a bedroom. He was far too virile a man to ignore 
her in bed. 

A smile touched her lips as she outlined in her mind her plan of seduction. 
She had known Brian a long time and very well. She knew what he liked ... 
And she was more than ready to give it to him. 

Absorbed with her thoughts, Jennie hardly noticed the miles flying past 
outside the window, the touch of freshness in the air as the train moved 
along the edge of the Sound. She didn't even hear the conductor call out the 
stop at Oyster Bay. 

She felt a touch on her shoulder and stared. Looking up, she saw Brian 
waiting in line with the suitcase in his hand. He stared straight ahead, his 
jaw set in a determined line. 

He's nervous, she thought. Scared. 

She got up and smoothed down the front of her skirt. Deliberately, she had 
worn the least seductive garment she owned. With Jake's accusation still 
ringing in her ears, she had spent several hours unlearning all the chic she 
had ever know. She had seen the question in 

Brian's eyes. And something almost like appreciation. But it wasn't Brian 
who interested her now. 

The train ground to a halt and the long line inched forward. She watched him 
leap from the bottom step to the concrete platform and start away from the 
train without waiting for her. 

She followed his long-legged stride, almost running to keep up with him. 

His free hand went up in a wave and she heard him shout hello. His stride 
stretched into a run. 

At the end of a line of parked cars, Leigh Whitman waited for them in her 
big, black Lincoln. She had lowered the convertible top and sat on the back 
of the front seat, her knees up, feet propped against the wheel. 

A hell of a position for a forty year old woman, was Jennie's first thought. 

But on her it looks good, was her second. 

Realizing that she couldn't, even on the comfortable heels she was wearing, 
keep up with Brian, Jennie slowed her pace to an easy walk and took her time 
about reaching the car. Brian swung the suitcase into the rear seat and 
began an animated conversation with Leigh. He was talking with both hands as 
though his mouth wouldn't go fast enough to get it all out. Not once did he 
look around for his wife. 

At Jennie's approach, Leigh broke off in the middle of a sentence, and 
turned to smile at her. "Here you are," she said. She turned to Brian. 
"Shall we go?" 

Without waiting for an answer, she slid down from the back of the seat and 
moved over to let him take the wheel. She leaned over to open the door on 
Jennie's side of the car. 

Jennie didn't at all like the idea of the woman being between herself and 
Brian. Even in tight fitting slacks and a man-tailored white shirt, Leigh 
was more attractive than any woman Jennie had ever seen. Even the bare feet 
looked good. 

She slid in beside the woman while Brian got in behind the wheel. She 
reached out for the door handle. 

Leigh leaned across her suddenly. Her bare arm touched Jennie's breasts and, 
for a fraction of an instant, lingered there. 

Jennie pressed herself tight against the back of the seat, thinking to get 
out of the woman's way. Yet she felt the arm move with her, brushing against 
her ever so lightly as the woman leaned to slam the door. 

Leigh settled back into her seat and resumed the conversation with Brian. 

For a few moments, as Brian swung the car in a wide curve and out onto the 
highway, Jennie listened to their words, trying to find in herself an 
enthusiasm about who was showing what at which gallery. She had never really 
cared. That was the business end of art and the part that bored her. But the 
two of them, apparently, knew every artist and every gallery in town. And 
cared very much. And Jennie realized to her dismay that the common interest 
Leigh shared with her husband gave the woman a definite edge. If she wanted 
it. 

She settled back in the glare of sunlight and let her thoughts drift idly. 
Yet not without aim. She found herself considering the woman beside her, 
remembering the touch that might have been an accident, but almost certainly 
wasn't. She turned her head slightly and studied the woman's profile. What 
was happening inside that beautiful head? 

There was certainly nothing about the woman's appearance to indicate any 
peculiar motives for her behavior. And surely her interest in Brian seemed 
genuine enough. Yet Jennie had lived in the Village long enough to have seen 
and learned many things. And the one thing she understood best was that you 
couldn't tell anything about a person's sex life until you had climbed into 
bed with them. Oh, sure, Leigh was wearing slacks and she had short hair. 
But Jennie herself wore slacks and short hair. In the summer time it was no 
novelty anywhere. Still, there was something intangible there that stirred 
Jennie's curiosity and, in a way, intrigued her. 

Not for any interest that Leigh Whitman might have in her. She couldn't care 
less about Leigh. Couldn't care less about any woman that way. But because 
of Brian's infatuation. 

She smiled to herself, in a perverse way almost enjoying the thought of 
Brian's being lured into making a fool of himself over the woman. It would 
serve him right. For she believed now his insistence that he had never slept 
with Leigh. And she could even believe that he never would. Not if Leigh 
were really that way. Not if she really dug women, the way it seemed. 

Yet, if it were true, where did Dirk Whitman fit into the picture? 

Jennie was suddenly very glad that they had made this trek out to the 
Island. It ought to prove a lot more interesting than a weekend of fighting 
back home. 

They turned off the main road and onto a graveled drive. Low hanging 
branches skimmed above their heads as the car sped along. From somewhere off 
to the left, she heard a whistle hoot as a boat came in for a landing. She 
couldn't see the water yet or hear it. But the smell of it was everywhere, 
clean and salty, invigorating. 

"We're on Centre Island now," Leigh said, directing her words to Jennie. 
"You'll see the house in a few minutes. I still get a kick every time I see 
it." 

She followed the line of Leigh's vision toward what looked like a clump of 
trees on a hilltop. The car crunched around a sharp bend in the road and 
began climbing slowly up a sharp incline. The road here looked like it had 
been hacked out of the heart of the forest, with trees growing close 
together all around them, their roots stretching now and then onto the 
"roadbed itself. High above, the branches from both sides bent over the road 
to meet in a leafy canopy almost shutting out the sun. 

Jennie got the creepy feeling, of being underground in a secret passageway. 
like in the stories she used to make up when she was a kid. In a minute she 
would be in the ogre's castle, far underground, in the torture room where he 
kept little girls tied to racks and beat them. 

Lost for a moment in the nightmare world of her childhood fantasies, Jennie 
shivered, feeling frightened suddenly, yet afraid to cry out for fear the 
ogre might hear. She put one hand on either side of her on the leather seat, 
bracing herself for whatever lay ahead. 

Leigh's warm palm closed over her hand, soothingly, as though she too had 
known the childhood dreams and was reliving them now with Jennie. 

At her touch, Jennie came back with a shock to the present. Feeling a little 
foolish for her momentary lapse into the past, she turned to smile 
reassuringly at Leigh. She found the woman peering at her intently. 

"I'm all right," Jennie said. She wanted the woman to stop staring at her 
like that, holding her hand like she were feeble-minded and unable to fend 
for herself. 

Still Leigh's hand pressed warmly against her own. 

And suddenly the car shot out of the mouth of the tree tunnel and they were 
bumping across a rocky shelf of ground. 

Just as suddenly, Leigh withdrew her hand from Jennie's and pointed straight 
ahead. "There," she breathed. 

Jennie followed the pointing finger to the ugliest pile of stone that anyone 
had ever called home. Indeed, it was a castle, every hideous inch and 
soaring turret of it. Here and there a tiny window poked through the masses 
of clinging ivy and Jennie found herself counting, wondering how long it 
would take to dust all those rooms. "It's authentic," Leigh informed her. 
"Dirk's grandfather had it brought over stone by stone from Scotland. 
Nobody's ever been able to figure out why." 

She smiled. "The natives around here call it the Dungeon." 

Jennie could well understand the local reaction. "How can you live in it?" 
she asked impulsively. "I mean ... " 

Leigh laughed easily. "I know exactly what you mean," she said. "When Dirk 
and I first moved out here from the city ... " She broke off to glance at 
Jennie ... "He got everything when his father died, including the 
monstrosity. When we first moved in, it smelled like an out house. We've had 
the whole thing redone inside. It's quite livable now. Isn't it, Brian?" 
Jennie glanced past the woman's head to study her husband's face. 

He grunted, but kept his attention on the road. 

So he's not even bothering to be civil, Jennie thought, a little surprised 
that he had brought their mutual hostility out into the open. It wasn't like 
Brian to let the neighbors in on the sordid details of his private life. But 
maybe ... 

What if he knew about Leigh? What if he had seen Leigh's furtive handclasp 
in the dark tunnel of trees? If he had intended to make out with Leigh this 
weekend to woo her into sponsoring a showing at the Whitman gallery, he 
surely wouldn't welcome competition "from his own wife. 

Not that she intended to give him any. Once out of the tight confines of the 
car, she would make sure to avoid Leigh as best she could. Not that Brian 
would realize that. He probably thought she'd let Leigh make a play for her 
just for spite. But Jennie wasn't having any of that. If there were going to 
be any acrobatics this weekend ... 

Brian slammed the car to a halt before a gargoyled entrance way. He got out 
on his side of the car and reached toward the back seat. 

Leigh slid across the front seat and got out beside him. She put her hand on 
his arm. "Leave it, " she said. "Arthur will pick it up." 

Jennie waited for Brian to come around to open her door, as he had always 
done. When he made no motion to do so, she opened the door herself and 
stepped out onto the drive. 

Leigh turned to look for her. "Come on," she said. "We have to check in with 
the lord of the manor before his curiosity kills him." 

Jennie watched Leigh and Brian set off briskly on a pathway leading around 
the side of the house. She felt foolish standing there, even more foolish 
tagging after them like an unwanted kid sister. She sighed, seeing no choice 
for herself but to follow them. If Brian wanted to act like a spoiled child, 
there wasn't much she could do about it. And if Leigh's interest was 
confined to holding hands in dark corners, there wasn't much she could do 
about that either. 

Pulling her stomach in tight and thrusting her chin high, Jennie trailed 
after them to the back of the house and onto a flagstone terrace extending 
the length of the monstrous old house and some fifty feet in width, ending 
abruptly at a stone wall bordering the edge of a sheer drop down to the 
water. 

If Dirk Whitman's curiosity were killing him, he might already be dead, from 
the looks of him. He lay sprawled on his stomach on a rubber mattress spread 
out on the paving. He looked huge and hairless, his tanned, hard muscled 
body smooth and glistening with perspiration. Completely bald, his head was 
as deeply tanned and perspiring as the rest of him. 

Leigh walked over to the mattress and jabbed her bare toes into her 
husband's ribs. "Put on your manners," she said. "We've got company." 

He jumped up instantly, like a trained athlete coming out of a push up 
position. He gave a tug at the belt of his bikini briefs. 

Jennie had the feeling that even the inadequate loin cloth was a concession 
to his guests. There was something almost obscene about the man's obvious 
enjoyment of his own physique. Something about the way he moved repelled her 
with its obvious narcissism. Still, she had to admit that she had never seen 
anything quite like Dirk Whitman. Certainly rarely seen quite so much of 
anyone. The man was immense. 

He took her hand and gazed intensely into her eyes. "Mrs. Dunbar," he said, 
his voice mellow and rich, as though aged for centuries in the barrel of his 
chest. 

He frightened her just a little, with the hugeness of himself, the complete 
hairlessness even to the absence of eyebrows, and the strange, almost 
manical intensity of his black eyes. Yet, the way he shook her hand, the way 
he smiled like a self-conscious child reassured any misgivings she might 
have had. And she understood now why Leigh Whitman thought of men as little 
boys with long tails. For there was something truly child-like about this 
man she had married. It was somehow as though he were a grotesque, oversized 
infant, naked almost as the day he was born and emotionally as defenseless. 

She watched him cross to welcome Brian, hunching his shoulders a little as 
though embarrassed to tower over another man. Brian shook hands with him 
briefly. She saw the look of disgust and loathing in Brian's eyes and 
wondered if he were as apparent to the Whitmans as he was to her. 

If Dirk sensed Brian's feelings, he gave no indication. He asked a few 
questions about Brian's recent opening, tactfully, obviously having heard 
the whole story from Leigh. Then he took Brian's elbow and steered him away 
to the edge of the terrace. Their voices lowered, keeping their conversation 
an intimate thing between them. 

"Come on over here," Leigh said, "and we'll make ourselves comfortable." She 
gestured toward the men. "They seem to have forgotten we're here." 

Jennie laughed suddenly, startled by the note of tolerance in Leigh's tone. 
For herself, she was deathly curious to know what Dirk Whitman had to say to 
Brian that seemed so dreadfully serious. 

"Don't worry," Leigh said, sensing her thoughts. She sprawled out on a 
lounge chair and patted the seat of the one beside her. 

Jennie sat down cautiously on the edge of the seat, wanting to appear as 
comfortable as possible, yet keeping her distance from Leigh. 

'They're talking business," Leigh went on. She wiggled her toes in the warm 
sunlight. "Dirk's agreed to let Brian have a special exhibit at the 
gallery." 

"What?" Jennie blurted. The way the woman said it, anyone might have thought 
it was something that happened for Brian every day. 

Leigh took a cigarette from the pack lying beside her on the table and 
offered one to Jennie. When Jennie shook her head no, she lit her own and 
leaned back against the chair. "I'm a little annoyed with him about the 
whole thing." she said. 

"Oh?" Jennie breathed, feeling the tendrils of red tape spinning out to 
choke off Brian's future. 

"Hmm," Leigh answered. "The gallery is Dirk's special baby, you know." She 
waited for Jennie's nod. "And he's a damned snob about what he'll hang. I 
don't really have any say in the matter at all." She shrugged. "Anyhow, 
Dirk-likes a certain kind of ultra modern stuff that I can't stomach. You 
know, these things that look like crap smeared on a John wall." 

