XXE-013 The Evil Tongue
By Preston Harriman


CHAPTER ONE

The pale afternoon sun filtered through the Venetian blind, casting golden stripes across the tangle of naked flesh moving with impassioned desperation on the bed. The man's firm, tensed buttocks moved up and down slowly, sensuously driving himself in and out of the incredibly warm and soft body impaled beneath him. His fingers pressed deep into her shoulders as he held her tightly, feeling her nipples hard against his chest and hearing her breath heavy in his ear as she moaned softly every time he thrust forward, plunging his quivering organ deep into her and feeling the passionate closing of her flesh around his own.

Her senses were responding almost automatically and from long experience, but her mind was miles away, and she had the insane desire to giggle at the sound of her own moaning. It was as genuine as the feigned affection that had brought him this far, into her life, into her bed, achieving the ultimate that he desired, little knowing that the moment held no significance to her other than payment for services rendered. Honor among thieves, Hilary thought, smiling to herself. Her warped sense of values had always adhered to the principle of paying her bills, whether in cash or in kind.

She heard him whisper her name—"Hilary... Hilary..." The muffled hoarseness only aggravated the hysterical feeling of amusement within her. Yes, plug on, get your jollies. This is the only time; the first and last chance. You've served your purpose, just like all the others.

Her mind drifted back, sparked by a particular turn of his shoulder, the arch of his muscular back. For a second, he looked just like Hank... What was Hank's last name again? He had the same type of lean muscular body and large, rampantly eager sexuality that had taken one look at her and thereafter would not be satisfied until he had laid her. But again, he, too, had served his purpose. Hank hadn't been such a bad guy, and at least he got her that job on the paper in Waxahachie, her first excursion into the world of typewriters and tight deadlines. And after she had been hired, there had been the payoff. Everything had a payoff, and with men, it always had to be in bed. Christ, did they never think of anything else? At first she had enjoyed it, savoring every new experience, but she was only fourteen then, the last one in her class to lose her virginity. And after that episode, she realized that there was an awful lot of shouting about it, like a packed stadium at a football game, but when the game was over, nobody won, and she had the strange empty feeling that it would have been better staying off the field.

"Hilary... Hilary . .His groans were becoming louder, his fingers digging deeper into her shoulders and his movements faster, more spasmodic. Inwardly she breathed a sigh of relief; it was almost over. To speed his approaching climax, she flexed her organs, clamping her soft folds of flesh tighter around his trembling penis, and feeling a glow of satisfaction as he cried out with incoherent passion.

Rube used to do that, she remembered. Especially that first time in the office, that small, musty-smelling hovel on the outskirts of town where they often worked late putting the paper to bed, and one night Rube had grabbed her and thrust himself upon her with a strength she was unable to evade, and she had felt him descent upon her, pressing her clean white dress into the still-wet proof sheet of the next day's front page. She went home afterwards with black ink emblazoned smudgily across her backside, plus the promise of a fifty-dollar raise, which she knew she deserved, but felt slightly degraded because of the way she accomplished it. But then, Rube would never have wanted his wife to know, would he?

In a small town like Waxahachie, it would never have done for the editor of the newspaper to be involved in scandal. Those mealy-mouthed matrons who paraded up and down Main Street every day, searching out gossip like chickens pecking for corn, would have been only too pleased to add Hilary Abbott to their list of questionable young ladies of the town. As it was, their heads would bend together whenever she passed, and frowns of disapproval creased their foreheads flaky with face powder and beaded with sweat from the hot Texas sun, for they never did think it proper for a single girl to be working on the newspaper. That was man's work; and the fact that Hilary wore miniskirts and tight blouses only added to their displeasure. Yet they could never be sure. Only Rube was sure, and he would have to keep quiet for his own sake. Many times he had tried again, but Hilary had kept him at arm's length. She had paid her price; she knew the sale was over. No repeats. Nothing more.

"Hilary... I'm there... oh, Christ, I'm coming..." She put her arms around his back automatically and sank her nails into his skin, dragging across and tracing trails of pleasure to blend with the ecstasy that she knew was coursing through him as he erupted within her, pumping his seed deep into her. Thank Christ, he was through. Slowly she felt him soften and slip out; then he rolled across the bed and lay on his back, his eyes closed and his breath coming in deep gasps. She grinned as she stared at him. Ellis. A good-looker, she had to admit; but just like all the rest. Only interested in one thing, and she frankly couldn't care less.

"What're you thinking about, chicken?"

She shrugged and smiled. "You really want to know?"

"Sure I do." He reached for her breast and fondled it gently. "I can take a guess."

"Go ahead."

"Maybe you were thinking this is the best fuck you've ever had," he said pleasantly, "After all, he's the biggest, isn't he?" He lifted his penis in his hand and waved its massive length in the air, pulling his foreskin back over the wide and shiny head.

"You flatter yourself," she said dryly. "He ain't that big."

"Come on."

"Shoot. Those studs who balled me back in Waxahachie's make you look like my baby brother."

"Your baby brother must be one horny bastard, then." He grinned and leaned over, kissing her navel quickly, then sliding his tongue down to the tangle of hairs between her thighs.

"Quit that." She jerked herself away and swung her legs over the edge of the bed, pushing her hair back impatiently with her fingers. "You got what you wanted, now leave me alone."

"Yeah. And you got what you wanted, didn't you?"

Her eyes gleamed and she turned to him, suddenly enthused. "Yes, I did. Oh, Ellis, I don't know how to thank you."

"You just did."

"Yeah, I know. But baby, with that little bit of information I've got the key to so many doors. You wait and see."

He frowned and reached for a cigarette on the nightstand.

"How come?" he asked, lighting a match and inhaling deeply. "I mean, why this interest in network gossip?"

"Idiot."

"No, come on. I want to know. It makes no difference to me. What you asked for is common knowledge back in New York. Why should it be so important to a little reporter in Dallas?"

"Because," she answered evenly, and very calmly, "this little reporter in Dallas is going places. And how do you go places in this crazy fucked-up world? You find stepping stones, and often they're people's indiscretions."

"There's a nasty word for what you're talking about."

"So what? It's a dog-eat-dog life, and I don't plan to be stuck here in this goddamn town all my life, tromping the sidewalks and pounding the typewriter for a salary that barely lets me eat and live well. No, Ellis, I've known for a long time where I want to go. 'Way back in Waxahachie there are a lot of scores I have to settle. I'm going to show those fuckers that a little girl from across the tracks can make it big."

"You're evil," he replied, staring intently at her and wondering how anyone so lovely could be so apparently ruthless in her ambitions. "You can't blackmail your way through life."

"No?" She laughed and stood up, stretching herself and causing his eyes to roam lecherously over her slender body. "Just wait and see." She walked over to the desk and picked up the small envelope. She held it a moment, silently staring down at it; then she turned, and her voice was loaded with meaning, her eyes flashing with delight. "This is my passport to a world I've always wanted," she snapped, "and by damn, when I get there, you'll know it. The whole fucking world'll know it."

He stubbed his cigarette in the ashtray and stood up, reaching for his clothes.

"You're on your own, then," he muttered. "In some ways, you make me feel sorry I got that for you."

"Ellis, don't be that way," she said, moving to him, and taking his arm gently, staring up at him, her dark blue eyes eager with sincerity. "I'm not going to hurt anyone. I'm just going to—"

"To hold a gun to their temples, and if you don't get what you want, you'll pull the trigger," he finished for her. "Get lost, Hilary." He pushed her back and pulled on his pants. "You're a good fuck, I'll hand you that. But I'm sure glad I'm leaving for New .York tonight. The rats that roam the streets there are no better than you are, or maybe it's the other way around. Who gives a shit? You know something?"

"What?" she snapped, realizing that the moment they had shared was gone; the facade was crumbling.

"I'm going back to the hotel and I'm going to lie in a tub for an hour. I suddenly feel very dirty."

He thrust his arms into his coat and strode toward the door.

"Ellis." Her voice held a plaintive note. "Don't go 'way mad. It's not as bad as you make it sound. Honest."

He paused with his hand on the doorknob.

"Honest. Hah." He laughed bitterly. "The only honest thing about you is your snatch, baby. At least that does its job without any reservations. 'Bye now, Hilary."

The door slammed behind him, and she walked slowly over to the desk and picked up the envelope. Slowly the transitory anger over his words abated, and her customary smile appeared on her lips. She lifted her eyes to the mirror and looked at herself. Then she nodded approvingly and turned, putting the envelope into her purse, and walked to the bathroom and turned on the faucets.

* * *

She slammed the door of her 1957 Thunderbird and, oblivious of the shouts of the night-watchman pointing angrily at the No Parking or Standing sign outside the newsroom, she ran breathlessly inside and over to her desk. Only Slim was there, going over the latest flood that spewed from the constantly clacking wire service machines in the corner; he looked up curiously as she ran in. "Hey, aren't you covering the premiere?" he asked lazily, leaning back in his chair and stretching.

"Yeah. On my way," she replied curtly. "I have to get something first."

She sat down and opened a drawer, rummaging through the contents. She saw a folder at the back, grabbed it eagerly, and her anxiety left her. She closed the drawer and smiled across at Slim, who had been staring at her, admiring her trim figure in its usual neatly tailored linen suit.

"Hey, you know something? You look like you just inherited a fortune."

She grinned back at him. "Not a fortune, baby. The world."

Slim shook his head and spat into the wastebasket.

"I don't know about you, Hilary. All them ideas. Next thing you'll be goin' up to Noo York City and we won't read about you 'til they pick you up in the East River."

She frowned.

"Thanks for your kind words," she said icily. "You know when they circumcised you, they threw the wrong piece away."

She turned and flounced out of the newsroom, leaving Slim glaring at her. She slid into the T-bird and gunned the motor into life. The night-watchman waved at her, his face dark with anger, and as she pulled away she heard him shout. Casually she lifted her hand and extended the middle finger prominently as she roared past him.

Her heart was beating furiously, knowing what she had to do, where she was headed; not just at that moment, but for the future. At last she stood on firm ground. Solid dirt, maybe, but solid. Her career stretched limitlessly in her mind, and thankfully she knew it was only a matter of weeks before she could leave the stifling atmosphere of the newsroom, forget forever the smell of sweaty men and foul cigars, and put behind her the prosaic provincial tedium of the town, the state, everything she had grown to despise. From now on it would be filet and furs.

She cursed at a truck that pulled out of a side street and narrowly missed her as she moved swiftly up Main Street to Akard, turning around and heading for the parking lot behind the Majestic Theatre. As she whipped round the corner, she saw the searchlights stabbing the sky and the crowd already thronging the sidewalk. With a jolt she mounted the sidewalk and pulled into the only remaining vacant spot in the parking area, jumping out and slamming the door behind her. As she walked swiftly across the rough ground, she saw two newsmen climb out of a Channel 8 wagon, each armed with a small motion picture camera and sound equipment. They raised a hand and waved; cursorily she acknowledged their greeting and hurried on, her mind teeming with concern. She hoped she was not too late.

She turned the corner and pushed her way through the slow-moving crowd of men and women toward the front of the box office, where a microphone gleamed coldly in the lights. Loudspeakers hung from the marquee carried the sound over the heads of the crowd. She slowed down as she realized that the proceedings were under way. Local celebrity interviewer Julie Bowden was conversing with the austere figure of Nate Greenfield, the head of Channel 8 news and special events. She nodded and turned back to the microphone, her pudgy face breaking into its familiar smile of condescending approval.

"Back now outside the Majestic Theatre in Dallas," came the twangy voice, high-pitched and nasal, "and just about everyone's here tonight for the premiere of Sally Markham's new picture. Oh, there's someone approaching... and I think I know who it is... "

Her voice faded as she moved away from the mike and peered down the street where a large blue Chrysler brougham moved into the roped-off area in front of the marquee. Delighted squeals from the teenagers pressed against the ropes announced the arrival of a celebrity.

"Yes, it's Dallas' own redhead... that charming and wonderful woman we all love so dearly... "

The car door opened and a figure clad in white satin emerged, followed by a short stocky man in evening clothes, his lined face looking slightly bored and frustrated. They walked quickly toward the theater entrance, only to be seized by an affable Nate Greenfield and directed to the small platform and into the waiting gushing tones of Julie Bowden.

"Perhaps we can have a few words from our most famous resident... Miss Greer Garson. Hello, there."

The flaming red hair glinted in the lights almost as sharply as the eyes which flashed a momentary twinge of annoyance, and then Mrs. Miniver's dulcet tones echoed over the crowd, almost like a teacher correcting a wayward child.

"Please, Julie, In Dallas I'm Mrs. Buddy Fogelson."

"Of course you are. I'm sorry. How are you both tonight?"

"Very excited, of course. I love premieres, especially when they're here in dear old Big D. And having Sally Markham's picture open here in her home town, well, I wouldn't miss it for anything. I hear she's terrific in the picture."

Julie Bowden nodded automatically, her eyes straying over the crowd, noticing other cars approaching slowly.

"Sally is always terrific. One of the best talents that Dallas has ever produced. The word is she should get an Oscar for her performance in this latest blockbuster."

"I hope so. I hear she is truly remarkable in the role."

"Nice to have talked with you," said Julie, dispensing her time-to-go smile. "See you at the party afterwards."

"My pleasure. 'Bye now."

With a wave of her hand to the crowd, acknowledging the scattered applause, the famous redhead disappeared into the theater on the arm of her husband. Julie Bowden turned back to the crowd and was about to speak when Nate Greenfield tapped her on the shoulder. His hand covered the mike as he spoke.

"Where'n hell's Markham?"

Julie shrugged. "You tell me. She's ten minutes late. Probably over at the Adolphus getting bombed."

At that moment a burst of cheering diverted their attention as a large black Cadillac limousine pulled up.

"There she is!"

"It's Sally Markham!"

"Salleeeeeee!"

Screams of delight from the cluster of teenage girls brought a wide, happy smile from the face of the slender woman who emerged from the car. She stood for a moment, gazing around, fully aware of her incredible beauty and poise, looking immaculate in a long purple dress, its lines as classic as her features. A cluster of orchids on one shoulder added the final touch of beauty.

The newsmen rushed forward, their cameras at eye level, covering the slow entrance of the star as she walked carefully forward, followed by a short, plump man who was blinking rapidly behind his glasses at the cruel glare of the lights. Screaming fans strained against the blue velvet ropes across the sidewalk, held in position by a group of uniformed doormen.

As Sally Markham approached the edge of the sidewalk, just before the platform with its waiting interviewer, the small figure of a woman scooted out from the crowd and walked quickly up to her. Sally turned, her eyes widening at the expression of grim determination on the intruder's face: a look of defiant intent on the attractive round face framed by short brown hair. The tailored lines of the linen suit seemed oddly out of place amid the formal finery of the celebrities.

"Miss Markham?"

"Yes?" She looked inquiringly at the stranger.

The young woman bent nearer, her mouth barely inches away from the star.

"I know all about the baby."

Sally Markham stopped, and an icy chill sent shivers down her spine. Without altering her expression, she hesitated a moment, and then replied briefly, "I'm sorry. Now, if you don't mind—"

The young woman put her hand gently but firmly on the other's arm.

"Don't brush me off, Miss Markham. The story wouldn't look good in print."

A momentary flash of fear crossed the beautiful face.

"Who are you?"

"The name's Hilary Abbott, and I'll answer all your questions tomorrow morning. Say nine-thirty at your hotel."

Sally Markham nodded briefly, and as Hilary melted back into the crowd she turned, took her escort's arm and moved toward the platform where Julie Bowden stood, waiting, a fixed simpering smile of worship on her face and gushing sounds of adulation issuing from her lips.

"Who was that?" asked the short plump man, and Sally shrugged. "Just an old friend." Then the face that beamed from a thousand billboards turned toward the crowd, acknowledging the cheers as her chin tilted confidently, belying the growing anxiety that festered in her mind over the sudden appearance of the young woman and her cryptic words that held untold depths of danger. She shuddered inwardly.

Hilary watched her enter the theater after her interview at the microphone and detected a slight trace of tension in her expression; the message was not being lightly taken. Hilary smiled to herself and hurried inside, joining the rest of the newsmen who gathered in the manager's office, getting final information on the film, on the press reception afterward, and on Sally Markham herself. Hilary picked up the printed sheet from which a captivating closeup of the famous actress beamed with innocent guile. Innocent, Hilary thought with a slow shake of her head, innocent as hell...

* * *

The lobby of the Adolphus Hotel was abnormally quiet as Hilary made her way carefully up the carpeted stairs toward the reception desk. She glanced up at the ornate antique clock in the wall and noted that the hands pointed to nine twenty-eight. Mentally she pictured Sally Markham upstairs in her suite, probably leaning back against the pillows, trying to brush sleep from her eyes and finding the job not at all difficult as the memory of the previous night flooded back with pulse-quickening apprehension. Suffer, Hilary thought evilly, suffer, bitch.

She walked up to the counter and smiled at the young man who was busy with some paperwork. He looked up and grinned at her.

"Hi, Hilary."

"Hi, Trevor." She flashed her most disarming expression at him, her eyes clear and pleasantly sharp. "Anything to report?"

"Nope. She got back about two. Went upstairs with some guy. He left around four."

"Thanks, Trevor."

He lifted an eyebrow meaningfully.

"Dinner tonight. My place?"

"We'll see."

"Come on, whaddya mean? A deal's a deal."

"Okay, but don't be so fucking impatient."

"When it comes to fucking, I'm always impatient," he replied calmly, his eyes glancing over her figure appraisingly. "Especially with someone who looks like you."

She grinned and let loose a soft laugh.

"You men," she said, a slight edge to her voice. "Do you never think of anything else?"

"Is there anything else to think about?"

"Go to hell."

She turned and started toward the elevators. The young man called after her.

"Where do you think you're going?"

Hilary swung on her heel. "Room 801, and you needn't announce me. She's expecting a visitor."

Before he could reply, Hilary disappeared around the edge of the partition and was pressing the button for the eighth floor, grinning to herself over the look of frustration on the face of the receptionist. Dumb ox, she thought. Expects a night in bed because of one stinking little favor.

