Mother's Little Whore
by Margo Shorte 


FOREWORD 

Luke had climbed up the corporate ladder, rung by rung, the hard way. He had 
used his body, and had played with the fickle emotions of three women. He 
lost one on the way up, but when he got to the top, he still had the other 
two to contend with. 

It was then that his problems began in earnest. Bess, the mother, was 
shrewd, ambitious, and rich ... filthy rich. And she'd stop at nothing to 
retain her position, even if it meant selling her daughter like a slave. 
Joy, the daughter, had other plans. She was young enough to fall in love, 
and stay in love for no reason other than the feelings in her heart. 

That was Bess' only mistake. She didn't have a heart. 


CHAPTER ONE 

He pressed against the balcony railing and stared down at the crowds milling 
about in the movie house lobby. They had picked a lousy time to meet, he 
realized. The picture was just letting out and she could get lost in the 
crush. He knocked his pipe on the heel of his palm and jammed the stem back 
between his teeth, while silently he cursed the way his mind worked: too 
damned impulsive. 

His mouth went lax and the pipe drooped half an inch as he saw her, now, 
coming up to the ticket-taker with that easy, ambling walk that floated her 
breasts gently, like clouds seven and nine. She stood half a head taller 
than the little man tearing the stub, and that half-head was covered with 
the glossiest, sleekest blonde-red hair, combed smoothly from a center part 
down to the curve of her shoulders. She had on a dark blue suit, its stark 
color relieved by a huge white bow from the blouse underneath. And he had 
worried she might get lost in the crowd? Luke grinned. Jolted alive by the 
sight of her, he moved along the L-curve and down the carpeted stairs, his 
long strides taking the steps two at a time. 

Easily, his glance scanned over the heads of the Friday night current. He 
saw her being carried along near the wall, her face away from him. 

"Sorry." 

"Better this way," she said. 

She was walking in front of him. He had his hands on her waist. He felt her 
step pause for the fraction of an instant, so that the momentum of his 
stride pressed his body to hers. In that fraction of an instant, the full 
curving shape of her became imprinted on him. He knew, suddenly, the length 
and angle of her back, the firm, high tightness of her behind. 

All these weeks he had been dreaming, guessing. Now he knew. The affair 
between them had begun in earnest. 

They reached the second landing. He found a velour couch just long enough 
for two. Beside it, a broken water fountain trickled gently into an oval 
bowl. He sat her down and stepped back a pace to observe her, to try to 
encourage her with his own silent understanding. Above her on the wall, an 
oil painting of a chubby shepherdess smiled benignly from its heavy gilt 
frame. Chrystie, slender and lithe in comparison, crossed her long legs with 
that oiled movement that wakened in him nerves he'd never known he had. 

"Are you just going to stand there?" she said with a flicker of a smile. 
Almost imperceptibly, two of her gloved fingers touched the couch cushion, 
inviting him. 

He moved the pipe to the other side of his mouth and sat down slowly, near 
enough for the sides of their legs to touch. 

"It was touch and go with Roland," she said. "For awhile there, I thought I 
was going to be trapped at home for the whole night. Then the board decided 
on that conference after all." She slipped her hand over his. "But I can't 
shake the feeling that he'll get home before me tonight." 

"And if he does?" Luke said softly. "Is there something criminal about going 
to the movies?" 

Chrystie's smile showed the gleaming edges of even white teeth. "You see, I 
have a lot to learn," she answered. 

Luke rubbed his fingertips over her knuckles. There was nothing she had to 
learn. From the looks of her, nothing at all. She had been born with 
everything. He could imagine her slaying the boys all the way back in 
kindergarten. 

"I've never cheated on Ro before," she said with an open factualness. 

Luke swallowed and took the pipe from his mouth. Suddenly, it had become a 
foolish, jutting object. He shoved it deep into his coat pocket, while his 
mind shot to pictures of Roland on his wedding night, teaching and taking 
this girl. It was difficult to imagine her, the shining trust, the love, the 
giving of her young body. But, of course, Roland Crane had still been a big 
man then. As head of Pyra-Mil Drugs and Vitamins, he had been forceful, 
imposing, no doubt romantic to Chrystie's inexperienced but dazzled eyes. 
Luke wondered if Chrystie realized even now how far down the skids Pyra-Mil 
had fallen. He wondered, too, if she realized that his own business, Plaine 
Enterprises, was growing fast, leaping ahead through the push and backing of 
up-to-date ideas into a chief contender for the big winnings. 

A blossom of sweat rose from the base of his spine. He glanced away from 
her, his eyeballs burning from the intensity of his desire. The crowds had 
begun to thin out a bit. Soon the lobby would be empty. Easier to navigate. 
Everything neat. Orderly as the discipline of her mind. 

"I feel glued to the seat," she smiled. "But let's go right away. It's 
beginning to rain." 

Luke nodded and rose as she rose. He wondered what the rain had to do with 
anything between them. Probably, she was making irrelevant conversation just 
to keep herself feeling real. He'd seen this happen to other women, once in 
a great while. Their first affair was as decisive an act as the wedding 
night itself, irrevocably changing them. During the first adjustments, they 
took on a kind of numbness, like protective coloration. 

He buttoned his raincoat and tied the dangling belt. He noticed that she 
carried a pencil-slim umbrella. As they reached the twin exit doors, he took 
the umbrella from her and opened it. She slipped her hand into the crook of 
his elbow. They stepped out into the cool spring night, vaporous with 
drizzle. Street lamps made fuzzily glowing balls of light over 

Broadway. New Yorkers and tourists moved in droves, ignoring the weather. A 
dissonance of car horns and voices stabbed through the intimacy that had 
seemed to surround them. He hugged her arm close to his body, aware that in 
her eagerness, she had forgotten to put on a coat over her suit. 
Impatiently, he glanced around for an empty cab. It was just before theatre 
time. Finding a taxi would be like discovering gold nuggets in his bathtub. 
Grimly, he settled for the notion of walking cross-town to the hotel room. 
He watched a waft of its fragrance stabbing through the acrid pinch of 
exhaust fumes. He wished he had a chauffeured limousine, a million dollars, 
the Taj Mahal. 

The hotel, announced by a long, vertical neon sign, glimmered and blinked 
down at the far end of the street. As they reached it and began to climb the 
three stone steps, she released her grip and slid her fingers away from his 
arm. She walked ahead of him and his glance shifted down to her hips. They 
were trimly curved, dangerously swinging hips. He wanted to reach out and 
touch her there, and he knew that every man hanging around the lobby was 
watching her, thinking of the very same thing. The marble floor echoed up 
the sound of her needle-slim heels. The seams of her hose, arrow straight, 
pulled the eye upward from her slender ankles to the shapely calves, until 
the vision was broken, momentarily, by the skirt hem, then picked up again 
where the material clung to her thigh. They strolled past the desk clerk, 
where a jangle of keys came abruptly to rest on the rectangle of blotter. 
Luke felt for his key and clutched the flat rubber oval till it dug into his 
palm. He pressed the elevator button and smiled at Chrystie while they both 
listened to the descending squeak and rattles behind the scarred door. 

They stepped into the tiny square. Luke caught a last fleeting glimpse of 
eyes watching them. The grate door, extended by a black-gloved hand, 
squeaked. For ten breath counts he and the elevator man and Chrystie shared 
a single silence. The box jolted to a halt at floor three. Chrystie stepped 
out first and poised on the worn rug, waiting for him to show her which way. 

His room was just two doors from the elevator. The key waggled for an 
instant, loosely, in the old lock. He wanted to kick the damned thing in. 
The door swung open then. Walnut furniture, a rose-colored rug that seemed 
to dissolve upward into rose-printed wallpaper, the musty smell of steam 
heat rattling in a thin radiator beneath the single window, all suddenly 
held Chrystie in the center. 

She stood in profile in the middle of the room beneath the ceiling fixture 
shedding pale pink light. He pressed the door shut, turned the key in the 
lock and strode directly to where she waited. Silently, he took her purse 
and dropped it on the bed. He let his fingers slide up her forearms till 
they cupped her elbows. The slightest pressure tilted her toward him. 

The orange-colored mouth parted. Slowly, he moved his head down till he felt 
her breath on his cheek. Her lips found his. Pressed lightly. Her hands slid 
beneath his raincoat and around to his back. She was kissing him harder now. 
He felt the barrier of her teeth and then the point of her tongue, seeking 
his own. She exhaled a long, sighing release and stepped in an inch closer, 
pressing her tight box against his bulging groin. Through all their 
clothing, he felt the sensation of her breasts flattening, the generous 
mounds of flesh spreading across his chest. Her breasts seemed so free and 
yielding that he thought that she must not be wearing a brassier. 

His hand moved upward along the back of her neck, the hair falling like silk 
between and over his fingers. He felt the curve of her skull and its warmth. 
Her head rested back into his palm. He was looking at her face now, looking 
into the dark, almost velvet blue of her eyes. 

He could see the outline of dark pencil behind the thick lashes and tried to 
imagine what she would look like, later, with the glamorizing touches gone. 

He said, "You must be hungry. I'll order some fried chicken or something. 
They have very good room service here. Really." 

She laughed for the first time. It was a subtle glow of sound that petted 
him. Her eyelids crinkled slightly where the violet shadow lay. "I'm not 
hungry, Luke," she said. "I don't know if I could think about fried chicken, 
just now." 

Her hands moved slightly on his back. Her belly undulated and he felt a 
tremor shared between them. 

"Coffee? Anything?" he said. 

The smile remained. She licked her lower lip with a rapid motion of her 
darting tongue. "Yes," she whispered. "Something." Her arms tightened. 
"You." 

Luke realized that he had wanted her to say it. Wanted her to reveal her 
desires. It exploded through his brain like a starter's pistol shot. He 
caught her mouth again, harshly. 

She pushed him away and let her fingers come forward to the middle button of 
his shirt. His jacket and raincoat were hanging open. She tugged at them. He 
pulled them off and tossed them somewhere. Staring at her, realizing the 
time and the care that had gone into her chic appearance, he felt the pain 
of a wild anger as he said, "I couldn't get a room with a-" 

She shook her head. "It doesn't matter," she said softly. 

He thought that maybe he should turn around while she got her clothes off. 
Would it give her some last semblance of decency? Then he decided no. If he 
tried not to look, she would have to feel the failure of this little room, 
see and know the dinginess of their surroundings in place of the passion 
which had brought them here. He loosened his tie knot and watched her begin 
to unbutton the short jacket of her suit. 

She probably undressed like this every night. Her movements unhurried, as 
though they were sharing the long habit of routine. She hung her jacket on 
the back of a chair and then folded the blouse over it. Luke saw, then, that 
he had been right. The satin slip lay moulded over her breasts, over the 
tight mound of her crotch. The points, which had come to semi-hardness, made 
a clear rise of outline beneath. The creamy white flesh swelled voluptuously 
full and swung slightly apart as she reached back to unzip her skirt. Luke 
felt his weight sink heavily onto a hard-backed chair beside the dresser. He 
perched there, on the chair's edge, intent on the sight of her becoming 
revealed to him. He had thought about this moment for six months during the 
day, and vividly at night. His dealings with Roland Crane had changed from 
business to a reason for living. 

She had the skirt off and the satin, glossy along her flesh, was like a 
second skin. 

He said, "Come here." 

She came to him. He lifted the lace hem of the slip and felt for the 
garters. Their metal felt warm from her flesh as he loosened the stockings 
from their hooks. With his thumbs, he slid them down along her thighs, past 
her knees. He put his cheek to her hip and pressed his mouth to the soft 
curve of flesh, slender yet yielding, smelling the subtle aroma of her 
snatch. She stepped out of her shoes and her body lowered three inches. His 
mouth slid diagonally to the curve of her belly. The fragrance of her was 
like something beautiful breathing. 

Her fingers raised the slip and wiggled it off over her head. With a sigh, 
the material came down past him, spreading over his lap. Only a strip of 
white nylon, V-shaped and sparse, covered her now. They were the smallest 
step-ins he had ever seen. They covered everything and nothing. He felt the 
nylon being moved down. He heard her sigh and his hands slid up the backs of 
her legs, along her thighs, and covered her buttocks, as he maneuvered them 
now around to her pussy. She was standing quite still against him and he 
knew when she began to tremble. 

Slowly, he stood up along her, keeping contact with her nakedness. 
Shamelessly his sight devoured her. She looked exactly like his dream, 
except for a small spray of freckles across one shoulder. His hands cupped 
each breast, balanced their weight on his palms. Her round arms were tanned 
in comparison with the whiteness of her belly and those breasts. She had 
that kind of skin which would bronze rapidly under the summer sun. Her hair 
would bleach flame-red while her skin went to a deep, rich shade. 

She said, "Don't think so much, Luke." 

He felt himself flush upward from the neck as he stripped quickly out of his 
clothes, his cock bounced free and hard out in front of him. 

 CHAPTER TWO 

The pink neon light filtered through the drawn shade to glow on and off 
across her naked body as she lay on her back. Even the pillows were pink. He 
felt drowned in a world of flesh as he lay with his cheek in the hollow 
between her ribs. Her breathing, rapid and shallow, made small electric 
quivers through him. His loins felt tight, his cock was hard and ready. He 
stared at her thighs and felt the tension that was spreading her legs wide 
and making her pussy juice. A bull's eye target of sweat was spreading 
outward from a point between his shoulder blades. The night outside was 
getting louder with merry makers, with drunken voices. He felt her heart 
thudding at his temple. His whole body picked up the rhythm of her. She 
stroked one finger down the bridge of his nose. He felt the grazing touch of 
one oval nail. 

She moved a leg and he turned, raising himself alongside her, his hard cock 
grazing her thigh and then pressing against her leg. She leaned toward him 
and her body slid into the dent of the mattress created by his weight. They 
lay length to length. Luke swallowed, surprised to find his mouth so dry. He 
worked his body over till he lay squarely on top of her. His hands felt her 
breasts, squeezing out on either side of his chest. Her belly, concave 
beneath the pressure of him, pulsed. He could feel her hot box juicing as 
the head of his cock spread her cunt lips. She dragged her knuckles down his 
spine, then pressed her fists into the small of his back. A soft groan 
circled deep in her throat. Her legs encircled his and clung there. 

He felt himself slip and was cradled by her. The fringe of her eyelashes 
made a triangular fan of shadow on her cheeks that fluttered tremulously. It 
was happening and he was watching her respond, how she took and gave and 
absorbed the sensation of it throughout every cell of her being. Her lips 
pressed tight. Once, her jaw opened wide and he knew that he had touched 
her, reached her in some way particularly special. 

She said, "I love you, Luke." 

He said, "I love you," and thought that he could even believe it. Believe 
both of them. 

They were moving in a steady partnership of motion. He felt the circling 
rhythm of her hips growing slowly more rapid. He sensed the insisting 
pressure of his own release and knew that he would hold it back until she 
was ready. 

"Hurry a little," she whispered. 

He knew what she meant and moved a bit faster, a bit harder as she held and 
guided him with her legs. Distantly, he heard a screech of tires and then a 
dull thud and then a traffic cop's whistle. His arms tightened around her, 
aware, suddenly, of how small she really was beneath him. How small, yet how 
vibrant with life. 

"In a second," she grunted. "A second-" He felt her rush to the edge of her 
desire and break away, tumbling into fulfillment, crashing, convulsing, 
taking him along, carrying and buoying his body. He shut his eyes hard, 
feeling the crash of thunder, the thrust of his physicality. Her breathing, 
hot and moist, pounded against his earlobe. It seemed to last and last, 
rolling like endless beads off a string. 

Finally, she sighed. She shuddered. Her body relaxed, widened, like a sponge 
absorbing water. He lifted himself on his hands and pushed off her, but not 
before giving her tits one last squeeze. 

She sat up and shook her hair. The pink light fell on it and down her back. 
She kicked her feet up over the tangle of sheet. He lay back on the pillow 
and touched her at the point where her spine curved, and then down to her 
round, firm ass cheeks. 

"How do you feel?" he asked. 

She laughed without sound, tilting her chin up and down once. "You're hot 
going to start again about the fried chicken?" 

Luke smiled inwardly, warmly. He had known it would be like this afterward. 
Easy going. The most natural thing in the world, to be enjoyed' shared. A 
kind of present that they had to give each other. He looked at the luminous 
green hands of his watch. 

"What are you looking at your watch for?" she asked, without turning around. 

"How did you know?" he said with amusement. 

"Men are rather like that, aren't they?" She turned, leaning her weight on 
one arm. 

He slid his fingers around her stiff elbow and drew her down on top of him. 
"Like what?" he said against her mouth. 

Chrystie sighed. "Efficient," she said. She kissed his lips. The tip of his 
nose. One eyelid. The curve of his high forehead. "And you were very 
efficient." She rested her chin on his chest. 

He seldom thought about his looks. Now he thought how good they looked 
together, as she moved her fingers thoughtfully over the dark, curling fuzz 
on his arm. He supposed that if he ever wanted to marry a woman, it would be 
someone like Chrystie. A sensible, sporting woman. A beautiful woman. A 
woman with no pretensions. 

"It's getting late, isn't it?" Her words were half muffled against his 
chest. 

"Eleven-thirty," he said. 

She rolled her head over and kissed him. "I guess the picture is over by 
now-previews and all." 

"And all," he echoed, feeling her lift her weight away from him. For a brief 
moment, he felt a flash of pain where she had been in contact with him. He 
wanted to draw her back, to spend the whole night with her body on his. 

She pulled the metal chain of a small lamp beside the bed and squinted in 
the sudden, sharp stab of light. "I can dress in three minutes," she said. 

Chrystie slipped from the bed. Luke got into his own clothes, rinsed his 
face and combed his short, curly hair. He stared at himself in the bit of 
mirror and saw the shadow across his blunt jaw. He grimaced at it, 
recollecting that even the bulk of his new electric razor did a rotten job. 

"Did you take the room for the whole weekend?" 

Her voice pierced his thoughts. It was a simple question, yet the 
implications were not quite so simple. "Yes. Just in case," he said, making 
his voice casual. 

She was putting on fresh lipstick. He watched her outlining the mouth, then 
heightening the color of her lips. She looked brighter, certainly, yet her 
inner womanhood was so vital that she did not need make-up for beauty. He 
recalled her ability to give pleasure and the trembling greed with which she 
took. She had the spark, all right. And it didn't matter if she were two 
feet seven or seven feet two-but it just so happened that she was physical 
perfection on the outside, too. A quirk of nature's generosity, perhaps. 
Gorgeous both on the inside and on the surface. Luke slipped his tie into 
the back pocket of his pants and wondered how Roland Crane managed to have 
such tremendous stupidity about his wife. 

"I guess we'll be seeing each other," she said, buttoning her jacket. 
'Tomorrow. At the Warrington party?" 

She was smiling at him lightly. Brightly. Yet her voice echoed a small 
loneliness that seemed to roll across to him like a tiny dropped bead. 

"Yes, we'll all be there," he said. "Like good little soldiers. Bess 
Warrington is one woman you can't snub, if you expect to survive 
financially." 

"She's a sweet person," Chrystie said. 

Luke snorted. "Maybe woman to woman she is. But when it comes to business 
matters, zingo-you better watch out." 

Chrystie smiled. An inner understanding reached her cheeks and glowed there, 
moved on to her eyes and made them sparkle. "That's how the mother cub is," 
she said softly. "Warrington Drugs and Research is her baby. Since Dewey 
died, all she has is-" 

"Sure. Sure." Luke grinned. "You girls all stick together. Protect each 
other from us brutes, isn't that it?" 

Chrystie returned his grin. "I suppose that's exactly it." She came to him 
and pressed her palms to his lapels. "You know I won't be able to get away 
like this-very often." 

He caught her wrists in his hands, brought them to his lips. "Roland goes 
out of town often," he said. 

"Yes, but I go with him." 

Luke stared at her in surprise. "You do? Why?" 

Chrystie shrugged. "Habit, I suppose. He's always wanted me along, you know. 
Always had a thing about not neglecting me. Funny, isn't it? Poor Ro. He's 
carted me around on his back for five years, pretending to be glad for my 
presence, thinking up little things for me to do to keep busy-and then 
staring right through me like I was made of glass or didn't exist maybe." 

"Some men are nuts that way," Luke said, "about power. It's not that they 
give a damn about the money so much. It's more like a kind of lust to make 
things happen-" 

Chrystie sighed. "Let's not talk about it," she said. "Besides, it's getting 
late." She peered past his shoulder and leaned over to raise the shade. "At 
least it isn't raining. Maybe we can catch a taxi now." 

Waiting for the elevator, they smoked cigarettes in silence. Luke turned up 
the collar of his rain coat, wishing he could offer the coat to her as 
protection against the night chill. He thought back to when he had wondered 
about how she would feel in his arms. Now he knew. He knew and it was even 
better than he had been able to suspect. Her honest passion had hit him with 
all its forceful strength. Gazing at her well-defined profile, he realized 
that she had no idea of his feelings, how deep she had anchored into him. 

At the street corner, she said, "I'd better go home alone." 

He squeezed her arm, peering down the street for signs of a cab. "It won't 
hurt anything if I ride with you," he said. 

"I'd rather you didn't." 

Luke fell silent with understanding. She didn't want to have any part with 
the sneakiness. They had made love in a hotel room, but she had managed to 
overcome any morbid feelings about that. Yet to park a block away from her 
house and go tense with the fear of being seen would be a strain she 
couldn't face with her usual good nature. 

"Let's walk a minute," she said. "You can buy me a cup of coffee." She 
squeezed his arm. "I'll tell Ro that I went in for some coffee, that's all. 
Bending the truth isn't exactly a sin," she said with cheer. "Especially 
when it's for a good cause." 

They passed a doughnut shop with a long curving counter. Chrystie stopped, 
stared at the window display of chocolate covered rings, coconut sprinkled 
rings, and multicolored rings lined up in slanted trays. 

Luke said, "Here." 

"Here." 

She tugged him inside, into the hot aroma of bubbling coffee and bubbling 
cake grease. There were two vacant seats in the very center of the row. It 
was a low counter and Luke felt his knees jackknifing when he sat down. He 
read a sign on the wall that said: SAVE YOUR PURCHASE RECEIPT. SAVE TEN 
DOLLARS WORTH AND TAKE HOME A DOZEN DONUTS FREE. 

Chrystie nudged him. She leaned over with exaggerated, mock confidential 
manner. "Save your receipt," she said. 

Luke nodded. "Tell you what," he said. "I'll give it to you and you keep it 
in a special envelope." 

"I will," she said. 

The waitress, a young girl with skin that looked purple in the fluorescent 
lighting, came up and said, "Coffee? Two?" 

"Two light," Luke said. "And a couple of chocolate rings." 

The doughnuts arrived on squares of waxed paper. He pushed them both toward 
Chrystie. "Go on," he said. "You're the one with the appetite." 

Chrystie raised an eyebrow. "I thought you were the hungry one." 

"Me?" 

"Well, certainly not I?" Chrystie protested. They grimaced at each other and 
began to laugh. 