Jennie smiled stiffly, anxious for Leigh to get down to the point. She 
didn't give a damn about Dirk Whitman's taste in art. But if Brian could get 
a showing at the Whitman gallery, she could forget about him, at least as 
far as his career was concerned. And with that problem taken care of, they 
could do something about the rest. Something. 

"So he's being difficult," Leigh went on. 

"In what way?" Jennie asked, trying to sound patient, but hearing the 
annoyance in her tone. 

Leigh's right eyebrow arched slightly. "Who can ever tell with Dirk?" she 
said simply. 

Jennie looked up as a bony old man in baggy dungarees came out onto the 
terrace, carrying a tray of drinks. He moved slowly, as though his energy 
had gone into retirement years ago. Shaggy faced, his fingers swollen at the 
knuckles and stiff, he shuffled across to them and set the tray heavily onto 
a glass-topped table. Without glancing at either of them, he withdrew back 
toward the door from which he had left the house. 

"That." Leigh said, "is Arthur, He's one of the prize relics in this 
museum." 

"You inherited him, too?" Jennie said, amused by the dour old man. 

"Of course," Leigh said. "We wouldn't have a roof over our heads if it were 
up to Dirk to earn it." 

She sensed the warm affection the woman had for her husband and found 
herself more curious than ever about the strange pair. Before she could 
consider them further, Dirk's voice cut into her thoughts. 

"It's settled," he said to no one in particular. He turned back to Brian. 
"Well drink to it?" 

She watched him take a long swallow, lower the glass, then drink again. 
Whatever he had just agreed to, he wasn't feeling good about it. 

A tremor of nervousness, almost of foreboding, chilled through her. 

"What's settled?" Leigh asked. 

"About the gallery," Brian said. "Two months from today." 

Jennie started to tell him how pleased she felt. But something about the way 
he said it warned her to keep still. 

Leigh looked up at her husband. "No strings?" she said. 

"One or two," Dirk answered. He moved to stand beside his wife, his huge 
hand on the back of her neck. "Little strings. Without nooses." 

Jennie glanced quickly at Brian and found him watching her. 

He turned away at her glance and for a moment lowered his head. Then, 
smiling at some private thought, he raised the glass and drank. 

 CHAPTER SEVEN 

Jennie turned off the babble of their voices and relaxed against the cool, 
worn leather of the sofa. Through half lowered eyelids, she gazed across the 
wide room at the portrait of herself. The naked, languid, sleepy-eyed pose 
that Brian had painted shortly after their marriage. She had thought it a 
marvelous painting when he had just finished it. Thought it the most sensual 
thing she had ever seen. 

Yet looking at it now, she realized that it wasn't really very good at all. 
Neither as a painting nor as a picture of her. What she had once seen as 
sensuality now appeared as a sick sort of lust, almost a kind of perversion. 
He had captured none of the essence of her, none of the good in her that 
loved him and wanted to be his wife. Only the ugliness, the greed and the 
wanton uselessness that had characterized her before he came into her life. 

And perhaps, she realized, he had never really seen the other side of her, 
the side that could have been faithful to him, could have cherished their 
relationship. Perhaps he had never really understood or accepted her as she 
really was. For Jennie knew, as Brian had never known, that the girl in the 
painting-the lusty, sex-starved creature he had portrayed-was not truly 
Jennie at all. 

Yet there she was-A Girl Called Jennie-hung in the library of the Whitman's 
home for all the world to see. And she resented somehow this thing he had 
done to her. This lie he had told about her in oil and lacquer. Resented 
having Dirk and Leigh come to know, and apparently like very well, something 
about her that she could not accept about herself. 

She closed her eyes and let herself drift into a state of almost sleep. She 
felt that she had probably never been quite so tired-nor so bored-in her 
life. The conversation and the alcohol had dribbled on through the night and 
she had found no solace in either. Brian had openly ignored her all evening 
and Dirk and Leigh, apparently taking their cue from him, had done the same, 
except to fill her full of food she wasn't hungry for and drinks that had 
made her head throb. And when at last they had come in from the terrace, 
theoretically to retire, she had fond herself rejoicing in the final hope of 
being able to stretch out and sleep. 

But the others, obviously, still weren't ready to call it a night. The 
bottles and the ice came out once more. 

Jennie, at least, knew when to stop. One more drink and she would pass out 
on the floor. Instead, she had thrown herself down on the sofa, determined 
to grab at least a few minutes' nap. Yet the vision of that damned portrait, 
the image of it imprinted on her brain even after she had closed her eyes, 
would not let her rest. Here was Brian's opinion of her, smeared across 
canvas for any eyes to devour. And the quality of it embarrassed and 
humiliated her. She turned her back to the wall on which it hung and buried 
her face against the smooth leather. 

Barely had she settled herself when she sensed a change in the tenor of the 
conversation behind her. She heard Leigh's voice raise excitedly and Brian, 
seconding whatever it was she had said. 

In a moment, Brian's hand touched her shoulder. Shook her demandingly. 

"Get up," he said, his voice fuzzy with drink, his words thick. "We're going 
for a swim." 

For a moment Jennie thought she must have misunderstood. Yet behind Brian, 
her hand resting on his waist, Leigh stood waiting anxiously for Jennie to 
stir herself. 

"What? What?" Jennie heard the confusion in her voice and realized that she 
was at least half asleep. 

"Come on," Leigh insisted. "A swim before breakfast-" She gestured 
expansively. 

Stiffly, Jennie sat up and tugged the skirt over her knees. Her head felt 
like an alcoholic's nightmare. "I usually have breakfast after a night's 
sleep," she grumbled. 

She felt Brian waiting impatiently. She glanced up at him. "Brian, are you 
sure you're in any condition-" 

"Come on, get the lead out," he said roughly. 

She knew it would do her no good to argue. She couldn't out-talk all three 
of them. Even Dirk, who looked so easy-going, fidgeted nervously in the 
background. 

Sighing, Jennie stood up. Her legs felt heavy, her feet like lumps of lead. 
A swim in the icy dawn water of the Sound was the last thing she wanted 
right now. But she couldn't very well let Brian, in his condition, go off 
without her. Not if she ever expected to collect alimony from the drunken 
sot. At the moment, she couldn't think of him as anything else. 

She followed him out of the living room and down the long hallway to the 
stairs. He went up slowly, pulling himself along by the banister. She almost 
wished he would fall flat on his face. Go to sleep right there where he 
fell. 

Upstairs, she stepped past him and walked ahead of him down the hall and 
into the apartment where they had already been sent to "freshen up." Arthur 
had done a neat job of unpacking their bag, arranging everything carefully 
in the carved mahogany dresser and the wall length closet. Everything in the 
room looked as antique as the room itself. Yet she had to admit that it was 
comfortable. The huge canopied bed with its silk sheets and big puffy 
pillows looked exquisitely clean and soft as a cloud. 

She turned her attention away from the bed and rooted in the top drawer of 
the dresser for their suits and the terry cloth robes she had remembered to 
pack. Still it would be cold and damp on the beach and her city-soft flesh 
revolted at the thought of stretching out on the wet sand. 

She threw the suits disgustedly on the nubby white bed spread. "I could kill 
you," she thrust at Brian. "Can't you do anything any more but make a damned 
fool of yourself?" 

In his anger, he ripped a button off his shirt trying to open it. He kept 
his back to her, yet she saw the dark red rage creep into his cheeks and up 
the back of his neck. 

She didn't have the strength to fight with him. And she didn't really care. 
If she just got through this weekend-She felt like she were surrounded by a 
band of maniacs. And she needed an aspirin. And coffee. Gallons of coffee. 

She picked up his clothes as he dropped them to the floor. Even so, she had 
undressed and pulled on the tight black suit before he'd peeled down to his 
shorts. She stood in front of the full length mirror, tugging at the hem of 
her suit, trying to look adequately covered in a scrap of cloth about the 
size of a Kleenex. She hadn't wanted to wear it, hadn't wanted to wear 
anything like it after the accusations Jake had hurled at her. But it was 
the only one she had. 

"Where's the damned suit?" Brian said irritably. 

She turned away from the sight of his nakedness, ugly and whiskey-bloated to 
her now. He looked like a bull ape, all of him covered with thick, coarse 
black hair despite the soft blondeness of his head. She could remember when, 
she had found him attractive, had loved to rub against him and tug at the 
coarse growth with her lips. Now he merely looked disgusting,, almost 
obscene. 

"On the bed," she said patiently. "Where you saw me throw it." 

"I didn't see you throw it," he said belligerently. "If I saw you throw it, 
I'd throw it back at you." 

"Oh, Brian, for heaven's sake," she said. "The Whitmans are probably waiting 
for us. We haven't got time to argue." 

"That's right," he said. "That's right. We haven't even got anything to 
argue about." He stepped clumsily into the trunks and began pulling them up 
his legs. He wobbled unsteadily, like a fat woman fighting a girdle. 

She had almost forgotten that he hadn't been speaking to her. The restless 
tension between them now had become so much a part of their lives that it 
seemed somehow natural. Glancing at the puzzled frown on his face, she 
realized that he had been feeling the same thing. Had forgotten for the 
moment the newborn hatred between them. Had even forgotten that he was suing 
her for divorce. 

She watched the memory flood back into his consciousness. Watched the 
slackness go out of his jaw and tighten into determination. And loathing. 
She had lost him again. Whatever little she had she still held onto. 

He stood up and straightened his shoulders. He took the lightweight robe she 
held out to him and hung it over his arm. Without glancing at her again, 
without bothering to speak, he turned on his heel and stalked toward the 
door. 

He wasn't bumbling along now in a drunken stupor. He was walking like a man. 
An angry, outraged one. But like a man. And she felt a surge of something 
very like respect for him now. It didn't matter that he had dismissed her, 
had turned his back on her with such finality. All that mattered was that he 
had reared back on his hind legs and faced up to-To something. She didn't 
know what. She didn't care. But something had happened inside his head, 
something positive. 

Loving him, loving him desperately, more afraid now than ever at losing him, 
Jennie hastily grabbed up her beach robe and hurried after him down the 
stairs. 

The three of them were already on the terrace, waiting for her. Thankfully 
she saw that the morning sun had already broken through the haze hanging 
over the shore line. As she stepped after Dirk onto the winding path that 
led down to the beach, she looked ahead and down to the water. The Whitmans' 
private beach stretched in a half moon around a shallow cove. She had been 
told earlier that Grandfather Whitman had had the cove blasted out of the 
sheer rock and she looked about her as they moved slowly downward. The path 
itself was hardly more than a scratch cut on the shale surface, but the old 
man had been wise enough to provide an iron railing all the way down. She 
clung to it almost desperately, leaning against it heavily to counterbalance 
the slippery rubber soles of her beach shoes. The complete bleakness of the 
scene, the chill of the early morning air nipped sharply at her nerves. And 
she felt herself moving now with her eyes closed, afraid to look down, 
afraid even to look back up the steep incline to the terrace wall. 

The others went forward easily, Leigh leading the way, as though they had 
traveled the path often enough to have forgotten its dangers. Or to have 
mastered them. The thought crossed her mind that Brian, too, had made this 
trip often before. And she felt foolish, remembering how sorry she had often 
felt for him, confined to the city ana the stuffy studio on the third floor 
of their Village home. 

She pushed all thought of Brian away from her and concentrated on the more 
immediate matter of saving her own neck. When at last she stepped onto level 
ground, she felt completely enervated, ready to collapse in a heap right 
where she was. 

Brian and Dirk tossed their robes onto the sand and set off on the run down 
to the water's edge. She watched Brian hurl himself headlong into the 
shallow waves. Feeling the chill that must have shocked through him, she 
shivered and pulled the robe tight around her. 

Leigh laughed close beside her. "Here," she said amiably. "Sit down on this. 
Wrap it around you, if you want." She held out the red and blue checkered 
blanket that she had carried down the precipice, slung casually over her 
shoulder. 

Jennie could have slapped her, standing there in her bare feet, looking warm 
and relaxed. And as serene as though she had slept all night. She took one 
end of the blanket and, with Leigh's help, spread it out on the sand. 

She had expected the sand to be damp and dreary. But the hot sun of many 
days had baked into it relentlessly, leaving it dry and almost cozily warm. 
She kicked off her sandals and dug her toes into the sand at the edge of the 
blanket. 

"That's better," Leigh commented. "It's really quite a lovely place, if 
you'd just relax enough to enjoy it." 

She dropped down on the far side of the blanket and leaned back with her 
arms hugged around her legs. Her eyes sparkled with amusement. 

Jennie turned her glance toward the water, unable to bear the way Leigh 
looked at her. "Yes," she said tightly, "it is lovely here." Indeed, she 
supposed it was, if one were part mountain goat and the other half idiot. 
She had looked forward with a kind of glee to being at the seaside. And now 
that she was here, she felt like a damned fool. She couldn't shake off the 
headache that nagged at her. Nor the dreadful thought that eventually she 
would have to climb back up to the house. 

Maybe she wouldn't. Maybe she would just stay here forever. Stay here "and 
sleep for a month. Let them drop food over the side in a basket. Or let them 
leave her to starve. Either way, it didn't matter. She just wanted to 
stretch out-She started to lie back on the blanket when suddenly she 
remembered Leigh sitting there. Watching her. Probably still smirking in 
that damned complacent way of hers. She groaned inwardly and leaned her 
forehead against her knees. 