She rode up, her heart beating wildly but her mind coldly calculating; in her hands were clutched the papers she had taken from her desk drawer the night before, all safely enclosed in a thin cardboard folder. Her passport to the future, she thought.

She made her way silently down the carpeted hall to Room 801, and after a second's hesitation knocked firmly. She felt a twinge of nervousness as she waited; then she heard a muffled, sleep-laden voice through the panels.

"Who is it?"

In a clear voice, the reply came, loud and authoritative.

"This is Hilary Abbott, Miss Markham."

Her voice seemed to echo down the hall and she looked around, suddenly apprehensive. Then the door clicked, swung open, and Sally Markham stood before her, her hair hanging down untidily and a satin robe clutched around her body. Her large eyes stared accusingly at Hilary, and then she stepped back, motioning for Hilary to enter.

"You've got a damn nerve," she snapped angrily. "I should call the house detective."

Hilary, summoning all her reserves of confidence, turned and faced her with a slow smile.

"I don't think that would be wise," she said crisply, "especially before we've had our little talk."

Sally Markham glided over to the bed and sat down abruptly, reaching for a cigarette with nervous, trembling fingers.

"Okay, so you know about the baby. What do you want?"

Hilary leaned back in a chair and stared at the other woman.

"This isn't a shakedown," she said smoothly, "in case you think I'm after money."

Sally Markham frowned.

"Then what?"

"I'll tell you. I'm a reporter, and I have no desire to spend the rest of my life in some cruddy newsroom at a local TV station. I'm a good reporter, Miss Markham. I'm always sure of my facts before I break a story. Which is why I'm here right now, talking to you."

"Get to the point, goddamnit."

"I want to stay in this field, but not where I am. Who's going to hire this little ol' Texas gal without someone 'way up there in the network giving his personal okay? Someone 'way up, someone who perhaps doesn't want a certain story to get out that would most certainly wreck his marriage, especially as his wife is responsible for his present position, and who would shit bricks if she knew he'd fathered a child from someone like yourself. Am I getting through, Miss Markham?"

"You blackmailing little bitch." Sally Markham's voice whipped across the room. "Gossip. Nothing but gossip."

"Okay." Hilary opened the folder on her knees. "Maybe this will convince you I mean business. Incidentally, this is about the style I plan to use on my own network show. A gossip show, but one based only on truth, Miss Markham, because you can't be sued for telling the truth. Listen." Hilary read off the typed page in her hand. "This is Hilary Abbott from Hollywood, and would you believe that Sally Markham, current box-office hit with her newest picture, actually got her start playing in the sort of films that even Denmark might blush over? In fact, as the result of her starring role in one of 'those' pictures, she had to suspend her screen career for a few months because of her figure. There aren't too many roles for pregnant starlets these days." Hilary looked up, noting with satisfaction that Sally Markham's face was scarlet. "However, there's a happy side to every mistake. It so happened that the lucky father was none other than the head of one of our major television networks. You don't have to be a genius at mathematics to see how two and two makes for a lucky break for a struggling actress, and suddenly she puts on her clothes and a star is born." Hilary looked up, grinning. "Shall I continue?"

Sally mashed her cigarette in the ashtray. She was breathing heavily, and her face was ashen. "That is the filthiest crud I've ever listened to," she snapped. "It sounds like every other smut peddler in Hollywood who lives off other people's indiscretions."

Hilary smiled smugly. "The public loves a little dirt, even if it's what they call clean dirt. It's not really the words so much, but the way you say them. You know, I think I'll draw a bigger audience than Walter Cronkite."

There was a silence, broken only by Sally's heavy breathing.

"Okay," she said finally. "You want me to call Roger and arrange something for you?"

Hilary nodded.

"You do that," she said firmly, "But strictly on the basis that I'm an old friend. You see, there's something I haven't told you. We both come from Waxahachie. You graduated from the same school I did, only a few years before me, naturally. Your name is really Sadie Kingman. And after all, it's only natural you'd want to help out an old friend, especially when you know how well she can write and what a good personality she would be on the networks. I'll make lots of money for Roger, and all it'll cost him will be, say, thirty grand a year to start, escalating to fifty after twelve months."

Sally's face broke into a wry grin.

"You're mighty sure of yourself, aren't you?" Hilary nodded. "You've had your dreams, I've had mine. And I've been preparing for them a long time. Now I'm ready. It took me two years to latch on to the key to that door I want to open. It so happens you provided it. I've really nothing against you personally. In fact, I think you'll get an Oscar for that new flick. You are really very good in it."

Sally nodded. "Thanks," she said drily. "Compliments are out of place at this point. Now get the hell out of here and let me get dressed. I'll be in touch with you later."

"Oh, no," she replied suavely. "I'm not that stupid. I plan to wait here until I hear you talk to Roger and get the deal set."

"No honor among whores, huh?"

Hilary laughed, but her eyes were steely. "Okay. What's your name again?"

"Hilary Abbott," was the reply. "I'm with Channel 8 here, and I've got a good record. Any of the local press will verify that. And after all, your own recommendation should be enough."

"Okay, Hilary Abbott," said Sally Markham. "When can you go to work?"

"I think," Hilary said, smiling, and relaxing slightly, "I started about fifteen minutes ago." As Sally reached for the telephone, Hilary leaned back in her chair, a feeling of unutterable relief suffusing her mind. As if in a dream she heard Sally give a New York number. Moments later, listening to the conversation, Hilary felt that finally the dust of Waxahachie was being shaken off her shoes and that she was taking the first steps down a new and shining highway. She remembered the first time she had seen a gusher come in, down in Kilgore, and had marveled at the gigantic column that spewed forth from the earth with promises of riches. She felt her own gusher at last breaking through, a stream of black dirt that could mean more money in the bank than any oil well in the state of Texas. It had been a long wait, but it had been worth it. As long as there were people, as long as they behaved as people, she would have grist for her mill, and though the mills of Hilary might grind slowly, they would grind exceeding small.


CHAPTER TWO

Hilary sat in the outer office, her hands tapping nervously on the chair. She was conscious of the curious glances from the secretary and was unsure whether the cool look of appraisal was one woman merely admiring another well-dressed and exquisitely groomed example or if there was a deeper curiosity, perhaps an overtone of "Oh, yes, here's another one." For Hilary felt with instinctive certainty that Roger Nelson had a parade of women through his offices whom he cultivated for more than professional reasons. Sally Markham herself had been the prime example.

And there were others, and would always be others. She knew from the information she had dug up that Roger's wife was far from being a good example of the glamorous wife of a network executive. She came from a wealthy New England family, whose money controlled most of the activities of the conglomerate of which the television interests were but a minor one—minor, but significant. It was a rich enough target to have induced Roger to woo and win his bride, together with her influence to push him up the ladder to his present position of authority and respect in the industry. But Hilary was more than aware that a man of Roger Nelson's charm, good looks and ambition would not be satisfied with the unusually homely looks of a slightly plump New England woman. His work brought him in contact with so many glamorous women he would have to find a ready outlet for his stifled libido. Hilary even had the suspicion that Roger's wife was a lesbian. She had never appeared in public in a dress, preferring always the tailored suit. Her hair was short, almost mannish in style. Her manner was brusque and domineering. She held her husband by the purse strings, but little else, Hilary felt sure. Mentally she catalogued the item as a future possible area to be explored. Her thoughts were interrupted by the buzz of the intercom on the desk and the secretary's prompt pressing of the button and her bright response.

"You may go in now, Miss Abbott."

"Thank you."

Hilary rose, straightened her skirt, lifted her chin and walked confidently through the large panelled door leading to the holy of holies, the office of the president of the network. As she entered the room, she felt her feet sink into thick carpeting and was aware of the plush furnishings, the elegant desk and deep armchairs.

Also, with a stab of apprehension, she noted a long couch against the one wall, its cushions enticingly plumped and comfortable-looking.

"Miss Abbott, or may I call you Hilary?"

Roger Nelson stood up, extended his hand and smiled at her. Hilary took his hand and smiled easily, as she always did when confronted by a handsome man, especially one who might be in a position to help her.

"Sit down, please. Coffee?"

She shook her head and leaned back in the armchair, studying the lean good looks, the trim waist and broad shoulders of the man who controlled the destiny of so many performers.

"Sally tells me you were at school together."

"Yes, back in Waxahachie." She shuddered dramatically, and Roger Nelson laughed.

"I can tell from your accent."

Hilary frowned. "I thought it wasn't that obvious."

"I'm afraid it is. However, that might be part of your charm, though I'm wondering how the network audiences will react. I have made it a rule never to impose a regional accent on any type of network show. Maybe you should do something about it."

"Why don't we let the public decide?" Hilary countered pleasantly. "After all, you don't want just another New York-sounding woman dispensing the latest on the entertainment scene, do you? I feel the accent may be an asset."

Roger shook his head positively.

" 'Fraid not. Whatever talents you possess, Hilary, would only be negated by the small town girl aura you project."

Hilary's eyes flashed.

"I'm anything but a small town girl, Mr. Nelson," she said, a slight edge to her voice, "Just because the Texas accent doesn't fit into New York is no criterion of how the public will take me. I happen to think I'll do real good."

"I'm sure you do, otherwise you wouldn't be here now," said Roger smoothly, a trace of tolerant superciliousness in his measured tones, "but I'm sure you're not that headstrong not to take some advice."

"Of course not."

"Very well, then. I think I'll have you spend a few weeks with Viola Harding. She's an excellent voice coach. She's ironed out more accents than you could imagine. Cooperate with her, and you'll sound fine, I know." He paused, studying her face. "You have good features," he continued. "Almost beautiful, I might venture to say. The nose is a trifle large, but that, too, can be fixed. Your makeup leaves much to be desired, but we have the top people here who can help you." He stopped, seeing Hilary's expression. "Is anything the matter?"

Hilary nodded, and rose to her feet.

"Obviously this visit has been a mistake," she said in a firm voice. "I am not auditioning for the Miss America contest, Mr. Nelson. I am me. You take me as I am, or the deal's off."

"Oh, ho." A slow grin spread over Roger Nelson's face. "So the young cowgirl has spirit.

That's good. You'll need it in this business." Suddenly his voice became harsh. "Now sit down, Miss Abbott. Drop your pretty little ass right back in that chair and listen to me."

Almost as though physically struck, Hilary dropped back into the chair, aghast at the quick change in his approach.

"That's better. Now I'll level with you. Sally and I are, as you know, old friends. The fact that you're sitting here now proves that you are a person to be reckoned with. Your methods may not be particularly savory, but since you're like that I know you'll make an excellent personality in the role you've chosen for yourself. A gossip columnist on the air has to be a bitch, and you're a number one bitch, Miss Abbott. A low, crawling snake that's come out from under one of those rocks on the Texas prairie and aims to sink her fangs into anyone to get what she wants. Fine. I admire your ruthlessness. But you're in the big leagues now, Miss Abbott. You don't think for a moment that I just okayed your future on the strength of what Sally Markham told me, did you? And let me say she told me everything. I have run a check on you, and I'll tell you what I discovered."

He pulled open a drawer and took out a file folder. The papers spilled out before him on the desk. He picked up one and began reading rapidly. "I know where you were born. Where you went to school. How you fucked your way through high school, and haven't stopped since. How your fellow newsmen in Dallas think highly of you as a reporter, but have their doubts about your gentility as a woman. Those who've been to bed with you vouch to your versatility and ability to satisfy. Commendable." He raised his eyes and his mouth twisted humorously. "I may have the pleasure of finding out myself." He laughed softly at the expression of deep frustration on Hilary's features. "But no matter. What is done is done. Rather than rock the boat, I'm going to accede to your demands. Not wishes, Miss Abbott, demands. Which is what they are, but again, so be it. You want to get somewhere, and I admire that. I did, too, and had to run a rugged path to end up behind this desk. Obviously you know my story, so I won't go into that. But at least, behind this desk, I not only have the position, but also the ability to hold my job. And part of my job is to make sure that whoever goes on the network is top quality talent. You have to prove yourself, and to help you get to first base, you'd better listen to me. Okay?"

Hilary was silent, staring across the desk, her eyes smoldering, and her heart beating with apprehension. She had not anticipated such a reception, nor such research into her own past. Mentally she cursed Sally Markham.

"I guess I don't have a leg to stand on," she said with forced lightness, "so I'm at your disposal."

"Good. First thing I recommend is the voice teacher. Because, believe me, that accent would get laughs rather than attention. No one would ever believe that someone who talks like you is capable of dispensing the type of undercover information that you are supposedly going to deliver. By the way, have you any thoughts on how you would get your first few shows together?"

Hilary nodded. "I told you I'm a good reporter. I already have enough dirt to fill up two weeks or more. By then, I'll be all set with my secretary and staff."

Roger raised his eyebrows.

"Secretary and staff? You have these people with you?"

"No, of course not. Just as the network presumably supplies its staff with typewriters, I concluded that my staff would be part of the package."

Roger grinned.

"You've got guts, I'll admit," he said easily. "In truth, I had no such intention, but—"

"But you will, won't you?"

There was a silence for a few seconds as they stared at each other across the polished surface of the desk.

"Yes, I guess we'll have to, for our own protection."

"Good. Which means I can start work right away. Just because I'm not scheduled on the air doesn't mean I can't put that time to good use, getting organized. Have you set an air date, by the way?"

"Not in actuality. I had thought maybe in another month or so, to tie in with the opening of the new season. You could be on the Channel 9 news team. Bill Brophy and Randy Kessenger. We used to have a gal... "

"I know. Sue Hartman. You wasted your money."

"True, but she was a test. There was a good reaction, but Sue didn't quite have the personality. She was too sweet, too honest. People couldn't believe that someone like Sue could really listen at keyholes. Fortunately, you have that quality. You're lovely, Miss Abbott, but obviously a bitch. You have that certain quality that gossip columnists require. It's no longer Louella Parsons or Hedda Hopper. They were ladies, great ladies, whose revelations were only slightly questionable. Today the public wants a little more smut in its scandal. You have that quality in your manner. I feel the public'll hate you, but be so fascinated they'll tune you in each night. Like watching a rattlesnake ready to strike. And when you strike, it'll be the Fourth of July."

Hilary was relaxing, smiling, knowing that the tense moment was over. She was in, hands down; there was no question about it any longer.

"So you think Sally Markham gave you a good lead?"

He nodded.

"It's certainly not a bum steer, as you might say in Texas," he said, grinning. "I think you might well be groomed into something worthwhile. You won't be the first tramp I've lifted up and put on the right road."

Hilary's eyes blazed, and he held up his hand.

"Relax, Miss Abbott. As a reporter, you know the truth can hurt sometimes. Be prepared to take it as well as you feel you can dish it out. After all," he smiled placatingly, "isn't it better to be honest with each other from the beginning? It saves a lot of problems later if we know how we stand."

"I'm not a tramp," snapped Hilary. "Just because my methods may be a little unorthodox, that doesn't give you the right to insult me."

He laughed loudly.

"Women. You're all the same."

"And you men are all the same, for that matter," Hilary cried. "There's only one thing you're interested in and that doesn't make you any better."

"Can you blame us?" He stood up and moved around until he stood in front of her, his hands in his pockets, staring lazily down at her. "After all, if you creatures weren't so goddamn attractive, there'd never be any conflict. In fact, there'd never be any of the indiscretions on which you plan to make your fortune." He moved his hips suggestively in her direction, and she did not miss the implication.

"I think we'd better stick to business details," she said, lifting her eyes off the bulky confines of his pants. "I didn't come here to seal a bargain with sex."

"Too bad. That's the only way I ever seal a bargain."

His hand came out of his pocket, and went to the top of his zipper. A moment later, he slid the metal down, the faint rasping sound echoing in Hilary's ears like thunder. He reached inside and brought out his penis.

"He's a beaut," he said softly. "I think he'd be very happy if you just kissed him."

She tried to push the chair back, but found it too heavy. She stared up at him contemptuously.

"Get lost," she snapped. "I'm here on business."

"Well, this is business," he retorted, taking a step forward and gripping her shoulders, pushing his hardening phallus into her face. "Suck, you bitch, or you'll never see the inside of a studio."

She felt the sensuous folds of skin pressing against her chin, and was aware of its rising hardness, and she knew there was no hope of refusal. With a sigh she opened her mouth and took the end of his organ between her lips, letting her tongue play around the end, tasting the salty lube that had begun to ooze from the wide cockslit. He adjusted himself, moving in slightly and spreading his legs, allowing him the freedom to begin thrusting forward. She heard him groan softly. "Yeah, yeah, that's more like it," he whispered. "It won't take long, I assure you. I come quickly."

She brought her hands up and began caressing the length, pulling the foreskin back completely, exposing the flat head, letting her lips and tongue work their magic on his flesh. She felt him quivering, and the rock-hard prick was jerking with every touch of her fingers. She slid down the shaft, taking his balls out and rotating them in her hands. He groaned again, and his movements became faster. She felt the length slide deep into her mouth, the head bang against the back of her throat; and from long experience she adjusted, flexing her throat so that she pressured the firmness, sending greater shivers of delight through his body. Her own body was icy, almost completely unaware of her actions. It was almost as though she were having a cup of coffee; no answering thrill coursed through her. She was lacking totally in the sensuality she had sometimes felt with the right person, with someone who meant more to her than a stepping stone. There had been only a few, but they had been there. Roger Nelson was merely a tool to use in her future climb to success, and she wielded it with expertise that brought forth moans of approval and a mounting sense of ecstasy in him.

"Harder," he said hoarsely. "Suck harder. Eat it all."

Instinctively she pressured her lips harder around the throbbing length that was thrusting convulsively in and out, letting her tongue linger on the small area under the head that she knew meant that extra-special thrill for him. His hands came forward, gripping her head, pushing his fingers into her hair and holding her tight against his crotch. She knew the signs; he was almost there. She bit down, curling her lips over her teeth, making a soft, smooth passage for his cock, and lowered her mouth so that she felt the hairs around his balls touching her lips while the end slid down her throat.

"Oh, Christ, I'm there."