The coffee felt hot and good, filling his stomach, yet not touching the 
hollowness. He watched Chrystie sipping gently from her steaming cup, her 
lips puckered tentatively at the rim. The hollow in him, he realized, was a 
well of anger, boiling slowly, heavily as a tar pit. He had to dig around, 
root deep to discover what the anger was from. Then he remembered the key 
left with the desk clerk, the room empty for two days ahead. Idly, he 
wondered how Roland treated her in bed-if he took her to bed any more at 
all. Luke swallowed the coffee. He had not pried into Chrystie's private 
love life with her husband. It was, after all, none of his concern and he 
had no reason to think about it. Not now or ever. He sensed people coming 
into the shop, lining up behind them, waiting for seats to become vacant. 

"All right," Chrystie said, as though feeling the same thoughts. She touched 
her lips with a bit of napkin. 

Luke paid the tab and gave her the purple stained receipt. "Hide it 
somewhere safe," he said, grinning. "And don't forget." 

Chrystie shook her head. The depth in her eyes, warm, sparkling, told him 
that she wouldn't forget. That she wished they could save up for millions of 
doughnuts. They told him things that made his spine shiver as though he had 
tumbled with his ice cold skin into a hot tub. 

Outside again, they strolled half another block and found a taxi idling at 
the curb. Luke realized, suddenly, how they had been evading, delaying this 
moment. He felt her take his hand, squeeze it for a brief instant. She 
ducked and disappeared into the taxi. For an instant, her face smiled at him 
through the window glass. She waved, moving two fingers open and closed. 
Luke touched his eyebrow with his forefinger and then outward in a haphazard 
salute. He reached into his pocket to find bills and jab them into the 
cabbie's hand. The car wheels crunched away from the curb and the cab spun 
off into traffic before he could bring the money out of his pocket. 

He stared at the flash of red tail lights until they disappeared, blending 
with the crush of automobiles. The rain had stopped, but the air held arrows 
of penetrating dampness that pierced through to his bones. He sighed, licked 
his lips till the bitter taste of unsweetened coffee disappeared. She had 
eaten both doughnuts. Probably a moment's splurge, he decided. like their 
lovemaking. A moment's splurge in the midst of heavier good sense. 

He started to amble down the street, walking near the curb to be away from 
the groups of young people, the couples old and young, who could be seen 
together-who had the right. 

 CHAPTER THREE 

The bar seemed to smell of coffee, too, for some crazy reason. He strolled 
through the aura of dance music playing softly from a juke box that changed 
colors. As he slid up to a high stool at the bar, he realized that the aroma 
of the doughnut shop had permeated his clothing and clung to him. 

"Izzy, bring me a Scotch and beer chaser," Luke said in a voice that growled 
and carried to the chubby bartender, whose belly jiggled as he shook up a 
batch of mixed drinks. 

"Comin' up," Izzy sang in a congenial sliding baritone. 

Luke spread his fingers on the wet bar and stared at his fingernails. The 
Scotch and beer arrived, sliding toward his hands. He looked up the length 
of Izzy's wide, flowered tie into the round face with its clean-shaven 
double chin that hung down to hide part of his collar. 

"The ol' girl's been in and outta here twice tonight," Izzy said with an 
offhand confidence. "I told her you was probably sick or called to the 
factory." 

"Factory? In the middle of the night?" Luke grinned. "You've got a wild 
imagination, Izzy." 

"Yeah, well," Izzy shrugged thick shoulders, "what d'ya tell a frantic 
woman?" He scratched a single hair between his graying eyebrows. "There she 
was, pushing her mink all around from one side to the other. Y'know? I got a 
sixth sense about dames. I felt like she was gonna swing out that wildcat 
fur and wrap the damn thing around my neck, if I didn't tell her somethin' 
that would satisfy." 

Izzy hung up a towel. His flabby lips puckered into a rosebud that seemed to 
mock Luke. "What you know about handling the fair sex, I could put in a 
thimble and shove. Especially them ritzy ones you seem to specialize in. 
like this Bess, for instance." Izzy leaned an elbow on the bar. "Why don't 
you get her to set up a little, whadaya call 'em, love nest? Then she 
wouldn't barge in places, makin' a scene. You know?" 

Luke motioned for Izzy to shut up. The Scotch and the beer had begun to 
churn in his stomach, yet he felt a familiar rock-like steadiness that 
warned him he wouldn't get drunk, no matter how much he socked in. Sick, 
maybe. Hell-damned sick. But not drunk. No escape. No oblivion. He swung 
around on the stool with the image of Chrystie's naked body-ingrained hot on 
the backs of his eyeballs. The damned thing wasn't going to fade. He held 
out a hand and saw how steady it sat in the air, while the insides of him 
felt jarred loose and trembling. He pushed off the stool and fished for 
change on his way to the phone booth at the far end of the room beside the 
ski-ball table. 

He dropped a dime, listened to the bing-bing, and dialed fast, zipping the 
dial frame both forward and back. The phone rang half of the first time. He 
knew before Bess spoke a word that she had been hovering over the damned 
receiver, cursing it. 

"Luke, honey?" her voice floated light, easy, as though she had been sitting 
in the shade of a plantation tree all afternoon. 

Luke shook his head. She was a splendid liar. "Izzy tells me you've been in 
here looking for me." 

"Oh, is that where you are?" The voice pitched a tone higher. A bird in a 
tree. 

"Yeah. That's where I am," Luke sounded heavy. "So what?" 

"I simply thought, dear, that if we happened to meet each other tonight, if 
I were lucky enough to run into you," she laughed self-consciously, "I might 
be able to do a little something to relax you after your hard day's work." 

Luke scraped his teeth down his upper hp. He glared at the four letter word 
scraped through the enamel wall of the booth. 

"Are you still there, Luke?" 

"I'm here," Luke sighed. 

"My goodness me, you do sound all worn through." Again she laughed. "If 
you'd like to come up here, I could rub your shoulder, fix you a little late 
supper." 

"I'm going home to flop," Luke said. "Why don't you just forget about me 
tonight?" 

"Forget about you?" The voice trilled soprano. "Oh, honey, I could never 
forget about you." 

"Dream about me then," Luke answered harshly, aware that he was barely 
managing to remain civil. 

"Yes, you go ahead home," she encouraged now with a tinny enthusiasm. "Get a 
good night's sleep. And be fresh for tomorrow. You can drop in early, before 
the party begins. I'll wait for you, Luke." 

Luke hung up with a curse, strolled back to the bar, finished his beer and 
ordered another. 

Izzy said, "You look like a man who's being squeezed." He wiped the bar. 
"What's she tryin' to do, get you to sink a ring on that little fourth 
finger?" 

Luke snorted. "Man, never bed down with the dames you work with," he said. 

"Tough throwin' 'em off, eh?" 

"Tough? Impossible. I mean, where are you going to go?" 

Izzy reached over and grasped his shoulder. "That's the curse of the 
bachelor, don't you see? Now, if you had a nice little wife sitting at home, 
you'd be all safe. No dame ever kids herself that she can get a guy to 
divorce his wife." 

Luke slapped a bill onto the counter. "Enough for one night," he said. 

Izzy pulled the bill into his palm and folded it with the fingers of one 
hand. "You think about it. Think about it," he called. 

The apartment hotel faced Central Park. 

Luke checked with the night clerk for calls, then proceeded to the 
upward-hurtling elevator to his rooms on the fifteenth floor. He slapped his 
raincoat onto a wall hook and made a single step down the three into the 
sunken living room. A bank of windows viewed the city facing downtown. 
Sometimes he liked to stand there and look out at the cluster of steeples 
against the sky. Tonight, he pulled the curtains closed and flopped down 
onto the massive couch that faced the cold fireplace. He sprawled his legs 
and flopped his arms over the backs of the cushions. The crossed Turkish 
sabers on the wall over the mantel reflected the torch lamp behind him and 
recalled the days before Bess when he had been a free-wheeling salesman. She 
had given him the swords and, true to his promise, he had put them on the 
wall even though she would never see whether he had or not. 

He pushed up from the couch and went to them, lifting each gently from its 
balance. He carried them into the bedroom, dug out their black velvet lined 
case and shut them away He carried a bottle Scotch from the dressing table 
into the adjoining bath and poured some into a glass that stood on a small 
shelf within a circle of toothbrushes. The phone began to jangle and he 
whipped around. There was only one person who could get through to him after 
midnight on a weekend. 

"Yeah, Marty, what?" he said as the receiver moved to his ear. 

"A cablegram from C.C. Winston came in late this afternoon." The female 
voice was young, bright, and at this moment, very serious. 

"Canceling?" Luke said. 

"Yes, canceling the winter order, pending a talk with you." 

Luke sat down on the bed with the phone. He propped a pillow between his 
shoulder blades and fished a bent stem pipe from the night table drawer. 
"Yeah, I had a hunch," he said tonelessly. 

"I've been trying to find you all evening." 

"It'll be all right, Marty. Forget the whole damned thing and go back to 
sleep." 

"I'm not asleep," she said. 

Luke felt her voice relaxing him. She had been working in his office for 
almost two years. Not a secretary. Not a gal Friday. Just a gal who could 
and did help in the pinches. Carol Martin. 

"Winston doesn't bother me," Luke said in an effort to shut off Marty's 
puzzlement. "He's too small an outfit to make much difference, if any." 

"Winston doesn't bother me either," she said. "Besides, he'll be back." 

"Yeah?" Luke grunted, sucking on the empty pipe. "How do you know that?" 

"Oh," her voice sounded surprisingly casual, "I can smell a scare tactic 
when I sniff one." 

Luke crossed his legs and reached into a back pocket for an oilskin pouch. 
"It's two A.M., Marty, knock it off. You've been reading those murder 
mysteries again." 

"Nope. Can I help it if I have a brain that can deduce things?" 

Luke chuckled, imagining how her pert, lightly freckled face would go all 
round-eyed as she spoke. "Well, deduce yourself some sleep," he said. "And 
stay away from the office tomorrow, understand? Someone's liable to think 
you were out to inherit the business." 

"Yep. Daughter and heir to Lukas Plaine," Marty said. "Good night, boss 
man." 

Luke was still smiling as he cradled the receiver. The one bright spot, the 
one uncomplicated person in his life was Carol Martin. Idly, he wondered 
where the boy friends were. How come she had been so long at the office 
today. His thoughts roamed, then, to C.C. Winston and the brightness faded. 
Luke shrugged. Filling the pipe, he lit it and crawled beneath the covers, 
fuming smoke and staring at the ridge his toes made of the blankets. He fell 
asleep with the image of Chrystie still vivid and startling and too close. 

An alarm clock jangled, stabbing through the darkness. Luke groaned, 
remembering that he had forgotten to turn the damned thing off. He turned it 
off, rolled over, and pulled the blankets up to his ears. Hidden in the semi 
darkness, he recalled the facts. It was Sunday morning. He had a party to 
shine at. The dark blue suit had to be put on. A tie tolerated again. Luke 
groaned. He shoved the blanket away and scratched his side with stiff 
fingers. Something knocked against the back of his skull, trying to be 
remembered with all the other facts. Roland. Roland Crane. The fact was that 
Roland had asked him to be especially tactful with Bess because of some weak 
link in a chain of contracts. 

Luke pushed himself to a standing position in his bare feet. Where had the 
easy days flown? He bulked two fists and stretched wide, then did half a 
dozen exercises sloppily. Once upon a time, before the money had started to 
roll in, there had been no worries. There were still no worries, he decided. 
Only a lot of responsibility and the slow, sticky muck of intrigue. 

He found a fresh shirt, got into the blue suit, and sailed mechanically out 
of the apartment. It was hardly ten o'clock. His brain was just turning on, 
but he didn't need much use of it to know that he was heading to Bess 

Warrington's. Through the influence of Warrington Drugs, Bess had gotten him 
started in business and brought him the right customers to keep the plant 
going. So sometime during every Sunday he went there. What difference could 
it make, early or late? Or that Bess was years older than himself? 

She occupied a duplex apartment in a townhouse on the right side of the 
right street. The aura of her success was like a fertilizer that made the 
trees in her back yard grow a special brand of hardy leaf, Luke thought, as 
he stood at the glass wall door, surveying the greenery, a cup of coffee 
balanced on its saucer in his hand. From behind him came the gentle aroma of 
scrambled eggs. He heard the movement of silver tureen covers as she fussed 
busily around the buffet, putting food onto plates. He kept looking at the 
long garden and at the reddish brick apartment house just beyond her garden 
wall. 

"You're very quiet this morning," Bess offered pleasantly. 

"I'm laying low," Luke bantered, "saving my charm for your goddmaned party." 

"Well, fine," Bess replied. "Here. Come and have some breakfast." 

Luke turned. She was standing back near the table, a tiny person, yet 
vibrant as a diamond. Her black hair and eyes could liven up any sagging 
situation, pierce through any doldrum. Her dress of coral wool was a simple 
clinging flattery to the trim figure. Luke wondered how old she was, how 
many battle scars lingered on her soul. He remembered her husband's fabulous 
reputation, his picture so often printed in the financial section of 
influential newspapers. Then he had dropped dead. Just like that. At the 
site of a vast new plant he was building. Another wizard snuffed out. 

Luke proceeded to the table, motioning for her to sit beside him. She shook 
her head. "You save your charm. I have to save my waistline." But she sat 
down beside him anyway, sipping her black coffee while he ate. 

He could feel her watching him, prying open his brain, if she could, to pick 
out what she might not approve of. He ate his eggs and thick slabs of 
Canadian bacon fried just right. Images of Chrystie popped up again. He 
wondered how she would conduct herself later on today Would she be able to 
look right through him with that smiling impersonality of a stranger? If she 
didn't, if for one second she faltered, Bess would note the blunder, Luke 
felt sure. 

"Maybe I won't stay through the brawl," Luke said casually, biting into an 
English muffin that glistened with melted butter. 

"Such a silly little idea," Bess said, her voice a pale shadow of annoyance. 
"You know I didn't decide on this party for my own advancement." 

They both heard, then, the clatter and bustle in the kitchen signifying the 
trouble Bess had gone to for his benefit. Inwardly Luke conceded that he 
would make a fool of her if he didn't stay for the gathering, like a 
birthday party without the birthday boy. He watched her hand slide up his 
jacket sleeve and come to rest in the middle of his bicep. She squeezed 
gently. 

"Is something wrong, Luke?" she asked. Her voice was intimate, earnest. 

Luke shook his head. What was he going to do? Blurt out that he no longer 
gave a damn about her? That their affair was caput? That he had dropped her, 
like a rotten tomato, into the garbage with all the rest of his past? For 
someone in the past, he grinned ruefully, she felt very present. She had 
stood up behind his chair and was kissing the back of his neck. 

He turned his head slightly. "Don't you care about the neighbors anymore?" 
he asked, letting his slow grin flow over her warmly. 

Bess wet her lips with the tip of her tongue. She caught her lower Up 
thoughtfully with her teeth, while she inspected him, probing his attitude 
with her delicate, shrewd intuition. He could feel her surveying him, going 
over every inch of his soul, his thoughts. 

"Then hadn't we better go upstairs?" her voice was barely audible. 

Luke nodded, remaining silent. She was a tiny package of energy that needed, 
demanded a full love life. If he didn't to bed with her, he would have to 
explain why. What was there to say, that he had stuffed sinuses? He pushed 
the chair back. Her hand slipped down to lace her fingers through his. The 
comforting cold pressure of another man's ring was no longer there to 
reassure him. The knowledge hit Luke with a sidewise blow, while he followed 
her upstairs to her bedroom. 

 CHAPTER FOUR 

Sunlight played on the French doors. He could see through the opalescent 
curtains to the apron of terrace. Soon it would be summer and the two of 
them would be sitting out there all night, sipping tall drinks. At least, 
that's what she would expect. He had been in this room often. The 
oyster-colored walls and pastel furnishings made a tasteful background for 
Bess' personality. He liked the largeness of the room with its ample bed and 
wide chairs. It was a place for a man to feel comfortable-and desired. 

Bess went to the double doors and opened them a few inches outward to the 
balcony. She smiled at the sun, tilting her face upward and closing her 
eyes. Luke watched her, thinking that she was ageless, that her energy would 
never run down. The tiny wrinkles at the edges of her lids could have been 
laugh lines. They seemed to have been there forever and they belonged. He 
had known many women who fought against the signals of age. Not Bess. She 
welcomed, almost did not seem to care about the surface of herself, as 
though there were some inner secret she carried which buoyed her, kept her 
immune. Luke stuck a pipe between his front teeth, letting the bowl droop. 

"What a beautiful day for a party," Bess said, coming to him and taking the 
pipe from his mouth. Her tone insinuated that she meant, not the gathering 
for later, but the party going on right now between the two of them. She 
kissed the bowl of the pipe and slipped it back into his jacket between the 
points of his pocket handkerchief. She ran her palms along his jawbone. 
Standing on tiptoe, she kissed his chin. 

Luke felt her loosening his tie knot and opening the collar button. They had 
not seen each other for a week. He could feel her hunger lurking like a 
powerful coiled spring. "I shouldn't have bothered to dress," he said, 
wanting to keep it light between them. 

"You could have slept here last night," she said against the side of his 
neck. "Or come over this morning in your pajamas. I don't care." 

Luke felt himself go tight in the belly, his cock felt as though it would 
jump out of his pants. That was exactly the point, he realized. Bess didn't 
care. In the beginning, she had taken great pains to keep their lovemaking a 
private matter. Now, she didn't seem to give a damn who knew, who found out. 
That's why she had felt free to go into Izzy's bar. Perhaps today she would 
take possession of him publically, among all their business acquaintances. 
Luke's blood ran cold and seemed to congeal in his veins. Chrystie would see 
that Bess had prior claims to him- 

"You're so far away from me," Bess whispered. "What are you thinking of?" 

Luke shook his head. He forced his mouth to smile and made his hands grasp 
her shoulders to pull the small, submitting body close. "What could I be 
thinking of," he laughed, "at a time like this?" He stared glumly over her 
shoulder, waiting for the undulating caress of her body to ignite him. 
Mechanically, he grabbed hold of her dress zipper. It opened down from her 
neck, all the way to the small of her back. She had a knack for choosing the 
kind of clothes that came away easily to the touch. His palms pressed 
against the warmth of her skin just below the band of her brassiere. She 
wore no slip, not even a half slip. His fingers felt the elastic of her 
lace-trimmed step-ins. 

Bess shrugged her shoulders and the dress fell forward limply. She moved 
away from him just enough to let the material drop. It slipped past her hips 
and she walked out of it, a delighted laugh trickling from her as she stood 
there naked. 

She was something to look at, Luke told himself. With the brassiere gone, 
her firm body was the carved balance of perfection. Her breasts, full and 
rising high, had perhaps filled out from the advent of childbirth. She 
hardly looked like the mother of a grown daughter. She looked every inch a 
woman who craved the fulfillment of love. Her hand pressed at the back of 
his skull till his lips met one breast. 

He rubbed the tip of his tongue in a small circle till he felt the flesh 
harden and rise. He could hear her breathing grow rapid. The flutter in her 
chest was a racing sound. Easily, he lifted and carried her to the satin 
bedspread. She clung to him as he put her down gently, but he loosened her 
grip and stood up again. His guts felt empty. He wanted to tell her that it 
was no damned good any more. That she wasn't doing a thing for him. That she 
had to find some other guy-Yeah, tell her, he thought. Was he crazy? She lay 
there, panting. Almost like a kid about to get it for the first time. Her 
belly rose and fell in a concave hollow. Her legs, in their light-colored 
hose, widened as he watched them, in a silent beckoning to this body, as her 
pink cunt lips began to spread. A high heeled sandal dangled off one foot 
and swung there unnoticed. 

Luke knew what he had to do. He pulled off his jacket and got the rest of 
his clothes off in a hurry. There was no point in being honest with Bess. 
From the frustration of her desire, she could proceed, quite coldly, to 
destroy whatever got in her way. Destroy Chrystie. Luke clenched his teeth. 
He would wring Bess' neck if she ever did anything. He pulled his thoughts 
back from the wildness of his angered imagination. He lay down on the bed 
beside Bess and touched her hip, drawing her to him. Her hand slid down 
along his body, which found and grasped him. She knew what to do. Knew what 
he liked, his rhythm, his kind of touch. Gradually, Luke felt the response 
leaping up in his loins. She was making it happen. He watched the way her 
eyeballs rolled beneath the tissue thinness of her closed lids and 
understood how deeply sunk she was within the well of her passion. For an 
instant he envied her. Then he joined her. 

Her breasts felt hot against his chest. He had forgotten the stockings, 
loosened but not removed, rubbing now on the backs of his thighs. Sachet 
rose from the pillow, through the satin and twinged his nostrils. Her neat 
hair lay tangled about her forehead. The mascara had smeared slightly, 
making one eye fuzzily indistinct. A flash of sunlight glanced off a 
porcelain music box of two figurines bowing for a minuet. His outstretched 
leg jarred the table and the figurines moved almost imperceptibly. A single 
tone sounded from the box. 

He had to stop looking around the room. Had to concentrate. Luke shut his 
eyes and jammed his mouth down on her body. The coiled spring in her seemed 
to grow tighter as though his body were a key that wound her up. 

"Darling-darling," she murmured. "Make me happy." 

Obscene words on Bess' lips seemed, in this room, to belong. The efficient 
business magnate had fallen away with the clothing. She hung onto him, told 
him what she wanted done to her. Luke's ears flamed. The message and meaning 
jangled through his nerves. His head began to edge downward, moving between 
her breasts, finding her belly-and going lower to the V of her crotch. 

The in sides of her thighs tensed. Her knees locked and he felt gripped by 
her, held fast, pressed to her flesh. He did what she needed, his mouth 
moving in slowly widening circles, sucking out her cunt. 

His hands slipped up to cradle her buttocks and keep her body from jolting 
too hard. He could hear the rasp of her breathing, raw and dry. She 
swallowed hard. It sounded painful. Her hips twisted as she aided him. The 
arrows of her need seemed to shoot out from her flesh, to catch in him and 
sink deep. 

Suddenly, she drew him up, arching against his stiff prick. Her body welled 
around him, holding him and giving of herself. Small murmurings sounded in 
his ear. The words jelled, becoming descriptive. A hard knot of passion had 
formed in his gut. A mechanical thing that she had inspired. He hunched her 
rapidly, pumping his meat into her. She moaned a long, hidden tone. It was a 
sound of pleasure, of delight. Her legs tightened around him. He felt three 
points of fingernails dig into his back. 

Then the spring uncoiled, as she hunched and bucked her cunt onto his cock. 
Luke, held within the spell, became part of the violence of release. 
Sensations clawed through him, racing between their bodies. He felt her 
sweat mingling with his own, as he shot his cream load into her snatch. 

Bess said, "Why don't you shower, darling? It'll make you feel fresh again." 

She sat on the edge of the bed, fluttering one stocking till it smoothed out 
and hung in a single sheen of nylon. She ran her fingers inside it and 
spread them, examining for tears. 

Luke watched her nonchalance. Her breasts hung bare. A droplet of 
perspiration rolled down the side of one. It glistened in the sunlight. 
Already, she seemed to have forgotten his importance to her. 

"Any scotch up here?" he said, moving toward the bathroom. 

Bess smiled up at him. She lowered the stocking over a curved chair arm. 
"I'll get some." She reached for a bell button. 

Luke swallowed. He had forgotten about the servants. Of course they knew. 
Everything. He went into the bathroom and turned on the water, needing it 
cold and hard to jar him alive. Something in his guts felt dull, almost 
gloomy. When, afterward, he stood with a huge white towel around him, the 
dullness was gone-but the gloom had remained. 