"What's bothering you?" Leigh asked quietly. "You've been looking half dead 
since dinner time." 

Jennie sighed. "I'm just getting old, I guess." 

"That's a good one," Leigh commented. "Girl, you're hardly more than half my 
age. Suppose you had half a dozen kids to chase after. What would you do 
then?" 

Jennie sat very still, shocked into immobility by the woman's words. How 
could the woman have hit so squarely upon the source of all her unhappiness, 
her problems with Brian? And what could she say to the woman, how could she 
find an answer for a question that had none? 

"Well?" Leigh prodded. 

"I-I don't Vnow," Jennie choked out. She tried to keep her tone light. It 
was none of Leigh's business, after all. "I suppose I'd have to take 
vitamins." 

"Maybe you ought to try it," Leigh said, but very gently. "A man needs a 
little companionship, you know. And Brian certainly enjoys-" 

She didn't want to hear from another woman what her husband enjoyed. 
Certainly not from this one. "Damn Brian!" she blurted irritably. 

"Oh?" Her voice was throaty with curiosity. And with something else. 

Jennie heard the insinuation in Leigh's tone and immediately regretted her 
words. Yet she had been sincere enough. The woman must have sensed it. 

"Yes," she said flatly. "I meant that. I'm sick and tired of hearing what 
Brian wants and what Brian needs. I've gotten enough of it from him to last 
me for life, I assure you." 

Leigh stirred and moved closer on the blanket. "Don't tell me you two are 
having trouble," she said. 

"Hasn't he told you?" Jennie said, more sharply than she had intended. 

"Not at all," Leigh said. "As far as I've known, the only reason Brian's 
gone places without you was that you preferred to stay at home. Good 
heavens, I've been thinking all this time that you two had the perfect 
marriage. I've always wanted to have that kind of an arrangement with Dirk. 
You know, he never goes away from the house and I like to go-" She waved one 
hand wide-"everywhere." 

"But you go," Jennie said. 

Leigh sniffed. "Sure," she said. "And go through hell with him every time I 
get home. He doesn't trust me out of his sight." She sighed. "Or in it." 

"She exaggerates a little," Dirk's mild tone cut down to them. 

Both woman started guiltily and turned to look up at the big man towering 
over them. 

"Toss me that towel," he said to his wife. 

She sat up and handed him a shaggy white towel. He took it and smoothed it 
over the crown of his bald head. He looked down at Jennie. "I hope you 
haven't been misled by all this prattle," he said easily. "I'm really a 
rather mild-tempered man." 

She had thought so from the moment she had seen him. Yet now she was no 
longer sure. Surely the anguish in Leigh's words had been sincere. 

"I'm sure you are," Jennie said half-heartedly. "But all women have to 
complain about their husbands now and then." She glanced sharply at Leigh. 
"We wouldn't be human if we didn't." 

He pitched the towel at his wife's head in a gesture that was at once both 
playful and deeply affectionate. Leigh grinned back at him and moved over to 
make room for him on the blanket. 

As she moved, Leigh's foot came into contact with Jennie's thigh. Jennie 
recoiled instantly, confused by their strange behavior, wary of Leigh's 
intentions. 

"She's afraid of me," Leigh said to her husband. "What do you suppose is 
happening to my technique?" 

Dirk laughed. "I've always told you that you had a lousy one," he said. 

If I had a grain of sense, Jennie thought, I'd get up and run like hell. 

But she didn't move. Instead she glanced away to the water where Brian's 
blonde head moved slowly at a considerable distance from shore. 

"Maybe she just doesn't like us," Leigh said. 

She realized that the words were meant as a question. "Of course I like 
you," she said quickly. "I just don't-" 

She stopped. 

"You will," Leigh said. "Just give it time." She took a cigarette and let 
Dirk light it for her. She watched Jennie from behind a haze of smoke. 

Jennie felt like she had forgotten every word she ever knew. Anyway, none of 
them would be sufficient to express what she was feeling. There could be no 
mistaking the intimation in the exchange between Leigh and her husband. She 
wasn't even sure there was a neat way out. But she'd find one. Or make it. 

"I-I think I'll go in for a swim," Jennie said, jumping up suddenly and 
dropping the robe onto the blanket. She couldn't just sit there, be stared 
at like a prize specimen on a pin. Even that cold, cold water-Even Brian-She 
broke into a run, fleeing away from them as though for dear life. The sound 
of their laughter chased after her. At the water's edge she didn't hesitate, 
but took a deep breath and dove. 

 CHAPTER EIGHT 

She was running for her life, stumbling over the loose shale, picking 
herself up again and staggering on. Her hair hung loose around her 
shoulders, damp and stringy with perspiration. The muscles of her legs ached 
and an intolerable pain clutched at her right side. Still, she dared not 
slow down or even glance behind her for a sign of her pursuer. She heard 
loose stones skitter from under his feet, bounce over the precipice and into 
the water below. 

She knew what he wanted. What they wanted. They wanted her to fulfill the 
promise made by the lewd portrait hanging in then-library. They wanted her 
to prove she was the lusty, sensual girl in the painting and not the saintly 
fraud she seemed. She had tried to tell them that the painting was a lie. 
That she had never been the Jennie they wanted her to be. Never. And yet 
they did not believe her. As Brian did not believe. As she was no longer 
really sure herself. 

And she was running downhill now, along the narrow path, her fingers sliding 
easily over the slick iron railing. Still they pursued her, shouting at her 
now. Calling her names she dared not listen to. Reminding her of Jake. 
Reminding her ... 

She felt herself falling, clinging desperately to the railing that slid 
beneath her fingers like it had been coated with grease. Clinging, yet 
falling. Her feet going out from under her and her hands still grasping ... 

She woke with a start that nearly pitched her out of bed. For a moment her 
fingers tightened convulsively on the fluted wooden pole supporting the 
canopy. She peered intently into the darkness, afraid still, listening for 
sounds of running feet somewhere near her. 

Gradually her equilibrium returned, bringing with it a terror only slightly 
less real than that of her dream. She pushed herself away from the bed frame 
and into a sitting position on the edge of the mattress. Her toes poked 
beneath the bed for the pair of slippers she had forgotten to pack. 

Foolish, she thought, to be afraid of the Whitmans. They certainly weren't 
the type to do anything against her will. They wouldn't force her to submit 
to them. Either of them. Or both. And yet, she had sensed in their frank 
remarks down at the beach a determination not easily to be denied. Leigh had 
made it plain that they expected her to comply with their wishes. What had 
she said? "Give it time?" 

Jennie felt as though her life amounted to a state of psychological warfare. 
She couldn't very well demand of Brian that he take her home before the 
expected end of their visit. If he listened to her at all, he would tell her 
she was being a damned fool. And maybe she was. Maybe. 

She didn't believe it for a minute. She had no idea what kind of party games 
the Whitmans were used to indulging in. But she could guess. And she wanted 
no part of the whole business. Despite her behavior before her marriage, 
despite her fling with Jake, Jennie did not in any way consider herself a 
loose woman. A highly practical one sometimes, but never indecent. 

She padded barefoot into the bathroom, wondering how long she had slept 
after the party had finally adjourned after breakfast. She remembered that 
Brian had come upstairs with her. Had dropped his bathing trunks on the 
bedroom floor and wandered off for a shower. She had fallen asleep to the 
accompaniment of his bass rendering of something so off-key she hadn't been 
able to identify it. And where had he gone then? Certainly he hadn't come to 
bed. 

She stepped into the marble tiled shower stall and began playing with the 
faucets. Too hot. Too cold. Too tepid. Freezing ... She gave up finally, 
deciding that the plumbing must have been imported along with the rest of 
the house. She worked the lavender scented bar of soap into a lather on the 
cloth and moved it in slow circles on her body. The water was too cold to 
relax her, too warm to refresh her. It didn't even feel wet enough to get 
her clean. 

She realized that she had a hangover and a lousy disposition to go with it. 
She'd had more than enough already of the old house and its weird 
inhabitants. And of Brian, too, for that matter. The way she felt right now, 
she wouldn't give a damn if she never saw him again. 

Still, she was curious as to where he might have gone. Curious as people 
sometimes are out of habit rather than concern. It made little difference to 
her now what he did, she told herself. And yet, at least till tomorrow, she 
still had a tight to know. 

She stood on a fluffy yellow bath mat, patting herself dry, feeling worse 
than she had before the shower, feeling exhausted and achy, feeling even a 
little sorry for herself. In the cabinet she found a box of dusting powder, 
lavender scented like the soap. She applied the puff energetically, sending 
a fine film of powder swirling around her to settle onto the bathmat. 
Pausing for a moment over her thighs, touching disapproving fingertips to 
the yellowish bruises Jake had left there. Even the thought of him sent a 
twist of anguish through her, a wrenching shame for what she had done. Not 
to Brian ... he deserved anything he got. But to herself. For she understood 
now the warning her nightmare had implied. Understood that she could never 
again return to a life of sexual promiscuity. Once it had seemed like 
getting a lot for a little. Now it seemed an impossible price to pay for 
practically nothing. She could manage by herself, with whatever alimony she 
could get out of Brian. With a job of her own. But she would never again 
bargain with her body for anything. Not for anything. Not if she starved. 

Her frame took on a stance of determination, of pride. She stepped briskly 
into the bedroom, realizing suddenly that the place was as dark and gloomy 
as the middle of the night, though her senses told her it was barely 
mid-afternoon. Naked and barefoot, she padded the length of the room, 
pulling open shutters on the deep-set windows, letting in a breath of fresh 
air and here and there a glimmer of light. She saw that the ivy that made 
the house almost tolerable to look at from the outside had choked off six of 
the tiny windows in the room, growing thick and untended like masses of 
matted hair. She remembered that Leigh had bragged that the house had been 
made livable and thanked heaven that she had not known the nut that 
Grandfather Whitman must have been. How could any man live in a dungeon like 
this? she wondered. Especially a man like Dirk, who took such pride in his 
physique and appeared to love the outdoors. 

Busy disgruntling herself even further with her thoughts of the Whitmans, 
Jennie scarcely heard the low-pitched voice that drifted up to her from the 
terrace. She might have ignored it altogether. Except for the laugh that 
followed. 

It was Brian's laugh, the special one he had when he had just heard a filthy 
joke. Or told one. 

All of her leaned forward, alerted and tense. She could not see past the 
three foot thickness of the sill, could barely reach the sill at all. 
Quickly she dragged a velvet covered chair over to the window and climbed up 
on the seat. She leaned the palms of her hands on the sill, feeling the 
grime of old Scotland harsh against her skin. Still she could see nothing. 
The sound of Brian's laugh, lower now, more intimate, came to her again. 

Grasping hold of a shutter, her bare feet aching on a rung of the chairback, 
Jennie managed to pull herself onto the deep but narrow sill. Her hips were 
too broad for the opening and she knelt there with her ass projecting into 
the room. 

From her cranny, Jennie discovered a perfect view of the terrace and of the 
sea beyond. She had no fear of being seen, nestled there behind the ivy, and 
she leaned out as far as she could, looking for Brian and whoever might be 
with him. 

She saw them, the two of them, side by side on a lounge the size of a bed 
and apparently used for the same purposes. Both were wearing sun glasses. 

And nothing else. 

Whatever else she thought about human nature, Jennie was ready to believe 
only one thing about a man and woman lying naked together. In the sun or 
anywhere else. Especially in the sun, she decided. The warmth did funny 
things to the body, gave it ideas it might never have had someplace else. 
She had discovered that for herself years ago, lying on a blanket in the 
sun, finding herself pressing hard against the packed sand. 

She almost laughed to herself at the sight of her husband's body, flabby 
around the buttocks from too much city living, starkly white under the wiry 
black hair. He looked a little pathetic next to Leigh, with her golden tan 
and firm body. If he could see himself as she was seeing him, he'd run for 
his clothes. 

But he wasn't seeing himself. He was seeing nothing but Leigh. He propped 
himself on one elbow and gestured with his other hand. 

Jennie couldn't hear the words. But the sign language she understood very 
well. She watched Leigh's head tilt back and heard her laugh, low and 
privately. 

With his free hand, Brian began to massage the back of Leigh's neck. She lay 
on her stomach with her head cradled on her arms, her face turned away from 
him. His hand moved from her neck, down her back, the strong fingers 
kneading along her spine. All the way down. His palm on her buttocks, her 
hip. 

He put his arm across her back and drew her on top of him as he rolled over. 

She pulled away from his kiss, laughing, and sat up, leaning stiff-armed 
against his chest. His hands grabbed her boobs and she leaned forward 
suddenly, nipping at the hair of his chest with her teeth. 

Jennie smiled complacently. She doesn't want him, she thought. She's playing 
with him, kidding him along. Not like a woman does who wants a man. But the 
way she does if she doesn't care ... if she prefers women. 

But there could be no doubt that Brian wanted her. Wanted her damned near 
any way he could get her. He moved her on top of him, holding her tight with 
his hands on her hips. 

Leigh leaned over and whispered into his ear. Jennie saw him nod. Leigh 
kissed him then, her mouth open, her tongue darting to meet his. 

She rolled away from him onto her back. He moved with her, going onto his 
knees. Hunching over her, his mouth trailing along her belly, down to her 
pussy. 

Repelled yet fascinated nevertheless, Jennie watched as Leigh used her 
husband as she might have used another woman. Watching as he complied, 
willingly, to her demands. A feeling of nausea hit her stomach and she clung 
fast to the shutter, pressing herself together in the narrow confines of the 
window opening. 