His hands gripped her head in a viselike clutch, almost a desperation as he rammed himself deep into her, and she felt the cord beneath his shaft flex and spurt. Then she tasted the bittersweet saltiness on her tongue as he discharged into her, moaning loudly and shaking with passion. She gulped, but he kept coming until finally there was no more. Slowly his penis softened, and gradually he withdrew it and took a deep breath, gazing down at her.

"You sure suck good," he commented roughly. "Best blowjob I've had all week."

Hilary reached into her purse, took out a mirror and a comb, and began tidying her coiffure. She wiped her lips on a Kleenex and applied a fresh layer of lipstick. Then she leaned back, staring up at him. He was still standing, his eyes slightly closed, savoring the afterglow of his orgasm.

"Okay, that's it," she snapped pleasantly.

He stared down at the end of his penis, at the small globule of cum that was oozing out of the slit.

"Lick it off," he said, pushing his hips forward.

She bent forward, took his cock in her lips and sucked once, then pulled away, pushing his penis back inside his pants.

"Now," Hilary Abbott said in a very matter-of-fact tone, "about that staff and my secretary... "

* * *

Alma Golden leaned back in her chair, patting her wisps of prematurely gray hair into place, and reached for a cigarette. She pursed her lips, picked up a sheet of paper, read the short paragraph, and sniffed, shaking her head disgustedly.

The phone rang, and she lifted the receiver quickly.

"Miss Abbott's office," she said primly, her thin voice sounding more impersonal than ever.

"Alma, this is Hilary," came the familiar voice. "I'm over at Viola Harding's." Alma grinned to herself, noting the tones of refinement that were creeping into the accent. "Has that special delivery come yet?"

"Yes, Hilary. It's here."

"Have you opened it?"

"Of course."

"Is it good?"

"It's the usual gutter story, if that's what you mean."

She heard Hilary sigh with exasperation. "Alma, just because you don't dig it doesn't mean it isn't good. Answer my question."

"It's good, Hilary. I think we'll have to check it over with the lawyers, though."

"Okay. Shoot a Xerox to the legal department. I'll be back in about an hour."

"Very well. Do you want me to refer any calls?"

"No. Alma, you know I never take calls here."

"Very well. See you later, then."

The phone clicked, and Alma Golden replaced the receiver. In her mind she pictured Hilary, seated in .a straight-backed chair in Viola Harding's studio, enunciating carefully into a microphone, then listening critically to the playback. Viola's occasional nod of approval. Hilary's nose wrinkled when she caught the nasal twang that was the reason for her being there. The impatience when she tried unsuccessfully to overcome years of vocal conditioning, only to finally achieve the needed air of elegance that Viola was striving for. In three weeks there had been remarkable progress, but Hilary knew herself she was far from perfect. For her own sake, more than the network's, she wanted to master her accent. Slowly but surely she was doing it, though it had resulted in several temper tantrums already and hours of nerve-wracking practice.

Viola Harding had achieved a noteworthy string of successes that included many top stars, men and women from the furthest reaches of the backwoods whose personalities and talent were not to be held back by such a thing as an accent that was unacceptable in their particular field. When she first met Hilary, she smiled with confidence; a Texas accent, she had said, as though dismissing a worrisome fly off her nose—nothing easier to cure than a Texas accent, and the transformation had begun.

At first Hilary had balked, never having had any reason to question her own voice. But after listening to the playback tape, she realized that while she might have sounded fine in Dallas, she certainly would not sound fine in areas where the particular regional inflections might tend to create the wrong impression. And Hilary knew that she wanted to be perfect: the entire aura of cultured sophistication, an image that was inviolable for the critics, and a personality to be reckoned with among the industry. As for the public, she wanted them to turn the dial to her particular channel knowing that the calm and confident young woman was not only a symbol of Hollywood glamor and success but someone whose titbits of gossip were more than passing chatter. She wanted power, prestige and the ability to call the shots in any ears that affected her existence.

So she worked, practicing daily, every minute that she wasn't supervising the mass of material that accumulated on her desk, drafted from willing sources across the country and sifted by reliable Alma Golden, who had been pirated away from a leading newspaper columnist with promises of greater position as well as a highly appealing salary. At first Alma was hesitant, but after meeting Hilary she had to admit that there was a feeling, a rapport. She also wisely understood that Hilary's relative inexperience in her new field would elevate the position of secretary to one of right-hand girl, confidant and trusted helper. Well-used to the vagaries of the gossip columnist, Alma knew the ropes, and even she was surprised at Hilary's immediate sixth sense regarding an item. Her demands for details were indicative of an awareness of the importance of the truth. "I'm not giving the public gossip," she had said during their first meeting, "I'm giving them facts. On paper they might not seem too provocative, but the way I say 'em will make the difference."

Already, during several trial runs before the cameras, Hilary had proved her intuition about her own image to be correct. Her slender figure and appealing little-girl face framed in brown curls contrasted incongruously with the whiplash of her tongue, the barbed innuendo and the meaningful lift of the eyebrow. She made a chance meeting between two stars sound like the detailing of an illicit affair; the divulging of a new picture deal held all the tawdry implications of being signed in bed; she gave the innocent remark a depth that sounded like the death knell of propriety. Watching the trial tapes, Roger Nelson nodded approvingly. "She's going to make it," he said exultingly. "She's going to knock 'em dead, the bitch." And while Alma at times questioned the morality of the work, she found her conscience placated by the paycheck and the perverse pleasure of seeing a personality being molded, an institution being born of which she was a part.

Subtle advance publicity was spread to the columns, and gradually the name of Hilary Abbott was appearing more and more regularly in the public eye until, on the night of her first live appearance before the cameras, coast-to-coast over the network, Hilary was ready: exquisitely groomed, impeccably made-up, her voice sounding pungent, pervasive and completely lacking the nasal twang which had sent shudders up Roger Nelson's spine the first time he heard it.

In Hollywood, reclining in the arms of her latest conquest, Sally Markham stared disbelievingly at the color set suspended above the bed.

"Well, whaddya know," she gasped. "She can really cut it."

"You know the broad?" asked the handsome young man.

"Yeah, do I know," was the taut reply. "I put her up there, the no-good cunt."

"She looks good."

"Looks are deceiving." Sally laughed drily. "Well, so what? We all get our start one way or the other." She turned to the pair of eager lips next to her. "Kiss me, you fucker. I've got an early call at the studio, so let's get it on fast."


CHAPTER THREE

The red light on the camera clicked off, and Hilary relaxed the twisted smile and slumped back in her chair. She knew she had been good, but inside she had quaked with apprehension. The dry runs had not bothered her at all; she knew they were only for network executives to view. But this had been the first coast-to-coast airing. In her mind, as she stepped forward, she knew that everyone at Channel 8 would be watching; how could they do otherwise? They had read enough about her forthcoming debut, and she pictured everyone from Nate Greenfield down to that pimply-faced office boy sitting in the control room, passing caustic and raunchy comments as she appeared. She also knew the whole of Waxahachie would be glued to their TV sets to see how their local girl was making good. And she had made good: in the middle of her spot, she had looked up for a flash to see Randy Kessenger staring at her with an expression of undisguised admiration, mingled somewhat with consternation at the sneery innuendo that laced every sentence. But she had still been nervous. Hell, everyone was always nervous. There wasn't a star in the world who didn't have butterflies that final moment before going on, and Hilary was no exception. She knew she would be treading on thin ice because of the nature of her program.

She sat back down on the high stool, waiting patiently for the balance of the news show, and when the sound-off music echoed over the studio loudspeakers, she took a deep breath and began gathering her papers. Bill Brophy looked over at her and grinned, raising his hand in a mock salute.

"Great, just great," he said. "I can see the switchboard lighting up now."

"Let's hope," she countered. "I'd like to stick around. It's kinda fun working with you two." She smiled over at Randy, who was walking toward her.

"You've sure got a spiel," said Randy, leaning up against her desk and letting his eyes roam over her dress, a subtly revealing creation of frothy chiffon with a feather over each shoulder. "It's about time we had some glamor on the news show."

There's nothing glamorous about dirt," she said with a sly grin. "It's plain hard work digging it all up." She laughed. "But it's what I want to do. What I've always wanted to do. And now the first show's over, I feel..." She shrugged. "Absolutely wonderful."

The floor manager came over, lugging an easel. He looked over at Hilary and whistled. "You're some dame," he murmured, his plump face leering at her. "I bet they hate you in Hollywood tonight."

"Let's hope they do," she snapped pleasantly. "You don't get ratings being a nice little girl."

"And you're not a nice little girl?" Bill Brophy sidled up to her, staring down between her cleavage. "You get more interesting every minute, Miss Bitch."

"Knock it off," she said, grinning. "And do spread that name around for me, will you? It'll be good publicity."

Randy laughed.

"I doubt whether you'll need publicity," he said sagely. "You're your own billboard, Hilary. I bet you shoot the ratings up ten points within a week."

"That's why they hired me, baby," she said teasingly. "After all, someone had to do something about this show. You two have as much sex appeal as a wet Kleenex."

"Watch it, Hilary," said Bill Brophy. "This wet Kleenex turns into a rampant stallion in two seconds flat."

She shook her head and touched his arm gently, winking at Randy Kessenger.

"Don't pull that on me," she said chidingly, gazing at his gray hair. "The last older man who balled me died of a heart attack during his second climax. I'd hate to deprive the network of your particular... talents." She curled her lip on the last word, injecting the innuendo that had permeated every item on the script she had just finished giving. Kessenger broke up.

"You're too much," he said. "I'd hate to be the man who runs foul of you, baby. Come on, Bill, time to get home to the safety of home, wife and fireside."

"I think so, too," grinned Brophy, patting Hilary on the cheek. "Good night, dear. Sleep well, whoever it's with."

They walked away, and Hilary smiled after them, her heart still beating fast from the excitement of the past ten minutes. She gathered her papers and started toward the door, when it burst open and Roger Nelson barged into the studio, his face beaming; with him were several other network executives, all smiling.

"Hilary, baby!"

"Hello, Roger," she answered coolly. "I trust everything was fine?"

"Fine? That's the understatement of the year. You were superb. Not so, gentlemen?"

The other men nodded their heads approvingly.

"The switchboard lit up like a Christmas tree," Roger rambled on excitedly, "and it's still buzzing. It's even better than I expected. They all hate you. They listen, but they hate you, which means they'll tune in tomorrow again. Like I said, the basic fascination with evil, not so, gentlemen?" He turned to the other men, who nodded in unison. "Looks like we're gonna knock the opposition dead before too long."

Hilary nodded and smiled smugly.

"Well, we're on our way, then," she said. "I'd love to stop and chitchat, but I have work to do. See you, Roger."

"Hey, wait."

He took her arm.

"You can't just run off like that, baby. We've got a little celebration party planned. Hell, you've got to be seen in this town. It's not just enough to premiere a show and then go home to bed. You've got to get out and around."

"Oh."

"Sure, the car's waiting downstairs. Go get your coat and we'll be on our way."

She shook her head.

"Sorry, Roger. I've got work to do, and Alma's waiting for me. Some other time." Roger's face took on a steely expression. "Hilary, perhaps I didn't make myself clear. There is a press party waiting at the Americana. You are scheduled to appear. We have spent more than a little money on it, part of promoting you. So go get your coat and I'll meet you in the lobby."

Their eyes met, and she knew the forced jocularity was merely to impress the other executives, who had been standing by, ogling her and remaining silent; but their eyes told a different story, and she knew the look in every one of them.

"All right," she sighed. "I'll only be a minute. I'll have to call Alma."

"Good. That's our girl."

She nodded to him briefly, smiled at the others, and sailed past them into the corridor, winding her way through the maze of hallways to her office. She picked up the phone, called Alma at home and told her to be in early the next day. Then she picked up her coat, took a quick glance at herself in the mirror, and switched out the light as she left.

Hilary felt a singular twinge of uneasiness as she made her way down to the lobby of the massive building which towered over the surrounding area in midtown Manhattan. She knew Roger's enforced enthusiasm was for the benefit of the other executives; it was all part of the game, because he had been primarily responsible for her being hired in the first place. It was his head on the block if she hadn't come through; and obviously she had, but still she felt uneasy. The veiled hint of antagonism when she declined the invitation to the party was only a minor indication of how he might be if she crossed him. Anyway, she still had her trump card, the one piece of information (proven and in writing) which had been the prime factor in her present position. Roger, despite anything, would have to toe the line. He knew this, and she knew it, but still... She shook her head briefly, as if to thrust away the disturbing thoughts.

Moments later she swept into the lobby and saw with satisfaction the looks of approval from the small cluster of network executives standing there, waiting. Roger beamed at her and nodded.

"You look absolutely stunning," he murmured, putting his arm around her waist and moving to the doorway. "Is that yours or from wardrobe?"

"Don't act stupid," she said softly so only he would hear. "You know fucking well where it came from. And you paid for it, or the network, I should say."

He laughed, and she felt his fingers squeeze her waist.

"She's a great kidder," he said loudly, thinking that perhaps her words had been overheard by the others.

They all moved out toward two limousines that stood waiting with uniformed chauffeurs holding the back doors open with calm detachment. Minutes later they were being whisked through the streets to the Americana Hotel, and Hilary felt for a moment like she had always dreamed of being: a personality, a somebody to be reckoned with, a figure of power among men, and within she roiled with self-satisfaction: at last she would be able to do exactly as she liked, be master of all and mistress to none.

Vaguely through her mind she heard the voice of Andy Claypole, who had graduated with her in high school, a handsome, extremely intelligent youth who had made no secret of his feelings for Hilary. They had gone together for about nine months, during which time Hilary had submitted more than once to his overtures, and felt, despite her nonchalance over the athletic maneuverings of intimacy, a certain warmth, a certain feeling deeper than she dared admit. Andy had wanted her to marry him, but she refused. "Why not?" he demanded. "You love me, I know you do. You wouldn't go to bed with me if you didn't." And she knew it would have destroyed him to know that she had slept with half the high school class, and had often found it unfathomable that Andy never knew. Or if he did, he preferred to ignore the fact, so overcome was he by their relationship.

Andy was a good guy, and she had always felt that if she had been cut out for the life of a Waxahachie matron with four kids, Andy would have been the most likely prospect for a husband. Perhaps it was because he had been the only one to excite her more than usual, to push her over the edge into a sublime orgasm of ecstasy, something few others had ever been able to do. She had told him of her ambitions and he had understood, although he disapproved. "Being a big star is nothing," he had said, and now, pulling up in front of the Americana, she knew he had been wrong. Oh, so wrong, dear, sweet Andy, who could never appreciate how she felt: that indefinable ecstasy that welled up within her, knowing that in a few moments she would be the center of attention, talking to famous columnists, being interviewed by people whose names she had only read avidly before, people who would now be at her beck and call, people over whom she would have the sort of power she had always dreamed of, not the power that she knew she exercised over the kids back in Waxahachie simply because she knew how to make them feel like men when they were in reality only boys. Now she would be able to wield her whip, to achieve the heights she had yearned for all her life. At least that would be a real form of satisfaction, she thought, as she stepped out of the car, something to last, something more tangible than the momentary satisfactions of sex and the incoherent mouthings of men to whom she meant nothing more than an object for their lustful desires. And now, oh, now, would she make them cringe...

"Hilary, this is Otis McAlester."

She looked up, hardly realizing that she had traversed the lobby of the hotel on Roger's arm and was entering one of the large convention rooms. She smiled automatically and extended her hand, taking the older man's fingers in a firm grip.

"How nice to meet you," she said warmly. "I've read your column for years."

McAlester smiled benignly.

"You'd better read it tomorrow," he cautioned. "You may not be so enthusiastic then."

"Oh, how come?" For a second, Hilary's Texas accent slipped out, and she noted with dismay that McAlester caught it. His round face creased into a benevolent smile.

"Oh, let's say you'd better wait," he advised. "After all, you may charm me so much I might forget that vitriolic few minutes I witnessed tonight on television."

She frowned.

"Vitriolic? I thought I was being rather kind."

"Then I'd hate to be the subject for one of your attacks," McAlester said. "You might put Medea to shame. After all, what you said about those two actors wasn't exactly kosher."

She laughed merrily.

"It was true, wasn't it?"

"Even so, you're not going to be very popular."

"I didn't go on the air to win a popularity contest," she countered. "I'm there to entertain, and do it truthfully."

"There are times in our business, Miss Abbott," was the calm reply, "that it is wiser to keep one's mouth shut than to open it and be known to be a bitch."

She gasped and feigned consternation.

"Mr. McAlester, that wasn't very kind."

He laughed. "But truthful, nevertheless, and you've just said you're a stickler for the truth." He moved away, nodding at her. She stared after him and bit her lip. Roger, who had been talking to several reporters close by, came up and took her arm again, escorting her over to the bar which had been set up against one wall.

"What did McAlester say?

"He called me a bitch. Obviously he's going to roast me in tomorrow's column."

"Good. I had hoped that would happen. When he comes out critically, that means the other two will be for you on principle. You know, Clive Barnaby and Russ Caldwell." He frowned at her expression. "Don't tell me you didn't know that, dear heart?"

She shook her head.

"Okay, now you know. It's better to have McAlester against you in this town, because it means you'll wind up with more on your side.

Politics, Hilary, politics. It's the name of the ratings game."

She lifted her head as two men approached. Roger introduced them as TV critics from two of the local newspapers, and she parried remarks with them, all the while her mind racing with elation. Her initial dismay over McAlester's reaction turned to triumph; her words tumbled out, and her smile was broad, and she radiated success, glamor... the epitome of the Hollywood gossip columnist whose throne she had ascended, and which she now knew was solid. More joined her, more comments were parried, more smiles dispensed, more veiled innuendoes thrust into the waiting and eager minds of the assembled members of the press.

By the time the plates of canapes had assumed a forlorn and empty appearance and the numbers of half-drunk glasses piled high on the tables, the name of Hilary Abbott had been inked indelibly upon the consciousness of more than a dozen columnists who stumbled out of the Americana, heading for their offices and their typewriters while the image of Hilary Abbott still burned brightly. With few exceptions, the reviews were going to be good.