Bess called through the door. "Your drink is ready whenever you want it." 

Luke kicked the door open with one bare foot. She had changed from the coral 
thing into something black, highlighted by a silver neck piece with inserts 
of jade. She looked more formal now and much less accessible. He realized 
that her early morning attire had been strictly for him to take off her. He 
jammed the towel into a brass ring and padded out. The deep carpet piling 
wadded under his feet. She set the glass into his hand, then took a sip from 
it with her fingers covering his knuckles. 

"That's all I want," she said as he offered her more. "Now, put your clothes 
on, please, dear. It's almost time." 

"It's never time for those damned bastards" Luke said before he could stop 
himself. 

Bess smiled a gentle smile. "I didn't mean my friends," she said, patting 
his cheek as though he were a small boy to be consoled. 

"Then who do you mean?" Luke scowled. "Your enemies?" He found his pants and 
tugged them on. 

Bess went to her dressing table and sat down in front of its mirror. She 
picked up a silver-backed brush and began running it backward from her 
forehead, inspecting her face casually. "It's rather a surprise, Luke, that 

I refrained from mentioning." 

"Well?" Impatience snagged at him. He jammed his shirt tails into the pants 
and hunted the room for where she might have flung his tie. 

"You never met my daughter," Bess said. 

Luke stopped his search. Slowly, he folded his arms across his chest. A 
smear of amusement crept across his lips. "You never let me peek a damned 
inch into your private life before," he said. "Now, what's this about your 
kid?" 

"My daughter," Bess corrected. There was something possessive in her voice, 
as though she were discharging a responsibility. "She's coming in 
from-school. I thought that our little gathering today might be something 
nice for her to find when she gets here." 

Luke shook his head. He swigged at the glass till ice cubes rattled naked. 
"Did you, now?" he said, thinking how it was just like Bess to clobber seven 
birds with half a stone. 

"You make it sound as though there's something wrong about it." Bess studied 
his reflection in the mirror. 

"Oh, no. Not me," Luke protested. He set the empty glass on the tip of a 
small serving cart. "I mind my own business. Strictly." 

Bess fixed her lipstick. "Well, Joy might be your business," she said 
easily. "Yes, that's her real name," she responded to his quizzical gaze. 
"Enid Joy. Her father started calling her Joy because she-well, she used to 
laugh a great deal." 

"That's a good start," Luke said, bending to tie one shoelace. "I like happy 
kids," he continued, not knowing what else to say. 

"I'm certain you'll like Joy. Everyone does." Bess smoothed an eyebrow with 
a tiny brush. "And I think I want to take her into the business for a few 
years." 

"Why not marry her off?" Luke asked reasonably. 

Bess laughed with sudden full enjoyment. "I think she'll manage to do that 
all by herself." 

"Yeah. I get the picture," Luke commented. 

"So I want you to be nice to her. I mean, help me get her interested in how 
money is made, instead of how it's spent. That part she knows how to do. 
like a wizard." 

Luke buttoned his jacket. His watch said noontime. In less than an hour he 
would be swimming around in the social tar pits, with Bess on one side of 
him and this Joy kid on the other. He could imagine Joy Warrington. 
Good-looking, rich and spoiled rotten. How in the hell was he going to swim 
through all this muck to Chrystie? 

"She ought to be here any minute," Bess said. 

Her voice floated on the edge of Luke's thinking. All he could do was cross 
his fingers that Chrystie would understand and not think that he was making 
a play for the Warrington kid. 

"Look, what are all your pals going to think?" Luke said, following through 
on his private thoughts. "If I start lumbering all over your daughter?" 

"What can they think?" Bess laughed. "We'll be announcing our wedding plans 
soon, won't we?" 

Luke stared at his empty glass near the wall. His guts began to cringe as 
though they had been snapped by a spring-loaded blackjack. He didn't want 
another drink. He didn't want anything but to get the hell out of here 
before Bess tied him up tighter than he could work himself out of. And 
still, there was that problem about Roland nagging, nagging. 

"Bachelors never walk into marriage face first," Luke bantered. "Not us old 
addicted ones, anyway." 

Bess' smile was patient. She lifted the lid of an engraved cigarette box and 
took out a white holder. "Of course not," she said. 

Discomfort spread through Luke with a prickly, poisonous sensation. He 
watched her slowly, carefully insert a cigarette into the holder and then he 
moved forward, offering up the small flame from his butane lighter. Bess was 
no dope. Her gaze upon him through the veiling smoke fumes told Luke that 
sooner or later she would know the truth. Either directly from him or by 
deduction. 

"I think we should go downstairs," Bess said, sliding away from him and 
toward the door. "People will be arriving soon. I want them to find a 
contented, happy hostess." 

Luke remained silent as he went with her. There was nothing to say. Not yet. 
He had heard the first flicker of irritation in her voice. No doubt she had 
been alerted ever since last night that something about him had strayed and 
gone out of kilter with her plans. 

"Incidentally," Luke said, wanting to get off the topic of their love-life 
complications. "C. C. Winston is dropping out of the pack. I got a message 
from him yesterday." 

Bess stopped on the bottom stair. She touched ashes off onto the silver sea 
shell tray beside a marbelized vase. "I know," she answered. 

"That was quick." Luke's words were clipped. 

Bess went ahead to the living room, where a long buffet table had been 
arranged during their absence. She moved, touching a small fork here, 
surveying the mounds of caviar, the squares of sandwiches. "I mean I knew 
before he sent you that message." She flung Luke a quick little smile that 
seemed almost bored. "You see, he phoned me first and asked my opinion." She 
lifted a green napkin and refolded it. "I told him to go ahead." 

Luke leaned against the banister. He could feel the squeeze tightening. The 
circle closing. "Was this before or after you went to Izzy's bar?" he asked 
evenly. 

"Now, darling," Bess replied. "Why be so technical? I never want to mess 
about in your affairs-" 

The sound of the doorbell interrupted their conversation. For an instant, 
Luke felt Bess staring at him. The sudden suspension of her thought was like 
a silent threat. It told him the truth: that she had built up his business 
with orders from her own clients. She could just as easily break him down, 
if she put her mind to it. Luke snorted in the face of her momentarily hard 
expression. He had never fought with a woman before-but Bess, he realized, 
had the strength of ten men and the cunning of the U. S. Intelligence. It 
was going to be quite a little fracas between them. 

 CHAPTER FIVE 

The party hummed around Luke and through the Warrington house with an 
atmosphere of good will and Sunday afternoon idleness. The women had removed 
their stylish hats and with them, all aloofness had melted. Jewels glittered 
on dark dresses. Men, even the old ones, chatted with new awareness of their 
masculine potency. The black mound of caviar became a gutted hill. 

Luke stood against the wall, watching Roland Crane getting steadily, soggily 
drunk. 

Luke sipped his whiskey, his senses held within the grip of this latest, 
shattering realization. He had seen Crane drunk before. He had never seen 
him plastered. The tall, well muscled man, almost austere with white hair 
and pencil line mustache, was sinking slowly down into a dumpy mass of 
flesh. He hiccoughed. He found his handkerchief, wiped the ends of the 
mustache and jammed the handkerchief back, careless. Almost from nowhere, 
Chrystie's hand appeared, fixed the handkerchief. Luke could hardly bear to 
watch her. He fished out the tobacco pouch and busied himself filling the 
pipe bowl. Yet even as he looked down, he could see her there, among the 
people. It seemed that he was always finding her among people. 

This afternoon she seemed less subdued than most of the women. Lots of her 
flesh showed from the low cut dress. The dress itself was almost the color 
of her skin. A bronze thing that flowed so that Luke was aware of her hips, 
her thighs, without actually being able to grasp them with his eyesight. But 
he remembered. And while he sipped his drink or puffed the pipe, the memory 
gripped him. 

Chrystie barely looked his way. Unreasonably, he felt neglected. It would 
ruin both their futures-still, he wanted her to come to him, acknowledge 
him. Crane's wedding ring, a large chunk of ice, split a spectrum of color 
as Chrystie wiped his forehead and touched his shoulder to convince him to 
sit down. Her flame hair swung forward, hiding her features for a moment. 
Then her chin tilted and her nose peeped out. Her lips, a deeper red today, 
made a glossy frame around words. Crane let himself be seated. He opened the 
single button of his pin striped jacket. The nubby silk tie, no doubt a 
present from his wife, curved forward over the narrow clip. He shot his 
glass into Chrystie's palm and asked for another drink. 

Luke turned and wandered away into another room. Here, light music played. 
Cocktail piano exuded from three points of the ceiling to give a startling 
live effect. Warrington had been crazy for stereo. And Bess was carrying out 
his wishes about that, too. Luke blinked at the greenery rising in lush 
profusion just inside the glass walls. The room reminded him of a jungle or 
somebody's mushroom barn gone wild. He shook his glass near his ear and 
heard the last sliver of ice cube splinter. At the fall end of the room, 
short, barrel wide and laughing raucously at something a woman had just 
whispered to him behind her hand, stood Luke's prey-C. C. Winston, the 
world-traveler. 

Luke grunted his recognition. The man with his rough flushed complexion 
reminded Luke of an English quail hunter dressed up and wound up for a party 
in New York. His eyes bulged with rough edged humor. They darted a 
lecherous, milky-blue stare between the woman's mouth and her crinkly 
cleavage where an old cameo brooch trembled in the rhythm of her own 
laughter. 

She had dyed red hair a deep shade of mahogany and the texture of the 
stringy, dried out squid. Her bodice looked stuffed with barrelfuls of 
mashed potatoes. Luke sighed. She was just the kind of woman that C. C. 
Winston would want to take home from the party. This was no time to 
interrupt the old wind bag, Luke decided, and glanced around the room to see 
where he could refill his glass. 

Someone tapped his arm. An incense of perfume touched his nostrils, but it 
was like nothing he had ever smelled on a woman before. There was the sea in 
it and the woods. Everything deep and elusive stirred his nerves. 

A voice said, "Mother sent me over to meet you." The voice sounded like the 
perfume, if perfume could speak. 

Luke looked down. Then he looked up. She was almost his own height and yet 
petite. He succumbed to a strange feeling that he must be already drunk. Her 
small boned grace made a slender reed of her body. She bent with her own 
speech. It was hard looking at her because the deep green eyes were that 
intense. She wore her blonde hair like a skull cap and small, pointed bangs 
laced her high, smooth forehead. Eyebrows arched boldly yet gracefully over 
lashes that twinkled with bits of sun. There was no resemblance, except for 
the inner strength of purpose, a steady, hypnotic quality that had already 
begun to draw on Luke. 

"Do your friends call you Joy?" he said. "I mean, really?" 

"Why not?" her bow lips curved up at the corners. There was the tiniest 
cleft in her pointed chin. 

"I guess there's no reason why not," Luke said. "On second thought," he 
touched her naked elbow, "has your mother told you interesting things about 
me, too?" 

Joy took his glass away and stared regretfully into its emptiness. "She said 
to be kind to you. Would you say that's interesting?" 

Luke let his gaze absorb the shimmering dress. It was a sheath the same blue 
green color of her eyes. The material hung loosely enough to give the 
impression of comfortable easiness, yet he could tell every movement of 
every young muscle. "I'd say that's a good start for openers." He began to 
thread her across the room. "Come, I'll get you a drink." 

"I never drink, Mr. Plaine." 

Luke stopped dead in his tracks. "Mr. Plaine?" he said, pained. "Who's he? 
Call me Luke, dear. I'm not anybody's grandfather-yet." 

"All right, Luke. Why don't you introduce me to some of the nice people in 
this room?" 

. Luke shook his head with a firmness he felt down to his toes. "I'm the 
only nice person here," he said. "And we're already introduced. Want to go 
for a walk? The garden looks good." He stared at her naked shoulders. They 
looked smooth with a matte finish that would be good against his lips. He 
shuddered, remembering Chrystie in the other room, struggling with her 
drunken husband. Was he drunk, too, Luke asked himself. He stared at the 
tall, quiet girl smiling at him. She was clear, too clear to his vision. No, 
he couldn't be drunk. Perhaps snuffled just enough not to worry about 
tomorrow. "I'll let you have my jacket," he said. "So you won't catch a 
chill." 

"I won't catch a chill," Joy said, "because we can't go out. You know that 
Mother locks these doors when there's a party." 

Luke nodded. He sighed. "There's always the front door," he continued with 
gentle perseverance. "We could walk down to the corner and back. like old 
friends who haven't seen each other for a long, long time." 

Joy's eye closed over their silent amusement. "You're quite persuasive, 
aren't you?" she said. "But I think not." 

"I thought young girls weren't supposed to know their own minds," Luke said. 
"Now, be sensible and walk with me down the block and back. To air my head 
out," he lied, "or I might just get sick and make a fuss all over the 
place." He waved his hand about in the hope-of trying to convince her. 

In a flash of intuition, Luke saw that she hadn't fallen for his line at 
all. Her head tilted just the barest movement, as though she were giving him 
a gold star for effort. Then she said, "All right, if you honestly don't 
feel well." 

"Truly, truly," Luke faked with ardor. Inside himself, he wondered why Joy 
had acquiesced. 

"I'll just find a wrap," she said. 

Luke nodded and told her to meet him at the door. He wandered toward it, 
hoping that Chrystie would not see. There was the smallest chance that she 
would be too engrossed with Crane to be observant of other doings. He caught 
sight of Bess, moving like a minnow among her guests, chatting with one, 
helping another to food, being the polished hostess and perhaps even 
enjoying herself. She happened to look up and seeing him, winked quickly, 
knowingly. Luke inhaled a deep breath. She had put Joy up to being nice to 
him. Was it a lure of some kind? A come on? And if so, why? 

"I'm ready now," Joy said, passing behind him. 

He turned and followed her out. She had put on a leopard fur and for the 
first time in his life, Luke felt that an animal had been killed to good 
purpose. Young as she was, she had the poise of a woman experienced in more 
ways than he cared to name. 

"Are you home for good?" Luke said, as they ambled down the street. The 
balmy weather lay flat like a backdrop. The city streets seemed oddly clean. 

"I might be," Joy answered. She kept half a foot of space between them. 

"I know," Luke said. "That depends on Momma. If she's good to you, you'll 
stay. Otherwise," he flicked fingers in the air, "gone with the wind." 

"Not at all," Joy grinned. "The other way around, perhaps. If I'm good to 
Momma, I stay." She shook her head with incredulity. "Or don't you know 
Momma that well yet?" 

It was part question, part stab. This child knew more than Luke had 
realized. "Colleges turn 'em out bright these days," Luke commented. 

"Did she say I was at college?" Joy's eyebrow lifted with pleasure. 

"Something like that," Luke evaded, rather than confess he hadn't been 
listening those times when Bess had chosen to talk about her family. 

"That's nice," Joy said. 

Luke saw that she had no intention of explaining. Nor did he want to ask 
questions. He had learned that probing into the private life of a woman was 
the first stitch that began the tying-up process. His gaze roamed down Joy's 
long body. This was one sex pot to stay away from-if he could. "You know 
your mother wants me to take you under my wing," Luke continued. 

Joy smiled widely. "Which one?" 

Luke felt his face flush. She had caught him with his bare thoughts hanging 
out. "Strictly business," he said crisply. 

"Oh, that." Joy gazed down the street at the desultory traffic that had 
bunched up in front of a red light. "I'm not the type." 

"Of course not," Luke said with ardor. "But that, apparently, is beside the 
point." 

"How about a soda," Joy interrupted him. 

Luke squinted into the ice cream parlor and pressed his tongue to the back 
of his teeth with distaste. "Sure. Love it," he said with a fling at 
bravado. He watched new energy flood her with happy expectation. She was a 
queer collection of qualities, he realized. Part tigress, part ass, and part 
impish kitten, like now. What does a man do to keep himself from making love 
to a girl like Joy? 

The air conditioned room smelled sweet. Youngsters seated at the counter 
turned, unabashed, to follow Joy as she ambled toward a booth. Luke saw 
frank admiration taking in her stature and her clothing and the clean 
profile of her arched neck and head. Few women could wear their hair cropped 
that close, but on Joy it looked sexy. He could not imagine it any other 
way. He ordered two of whatever it was she ordered and sat back to try to 
understand what Joy was out to accomplish with him-and how best, in turn, he 
could use her to outsmart ol' Bess. 

"The way you stare," Joy said quietly, "I'd think you were a man with things 
on his mind." 

Luke smiled at her blandly. She might be a kid, but she was no dope. Bess 
wouldn't raise a dope for a daughter. 

"Look," he said, "do you want to square with me right now about what your 
mother put you up to concerning me-or do we have to wrestle around for 
awhile?" 

Luke watched her face go round-eyed with ingenuous question. "Is that what 
you think of me?" Her voice sounded hurt. 

Luke sighed and told himself that he had, at least, made a brave try. 

The ice cream arrived and Luke watched her dig her spoon in, transferring 
all her attention from him to the sundae without the least struggle. He 
examined the mounds of pistachio peeking out beneath tiers of whipped cream 
laced with the juice of a maraschino cherry. Maneuvering between Joy and 
Bess was not going to be simple. 

"Whenever you're ready," Joy said between mouthfuls, "I'll show you my 
sports car-if you'd like to see it." 

Despite himself, Luke grinned. "Sure I would," he said. "You show me 
anything you want, Joy, because, believe me, I'm interested." 

 CHAPTER SIX 

The car looked like Joy, he thought. Low, sleek and racy. Its white fenders 
gleamed. In one hubcap, Luke saw the curved reflection of himself and Joy's 
blue green dress stirring in the afternoon breeze. 

"I call her Sexpot," Joy informed him. 

"Do you?" Luke smiled. "I wonder how you came by that name?" 

Her mobile lips pursued for an instant. 

"Could it be that you're making fun?" She leaned against the roof of the 
car. "Did I do something to you, Luke? Something that makes you not like 
me?" 

Luke winced. It was impossible not to like that long, relaxed body and the 
way she drifted through life as though she had already won the race and 
could slow up to enjoy the scenery. Still, he had to be on his guard with 
her and it was this tension in him that her female perception caught. "Why 
don't you take me for a ride?" he said mildly. "Instead of babbling that 
crazy kid stuff?" 

Slowly, her lashes lowered and he watched the sun sparkle midst their 
thickness. She reached into a concealed side pocket of her skirt and lifted 
out a single gold key. It glinted sun-like as she waved it, almost 
imperceptibly, as though it were a prize. "Want to drive and clear your head 
out a little more?" her voice coaxed breathily. 

Luke tilted the key into his own palm. She was expecting him to be impressed 
like a child with the promise of a new toy. Did she think that he was such 
an easy prey? That, with her body and with her car, she could drug him out 
of his senses? He slipped down into the caress of supple, cream colored 
leather. She got in beside him and closed the door. The essence of her 
perfume touched his nostrils. She shifted her weight onto one hip and 
crossed her legs. He was looking straight ahead over the wheel, yet he could 
feel her face very near to his as she rested one arm along the back of the 
seat. Okay, so she wins, Luke thought. He pulled the throttle, listened to 
the tamed motor growl beneath the bonnet. It seemed to speak with Joy's own 
voice. 

There was only one place to take this green eyed, blonde-haired baby 
witch-home, to his special "girl" apartment and to his bed. Get it over with 
before the heat of his sweat melted his underwear. 

Joy said, "I know a nice little restaurant in the country." 

"To hell with that," Luke answered promptly. "I've got a nice little place 
closer by." 

"Mother said you were going to be nice to me." She laughed with low 
insinuation. "But not that nice." 

"Quit kidding." He spun the car into a comer-hugging curve. "You two are cut 
from the same salami. I still don't know why she put you up to seducing me, 
but I'm with you, honey, all the way." 

"Is that a fact, Luke?" Joy leaned back to survey him. "Would you really do 
anything I asked?" 

Luke swallowed hard. Maybe the truth would pop out of her into the light 
where he could see it and deal with it. "Of course. What am I, a dinosaur? 
I'm just a livin', breathin' man." 

Joy's laugh rippled with delight, but not with gullibility. Luke shut up. 
She was enjoying him entirely too much for his own good. He pressed his 
tongue against the back of his teeth, feeling the rough edges of 
consternation. The car wheeled eagerly through traffic and into the S-curves 
of Central Park, heading west and uptown. Joy touched her palm to the crown 
of her head. She was staring at his profile, her own face close enough so 
that he could smell the sweetness of her lipstick. 

From the side of his vision, he could see couples strolling peacefully along 
the park paths. A small man, his suede jacket swinging open, walked briskly 
beside a harlequin Dane. Typical Sunday, Luke thought with an inward glower. 
Typical for the rest of the world. He slowed the car for a signal-light on 
Central Park West. They had been gone almost an hour from the party. Did 
Bess expect them back before evening? Probably not. And Chrystie? Was she 
wondering where he had gotten to? How was he going to explain this to her so 
that it made sense, when it didn't make sense at all? 

"Are we really going to your place?" Joy said. 

"You didn't make a better suggestion," Luke replied, glancing at her briefly 
and noting the faint surprise that deepened the color of her eyes to a 
stormier green. 

"I'd rather not," she said. 

Luke felt himself go warm inside with a spreading glow of satisfaction. 
Perhaps Bess had underestimated him and Joy had begun to realize that he 
would make love to her, given the opportunity. "But I thought we were 
friends?" Luke said, baiting her. "Besides, it's only a block away now. I'm 
sure you'll love the view." 

"No doubt," Joy breathed. "But some other time." 

"I think just now is fine," Luke said, still smiling. "You're not going to 
change your mind and be an Indian giver, are you?" 

"We have a party back there." She tilted her head toward the park they had 
left. 

Luke shrugged. "We're taking it with us." 

He wheeled the car down a steep ramp and into the underground garage of a 
newly built apartment house. The rooms he rented in this building were the 
single concession to luxury that he wanted. A place to be alone in or a 
place to take those girls who lived, inconveniently, with roommates. He slid 
from the car and slammed the door shut. Its sound echoed back from the 
concrete walls. A sweetish, damp odor of newly fixed mortar, grease and oil 
made a twilight of underground serenity. In long, quick strides, he reached 
Joy's side of the car, opened the door and gripped her elbow. He hadn't 
expected this bit of good fortune. He had supposed, instead, that Joy would 
go through the whole bit of making love to him without batting an eyelash. 
He was the uncertainty shifting like wind across sand, changing the even 
temper of her features into those of a young girl who didn't know what to do 
next-or what was expected of her. 

Luke's grip remained firm, keeping the girl close to his body as they 
threaded in front of gleaming bumpers and into the pink and gray lobby of 
the building. 

"You really must be drunk," Joy said between stiff lips. 

"No. I'm a maniac," Luke answered. "I slice little girls for breakfast-over 
my sparkle corn flakes." 

"Nuts," she grunted irritably. 

He kept her between his body and the elevator wall till the fourteenth 
floor. He moved her hurriedly ahead of him down the corridor, pushing her so 
that she would have to concentrate on keeping her balance instead of 
arguing. He got the door open and shoved her inside. 

Luke leaned against the door and watched her stumble to a standstill in the 
living room. Slowly, she looked around at the low, sparelined furnishings. 
He saw that she was more curious than frightened and he knew instinctively 
that she would be afraid of nothing. She let her fur slide from her 
shoulders and crossed her arms at the waist, cupping her elbows in either 
palm. 