Leigh's body tensed, all of her arching upward. Her fingers tightened in 
Brian's hair. Wanting him to ... 

Her legs spread wide as he covered her. He drove into her furiously, lifting 
her off the couch with the strength of his passion. 

Jennie's hand moved downward without her volition,, cupping her cunt with 
the sweaty warmth of her palm. Her senses swayed, reeled to the rhythm of 
the figures on the lounge. She felt the tightening in her thighs, the 
quivering of nerves along her spine and down the backs of her legs. 

Their bodies clung together in the convulsive motions of their climax. Clung 
and then were still. Brian rolled onto his back, looking strangely 
overdressed in the sun glasses that still covered his eyes. 

Jennie backed cautiously down from the ledge and leaned, panting and 
dripping with perspiration, against the wall. She felt drained of energy, 
weak in the knees and on the verge of tears. Her mind raged with confusion. 
And with something almost like fear. 

It didn't really surprise her that Brian had done this thing to her. As 
angry and self-righteous as he had been feeling, he might even have done it 
in full view for her special benefit. Wanting her to see. 

But what about Leigh? And Dirk? 

It was entirely possible that she had been wrong about Leigh. That the woman 
did indeed like men. And only men. It would certainly make more sense that 
way, considering that she had a husband. But if that were the case, how 
could she explain to herself the actions and words that Leigh had directed 
to her? 

Jennie began to sense a creepy feeling that things in this house were not so 
simple as they might appear. She could accept perfectly well that Leigh 
might be attracted to Brian. Even Brian as he was now. She herself still 
felt the attraction strongly. And there was nothing especially peculiar 
about a woman going to bed with a man she found attractive. Not even, among 
the people they knew, if she happened to be married to someone else. It was 
not only accepted practice, but almost expected. Still, one usually didn't 
do that sort of thing. 

Jennie sighed, remembering her own experiences with Jake. Naked and anxious 
practically under Brian's nose. But Dirk Whitman was not a drunkard. And he 
certainly didn't seem the kind to encourage his wife's extra-marital 
affairs. 

Feeling a little steadier, Jennie turned to close the shutters she regretted 
having opened in the first place. She had always known about 

Brian's behavior But she could have done very well without the first-hand 
experience. She rubbed her palms together, feeling the soot gritty and 
irritating against her flesh. She could do without another shower in that 
ancient bathroom, too. The feeling of filth and ugliness she felt would take 
more than water to be dissolved. Bad enough that she had played the Peeping 
Tom. But her own response ... 

She shivered with disgust, remembering even now the hollow emptiness of 
self-inflicted satisfaction. She had been forced to it often, after the baby 
died. During the long months of her emotional recovery, her spiritual 
separation from her husband. Yet even necessity had not dulled the edge of 
regret, of guilt that assailed her conscience. 

Heavily, she returned to the bathroom and began once more the hopeless 
process of reviving her nerves. She didn't want to see Brian again. Not 
ever. Whatever else she did this damned weekend, she might manage to stay 
out of his sight. For even though she could understand his behavior, perhaps 
even accept it, she despised him nevertheless. Hated him, as only a woman 
undone can hate. She did not remember now her own experiences with Jake. Nor 
the long months of their misery together. She could remember nothing now but 
the sight of him, his hairy nakedness sprawling all over Leigh Whitman, 
devouring her with the force of his passion. 

Even in memory, the sight of him sickened her. She rubbed the rough cloth 
briskly along her ribs, scrubbing ferociously, venting her anger and 
frustration on her own flesh. The tingling felt good, almost revived some of 
her energy. Still her head ached and the back of her neck felt like someone 
had hacked at her with a mallet. 

When she came back into the bedroom, pushing a final pin into place in her 
still damp hair, she found Brian stretched out naked on the bed, his arms 
folded behind his head and a cigarette dangling from his lips. 

Catching sight of him, she stopped abruptly, completely off-guard. 

"You just wake up?" Brian said amiably. 

So, Jennie thought. It must have been pretty good if he's even speaking to 
me. 

"Not quite," she said crisply. Ignoring him, she went to the closet and took 
a pale blue linen skirt from its hanger. 

"What's that supposed to mean?" he said around the smoke from his cigarette. 

"Nothing," she said sharply, hearing the rise of tears in her voice. 

She fastened the button at the waist of her skirt and stepped toward the bed 
to pick up her watch from the night table. 

He leaned toward the table and dropped his cigarette into a glassy ashtray. 
She felt his eyes boring into her, as though trying to see into her mind. 

"I'm all right," she said impatiently. "Just leave me alone." 

"Look at me," he said quietly. She looked away. 

He made a sudden grab for her wrist and pulled her sideways onto the bed. "I 
said look at me, damn it." 

She went limp, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a struggle. 

For a moment he held her. Then as suddenly as he had pulled her to him, he 
shoved her away. 

Jennie stood up and straightened out her skirt. "Satisfied?" 

"No," he said. "Should I be?" 

"You ought to be," she said. "Tarzan." 

He watched her narrowly. 

She stepped away from him and made a quick check of her features in the 
glass. Taking a tissue from the box on the dresser, she dabbed at the right 
corner of her mouth. "You looked like a damned fool down there," she said 
over her shoulder, "with your bare ass hanging out like that." 

She meant to hurt him, hurt him as much as she could. And he was pretty vain 
about his manhood. 

But she hardly expected the reaction she got. She heard his feet hit the 
floor with a thud and before she could turn around, he was beside her, 
shaking her by the arm. 

"Don't say that to me," he said, his tone a snarl. "Do you think I like it 
any better than you do?" 

She stared at him, astonished. "Are you crazy? Let me go." 

He let go of her arm and turned away from her. His shoulders drooped 
tiredly. "Go," he said disgustedly. "I wouldn't expect you to understand." 

"Understand what?" she pleaded helplessly. "Understand what, Brian?" 

He sat down on the edge of the bed. "Strings," he said. "Little strings with 
big nooses." He stretched out on his back and closed his eyes. 

She didn't know what the hell he was talking about. If anything. But, before 
she could ask him again, he had started to snore. 

 CHAPTER NINE 

Standing in the center of the downstairs hall, Jennie strained her senses 
for an indication of human life. The old house, she had discovered, had a 
sound all its own. An eerie, echoing hollowness that rasped on the nerves. 
Despite the modern decor, the brightly colored wall hangings, she almost 
expected at any moment to hear a door creak open to reveal- 

She heard the door open directly behind her, moving almost soundlessly on 
well-oiled hinges. She jumped involuntarily, startled half out of her wits. 

"You'll be wanting some breakfast," a voice said inches from her shoulder. 

Jennie spun around. 

Arthur, still in the baggy dungarees that looked like he had just come in 
from the garden, stood aloof, his ancient face wrinkled into a permanent 
leer. She had seen that face before, she thought, in horror films, on 
Halloween pranksters. It hadn't scared her then. But seeing it here, in this 
hell hole of a house, she felt terrified. 

She put her hand to her throat, as though protecting herself from an attack. 
"Just some coffee," she said. "Please." 

He moved off as soundlessly as he had come. The door clicked shut behind 
him. 

When he had gone, Jennie breathed a sigh of relief. She felt like a damned 
fool, being scared of the ugly little man. If anything was out of kilter in 
this house, it probably wasn't Arthur. Still, she could breathe much easier 
without him looking over her shoulder She started down the long hall toward 
the terrace door. 

On the threshold, she paused, not sure that she would be any better able to 
cope with Leigh than she had with Arthur. A naked 

Leigh, at that. Nakedness had always made her vaguely uncomfortable. She 
never quite knew where to look and had never managed to develop the aplomb 
to stare a naked body straight in the eyes. 

She stepped out cautiously onto the terrace, peering around the edge of the 
heavy stone door frame for sight of the woman. 

Dirk's bald head above the back of the lounge looked somehow more obscene 
than Leigh's nakedness would have. Yet she was glad that the woman had 
vanished. Glad, too, that she had found Dirk waiting so conveniently. 
Despite the incident on the beach, she still felt safer with him than any of 
the others in this strange house. Including Brian, at the moment. And 
besides, if Leigh felt free to play games on the terrace with Brian, there 
was no reason in the world why she shouldn't feel just as free to have a 
little fun with Dirk. Not the whole way, she assured herself quickly. Just a 
mild flirtation to pass the miserable hours until they went back to the 
city. 

"Hi, there," she called cheerily. Her heels clicked sharply against the 
flagstone. 

Dirk's face poked out from the side of the chair. "Don't move another step," 
he said. "Just stand right there." 

Jennie did as she was told, stopping in mid-stride and staring at the lounge 
curiously. The bald head had ducked out of sight. She saw the lounge rock a 
little with the movement of his body. A leg came into view over the side. 

Jennie smiled to herself as he stood up and adjusted the waistline of his 
trunks. This was getting to be quite a show, And she wondered if Arthur, 
too, liked to trot around the house in the raw. 

"You caught me " he grinned, "-unprepared." He gestured toward the lounge, 
offering Jennie a seat on its comfortable foam rubber cushioning. 

"I think I'll sit over here," Jennie said easily, approaching a wicker chair 
set back in the shadow of the house. "Out of the sun." 

He inclined his head toward her. "Of course," he said. He stretched out on 
the lounge and crossed his legs at the ankles. "Have you had breakfast?" 

"Arthur's bringing me some coffee," she answered, wondering why he didn't 
hurry it up. She needed something to settle the nervousness quaking through 
her. She'd been through more already this afternoon than she usually 
encountered in a week. 

"Good," he said. "Then I'd like to take you on a tour of the house. You 
haven't had the pleasure yet." 

He said it casually. Yet something about the way he smiled with his eyes 
sent a tingle along Jennie's spine. She couldn't imagine what else might be 
in store for her. And she was in no hurry to find out. But she smiled 
brightly nevertheless, remembering her promise to herself of a mild 
flirtation with Dirk. 

And the way she felt now, it couldn't have been milder. "I'd love to see the 
place," she lied blithely. "It fascinates me. Especially the windows." 

He glanced at her sharply, his eyes narrowed. "Why?" 

"Why-" Confused by his sudden serious tone, she heard herself blubbering and 
cut the words off sharply. She shrugged. "Just that I've never seen such 
thick walls," she said lightly. "I wonder the daylight ever gets in at all." 

Dirk laughed, his face brightening instantly. "It doesn't," he said. "That's 
why we built the terrace. We practically live out here during the summer." 

He is like a child, she thought. It's almost as though he has no control 
over his emotions at all. Raging one moment and grinning the next. 

Uneasily, she turned her attention toward the sea and tried to appear 
absorbed in the contemplation of beauty. He didn't seem unbalanced, exactly. 
And yet, he didn't seem any too stable either. What were all those v stories 
she had heard about inbreeding in wealthy families? The idiots and misfits 
it produced? If there were any truth to them at all, Dirk Whitman must 
indeed be living testimony. Not that there was anything specific you could 
put a finger on. You couldn't. . That's what terrified her. 

"Here's your coffee," Dirk said, breaking into her thoughts. He swung around 
on the lounge and pulled a low table between them. 

He used his body beautifully, the smallest movement a study in grace. Yet 
the sight of his huge, hairless hands terrified her as much as his peculiar 
behavior. As she watched him pour coffee and send Arthur back for another 
pot, she found herself wondering, not about Dirk, but about Leigh. Leigh who 
lived with him and appeared so devoted. What sort of a creature must she be 
to have fallen in love with this man? 

She took the cup he offered her and sipped slowly, finding a moment's 
protection from his interest. Still thinking about Leigh, she regarded him 
curiously from behind the cup. 

"You're curious about me," he said, his tone neither angry nor complacent. 

Caught off guard by his forthrightness, Jennie laughed. "Yes, I am," she 
admitted. "Terribly curious. I've never known anyone quite like you." She 
flushed. "I mean-" 

Dirk dispelled her embarrassment with a wave of his hand. "It's all right," 
he said. "I'm used to upsetting people." He patted the top of his head. "I 
lost all my hair," he explained, "after a bout with typhoid. And the size of 
me-" he gestured with both hands down at the length of his frame, "-runs in 
the family." He grinned. "I've been told I look like a eunuch with balls." 

Jennie felt her cheeks flush hot with embarrassment. Yet she was relieved 
that he had considered her curious as applying only to his physical self. 
She had no desire to delve into the vagaries of his mind. 

"Anything else?" he asked quietly. 

'That'll do," Jennie said lightly. She finished the coffee and set the cup 
into its saucer. She heard the loud clatter it made and realized just how 
rattled she was. She couldn't just sit here with him, full of questions she 
hadn't the nerve to ask. And she certainly had no intentions left of 
pursuing a flirtation. Dirk Whitman in heat was an experience she could well 
do without. 

She stood up without ceremony and extended her hand to Dirk. "I'm ready if 
you are," she said. 

"Great," he said. He stood up and for a moment towered over her, staring at 
her intently. Then, apparently satisfied, he turned on his bare heel and 
stalked off toward the door of the house. 

Jennie followed along dutifully from room to room, making the proper guestly 
remarks over cherished antique marble tables, inlaid moldings, and 
bewhiskered ancestors. To her ultra-modern taste, the place looked like a 
mausoleum, complete with moldy corpses in wrapping sheets. The sheets, she 
discovered, were used merely to protect the furniture in unused rooms from 
becoming mildewed. The odor that reminded her of funerals and graveyards 
turned out to be a brand of incense that Leigh had gone wild about in 
Singapore. All through the house, they came upon trophies of Leigh's travels 
to hidden corners of the globe. But no mention was made of Dirk's part in 
these excursions. 