Roger took her arm, and slowly they left, bidding their adieus to the few network executives who still remained. As they walked through the lobby, he began laughing.

"What's so funny?"

"Oh, I was thinking really," he said, "I was, in all truth, very concerned over tonight. I mean, you're controversial as all hell. But there's a limit, and if you overstep that, you're dead. Skating just next to it gets you where you want to go, and where we want you to go: up to the top with the ratings. I think you've done it, Hilary. Just be careful for the next week. Don't be too cutting, but just enough. No more items like that one about the two male stars getting married. I had doubts about it, but let it pass because it was the first show and I think that was strong enough to arouse comment. But let's soft-pedal things for a few days and see what happens. Okay?"

"Hell, no!" Her voice, strengthened by a few drinks and her overpowering sense of success, blasted across the sidewalk, causing the doorman to turn and stare curiously. He signalled the network limousine, which pulled forward on cue. Roger helped her in and as they settled back, she continued: "I'm not going to soft-pedal a fucking thing. Items like that one you mention are what'll make the show go. People aren't going to listen if they don't think they're going to hear something really raunchy. You must be drunk," she added vindictively, "to even think such a thing. Christ, Roger, this isn't a Disney movie."

Roger tapped the glass partition, and the driver slid it open to listen to the directions. Hilary's eyes widened as she heard Roger's words.

"Hey wait a minute," she snapped. "I'm going home."

"After a while, dear," he replied, sliding the partition shut and turning to her with a smug smile. "I thought we might have a little tete-a-tete at my place first."

"Roger," she said warily, "I am not going alone with you to your apartment."

"Famous last words," he snapped, taking her hand in his and placing it gently but firmly between his legs. "You did so good the other day I think it's time we got to know each other better."

She pulled her hand away quickly and moved across the seat, away from him. He laughed and took out a cigarette, lighting it deliberately, his eyes watching her discomfiture with amusement.

"You're really quite lovely when you're mad."

"Shut up. And I want to settle this matter of what I do and don't say on the show."

He sighed. "You can argue all you want," he said, "but you know the legal department has to clear your scripts first. So there's really not much to discuss. Just be careful, that's all, just for this first week. After that, we'll see. Okay?"

He took her hand again and squeezed it, holding on and playing caressingly with her fingers.

"Oh, shit." Hilary turned her head and stared out of the window at the crowded sidewalks as the car sped silently through the streets. "I want to go home now, Roger. I'm in no mood for sex, least of all with you."

"Why d'you say that?"

"Because..." She turned to him, her eyes defiant. "I just don't want to, that's why. I'm high now. I've had too much to drink for one thing, and secondly, after tonight, I just want to go home alone and lie in bed and think."

"Glory in your success, huh?"

"And why not? I deserve it."

"You do, you do. But remember it was I who put you up there."

"All right, so what?"

"So now I'm going to collect a little for what I've done. Nothing comes free in this world, especially in show biz, baby."

She jerked her hand away and sulked again, averting her eyes from his. He continued to smoke in silence, staring at her with amused tolerance.

"What you feel doesn't really matter," he said finally. "I'm well used to screwing broads who don't give a damn. It doesn't matter. Sex is sex. I've long ago wiped out anything more than mere passion from the act."

"And what's that supposed to mean?"

"Just that I believe under that hard-nosed exterior, buried 'way down deep somewhere in that sewer you use for a heart, there's a woman desperate for a man to love her, really love her in the very basic essence of the word."

She stared at him uncomprehendingly, then she burst out laughing, the immediacy of her emotions bringing back her nasal twang unconsciously.

"Shoot," she said. "You put out more shit from your mouth than you do from your asshole."

"For that kind observation, you'll be staying for breakfast," he said grimly. "I had planned to let you blow me and then go home, but now I think you deserve a little lesson, Miss Cunt."

She caught the change in his tone and the fall of his smile into a grim expression of implacability, almost a cruel mask of threatening sadism. Inwardly she felt a stab of fear, but she lifted her chin and sneered at him.

"And you think you're big enough to make me stay?"

"Baby," he said, relaxing slightly. "I'm big enough to cook your ass three ways, eat it and spit out the pieces. So start warming up that snatch of yours, because you're going to find it very necessary very soon."

The car pulled up outside the large apartment building, and Roger clicked open the door even before the driver could get out.

"Come on, shitmouth," he said, "And don't try to cause a scene, because Elmer here is all primed to help me carry you, kicking and struggling, into the apartment, if necessary. Are you going to come in like a lady, or is that too much of an effort?"

Their eyes met and she slowly nodded.

"Okay," she said, a trifle wearily. "I hope this isn't a regular routine, that's all."

"It won't be," he said, frowning. "But why this aversion to something any woman would be more than happy to cooperate with? Don't tell me you're averse to sex? Or maybe it's because I'm a man? Is that it, maybe?"

Her eyes flashed.

"Bitch I am, bulldyke, never," she snapped. "It's just that I like to choose who I fuck, and that really isn't one of my more enjoyable pastimes."

He laughed.

"You've never had the right guy," he said. "There isn't a woman alive who doesn't like sex."

"You really don't know much, Roger," she told him, her sense of humor suddenly returning. "There's so much more to life than rolling into bed with a man."

"That I won't deny," he agreed, "but when someone's got a handsome face, a good body and a big dick, why not?"

"Because I'm me," she said easily, "and I like to call the shots. I had enough hotheaded studs with a hard-on in school, and I went along because it was something every girl was supposed to do. I did it because I didn't want to get left out in the cold. Now I'm an adult, and I believe adults do not have as much fun in adultery as infants in infancy. End of statement."

He laughed.

"I still say when you meet the right guy, you're going to fall like a house hit by a wrecking ball," he commented, scooting forward on the edge of the seat preparatory to leaving the car. "I've known too many frigid broads who go ape when they discover what it can really be like. Come on, Hilary, let's go see whether I can change your outlook on sex."

They stepped out of the car and made their way inside. Roger took her arm, and she was conscious of his firm grip on her flesh and the rugged masculinity exuding from every pore. He was really a handsome man, domineering, sure of himself, everything that a woman should desire in a mate; yet, despite his obvious physical attraction, she felt curiously detached. She was not unaware that he would probably do his utmost to please her, out of a sense of male vanity. But she really couldn't care less. She was still glowing from the success of her first appearance; from all the compliments showered on her at the party; from the aura of glamor that seemed to surround her. She was now a network television personality; what did she need men for? What did she need sex for? It had never been that big a thing in her life, merely a means to an end, and it never raised her innate eroticism to any appreciable heights. There had been moments when it mattered, she admitted, but not enough to push sex into a position of significance in her emotional life.

"Okay, here we are."

Hilary suddenly realized they were entering Roger Nelson's apartment, and she had to admit it was impressive, the type of home that she had always imagined the head of a television network to have: furnishings that bespoke taste and riches, oriental carpets that felt more like ankle-deep turf, an almost overpowering aura of elegance and individuality.

She walked forward and sat on the back of a sofa that was angled across a fireplace. Roger came to her, placing his arms on her shoulders and staring down into her eyes. His face was serious, with barely the hint of a confident smile plucking at the corners of his wide, sensuous mouth. He was completely composed.

"Like a drink?"

She shook her head, eased her way out from his arms, and walked over to the picture window overlooking a small terrace. Beyond she could see the spires of Manhattan and the squares of lights studding the semi-darkness above the city streets.

"Okay, let's get comfortable," he said, and she turned to see him heading through a doorway. She knew it had to be the bedroom. With a sigh of resignation she followed him, and again the sense of immensity overpowered her. The bedroom was cozy, but large, with a sloping beamed ceiling, a king-size bed against one wall and a built-in television console opposite, complete with three screens and a turntable and stereo. She grinned.

"Hefner should see this," she commented.

He laughed. "He likes round beds. I don't. Tried one once but kept falling off. I like to know where I am in bed."

"Don't we all."

"Come on, let's be practical. You can hang your clothes in the closet there." He pointed to a sliding glass door in the far wall and commenced taking off his shirt. She stood for a moment, gazing at the tanned skin that was revealed, the muscular shoulders and well-defined chest, smooth and sensual. He caught her glance and laughed.

"I told you I might change your mind about sex," he said with a tinge of pride. "I don't work out at the gym for nothing."

His trousers fell and then his underwear, and he stood naked before her, and she let her eyes take in his physique, down to his crotch where his hardening sex was throbbing in the soft light. She felt a sudden twinge of eroticism as she looked at him. He was undeniably a very handsome man, with a most appealing body. And that penis of his... She had seen many, handled and sucked many, but his was truly exceptional.

"Okay. I'll be with you in a minute," she said, moving across the room. Moments later, her dress had been hung neatly on a hanger and she began fumbling with her bra.

"Here, let me," he said, easing off the bed and coming to her. "I get a charge out of undressing broads."

She stood, feeling his fingers expertly undoing the snaps, and as the bra fell away, letting her breasts hand loose, his hands slid around and gently touched her flesh, his finger caressing her nipples.

"Hm, what lovely breasts you have."

His hands played with her a moment and she felt his penis pressing into the softness of her buttocks. Then he slid his fingers down, catching the edge of her panties, and pulled them down, sliding his hands over her mound, pressing gently and sending a chill through her body. She closed her eyes and heard him move around her. He knelt before her, pulling her panties all the way down, and then she responded to the warm penetration of his tongue as his face came forward and buried itself in the soft mass of hair between her thighs. His hands came up and spread her, and she felt his mouth and tongue going wild within her, licking her clitoris and rubbing her forcefully, pushing her rising passions to fever pitch. Despite her nonchalance over the physical mechanics of sex, she had always been wildly excited by a man going down on her.

She gripped his head and held him, pressing him closer to her, and she heard small grunting sounds of approval issue from his throat. She spread her legs slightly and stood, savoring the moment as he continued his sucking. Her clitoris was hard; she could feel it snap beneath the touch of his tongue, and she moaned.

He stood up, pulling her to him. His penis thrust itself between her legs as their lips met and she felt his tongue push between her teeth and explore her mouth while her breasts rubbed against his smooth chest. They broke apart, and he took her hand, leading her toward the bed.

She knew words would have been superfluous. The look they exchanged told all; she was impressed with him, and he was more than overwhelmed by her beauty. Hilary had always prided herself on her body: small, petite, trim, with large breasts that held their place, a tapered torso that boasted a slender waist and provocative hips. He slumped into the bed and pulled her down next to him. His lips covered her breast and she felt the impassioned sucking on her hard nipple, and she arched her back, tingling with delight, as his hands continued their exploration, his fingers pushing into her crack and enticing her clitoris to ecstasy once more.

Impulsively she rolled over, scooted down and positioned herself between his legs, taking his heavy-hard phallus in her fingers and gazing at it a moment, pulling the foreskin all the way back and exposing the glistening, throbbing head, oozing lube from its wide cockslit in readiness for his approaching climax. She remembered his words weeks before in his office: "I come quickly." This time she did not want that to happen. Moved by a perverse desire to let this moment linger, she enclosed his cock in her lips and only gently pressured it, sliding down and letting the end slip into her throat, then back up, and licking around the end tantalizingly, bringing forth moans of delight from his lips.

"Oh, jeez, Hilary, easy, baby."

"I know, I know."

Carefully she slid her mouth down his shaft to his balls, taking them in her lips and tonguing them, rolling them around and feeling his prick jerk and throb with excitement and delight.

"Enough," he snapped suddenly, reaching down and taking her head roughly in his hands, jerking her up and pulling her forward so that she fell on top of him. Instinctively she spread her legs and maneuvered the end of his cock until it pressed against her now wet-and-warm crevice, sliding into her. She gasped as she felt its length penetrate her vagina, slipping in until the wide, flat head was touching her cervix. He cried out and began thrusting, in and out, moving his hips to rotate it within her. Their lips joined and his hands dug into her back, holding her breathlessly tight to him. She began moving her own hips, flexing her organs to enclose the shaft with greater pressure. To hell with his early coming, she thought, I'm going to really give him a working over. She felt the delicious thrill of his cock in her, and her body tingled from toes to head with the flood of sensual enjoyment that washed through her. It was good; he hadn't lied. He was good in bed, and his body was magnificent. Even his penis, long, thick and throbbing, was just right, bringing her to a peak of desire and ecstasy she had seldom felt before.

"Hilary, I'm going to... "

His voice trailed off as he jerked, pushing himself deep into her and holding himself within her, all the way, while she felt the convulsive jerking of his organ within her. Then, at the same time, she felt her own climax begin, sweep over her with a wave of delirious delight. She cried out, quivering with every spurt of his seed within her, running down and oozing out between her legs, mingling with her own juices as she felt her orgasm push her innermost organs to their peak of ecstasy. On and on, shooting into her until his balls were drained and he relaxed, gasping, his hands trailing across her back and his mouth wide and gasping incoherent words of adulation, "Oh, Christ, oh Hilary, that was wonderful, wonderful... "

She eased herself up and stared down at his face. A truly handsome face. And a beautiful body. She felt his cock soften and slowly withdraw from her. She rolled off him, allowing it to pull out completely, lay across his leg, shining in the light and sticky with their juices. She leaned down and kissed it gently, then stared at him.

"That was good," she admitted softly. "You're some guy, Roger Nelson."

He smiled tenderly.

"And you're some broad," he replied, his hand tracing her eyebrows across her forehead. "In fact, I think that was so good, I'll just keep you here till dawn."

"Wasn't that the idea?" she said impishly, closing her mouth over his and letting her tongue excite him once more, and as she felt his sex begin to respond, she experienced a wildness within her that she had consciously subdued for years: a yearning for more of the intimacy that had, for the first time in years, made her feel like a woman in every sense of the word.

"You know something?" she murmured a moment later.

"Hm?"

"I said I didn't want this to become a habit."

"I don't remember your saying that."

"Well, I've changed my mind."

"I told you. Our motto is to satisfy."

He laughed, and she tweaked his nose.

"It's a pity you're married," she said, a sober note creeping into the flippancy in her voice.

"That doesn't make any difference," he said. "I wouldn't marry you, and you know it. I never marry the women I ball."

"Oh."

For a moment, Hilary mentally catalogued his remark, knowing that it could well be the thin end of an item that might be most useful in her future dealings with Roger Nelson. If he never married the women he slept with, then perhaps his wife was nothing more than a figurehead in his life... Yet if that were the case, why did they marry at all? Unless it was because she was a lesbian and needed a cover for her deviate life, providing a respectable facade for society, and in return, she provided Roger with the opportunity for his career... Could be. Could be most interesting, and something to keep for that day when he, inevitably, grew tired of her and perhaps tried to ease her out. She brushed the thought aside and descended once more on his body, consuming herself for the moment with the delights of his sex.

Yet now, for some reason, she felt the excitement waning, her senses not fully aroused as they had been before. She tried to block out the thoughts about his wife; the possibility of an item in his personal life that would be profitable to her; to block out business when in reality she wanted to concentrate on pleasure. But it was no use. Regretfully she raised up and stared down at him.

"What's the matter?" he asked, frowning.

"I don't know. Let's take a breather."

"Like hell we will. I'm horny again, and this time you're going to get it good."

"Roger, no!"

She cried out as she felt herself rolled over on her stomach and his weight straddle her, his now rampant penis pressing between her buttocks.

"Never had it up the ass, baby?" His voice was rough, and he laughed maliciously. "It's the best ever. Tighter'n that cunt of yours."

She felt the end of his rod push against her anus. Already slippery from their juices, it slid in, and she flinched as its thickness roughly ravaged her sphincter as it entered and slowly slid all the way in. She gritted her teeth and lay still, knowing that to resist would have only made it worse. She tried to relax, but his tool was too thick, too demanding to allow her to get her anus to the point of merely letting it slip in and out. Her flesh stretched tightly around him, gripping him and sending chills through his body, making him groan with ecstasy.

"Yeah, this is more like it, oh, wow, Hilary, this is great, baby, great."

"You ass-fucker, you're hurting me," she spat out.

"You love it," he retorted, sliding his hand around her body and probing her cunt with his fingers. She felt him massage her clitoris, and slowly her own senses began to respond, the prickles of delight chasing the hurt in her ass until she found her entire crotch vibrating beneath the impact of his assault, and she began experiencing a perverse pleasure in it. She lifted her rear end, allowing him deeper penetration, and his hand was working its magic in front, and slowly they blended their movements until, sweat pouring down their skins, making his chest slip and slide over her back, Hilary felt lifted up on a cloud of delirious delight. His movements became quicker and she felt his shaft pulsating within her, until finally, with a cry, he buried his penis deep in her ass and pumped his seed into her. The perverse thrill peaked her own vagina to another mind-blowing orgasm and she felt herself leave the bed, almost as if she were floating. She was aware of him softening, pulling out and sliding off her, and lying on the bed, gasping and moaning softly. She lifted her head and stared at him; then her hand went to his, and they clung together. Words were superfluous, and for the first time in her life Hilary felt a warmth for a man that stemmed from truthful satisfactions of her body. She closed her eyes, and in seconds she was asleep.


CHAPTER FOUR

Alma Golden frowned and ran her fingernail along her forehead, unconsciously tracing the two thick lines that worry and time had carved above her eyebrows. Whenever she was concerned, she found herself rubbing back and forth as though trying to erase the ravages of almost a lifetime in the traumatic business called show. She picked up the typed page again, rereading for the fifth time the item that had just arrived by special delivery.

She leaned back in her chair, debating whether or not to pass it along to Hilary. She remembered her strict instructions that under no circumstances was she to withhold anything that came in, from whatever source. The network of stringers and spies across the country kept the mailbag filled with more than enough material for Hilary's forked tongue to curl around, but occasionally there was an unsolicited scrap of scandal that drifted across the desk, usually from a crank, or a rejected lover, or some misguided woman who felt that through telling all she might achieve some degree of recompense from an unsuccessful affair with a famous personality. Usually Alma dispensed the crank mail to the wastebasket, knowing that despite her instructions Hilary would only do the same; but this particular item was different.