"So this is where you live?" she said. 

Luke grinned. "Sometimes." He crossed the wine dark carpet to a row of 
tear-shaped decanters on a wall shelf. There were no curtains over the 
windows and for a moment he glanced out over the green carpet of park to 
where Roland must have passed out by now. Grimly, he thrust Chrystie from 
his mind, realizing that it would do little good to think of her or want her 
or even to hope for the kind of simplicity that would let them be together 
often enough for his appetite. He turned with a decanter between his 
fingers. "How about a little something to-" 

"I won't drink," Joy said. 

Luke raised an eyebrow. "Won't or don't?" he said. 

"Won't. Not with you." She opened one palm and then put it back to her 
elbow. "Not in these circumstances." 

Luke filled his own glass, listening to the clear burbling of liquid against 
crystal. "Suit yourself," he answered, making it sound as though they were 
going to be here a long time. "But frankly, Joy, I'm disappointed. 
Disappointed with you, that it." He sipped his Scotch and let his glance 
absorb the silhouette of her, curved in all the right places. She was a 
magnificent specimen, he thought. "I thought you were out for a good time 
and now look what happens." 

"Am I responsible for your crazy ideas?" 

She was angry with him and the lips tightened into a thin line of 
impatience. There was something about her that reminded him of a wild animal 
that still had on it the fuzz of babyhood. He had caught and trapped her-but 
he did not yet know what she was. 

"Anyway," she said, jutting her chin with defiance, "what are you going to 
do?" 

Luke finished his drink and put down the glass. This was no time for fogging 
his wits. "That's up to you," he said gently. 

He saw her pull back from their conversation. Something he had done or said 
was a challenge that she did not want to accept. 

"You're a strange one," she said. "And I have a feeling," Luke continued, 
"that you would like me to make love to you, but that you don't dare admit 
it. If I grab you, that's one possibility. You can always explain to your 
mother that you were forced. There might even be signs on your body to prove 
it." 

"Oh, shut up." 

Her words snaked out and coiled around him. Luke fell silent, musing over 
this new revelation. So it was true, after all. She wanted it, but she 
didn't dare. If he forced her, she would give in-but only if he forced. 
Well, why not? One kind of game was as good as another. Pretend to be 
violent, rip her clothes off. She wants to be given a reason to struggle. 
Luke's mouth went dry. He could almost feel her lithe body panting against 
him. His chest strained with the imagined sensations. Her hot breath would 
taste of ice cream. Chocolate fudge. He smiled crookedly at her, while his 
gaze hungrily took in the ripeness poised, waiting for him to pounce. Luke 
shut his eyes hard for a split second. Then he twisted around and grabbed 
the phone receiver. It slid in the slimy sweat of his hand. 

"Hello, Bess?" he said after a minute. "I've got your daughter here with me. 
What d'ya want me to do with her?" 

Bess sounded innocent of any plot. "That's a funny way to put it," she said 
lightly. "Are the two of you having a pleasant afternoon together?" 

"You make it sound like a teenage date or something," Luke spat. "But I'm 
not going to bring her back until tonight. I don't want to walk in that 
front door and have the whole damned world stare at us and think what their 
dirty minds'll think." 

"Well, you do what's best, dear. I'm not concerned." 

He heard Bess disconnect them. He stared over at Joy, who had flopped down 
on the white couch. "Your mother makes it all sound very innocent," he said. 
"But now the both of you will know to stop this messing around." 

Joy shook her head with new confidence. She kicked off her shoes and pulled 
her legs beneath her buttocks. Her body, folded into compactness, nestled 
deep in one comer of the couch. "Come here," she said. "And sit down. If we 
have to stay for the whole afternoon, we might as well be comfortable." 

Luke eyed her with new suspicion. "I wish you women would make up your 
minds," he said, feeling played out. 

"Don't you know what I want from you?" Joy said as he came to her. 

"Sure. But why don't you let me give it, instead of fussing about with all 
your feathers flying?" He flopped down at the far end of the couch, where he 
could watch her but not run the real danger of touching her by accident. 

"I didn't expect you to make that phone call," her voice held a hazy tone of 
begrudging admiration. "You loused up my plans, but good," she laughed. 

Luke eased his tie knot and opened his collar. "Your plans or your 
mother's?" 

"Give me some credit," Joy said and her voice rang with earnestness. "Do you 
think I like the idea of her running around with a guy half her age?" Joy 
licked her lips. "You didn't see me at first, but I was watching you at that 
party. You-and the way she glanced at you. Secretly, from time to time. If I 
saw it, everyone must have seen it." She suppressed a trembling breath. "And 
it made me so ashamed-" 

Luke listened to the reverberations of her voice inside him. At last she was 
being sincere. "So you thought you'd steal me away from her and show up her 
foolishness?" 

Joy nodded. "Only I blundered. Badly." She grinned at her own clumsiness. 
"It didn't occur to me until after we were in the car that you could 
perfectly well take me to bed-and still keep on with my mother." She licked 
her lips. "That was a nasty jolt," she said softly. "Killed my whole idea. 
And then you called her-which clinched me, altogether." 

Luke sighed. He relaxed back against the couch and watched the sun move 
southward on the horizon. The bright, eye-hurting rays had cooled and curved 
into a longer slant. He recalled Bess's talk, earlier, of marriage and 
speculated about Joy's reaction to that. He turned to study her with silent 
intentness. Maybe Joy could help him wiggle out of his own tight squeeze 
with Bess. 

Luke moved an inch closer to the girl. "Have you spoken to her about any of 
this?" he asked, keeping his voice easy. 

"How could I have?" Joy said. "Didn't I walk into Grand Central Station 
today? That ridiculous party." 

Luke lifted her hand and put it on his lap. He stroked the knuckles and down 
the long fingers. "You can't barge in, after being gone for two years, and 
tell your mother how to run her affairs," he said, casually probing. 

"Oh, yes I can," Joy flung. "I'm twenty-one now. That's legal." She turned 
to face him and her back arched with concentration. "You know what it means 
for me to be legal? I own half of the business, that's what. It was in my 
father's will, loud and clear. So if I want to, I can sell my half. Or give 
it away. You don't know it, Luke, but I could fix her." 

Luke reached across and put his finger across her lips. "You're acting up a 
storm," he said gently. "Take it easy." 

"Acting, am I?" Joy's eyes glittered. Small lines curved around her mouth in 
a determined look. "You'll find out if I'm acting." 

He saw her slender body begin to tremble. Her breasts, tight up against the 
dress, had hardened into points of excitement. Luke wanted to comfort her as 
he might comfort any frightened animal. He slipped his hand to her shoulder 
and squeezed it. Her body remained rigid for an instant. Then she yielded. 
It was like the erosive sliding away of a firm cliff. Her body lay against 
his chest and the trembling was like that of a young bird lost in winter. 

His arms moved automatically around her without his thinking about it. She 
felt warm and supple. He put his lips to her hair. It smelled marvelously 
fresh of an expensive shampoo. Her cheek against his neck was hot, flushed 
with her trouble and with frustration. Slowly, she tilted her head back. The 
tears glistening in her eyes made of them rare gems. She was looking at him, 
through him, possessing him with her gaze. And he realized that she did not 
know her power. 

"It'll be all right, Joy," he said, his voice even, almost harsh. 

"I'll make it all right," she said. "You know I will." 

Luke nodded. Something about her conviction also convinced him. He did not 
know how she would bend Bess to her wishes, but it was going to happen or 
someone would break in the process. Gently, he kissed her on the forehead, 
smoothing away the one wrinkle imbedded there. She did not pull away from 
him. 

"Are you going to help me?" she asked, her voice quivering. 

Luke pressed his lips together, not wanting to say yes, but feeling that he 
meant yes, anyhow. 

"Well, are you?" she insisted. 

What the hell, Luke thought. It was high time for of Bess to be dethroned. 
She was beginning to pull wise tricks, wasn't she? like the matter with 
Winston. Threatening him with such a cheap trick as killing Winston's order 
meant that Bess intended to tie Luke to her apron strings-real tight. 

"Yes, I'll help you, Joy," he said. "But I'll have to do it my way." 

Joy nodded. She sighed. She pushed her weight up onto her knees and pressed 
her lips to his. There was gratefulness in the kiss, and then Luke felt the 
explosion of desire. 

 CHAPTER SEVEN 

Her lips flung flame that licked out and drew him toward her body. They 
rested together among the lush cushions, his hands gripping first her 
shoulders, then the firm mounds of her breasts. They pressed against his 
palms. He could feel the life that leaped in them, the pressure of desire 
thrusting them harder at his hands. Her breath was a moist flower at the 
side of his mouth. The perfume of her flesh swathed him, deafening his ears 
to the sound of day and blinding his eyes to the last lingering streaks of 
light. 

She was murmuring something, but he could not tell what. Automatically, he 
soothed her with gentle words. Her dress came open easily. Two small hooks 
yielded to his fingers to let the material fall apart and away from her 
shoulders, revealing the half cups of her brassiere. He plunged his mouth to 
the creamy swells of her tit flesh and felt the rhythm of her heart beat 
growing more rapid, wilder. He worked off the brassiere and focused his lips 
around one hardened crest of her nipple. Her opened mouth panted against his 
skull. His fingers slipped down along her sides to her belly. Elastic gave 
to the pull of his fingertips. He moved her undergarments down the curve of 
her hips and over her thighs, just brushing the bush of her cunt with his 
hand. His mouth slid down to the inside of one leg and rested there, held in 
place by the pressure of her palms on his head, as he nuzzled his nose into 
her snatch. 

She felt smooth and hot. As though she had been waiting for him. They had 
known each other less than two hours and yet he was crazed with the need to 
possess her. He felt her knee move beneath him, tilting his head toward her 
body. 

Be good to me, Luke, she whispered and she slipped her body down along the 
cushions. 

He watched the weight of her sink deep. Many women had lain here, with their 
cunts spread and waiting as she was, for his caresses. Yet no woman had ever 
sent him into such a froth of needing. With a sudden jolting, he knew that 
he wanted to be cruel to her. Slash her wide. Cut to the very core that made 
her live. Discover the secrets of her strange magnetism. He had slipped to 
his knees on the carpet beside the sofa. Easily, freely, his head roamed up 
and down the arching body that swelled toward him. With her eyelids shut, 
she seemed like an elf that had wandered out from a secret cave. Then the 
lashes fluttered open and she was all vixen, holding him with the glittering 
desire in the deep green pools of her eyes. He thought he could drown in 
them. Tip over and slip down, down into the hot soul of her. 

"Take your clothes off," she said. "Come to me. Fuck me." 

Roughly, he tore off his shirt and yanked himself out of his pants. He 
slipped his weight over hers, rubbing his nakedness up the full length of 
her body, beginning at the knees and moving slowly upward till their bellies 
touched and he could feel her cringing beneath him with desire. He felt as 
if his cock would burst. 

"Now," she murmured. "I need you." Her fingers reached and found him, 
gripping his hardness. She grasped and held him, her fingers cold, her palm 
hot. Luke shivered within her touch. Her knees pressed against the outsides 
of his thighs, drawing him down to her, forcing his cock into her bush. 

Now they lay together. He heard a slow grunt of pain ease from her lips. It 
had happened too fast and now he realized that this was the first time for 
her. She had not wanted him to find out before it was too late. Instead, she 
had taken the knife edge of pain, accepted it gladly, so that now she had 
the prize of possessing him. The instant of thought dissolved. Swirls of 
passion spiralled as they humped. He tried to be gentle but it was no use. 

She murmured something. 

A shudder convulsed him. He knew what she wanted, what she needed. Give it 
to her-give it to her good. He heard the sound of their flesh meeting in 
sharp slaps. Their perspiration mingled as the tempo of their fucking 
increased. 

Luke held himself back. He wanted her to break into fulfillment before 
releasing his super wad. It seemed ages, ages that she climbed, slowly, her 
body gradually growing tighter, her back a flexible arc pushing her hot box 
to meet him. Her eyeballs rolled beneath her closed lids. The half parted 
lips were cracked with dryness. Occasionally she swallowed down a gasp of 
air. Her hands moved wildly over his back, the nails digging into his neck, 
into the tender flesh at the sides of his arms as the fuck continued. 

"Oh, now," she groaned. 

He felt it happening for her as her body thrust with a sudden release. Small 
gasps, barely audible, escaped her lips. Her hunching was now out of 
control. 

Luke pressed his eyes shut. He buried his face in the soft flesh of her 
shoulders as he shot his thick, fat tool into her awaiting snatch. 

The room was in darkness when they sat up. Luke reached for a lamp. 

"No, don't put it on," she whispered. "Not yet." 

He let his hand fall away from the switch. He felt tired, emptied and oddly 
unreal. He reached behind him to a narrow table, touching the couch 
lengthwise. On the table top he found a dimmer switch and turned up a bluish 
bulb in the hallway. There was just enough light to make out the profile of 
her face and its shadowed features. He could tell her expression without 
hurting her eyes, without Joy having to see herself. 

"What do you take me for?" he said, his voice gruff. "A high school idiot?" 

Joy crossed her arms over her naked breasts. She had begun to lean against 
him. Now she pulled her body straight, startled by the tone of his voice. 
"Why is it," she asked, "that grown men always hate to be the first?" 

"They don't all," Luke answered. "But they do like to be told." 

"You mean warned?" Her voice matched his for hardness. 

"Alright. Warned. Why didn't you say anything?" he asked, aware of the 
futility that sat heavy on his shoulders. "Were you afraid I'd turn you 
down? Or laugh?" 

"I don't know why," she said simply. "You wouldn't believe the truth, even 
if I told it to you." 

Luke turned away, his eyes raking the darkness for his trousers. He felt 
silly sitting there naked. How could he argue with her when they were both 
naked? "Forget it," he sighed. "It's over with." 

He heard the distinct pause that held Joy suspended. Then she said, "Is it 
over?" 

Luke laughed with a bitter edge. "You mean, will I ever take you to bed 
again?" His toe caught in the pocket of his rumpled trousers and he pulled 
them to him. 

"Luke, I didn't want to lie to you." 

He felt the silken touch of her hair brush his arm. She was leaning close. 
One breast, warm and flaccid now, pressed his side. "I've got enough other 
troubles," he said, "without this." 

"I needed it," she said simply. "For years I've been saving it. Just to be 
different from the pack of kids I traveled around with. You know how it 
goes. Everyone sleeping around with each other. To me it looked corny. And I 
thought that if I ever got caught up in that sort of routine, I might never 
be able to claw my way out. So I decided on the reverse extreme. To be a 
miser." She fumbled about in the semi-dark, found her purse. A match flared. 
A fume of fresh smoke rose toward the ceiling. "But a girl can't go on like 
that forever, you know," she said scientifically. "I guess today, coming 
home for the first time in so long-the excitement of it. I must have gotten 
rattled. And there you were..." 

"Nothing like being in the right place at the right time," Luke commented. 
"I feel like a sweepstakes ticket." 

"Don't take it like that," she urged. "Darling, please don't. I could have 
waited some more. Except, when I saw you, there was suddenly no reason to go 
on waiting." 

"And besides, think how such a conquest would trounce your mother." 

"That had nothing to do with it," Joy said quickly. 

Luke clasped his hands behind his head and let her finish the cigarette. 
What was the use of arguing? Regardless of Joy's reasons, it could do no 
harm that he had made love to her. Besides, if she were telling him one 
ounce of truth, she would make a good foil against Bess' plan to own him. 

"Well, what the hell," Luke said. "I promised to help you and that's what is 
important. Let't not quibble." He reached for the lamp light and switched it 
on full. The glow slanted down her cheek. She winced and pulled away. He 
leaned over and put the mound of her crumpled clothing in her naked lap. 
"Now, get dressed," he said. "We've got to get out of here." 

He watched her obey. There was something simple and pleasant about her 
quickness. She would be a willing learner in more ways than one, he 
reflected, admiring how she had gotten him to make love to her. Another type 
of virgin would have cringed, at some point, and howled at the pain. Joy had 
been brave. She had been determined. They were good qualities to have on 
your side, he told himself. 

Joy did not want any supper before they returned to the house. Quietly, they 
rode back in her car, Luke driving with one hand on the wheel, moving at a 
leisurely pace through the traffic that had thickened into a mass of red 
glowing tail lights. He felt glad that this day was finally coming to a 
close. Tomorrow, back at the plant, things would become real again. Marty's 
smiling face would bob around the door frame to meet him with her innocent, 
open greeting. The rhythm of smooth running machines would soothe him with 
its dragon-like rumble. Things he could lay his hands on. Hold. Admire. 

"Here's home," Luke said, pulling up in front of Bess' house. "Happy 
landings." 

The familiar limousines and small, expensive sports cars had gone, he noted, 
as he climbed out of the car and handed Joy the key. His gaze flicked to the 
windows, but he could make out little behind the protective curtains. 

Joy pushed the front door open. .The house was quiet. All remnants of the 
party had been cleared away. The furniture, replaced on a vacuumed rug, made 
all seem calm. Luke leaned back and pressed the doorbell, to let Bess know 
they had arrived. 

Bess came bouncing down the stairs. She had changed out of the dark dress 
into a pair of at-home slacks. Their velvet texture clung to her slender 
firmness. She seemed as bright as the tiny brooch that glittered on her 
lightweight sweater. 

Luke stared at her hard to discover what the real mood was beneath all the 
pretense of pleasantness. He could find nothing to challenge the lightness, 
the pleasure, the easy manner of her approach. She was in full possession of 
herself and of the situation. And yet, how could Bess not know, Luke asked 
himself. Joy's deadpan calmness must have given it all away. Joy wasn't even 
trying to hide what they had done. She seemed too tense, too alert. Ready to 
grapple with her mother as though they were enemy teams on the ball field. 

"Well, you two certainly managed to avoid being sociable today," Bess said, 
coming close and taking each of them by a hand. "Are you hungry?" She 
glanced from one to the other. "Would you like a snack?" 

Joy said, "I'll have something in my room, thanks. I'm all wrung out." 

"Poor dear." Bess kissed her on the forehead, ignoring the obvious chill in 
Joy's manner. "The trip must have been a wretched strain. And then all this. 
Yes, darling, you run along and we'll send you up a lovely supper." 

Joy flung Luke a last glance of appeal. The emerald green of her eyes 
flashed through him hauntingly. Without another word, she turned away and 
ran up the stairs lightly, quickly. 

Luke blinked after her, wondering, suddenly, if it had all happened or if, 
in a drunken stupor, he had dreamed it. 

"So," Bess squeezed his fingers. "How do you like my little girl?" Her voice 
trailed softly, musing. 

It was a silly question, Luke thought. "Oh, fine. Fine. I like her just 
great," he answered, feeling like a kid who had just tracked in mud over a 
brand new carpet. 

"I thought you would," Bess smiled slowly, turning to him. 

Luke grimaced. "Why the hell don't you just come to the point?" he said 
softly. 

Bess shrugged. She seemed like innocence disturbed. "Does there have to be 
one?" she asked. 

Luke withdrew his hand from hers and searched for his pipe. "You're not the 
kind to waste anybody's time, Bess. Neither am I. So let me warn you of 
something." He tamped tobacco into the bowl and smoothed it with his thumb. 
"You can dangle a million luscious little broads in front of my face, but 
they won't blind me to what you're doing behind my back." He folded the 
oilskin pouch slowly and squeezed it flat. "I mean Winston." 

Bess quirked an eyebrow. "Oh, yes, Winston," she said, as though she hadn't 
heard anything else that Luke had said. "You know he wants to have a word 
with you." 

"As long as you're the messenger," Luke said icily, "you can tell him to 
ring me up and come to see me at my office." 

Bess drew him into the living room. "You're not afraid of anything, are 
you?" she said softly, smiling at him. "Not me. Or the possibility of going 
bankrupt. Or young, attractive girls." She drew him down to sit beside her 
on the couch. "What touches you, Luke? Anything? What's stronger than you 
are?" 

Luke stuck the pipe stem between his teeth and ran his tongue along its 
slit. He remembered Chrystie pressed by the crowds in the movie house lobby. 
The look on her face, frightened and brave at the same time. Bess wouldn't 
understand about women like Chrystie. Bess wouldn't put herself out half an 
inch. 

"Speaking of strength," Luke said suddenly, "What about the Crane interest? 
Is he getting swallowed up in this whirlpool of yours, too?" Luke moved the 
pipe to the other corner of his mouth. "Poor guy. He looked soused as an old 
herring." 

"Roland Crane is nothing anymore," Bess said with conviction. "I'm going to 
make him bankrupt, then buy him out." She smiled with reflection. "My 
husband used to say that Roland had one of the finest strategic minds in the 
industry." She watched him strike on the butane lighter. "But greed got the 
better of him, didn't it." 

"Greed?" 

"Yes. He wouldn't change with the times. When we all began to diversify 
after the war, Roland was the only one who insisted that history bend to his 
convenience. Now let him manufacture his vitamin pills and choke on them. 
We'll buy him out. Expand into pharmaceuticals and biochemical research for 
outer space." 

Luke wrinkled his forehead as he listened to her plans. "Hold it," he said. 
"I'm just a little ol' pill manufacturer myself." 

Bess narrowed her eyes. They glittered with the inner satisfaction of her 
thoughts. "It's only the beginning for you, Luke. I'll make you one of the 
big timers. In no time at all, you'll be getting government contracts." 

For an instant, Luke felt himself waver. Let himself feel the thrill of 
being one of the sleek sharks prowling the deep waters. Then he smiled to 
himself, recalling that Joy had a final check on Bess' grand ideas. 

"Count me out," Luke said easily. 

Bess leaned toward him. "Luke, don't be a fool," she whispered. "This is a 
good chance for you. Maybe the only one you'll ever have. You could be rich. 
Really rich. Have everything you've ever dreamed about. Power. Women." Her 
mouth twisted crookedly. "I know you like women, Luke." 

He backed away from her intensity. "Sure," he said. "I like women and money 
as much as any guy. But don't get carried away with yourself, Bess. I 
understand that Warrington didn't leave the whole caboodle in your fist 
alone." Luke grinned. "He must have respected your enthusiasm." 

Bess stared at him harshly. 

"What do I mean?" Luke asked the question for her. He sucked idly on the 
pipe and poured smoke toward the ceiling, watching the fumes curl in the 
windless air. "Oh, you know," he said. "I mean Joy's fifty-percent 
ownership." 

Bess chortled. She touched the brooch on her sweater and arched her back so 
that her breasts lifted with triumph. "I see you used your time with her 
efficiently." There was double meaning in her voice. "Well, Luke, if I were 
you, I wouldn't let it bother me. Yes, Joy has fifty percent, but only under 
on condition, which I assume she neglected to tell you." 

Luke sat back. For the first time, his glance focused on Bess with complete 
interest. 

"You see, my husband was nobody's fool," Bess continued. "He understood that 
Joy would be coming into a very powerful position and so he took the pains 
to protect her, and our future, from the dangerous intervention of 
fortuneseekers." Bess rubbed her knuckles slowly. "Joy becomes my partner 
only after she has married. And married a man whose income is, as Dewey put 
it, substantial." 

"That was very wise," Luke commented softly. 

"Yes, of course." Bess leaned over and kissed his cheek. "You see, the 
Warringtons somehow manage to think of everything." 