"Don't you ever pick up souvenirs?" she asked curiously, fingering a hand 
woven wall hanging from Turkey. 

"Sure," he said. "We just haven't gotten to my collection yet." 

"Of course," Jennie said, suddenly remembering. "Leigh told me you have a 
collection of antique cars." 

Dirk threw back his head and laughed. The sound echoed hollowly in the high 
ceilinged room. "That's a new one," he said, when he recovered his 
composure. "She usually says stamps." 

She stared at him curiously, as confused and uncertain as she had ever been 
in her life. What had Brian dragged her into? 

"Come on," he said, taking her arm. "I always save this for last." 

He led her downstairs and out into the serving pantry behind the kitchen. 
Arthur watched them enter and cross to a thick wooden door, set flush with 
the wall next to a fireplace. His eyes glittered with something close to 
terror and catching his expression, Jennie felt the gnawing fear she had 
known earlier. 

"It looks like a secret passage," Dirk said. He hooked a finger into a 
loose-piece of the molding. He turned to her and grinned as the door swung 
outward. "And it is." 

She felt like she had just walked in on the second reel of a grade-Z movie, 
the way he stood aside and ushered her into the passageway with a wide sweep 
of his hand. Yet she sensed that he was merely playing a game, that he too 
felt like something in a movie rather than real life. She told him to go 
first and, relaxed now and curious, she followed him. 

They went down a long flight of steps and paused while he pushed open a 
heavy wooden door. This one did indeed creak and Jennie laughed to herself, 
remembering the experience in the upper hall. 

"How do you like it?" he said. 

She heard the genuine pride in his voice and peered around him for a better 
view of the room. 

The last time she had seen a collection like this one had been at Coney 
Island. Whips, racks, handcuffs set into the wall, the whole bit. Everything 
but the elephant crushing a man's skull with his foot. The barker at the 
side show had claimed that the finest collection of torture instruments in 
the world was housed inside. But obviously, he had never been in Dirk 
Whitman's cellar. 

What intrigued her most was not the nature or even the extent of the 
collection. Men with lots of money and too much time on then-hands did all 
kinds of strange things for kicks. And who the hell was she to criticize 
Dirk's choice of pastime? But the condition of the equipment made her 
profoundly uneasy. 

He led her down a short flight of steps and into the center of the room. 
Reaching out, he rubbed his palm along the well-oiled leather handle of a 
ten foot bull whip hanging from a stone post. 

"Most of this stuff came with the house," he explained. "I've simply added 
to the collection." 

"Your grandfather kept these things?" she said, feeling a little sick. 

He turned to look at her directly. "Yes," he said. "My grandfather was an 
impotent, eccentric old man with young ideas. He used to hire 
sixteen-year-old girls to come out here and work for him and paid them 
enough to do anything he asked. And when he got too old to get aroused even 
by young girls, he started looking around for artificial stimulants." He 
gestured with a wide sweep of his arm. "This is what he came up with. Dad 
used to tell me stories about the old bird bringing women down here and 
putting them in chains and beating them. Or sometimes making them beat him." 

"How awful," Jennie breathed, at once both horrified and intrigued. She's 
heard a few stories of her own about sadists. But she had never been quite 
this close to the problem. 

"Oh, I don't know," Dirk said easily. "It couldn't have done him any harm. 
He lived to the age of a hundred and three. And from what I've heard, he was 
still going strong a week before he died." 

She looked at Dirk standing there, fondling the handle of the whip, his 
magnificent physique outlined sharply against the stark white walls of the 
basement. "You like the idea? 

He shrugged and let go of the whip. "Not for myself," he said. "I prefer 
something a little subtler." 

Jennie suddenly lost all interest in asking questions. She started back 
toward the stairs to the first floor. "I think I could use that second cup 
of coffee now," she said. 

Without comment, he followed her up the stairs and down the passageway into 
the pantry. As they came out, Arthur turned from the cupboard to watch them. 

"Bring coffee out to the terrace," Dirk said to the old man. 

She went out the side door and around the side of the house to the terrace. 
Settling herself on the uncomfortable wicker chair, she clasped her hands 
tightly in her lap, needing something to hang onto, yet not wanting to show 
her nervousness. 

Dirk took his usual seat on the lounge, leaning back against the arm so that 
he could watch her face. "You didn't let me finish what I was saying." 

"What?" Jennie blurted, knowing exactly what he meant, yet trying to hold it 
off as long as possible. 

"About sexual excitation," he said patiently. 

She leaned forward suddenly and reached for a cigarette, fumbling in the 
pack like she had a handful of thumbs. 

Dirk snapped on the table lighter and held it toward her. "I have a fetish 
of my own," he said, "that would probably strike you as being almost as 
peculiar as Grandpa's." 

She swallowed a mouthful of smoke and felt the tears start in her eyes. 
Maybe, if she kept her wits. "Oh?" she said, trying to stifle the anxiety in 
her tone. 

He was gazing at her intently again, his eyes dark, little furrows of frown 
creasing his forehead. "Yes." He lowered his head slightly and the intensity 
in his stare increased. 

She waited almost breathlessly, expecting him to go on with the speech, to 
tell her all the dark secrets that she didn't want to hear. She could have 
run. She could have screamed. But she sat frozen in her chair. Waiting. 

Instead of going on, Dirk leaned back against the lounge and turned his face 
to the sun. 

Jennie heaved a sigh of profound relief. For the moment, at least, she had 
been spared. She watched Arthur set the coffee pot down on the table and 
shuffle back into the house. 

When he was out of sight, she leaned forward to the table and poured coffee 
for both of them, not wanting it now, not even sure she could swallow if she 
had to, but needing to keep herself occupied. 

With Dirk's coffee cup in her hand, she glanced up. 

He was leaning on his shoulders with his rear end up in the air, skinning 
the tight briefs over his thighs. 

Whatever his secret evil, he must obviously have found time to enjoy it. 
Fascinated, she stared at him, unable to move, to glance away. 

He lay back in the sunshine, enjoying with simple directness the sight of 
himself, the towering strength of his masculinity. 

Very carefully, Jennie set the saucer down on the table. She pushed the 
chair away from her with the backs of her knees and tried to get up 
casually. 

"Oh, don't go," he said, turning his head on his folded arms to look at her. 
"This is for your benefit." 

"My-" She choked over the words. 

"Oh course," he said simply. 

It was almost too preposterous to be true. Almost. She had come downstairs 
ready to flirt with him, wile away the hours until she could get back to the 
city. But she hadn't done a damn thing. And he didn't' even have the decency 
to seduce her. 

"This is ridiculous," she said sharply. "What makes you think I'm the kind 
of woman-" 

"Every woman is that kind of woman," he said. "Even my beloved wife." He 
held out his hand. "Come here." 

She took a step backward. "But I'm not interested," she blurted. "I-What if 
Brian-" 

He didn't let her finish anything. "Brian knows all about it," he said. 

One of them must be going crazy. Even Brian- 

"What?" was all she could get out. 

"Of course," Dirk said again. He sat up now and swung off the couch. 

Too stunned to move, she let him take her arm and steer her onto the lounge. 
His movements were as graceful and beautiful as always. But there was 
nothing tender about the man. Nothing seductive. And suddenly Jennie 
understood what Brian had meant about the little strings with big nooses. 
Understood everything. Dirk, obviously, had allowed Brian use of the Whitman 
gallery in return for certain-considerations. 

She could hardly blame Dirk for his attitude. He had paid for something and 
was intent on enjoying the merchandise. Brian, she hated already. With no 
one at whom to direct her hurt pride, her self-righteous venom, Jennie felt 
the strength go out of her. She lay back on the lounge and waited for Dirk 
to collect the debt Brian owed him. 

Instead, he lay down beside her and took her hand in his. "Here," he said. 
He pressed the butt of her palm against him and forced her to massage him. 

Never had she wanted anything less in her life, she told herself. Yet even 
as she said it, her body refused to believe her. She felt the quickening of 
his response. Felt the ache in her belly as her own flesh responded to the 
blatant sexuality of it. It wasn't Dirk she wanted. It wasn't love or 
tenderness either. But just plain sex, raw and simple, uncomplicated by the 
niceties of convention. 

Her hand moved against him, more urgently now, almost desperately. Wanting 
it, wanting him, wanting him to- 

"Not that way," he said hoarsely. He gripped her shoulders and pulled her on 
top of him. 

She felt his big hands pushing her downward, communicating the urgency of 
his need with the tight grasp of his fingers. Only for a moment did she 
hesitate. Her need raged through her. She didn't care if it was wrong or 
right. She didn't care-about anything. She knew only that her body screamed 
for fulfillment, driving her blindly, hurtling her forward along the 
shortest route. She went onto her knees, approaching him eagerly. 

His satisfaction came almost instantly. She felt him heave convulsively, 
holding her tight between his legs as he shot his load high into her snatch. 

He breathed a long sigh. "I've waited a long time for that," he murmured. 

From the complete relaxation of his body, Jennie realized that she would 
have to wait a lot longer. But she didn't intend to let him get away with 
that. She'd had enough of that kind of crap with Jake. She moved herself 
along his body, writhing against him like a snake. Demanding that he respond 
to her, see her as a woman and not just another orgasm. Insisting with her 
breasts, her lips that he take her. 

He sighed again. 

She realized that he was asleep, konked out like a light. She stood up 
beside him and planted her hands on her hips, looking disgustedly at the 
hulk of a man who had failed her as completely as squat little Jake had 
done. 

 CHAPTER TEN 

Her body aching with frustration, her pride more than a little battered, 
Jennie looked around for something to do that would help relieve the 
pressures building inside her. The way she felt now, she could swim from 
here to China or maybe hike all the way around the coast of Long Island. But 
whatever she did, she knew she needed to be in motion, going somewhere, 
doing something. 

She strolled to the edge of the terrace and looked down over the stone 
barrier to the beach. In the light of late afternoon, the path looked more 
navigable than it had early in the morning with a head full of vodka. It 
still didn't appeal to her, but she didn't see that she had a hell of a lot 
of choice. If she hung around the house full of sleeping men, she'd probably 
wind up raping Arthur. 

Taking a last glance at Dirk's reclining figure, she turned her attention to 
the winding path and started down. Before she had gone a dozen steps, the 
medium heeled shoes had already become a problem. She squatted by the path 
and pulled them off. If Leigh Whitman could do it, so could she. Or break 
her fool neck trying. 

The smooth stone felt cool beneath her feet. Bits of gravel clung to her 
soles as she stepped cautiously along, clinging tightly to the railing with 
both hands. 

Jennie had been around long enough, and in enough of the wrong places, not 
to waste time pouring solace into her punctured ego. She knew without having 
to be told that she was attractive to men. And women and children and 
animals. Heaven knew, everywhere she went, somebody flipped over her. Even 
in the super market. If she wanted, she could have them lined up outside her 
bedroom door. 

But that wasn't what she wanted, damn it. It wasn't at all. Even if she had 
been acting that way, swinging her tail around like a bitch in heat. She 
wanted what every woman did. A husband, a home. Children, too, now that she 
was no longer afraid. But the husband came first in her head. Always. One 
man, to love and adore-and be faithful to. She couldn't help it if Brian 
acted like a pig. 

And the others, she told herself, were no better. What kind of life could 
Leigh Whitman have with her husband? What could any woman expect from 
the-likes of Jake Potter? Even for a woman who appreciated men as much as 
she did, Jennie realized, she had acquired in the past few days enough 
experience to sate her for a long time. Not enough satisfaction. Just enough 
experience. 

Mumbling to herself, carrying a great burden of self-pity on her stooped 
shoulders, Jennie reached the bottom of the path and set out across the sand 
to the water's edge. The sand felt good on her feet after the gravel and 
stone, still warm from the sun and powdery fine. She waded in up to her 
ankles, letting the gentle waves slide up her legs and ebb back to suck at 
the sand under her feet. Leaning down, she scooped water into her palms and 
playfully flung it away from her. She felt herself gradually beginning to 
relax, released now from the need to cope with people, with things. Alone by 
the sea, under the wide expanse of cloudless sky, Jennie let down the long 
mass of ' her hair and brushed it up and out with her hands, feeling freer 
than she had in years. 

The water playing around her legs felt invitingly cool. She turned to look 
back up the long hill to the house, regretting that she hadn't thought to 
put on her bathing suit. And she sighed, realizing that she would never have 
the energy to make the trip up and then back down again. She would just have 
to settle for wading. 

Or would she? The thought hit her suddenly that this was hardly the place to 
worry about modesty. She had seen more nakedness in the past two hours than 
she'd had to contend with ever before in her life. Why should she be any 
different from the others? 

She peered up and down the deserted beach. Not even a sandpiper disturbed 
the quiet surface of the sand. She raised her hand to shield her eyes from 
the sun and directed her glance out over the water. Some hundred yards from 
shore, a thirty foot cabin cruiser drifted idly at the end of a long mooring 
rope, hardly moving in the gentle swell of the waves. It looked completely 
deserted, like the beach. 

Quickly she stepped out of her tight skirt and let it fall to the sand. Then 
the blouse and the slip. When she got down to her bra and panties, she 
suddenly lost her nerve. 