Sighing with frustration, Alma glanced over the carefully typed page once more. One sentence in particular caused her pupils to widen slightly as she mulled over the implications. She knew that in the five weeks Hilary had been dispensing her peculiar brand of reporting over the air there had been an almost overwhelming public reaction, and most of it was unfavorable. Not to the extent of causing the network any concern, because it had been anticipated that few viewers would take a viper to their bosoms, and the fascination with Hilary's items grew to almost a fanatical extent; she became the country's prime target for letters to TV Guide, the network itself and local newspapers. Yet no one turned her off; they all watched and gasped, and the ratings jumped, making the news program in which she appeared the most popular in the country. The rival networks were showing signs of apprehension and there had already been rumblings that the search was out by the opposition to find another Hilary Abbott to give her some competition. Local Hollywood TV stations had their gossip columnists, but no one had been able to match Hilary for sheer invective, for giving an item a slant that raised eyebrows even among the most sophisticated viewers. Overnight she had become the most talked-about, most controversial personality on the air, with many Hollywood stars already quaking in their shoes at the prospect of Hilary publicizing their indiscretions one night on television.

Her one-time appearance on the Johnny Carson show had brought forth mild boos from the studio audience, to which she had merely grinned and bowed her head gracefully. "Do you enjoy being so disliked?" Carson had asked her mildly, and she had nodded most emphatically. "It's part of the game," she retorted with spirit. "If people don't like me, they can always turn me off, but ratings show that they don't. They stick with me, and they watch. People like to hear the lowdown on public personalities." Carson had grinned, his boyish charm disappearing slightly beneath a sad shake of his head and a curl of his mouth. "Don't you ever think what you do is not exactly kosher?" ,he demanded, and Hilary had laughed again. "I serve up the truth," she replied, "and because it's stronger than fiction doesn't mean I should be put off the air." There was a mild scattering of applause, and Hilary stood up and waved at the studio audience. "Thanks out there," she said, and then sitting again, she turned to Carson. "That's my claque out there," she said. "Ten rejects from Women's Lib." There was a mild titter, and as Hilary's repartee grew more and more provocative (much of it was bleeped from the final tape) the audience responded. By the time she walked off the stage, she had the studio audience just where she wanted it; even Carson grudgingly admitted after her departure that she was someone to be reckoned with. "I'd better watch myself," he said slyly. "Next thing she'll be making something of Ed McMahon and me alone in Scandia's the other night."

All of Hollywood was starting to watch itself, and Hilary's two-week visit to the film capital, with its never-ending round of cocktail parties and receptions, proved profitable. By the time she returned to New York to resume her show from the East, she had become more powerful in the public mind than Hedda Hopper or Louella Parson had ever been. Earl Wilson devoted an entire column to her, naming her "Viper of the Year" but qualifying his statement by adding "the most beautiful snake in the grass in town."

Roger Nelson was ecstatic; his position with his superiors and co-workers was even more solidly entrenched, and he received the congratulations of one and all at finding such a personality to bolster the ratings on the news show. His personal involvement with Hilary had not been repeated after the first night, though she knew there would be a time, again, and probably soon. Her two-week absence in Hollywood (her segment of the show had been telecast from the West Coast studio during her visit) had left him curiously restless; he had grown used to seeing her every day, even though they had not spent another night together.

Hilary had not given him a second thought, despite the overwhelming effect of their encounter and her unrestrained involvement in sex that had left her incredibly satisfied as never before. After the glow had faded, her practical nature took over, and she brushed aside any foolish romantic thoughts about him. She had a career, she rationalized; she had no time for anything else, least of all Roger Nelson, no matter how well he could push her passions to a peak. There would be other men when she felt like them. And knowing herself, Hilary did not see too much time being wasted in that area. In addition, she did not wish to run the risk of any scandal involving herself. She was in too precarious a position, too much in the public eye, receiving as much criticism as praise. There would be too many eager to see her plummet from her pinnacle; she would have to be very careful. With Roger it was safe; that she knew, even before she went to his apartment. His own position had made hers secure. But with anyone less prominent, it could be dangerous.

* * *

"Yes, this could be dangerous." Alma voiced her thoughts aloud, still perusing the offending document on the desk. She stared again at the lines of type: obviously a portable, and not in good shape. Also obviously written by someone not overly educated, judging from the sentence structure and the tone of the thinly veiled threat. With a sigh of finality, she pressed the intercom button.

"Hilary."

"Yes, what is it, Alma? I'm in conference."

"I know. I wanted to catch you in case you left with your visitor before I had a chance to talk... "

"What is it, Alma, for Chrissake?"

"It's something I'd like you to see. Drop in when you can."

"Can it wait?"

"I don't think so."

"Very well. I'll be with you shortly."

Hilary turned to the news show producer and shook her head, grinning.

"Problems, problems. They never cease."

"You can handle them," said Jim Finchley, his eyes still glued to Hilary's figure. "So you're all set now with the new format?"

She nodded.

"Sounds fine to me," she said pleasantly. "I think the background of stills and scenes from Hollywood will add to the show. I mean, it won't detract from me, or from what I say, and it'll be great. Just great, I feel."

"I'm glad you agree," said Finchley, his dark eyes twinkling. "I had thought perhaps you might object."

"I'm easy to get along with, Jim," she replied, her eyes meeting his directly and with warmth. "The show's the thing, after all. I think your idea will add a certain something."

"Okay. I'll get out of your hair for now. See you later."

He paused a moment, then rose, gathered some papers in his hand and moved to the door. He looked back at her. She looked up inquiringly.

"Something else, Jim?"

"Er... yes, Hilary. I was wondering whether you'd like to have dinner with me tonight."

She relaxed, pushing her chair back and smiling happily.

"Gee, dinner with my producer," she said teasingly. "I don't think I'm ready for that."

"Come on, quit clowning," he said impulsively. "You know I'm crazy about you."

"You're a nice guy, Jim," she returned affably. "Let's keep it that way, huh? Dinner would only lead to other things, and I'm not ready for that yet. Not with you, anyway."

His face fell and he pursed his lips.

"You mean you'd rather not?"

"Let's say I'd rather not now," she replied easily. "Check back in a week or two, maybe. A big maybe."

"Okay. Thanks for the crumbs from the table," he said, grinning again. "See you, Hilary."

As the door closed behind him, Hilary gave a sigh of exasperation. Christ, she thought. Is every fucking man in this building hot for me? It looked that way. But then, she couldn't really blame them for trying. She knew she was attractive, and she was getting more headlines than any other person on the air. It would do no one any harm to be seen out with her; but then again, she did not want any entanglements that would link her name with any one man in particular. The men she could be seen with had to be business—strictly business as far as the public was concerned. As far as she was concerned was another matter... For a flash, Roger Nelson's face appeared before her, and she brushed the image away impatiently.

She pressed the buzzer.

"Alma, you want to come in?"

"Surely."

Hilary reached for a cigarette and leaned back in her chair. A few seconds later, the door opened and Alma walked in, carrying a sheet of paper, which she deposited on the desk in front of Hilary.

"Read that, will you?"

Hilary picked up the typed page and perused it quickly. She frowned and threw it back. She grinned up at Alma.

"Wastebasket," she said briefly, taking a deep drag off her cigarette. Then, seeing Alma's expression, she added, "You aren't taking that seriously, are you?"

Alma nodded.

"I think we'd better."

Hilary shook her head.

"Never in a million years. You should know better than that. How many pieces of shit like this do we get every week?"

Alma leaned forward.

"I would've thrown it out, except for one word. Look."

Her stubby finger came out and jammed down on the name, typed in capitals in the middle of a sentence.

"Josie."

Hilary frowned.

"Josie? So what?"

"That's Roger Nelson's wife."

Hilary's eyes raised in realization.

"Oh. Then you think... "

"I think, Hilary, that whoever this is, knows what she is talking about. Furthermore, it's obviously a dyke. And believe you me, although there are hundreds of perfectly ladylike lesbians around, there's nothing worse than a dyke on a rampage. They can be very vicious."

"So what?" Hilary clicked her tongue impatiently. "I really won't be intimidated by anonymous letters like this, Alma. In this business, it's to be expected. Look at some of the others we've gotten already."

"Yes, but I think we should take this one seriously."

"So what should I do?" Hilary reached nervously for another cigarette, lighting the fresh one off the old, and taking a deep drag. "I mean, I can't stop seeing Roger. He's my boss, and when he says jump, I jump."

"But not necessarily into bed, dear," said Alma gently.

Hilary glared at the older woman across the desk. There was only compassion on the lined face that stared tenderly into her own.

"I've never... "

Alma held up her hand.

"I don't want to know," she interrupted firmly. "Who you sleep with is your own business, Hilary. But whoever wrote this letter obviously knows that you didn't go to Roger's apartment on business. She also knows that Josie is aware of the fact, and doesn't like it one bit. Now why Josie should care who Roger sleeps with, when she doesn't herself, is perhaps the key to the whole thing. You told me once you thought Josie was a lesbian. This seems to indicate your suspicions were correct. But she placed Roger where he is, and for whatever reason I haven't the vaguest idea. One would imagine that even a lesbian would require more than a marriage license with a man to satisfy the rationale for what she had done for her husband. But then, you never can tell with these weirdoes..." Her voice trailed off. "I mean, well, you know what I mean, don't you, Hilary?"

"Of course. I've wondered myself about Josie. In fact, Roger admitted once he didn't sleep with her. He made the statement that he never married the women he slept with. He has been married before, hasn't he?"

Alma nodded. "Twice. Both brief, nothing important."

"So Josie comes on the scene. She doesn't sleep with him, yet she marries him, gives him position and money and power. It doesn't add up."

"There's something very screwy going on," Hilary said, pursing her lips and picking up a pencil, idly drawing circles on the notepad on the desk. "If Roger doesn't sleep with his wives, then how come he's been married twice before Josie? He can't have made a career of marrying lesbians, surely?"

She broke into a dry laugh. "Christ, this sounds like the start of a helluva story. Pity we couldn't use it even if we dug up all the dirt on it."

Alma chuckled. "Yeah, network chief blasted on his own show." She laughed out loud, then her face became serious. "Hilary, this is getting us nowhere. What are you going to do about this letter?"

Hilary picked up the offending piece of paper and read it over once more.

"Well, this character is threatening to blow the whistle on Roger unless I meet her and get a story, but then she mentions Josie, which makes me wonder whether it isn't Josie herself who wrote this."

"Hey, you might have something there."

"Suppose Josie, for whatever reason, is jealous of Roger, even though she doesn't sleep with him. She knows I spent the night there, and maybe wants to get even with Roger. Shit, what a fucking mess." Hilary wiped her hand over her forehead. "I wish the hell I'd never gone up there now."

"Tell you what," said Alma, leaning forward, animated from a sudden thought. "Why don't I go meet this bird? After all, there's nothing much that can happen. She says to meet her at the corner of Broadway and 49th Thursday night at eight. You can be in a car on the other side of the street."

Hilary broke into a merry peal of laughter.

"This is getting ridiculous," she said. "Hell, why don't I meet her myself, and you stay in the car?"

"Because, number one, you'd be recognized standing on the corner there. Remember your face is known to just about everyone now. Besides, if the network heard about it, your ass would be in a sling for a week."

"Yeah, I guess you're right. Wonder why this character didn't think of that?"

They were silent for a moment, thinking; the clock on the desk ticked abnormally loud for a moment.

"Okay. We'll handle it that way," said Hilary. "Though I don't like it too much. Tell you what, why not let's get Jim Finchley to come along, just for protection. He's nuts about me, and I think he might be the only one to trust. He's the producer of the show, and as such has an interest in me, other than what he's after, naturally." Her face broke into its on-screen twisted smile. "I can get him to come along on some pretext. Then if there is any funny business, he'll be there to play the knight in shining armor."

"Hm, that might be wise," said Alma. "Anyway, if she wants to know why you aren't there, I'll merely say you sent me instead. It will be quite obvious why you wouldn't appear alone in public, especially on a street corner."

"I could be gathering material," said Hilary with a smile. "After all, most of the critics are saying I drag things up out of the gutter."

"Oh, stop it."

Alma rose and picked up the piece of paper. "I'm going now," she said. "We could spend the whole day conjecturing. We've got a show to get together."

"Okay. See you later. And don't worry about this mess," said Hilary. "It'll work out."

"Sure, but only if we do something about it."

"We're going to. Now get out of here."

The door closed behind Alma, and Hilary reached for another cigarette, lighting it impatiently and frowning. Despite her jocular tone, she felt a stab of concern over the letter. Having pulled a blackmail stunt herself, she was aware of the dangers; now the chickens were coming home to roost, it seemed...

* * *

The evening was chilly, and Hilary pulled her fur closer around her slim body. She looked up as Jim Finchley came out of the building and took her arm, escorting her to the waiting cab.

"Broadway and 49th," he told the driver, and they settled back, with Hilary nestling close to Jim. He grinned down at her.

"Do you always snuggle?" he asked teasingly. "Even in bed?"

She pouted at him.

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

"Maybe I'll find out."

"Dreamer."

The cab screeched its way across town, slipping between the early evening traffic, miraculously missing buses and cars, and leaving a trail of cursing drivers behind it. Hilary giggled.

"New York cabs are the worst," she murmured softly, so the driver couldn't hear. "They drive like there's no tomorrow."

"Sometimes there isn't," he said, and she shivered.

"I didn't like that, Jim."

"Come on, where's your sense of humor?"

She remained silent, staring out of the window and brooding. She pictured Alma on her way to the appointed spot, walking carefully, and then standing, waiting for... for whom? Would it be Josie? Would it be some jealous lesbian lover of Josie's? Would it be some jealous lover of Roger's? It had to be someone who knew about her spending the night with Roger, and it had to be someone who was emotionally involved to have threatened to blow the lid off the private life of a network president. It was a deep mystery, and the closer they got to the corner of Broadway and 49th, the more apprehensive Hilary became. She almost felt the urge to turn and forget the whole thing, and chalk it up hopefully to another crank who was all hot air and no action. But she couldn't take the chance.

"We're almost there."

Jim's deep voice echoed reassuringly in the smoky confines of the cab, and she stared ahead, seeing the mass of traffic and the sidewalks crowded with pedestrians.

"Pull up on this side of the street, driver," said Jim, and the bloated face behind the wheel nodded. "We'll give them five minutes," Jim continued, taking her hand and squeezing it gently. "After that, I'm taking you out for dinner."

"Okay, okay," she said, a trifle impatiently. She was in no mood for him to start making sly passes at her at this point. Her mind was too filled of what she might be seeing shortly.

The cab pulled up, and they sat, staring across the street in the gathering dusk. Hilary bit her lip and scanned the faces of the passersby on the opposite sidewalk. Then she saw Alma, striding purposefully toward the corner. She was dressed in a smart white linen suit. Her graying hair was piled atop her head and she was carrying a small shoulder bag. Every inch the efficient secretary, Hilary thought. Alma paused and looked up and down, then reached in her bag for a cigarette.

Hilary checked her watch. It was exactly eight o'clock. At that moment a long, black limousine pulled slowly down the street and stopped about a dozen yards from the corner. A heavily veiled woman emerged and walked up to Alma. There was an exchange of conversation, and then the woman moved closer to Alma, and Hilary gasped as she saw Alma's face contract in fear and she dropped the cigarette. Hilary noted that her hands were shaking. Then she moved slowly, still keeping close to the veiled woman, and entered the black limousine.

"What's going on?"

Hilary's voice was shrill, and Jim leaned forward, his eyes straining to look through the darkened windows of the car.

"Wish I knew," he murmured gruffly.

The limousine pulled away silently and began gathering speed, going down 49th Street.

"Follow that car!" Jim's voice barked a command, and from long experience the cabbie gunned his motor and took off, careening around two cars to catch up and get into position behind the black limousine which had now picked up speed and was moving quickly away. Hilary's heart was beating unnaturally and she clutched Jim's hand.

"What... what on earth do you think?"

"I don't know," he said tersely, "but it doesn't look good, whatever it is."

"I wonder who the hell that woman was."

"Yeah. That heavy veil was too much. Looked like a funeral."

"That's what I'm afraid of," said Hilary, hardly recognizing her own strained voice. "I just pray it isn't Alma's."

"Don't say that." His voice was firm, but she knew he had been thinking the same thing.

With a scream of tires, they whizzed round a corner, and up ahead they saw the limousine disappear into an alley.

"Now what?" demanded the driver. "I ain't playin' no cops 'n robbers up an alley, mister. I got a wife 'n kids."

"Pull up at the end and wait for us."

The taxi ground to a sudden halt and Jim reached for the handle. Before he could open the door, Hilary grabbed his arm.

"Look."

They stared, fascinated, as the black car disappeared into the gathering darkness, its tail-lights gleaming menacingly in the pall of exhaust fumes. Left behind, sprawled on the filthy paving of the alley, was a figure in a white linen suit smeared with dirt and grease, with an ominous dark stain spreading across the front of the apparently lifeless form.

"Alma!"

Hilary's voice rose in a shriek, and in seconds Jim was out of the cab and running. Hilary followed, her heels clacking eerily, her mind teeming with terror. By the time she caught up with him, Jim was kneeling over Alma's body and the look on his face was sufficient.

Hilary turned, leaned against the soot-stained wall of a building, and felt her body racked with convulsions as she retched uncontrollably.


CHAPTER FIVE

The studio lights were brighter than usual, Hilary thought, as she walked carefully across the highly polished floor, stepping delicately over the cables that snaked over the vinyl tiles. Her face was grim, and she hoped the extra layers of makeup would conceal the blue shadows that blotched her skin underneath each eye. Her heart was beating fast, and she knew her hands were shaking; she hoped her sense of showmanship would override her emotions when the moment came for her to face the cameras.

Bill Brophy and Randy Kessenger were already in position behind their desk, and they smiled comfortingly at her.

Bill gave her the thumbs-up signal, and Hilary nodded and attempted to smile, unsuccessfully. Randy moved over to her own desk.

"You all right?"

She nodded.

"You're going to be fine," he assured her, squeezing her arm gently, and she stared up at his handsome face gratefully.

"I hope so," she replied shakily. "I... I... "

"Come on, come on," he snapped pleasantly. "We've got a show to do."