 CHAPTER EIGHT 

Luke decided to walk home. His body felt sodden and over-indulged. His mind 
felt sharp with razor wounds of anger. The pipe jutted out from his teeth 
and he sucked on it erratically, hardly noticing that the flame had died and 
that he was tasting only the sour aftermath. Fifth Avenue, Sunday at 
midnight, was a ghost street. The staid, sprawling museum and further 
downtown, the cluster of buildings blotting the velvet sky, the solid sound 
of his footsteps on deserted pavement, all made an eerie backdrop to his 
thoughts. His fists, rigid in his pockets, felt cold and the cold slid up 
along the insides of his arms. Until now, it had all been a lark. The plant. 
His affair with Bess. None of it seemed real or important until a short 
while ago. His brain swirled and smoked with possibilities. For, 
unwittingly, Bess had shown him the rope with which to hang her. All he had 
to do was marry Joy. 

He reached the apartment hotel. Standing at the curb, he glanced up its 
length of windows to where the top floor disappeared in the first 
condensations of mist. How would it feel to own this building? Or half a 
dozen, even taller? He remembered how his childhood had been circled round 
and round by the endless chain of figures that was his mother's budget. A 
steady income was not enough. 

Hard work was not enough. That small core of futility inside him was 
suddenly clamoring to be recognized after too many years of silence. A light 
wind blew through his hair. With his feet planted wide, he rocked back onto 
the heels of his shoes, while his mind gave way to sensations of power 
achieved. What would it mean? Getting out of the rat race, that's what. 
Having the whole world to roam in. No Winstons to shake lint on your 
shoulder. No Bess Warringtons to nibble away at you like mice in a thatched 
roof. He leaned against a lamp post, took the pipe from his mouth and stared 
at the charred bits of tobacco sticking up from the bowl. And if he had the 
right kind of power, he could prevent Roland Crane from being ruined, which 
in turn, would protect Chrystie. 

He slung his weight forward and propelled himself through the lobby to the 
elevator. His cheeks felt drawn and his shoulders ached. He watched the 
floor numbers light up one after another. For a moment, he felt that the 
little square box would keep on going, crash through the roof and hurtle out 
into space. It swooped and settled like a great bird. He slogged heavily to 
his room and went inside, leaving the lights off, hoping the darkness would 
cool him. 

Flopping down on the couch, he let his arm trail to the carpet and let his 
body rest, suspended before decision. He could almost see, imprinted on the 
ceiling, Marty's round face, consternated with puzzlement. But who the hell 
was Marty? Just a kid. He didn't have to explain to her every change that 
happened. Maybe he would even get her a job in some other company where her 
inclination to run things like a mother hen wouldn't interfere with him. His 
mind rambled on. None of the personnel could be retained. Or the workers 
upstairs. A complete upheaval. Perhaps even a change of location. The list 
of readjustments seemed endless. Luke rolled over onto his side and stared 
at the outline of his fingertips in the dark. And after the changes, then 
what? 

Luke shuddered in response to a magnetic pull. The tempo of life itself 
would quicken. Instead of being buried in Long Island, the plant would 
relocate closer to the capital. To the center of action. His lips went dry 
and he licked them twice. He felt the muscles in his neck tighten and then 
relax, like a boxer suddenly clearly confident. How many times do you live? 
How many chances do you get? And if he didn't take this chance, might Bess 
not snuff him out someday too? There seemed no middle ground. He sat up and 
stretched the muscles of his back. He hadn't the bull-like blindness of a 
Roland Crane. The pulse of opportunity felt strong in his blood and it 
carried him along on the crest of its quickening speed. 

He slept hard. Without dreams. At six, the alarm woke him. His eyelids shot 
wide, his body instantly alert like a freed animal. The electric razor pawed 
at his chin, cleared off the top stubble. He patted powder over the faint 
remaining shadow. He slicked back his hair with water, but his reflection 
remained brutally, frankly aggressive. By a quarter of seven, he was 
downstairs. The garage man had brought around his green Lincoln convertible. 
It was the old Continental model, but with the latest motor and 
transmission. A deep wax shine held reflections on the doors and fenders. He 
got in and slammed the door shut. It closed with a substantial thud. Idly, 
he wondered if Joy would admire this heap or laugh him out of his own 
affection for it. The new canvas top with its narrow slit for a rear window 
gave him a comfortable, classic feeling. Race cars were okay-for Sunday. 

He pushed a radio button and music came on softly. He crossed to Second 
Avenue and downtown, moving toward the north corner of Twenty-Second Street 
where he picked up Marty every morning, saving her commuter's train fare to 
the Island. He glimpsed the fragment of sky straight ahead. The hazy pink 
told him that today would be another bright, hot day, previewing summer. 
Trucks lumbered on both sides of him, shooting exhaust fumes in through the 
open vent windows. At Twenty-third Street, he veered toward the curb. 

Luke caught sight of her, waiting, as usual, on her corner. She was always 
there, always early. This morning, perched on her slender high heels, she 
seemed younger than he remembered. Fresher, too. She wore a shirtwaist 
dress, white with delicate blue stripes. Her white gloved hands clutched a 
black patent leather purse that matched the shoes. He usually took her for 
granted. Today, the sight of Carl Martin's frank eagerness sent a wistful 
pain through his skull bones. He squeeled to the curb, leaned over and let 
the car door swing open. 

"Hi, bossman," she said. Her short, taffy-colored hair bounced as she came 
sliding in, settling the flares of her skirt with one hand and shutting the 
door with the other so that he could scoot right back into the traffic. 

She smelled of country flowers. Probably from something she'd put in her 
bath, Luke thought idly. There were two faint spots of color in her cheeks 
and the freckles seemed more in profusion than he recalled. 

"Been sunning?" he said, wanting to keep the chatter between them off 
business. 

"Yep. Up on the roof," she answered brightly. "That gave me a chance to 
finish the book I was telling you about. You know, the one where that 
precious little woman shoots curare-tipped arrows." 

"I remember," Luke said firmly. "Don't those things give you nightmares?" 

"Why should they?" She opened her purse and took out a silk kerchief. The 
pale yellow color brought out the yellow of her eyes. "It's like doing 
crossword puzzles," she said. "Can you imagine? Figuring out from a bit of 
bone only two inches long that it belonged to a female in her twenties..." 

"Save it for after breakfast," Luke said. 

Marty wrinkled her nose with laughter. "You know something? I think you're a 
little too squeamish." 

Luke nodded philosophically. If he were squeamish, it was a quality that he 
would have to ignore. With all the heads about to be lopped off by him, he 
just couldn't afford to think too much. 

For awhile they rode in silence, crossing high-curved bridges and moving 
into the webbed link of highways that funneled traffic deep into Long 
Island. 

"I brought that message from Winston," Marty said into the silence. "Just in 
case you wanted to see it." She opened her purse and took out a folded piece 
of yellow paper. 

Luke shook his head. "Doesn't matter," he said. "Just dump it and forget 
it." From the side of his vision, Luke saw her smiling. He glanced at her 
quickly. The sun lay in a morning-cool streak across her mouth and the small 
pointed chin. He wondered again what she was doing, being alone on weekends. 

"Good for you, boss," she said. "I never did care for his orders anyway." 

"And what, in your opinion was the matter with them?" Luke asked, humoring 
her. 

"They gave me a funny feel," she said, pursing her lips. "Those pink slips 
with their erratic numbers. No solid company slides up and down as much as 
his did in the amounts they need from one season to the next." 

Luke listened. He began to realize that Marty's observation was astute. The 
orders had been irregular, come to think of it. His mouth went grim. Maybe 
the whole thing was a set up by Bess. Did Winston depend for his survival on 
Bess's good will? He wondered how many companies were, in fact, mere 
satellites around the Warrington strength. 

"Forget it. We're having breakfast," Luke said. 

"Pancakes," Marty said, flouncing up the steps ahead of him. "That's what I 
feel like this morning. With tons of syrup." 

Smiling, Luke followed her inside to the warm aroma of freshly brewing 
coffee. Men in their business suits and starched white shirt sat together in 
pairs, talking earnestly, some of them rattling papers, all of them alert to 
the new day, the new start for the week. The atmosphere of suburban living 
permeated them, sat on their features like a stamp of good health and 
relaxed weekends. He ordered Marty's pancakes and fried eggs with bacon for 
himself, aware suddenly that his guts felt hollow with a yearning for 
nourishment. 

"Someday," Marty said, eyeing the burned bacon when it arrived, "I'm going 
to cook a breakfast for you." 

"Fine," Luke said and sipped his coffee. 

"Fine isn't the name of any day in the week that I know of," Marty 
countered. 

Luke grinned over the rim of his cup. It was true. He was always too busy to 
relax. "Tomorrow," he blurted. "Okay?" 

Marty's answering smile exuded genuine pleasure. "I'll even squeeze you 
fresh orange juice," she said, "with my own lily white wrists." 

Luke felt warm appreciation spread through him. Here was one girl who seemed 
to know her own worth without making a hullabaloo. 

Luke called for more coffee. The wall clock at the far end of the room told 
him that they had plenty of time to reach the plant. "When it comes to 
business," Luke explained, "there's no room for personal feelings." 

"I don't believe it," Marty said, her voice flushing with energy. "There 
isn't anything without personal feelings mixed in." 

"You've led a sheltered life," Luke said gently. "You'll raise happy, loving 
children someday. But don't ever try to be a business tycoon. The Lord be 
thanked, you don't have the head for it." 

Marty sat back against the red leatherette of the booth. Her mouth firmed up 
and then relaxed. Apparently, she had thought about arguing the point with 
him and had decided against it. "I'll leave the tycooning to you," she said 
brightly. "Will you pass the cream, please?" 

He had trained her into letting him pick up the tab for her breakfasts. At 
first, her independence had flared. Then gradually he had subdued it. The 
pleasure he got out of this one, infinitesimal indulgence seemed greatly out 
of proportion. 

The rode the rest of the way to the plant in silence. Around a long, shallow 
curve, the factory came into view. It sat outlined against the sky, the 
stark, rambling lines forcing the eye's attention to it. An acre of lawn had 
been sodded around the buildings. The intense green lay in manicured luxury 
midst the sandy, bouldered lot. Jutting up from the grass, a long sign in 
white with gold letters read: PLAINE ENTERPRISES. The legend had gone up at 
Bess's suggestion and Luke realized that he had learned to look for this 
reflection of his power first thing each morning. The bus that brought in 
the workers would not arrive for another ten minutes. Luke pushed through 
the double doors and the night watchman touched his cap in greeting. They 
moved around one el of the building, followed it to the very end. Marty 
fitted a bulky key into the oak entrance door to their office. 

The room inside was a plain place of rough oak furniture that looked stolen 
from the local public school. There was something old fashioned, but 
comfortable about the spotted green blotter, the random squat-jarred plants 
on the windowsills, the picture calendar hanging from an angled nail. He had 
fought with Bess about this office, but he had forced her to leave him alone 
in this one area. Modern signs outside were one thing. The atmosphere where 
he had to work most of the day was quite another. He watched Marty getting 
started in her own portion of the room, visible beyond a glass partition 
that reached almost to the ceiling. She dropped her purse into a desk 
drawer, lifted a sheaf of papers off a long spike and began sorting them. 
Beyond her, through the double windows, Luke saw the green and yellow bus 
shudder to a stop and the workers began to pour out, squinting against the 
sunlight as they crossed the asphalt road. The day had begun, Luke realized. 
But days like these were numbered. 

 CHAPTER NINE 

Unconsciously, through the day's more routine duties, Luke waited for 
Winston to call. When Marty signalled that the man was finally on the other 
end of the wire, Luke had the message all written out for Marty to read. He 
stood by her and listened while she told Winston that Mr. Plaine would see 
him at three, in the men's bar at Winston hotel. 

Marty replaced the receiver. "He said you'd do better to come up to his 
suite." 

Luke shrugged. "That's okay with me." He spoke calmly, but he could feel his 
heart racing. If he finished with Winston early enough, the chances were 
pretty good that he could get to see Chrystie for an hour. "Want to drive me 
to the station?" he said, dropping the keys into Marty's palm. "You can 
drive yourself home later on. I won't be back again today." 

"You keep spending less and less time here," Marty answered casually., It 
was a statement that needed no reply. 

Luke heard the words. They whizzed through his more vivid thoughts and he 
brushed Marty off with an absent gesture. She took him to the station and he 
rode into Manhattan, his energies coiled with a lurking delight as he 
anticipated skinning Winston once and for all. Clasping his laced fingers 
around one knee, he rocked back on the plush seat and wallowed in the cool, 
bracing waters of his own cruelty. 

A taxi took him to the imposing hotel where Winston always stayed on his 
trips to New York. Throughout the year, he kept a suite of rooms reserved 
for his visits. The door was opened to him by a small woman in starched blue 
and white uniform. Beyond her, at the far end of the room stood Winston. He 
lifted an oversize brandy snifter in greeting. 

"Good to see ya," Winston called, his bulging eyes alert, shrewd,' yet 
somehow withdrawn. The greeting concluded, his mouth still hung open in a 
staunch smile that reddened his already flushed face. "What're ya drinking, 
man? Here-have one of the best cigars made." 

Luke took the cigar and bit off its end, waiting while the froth of 
Winston's first round of chatter settled down. Settling into a velour club 
chair, Luke realized that though he had seen Winston many times, they 
actually had spoken very little. 

"Guess you're wondering why this heigh-ho, eh, son?" Winston said, grunting 
as he lowered himself into a chair opposite Luke's. "I'll come straight to 
the facts." Liquid sloshed up the sides of the glass as Winston swung it in 
front of his jowled face. "You see, I got to cut back drastically on my 
orders or stop 'em altogether, pending a change in the business I'm running. 
Now word of mouth leads me to understand that you, sir, are also 
contemplating a diversification, and that I might expect to place my new 
business in your hands." 

Luke struggled not to let his smile of satisfaction show. He could see Bess 
written all over Winston's face. He could hear her thoughts underscore 
Winston's words. So it was true that Winston, too, was a drowned sheep. 
Winston and Crane and how many others? Already, he could feel the new power 
trembling through his skin, charging him up with cold, electric chills. It 
was like skipping through the garden and plucking posies, the way Bess was 
gathering up businesses that were crumbling because they had not had the 
foresight to change with the times. Posies, or maybe gravestones, Luke 
corrected himself. The end results of men's lives, anyway. For men like 
Winston had poured their life's blood into their enterprises. 

"Why the hell don't you tell Bess to go screw herself?" Luke rasped with 
sudden venom. "A man can start over again." 

He saw Winston's face go rigid in response to unexpected pain. The mouth 
relaxed, tried to smile, then gave up the facade of attempt. "You young 
beginners," he said. "It's different at your age, Lukas." 

Luke fell silent. He heard the echo of futility in Winston's tone. There was 
no use trying to convince a man who, like Winston, had already flung in the 
towel. 

"Now, what about it?" Winston pressed on, setting his glass carefully on an 
inlaid wood table top. "Are we going to make a private deal between us, or 
not?" 

"Sure I'm ready to make a deal with you, Winston," Luke answered. Lazily he 
leaned back and crossed his legs at the ankles. "You just tell me what 
you've got in mind." 

Afterward and alone, Luke went downstairs to the men's bar and swallowed 
down a double Scotch. He stared across the room at the telephone booth, 
feeling within himself the calm, yet bloody effects. Progress, however, 
necessarily meant death for some; the weakest, the old, the stupid. Why, 
then, give Winston another thought? Fishing for silver, he strode across the 
room, slid into the booth and dialed Chrystie's home phone number. 

For an instant's pause, he listened to the pleasant, yet basically 
impersonal tone of her hello. He realized, with sudden impact, that there 
was no one in her daily life who really touched her, no one that she cared 
to speak with. 

"Hi," Luke said. 

"Luke?" The single syllable was like an ember warmed. "Luke, are you all 
right?" 

"Why shouldn't I be all right?" he said, smiling. 

"I don't know." She sounded concerned and a trifle vague. "I saw you at the 
party, and then you were gone, into thin air." 

"Not quite," Luke said gently. Then, changing the subject, "Are you free?" 

"When?" 

"Now. Can you get out now." 

"Oh, dear, yes." 

"Will you take a cab to the corner of Forty Fifth and Third?" 

"I'll be there in twenty minutes." 

"Fine." 

Outside, the street air kicked at his spirits. Joggled up the mixture of 
brandy and Scotch. Working people on their way home clogged the 
thoroughfare. Buses groaned. He chose a narrower street along which to walk 
cross-town. Moving briskly, his stride swinging, Luke began to picture 
Chrystie soft and yielding his arms. The one good person in his life. 

He reached the street comer before she did. He leaned against an edge of 
building, feeling the ridges of its cold bricks dig into his back. Then his 
ears caught the rattle of a cab slowing at the curb. His head swiveled. His 
stare caught her face smiling across at him from the shadowed depths. He 
crossed the sidewalk in long, racing strides, opened the cab door and jumped 
in. 

Their knees touched for a second. He felt the sensation of contact with her 
warm flesh. All gloom and anger melted. He leaned over, kissed her hard, but 
briefly, on the mouth. 

"All right, buddy, where we goin'? " the cab driver said with a drawling 
mockery of patience. 

He gave the address as Chrystie leaned back to the far corner of the leather 
seat. The wide brim of her straw hat curved down low on either side of her 
face, hiding most of her cheeks. 

"Have you a cigarette?" she asked softly. "I seem to have forgotten mine." 

"We'll get some," he answered, leaning back in his own corner. 

"Your place?" she asked quietly. 

Luke scowled out the window. He nodded, but did not turn his head, not 
wanting her to see his sudden, flaring anger. "You've never been there," he 
said, forcing lightness. "It's about time." 

She said nothing. He watched the streets until he saw, ahead, a rickety 
newspaper stand jutting out from a candy store. The cabbie pulled up. Luke 
got the cigarettes for her. Moving cross-town again, she smoked patiently as 
the cab became locked in traffic. They said nothing. The internal silence of 
the cab made a cafe. The meter ticked loudly. Luke wrestled with himself for 
something to talk about. He didn't want to talk, though. What was there to 
say? He wanted only to get her out of those beautiful, clean clothes. She 
looked too perfect, too much in possession of herself. He preferred the 
sensation of her warm flesh growing hotter, perspiring, trembling against 
him, needing. He glanced at the large round watch on his wrist. Wound it. 

"If you're worried about the time because of me," she said softly, "you 
needn't be." 

Luke flicked his gaze at her. "This is new," he said. "Where's Roland?" 

Chrystie's smile was a feeble attempt. "He went to Philadelphia this 
morning. Some kind of meeting." 

"Without you?" Luke's voice was curious. 

Chrystie nodded. "Without me," she echoed. 

Luke snorted surprise. "First time?" 

"Yes," Chrystie said, her voice thoughtful. "He seems to have much more on 
his mind than me, these days." 

"I noticed that." Luke took out his pipe, examined the caked material inside 
the bowl. "Didn't know he was such a drunk," he added flatly. 

"That's the latest," Chrystie said with frankness. "Everything seems to be 
falling apart around him. Our marriage. His self-respect." She sighed almost 
inaudibly. "I wish I understood it," she said. "What's happening to him-and 
why?" 

Luke felt a cold thrill of knowledge run up his spine as he realized that 
Chrystie had no knowledge of Crane's impending business disaster. Perhaps 
Crane had already gone bankrupt. It could turn a man to drink. 

"He's too old for you," Luke said. 

"I married Ro because I loved him, you know," Chrystie said, her voice 
emotionless. "I won't divorce him until I feel there's nothing more I can do 
to help." 

Luke's grin was crooked. "That's a crazy kind of loyalty," he said. "You 
just might get wrapped up in the works." 

Chrystie raised one inquiring eyebrow. "I don't understand what you mean." 

"Perhaps you're clinging to a man who's already drowned," Luke said gently, 
thinking of his interchange with Winston. 

The taxi pulled up in front of the apartment house. Luke paid the fare and 
escorted her through the lobby's large, double-doored entrance. Only a week 
ago, he wouldn't have risked such an open move. Now he felt all powerful. 
Even if Crane were sitting right here in the lobby, what could the old boy 
do? Luke watched Chrystie's slowly undulating walk and felt his chest go 
tight. He would have to provide for her, in some way, when Crane split open 
at the seams. 

In the empty elevator, he began to kiss her. Lightly, beneath the bobbing 
hat brim. She laughed close to his face. A low, self-conscious laugh, as 
though she were permitting something to be violated for the sake of her 
love. Luke slid his hands along her arms. He knew that he possessed her 
completely. She had never said so and he had never asked, yet the feeling 
hung between them without need of words. 

He let her into the apartment and gave her time to look around, to adjust 
herself within the spacious surroundings. Now he felt glad for all the 
comforts he had put in. He watched her remove the hat, lifting it from her 
forehead. She shook her hair free. Its flame color seemed hot now in the 
cooling dusk of the rooms. She wore a silk scarf with delicate polka dots, 
tied in an ascot. Casually, she lifted it out and removed it. The pale flesh 
of her bosom showed, implying how relaxed she was, here, with him. He 
watched her stroll about, her fingertips grazing the backs of chairs, as 
though she needed to absorb a lifetime of information about him in one hour. 
He stared at the naked show of flesh in the deep V of her suit jacket and 
down to the neat, full lips. The tailored skirt outlined her tight, high 
buttocks-something to be proud of, of course. She looked tall and right in 
these rooms, he thought, fixing a whiskey and water for her. 

"I like it here," she mused. "It feels something like you, Luke," she said. 
"But not quite." 

Luke grinned. "Not quite what?" he said, taking the glass to her. 

"Well, not quite you. Exactly. I don't feel the personal you in these 
furnishings." 

"I don't live here-maybe that's why." 

She set down the drink without tasting it. "So this is the lion's den, is 
it?" She smiled a slow spread of warmth that showed the glistening edges of 
her teeth. "This is where you take the girls when they're weak and panting." 
She slid her arms around his neck, enjoying the light fun she was making of 
him. 

"The very place," Luke bantered back. 

"Do you beat them?" she said, letting mock fear wrinkle her forehead. 

"Only on Wednesdays," he answered. 

Chrystie let out an exaggerated sigh of regret. "And this is only Monday," 
she said. 

Luke spread his fingers through the weight of her hair. He put his lips to 
the bridge of her nose and closed his eyes. He didn't want to talk or even 
make jokes. He felt the movement of her hands at his jacket buttons. Then 
the jacket fell open. She pressed herself to him. The warmth of her body 
exuded and filtered through his shirt. Her lace brassiere made a distinctive 
flowered pattern to his chest. He slid his hands up beneath the jacket and 
along her back, touching the bony ridges and the soft, curving flesh along 
her sides. He got the jacket off and the brassiere, too. The sight of her 
standing fully, perfectly clothed except for the naked breasts sent shivers 
through him. He put his lips to one smooth shoulder and let his palms hold 
the weight of her breasts. Their flesh was hot. He moved his thumbs to feel 
the hardening crests. She inhaled a quick, raw gasp of breath. 

"Darling Luke," she whispered. 

Her mouth opened against his and he felt the sudden, open demand of her 
tongue and of her body. 

 CHAPTER TEN 

He led her into the bedroom. Shadows lengthened, distorted the shapes of 
furniture. Holding her around the waist, he felt the quickening rhythm of 
her body. The bed, he saw, had not been made. He tried to think who had 
slept with him last-Joy? Another nameless girl? He saw Chrystie note the 
rumpled blanket, then deliberately ignore its meaning. 