Still wearing her under things, Jennie ran into the shallow water and 
splashed out until it reached her waist. Then she took a deep breath and 
dove beneath the surface. The water closed over her and she let herself 
float without stroking, enjoying the icy coldness close to bottom. She had 
always been a strong swimmer, even though she had learned in city pools. 
Breaking clear of the surface, she struck out briskly, directing her course 
toward the cruiser. Wanting to lie on deck for a while, away from shore, 
away from the Whitmans. From Brian. 

A three-rung metal ladder fastened to the side of the boat offered easy 
access. She pulled herself up and swung onto the deck. Standing 
spread-legged to let the water drip from her, she fluffed out her hair to 
the afternoon sun. She tilted her head back and closed her eyes. 

"I made you a drink," Leigh's voice said. "Vodka, right?" 

Jennie lowered her arms stiffly, turning as she did so to watch the woman 
coming toward her from the cabin. Leigh was wearing a terry cloth robe, 
pulled tight by a cord around her middle. As she stepped closer, Jennie 
remembered her own near-nakedness and crossed her arms over her breasts like 
a virgin taken by surprise. 

Leigh appeared not to notice her discomfort. She held out the drink and 
shook it, jiggling the ice against the side of the glass. 

Embarrassed by her own gaucherie and lack of ease, Jennie tried to emulate 
the woman's manner. Smiling a thank you, she took the glass and looked 
around for a place to sit down. 

"Inside," Leigh said. 

She turned to reenter the cabin and Jennie obediently followed her inside. 
It was the only comfortable room she had seen since her arrival at the 
Whitman estate. Sighing gratefully for small favors, she dropped down 
lightly on a plastic covered bunk against the wall and curled her legs up 
under her. 

Leigh went to a cabinet at the foot of the bunk and dug out a huge white 
towel. "Here," she said, tossing it to Jennie. "Don't sit around dripping. 
You might catch cold." 

Jennie looked down at the drink in her hand, not fully understanding her 
hesitation, yet aware that she did not want to stand there and strip for 
Leigh's benefit. Not that it would make much difference, after all she had 
been through already. And she had certainly seen proof, with her own eyes, 
that Leigh liked men as much as any woman could. 

Besides which, the woman wasn't even looking at her. She had gone into the 
galley and Jennie heard her, rattling ice cubes into a metal sink. 

Taking advantage of the momentary privacy, Jennie rolled the wet panties 
down along her thighs and let them drop at her feet. Standing up, she 
stripped off the bra and reached for the towel. She bent over from the 
waist, sending her long hair flying in a cascade of damp strands. Briskly, 
she rubbed her scalp with the rough textured towel, then squeezed the 
moisture out of her hair. 

She straightened up and swirled the hair back from her neck, fluffing it out 
behind with the towel. 

"You know something," Leigh's voice drawled behind her. "Your husband is a 
lousy artist." 

Jennie stiffened involuntarily, recognizing a line when she heard it, even 
under the weirdest circumstances. Forcing herself to relax as best she 
could, she pasted a smile across her lips and turned to face Leigh. As she 
moved, she closed the towel around her, and tucked one corner in between her 
breasts. 

"Oh?" her voice lilted. 

Leigh took her good time studying the figure before her, her glance roving 
slowly from head to toe and back again as though she were indeed inspecting 
a work of art. Jennie felt like Venus with arms, naked on a pedestal under 
the appraising eyes of the critics. Yet as long as Leigh gazed at her, she 
could not force herself to move, even to collapse onto the bunk directly 
behind her. It seemed almost as though a spell had been cast over the two of 
them, binding them together, to be held in the vise of mutual fascination. 

For Jennie, returning the stare, was every bit as fascinated as Leigh. She 
had seen men aroused, often enough. Watched them perspiring and awkward in 
the simple mechanics of animal desire. But never had she observed a woman at 
first hand in the heat of passion. Certainly not one lusting after another 
woman. From her own experience, she understood that Leigh's response to her 
was quite different from a man's, even though it had the same object in 
mind. A kind of appreciation, of a desire to satisfy rather than to gain 
satisfaction that at once flattered and intrigued the object of her 
intentions. And Jennie felt a strange twist of curiosity wrench through her, 
leaving her silent and immobile. 

Leigh glanced away finally, breaking the spell, and sat down in a deck chair 
opposite the bunk. She took a long drink from her glass and set it on a 
table at her elbow. 

Jennie pulled the sarong tighter around her middle and fastened it securely. 
She lowered herself carefully onto the bunk, keeping her knees tight 
together. 

"He really is, you know." Leigh went on with the conversation as though 
there had been no break. "I thought that painting I bought was the sexiest 
thing in the whole world until I got a load of the real thing." She smiled. 
"I have suddenly become aware of his limitations." 

Jennie understood all too well the intent of Leigh's speech. And she was 
just as well aware that she had no objection to the woman's flattery. Still, 
she had no intention of going beyond the flattery to something far less 
pleasant. And she might just as well put a stop to the whole business right 
now. 

"I thought you admired Brian's work," she said, her tone sternly serious. 
"You've given him a great deal of encouragement." 

Leigh took her words as seriously as she had spoken them, turning off the 
debonair charm in her eyes and settling back against the chair. "I was 
tremendously impressed," she said, "by the portrait of you that's hanging in 
our library. So was Dirk. There's something about it that-" She shrugged. 
"It's so damned sensual. What else can I say? Everyone who's seen it has 
fallen in love with you." 

Jennie remembered all too well her own reaction to the painting. And "fallen 
in love" could hardly be an honest evaluation of the feelings the painting 
inspired. But it would be foolish to quibble with the woman over such an 
obvious point. "And the rest?" 

Leigh raised her shoulders in an exaggerated shrug. 

The woman's nonchalance about something so important infuriated her. Even if 
she and Brian were through, she wanted to see him become successful. As she 
knew he deserved. Yet she could hardly be too annoyed with Leigh Whitman. 
She herself knew that Brian's work had deteriorated badly since the time he 
painted the portrait of her. 

She kept her tone amiable. "If that's the way you feel about his work," she 
said slowly, "then why have you bothered to encourage him at all?" 

Leigh spread her hands. "In the beginning, because of the portrait of you. I 
admired it and I bought it. I suppose buying a painting is a kind of 
encouragement." 

Jennie smiled. "The only kind that really matters," she said. 

Leigh nodded. "Well, then, you could say I encouraged him. After that, we 
kept bumping into each other at galleries and-other places. We got along 
quite well. And-" 

Jennie realized that the smooth-tongued 

Leigh had begun stumbling over her words. Something about the woman's 
statements did not ring true. Sounded contrived. Designed, perhaps, to 
soothe a jealous wife? 

"You don't have to worry about my feelings," she said honestly. 

Leigh glanced at her curiously. 

Jennie smiled complacently. "It's all right," she said. "I know about you 
and Brian." She raised her glass and drank deeply, keeping her glance 
averted from Leigh's. 

"Oh?" Leigh breathed on a rising tone. "What do you know, Jennifer?" 

She knew by the tone that Leigh was laughing at her. Triumphantly, perhaps, 
gloating over her success with Brian. Or perhaps it was something else. 
Perhaps she merely considered Jennie naive and foolish. Whatever it was, 
Jennie hadn't the courage to face the woman. She held onto the glass tightly 
with both hands and propped it on her knees. 

"Hey!" Leigh said. "You've got me all wrong." 

When Jennie still refused to look at her, Leigh moved off the chair and 
squatted at Jennie's feet, her knees poking through the opening at the front 
of the robe. She peered intently into Jennie's face. 

"Look at me, will you?" 

Her tone was more kindly now, almost gentle. But if she had expected the 
nearness of her naked self to comfort and relax Jennie, she had made a 
miscalculation. Completely rattled now, Jennie raised the glass and drained 
its contents in breathless gulps. 

Leigh took the glass as she lowered it and set it on the floor. "You're 
being mighty stubborn, little girl," she said quietly. 

"I'm not," Jennie blurted. "I know all about you, Leigh Whitman. I saw you 
on the terrace with-with my husband." 

She tried to sound as self-righteous and injured as she had felt earlier. 
Yet the vodka played strange tricks with her empty stomach. She felt limp as 
an old dust cloth. And almost as dirty. For here she was, defending the 
honor of her home and marriage against the intruder, and feeling sensations 
very unbecoming to a devoted wife. The frustration of her assault upon 
herself, of the abortive affair with Dirk rushed in on her, leaving her dull 
and defenseless, yet blazingly alive in the way she least wanted to be. 

Leigh made no attempt to touch her. Yet Jennie knew that it would not be 
long. Knew it-and wanted it. And realizing that she wanted it, could not 
accept her own desire. The tears welled up in her eyes, tears of guilt and 
confusion. 

Leigh put her hand on Jennie's knee and shook her gently. "Look at me," she 
insisted. 

Jennie blinked away the scattering of tears and bit hard on her lip. She 
forced herself to face Leigh's searching glance. 

Yet, when Jennie faced her, Leigh glanced away. "I don't know how to make 
you understand," she said. "Yes, I was on the terrace with Brian. But it 
means nothing, Jennifer. I-" 

"Means nothing?" Jennie said sharply. "Maybe it means nothing to you. But-" 

"I didn't mean it that way," Leigh interrupted her. "Of course it means 
something. Everything means something. But I'm not interested in Brian. It 
had nothing to do with-" She broke off and shrugged. She pushed her palm 
against Jennie's knee and started to rise. "Forget it," she said crisply. 

Jennie grabbed her wrist. Her alcohol-fogged brain whirled with confusion. 
"Tell me, Leigh," she murmured. "Please tell me." 

Jennie heard the insistence in her tone. If Jake had been here, he would 
have laughed, she thought. Talk about corny dialogue! Maybe she didn't know 
anything about Leigh Whitman's private life. But she sure as hell understood 
the drift of their conversation. It was one of the oldest and tiredest lines 
in existence. And she didn't care. She didn't give a damn what approach the 
woman used. Just so she got where she was going. Just so- 

"It's you I want, Jennifer," Leigh said in a hushed tone. She glanced away. 
"I've been in love with you ever since-" Now she looked up and met Jennie's 
eyes. "Ever since I saw the painting, I guess." 

Jennie grinned triumphantly. "Your husband's right," she said confidently. 
"You have got a lousy technique." 

Leigh nearly fell over backwards. "What?" 

Jennie rested her palm on the hand Leigh still had on her knee. "I have a 
very wise friend," she said huskily, "who taught me never to waste time on 
talk." She patted Leigh's hand. "You're not in love with me, any more than 
I'm in love with you." She heard the alcohol thickening her tongue, as it 
had already blurred her thinking. But she had gone too far to stop now. And 
she intended to go further. "But we both want something, Leigh. So-" She 
shrugged, feeling cocky and terribly sophisticated. 

"Holy smoke," Leigh breathed. 

Just like it was with Jake, Jennie thought. Only better. Much better. 

The way Jennie felt, she was ready to stretch out and spread her legs. 
Instantly, with none of this fooling around. She didn't care about 
convention. She didn't care about pretensions and niceties. She didn't feel 
nice. Just hot. Just alive all over and aching for the touch of another 
human being. Her body one great pussy, ready to be eaten or fucked, willing 
and waiting, ready to swallow up the universe in its greed. Ready to devour 
and destroy. 

But Leigh had other ideas. She didn't seem to be in a rush at all. She came 
out of her squat slowly, her long, gentle fingers caressing the inside of 
Jennie's thigh, moving up under the towel as she maneuvered onto the bunk 
beside her. She bent her head, seeking the warm cleavage, her tongue moving 
against Jennie's cunt flesh. 

Jennie herself unfastened the towel from around her body. Unfastened it and 
arched her body to meet Leigh's roving lips. 

Just as eagerly, Leigh untied the sash of her robe and let the terry cloth 
drop to the floor. She put her arms around Jennie and kissed her full on the 
mouth, her own open, tongue darting between Jennie's lips. 

Jennie felt her back touch the cool plastic seat. Yet nothing would have 
felt cool now. Her flesh flamed at Leigh's touch. And Leigh touched her- 

Leigh's mouth circled on her breasts, teasing. Teasing. Sending quivers of 
sensation through her almost painful in their intensity. She felt the 
woman's own breasts, small and firm yet taut, pointed in desire, against her 
lower belly. And her hips rotated slowly, relishing the touch of Leigh's 
body against hers. 

Leigh obliged willingly, pressing herself hard against Jennie. Using her 
hands, her breasts, her mouth. Massaging her gently, yet urgently, 
demandingly. 

Jennie arched her back, pressing herself upward off the bunk. The pain of it 
had become almost unbearable. Almost, yet maddening in its promise. And she 
wanted more. She wanted everything. And all at once. She needed fulfillment. 
And yet she needed this as much. The sheer ecstasy, the pure sensuality of a 
body completely aroused. And if it lasted forever, it would be over too 
soon. 

Yet, when it happened, she forgot about time, about eternity. The moment was 
now. And the moment was timeless. She soared dizzily, seeking her orbit, 
hurtling through nothingness. A bodiless, weightless soul achieving 
momentary union with its God. 

And then, peace. Complete quiet in the aftermath of her orgasmic coming. She 
lay on the narrow bunk staring at the ceiling, feeling a sense of release 
and fulfillment more complete than any she had known since-Since the good 
days with Brian. And even in the midst of her pleasure, she knew a moment of 
pain. Of emptiness. And she almost hated Leigh, hated her for being a fraud, 
for not being a man. For not being Brian. 