"I know. I know. Please, Randy, leave me alone."

He went back to his desk, raising his eyebrow at Bill Brophy and shrugging his shoulders. The two men gazed momentarily at her sympathetically.

"One minute," came the voice over the studio loudspeaker, and there was a last momentary flurry of activity on the floor. The cameramen adjusted their headsets and checked their screens. Hilary bit her lip, then licked it nervously, arranging her papers in front of her, and straightened her shoulders, staring out toward the large electronic monster that pointed at her. Okay, she thought; in a few moments, whatever will be, will be. Christ, I never thought...

"Good evening. This is Bill Brophy with the news."

She started, hardly realizing that airtime had arrived and they were on. In seconds, she lifted her chin, and began mentally preparing herself for the moment when the red light would show below the lens and she would be facing millions of people across the country.

"Wo are changing our format tonight," said Bill Brophy, his face serious, "because of a tragedy that happened only hours ago in which one of our staff members was involved. Alma Golden, who was secretary to Hilary Abbott, was murdered and dumped in an alley not far from this building. Normally details would be coming from myself, but Hilary feels she would rather reveal the facts of this incident herself. Hilary... "

Red light. Chin lifted. Eyes straight into the camera.

"Good evening. This is Hilary Abbott and tonight there will be none of the items that I normally bring you. Instead I have the sad task of reading you the details of a crime which, while only one of many murders that happen every week in New York, has a special meaning for me, and for everyone here at the network. My secretary, Alma Golden, ended up in the filth of an alley just a few hours ago after being shot three times in the chest." Hilary's voice faltered a moment, then she continued. "This was no ordinary crime, ladies and gentlemen. This was no mugging by a desperate drug addict. This was pure, premeditated murder, and the fact is all the more horrifying to me because, had things been different, it could well have been me lying in that alley and not Alma Golden."

Hilary paused, letting the impact of her words sink in, and taking a deep breath before continuing.

"Today I received this piece of paper." She held up the typewritten sheet over which she and Alma had debated earlier. "I get many crank letters in the mail, and this is understandable, ladies and gentlemen. My particular brand of journalism arouses a lot of resentment among those listeners whose guilty consciences often make them point their fingers out, instead of in. I become the scapegoat for subjective morality, but so be it. For every crank letter like this I receive, there are just as many who express admiration and wonder. Any public figure is liable to the critical judgment of the masses. This letter—" Hilary waved the sheet of paper once more in the air, "threatened to make public a purported affair between two rather prominent people in this town unless I met with the writer and discussed something. What that something might have been no one knows, and your guess is as good as mine. My secretary, Alma Golden, had instructions to screen any letters like this and relegate them to the wastebasket. However, this one held the name of a very prominent individual, and she and I felt that it might be more than mere bravado. So we decided to keep an appointment, but in view of the proposed meeting place, which was the corner of Broadway and 49th Street here in New York City, Alma elected to go in my place, while I waited across the street in a car. My producer and I watched as a black limousine pulled up, a heavily veiled woman emerged, went over to Alma Golden, and then escorted her back into the car. From Alma's expression, it was obvious now that the veiled woman was holding a gun. The limousine took off. We followed and, minutes later, in an alley, Alma's dead body was unceremoniously dumped, where we found it." Hilary's voice broke and she paused, trying desperately to control herself. Bravely she continued.

"The police are now investigating, and hopefully the criminals will be brought to justice.

Alma Golden was a trusting, hardworking soul who had only love in her heart for others; it is more than tragic that she suffered the violent death which will be headlines in tomorrow's newspapers. I want to take this opportunity to speak to whoever it was who sent this letter, as well as to those who were responsible for Alma's being picked up, dead and bleeding, in an alley."

Hilary raised her chin and stared very directly into the camera; her face was serious. There was not even a hint of the usual Hilary Abbott sneer, the curled lip, the veiled innuendo. She spoke with a crisp, clear and forceful voice. "Gossip and hurt personal feelings are one thing. Murder is another. The threats contained in this letter to me constitute only words which are as harmless as the emotions which sparked them; but anyone who would allow personal feelings to boil over into an act of violence such as I personally witnessed this evening is not only sick, but a menace to society. Had nothing happened this evening, the person who wrote this letter might well have continued existing in his or her twisted, neurotic world—but it's too late now. A life has been snuffed out, and an innocent soul has been taken from us. I make this public pledge now that I personally will devote everything at my disposal to see that this individual is brought to justice. I hope it will not be too long before I can speak to you again and reveal the name of this sick member of society who has taken the life of someone we all loved very much."

Hilary's self-composure crumbled and her voice broke. "This is... Hilary Abbott, and now back to Bill Brophy for the rest of the news." The red light winked off, and Hilary stepped back from her desk, turned and quietly walked off the set, her shoulders shaking and her hands covering her face as the tears streamed down her cheeks. As she reached the privacy of the back-stage area, she felt a strong arm around her shoulders, and unconsciously she turned into Jim Finchley's arms and sobbed.

"There, there," he comforted her. "Let it all out."

She lifted her face to his, looking very fragile, very little-girl; he wondered at that moment how such a face could ever contain the vicious sneer that had been her trademark on the air.

"Jim, I'm scared," she whispered. "If they did that to Alma, what won't they do next?"

"All right, enough of that," he said gruffly, turning and guiding her out of the door into the hallway. "Earlier I said I was taking you to dinner tonight. I'm still taking you to dinner, whether you say you feel like it or not. You've got to eat, and half your feelings come from an empty stomach."

Hilary had to admit he was right; ever since they had discovered Alma's body in the alley, she had been going faster than ever before. Coupled with the retching which had emptied her physically and emotionally, Hilary's efforts to get her speech in shape and cleared by the legal department before airtime had left her drained... and, suddenly, very hungry.

"All right, let me get my coat," she said faintly, and moved away from him, wiping the tears from her cheeks and trying valiantly to compose herself.

He waited in the hallway while she entered her office, checked with the operator, and dabbed a little powder on her face. She had just snuggled into her coat when the phone rang. She lifted the receiver and felt her skin crawl with apprehension as a deep voice echoed crazily in the instrument.

"Hilary... that was a nice speech, my dear, but rather foolish. There will be other alleys, other times, my dear. And believe me, no one will ever know."

The line went dead. The numbness kept Hilary holding the receiver to her ear; then, quickly, she flashed the operator.

"Who was that?"

"I don't know, Miss Abbott," came the crisp tones of the PBX girl, "but they insisted on being put through."

"But I told you I was leaving," Hilary snapped. "Surely you took the name first?"

"They refused to give a name, Miss Abbott, and said it was very urgent; that it had something to do with Alma. So I put them through, thinking you might still be there."

"Oh. Oh, all right. No more calls, though. I'm leaving this minute. If there are any calls, try to get the name. Okay?"

"Okay. Good night, Miss Abbott."

She hung up and walked out the door. Her face reflected her concern, and Jim frowned as she took his arm.

"What is it?"

"I got a call. From whoever it was."

"Man or woman?"

"I couldn't tell. It could have been either, really. But something makes me think it was a woman. They called me 'my dear' twice and said there'd be other times, other alleys."

"Christ, we'd better notify the police right away."

"It won't help. The call can't be traced."

"They'll want to know."

"All right, but tomorrow, okay? I've about had it, Jim." She stared up at his strong face. "Where're we having dinner?"

"Anywhere you like."

"Okay. Your place, then. I couldn't face the public tonight, and ..Her voice trailed off, and she clung desperately to his arm. His hand came across, gripping her reassuringly.

"Okay. My place. Just happen to have plenty at home for such an occasion."

"I'm sure." She managed a weak smile, and together they walked out of the building into the chill night air.

Hilary felt curiously numb. The shock of the evening had only now begun to have a deeper effect upon her. Her initial reaction to Alma's death was violent, and then, later, as Jim had taken her back to the studio and they had talked to the police and the news staff and arrived at the final decision about Hilary's breaking the news on the air, she felt as though she were in a dream, a nightmare, and that she would be awakening soon. But now, together with Jim Finchley's strong arm around her, she knew it was no dream. That it was all very real, and that she feared for her own life. For her own future. Alma's words came back to her, and she wondered whether Roger Nelson's lesbian wife was behind it all. Who was behind it all, she pondered for the hundredth time that night.

She found herself suddenly very weak, yet strangely alert. She really didn't know how she had gotten through the newscast. She had been shaking inside, knowing that for once she had to present a serious front to her public. The now legendary Hilary Abbott had to show that she was moved, as any human being should be by the violent and tragic death of a friend and coworker; that despite the snide comments that she usually dispensed over the air she was capable of being taken in depth. She wondered what the public reaction to her statements would be. Would there be cynicism, or would they share her grief and her demand for justice? Would it matter, or would her previous image cast a shadow of inconsequentiality over Alma's death? So what? some might think; some secretary's been knocked off, and she deserved it, dealing in that smut that's being peddled over the air every night. Or would genuine feelings of concern and compassion well up across the country, causing a public outcry and at the same time strengthening Hilary's position as a national figure, someone who cared as well as cut down?

"Here we are."

Jim's voice cut into her thoughts and Hilary glanced out, scarcely realizing that they had climbed into the car and had driven several miles to the massive building where Jim Finchley lived. Automatically Hilary stepped out of the car, and together they entered the building and were carried swiftly and silently up to the fiftieth floor. Minutes later she was seated on the long velvet couch that filled the entire wall of the apartment overlooking Manhattan's hazy skyline, and Jim was busy at the small bar, mixing two Scotch-and-sodas. Hilary leaned back, closed her eyes, and shuddered again at the memory of the previous few hours.

"Here, get this down. You'll feel better. I'll see what there is for dinner."

She heard him walk down the short hallway into the kitchen and exchange muffled words with the houseboy. She opened her eyes as he returned, smiling.

"There'll be roast chicken, potatoes and broccoli," he said, "in about a half hour. Plus some good wine and pie and ice cream for dessert."

"Apple pie?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact."

Hilary put her glass down and was overcome with a surge of hysteria. "Apple pie," she said brokenly. "Apple pie. So fucking American. So goddamn home-sounding, like your grandmother's out there in the kitchen whipping up a meal for your girl that you've brought home. Oh, Christ..." Her tears spilled fresh over her cheeks, and he walked forward, his face grim, and his hand came down sharply. His fingers connected with her flesh and her head jerked back from the violence of the blow.

"I'm sorry, Hilary."

She glared up at him, and slowly her hand rose to her cheek and she felt the lingering sting, but her hysteria had gone. She nodded.

"I guess I needed that. I'm sorry, Jim. I'm usually not that way. But tonight... "

She looked up at him, and in a second he was on his knees before her, gathering her willing body into his arms, and his mouth was sliding over her neck, her face, and from his throat came tender murmurs of consolation and affection, and they clung together like two children lost in a void wherein their only comfort was each other. Hilary felt her fears recede and a warm glow replace them in her consciousness, and her fingers told her how strong he was under his coat, and suddenly she pushed him away.

"No!" The expletive burst from her lips angrily.

"What's the matter?"

"I..." She looked at him uncomprehendingly. "I don't know. I didn't mean that. I'm sorry, Jim. I just felt you were... "

"Putting the make on you?" He laughed and stood up, staring down at her as he took a sip from his glass. "I got news for you, Hilary. I've been mad for you ever since you came to this town. I want to make love to you in the worst way, but I'm not planning to seduce you before dinner. Maybe not even after dinner. One day, somewhere, but certainly not when you're so vulnerable that you'd hate me for it afterwards." He turned away and strode over to the window, staring out into the darkness.

She stared silently at his body, realizing with a perverse thrill that his shoulders were very broad and the back of his head was exquisitely shaped, reminding her of the statue of a Greek god she had seen once in a history book, even down to the way his hair curled slightly, glinting under the soft lights. He turned and saw her eyes. He smiled. "I think I'm in love with you, Hilary," he said simply.

"Forget it, Jim," she said briefly. "I've no room for love in my life. Not now."

"There's always room," he replied, moving toward her slowly. "All else is meaningless without love, and tonight I realized that under that hard-hearted exterior the real you is a little girl, hungry for love, desperate for someone to have and to hold. Don't deny it, Hilary. If nothing had happened tonight, I wouldn't say it. But I know. I know, baby, more than anything else, I know."

"You don't know shit from beans," she said, her Texas twang returning unconsciously. "Oh, crap," she added, realizing how she had sounded. Their eyes met, and she laughed. "I'm a mess," she said, "but I do like you, Jim. And I appreciate what you've done."

"I haven't done a thing," he replied, coming over and sitting down next to her. "You're the one who's faced the public. It took guts to give that spiel tonight. I bet you'll get a lot of good notices tomorrow."

"I could stand them," she admitted wryly. "Even though the ratings are great, I know there're a lot of people who think I'm a no-good bitch."

"I've always thought you were, but it was just a front," he said, taking her hand in his and stroking her fingers gently. "No one's all bad, or all good. You just show the bad side to the public." He leaned over and kissed her cheek tenderly. "I know the other side, and I'm happy I do."

She leaned her head against his shoulder and they were silent for a moment, listening to the muffled sounds of dishes coming from the kitchen.

"You hungry?"

"I am now. In fact, I'm beginning to feel better," she said. "I still hurt inside. Poor Alma. Oh, God, why... why..." Her voice trailed off.

"You've no idea who it was?" he asked quietly.

"None at all," she lied, her mind instantly picturing the rather heavy-set features of Roger Nelson's wife. "But I guess we'll find out eventually."

"But that phone call...? You didn't recognize the voice?"

"No. I just think it was a woman, rather than a man. There was something in the way it sounded. Not like a man at all. More like a woman, or a fag." She laughed. "That's all we need. A fag who's jealous and kills off public figures to get his kicks."

"It's happened before," he replied seriously.

"Frustration leads people into many devious paths."

She stared at him directly and grinned. "That sounded so pompous," she murmured. "And you're anything but pompous, dear heart." She leaned over and kissed his forehead. "You know, I'm beginning to like you more and more, Mr. Finchley, sah."

They laughed, and he squeezed her hand more firmly.

"Sounds promising. Who knows what you'll feel like after a good meal and some wine?"

"No telling." He face became apprehensive again. "I'm still a little scared over the phone call, though."

"It may be just a crank, or it may not be," he said. "After all, there are enough people who like to make crank calls. It could've been someone who watched the show and then decided to get their jollies from a phone call. This town is so loaded with weirdoes, it makes me shudder. It didn't used to be this way. I sometimes wonder what New York is coming to. How it will end up."

"I don't care, really," Hilary said. "When my contract is up, I'm going to ask for a transfer to the West Coast. I think California has a lot more to offer in every way."

"I'm planning on going out there, too," he said. "Maybe we'll both make it out there."

She grinned impishly. "And maybe we'll make it before then," she said, tweaking his nose affectionately. "But right now, what's happened to that dinner?"

"Let's go find out," he said, rising and pulling her up into his arms. She stared at him, then impulsively she clung to him as their lips met in a long, deep, passionate kiss. She pressed her body to his and felt the warming firmness in his hips pushing eagerly forward.

"Okay, enough for now," she said, breaking away, and stepping back. "I'm hungry."

"I am, too, but not just for food."

"Later for you, lover."

He took her hand and led her unresistingly toward the kitchen.

* * *

The door closed behind the polite figure of the cook-houseman, and Hilary turned to Jim.

"Alone at last," she murmured. "Put on some music, will you? Something quiet. Something soothing."

"Sure," he said, walking over to the stereo built into the wall above the bar. "A stack of soothe coming up. For sooth." He laughed, and she shook her head. "You're too much," she said, slumping into the sofa and leaning back, closing her eyes as the soft sounds of violins filled the air. "Oh, I feel so much better. That was a good meal."

"Yashika does very well," he said, coming over to join her. "I've had him about two years now. He takes care of everything."

"And what do you take care of?"

"You."

Their lips met and they clung together, his hands sliding over her form, touching her bare back and slipping round her waist to cup her breast in his eager fingers. She started, then relaxed and let the sensuous glow spread through her body. He was very tender, very gentle; that was what she needed. She felt his tongue probe her lips, push into her mouth and join hers in an endless exploration. Breathlessly they broke apart and he stared at her.

"Oh, Hilary, I love you so much."

"Ssssh." She put her fingers on his mouth and rose to her feet. He stared up at her uncomprehendingly.

"You're not going home?" he asked disbelievingly, and she shook her head.

"I thought perhaps we might find someplace more comfortable," she said provocatively. "Like the bedroom. I presume you have a bedroom?"

He grinned happily. "You bet. King-size bed and all." He took her hand and led her through a doorway, down a short passage and into an enormous room with a wide picture window that overlooked the winking lights of the towers of the city. She gasped, overcome by the grandeur of the setting.

"Oh, wow... this is some room," she murmured. Then he gripped her shoulders, spun her to him, and their kiss was quick, violent, passionate, and she felt his body eagerly seeking hers, his sex pushing between her legs with undeniable demand.

"Can I undress you?"

"Of course."

She walked over to the bed and stood waiting, her eyes closed as she felt his strong fingers begin removing her garments. First her dress, which dropped around her ankles after the long zipper had been unfastened. Her slip. Her bra, and she thrilled at the touch of his hands going around her waist, feeling her skin as he fumbled briefly with the catch; than the rush of cool air as her breasts fell loose and she heard him gasp. For a second his lips touched her nipples briefly, bringing them instantly to firm nubs of desire. Then his fingers hooked into the elastic of her panties and pulled them down and she stood before him, her body exposed. She opened her eyes and saw him staring at her, an expression of wonder on his face. "God, you're lovely," he muttered.

She grinned happily at the compliment and felt a deep surge of desire as she noticed the ominous bulge in his pants. She stepped out of her dress and sat on the bed, taking off her hose and shoes and scooting across the covers to sit cross-legged on the pillows while he quickly undressed himself.

As his clothes fell off one by one, discarded in haste and carelessness on the thick carpet, she felt an overwhelming excitement, a sense of glorious anticipation at seeing his muscular shoulders, slim waist, strong arms—then his groin with its massive sex that sprang forth as he removed his shorts.