Luke turned her around to face him. He found her mouth and possessed it 
hard. Her tongue reached for his, darting eagerly. She grunted deep in her 
throat and moved a hand to get the rest of his clothing off. He felt the 
procedure. Her breasts swung, grazing his chest. Quickly, he got out of his 
clothes. They were standing naked in the velvet dusk. She touched fingertips 
to his forehead. His cock head pressed against her hot snatch as they 
embraced. 

"What are you frowning about?" she asked softly. 

For answer, he grabbed her and fell with her onto the tangled sheets. He 
felt her rolling with him, hunching his meat, as he pulled her to him. She 
was ignoring it, but he could not. Tasting her breasts, he remembered Joy. 
Where was she now? What was she thinking? What was he going to have to do to 
marry her? 

"Darling-" Chrystie's voice trailed down to him breathily. She stroked the 
back of his head and moving her hand down to his crotch, stroked his hard 
cock. Her fingers were warm. Caressing. "I love you," she murmured. 

Her breasts cradled him at the temples. He moved his head down to her belly. 
He lay with his head on one cheek, looking down to where her knees were 
pressing together. He worked his fingers between her thighs. Gradually, he 
spread them. Stroked gently the length of the flesh that curved and felt 
moist. 

Her muscles quivered to his touch. The legs resisted for an instant, then 
yielded, moving wide, allowing him to find her, to probe and rouse her with 
rhythmic stroking. Lifting himself onto his elbows, he swung his body till 
they lay side by side. He felt the pressure building up within himself, 
knotting. 

She swung one leg over his hip and wiggled closer. Her body blended with 
his, her hot snatch fitting its fullness and its hollows along the slant of 
his muscle. She grabbed his biceps as she arched her cunt against him. He 
felt the quivering passion in her strength and the pleading of her body for 
him to fuck her. 

He pressed her back in to the mattress and gave her all of his still-hungry 
meat. Her lips parted as he pumped her. They were glossy with saliva from 
her flicking tongue. 

"Darling," she murmured again. "Fuck me." 

His body became possessed by the grip of her arms and legs around him, 
holding him tightly, his meat being driven into her hole. Her circling hips 
set the rhythm for him to follow. 

He pressed his cheeks into the hollow of her neck and felt there the racing, 
strong pulse. His eyes shut hard as he felt her mounting toward fulfillment. 
Her chin pressed against the top of his skull. He felt the convulsion of her 
body as it trembled, lunging wildly at his pumping cock. 

Afterwards, they lay together across the bed, their legs hanging over the 
side of the mattress, their flesh still touching as they cooled. 

"If Crane's in Philadelphia," Luke said, stroking idly the side of one 
breast, "you can stay all night with me." 

"Yes," she said. She reached over and poised his face between her hands. 
"The whole night." 

"We'll get some dinner first," he said. 

Her eyes, in the darkness, held a glint of laughter, reflecting a distant 
light from somewhere outside. "You're always trying to feed me," she said. 

"I like to take care of you," he said, thoughts flinging backward to the 
sight of Crane, drunk and sloppy. 

"You do," she murmured. "You do that very well." 

Luke lifted himself over her and kissed the last traces of passion on her 
mouth. He had no idea of the time. How long they had lain together, making 
love at intervals, resting, only to come together again, dozing. His own 
stomach felt gutted. It must be close to midnight. Perhaps even later. A 
sixth sense told him that Bess had expected a phone call-that 

Joy had expected perhaps even more than that. To hell with them all, he 
thought with a burst of annoyance. 

"Get your clothes on," he said restlessly. "We'll take a drive somewhere. 
Find a nice place to eat." 

She patted his back. "All right, if you insist." Her voice smiled. 

They dressed in the faint light of a single, dimmed bulb. Luke stared at 
her, realizing that he didn't have his car. He grabbed up the phone and 
dialed Marty's number. 

Her sleepy voice came instantly awake at the sound of him. "I left it at 
your hotel," she said. "Where'd you think?" 

"Yeah," he said, remembering. 

"I thought you'd phone back today," she continued, crisp, straining to be 
business-like. "So many messages-" 

Luke yawned. He wanted to get off the phone. "Any of them important?" 

"I don't know." Her voice was tentative. "Know anything about a conference 
in Philadelphia?" 

Luke stared across at Chrystie, combing her hair in his mirror. He felt a 
fist sock hard at the lower portion of his stomach. "What of it?" 

"Mrs. Warrington's secretary left the time and place-" 

Luke grabbed up a pencil and scribbled the details. "Well, thanks, Marty," 
he said. "Sorry to wake you at this hour." 

"Don't worry about it," she said. "I suppose that means our breakfast date 
is off, then, for tomorrow?" 

"Looks that way," Luke answered. "Can I take a rain check?" 

As he hung up the receiver, he heard Marty sigh. He felt his guts beginning 
to crawl. Whatever he did tomorrow would get back to Chrystie. Maybe not 
right away, but eventually. To prevent her loss of trust in him, he would 
have to tell her the truth himself. 

"Did you goof?" Chrystie said, smiling at him from the mirror. "We can 
always get my car." 

"That's not it." Luke came to her. He took both her hands. 

"What's the matter?" Chrystie's voice was tentative, sensing something. 

Luke searched her questioning face. She would understand nothing of what he 
was about to tell her, but still, he had to remain honest with Chrystie, if 
with no one else. 

"Sit down a minute," he said. "You said you weren't hungry anyhow." 

Obediently, Chrystie sat down on the edge of a straight backed chair. Her 
chin tilted attentively. "Are you trying to scare me, Luke? All that 
scowling-" 

"Am I?" he said distractedly. "Scowling, that is." He cracked his knuckles. 
"This is a bitch, Chrystie. I didn't want it to happen-" 

Chrystie leaned toward him, her back arching stiffly. "What, for heaven's 
sake?" 

"Roland didn't tell you anything, did he?" Luke searched for a single 
helping thread. 

Chrystie shook her head. "Is he mixed up in something, Luke?" She took a 
shaky breath. "Are you?" 

The question lay there-flat, obvious as a corpse between them. 

"You might as well know," Luke said, stepping back from her. "I've got to go 
to Philadelphia tomorrow, too." 

Chrystie's eyelashes fluttered. Then her gaze became steady. "There's 
something terribly wrong, of course," she said quietly. "That much any fool 
could see. Roland wouldn't turn into a lush overnight just for the fun of 
it. And you wouldn't be standing there, staring at me like a sick sheep." 

"I hope you don't love him any more," Luke said. "Because I'd hate to have 
to break your heart." He sighed. "Crane is a has-been. The meeting in 
Philadelphia is for the purpose of reshuffling a number of unstable 
companies. Your husband's is among them." 

He had said it. Now he watched the explosion take place in her eyes. It 
happened without a sound, like a silent movie. He watched the pupils grow 
large, then contract again, as though something had been shot into her 
veins. Luke gritted his teeth. He had to complete the recital of the 
essential details. "I have to be there-at the meeting." His voice was harsh. 
"Because I'm part of the deal. I'm-you see, Chrystie, I'm on the side of the 
scavengers." 

At first, he wondered if she understood his meaning. She sat quite still, 
moving only at her ribs where the rapid breathing showed. Then she said, 
"You mean, Luke, that you're involved with ruining my husband?" 

"That you're married to the guy is one of those crazy accidents of fate," he 
said. "And what the hell are you sounding off so protective for?" Anger 
flashed through him suddenly. "You've got a dead marriage there. I don't 
care what you say, I know you don't love him-" 

"What about loyalty?" she said softly. "What about that?" 

"Well, what about it?" Luke challenged. "You want to sit and hold his hand? 
Go on." 

He saw her shaking visibly, her fingers trembling as she clasped them till 
the knuckles whitened. 

"Have you made any other suggestion?" she said, her voice a whisper. "I 
didn't hear you if you did." 

Luke realized with a cold disturbance of dread what Chrystie meant. He had 
been blowing off a lot of steam, but he hadn't said the one thing that would 
interest her. He hadn't asked her to leave Crane-to leave Crane and come 
with him. Luke whirled, turning his back to her confrontation. There was no 
point in telling her that marriage between them was impossible. What would 
Chrystie understand about his urgent grasping for power? About having to 
marry Joy-the right strategic position-and even if Chrystie understood, she 
would never sympathize. 

"You better take me home." 

Chrystie's voice reached around to him. He stared at a distant corner of the 
floor, aware that taking Chrystie home was the best thing, after all. 
Silently, he got into his jacket and phoned for the doorman to find them a 
cab. He watched Chrystie move woodenly across the floor to the door. She had 
nothing more to say to him. The important matters had all been laid bare. 
His gaze reached out to touch her. Someday, maybe, when all the heat was 
off, she would be able to listen to him. 

They rode downstairs in silence. He saw two faint lines formed around her 
mouth, etching tiredness. She had expected him to explain why matters of 
business had come between them. He saw in her glazed eyes the bewilderment. 
Mechanically, Luke tamped tobacco into his pipe and remained silent. There 
was no explanation he could offer her that would not sound flimsy. 
Nevertheless, he knew he could not part from her so abruptly. He started to 
wave away the cab that was waiting for them at the entrance. 

"No-no more talking," Chrystie stopped his hand. She hurried forward into 
the cab. 

He started to climb in beside her. 

"Don't, Luke. I'd rather go alone." 

Luke knew not to force it. Leave her be. Let her forget him. His eyes 
narrowed as he saw the pleading in her strained face. Roughly, hardly aware 
of his own action, he pushed himself into the seat. "It's not going to end 
like this," he rasped. 

He heard her sigh a weak little sound of resignation. She crossed her 
fingers in her lap and tried to pull herself deep into the comer of the 
seat. She seemed to him like a huddled ball pretending that it was not here. 
Luke wet his lips. He could feel the thud of his heartbeat jamming up into 
his throat as he stared at her and realized that she wanted to blot him out, 
forget him altogether. He scowled from slitted eyelids, wondering if she 
could turn him off like cold water. 

The taxi pulled up in front of where she lived. Down from the deaden street 
a full moon's reflection shattered across the East River. The air, the night 
were quiet here and the taxi door seemed to echo as Luke slammed it tight. 

"I'm coming up with you," he said. 

She stopped rigidly in her tracks and shook off his touch from her arm. 
"What are you trying to do to me?" she said. 

He stared down at his palm, wanting to touch her with it. His nerves 
shivered, remembering within their network the feel of her warm, submissive 
flesh. "You've got to hear me out," he said. 

Chrystie shook her head and the hat brim swayed, "I've heard enough. More 
than enough," she said. 

"No-you've got to see this thing through my eyes," Luke insisted. 

"But I don't want to. I hate your eyes. How do you expect me-or any woman-to 
understand that? You think I care, ever cared about your stocks or your 
buildings?" 

"Some women do," Luke said mildly, thinking of Bess. 

"Only the frustrated ones," Chrystie's voice was bitter. "And I haven't 
reached that classification yet, I hope." She began to stride toward the 
ancient, but solid building that towered at one apex of the triangular 
street. 

Luke kept pace beside her. He didn't want to argue as they passed the 
doorman, who sat half dozing just inside the entrance. Walking with her now 
was like passing beyond the point of no return, he realized. His presence 
here, at this hour of the night, with Crane away, would become part of the 
grapevine whisperings. With one gesture, Luke had shattered not only their 
love affair, but her reputation. Yet she did not seem to notice. On her 
dull, tired face there were no signs of concern about protecting her status. 
The elevator man who rode them up seemed barely to notice that Luke was 
accompanying her and yet Luke realized that his presence was like the black 
angel of death to Chrystie's honor. In silence, Luke wondered how long it 
would be until word trickled back to Roland Crane. 

At the door of her apartment, Chrystie said, "Please don't drag this on." 

Luke made himself impervious to her pleas. For her own sake, as well as for 
his, she had to understand him. 

She had left on the lights. They flooded softly through the large, 
comfortable living room and flowed up the circular staircase at the far end. 
For an instant, he absorbed how Chrystie lived. Here, among the beige 
carpets and the green shaded lamps and the heavy furniture worn with use, 
Luke could visualize Crane and the life the two had shared. Chrystie dropped 
her purse onto a wall shelf beside the large entrance closet. She stood 
before a long, slender mirror and stared silently into her eyes. Luke 
watched. She seemed not aware of her own physical presence. 

He said, "I didn't come here to trample you to death." The words stopped. 
How was he going to put it? His fists balled with consternation. "Chrystie," 
he blurted, "you've got to believe me-I love you." 

She had turned away from the mirror, yet she did not look at him, as though 
she had not heart. From the closet, she moved to bypass the living-room. He 
followed behind her through a narrow corridor that connected with closed 
doors and alcoves of other rooms. They came through double swinging doors 
into a huge square of kitchen with an el that harbored an old fashioned 
refrigerator and a modern freezer. She lifted out a chrome canister from the 
cupboard above the double sink and began measuring coffee into an electric 
percolator. The worn inlaid of dark blue and the ivory colored walls seemed 
solid with the comfort of a slower moving age. This had been Crane's 
apartment, Luke realized, a long time before Chrystie had moved in. 

She jiggled the wall plug tight, then left the percolator, unbuttoning her 
jacket as she moved out the other side of the kitchen into a small room. 
Luke stood at its entrance, aware that once this had been a maid's room, but 
that Chrystie had taken it for her own use. He could see the touch of her 
personality in it. Her make-up articles neatly set out on the dressing 
table, a small dictionary and the latest collectors' magazine on miniature 
jade statuary. He realized, suddenly, that there were many facets to 
Chrystie that he had never explored, never shared, but which he recognized 
instantly on sight as natural to her-and lovely. 

She moved the jacket onto a hanger and donned a robe of silk brocade that 
shimmered dark green, almost black. Bending over, she pushed off her shoes. 
Turning her back to him, she unfastened her stockings and moved them quickly 
down her legs. Luke gritted his teeth. He was an intruder here, but he could 
not go away, could not leave her in peace. Not yet. She slipped her feet 
into low heeled mules. Then she sat down at the dressing table and began to 
blot off her make-up, lifting tissues from a gilt container. Her face, shiny 
now with emollient cream, looked uncommonly pale, the cheek bones high; 
stretching the skin over them almost taut. 

He was waiting. Waiting for the right moment when her thoughts would return 
to focus on him. She could not remain withdrawn forever. The strain would be 
too much for her. He said, "I'm not leaving you-understand that." 

She had begun to brush her hair in long, slow strokes. Tilting her head 
forward revealed the cream colored neck with its curling flame colored 
whisps. Along the wall stood a single bed, very narrow and made up with a 
simple cotton bedspread. Would she go to bed there? Turn out the light and 
leave him standing there, with all his words, in the dark? 

"Do whatever you like," Chrystie said, her voice a ghost of itself, 
toneless, distant from him. She set the brush down and went to turn back the 
bedspread. "I'm not interested in you, Luke. Not anymore. Whatever you touch 
you destroy." 

He went to her, grasped her by the shoulders, swung her around to face him. 
He saw the tendons in her neck, taut, resisting. "Don't be a fool," he said 
harshly. "You can't stay with Crane. He's being wiped out. And you'll go 
down the drain with him. I won't let you." 

"What do you think you are?" she said, pulling her arms free of him. "God or 
something?" Her eyes glowed with disgust and reflected Luke's anger. "Now, 
get out of here-before I call the police." 

It was an empty threat, Luke knew. She could do nothing but pull the ceiling 
down on her own head. "You've got to understand," he said desperately. "I 
can't marry you. I can't. Not now-not yet." He tried to slip his arms around 
her waist. Tried to draw her to him, hold her fast. "Someday-when I have 
things the way I want them, I'll come get you, Chrystie. I promise that-so 
help me." 

He didn't wait for her answer. The sensation of her body, limp, almost 
lifeless, told him her answer. She didn't believe. She had turned him off as 
though the battery that warmed her love had gone dead. He let his hands slip 
away. There was nothing more to say to her. He had made his promise. Now he 
had to go out and fulfill it. 

 CHAPTER ELEVEN 

Two A.M. A ragged sheet of newspaper soughed against the curb. He walked up 
the long, quiet street, carrying within his brain that last cold look on 
Chrystie's face. He forced it from his thoughts now. There was too much work 
to do. Work, after which he would melt that look back into the love and the 
warmth she had given him. He found an all night drug store and called Penn 
Station for the late morning train schedules. No doubt, the eagles and the 
sheep had already gathered in Philadelphia. He conjectured whether Joy had 
gone along with Bess, or more conveniently, had remained in New York. He had 
to talk to Joy and strengthen his position with her before opening his mouth 
at the conference. 

There was only one way to find out if Joy was home. It was a lousy hour of 
the night and he felt wrung out by Chrystie, but this was no time to respect 
the finer aspects of protocol, Luke told himself as he listened to the phone 
ringing in the Warrington household. 

"Hello?" 

The voice that answered was hazy. Sunk in the depths of sleep. But it was 
Joy's. Luke's mouth quirked into a tiny smile of triumph. "Hi, honey." 

"Luke?" She cleared her throat. "I was just having a nightmare about you." 

"That's nice." He grinned. "Why don't you get dressed and we'll talk about 
it over a malted? Or better still, don't get dressed and we'll discuss it in 
bed." 

"You nut." Her voice was affectionate. "What the hell are you doing in 
town?" 

"A little something detained me," Luke said, thinking of Chrystie. "And I 
wanted a couple of words with you anyhow. I'll be there in five minutes." 

"Oh, not now, baby," her voice cooed. 

"But I've got to talk to you." 

"Well, tell me over the phone, then." 

He could imagine her all snuggled beneath the covers with the phone cuddled 
to her mouth. She didn't want to be bothered with him. "Look, you bitch," he 
said. "Why the hell didn't you tell me that your half control of the 
business isn't effective until you're married?" 

"Oh, that," she pouted. 

"Yes, that." His voice was urgent, demanding. He heard her sigh. 

"I can get married any old time." She rustled the bed sheets. 'That's the 
least." 

"No, it's the most," Luke corrected. "And start getting your trousseau 
packed, sweetheart, because we're going for those damned blood tests in the 
morning-before I catch the train to Philly." 

There was a pause. He heard Joy grunt, acknowledging that she had heard him. 

"But supposing I don't want to marry you?" she said finally. 

"Face it, shookums. It's either marry me or get sucked down into the 
drainpipe. Time waits for no one-and neither does Bess." 

"That's true," Joy conceded. "Well, you'd better come over, then." 

"Don't sound so thrilled," Luke said wryly. 

"Will we have to live in the same house?" Joy asked in a musing tone. 

"Relax, sweetie. I'll buy you one all for yourself." He slapped the receiver 
down and strode from the drug store. Maybe it had been a joke, about the two 
separate houses. Maybe not. He wasn't kidding himself that Joy gave a damn 
about his hide or anyone's, except her own. There was a touch of Bess in the 
girl. A kind of secret strength that flared out when you least expected. 
Still, she was great to sleep with and to look at. Considering what else 
came with the package, he had no complaints. 

All the windows were dark when Luke arrived at the Warrington home. He took 
the steps up three at a time and rested his thumb on the buzzer, in case Joy 
had accidentally fallen asleep again. The slow blossom of a lamp filled an 
upstairs window. Luke gazed down the tree lined street to where a pair of 
cats were making a commotion beneath the running board of an old Mercedes. 
He smiled, glad that animals, at least, had no concern about money or 
prestige. Then the door creaked open and he way Joy's face, defined by 
shadow. She beckoned him inside. 

"Do this to me again," she said, "and I'll slice your tongue out by the 
roots." She stood in gray silk pajamas with nothing over them. The material 
touched her breasts, outlining their high curves and their crests, hardened 
into obvious points. 

"Stop complaining," Luke said abruptly. "You can sleep another time." He 
cupped one hand suddenly to her breast and felt her flesh press against him. 

She pushed his hand away"I thought you were here to talk business." 

Luke shrugged. It was all the same to him. His hand had moved in a reflex 
action, responding to an inner vision that he dreamed about after too much 
liquor, of going down a crowded avenue and feeling up every woman that 
passed by. He looked into her face. The points of bangs were pushed back 
from her forehead, revealing the high, smooth flesh. He let his sigh absorb 
the aura of annoyance mingled with her young body softness. Despite her 
predicament, Luke realized that Joy would never permit herself to be 
dependent on him-or on anybody. Inwardly, he nodded. like mother, like 
daughter. 

"Well, what are you going to do?" she yawned. "Stand there all night, 
staring?" 

Luke pushed past her. "I don't intend to make a fool of myself tomorrow," he 
said, taking out his pipe and glaring into its empty bowl. He went to the 
French doors of the living room and peered out into the darkened garden, 
listening to the cat screams and wondering if they were the same two he had 
seen beneath the car. "You know Bess-she'll challenge every damned word. 
Kick up a fuss like a mad rooster-in her unique, mannerly way, of course." 
He stuck the pipe between his front teeth and spoke from the rigid set of 
his jaw. "You know how she is. Never raises her voice. Never answers back. 
Then turn your back on her and something hits you in the dark, quiet and 
oiled like a guillotine blade. She did it to a couple of guys I know. She's 
not going to do it to me." Luke was speaking more to himself than to Joy. 
"So I'm going to have those damned marriage papers to show her tomorrow-and 
let's see how ol' Bess makes out fighting fair, for a change." 

"You sound like a lemon that's gone sour," Joy said, aiming carbonated water 
from a pressurized decanter into a tall glass. "If you didn't like her, you 
didn't have to stick around." 

Luke sighed. "I don't dislike Bess," he said, the tip of his tongue playing 
with the pipe stem. "I only hate her guts. But that's recent. And besides, I 
never learned how to quit." 

"Yes, I understand," Joy said. "The prospect of marrying a Warrington is too 
much to give up." 

Luke spun around. She was sipping at her drink and appraising him with a 
long, languid glance, eyelids half lowered. This was nobody's fool, Luke 
realized. "I've got no secrets from you," he said smiling." 

"And you never will have," Joy replied with conviction. 

Luke did not answer. Obviously, Joy expected that part of their bargain was 
for him to remain faithful. Idly, he wondered how Joy would react when and 
if she discovered Chrystie in his life. He crossed the room to her and slid 
his fingertips beneath her pajama top. Small prickles came up where his cold 
skin touched her warm smoothness. "Better get some sleep," he said. 
"Tomorrow's a big day for you." 

Joy shrugged. "I can't believe I'm really doing this," she said in a half 
amused voice. "But anything's better than letting that woman ruin my life." 
She kissed his chin. "Even living with you." 

Luke's grin was crooked. Joy, the sweet witch, was making no pretense of 
caring about him. No doubt, it would be better this way. A marriage built on 
mutual distrust and lots of sex would have to prosper. He turned her around 
and walked her up the stairs to her bedroom. Actually, he had come here to 
keep watch over her. Make certain that she didn't change her mind by morning 
or oversleep. It was already close to three. His gaze skimmed the tops of 
small tables in her room. "I wouldn't suppose you have an alarm clock?" 

Joy chuckled. "Of course I have," she answered cheerily. "You. You can sit 
up in that chair and fuss and plot and plan your little war until if s time 
to wake me up." She hopped back into the rumpled bed. 