Yet it was not Leigh whom she should hate, she knew. Leigh had done the best 
she could, with what the good Lord gave her. And she had satisfied Jennie 
almost completely. Physically, at least, the fulfillment had been perfect. 
It was the other part that felt empty. And in her heart Jennie knew that no 
one but Brian had ever even come close. 

She put her hand gently on Leigh's head, resting against her hip. 

Leigh moved up and leaned on one arm, smiling down at her. She put a finger 
under Jennie's chin and tilted her head back. "Dirk will hate me for that," 
she murmured. 

Jennie opened her mouth to speak, but Leigh cut her off with a kiss. And 
even in the near-apathy of completion, her body began to respond. She forgot 
Dirk. Even forgot Brian. Forgot everything but the need to satisfy her 
craving. To render herself senseless with lust so that she could forget. 

"Take me," she murmured. "Take me." 

And Leigh moved to comply. 

 CHAPTER ELEVEN 

Jennie awoke feeling cramped and stiff, lying on her side on the narrow bunk 
with Leigh beside her. Outside, it was already daylight, the sun beating 
hotly through the portholes of the cabin and grating against her eyelids. 
The plastic seat cover felt sticky and intolerably warm to her touch. She 
shifted slightly, but could not move Leigh off her shoulder without waking 
her. 

Neither of them had gotten much sleep during the late afternoon and long 
night. They had responded to each other like two starved souls, each 
demanding satisfaction again and again. And she had needed Leigh, had needed 
someone whose needs were as desperate, as insatiable as her own. It did not 
bother her, in the conventional sense, that Leigh was a woman. She had never 
been that kind of a prude about sex. But it did bother her, as she had known 
it would, that Leigh was not a man. For all their blatant enjoyment of 
then-hours together, Jennie still felt a nagging emptiness, a lonesomeness 
that left her irritable and unsatisfied. 

She lay on her back, staring out the porthole beside the bunk, waiting for 
Leigh to awaken. She would have to let the woman know, somehow, that this 
had been it for them. A wonderful night of passion that must not be 
repeated. For herself, she knew that she and Brian were through. Hopelessly 
through. But there was still Jake. And others. Many others. And for Leigh, 
there was Dirk-as there must always have been Dirk. Often during the night 
she had remembered Leigh's words: "Dirk will hate me for that." And she felt 
that she had understood the anguish in the woman's soul. If Leigh had, as it 
now appeared, promised Dirk never to give in to her desire for a woman, he 
must indeed hate her for that-for Jennie and for God only knew how many 
other misadventures. And, whatever her reasons for remaining married to him, 
Leigh obviously wanted to maintain her relationship with Dirk. 

Her mind filled with confusion, Jennie half turned her head to peer at the 
face so close to hers. 

Leigh's eyes were open and smiling, soft with something Jennie wanted no 
part of now. She hated to love and run. It wasn't very nice at all. Yet- 

Leigh kissed her tenderly on the point of her chin. "You know something," 
she said. "You didn't want to hear it last night. But I am in love with 
you." 

Jennie could have cried. Somehow, she could believe Leigh now. But in 
accepting the truth, she could feel only sad. Not that she didn't like the 
woman. She did. As much as she could like any woman. But love? 

Leigh sighed. "That's the way the rocks pile," she said flippantly. She 
crawled over Jennie and stood up. "I'll make some coffee." 

Jennie let her go, knowing that the woman understood her feelings without 
having to be told. Knowing, too, there was nothing she could say in honesty 
to ease the woman's hurt. She reached for Leigh's robe where she had left it 
on the floor and slipped it on, tying the sash tight around her middle. No 
use aggravating the situation. If she didn't want to arouse the woman, the 
least she could do was cover up the bait. 

Leigh brought steaming cups of instant coffee and set them on the low table. 
She pulled the table in front of the bunk and sat down beside Jennie, 
keeping her attention centered on the domestic task. 

Jennie sipped slowly at the tasteless hot brew, wishing she had a cup of 
real coffee to soothe her ruffled nerves, yet deriving strength from the 
scalding liquid nevertheless. She knew Leigh well enough by now to realize 
the woman's weaknesses. And she understood that Leigh would not make an 
issue of her rejection. Yet understanding Leigh did not ease her own 
conscience and Jennie felt herself wanting to make an issue of the thing. 
Wanting to drag it out and chew it over. Hoping to find something for which 
she could blame Leigh. Blame anyone but herself. 

"Leigh, I'm sorry all this happened," she began slowly. It wasn't what she 
had wanted to say. Yet it was said. Quickly she went on. "I mean, I know it 
was all my fault. I practically raped you last night." She gestured 
distractedly. "Oh, I was a little high. But I damned well knew what I was 
doing and-" 

Leigh put her forefinger over Jennie's lips. "Don't say it," she warned. 
"You'll only give us both a headache." 

"But-" Jennie mumbled. 

"Shh!" Leigh said. "We both had a ball last night." She shrugged. "So let's 
let it go at that." 

Jennie smiled at the woman gratefully. She knew by the expression in Leigh's 
eyes that the woman would not let it go in her mind for a long time. But 
there would be nothing else between them. That way. Just friendship and a 
mutual affection. And she could use a friend right now. 

She faced Leigh squarely. "May I ask you something." 

"Of course." 

She lowered her glance, feeling suddenly embarrassed and not at all sure of 
herself. "It's about Brian," she muttered. 

"I thought as much," Leigh said easily. "Ask away." 

She bit her lip to stop the rush of foolish words tumbling to her lips, the 
anguish and the agony of their lives together during the past two years. She 
could spare Leigh that. Could spare herself now. She took a deep breath and 
looked straight into the woman's eyes. "How long have you been having an 
affair with Brian?" 

She had expected almost anything. Denials, protestations, guilt. Anything 
but Leigh's hearty, deep-throated laugh. Her nostrils tightening 
indignantly. 

"I'm sorry," Leigh gasped. She patted Jennie's hand. "You don't understand 
at all, do you." 

"What?" 

Leigh glanced away from her. "It doesn't matter," she said. "Now." 

Dammit, Jennie thought. Here we go with the riddles again. Every time I ask 
a sensible question- 

"That was the first time," Leigh said, interrupting Jennie's blossoming 
self-pity. "And the last." 

Jennie stared at her for a long moment, remembering the complete abandon, 
the unselfconsciousness of the naked bodies on the lounge. "I don't believe 
you," she said finally. 

Leigh shrugged. "That, as they say, is your problem. But I can tell you, my 
naive little girl, that I have no interest whatsoever in your husband. In my 
own, yes. And in you. But in Brian?" She grinned. "I don't mean to insult 
either of you, my love, but he's just not my speed." 

Jennie felt like she was losing what little was left of her mind. If the 
woman had no interest in Brian, then how could one account for the scene on 
the terrace? And if she did, why bother trying to lie her way out of it now? 

But before she could throw more questions at Leigh, the woman had stood up 
and cleared away the coffee cups. She came back from the galley and leaned 
against the cabin wall. "If you're ready,"-she said, "we'd better go back to 
the house. Before they call out the cops." 

Jennie shed the robe as she stood up and stepped into the still damp 
panties. Leigh stood waiting as she fastened her bra. Then the woman turned 
on her heel and went outside. 

By the time Jennie reached the deck, Leigh had already, dived over the side. 
Jennie followed her in. She struck out strongly for shore, keeping the 
bobbing head in view, yet watching the distance widen steadily between them. 

She stood up in shallow water and waded the rest of the way ashore. Leigh 
sprawled naked on the sand, watching her with an amused expression on her 
face and waiting. 

Jennie noted her expression and frowned. "What's funny now?" she said 
sharply, still stinging from Leigh's dismissal of her as a naive child. 

Leigh gestured across the sand. "You forgot about the tide," she said 
calmly. "You'll have to arrive home in your BVD's." 

Jennie's hand flew to her throat. She had indeed forgotten. And, at the time 
when she had gone in for a dip, there had been no need to think about it. 
Yet, standing here in her lace-edged panties and the tight bra, she felt 
like a spectacle. If Brian were watching, he wouldn't have to be told what 
had happened. Leigh in her stark nakedness was enough to attest to that. 

Still smiling, Leigh bounded up from the sand and set off for the path up 
the hill. 

Jennie had no choice but to follow. They didn't bother trying to make 
conversation and Jennie thanked God that the steep pathway demanded all her 
concentration. What they must look like! She kept her attention riveted to 
the rocks, as though obliterating the sight of the two of them by refusing 
to look upon it. Near the top, where she had left them, she retrieved her 
shoes and slipped them on. Her feet were swollen with the heat, gritty with 
sand and the shoes rubbed painfully against her skin. 

Stepping at last onto the terrace, she drew a sigh of relief and raised her 
glance. 

Leaning over the barricade about fifty feet away, a spyglass trained on her 
near-nakedness, Dirk Whitman looked like a little boy leering at the old 
maid across the street. Involuntarily, she crossed her arms on her breasts, 
hiding as much as she could without looking absurd. 

"Don't bother," Leigh said. "He's had a good look already." 

Remembering suddenly her session with Dirk on the lounge, Jennie realized 
that it was a little late to be a prude. She let her hands fall to her 
sides. "I suppose you're right," she sighed. 

"Oh, oh!" Leigh breathed. 

Jennie stiffened at her tone, knowing without moving her head what Leigh had 
seen. 

"We've had it, chick," Leigh said gently. "The irate husband is about to 
bust a stitch." 

She followed the line of Leigh's vision and watched Brian emerge onto the 
terrace. Haggard and hollow-eyed, he looked like he hadn't slept in a week. 
Yet he had been asleep when she left him. Soundly asleep. He must have spent 
the night drinking, sopping his ego with alcohol in an effort not to think 
about her. He looked drunk now. 

Yet, as he came closer, Jennie knew that Brian had probably never been more 
sober in his life. If he had had anything at all to drink, it had turned to 
gall, to poison in his system, filling him with hatred for her. Hatred and a 
need for revenge. 

He didn't even see Leigh. Or Dirk. He stalked across the terrace directly 
toward her, murder in his eyes and the set of his jaw. His hand went back, 
then shot out at her. The blow glanced off the side of her cheek. She reeled 
backwards, clutching at the stone barricade for support. Gasping for breath, 
tears flowing freely down her cheeks. 

Dirk was at Brian's side almost instantly, grabbing him by the arm and 
spinning him away from Jennie. "Take it easy," Dirk rasped hoarsely, "or 
I'll throw you over the side." 

Even in his murderous rage, Brian realized that he was no match for this 
giant of a man. His fists clenched and unclenched convulsively, yet he made 
no move to break away. 

Dirk shoved him away disgustedly. "You haven't got the guts to hit a man," 
he said. 

The animosity between them that had lain dormant under the guise of 
civilized acceptance now blazed openly on the faces of both. Jennie glanced 
from one to the other, expecting bloodshed at the least, perhaps even worse. 
Wanting Brian to stand up to Dirk, to defend his manhood and his pride. Yet 
knowing even before he turned away that Brian would not. 

Dirk looked at his wife. "There's coffee," he said tiredly. 

"Let me get some clothes on," Leigh answered him, not meeting his glance, 
but watching Brian. 

He leaned both fists on the stone barricade and bent forward, his head 
bowed, shoulders drooping. Seeing him like this, defeated and stripped bare 
of all pride, Jennie both despised and pitied him. But at the moment she 
felt nothing even resembling love. She could never pity and love him at the 
same time. Helplessly, miserably, she glanced at Leigh, looking for help. 

Dirk stepped between them and rested his hands on Jennie's shoulders. There 
was something protective and almost fatherly about his calm strength. She 
peered into his face anxiously. 

"It's all right," Dirk said easily. "You may stay here with us for as long 
as you like." He tilted his head and glanced at her quizzically. "Unless 
you'intend to go back with him?" 

Jennie shook her head vigorously. "No," she said. "Not now. Not after-" 

He squeezed her shoulders reassuringly. "I understand," he said. "Leigh's 
already mentioned that the two of you hadn't been getting along." He nodded 
at Brian's back. "Which isn't difficult to believe after this little 
episode." 

He stepped away from her and reached out to take his wife's arm. Leigh's 
eyebrows arched slightly, but she said nothing. 

Dirk bent to plant a kiss on the end of his wife's nose. "It's all right, 
darling," he said softly. "We both made fools of ourselves this time." 

Jennie watched them walk off together, Dirk with his arm around Leigh's 
shoulder, Leigh with her arm around Dirk's hips. Indeed, they had all made 
fools of themselves this time. All four of them. Yet for the Whitmans, she 
realized, there would be no problem. A slight ripple on the smooth surface 
of their marriage. But no tidal wave, no hurricanes. 

But for herself. She looked at Brian, feeling sad and utterly hopeless. Too 
much had gone before to allow either of them to accept the other. Too much 
and too little. The utter futility of their situation settled over her like 
a suffocating hand. She couldn't even find anything to say. 

They remained for a long while, silent and somber, each wrapped in his own 
pall of misery. Finally Brian moved and turned slowly to face her. 

The expression in his eyes made her feel sick to her stomach. How could any 
man have come to this? Even Brian? She had known his lack of courage, his 
inability to cope. But she had not known this complete acceptance of 
failure. And though he slumped only slightly, he looked to her like a 
scarecrow, spineless and wobbly legged. 

"So we're finished," he said dully. 

Jennie could have laughed in his face. Even with her he couldn't be a man. 
"You made that clear before we got here," she said crisply. "You told me 
you'd already been to the lawyer." 

He grunted. "I have," he said. 