He saw her staring, and he laughed self-consciously.

"He's big," he admitted, and she nodded, extending her hand as he walked forward to the edge of the bed. Her fingers closed around his hardening shaft, and she slid his foreskin back, exposing the broad, flat head, gleaming wetly in the soft light. "He's more than big," she murmured. "He's beautiful."

"You talk too much," he snapped, and then he was beside her, drawing her unresisting form up against him, feeling her breasts against his smooth chest, savoring the hardness of her nipples against his skin just as she felt a sudden shock as his hard sex pressed between her legs, eagerly pushing up toward its goal, toward her warm and wet crevice in which her juices had already begun oozing down. Their lips blended and she felt his tongue push into her mouth as he maneuvered his hips and pushed the end of his penis against the downy hair between her thighs, and she gasped as the head touched her clitoris and sent electric chills through her. Automatically she began rotating her torso, gaining pleasure from the pressure against her innermost organs.

He groaned. "Stop that," he muttered, "I don't want him to come yet."

"You won't," she said, breaking away from him and staring down between their bodies, marveling at the exquisite physique close to hers, joined cock-to cunt, his tanned skin contrasting sensuously with her own white satin smoothness.

"God, you're great," he muttered. "You're everything I ever dreamed you'd be."

She tweaked his nose with a finger.

"Now who's talking too much?" she countered.

In a surge of passion, he pushed her flat and straddled her, sinking his penis deep into her vagina, and she gasped as she felt the broad head penetrate. She pictured it at the mouth of her cervix, pressuring her folds of skin while his thickness rubbed her clitoris to even greater heights of sensation. "Oh, yes, yes," she breathed. "Fuck me, Jim, fuck me good."

"I intend to." He sank his teeth into her breast and let his tongue flick across her firm nipple, and he thrust himself even deeper into her. She squirmed at the passing pain from his teeth, and her nails clawed across his back.

"More, more," she moaned, arching her body to push her breasts closer to him and withdraw slightly from his penis, allowing him more room to thrust. His hips had begun humping, in, out, and she felt the surge of exquisite pleasure flood her entire body, every nerve tingling, every part of her responding.

"Goddamnit." He lifted up, and with a quick gesture his arm lifted her legs up on his shoulders. His penis, withdrawn for a moment, plunged back into her, and this time she gasped as she felt its masterful throbbing deep, deep within her.

"Christ, that's good," she muttered. "Deeper, deeper. Fuck me deep." Her hands slid around and felt the swinging sac of his balls as he rammed his sex into her and kept it there, rotating slowly. She felt the end of it probing around inside, increasing the sensations which already were causing her to shake uncontrollably with passion. She had never felt a man like this before; it was almost as if this were the first time. The sensations were so extreme, the pleasure almost unbearable.

"I'm... I'm almost there..." He choked out the words, and she increased her own movements, blending with his own, tightening her vagina around the throbbing shaft that was violating her very innermost organs, while his thick pubic ridge pressured her clitoris with almost intolerable ecstasy. She found herself mouthing words of incoherent passion, while his mouth slid over her breasts, sucking her nipples, tonguing the end of her beautifully rounded tits; and all the while their bodies were twisting, blending in rhythm as he began driving his penis with slow, steady strokes into her, working toward the ultimate ecstasy that he knew was not far away.

She felt her own responses and suddenly she felt her vagina contract, and she cried out. "I'm coming, I'm coming," and her mind fled her body as she floated on clouds as she felt her orgasm shoot even more juicy wetness into her cunt. His response was immediate and animal; almost with a growl, he lowered his teeth into her neck and she felt the pain blend with the pleasure in her and she felt his cock throb, expand and then jam deep into her. He cried out and she felt the gobs of come flooding her vagina, shooting on and on and running down out of her crack as he pumped on and on, gaining every extra moment of pleasure he could from the instant of his orgasm. He pushed hard and held himself in her and she felt him slowly subside. He rolled over and withdrew, allowing her legs to descend to the bed.

She stared at him for a moment, than closed her eyes, "Good, huh?" he murmured, kissing her ear.

"Mmmm. Never so good," she replied, her fingers trailing lazily over his skin.

He bent his head down and kissed her breast, letting his mouth trail down over her stomach and nestle in the wet warmth of her cunt; his tongue probed her for a second and she jumped.

"Not now," she said, lifting his head up with her hand. "Later, but not now."

"I want to eat you," he said forcefully. "You've got the sweetest cunt I've ever fucked."

"And you've got the best prick I've ever seen," she said. "But let's rest, Please. That was wonderful, but I want to sleep. Please, Jim. We can fuck later again."

He stared at her, and slowly his surge of passion left.

"Okay," he said resignedly, "but... "

"No buts," she admonished him, snuggling up close. "Let's sleep. I'm so tired. I just want to.." She never finished the sentence, and seconds later her breathing was heavy and her head lolled against his shoulder. With a smile he drew the covers up over their bodies and lay still, still staring at her face, his mind reeling beneath the ecstasy he felt, his body still eager but momentarily satisfied. It would happen again, he knew; and he knew it would be soon.


CHAPTER SIX

Roger Nelson walked into his apartment and stared around with a frown. On the normally flawless surface of the coffee table, two beer cans stood, together with two glasses that had left many rings on the smooth polished wooden surface. Roger bent down and felt the beer cans; they were still cold.

"Josie!" His voice thundered through the apartment, and a moment later a bedroom door slammed and muffled footsteps on the heavy carpeting grew slowly louder as a figure loomed down the hallway. Roger was breathing heavily as he faced his wife.

"And what the fuck's all this mean?" he demanded as she lurched into the room, her large frame carelessly shrouded in a thin robe, her face sneering at him, her eyes slightly glazed. He stared hard at her. "Are you stoned again?"

She laughed coarsely and leaned up against the bookcase. Slowly she extended her middle finger of her right hand and elevated it in front of her, in line with his face.

"Up yours," she muttered incoherently. "I thought you weren't coming here tonight."

"And where did you think I was going?"

"I dunno. Whoever you're fucking this week, I figured."

He walked forward until they were inches apart; he could smell the nauseating fumes on her breath. "That still doesn't give you the right to come here without calling me first," he said. "I thought we had agreed on that."

She swayed slightly and peered at him mawkishly, her eyes slits in her round, fat face. With an effort she brushed her gray hair from her forehead and sniggered.

"Maybe we did, but tonight I had someone with me," she muttered, "and this was closest and most convenient. Besides, I like fucking in your bed, Roger. 'S real wild. That vibrator turns me on. Tickles my li'l ol' pussy."

He turned from her, a look of disgust on his handsome features, and walked over to the bar and poured himself a drink. He turned and surveyed her. She had moved over to a chair and flopped down, still staring at him.

"I want you to come to bed with us, Rog."

He laughed dryly and finished the amber liquid in his glass.

"I mean it, Rog," she continued, lazily letting her eyes roam over his body as he removed his coat. "I'm hot tonight, and you know what that means, don't you, booby-boy? I want some of that lovely dick up my ol' cunt."

He whirled on her, incensed at her words. "I thought you said you had someone here," he snapped. "Let her eat that tired old snatch of yours. I'm not in the mood." He sat down wearily opposite her. "In case you hadn't heard, we've had a trying day. Alma Golden was found murdered tonight."

He watched her, dumbfounded at her lack of reaction. She merely continued staring at him, a stupid grin on her face.

"Oh. I guess you didn't hear me," he said, a trifle more softly, "I said... "

"I heard you the first time," she snapped suddenly, raising up to an erect position and supporting her weight with her arms on either side. "Why'n fuck was Alma murdered?" She hiccupped and then belched loudly. "Should've been that other little whore you have on the news. Miss Cunt-happy Cockteaser... whore... bitch..." Her voice trailed off and she fell back, her eyes closed and her chest heaving. In a few seconds, she grunted and raised up again. "I'm very stoned," she said gruffly, "but I still wanna fuck. Come in, Rog. Do what mama says now. I've got a goodie in there to turn you on. She's real pretty. Prettiest little snatch you'll ever sink your teeth into. C'mon."

"I told you I was tired," he snapped, "and I'm in no mood for sex. I've been talking to police, homicide, the papers. Christ. Why do you have to come barging in here tonight of all times?" He glared at her and ran his hand through his hair. "For all you've done for me, Josie, there are times you strain my patience to breaking point. Now why not get your chick and get the fuck out of my apartment?"

"Our apartment," she corrected him. "After all, we are married, aren't we, Roger, darling?" She accented the last word sarcastically, and he flinched. "If it weren't for me... "

"I know. I know. And for the thousandth time, don't remind me. It almost makes it obscene."

"Obscene, that's a good one." She laughed coarsely. "For all you do to get your kicks, you're in no position to point a finger. Or to raise one," she added meaningfully.

He stared at her malevolently. "Okay, Josie, okay, let's not get into another hassle now. I just can't take it. I've had one helluva day."

She sniggered. "That's right. Alma was murdered, wasn't she? That was the prize goof of the year."

"What do you mean?"

"Like I said, it should've been that little cunt instead. I guess someone got their signals crossed."

Roger frowned and sat down. "Sounds like..." He paused, uncertain of how to phrase his words. "You almost know about it."

"You just told me, didn't you? No one would want to knock off that corduroy face, God knows. But Miss Abbott... I could name a dozen guys and gals who'd love to see her six feet below."

"All right," he replied wearily. "Let's change the subject." He rose and walked over to pour himself a drink at the bar. "You want one, or have you had enough?"

"I've had enough to drink, but not enough sex," she said with sudden asperity. "C'mon, I want you to join us, like I said. Come and look, f Chrissake. She's a doll."

"I couldn't care less."

"She'll suck your cock."

"So will any woman in this town. So what else is new?"

"But wait till you see her. Roger..." She rose and staggered over to him, taking his arm forcefully. "Come on, baby. I want to see you balling her. We haven't had a session in months."

"Thank God."

He allowed himself to be guided across the room and into the bedroom, where a girl lay spreadeagled across the bed, her arms and legs tied to each corner of the brass canopy. Her eyes were staring unseeingly at the ceiling and from her mouth issued small moaning sounds while her hips moved suggestively.

"Pretty, huh?" said Josie, her eyes glinting lasciviously as she took in the scene. "And she sure knows what to do."

Roger walked over and stared down. The body was undeniably beautiful; the face exceptional; almost too beautiful. Yet the position, the movements, the situation, all turned his stomach. He took a quick swallow from his glass and turned away.

Josie laughed. "You ain't turned on?" she demanded, taking his arm and squeezing it. "You don't feel that old urge, booby-boy?" She reached down and gripped his penis through his pants and began kneading it gently. "Hm, there he comes. I can feel him beginning." She giggled, and he pulled away from her, but she clung to him, feeling his sex hardening under her fingers, and she knew it would not be long.

"Josie!" He shouted and strode across the room, staring out of the window.

"Roger."

The tone made him turn, and he saw the expression—that familiar expression he had grown to hate. A look that said to him that payment time was here; he had better, or else...

"All right," he sighed. "For Chrissake, how much longer is this insanity going to last?"

She laughed. "As long as I say, Roger, which could be a lifetime. Or as long as you continue balling chicks that I don't get a part of. Like that prime cunt you put on the air, f r instance." She glowered at him. "Why did you do it, Roger?"

"You're only suspecting," he countered, beginning to take off his clothes. "You don't know. And I'm telling you I didn't."

"I happen to know differently. I know for a fact that she spent the night with you. And that's a no-no. That's not part of our deal, Roger."

His clothes fell away and he stood naked. She stared disinterestedly at his body, at his half-erect phallus between his legs.

"All right, I'm ready."

She pointed to the closet. "You're not dressed," she said briefly. "I want the works, Roger. The way I like it."

With a sigh he turned, went to the closet, took out a long shimmering red dress, and slowly stepped into it, pulled it up over his body. She came over and zipped it up the back, and grinned at him.

"There, that's more like it," she said. "My, you do look good in drag." She laughed, and reached into the slit up one side, taking his penis in her hand and massaging it, while her eyes closed and she sighed ecstatically. "Oh, yes, there he comes. Oh, Roger, make it real hard. Make him big."

"You want me to fuck her?"

"Sure. The usual way. Number fifty-seven in my little red book." She laughed and stared approvingly as he walked over to the bed and stared down at the body, still writhing in another world, the eyes glazed.

"Is she on something?" he asked.

Josie nodded. "I gave her a drop of LSD just to make sure there'd be no problems. She's off somewhere. You needn't worry."

He climbed on the bed and positioned himself between the girl's legs. He put his fingers on the exquisite soft flesh and touched her crotch. There was little response other than a slightly louder moan from the beautiful lips.

Josie giggled. "How 'bout that?" she whispered evilly. "She doesn't even know what's happening to her."

"She will when I fuck her," Roger said, pressing his fingers deep into the girl's labia and feeling for her clitoris. He felt the nub of flesh and massaged it, feeling it grow hard beneath his touch; her moaning increased slightly and she began moving her hips. Josie giggled, and her hand went to her own crotch and began pressing...

"Maybe you'd better get it on before I come," she said, her robe flopping open wide and exposing her gross expanse of flesh, obscenely folding over her stomach and almost concealing the hairy morass where her fingers probed.

Roger stared down at his erect phallus, protruding from the slit in the dress. Almost automatically he lunged forward and slowly pushed his firmness between the girl's labia. Then he descended slowly until he covered her, feeling his sex buried deep inside her vagina. There was almost no reaction from the girl, who continued her movements as though nothing new had happened. Roger felt her warm flesh contract around his shaft, and he began his movements, in, out, while his hands grasped her shoulders and his face lay next to hers. He could hear the small, tiny gasps coming from her throat; her eyes were still staring blankly at the ceiling. He felt suddenly horrendously degraded; at least he wanted a woman to enjoy him. He was aware of his large penis; he felt the least she could do was respond, put her arms around him, hold him close. But there was nothing.

He heard a noise and saw Josie lurch against the bedpost and then descend on all fours behind him, her mouth eagerly lapping up his legs towards his asshole. Seconds later her hot tongue buried itself in his anus, her head covered by the skirt of the dress. Her hands kneaded his buttocks. "Fuck her, goddamnit," she cried hoarsely, and then her tongue began licking him frantically as he began his lunging movements in and out of the girl.

Slowly his revulsion faded beneath the overwhelming impact of the two bodies upon his senses: the girl's vagina enclosing him, the feel of her tight breasts against his chest; and Josie's talented tongue performing its ritual upon his anus. He closed his eyes and for a second he saw Hilary's face before him, and the fantasy spurred his emotions, pushed his passions to a peak, and he gasped and felt his penis throb, jerk, expand with excitement. He moved faster, in, out, holding it in, rotating it within her organs and feeling the warm wetness of her cunt enclose his thick, wide head and rub it sensuously, increasing his pleasure to almost an unbearable degree.

He moaned, and he heard Josie giggle behind him. Her hands caressed his body through the dress, and her tongue was licking fast and deep, titillating his nerve endings, sliding around to his balls and taking them within her mouth and gently rotating them in her lips. He groaned, and then suddenly the girl opened her mouth and gave a loud, terrifying shriek. "No, no, not that," she cried out, and then she became silent; her hips continued their movements uninterrupted.

"She's off somewhere," he muttered, almost to himself. "Poor freaked-out cunt."

Josie raised up and slapped him gently. Her one hand had moved back down between her legs and she was masturbating herself violently. "I'm almost there, you bastard," she snapped. "Get with it. I want you to come in her."

He turned his attention back to the girl and tried with all his power to concentrate. Again he saw Hilary's face before him, and this time he held the image, concentrating and pushing his penis deep into the slippery vagina, imagining it was Hilary beneath him, it was Hilary who was helping him climb to his ultimate ecstasy. With a sudden rush he felt his seed rising from his balls. Josie's tongue had worked its way back into his anus and was pushing in as far as she could. With an involuntary cry, he lunged deep and felt his sperm travel down his cock and shoot load after load into the girl, while his body trembled with waves of delight that flooded his entire body from toes to temples. "Yes, yes," he cried out. "Oh, God, more, more." He felt Josie's mouth slobber over his anus, and her own grunts of pleasure indicated her own orgasm. Slowly he began subsiding, and he rolled off the girl and lay still, looking down at Josie, who had sat up, a look of supreme satisfaction on her flabby face.

"Good, booby-boy, good," she muttered. "It's always good with you, you horny son-of-a-bitch." She laughed loudly and stood up, pressing her robe into her crotch and wiping herself carelessly. "Nothing better'n fucking with you, Roger. I'm sure glad I married you."

"We didn't marry," he countered wryly. "We merely came to a mutually rewarding arrangement."

"Have it your way." She shrugged and tottered to the bureau for a cigarette. "Anyway, it's groovy, whatever name you put on it." She struck a match, inhaled deeply, and stood staring at him. "You've really got a fabulous body, you know that? I think I'll come over and suck you hard again."

"You stay where you are," he snapped. "I've had it for tonight."

"Well, I haven't."

"Tough shit. I've told you, I've had one helluva day and I want to go to bed. So get this stoned pussy out of here and leave me in peace." He pursed his lips. "Why the fuck didn't you take her to your place?"

"Because," she said evasively.

"Because why?"

"Because I know you wouldn't have come over."

"And for a good reason. I've never disappointed you before. That was part of our deal, remember?"

She shook her head in exasperation. "Roger, quit haggling. You got what you wanted, and I'm getting what I want. Now shut your fucking mouth. I don't feel like talking. I got things to think about. Like that cunt of yours on the network who didn't get knocked off today like she was s'posed to."

Roger's eyes opened wide and he sat bolt upright.

"What was that, Josie?"

She snickered and walked toward the bathroom. "Nothing, just nothing," she said. "Now lay off. I'm going in the bathroom to think." She paused at the door. "I'm also gonna take a healthy crap, if you must know."

He bounded off the bed and had grabbed her before she could slam the bathroom door behind her grotesquely flabby body. "What did you mean about Hilary?" he snapped, shaking her arm.

She stared contemptuously at him. "S'matter? 'Fraid she's gonna be next?"

"Josie." His voice was steely. "What did you mean?"