"Yeah?" Luke said, pushing off his shoes and unbuttoning his shirt. "If I'm 
staying up, you're staying up." He swung his legs onto the mattress, 
wondering how Joy would last if he made love to her until daybreak. 

He touched her and she turned into his arms, their talk forgotten. The 
unbuttoned pajama top fell away and her soft flesh felt smooth against him 
as he pulled her close. He sensed the thudding of her heartbeat. She was 
eager, perhaps she had even been waiting for him, despite all her talk about 
sleep. In the dark, Luke smiled to himself with satisfaction. He could train 
Joy his way, mold her to his personal tastes, teach her what fucking was all 
about She had slept with no one before him. No one had spoiled her. He slid 
beneath the blanket and kissed her breasts, one at a time, with the intimate 
aroma of her body surrounding him. 

He pressed his cheek to her belly. His fingers fumbled and got open the 
pajama bottoms as his fingers began to probe her moist cunt lips. 

Now her hands slid into his hair and pressed against his scalp. He moved his 
body so that her hands would go elsewhere. He made her hold him the way he 
liked it. As she massaged him, her breath began to quicken. 

"You feel good," she said and rubbed one knee down the side of his thigh. 

His hands possessed her, probing where she guided him by small sounds of 
satisfaction. When she sighed, his fingers paused. When she grunted, he 
moved on. Tonight she was in the mood for exploration and experiment. 
Discover all the secrets, the delights that her body had to offer. He played 
with her slowly, his tongue following down along the path that his hands had 
blazed. A pillow slipped to the floor and bounced before settling. He 
snatched it back and slipped it beneath her hips, making her more easily 
accessible. 

With her legs, she held him fast and pressed him to her, while rotating her 
hips in a slow rhythm that soon grew faster. She had lots to give, he 
realized. He would not have to worry about stretching out their time 
together until morning. She was eager for a good night's fucking. The sudden 
clutch of her passion ended all thought. He plunged at her body, possessing, 
taking, conquering it as she needed him to do. They rolled together, gripped 
in a single pulsing of desire as he hunched her needy snatch. Her hot breath 
lay on his mouth. Her body arched to blend with his own. 

Intermittently, they made love. They did it in different styles-sometimes 
only with their hands-sometimes with their whole bodies. She seemed 
insatiable tonight, the depths of her cunt opened-she was bottomless. Once 
she lay on her belly, arms and legs stretched taut, panting in the darkness, 
like a wild animal. She devoured his throbbing cock. 

And gradually, the darkness lifted as the sky took on the first pale shades 
of daylight. Luke squinted at his watch. Hardly six. His muscles felt drawn 
into a single, aching knot. He pushed himself out of the bed and went into 
the bathroom to soak for awhile beneath the needle spary of a steaming 
shower. He shut his eyes and let the water stream down his face and neck. 
Today was the day of showdown. He intended to be in condition for facing 
Bess. 

When he came out of the bathroom, he saw that Joy had fallen asleep. He 
fastened the towel around his hips and padded to the side of the bed where 
she lay sprawled with her cheek resting off the pillow. He spread his 
fingers on one shoulder and shook her gently. She grunted. Turned her head 
away. Luke knelt beside her. "Let's get to it," he said at her ear. "Time to 
shine." 

"Hmm." Joy's grunt staved him off. She wiggled away from the intrusion of 
his voice. 

Luke patted her behind. She swatted his hand. 

"Up," he said. 

"I'm up," she mumbled. 

"Look, you can sleep a thousand years beginning tomorrow," he said, grabbing 
her shoulder more firmly. It was going to be like this, he realized. 
Undisciplined. Undependable. He would have to get used to the fact that Joy 
lived for her own immediate pleasures. He slid his arm beneath her waist and 
sat her up. "Now, get dressed," he said gruffly. 

He waited, watching, till she wobbled off the bed. Only when she was halfway 
into her clothes did he trust her alone. 

Using her sports car, they rode back to his place, where Luke picked up some 
reports. It seemed odd to him, a girl in this living room, this apartment 
that he had protected so long from female intrusion. He swallowed hard, 
realizing that his precious privacy was coming to an end. With his own 
hands, he was tying the noose around his neck. Joy strolled around, idly 
touching tilings, commenting on his taste in books, in records. Whatever she 
touched seemed to dissolve into nothingness. 

"Why don't you keep this place?" she said. "I mean, after we're married." 

"What for?" Luke said crisply. 

"Like Tarzan's tree house," Joy smiled. "You can come here when you feel 
like brooding-" 

Luke understood that she wasn't making fun of him. In some small way, she 
understood that an era was coming to an end. His age of glory. 

"Forget it," he said briskly. "I don't have time to waste like that." He 
snapped the locks shut on his attache case, moving Joy and himself out of 
the apartment, perhaps forever. 

 CHAPTER TWELVE 

Luke drove downtown to City Hall, possessed by a throbbing through his 
temples that blocked out all other sensation. Beneath the throbbing lay the 
steel blade of his intention, already sharpened and unsheathed. Timing had 
been poor. He could not arrive in Philadelphia already married, but he would 
have some legal paper almost as binding. Beside him, Joy sat quietly. Almost 
docile, he thought. Life for her was changing rapidly, too. 

The marriage bureau could give him nothing that would hold up against Bess. 
Luke sighed, realizing that he would have to depend on Joy's ultimate 
strength of character. He had never seen Joy stand up to Bess. Could she? 
Would she, under pressure? There was no way to predict what would occur when 
the two women faced each other. 

He put the car in a parking lot and took Joy into a restaurant near the 
train station. A solid breakfast might strengthen her spirits as well as her 
body! She seemed so fragile today. In a nubby silk dress, her slender frame 
seemed painted in pale gold. Her soft hair lay not quite combed, disheveled 
by a light wind that had lifted some of the fine strands and rearranged 
them. In the restaurant, she sat across from him, gazing absently out the 
window at the morning streets beginning to quicken with people on their way 
to work. 

"You never held a job, did you?" Luke said for conversation. 

Joy shook her head in denial. "Once. I was a junior counselor at a girls' 
camp in Switzerland." She laughed at herself. "But I got fired." 

Luke chose breakfast for them both, ordering large glasses of fresh squeezed 
orange juice in the hope that citrus would cut through her fog. Yet, what 
did he want from her ... or need? She had simply to be present. Saying 
nothing would speak as eloquently as any tirade. He let her take her time 
eating, which seemed for her more of a social event than a morning ritual to 
be gotten through as quickly as possible. 

"You look nervous." Joy smiled with a glow of affection as she stirred sugar 
into her black coffee. 

"You misread me," Luke said, not wanting to explain the quality of his 
eagerness. He glanced up at the wall clock behind her. Time seemed to be 
running downhill. "Finish that slop and let's get out of here," he said at 
last. 

Joy put down her teaspoon. "Used up all your patience with me?" she said 
mildly. 

"Never," Luke replied. 

"Worried, then?" 

"Nothing to worry about," he answered. 

Joy folded her fingers beneath her chin. "You are an amazing man, Luke," she 
said thoughtfully. "Last week we had never seen each other and this morning 
you're about to gamble your whole life on my promise." 

Luke picked up the tab. He didn't have time to spend playing cat and mouse 
with Joy, though obviously it was a game that intrigued her. "You'll keep 
your word to me," he said, sliding out of the booth. "You have to." 

"But I don't have to," she said, following after him to the cash register. 

There was an edge to her tone. Something that taunted. For an instant he 
wavered, wondering if he were about to walk into some kind of trap that he 
hadn't even thought to expect A crackle of lightning in his brain showered a 
flare of light on a possible conspiracy between Bess and Joy. Luke shook his 
head against the notion. If Bess had deliberately arranged this whole 
situation, what good would it do her? Of what benefit was it to Bess to have 
him married to her daughter? And if she wanted them married, why hadn't she 
come out and told him so? The only words spoken between them about marriage 
had been about the two of them. Just Sunday morning. He remembered her words 
clearly. Still, he grabbed Joy's arm and moved her across the street. If she 
were harboring some secret, he would get it out of her between now and 
Philadelphia. 

He bought their tickets and got them on the train. She had wanted magazines 
and she sat with them piled on her lap with her hands clasped on top of 
them. People milled back and forth down the aisle. The singsong chant of a 
coffee vendor pushing his snack cart, men folding their coats onto the 
overhead rack, all held Joy's attention. Luke sat back and closed his eyes. 
He decided to wait until the train had started before beginning his 
interrogation. 

Eventually, the cars rattled forward. Joy's hand reached to lift a magazine. 
He caught her by the wrist, pushed it down onto the pile. "What was all this 
talk about traps?" he said lightly. "In the restaurant?" 

Joy looked over at him. Her eyes, a deep, mysterious green, seemed to pull 
him into their depths. "Poor Luke," she whispered. 

"Never mind the crap," he said. 

"I was only making talk," she said, ignoring his hold, still tight on her 
arm. "But of course you can't find that out for certain until it's too 
late." 

Luke felt her playing with him. Was this her own personal revenge for having 
to give up her freedom? "You seem to forget that this arrangement could come 
to an end very fast. I can walk off the train at Trenton and forget I ever 
saw you." 

Joy's smile was wide, slow. "Idle threats," she said. "You're too greedy, 
poor Luke. Worse than I am. Worse, even, than my mother." She leaned toward 
him in the seat. He could feel her breath against his lips. "And what would 
you do if I told you that this was all prearranged? Would you get off the 
train? Would you run for your life, Luke?" Joy shook her head. "No. You'd go 
through with it anyway, wouldn't you? The taste of power is too good for you 
to give up, isn't it." She patted his arm. "But don't worry. "I really was 
only talking, back there in the restaurant. Wishful thinking, perhaps." 

Luke settled back in his seat. He realized that Joy had seen right through 
him. Whether or not she was lying, he would go through with it to the 
hellfire finish. 

The train dragged on. Luke went forward into the clubcar and swallowed down 
a couple of whiskeys, staring around his at the desolate sound of train 
wheels clicking. The flat country lay stark and gray beneath a layer of mist 
that twinkled now and then as it began to dry up in a weak morning sun. The 
stench of factory smoke seeped in through the stained windows. He hated New 
Jersey. Hated everywhere that was flat and unpopulated. The liquor mixed 
with the residual weight of his breakfast that tired him with the effort of 
digestion. He realized that he needed to sleep. Needed to get away from the 
tangle of complications muddying his life. Soon ... soon, he told himself. 
The remains of his energy had to be stretched out through the day. Perhaps 
through tomorrow. By next week, it would be all cinched. And with a secure 
foothold, his mind would shovel forth unique arguments for presentation to 
Chrystie. She couldn't remain hard-hearted against him forever. Not Chrystie 
ol' girl. Not Chrystie ol' girl ... the rain wheels took up his words within 
their clacking ... not Chrystie ol' girl, not Chrystie ol' girl ... 

He ambled back through the cars to where Joy sat engrossed, her head bent 
over an article on skiing. For awhile he stared at her slender blondeness 
before he realized that she wasn't concentrated on the words. She was 
pretending to read to avoid him. Luke snorted with displeasure. He couldn't 
shake the feeling that going to the conference was like walking into a mined 
field. 

They took a cab from the train to the ornate hotel that overlooked a square 
of green park. Marty had phoned ahead for his reservations. He sent Joy up 
alone to the room where she would wait until he returned. Anticipation 
sparked inside him, chasing off all signs of fatigue. The nerves of his 
brain felt sharpened into many sensitive antennae. He glanced around the 
subdued furnishings in the lobby. Directly across from him, an alcove opened 
into the combination bar and dining room. Luke relaxed as his gaze picked 
out Roland Crane seated by himself at a table. Even from this distance, Luke 
could feel the sudden attitude. On the outside, Crane looked sedate enough. 
His cloud white hair and small mustache were neat and trim looking. A silver 
tie flourished above the vest of his dark suit. Luke watched the hand that 
lifted a glass. The glass did not even tremble, yet Luke could sense the 
man's failure. There was something passive about Crane in the very 
relaxation of his body that spoke of his failure. 

Luke searched his pockets for his pipe. He remembered Chrystie's loyalty to 
the man. Her spirited defense of him. Seeing Crane like this was like 
watching the QUEEN MARY list slowly to one side and sink quietly into 
oblivion. Momentarily, it brought a certain sadness to Luke ... and he could 
understand Chrystie's feelings. He walked into the dining room and stood on 
the opposite side of the table from Crane. 

Luke put his hands on the back of a chair. "Hello, Crane. I just arrived and 
you're the first person I've seen. All right if I sit down?" 

Crane steadied his glass on the tablecloth. He took our a pair of black 
framed spectacles and slipped them on, fixing the ear piece with care. "Ah, 
yes, Lukas, join me," he said. "What are you drinking?" 

"Nothing, thanks," Luke said, pulling out the chair. "Just coffee. Black." 

"Smart man," Crane smiled. "Always keep the body in fit condition, I say." 
The waiter arrived. Crane ordered the coffee and another whiskey and water 
for himself. "The boys'll be down soon," he said to Luke as the waiter left. 

"Who's here?" Luke asked idly. 

Crane smiled as though Luke's question were foolish chatter. "All the old 
timers," he said. "And Mrs. Warrington." There was no hint of bitterness in 
his tone. "An historic day, today," he continued, "for the food and drug 
research industry." He pulled a large green pen from an outside pocket. 
"Many signings of documents will take place ... businesses change hands." He 
paused, waited for his fresh drink and Luke's coffee to be set down. "Yes, a 
new era is about to begin ... " 

Luke stirred sugar into his coffee, but he could not take his eyes off 
Crane. He stared at the man with morbid fascination as though he were 
watching the rabbit about to be swallowed by the snake. Then he felt a jolt 
of consternation shake him free. Crane could blame no one for his troubles. 
Not even Bess. To feel sorry for Crane was a waste of good energy. Foolish 
old men who refused to live with the times must be swept away. It was the 
course of nature. 

"I know what you're thinking," Crane said. . "That it's time for my 
generation to retire ... and I shall." He swallowed the whiskey. "To 
Switzerland, that's what I'm thinking. To the calm, clean air of Lausanne." 

Luke said, "You'll take a breather and be back on your feet in no time." He 
smiled confidently. "Your kind of brain doesn't retire anywhere." 

Crane raised his glass and stared at it meaningfully. "My brain has already 
retired, young man." 

Luke wet his lips. He had no answer for Crane. No words of consolation. His 
heart felt empty. No throb of pity moved him. All he could think of was 
Chrystie flying to Switzerland, hidden in some desolate corner of a 
mountain, chaining herself to this old man who could no longer appreciate 
what she had to offer. The coffee tasted bitter on his tongue. Destroying 
Crane meant destroying, too, the only woman he had ever really loved. He 
stood up and the chair flew back from his legs with an angry scrape along 
the carpet. 

Crane nodded goodbye with a bland smile. "Have a pleasant day, my friend. 
The formalities take place, I understand, at eight o'clock, just after 
supper." The smile turned ironic. "You won't forget to be there, will you?" 

 CHAPTER THIRTEEN 

The desk clerk raised one colorless eyebrow. "Yes, Mrs. Warrington said that 
she was expecting you." 

The girl blinked slowly. 

"Room 404. Elevator's to your right." 

Luke sucked at his empty pipe, heard air whistle down its bowl as he pressed 
the elevator button and watched the dial move its single hand slowly 
downward from the floor fourteen. Behind him, lobby noise made a cheerful, 
efficient hum of life. He wondered in what mood he would find Bess. 
Efficient, no doubt. Perhaps even cheerful. She deserved to be cheerful, he 
thought. How much hard work and strategy and patience and just plain waiting 
had gone into this her final moment of triumph? Luke rocked back on his 
heels. Small shivers of displeasure rankled up and down his spine. He 
thought that if he were a cat, his fur would be standing on end ... maybe it 
was, anyway. 

Half a dozen people poured from the elevator. Luke stepped out of the path 
of their current. He decided, before seeing Bess, to checkup on Joy. Having 
the two women here was like standing in the very center of an enemy camp ... 
no wall to back up to for protection. You just had to keep checking back 
over your shoulder. 

Lightly, with his fingernails, he rapped on Joy's door. Maybe, if luck was 
with him, she would have fallen asleep. 

"Yes?" Joy called. 

"Luke tried the doorknob. "It's me, honey." 

He heard the patter of her feet. The door opened a crack. She said, "You 
don't need me for anything, do you?" 

Luk said, "I thought you might be lonesome." 

Joy shook her head. She yawned. "I was just going to lie down." 

"Fine," Luke said. "It'll fix you up." He winked as she blew a kiss toward 
him. "See you in a couple of hours." 

He waited till she had closed the door and turned over the lock. He exhaled 
a breath of relief. At least one of them was off his hands for awhile. At 
the far end of the corridor, he pushed through a doorway marked EXIT and ran 
down the steel steps to the fourth floor. 

A buzz and banter of male voices came from the other side of Bess' door as 
Luke knocked. So she wasn't alone. It didn't really surprise him. This was 
her convention and Bess enjoyed her role as hostess. Even at executions. 

"Well, come in, dammit." 

Luke winced at the bluster of Winston's voice. He turned the knob and 
pausing on the threshold, surveyed the gathering. 

There were some faces present that Luke recognized from newspaper clippings. 
Others he had met through Bess at one affair or another. They were all 
red-faced. Flushed behind the thick odor of whiskey and a swirling mass of 
cigar smoke. The air was stale, dead. Empty and half-empty glasses stood on 
all surfaces of furniture. A single glass had rolled to the leg of an 
overstuffed reading chair. For an instant, Luke thought he had made a 
mistake. This couldn't be Bess' room. This had more the feel of a men's 
smoker. An aura of raucousness, the typical convention atmosphere seemed to 
hover, half-hysterically. 

"Lukas, damn your guts, come on in." 

Luke entered, understanding now why Crane had preferred to drink alone 
downstairs. A deck of cards lay scattered on a low, round table. Three jacks 
lay swimming in a puddle of water. The party had been going, non-stop, since 
the night before, Luke realized. 

"This here is Lukas Plaine," Winston bellowed. "For those of you gentlemen 
who haven't met him." Winston leaned forward in his chair, his prominent 
eyes glistening. He reminded Luke of a rhinoceros about to charge, but 
stopped by a broken hind leg. Beneath the bravado, Luke could see the hurt, 
the pain of the wound. Crazily, Luke wondered if Winston had made out with 
that redheaded woman at Bess' party. 

Luke acknowledged the introduction, nodding swiftly to each person in turn. 
His eyes took in the single, huge room. Bess, obviously, was not there, 
probably had not even been there at all. 

"The great lady," Winston said, anticipating Luke's question, "has her own 
private suite on the floor below." 

Luke felt his tongue curl behind his teeth. So she had corralled them like 
cattle awaiting slaughter. He thanked Winston, refused the proffered drink, 
and left, realizing that the desk clerk had made a logical error by sending 
him here. Yet the thought set him off-balance. Had Bess left a roster of 
names, a lineup of her victims, to be kept neatly together? If so, why was 
he included? A grim smile pressed his lips against his teeth. 

The woman who opened Bess' door to him was a small-boned maid dressed in a 
gray and white uniform. He had seen her, sometimes, at the Warrington's home 
in New York. 

"Afternoon, Mr. Plaine. Would you like to wait for her? Mrs. Warrington just 
stepped out for a minute." 

Luke nodded, his system eased by the subdued, pleasant voice. This room was 
more like it, he felt A soft haze of daylight came in through the slatted 
blinds and lay a quiet touch upon the furniture. The orderly atmosphere 
seemed almost sedate, yet comfortable. There was Bess' control evident here, 
Bess' serenity. He could see into the bedroom from where he stood. Across 
from the double bed stood an expensive desk. On it were a double inkwell of 
cut glass and a neat pile of buff-colored folders. A metal tea tray stood 
beside the chair that had been pushed back from the desk. One bone china' 
cup sat in its matching saucer beside the folders. Luke smiled, recognizing 
the evidence of Bess' personality that left its so-definite imprint wherever 
she had been. He thought about fixing himself a drink while he waited. Then 
something inside him jolted alive. He strode into the bedroom. Went to the 
desk. Staring down at the cup, he saw that it was half full. Cream congealed 
on its surface, making small, irregular circles, amoeba-like. He stared from 
the tea cup to the pulled-out chair. He sensed the faint hint of disorder. 

In long, hurried strides, he covered the living room and got out the door. 
There was no time to wait for the elevator. Perhaps he was already too late. 
He ran for the fire exit and flew up the hollow, resounding stairs. 

He twisted and turned the knob. Joy's door was still locked. He remembered 
the sound of the tumblers turning over. She had been alert enough to take 
that precaution. 

"Who's banging out there!" Joy's tone was sleepy outrage. 

"Can it!" Luke said through the door. "Open up." 

"I told you I needed to sleep," Joy persisted. 

"Yeah," Luke said. "Sleep, and you've got Bess there to tuck you in." 

There was a long silence. He heard the sound of footsteps moving briskly 
toward the door. It opened. 

"Yes, Luke, she has her mother to tuck her in," Bess said calmly. "Any harm 
in that?" 

Her small face seemed almost amused. The eyes, dark and glistening, were 
smiling up at Luke openly. Friendly and warm. Luke gritted his teeth. He 
wanted to slap her. Make her come alive with rage, with any outburst that 
would tag her as part of the human race. Dressed in red wool, she seemed 
like a bright bundle of energy that could not be distracted from its set 
purpose. 

"Why don't you come in?" she said softly. "This is your room, after all." 

Luke grunted and stepped inside. Joy was indeed on the bed, but she was 
sitting there rigidly. No traces of sleep smudged her face. Her stormy eyes 
glittered, reminding Luke of a woods creature stumbled upon suddenly at 
night. "What'd you do, call her the minute you got in?" 

Joy's silence was like a confession. His gaze flicked from one to the other 
of them. He jammed his hands into his pockets and backed up a step in 
horror. So it had been a trap, after all. Well, Joy, in a moment of 
weakness, had warned him. 

Bess said, "You look green, Luke." Her voice lilted as though she were 
offering him tea. "Well, what did you expect? Men are so self-centered, 
aren't they? How could a grown person in his right mind believe that a 
girl-a Warrington-would marry him after a few brief hours." 

Luke detected a quaver in her voice. Obviously, she knew all, the lovemaking 
included. He swallowed hard, clearing the blur of anger from his eyes. "What 
was in it for you, Bess? Setting this up between Joy and me?" 

A faint spot of color came to Bess' cheeks. "There's no need to talk about 
all that now," she said, her voice soft. "There are things to do, your 
marriage to get on with..." 

"My what?" He heard the rustle of bed clothing. Joy laced her hands around 
her bent knees. 

"I said your marriage," Bess continued. "You do want half of the Warrington 
money, don't you? Half of the power?" 

Luke felt the floor opening beneath his feet. What was going on? What was 
behind this woman's scheme? He swallowed hard, feeling smothered by her. 

"Yes," Joy said from the bed. "It's going to be all right, Luke. Just the 
way you want things." She stretched out her legs and her arms, arching her 
back with a sigh. She let her body collapse to the mattress and lay there 
limp, staring at the ceiling, fingers laced over her belly. "Momma knows 
best." Her voice swallowed bitterness. "Haven't you learned that yet?" 

Luke stared at her jutting breasts. He felt Bess watching him and observing 
the direction of his gaze. 