"Well, what did you expect me to do, sit around on my hands and wait for you 
to say the word?" 

"But a woman, dammit. Why a woman, Jen?" 

"Why not?" she snapped. "You did." 

He slammed his fist angrily against the barricade. "What the hell's the 
matter with you?" he raged. "I've heard plenty, but I've never heard 
anything that stupid out of you before." 

She felt curiously detached from his rage, as though she were watching the 
two of them from a distance. And laughing at the pettiness, the futility of 
their plight. "I don't think it's so stupid," she said calmly. "I enjoyed 
every minute of it. And so did you." She laughed. "Or maybe you're just 
jealous?" 

He raised his hand and balled it into a fist. But this time he shoved it 
into his jacket pocket instead of slashing out at her. "You're a damned 
fool," he said harshly. "If you had any sense, you'd know damn well why I 
did it." 

"Oh, I know, all right," Jennie said smugly. "You've had hot pants for Leigh 
Whitman ever since you met her." 

Brian sighed tiredly. "It doesn't matter," he said. He shook his head, as 
though clearing away the confusion inside it. "But I'm not leaving you here, 
Jennifer. For your own good. I want you to come back to the city with me. 
Right now. We'll straighten this mess out after we've had time to simmer 
down a little bit." 

"You want-" she gasped. "I wouldn't go anywhere with you after-" She 
gestured angrily, wanting him to feel her disgust and disappointment. "And 
what's more, I'm not simmering at all, if that's what you think." 

He grabbed her suddenly by the shoulders and pulled her to him roughly. 
"Damn you," he rasped. His lips sought hers fiercely, demandingly. His arms 
tightened around her, pressing her hard against him. 

She felt like the breath had been knocked out of her. And for the first time 
in the years she had known him, her body did not respond eagerly to his 
touch. Fury flamed through her, stiffening her body, drawing her away from 
his grasp. Her teeth went into his lip. 

He spun away from her, the back of his hand pressed against his hp. She saw 
a trickle of blood seep down his chin. 

Horrified at what she had done, Jennie waited for him to kill her quick and 
get it over with. She closed her eyes and tilted her head back, hardly 
daring to breathe. 

"I deserved that," he said quietly. He took a step toward her, but made no 
move to touch her. 

She opened her eyes and looked him straight in the face. "Who's the fool 
now?" she said. 

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Okay," he said. "For the last 
time, what's it going to be, Jennifer? Heads or tails?" 

She deserved at least that much snideness from him and probably a lot more. 
But she'd be damned before she'd let him have the last word. Inclining her 
head, she smiled, very sweetly. "I can have either one I want," she said. 
"Right here." 

She turned on her heel and started toward the house. Dirk came out alone as 
she approached. 

"I'm taking you up on the invitation," she said cheerily. "At least for a 
while." 

"Brian's leaving?" 

"Hmm," she murmured. "It's all finished between us, except for the alimony." 
She tried to keep her tone light. Tried hard. But somewhere deep inside her, 
she was crying. Unsure even now of her feelings. 

Dirk grinned broadly, his child-like face wrinkling around the mouth and 
eyes. "Great," he said. He turned toward Brian and called out to him, "I'll 
have Arthur drive you in." 

Brian came toward them, his face deathly pale. His eyes narrowed as he met 
Dirk's glance. "Thanks," he said. "And Dirk?" 

"Yes?" 

"You can take your damned gallery," Brian said, "and shove it." He stalked 
away from them and around the side of the house. 

 CHAPTER TWELVE 

An air of quiet settled over the house immediately after Brian had gone. 
Alone in her room, Jennie had listened to the sound of the big Lincoln on 
the gravel drive, feeling both sad and relieved that the moment of 
then-separation had finally come. They would both be better off without each 
other, she told herself. And yet, Brian's last words had startled her. 
Startled and frightened her, too. Without 

Leigh and Dirk Whitman's support, Brian Dunbar might easily become just 
another Village ass, painting and whoring between bottles, to barely manage 
to keep himself alive. 

He would have to sell the house. Though there wouldn't be much left after 
the debts were paid. Jake would help him. If he'd still have anything to do 
with Jake. 

The troubled thoughts skittered across her brain, bumping into each other 
like a handful of marbles in a box. I'm tired, she thought. Just plain 
tired. And I can't think about this now. I can't. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe next 
week. Maybe ... 

She settled back against the pillows on the too-empty bed and let herself 
drift into a deep sleep. 

She awoke with a start and sat bolt upright in bed. She felt as though she 
had just dozed off. Yet the long shadows across the carpeted floor told her 
that she had slept for many hours. She listened attentively, seeking the 
sound that had brought her awake. 

"Hi, there, sleepyhead," Leigh said, coming toward her soundlessly on bare 
feet. 

She had clothes on this time, Jennie noticed with relief. Not what you'd 
call ample covering for a social occasion. But enough to be indecent. Her 
bright blue bikini was even skimpier than the one her husband wore. And 
almost as intriguing. 

Jennie sighed and stretched luxuriously. "What time is it?" she asked. 

Leigh stopped a full yard away from the bed, but her glance leaped right in 
under the sheet. "Four o'clock," she said. 

Jennie pulled the sheet up higher around her breasts. "I suppose I ought to 
get up." 

Leigh laughed deep in her throat. "Would you like me to turn my back?" 

Jennie had to laugh too, realizing how ridiculous she must appear after the 
acrobatics of last night. She pushed the sheet aside and stood up close to 
Leigh. She had, after all, thrown herself on the hospitality of the house. 

Leigh's hands cupped her breasts and squeezed them together. She bent her 
head and pressed her lips gently to the warm flesh. Then, as suddenly, she 
stepped away and gave Jennie a shove on the behind. "Put something over 
those things," she said. "We're going on a picnic." 

"Oh?" Jennie breathed, hoping that Leigh meant the two of them. Alone. She 
wasn't ready yet to cope with Dirk. The experience must have been as 
embarrassing for him as it had been for her. 

Or had it? 

"Urn hmm," Leigh replied. "For some insane reason, Dirk seems to think 
nothing would please you better than a picnic on the beach." She grinned. "I 
could think of a couple of things that would be a lot more exciting. But ... 
" She raised her shoulders in a look of exasperation. 

Jennie flushed, both embarrassed and pleased by Leigh's treatment of her. 
Apparently the woman had decided to claim Jennie as her own, now that Brian 
was out of the way. And if she wanted it that way ... Why not? Jennie 
thought. A rejection now would ring hollow to anyone's ears. 

She stepped to the dresser and pulled out the top drawer. Inside, her things 
lay in a jumbled heep, mute testimony to Brian's frenzied hurry to get away 
from the house. She moved a few things about listlessly, straightening a 
pile of undies, not having the energy to be bothered. Even now that he had 
gone, Brian was still there to remind her of her failure. Of their failure 
together. And the taste of it lay bitter in her mouth. 

Leigh leaned around her and picked a bright yellow and red kerchief from the 
mess. "Here," she said. "Wear this." 

"Wear it?" Jennie squealed. "It's not big enough to ... " 

"Oh, yes it is," Leigh said. "Just watch." She lay the kerchief on top of 
the dresser and folded it into a neat triangle. Holding it by two corners, 
she put the long side around Jennie's middle and knotted it in front. Then 
she pulled the other corner between her legs like a diaper and tied it fast. 

"There," she said triumphantly. She stepped back and admired her handiwork. 
"What's wrong with that?" 

"I wouldn't be caught dead this way," Jennie breathed. She glanced into the 
mirror. It didn't look half bad at all, she decided. In fact ... 

"What about the top?" she said. 

Leigh laughed. "See? It's not a thing to be caught dead in. But alive, baby, 
you'll do very well." She rooted in the dresser drawer and pulled out a 
black satin bra. "How about this?" 

Jennie took the bra and slipped the straps over her rms. She lifted one 
breast, then the other into its cups. 

Leigh moved in close and put her arms around Jennie to hook the bra. When 
she fastened it, she stood there for a moment, holding Jennie against her. 
Then, as she had before, she stepped suddenly away. "Come on," she said. 
"Dirk's downstairs, waiting for us." 

Her reluctance to face Dirk waned before the rush of curiosity concerning 
Leigh's behavior. Ardent and tender one moment, withdrawn and flippant the 
next. It was obvious to Jennie that the woman's desire had not abated at 
all. Yet something held her back. It was almost as though she were afraid. 
And Jennie wondered what kind of scene the woman had had with her husband. 
If he had threatened her with ... With what? Even that eluded her. 

Following Leigh downstairs, Jennie's mind hummed with questions, trying to 
unravel the mystery of the relationship between Leigh Whitman and her 
husband. But, no matter which way her intuition led her, she found nothing 
but a blank. 

Dirk jumped up from the lounge and came forward eagerly to greet them. He 
took Jennie's hand and held it between his own. "You slept well?" 

"Very," Jennie said, wishing he would let go of her hand. She didn't want 
him to touch her. Not at all. "I feel much better now." 

"Good," he said. "Leigh told you ... " 

"Yes," Jennie said. She smiled. "And I'd love to go on a picnic." The 
nearness of him began to rattle her. She felt the smile grow stiff and 
unnatural on her lips. 

He squeezed her hand, then let it go. Turning toward the house, he shouted 
for Arthur. In a moment the old man toddled out onto the terrace carrying a 
wicker basket so heavy that it threw his weight off balance. 

Dirk took the basket in one hand and swung it easily onto his broad 
shoulder. "Let's go," he said. And almost before the words were out of his 
mouth, he was striding toward the edge of the terrace and the winding path 
down to the beach. 

Jennie sighed and set off behind him with Leigh at her heels. Why in the 
hell don't they have an elevator? she thought irritably. With all their 
money, this desire for primitive living seemed an absurd affectation. No one 
in his right mind could enjoy hiking up and down that damned hill. 

Yet she went uncomplainingly, trailing after Dirk, who moved down the hill 
as easily as though he were gliding across a dance floor. When he reached 
the bottom, he didn't bother to break his purposeful stride, or to stand 
waiting for the women, but set out at a trot across the sand, the basket 
swinging from his hand. 

He set the basket on the sand beside a deep pit and went off in search of 
drift wood. He had disappeared from sight by the time Jennie and Leigh 
reached the picnic site. 

"We might as well make like home," Leigh said. She squatted on the sand and 
lifted the one side of the hinged lid. She extracted first a dark green 
blanket and tossed it at Jennie's feet. "For you." 

Jennie shook out the blanket as best she could, smoothing the corners 
carefully and setting a small stone on each to hold it in place. She took 
plates and napkins and parcels of food as Leigh handed then to her and found 
a place for them on the blanket. It looked like a banquet for twenty. But 
she had seen Dirk's appetite in action at dinner the first evening. 

Dirk came over a sand dune directly behind them and dropped an armload of 
wood beside the pit. Looking up at him, it struck Jennie that he looked more 
like a child now than ever. A kid auditioning for the cub scouts. He went 
down on his knees, laying small sticks and a handful of crumpled paper into 
the pit, then building up a mound of the driest bits of driftwood. When he 
had arranged the pyre to perfection, he took a match from Leigh and touched 
it to the edge of the paper. The fire sputtered for a moment, then caught 
and flared. 

He stood up, dusting his hands on the behind of his trunks. Jennie found 
herself wondering if there were enough material there to do him any good. 
The black trunks he wore now were little more than a sharkskin G-string. 

"That does it," he said unnecessarily. He nodded to Leigh. "The rest is up 
to you." 

"It always is," Leigh said. 

Both Dirk and Jennie glanced at her sharply. Ignoring them, Leigh got down 
to business, pushing hot dogs onto the long prongs of a fork. 

They made an elaborate affair of their meal, drawing it out for hours, 
breaking off once for a swim in the cold water and coming back to lie 
exhausted for a few minutes, then eat again. Jennie felt like she were about 
ready to burst. Yet something about the sea air, the quiet of early evening, 
the fire already burning down to embers relaxed and soothed her, allowing 
her thoughts to drift idly in a haze of unreality. 

And she found that she was thinking again about Brian. As, inevitably, she 
always thought of him. Not Brian as he had become, married to her. But Brian 
as she had dreamed of him, in the early years of their marriage. Things 
could have been so different for them. Indeed, should have been so 
different. If they had had money, even a little, if they could have afforded 
a place at the shore, even a little place ... And most of all, if they could 
have had children. If their son had lived. 

She lay back on the blanket and closed her eyes, watching in her mind the 
long succession of IFS stretch out in an unending string. A long, long 
string with a noose at the other end. Tears welled up in the corners of her 
eyes and she felt too warm and nearly ill with the weight of her 
unhappiness. 

She felt Leigh stir beside her, lean above her, touching the side of her arm 
with her breast. 

"What's the matter, kitten?" Leigh murmured. "The world too much for you?" 

For a long moment, Jennie managed to ' hold it in, the aching pain and the 
misery. In front of Dirk, she felt embarrassed to have Leigh so close, even 
to comfort her. Yet she could not hold back the tears for long. Not even for 
Dirk. She opened her mouth wide and let out a forlorn wail that brought 
Leigh's arms around her tight. 

She needed a shoulder and her head dropped automatically onto the nearest 
one. She couldn't help if it happened to be Leigh's. And she didn't give a 
damn. She sobbed freely now, clutching onto Leigh, trembling in the woman's 
arms. Gasping, choking for breath. 

And at that moment, through her tears, she knew the only answer, hard as it 
would be to face, was Brian. 

And she cried until she laughed.