"Of course, Luke," Bess murmured, "you can back out. You're a free citizen 
who has to think for himself." She came close to him, touched his arm. "Just 
nod your head and we can forget the matter. There are many, many men who 
would be delighted to marry Joy. Perhaps she doesn't interest you?" Her 
voice would around him, snake-like. "Perhaps the power doesn't interest you 
either, Luke? Perhaps you really are just an ordinary man, a salesman. 
Content with traveling the rat race into his grave. Is that you, Luke? Do 
you want to go back to your old hundred-dollar-a-week job?" 

Luke heard his teeth come together. His shoulders tingled and the tingling 
turned his arms into numb weights that hung lifeless at his side. Bess knew 
him inside out. She knew which buttons to press to make him light up like a 
damned pinball machine. 

"Yes, I'm ruthless," Bess went on, her voice hypnotic, gentle. "I would ruin 
my daughter's life, even my own, to keep the Warrington interests alive. The 
Warrington enterprises, you see, will survive us all. It's our legacy. Our 
contribution. For years I watched my husband's life drain into the business. 
And when he died, he was satisfied to be represented on earth by his works." 

Luke understood. He had seen this disease in others. It was like totem 
worship, with the machine of business taking the place of a carved statue. 

"But why me?" Luke said. 

Bess patted his arm. "I trained you," she said possessively. "I put time and 
work into you, Luke, as though you were my very own flesh and blood." 

Luke recoiled from her touch, aware that she was speaking the truth, but not 
telling all of it. Tiny points of desire radiated from her eyes, and he 
understood her silence. A small throbbing had begun in his temples. He 
stared at Bess, who was waiting for his answer. He knew what he should do, 
turn around and walk the hell out on all of them. The throbbing increased, 
pressing at the backs of his eyeballs. What would it avail him to walk out? 
Bess could squeeze his own business to death. She had proved this to him 
subtly by using Winston. Slowly, Luke glanced from one to the other. They 
were like twin vultures, waiting. He smiled with a suppression of rage that 
sent flaming heat into his flesh. "To hell with you both," Luke answered 
softly. 

He turned and strode toward the door, feeling the structure of his whole 
life collapse like a child's set of cardboard girders. 

 CHAPTER FOURTEEN 

Nothing made sense. The walls of the corridor seemed to lean toward him 
eerily as he strode toward the elevator. He could feel the sweat standing up 
along his spine. His shirt stuck damply to his back. With one sentence, he 
had signed his own ruination. Still, his brain said, to hell with them, as 
he remembered the living puppets of Crane and Winston and the others. No 
damned tomato was going to run his life. 

"Luke, you're such a hothead," he heard Bess' voice echo behind him. "Wait." 

He did not wait, but continued walking. She was hurrying, her shoes making a 
rapid clatter behind him. She caught up with him at the elevator. He looked 
straight ahead at the metal door and turned his ears deaf to her voice. 

"I thought you had brains," she whispered hoarsely. "I thought you knew how 
your bread was buttered. What's the matter with you, Luke? You must be mad 
to throw away such a chance." 

Stubbornly, he remained silent. To argue with Bess would mean to prolong the 
irritation. She got into the elevator with him. 

"Third floor, please," Bess said. 

Luke pressed his lips together. He realized that he had no room to go to. 
That she had taken that over, too. "Lobby," he said. 

"You can't go," she said, her voice straining for naturalness. "Not without 
your folder. I have it with me." 

"I know," Luke said. 

"Come up for just a minute?" She was whispering, but her tone was a plea. 

"I don't need the folder," Luke answered. "I'm out of business, remember?" 

Bess shook her head. "No one mentioned anything like that." 

Luke shrugged. "It's only a matter of time. "What are you going to do?" she 
asked. "Sell out. Naturally." He stared down at her. "And I guess I'll have 
to sell out to you, won't I, Bess? You'll probably fix things so that no one 
else will want to buy." He listened curiously to his own words, as though 
seeing the situation objectively for the first time. "Alright. I guess we'd 
better get that settled right now." 

Luke got off at the third floor with her and returned to her room. The 
fragile-looking maid opened the door, smiled at them as though nothing had 
happened, as though the grenades had not gone off in his face, shattering 
his head and the brain tissue. It was funny, the way worlds collapsed 
without making a sound. 

He followed Bess into the bedroom. She closed the door and stood in front of 
her desk and spread her palm on the pile of folders. A square-cut turquoise 
glittered, gathering together the pale rays of the sun and giving them both 
strength and beauty. 

"I couldn't speak openly in front of Joy," Bess said. "You know that." 

"Why not?" Luke answered absently. "She seems to know every damned thing." 

"Except one." Bess sighed. "That's why I had to see you alone." 

Luke ignored her intensity. His glance strayed to the folders. "Let's get it 
over with," he said. "I came to talk money." 

"So did I," Bess answered. She turned her back to the desk and leaned 
against it lightly. "You know, I never took you for a fool, Luke. I can't be 
interested in fools." 

Luke smiled sourly. "You mean men like Crane?" 

"And all the others. You've got a head, Luke. And the right kind of ability 
to hate. That's what moves a man. Hate. It's like a dynamo that never turns 
off." She wet her lips. "And you hate poverty. Don't bother to deny that. I 
saw it in you the first time we met. You hate it like the plague. You want 
to be something, don't you, Luke? I know how you think, how you feel, and 
that's why I loved you." 

"Sure," Luke said. "All flowers and picket fences. That's why you came 
barreling into Izzy's Bar that night, because you loved me." 

Bess made a small fist of the hand with the ring. "A woman senses when she's 
about to lose the man she cares for. I could feel you slipping away, Luke. I 
didn't know why. If there was another woman or not." Her voice went low. "I 
only knew that I couldn't bear to let you go." She let her body find the 
desk chair. Her weight sank heavily. "But I didn't know how I could keep 
you, until 

Joy." She stared up at him, her eyes bright with feeling. "I thought I could 
buy you, Luke. Give you part of the business. You would have to be near me 
then, because of the work. We would work together, build together, love ... 
" 

Luke clenched his jaw. He thought of Chrystie and her stubborn loyalty to 
her husband. He thought of Joy and of Bess' willingness to sacrifice her 
daughter. He wanted to laugh in Bess' face. Love, for her, was just another 
form of the old greed to possess. 

"I told you to forget it," Luke said quietly. "It's over between us. I don't 
give a damn, understand?" His voice was firm, his gaze unwavering. "This is 
one thing you can't have your way, Bess. You can't force it." 

She reached behind him and waved the folder at him. "I know," she said. "And 
I wouldn't try to force you, Luke. I'm not that stupid. But neither are you. 
I can still drive you into bankruptcy, you know that." 

"Yes, I know." 

"And you don't care about that either?" Her voice was a challenge. 

Luke swallowed hard. It was one thing to turn a woman out of your bed. It 
was quite another to sit back and let her rob your pockets while she was on 
her way out. 

"Seems I don't have much of a choice," he answered levelly. 

"You won't reconsider." 

"No." 

Bess sighed. She opened the folder and took out some sheets of onionskin 
typed in red. "Such a pity," she mused. "Your property could be worth quite 
a lot of cash." 

"Stop turning the knife," Luke said dismally. He could feel his control 
beginning to waver. In a moment, he would grab her by the shoulders and 
shake the living daylights out of her. 

Bess ignored him. "Well, you can always write this off as a tax loss, for 
whatever good that will do." She tilted her head up at him and smiled 
impishly. 

It was the smile that did it. He could feel the chains that had been holding 
down his temper snap. So he was choosing to go broke. So what? Did she have 
to rub his face in it? Lights flashed across his eyelids as he strode toward 
her. His hand swung in an arc toward his chest, then leaped forward. The 
back of his hand connected with her cheek. He felt the sting, saw her head 
snap up. A tiny gasp came from her open lips. Her coiffure trembled. Again 
and again he slapped her, enjoying the sensation of contact. Her eyes had 
gone dull. The superiority had changed to bewilderment. Now his fingers dug 
into the thin flesh of her shoulders. He wanted to hear the sound of her 
pain. He began to squeeze against the collarbone. Slowly, she slipped down 
to her knees before him. 

Her arms went around his legs. Her cheek pressed to his trousers as she 
clutched him. She was hanging onto him, groveling for dear life. "Luke," she 
croaked, "I love you." Her words were muffled against his pants. 

He lifted his knee, kicking her backward. He watched her collapse to the 
rug. She lay there panting, watching him like a beaten animal that does not 
know how to respond. Luke grabbed up his folder. He turned on his heel and 
left her on the floor, slamming the door shut behind him. 

The maid smiled her impersonal, light smile as he crossed the living room. 

"Bring Mrs. Warrington a cup of tea," Luke said. "I think she needs it." 

* * * 

The train station felt cold and drafty. He sat on a hard bench and puffed 
rhythmically on his unlit pipe. Staring straight ahead, he saw the 
transverse gleam of tracks, but his thoughts were elsewhere. There seemed 
nothing he could do to save his business or to get rid of it without a 
death-dealing loss. All afternoon, he had sat in the shadows of a bar, 
turning the problem over and over again. He was helpless. This conclusion, 
unavoidable and painfully obvious, kept repeating itself insistently. At 
first he had considered the possibility of organizing the old men into a 
single company against Bess. Still, without funds, what harm could they do 
her? It seemed that nothing could stop the Warrington enterprises from 
devouring the landscape. He would be smart to grab his hat and run, 
accepting his impending bankruptcy in stride and looking around for another 
source of supply. 

Luke rode back to New York, his thoughts brooding deeply. In his apartment, 
he flopped down on the bed and stared absently at the ceiling. The phone 
rang. He tilted it into his palm and grunted hello into the receiver. 

"Hello." It was Joy, calling long distance. 

Luke waited without speaking. What could she possibly have to say to him? 
Whatever it was, he knew he did not care. 

"Are you there, Luke?" 

"I'm here." He crossed his legs at the ankles. His body felt drained of all 
fight, now that the crisis had passed. 

"That was an awful thing you did," she began. 

"If that's what you're calling me for-" 

"No, Luke, don't hang up. Please." 

Again he waited. Was there no end to the 

Warrington strength? 

"I want to see you," she said, her voice soft but firm. 

"Do you? There's nothing to see me about, Joy, It's finished. Caput. If you 
don't believe me, ask your mother." It was a nasty dig, but necessary. 

"Are you going to go on blaming me for what my mother does?" Joy asked. 

"If this is another one of your cooked up schemes-" 

"No, Luke. I meant it. After all, didn't I try to warn you?" 

Luke pressed his lips together. For once, Joy was speaking the truth. She 
had faltered, as Bess never would have faltered. There was a difference 
between the two women. 

"Well, what do you want?" Luke said, his words clipped. 

"To see you again." 

Luke turned his head. He stared out the window. Dusk lay over the city. It 
must be about seven o'clock. "There's nothing I can do for you," he said. 
"In less than an hour from now, your mother's fist will be filled with the 
contracts from all those companies. You'd better go along with her. Ride 
high while you can, kid." 

"But I don't want to ride high," Joy answered. 

Luke snorted. "You're just a goddamned spoiled brat." 

"Please, Luke, let me see you," she said, ignoring his judgment of her. 

Luke shrugged, aware that she couldn't have much of a scheme going all by 
herself. She was just a poor, underprivileged rich girl. The kind who gets 
rotten from too much ease, too much indulgence. Bess had the iron ramrod 
down her spine because she had worked hand in hand with her husband. But Joy 
had no such experience. Despite himself, Luke felt a vein of sympathy for 
this girl, caught in the cogs of industry and about to be mangled by them. 

"I'm leaving right now," she said breathlessly. "It'll only take me a couple 
of hours." 

"You mean you're not staying to watch the execution?" Luke said, unable to 
hold back his bitterness. 

"What can I do about all that?" Joy replied. "All I ever knew about it was 
the allowance she sent me. Now that I failed with you, she'll probably cut 
me off altogether." 

"Don't sound so gloomy," Luke smiled. "Maybe it's the best thing that could 
happen for you." 

As he spoke with Joy, Luke felt within himself the churning of a new driving 
spirit. He got off the bed after hanging up, and went to take a shave. Joy 
would arrive before midnight. He had, then, until early morning to convince 
her to join forces with him. 

When Joy arrived, Luke was ready and waiting. She seemed tired. The pale 
flesh over her cheekbones looked taut. Yet the eyes, the turbulent depths of 
green, glittered with a drive that Luke recognized. Joy wasn't defeated yet 
either, he thought, and he smiled to himself inwardly. 

She ran her fingers through her wisps of hair, sat down on the living room 
couch and pushed off her high heels. Holding out her feet, she began slowly, 
sensuously to wiggle the toes inside their sheath of stockings. 

"Luke dear, you know why I came, don't you?" 

"Cut the grease," he said softly. "I don't like women pretending that they 
feel things they don't." 

Under his steady gaze, she pulled her legs beneath her buttocks, folding her 
body up like a rubber jackknife. She took the glass he offered and sniffed 
at its edge, her gaze seeking his questioningly. 

"Drink it," he said. "You won't die." 

Joy sipped. "You're awfully nasty with me, aren't you?" she observed 
casually. 

Luke pressed his lips together. "What the hell do you want, a medal for 
gutter behavior?" He watched her shoulders hunch as though warding off the 
blow of his statement. 

"You're never going to forgive me, are you?" 

"What the hell do you need with forgiveness?' he said, smiling curiously. 
"You're really not such a bitch, are you poor dear? You still have a 
fragment of conscience left." He jammed his hands into his pockets. "What's 
the matter baby? Momma kick you out?" 

"Is that why you think I'm here?" Joy observed coldly. 

Luke raised one eyebrow. "Could there be another reason?" 

Joy nodded. "You know what I thought?" she began. "I thought that this could 
be my chance to break away from that woman. When she didn't come back to the 
room after a while, I went to hers. I guess you can imagine how I found her. 
She was sitting on the edge of the chair and staring at the wall, her eyes 
all sightless, but evil as hell. It took a while to get out of her what 
happened. Then she began to loosen up. And the more she talked, the calmer 
she got. Deadlier. Oh, she was going on about how she intended to fix you. 
Not only drive you bankrupt now, with the plant and all. But any chances you 
might ever have in the future. She said that she was going to sew you up in 
a big that you couldn't kick through." 

"Relax," Luke said, hearing Joy's voice begin to tremble. 

Joy seemed not to hear him. "She just didn't give a damn. Not about, not 
about anything. I picked myself up and walked out on her, Luke. Do you 
understand me?" 

Luke turned away, hearing within himself the echo of Joy's truthfulness. 
"I'm glad," he said. "Glad for you." 

"So am I," Joy breathed, as though a burden had been lifted from her. "But 
this is only the beginning. I mean, I still have the right to own my share 
of the Warrington enterprises. Dad didn't leave it all for her. And there's 
no reason I can see for turning my back on all that." 

"You looking for trouble?" he said, sucking flame into the bowl of his pipe. 

"Call it trouble, if you like," Joy said. "But I'm not going to give up 
without a good stiff battle." She finished her drink. "And what about you, 
Luke? Are you going to fight?" 

"I have my ideas," Luke said softly, watching her. 

Joy's glance challenged him. "Care to share them with me?" she said. 

Luke strolled to the window and leaned against the sill. "That's what you 
came for, isn't it?" he said. "To consolidate forces with me, so that we can 
beat this thing dead into the ground." 

Joy nodded. She yawned and stretched her arms in a way that lifted her 
breasts subtly, deliriously. Luke's gaze rested on her figure. He felt a 
surging desire to touch her, but this was not the time. He had to keep a 
clear head. The lovemaking could come later. 

"Considering the details of your father's will," Luke said evenly, "I think 
the best thing we can do is go ahead with the original plan." 

Joy lifted her legs onto the couch cushions. She wet her lips slowly with 
the point of her tongue. It was a nervous gesture that was trying not to 
anticipate Luke's sentences. 

"I mean," Luke continued, "we ought to get married." 

Joy's chin flicked her head upward. "What kind of a marriage?" she said 
dully. "For convenience?" 

Luke knew what she meant. Privately, he conceded that Joy required a lot of 
love to calm her down. "These details we can work out later," he said 
quietly. "Right now, I've got a business to save, and so have you." 

"I want you to think hard, Joy," he said calmly. "Is there any way, 
according to the will, that your mother can cut you off before you get 
married?" 

There was a long pause. Luke felt his mind slide away to thoughts of 
Chrystie. She had become, for him, a dream with a dream's transparency. Each 
time he reached for her, his hand seemed to penetrate the vaporous image, 
leaving him to grasp nothingness. 

"No, there's nothing in the will that I know of," Joy said. "I'm positive 
that our marriage could split the enterprises right down the middle." 

Luke nodded. He felt the slow rise and ebb of loneliness inside him. "Then 
we'll go ahead with it." 

Joy nodded. A tiny smile lifted the comers of her mouth. Luke realized that 
this was the first time he had ever seen a genuine smile on that young face. 
It was very different from all the seductive looks she had lured him with. 

"Luke, come to me," she said and her voice was almost peaceful. "I want you 
to let me make love to you." 

 CHAPTER FIFTEEN 

She lay naked on his bed, her breasts carved by shadow, her belly a 
mysterious curve, her hips moving slightly with her impatience for him, her 
cunt wet with desire. Luke knew that Joy was the perfect answer. She had 
strength and stubbornness. He could guide and mold her into a useful woman. 
He could bring to an end her childish existence and give her meaningful work 
to do. Leaning a knee against the mattress, he listened to her rapid 
breathing as she waited, without speaking, until he would come to her. They 
were two of a kind, really. And together, they might build an empire. 

Still on his knees, he straddled her legs. Putting his hands forward, he 
cupped her breasts, realizing with this touch that his palms were hot, dry. 
His flesh tingled with life, with the desire to possess. His dick was hard 
with anticipation. The old sense of greed rose within him, roaring 
dragon-like for recognition. He jackknifed to put his face between her 
breasts, letting his hands travel downward to find and clutch her hips. 
Pulling her snatch into his face, the smooth flesh yielded to him. She 
lifted her buttocks and his fingers slid underneath. Her weight rested 
downward on his hands as he pried her buns apart. He felt the trembling 
desire concentrated within this slender boned creature. He had known her so 
short a time. Yet he knew her so perfectly. So completely did he understand 
her that there was no need for forgiveness. 

Her cool fingers massaged along the back of his neck. They moved languidly, 
possessively, slipping down to his shoulders, her fingertips beginning to 
probe the curve and flow of his muscles. The heels of her hands pressed into 
his back. Her body wiggled against his, as her desire for him increased. 

Her thighs held him tight. They seemed to grip him with the sheer force of 
will power. The same power that drove her thoughts was now driving her body 
onto his stiff meat. Sensing this inflamed him. He realized that she could 
never be passive, never accepting. She whispered something against his arm. 
Luke moved his hips more rapidly in response. 

He felt her body growing gradually hard with the increasing tightness of 
desire. He felt her spine become a bridge that arced, connecting passion 
with fulfillment as he shot his load into her snatch. 

Her trembling grew gradually gentler. A long breath ended with a small, 
barely audible sigh as she came. She tilted her head to one cheek. Luke felt 
her muscles relinquish their tension. And he knew then, that she had fallen 
asleep in his arms. 

Luke put his head down beside her ear and closed his eyes, letting his body 
drift off to sleep. He felt the slow approaching oblivion, that dreamless 
white engulfment of his thoughts. He blinked once or twice, reminding 
himself of tomorrow's schedule of events. They couldn't get married till the 
blood tests came through, anyhow. But still, he could sell the plant to her 
on paper. The lawyer would know how to word it. 

His random thoughts seemed to link the hours. He could not tell if he had 
slept, except that morning appeared with a jolting suddenness. He must have 
slept. At first he did not move. She was lying behind him, arms and legs 
wrapped around him, entwining him so that he could not stir without waking 
her. A shaft of sunlight lay on his forearm, twinkling on the dark curling 
hair. His knuckles seemed large, rough. His hands blunt and brutal. Idly, he 
recalled that Marty would be waiting for the car to pick her up this 
morning, unless he called. He blinked at his watch. It was too late to meet 
her anyway. Joy would never be ready in time. Luke smiled. That was one 
thing Joy would have to learn about, getting up in the morning. A failing 
common to undisciplined children, this sleeping until noon bit. 

Moving his wrist, he got the phone off the hook and dialed Marty. 

"No messages for you," she said, her voice bright and clear as usual. "It's 
like the whole world is standing still." 

"Maybe it iw," Luke said. "Anything in the morning paper? Any releases?" 

"I haven't looked yet," Marty laughed. "Haven't been out of the house yet, 
remember?" 

"Sorry. Guess I thought you were Superman." Luke grinned at the receiver. 

"Well, you better take a cab out to the plant," he said. "Sorry I have to 
hang you up like this, Marty. I'll be there later in the day sometime." 

"You certainly are full of apologies," Marty observed. "There must be lots 
in the fire I don't know about." 

"Could be," Luke replied. "But keep great, dear. You're the one thing around 
that knows how." 

There was a pause. "Sure. OT Popeye herself, just call me the great 
sailorman." 

Luke hung up, aware that he was treating Marty with something less than 
normal consideration. The pressure of business could make a monster out of 
Sir Galahad, he reasoned, and women understood this, catered to it. He 
wouldn't have to worry about hurting Carol Martin's feelings. 

He reached a hand to Joy's hip and began to shake her, watching her mutter 
and fight against coming awake. With smiling patience, he pulled the cover 
off her and she sat up, reflexively, shivering. 

"You're horrible," she groaned. "What time is it?" 

Luke watched her squinting at him as though bright sunlight were staring her 
full in the face. "Later than you think," he said. "After seven." 

The squint turned into a grimace of incredulity. "In the morning?" Luke 
nodded. 

Abruptly, she let her body fall back to the mattress and turned her back to 
him. One hand groped about for the cover, found its hem and pulled it 
decisively over her shoulder. 

Luke sighed. "Don't give it a hard time, Joy," he said. 

He watched one leg move. Slowly, with resignation, it pushed the blanket 
down. She turned over to face him, her eyelids blinking open. "God, this is 
going to be tough," she said. 

Luke grinned. He went to the bureau and pulled out a fresh white shirt. 

By the time he had finished dressing, Joy was just completing the final 
touches on her make-up. She used his brush to smooth down her hair and gave 
herself a last critical survey in his small mirror. 

"You'll do," Luke said, surprised that she managed to look so neat, so 
fresh. And she had accomplished it so quickly, too. That was a good sign. 
"Come on," he said. "I'll get you some breakfast." 

"And after that?" Joy questioned, her heels clicking in small, rapid steps 
as he sailed her out of the apartment. 

"Then you go get your things and bring them back here. I guess we'll be 
living together in this apartment for a while." He wound his watch as they 
rode down in the elevator. He wanted to get her moved in before Bess 
returned to New York. Idly, he wondered if Joy would survive an encounter 
with her mother. Ture, Joy had walked out on her yesterday, but that had 
been on the heat of impulse. In a crisis, could she sustain her decision? He 
couldn't afford to take the chance of finding out. 

"And what about your lawyer?" Joy said. "I thought we had papers to sign." 

Luke heard the concern in her voice. A surge of warmth went through him. He 
touched her arm with affection. "Take it easy," he said. "It'll all get 
done."