"Just this, lover boy," she snapped, her voice suddenly becoming icy with vicious hate. "We got a deal. You'n me. Only someone else when I bring 'em in, like that cunt over there now. No one else. Understand? No one else, especially not someone like Hilary Abbott." Her breathing was deep, labored; her large breasts rose and fell, flopping disgustingly beneath her chins. "You're mine, Roger, booby-boy. I bought you. And you fuck when I say so, and not with anyone else but me. Or unless I'm there to join in the funsies." She paused for breath and he shook his head slowly, uncomprehendingly. "And don't look like that," she continued, "You know goddamn well how it is." She turned and walked into the bathroom. "I'm sorry about Alma, though." Her voice echoed off the tiles. "She wasn't a bad broad, even though she was no oil painting. But so what?"

Roger turned away. His stomach heaved and he swallowed quickly to relieve the feeling of incipient regurgitation. He wiped his forehead and walked over to the bureau and lit a cigarette. The toilet flushed and Josie reappeared, standing a moment at the door and grinning at him.

"Josie, don't tell me you planned to take care of Hilary, and Alma got it instead?"

Slowly she nodded. "You betcha. Daddy doesn't have those connections for nothing, booby-boy. And when I say jump, someone jumps. When I say do it, they do it. I guess I should've been more explicit in describing that cunt. No matter. Now you know, maybe things'll calm down between you two. Otherwise..." She lifted her shoulders. "No more bitch-mouth on the network."

Roger sat down quickly in the large armchair beside the bed and shook his head. His face reflected his disbelief and deep anxiety. "I just don't believe it," he muttered. "This isn't true. Tell me you're putting me on, Josie. For Chrissake. Don't tell me you're that warped... "

"Watch it," she shouted, walking forward and pointing a finger unsteadily in his face, "No one calls me warped. I may be fat. I may be a fucking dyke. I may be ugly. But by Christ, I do my thing and I can afford to. I always have. Not you or anyone ever tells me what I can and can't do. So shut your goddamn mouth right this minute." She retreated, breathing heavily and coughing. She pounded her chest with a thick fist. "Oh, Christ..." She gasped a moment and then recovered. "Fucking always gives me heartburn," she said with a smile.

"You shouldn't eat so much pussy," he snapped angrily, and she broke out laughing.

"You should talk, anyway," she said. "Kicks. How d'you get yours, booby-boy? Dressing up in drag. A frustrated queen. Or whatever." She sneered at him. "So don't ever call me warped again, you hear?" She brought her fist down once more on her chest. "Christ, that hurts. Fuck."

He stared unfeelingly at her gross body, not caring whether she was in pain or not.

"Whatever way I get my kicks, it doesn't hurt anyone," he said softly. "At least I don't dump people in alleyways with three bullets in their chest. Oh, fuck..." He jumped and ran to the bathroom, and she heard him retching into the toilet. He emerged a moment later, wiping his mouth. "Josie, get the hell out of here," he said grimly, "or there'll be another murder and it won't be mine."

His eyes conveyed his serious intent, and without a word she went over to the chaise longue and started picking up her clothes. "What about her?" she asked. "You want her to stay?"

He laughed. "Take her with you," he snapped. "I want to sleep. And alone." He stared at the girl, who was still mouthing silent obscenities to herself and writhing her body almost automatically. "Poor kid. Where d'you get them, Josie?"

"None of your business," she snapped, walking over and unloosening the straps which held the girl's body to the bedposts. "Come on, help me get her up. I'll have Nathan come up and carry her down to the car."

Roger's eyes flashed. "Nathan has been here, waiting?"

"Sure. You know he's my personal driver. Where I go, Nathan goes." She lifted the phone beside the bed and dialed the garage downstairs, giving brief instructions. She hung up and turned to the girl. "Come on, blossom, we're going home," she said soothingly.

The girl sat up, stared at Josie unseeingly.

"Josie," she muttered softly, and her arms went around Josie's neck tightly, clinging like a child to its mother.

"There, there." Josie winked at Roger. "She's 'way out. She won't remember a thing. Least of all being fucked by you."

Roger turned and took a robe from the closet; he tore the dress off himself, donned the robe and walked into the living room. A few minutes later, a knock announced Nathan's arrival. Minutes later, Josie was gone, together with the driver and the girl. Roger stared around his apartment and out through the windows.

He closed his eyes and collapsed on the couch.

"Christ, Christ," he muttered, feeling utterly drained, devastated beyond any belief. "What can I do?" he murmured to himself, knowing there was little he could do in his present position. At least not with Josie still around.

He walked over to the bar and poured himself another drink. Tired as he was, and emotionally drained, he did not feel sleepy. The shocking revelation of Josie's actions had chased any thought of sleep from his mind. He sat down again, toying with the glass in his hand and wondering what to do; he knew that there was little he could do. Josie's family was powerful; they had put him where he was. And their connections with the mob were all-encompassing; the fact that Alma lay cold on a slab in the morgue was proof enough of that fact.

Yet was it? Knowing his wife only too well, Roger wondered whether she hadn't perhaps latched on to the event as a possible edge to gain even more control over him in the future; let him think she was responsible when in actuality she may not have had anything to do with it. He had previous experience of her intense deviousness, her lying, her complete disregard for the truth when it suited her. It could be; she could have been lying. Fucking dyke; he regretted for the thousandth time ever becoming involved with her. Yet there had been compensations. Yet now he was more than concerned, because Hilary was involved. Josie's statements did have a ring of believability to them; if she had put the finger on Hilary, it was possible that whoever carried out the orders had disposed of Alma instead of Hilary. Could be; they might have even regarded the act as a warning of possible consequences if...

Roger sat up, frowning. If... if what? If he continued having an affair with Hilary? Why should that be of such consequence to Josie, other than her insane jealousy of him, despite their deviate sex encounters and strange manifestations of perverted desires that seemed as much a part of her as her grotesque body? His marriage had been the strangest contract he had ever entered into. More than achieving his ambitions as president of one of the country's television networks, he had amassed a personal fortune that would insure his security for the rest of his life. The weird sexual demands of his wife were not that far removed from his own deviations that occasionally loomed on the horizon of his desires, and despite his occasional self-disgust at his perversity he found more than enough satisfaction in his life-style and personal pleasures to compensate for any disadvantages of the situation.

He recalled having once asked Josie why she ever decided to marry him: and her answer had been as strange as much of her behavior: "I marry you, Roger, because you're a handsome man with a big dick who likes to do things differently."

"What do you mean marry?" he had demanded. "We're married."

And she had grinned foolishly and told him, "Every time we go to bed, I marry you. To me, marriage is the act we perform together, not the institution that society has laid down as legal and binding, which is a crock of shit as far as I'm concerned."

And he had shaken his head despairingly, wondering how a woman with such a fine family background and impeccable education could have become so warped, so deviate in her sexual desires and daily behavior. But the union, such as it was, suited his rampant desires for personal aggrandizement, and he had found himself plummeted into a financial and career bracket that many men envied. Yet... was it all worth it? Especially now, with this nagging fear that perhaps Josie had employed some of her father's unsavory associates to take care of a matter that she considered important. Important?

Why should his affair with Hilary be so important to his wife? She had never objected to his many and varied excursions between the sheets with other women, many of whom she had known and been in favor of. Why should she become so violently antagonized because it was Hilary Abbott and not some little available starlet who felt that her career might be helped by going to bed with the network president? And again, was Josie really involved? Or were her words merely the insane ravings of a frustrated lesbian who found life less than satisfying and preserved a facade of self-importance as a compensation for her innate shortcomings? He knew that Josie was not a happy woman; for one thing, she was rather grotesquely unattractive. She did have a personality, which had elevated her into a bracket of socially acceptable personalities whose presence always was welcome at society get-togethers. Her huge body, her overweight condition, her lack of basic femininity and beauty were insignificant compared with her quick wit, her amusing chatter, and her striking contribution to conversation. Yet, deep down, in those unplumbed depths (unplumbed by anyone but himself, he felt sure) there lurked the soul of a woman who cried out at the shameful trick nature had played on her, depriving her of the physical attributes given to most women, as well as the normal heterosexual desires. She could never have sex normally; there always had to be some deviation, something to take it out of the realm of acceptable copulation and into that unexplainable and repugnant area of perversion.

With a sigh he wondered whether her words had been mere bravado or whether she had been responsible for the events of the day, or at least part of them. There were some for which he had the answers, but there were still many that evaded his analysis.

He knew that Josie had always been jealous of any involvement of his that did not include her own participation. There had not been many, but whenever she was certain, there had always been unpleasant complications. While he himself was taking care of his own particular problems, he wondered whether she, too, had set wheels in motion... wheels which had taken Alma down a dark alley, when in truth that had not been the intention at all. He frowned and ran a hand across his head; at his temples, a nagging throb threatened to send him running to the bathroom for that one certain brown bottle of capsules, but he shook his head. No, not that; not now. Desperately he covered his eyes with his hands and tried to block out the memory... the thoughts... the very knowledge of what had happened.

He was about to turn out the light and try to sleep when the phone beside the bed sent out its harsh summons. With a frown he picked up the receiver, but before he could answer he heard a raucous laugh and the line went dead. The silence was terrifying and Roger had the sudden urge to run screaming from the apartment, not knowing where, nor really knowing why...

With a whimper he buried his face in the pillow and beat his hands helplessly on the mattress.


CHAPTER SEVEN

"Hilary, will you please come in for a minute?"

Roger's voice sounded strained and tired.

"Of course. Be there right away."

Hilary replaced the receiver and turned to Chester Leftwich, who had temporarily taken over Alma's duties until a new personal secretary could be located. He had been one of the editorial staff under Alma and was familiar with the requirements of the job; he was qualified, but Hilary had requested a woman replacement, as there was something about Chester that she did not quite trust in such a delicate capacity as her confidant.

"Chester, I'll be with Roger Nelson if anyone wants me. I won't be long."

"Surely, Hilary," he replied, his face lighting up with an automatic smile. His pale gray eyes sparkled as he looked at her, and his rather plain face glowed. She thought: He's plain but pleasant. Pity he doesn't have what it takes as a man; he looks sometimes almost like a teenager, even though he confessed to being thirty-five. Small, rather reserved, almost with the air of constant guilt and fear of the adult world. But nevertheless an outstanding editor and capable at churning out the right kind of bitchy copy that Hilary could read on the air with such devastating effect...

She rose and moved quickly out of her office, down the corridor to the elevators. Moments later, after being whisked up several floors, she walked into Roger's office, nodded to his secretary who waved her through the richly carved door, and stepped into the holy of holies to see Roger, his back to the door, looking out over the city through the wide window. He swung round and smiled at her; then his face became serious.

"This won't take long, Hilary."

She settled herself in a chair and waited expectantly.

"As you know, the police are stymied by this whole mess," he said, knowing that she was aware of his reference. "But I did want to go over a few things. You see, I've received another call."

Her face flinched. "Another call? The same voice?"

He nodded. "Yes, and this time they made threats to me not only in regard to my life, but..." He hesitated. "To Sally Markham. She's due in town tomorrow."

"Sally? F'Chrissake, what's going on?"

"I wish I knew. I wondered if you had had anything more in the mail that might provide a key."

She shook her head. "Nothing today or yesterday. The same claptrap, but nothing that I felt could tie in with..." She shrugged. "With whoever it is. You still think it's a man?"

"Yes, definitely, after today's call. There was the same 'my dear' reference in the words, but it was definitely a man. So... your suspicion about Josie, and mine, too, for that matter, seems out." He smiled. "I really thought it was her, Hilary. She's such a weird, jealous woman. Not even a woman," he added derisively with a wry grin. "Not the way you are."

"Okay. But that doesn't rule out the possibility that she is getting someone to do her dirty work, as we discussed."

"True, but I don't think so."

"You don't know what to think any more, Roger. I've tried to push the matter out of my mind. I have a show to do every day. I can't let this interfere. I will admit it still nags at me, but there's no sense getting in a tizzy. The police are doing what they can. I don't think it's up to us to play detective."

"No, but even so..." His voice trailed off, and he drummed the tabletop impatiently. "You see, I'm concerned about you. Now I'm concerned about Sally. And, not least of all, myself, after today's call. It's some maniac. I'm convinced of that. Someone who has some twisted feeling of revenge, for whatever reason, God only knows."

"You've notified the police?"

"Of course. They've already installed a bugging device that'll record all my calls. That's why I had you come in here to talk rather than over the phone. I feel there are some things that are no concern of the police, or anyone, really, except you and me. Things about Josie, for instance. After all, even though we both know what a weirdo she is, there's no sense in making that public knowledge. Even police tapes have a habit of becoming common knowledge, and I do still have my ethics, even though my marriage is somewhat of a bummer."

Her face softened. "At least I can understand. After all, my present position wasn't gotten through working up from the ranks exactly."

"Yeah. It's a bitchy, dog-eat-dog world, isn't it?" He laughed dryly. "Maybe our sins are coming home at last. But you know something? For all the things I've done, and lied about, and cheated, I do want you to know that if things had been different, I might have thought of marrying you, Hilary. You're something I've waited for all my life, and now it's too late."

She nodded. "It's always too late in our business. So we take what we can, when we can."

"Yes. It's sad, really, isn't it?"

She shook her head emphatically. "No, not for me. I knew what I wanted. I got it. Love and a husband are something outside my ambitions. If they happen one day, well and good. Until then, my career is the only thing I'm really concerned about."

"You lie beautifully," he countered, his eyes meeting hers very directly. "I don't believe a word of it and you can't possibly convince me." She shrugged. "Roger, I have a show to put together. If you just want to sit here and reminisce over what might have been, let's do it some other time, okay?" She rose and prepared to leave. He waved her back down imperiously. "Roger, I have to go... "

"Sit down!" His voice was very commanding. "I haven't finished. And if you're late with your copy to the legal department, I'll take the responsibility. I called you specifically to discuss this problem which seems to have arisen specifically from the fact that you spent the night with me once." He paused, breathing heavily. "I want to know whether you are willing to try and bring this maniac into the open by spending another night with me."

She stared open-mouthed; then she laughed. "Tempting the devil once more, huh?"

He nodded. "Yes, and if this character knows as much as he apparently does, there could well be the possibility that he'll be waiting."

"You're crazy, Roger. That's only asking for it between the eyes. I've no wish to be found dead, naked and fornicating with you. It'd make one helluva picture for the Police Gazette, but no, no, no thanks." She shook her head vehemently. "Of course, that doesn't mean I wouldn't like to spend another night with you." She grinned. "But under more appealing circumstances."

He grinned lasciviously at her. "I thought you'd replaced the president with your producer these days."

She flushed, and frowned angrily. "Is there nothing you don't know?" she snapped. "Whether it's true or not."

"You know what they say about you, Hilary," he countered. "Everything's true, even the lies." He laughed, and she relaxed her face into a smile again.

"Okay, okay, Roger," she said easily. "Jim happens to be a wonderful guy. I'd never ruin his life by getting involved, except in extreme moments of desperation, like that one particular night."

"You're forgiven," he said, "as long as you give some thought to my idea."

She shook her head. "Never. Not until we find out what's going on."

"But, Hilary." He leaned forward to give emphasis to his words. "Don't you see, that'll be the very thing to bring it to a head. Whoever it is must know our individual movements. Obviously. So let's suppose you come up to my apartment tonight. We don't have to go to bed. We can just sit and talk. I'll have the police alerted, and if there's anything untoward happening, they'll nab the guy. I know it sounds crazy, even dangerous, but we've got to do something to end this suspense. It's driving me up the wall."

"How d'you think I feel?" she snapped. "Every night I go on the air, I'm wondering whether I'll be there the next night, or who'll be calling me, or who might whisk me away and throw me into an alley like poor Alma."

"We're definitely dealing with some psychotic character," said Roger, "and he's not going to come out of hiding unless we force him out. And you seem to be the key. There's not much else we can do unless you agree to help, Hilary. Come on, gal, where's that Texas spunk that got you this far? Don't tell me you're chicken?"

"Sure I am," she retorted. "Scared as hell. And even though I'll do anything to help, I'm not going to put myself up as a sitting target."

"You won't be. I'll be there. The police will be around. You'll be as safe as you are right now."

She shivered. "Which might not be as safe as I think it is," she said softly. "Please, Roger. I want to go back to my office. I've got to get the show ready."

"Please, Hilary."

His eyes were very sincere, very appealing, his voice very warm and insinuating. She knew he was using everything he could to get her to agree; something told her also that he would not let up. She would have to agree ultimately. And besides, she was, within her heart, as eager as he to end the tension under which their lives had become a daily stretching of nerves almost to the breaking point.

"Oh, all right, then," she sighed reluctantly, yet with a pleasant feeling of having made a decision, right or wrong. The die was cast; whatever happened, at least, hopefully, they would know who it was; who this insane idiot was who had entered their lives and turned every minute into misery.

"That's my girl," Roger said warmly. "I'll let you know where and when."

"Thanks a lot," she said snidely, "That's like withholding a stay of execution. Come on, don't tell me you hadn't already decided when."

"Okay. Tonight."

"Tonight." She took a deep breath and felt her heart jump with fear. "Oh. Well, okay. You've alerted the police?"

"Relax. Everything's under control. Don't you trust me?"

"Of course. I guess I just wanted to make sure, that's all."

"Go finish your show now. I'll call you later. And don't say a word of this to anyone. Not anyone, understand?"

She frowned. "Well, if you say so."

"I mean it, Hilary. We can't trust a soul. There's no telling who it is. And if you tell someone, there's no telling how it may get around. So the safest route is to tell no one. No one," he added with emphasis.

"Okay. Not a soul." She put her finger to her lips and grinned. "I must run. See you later."

" 'Bye, Hilary," he said softly, watching as she turned and walked quickly out of his office. With a smile, he waited until the door closed behind her. Then he picked up his private line, dialed a number and waited, impatiently tapping the edge of his chair with his fingers while he heard the buzz in his ear, then the click of the receiver being lifted.

* * *

The closing credits were rolling and the martial music behind them filled the studio with raucous cacophony. Hilary walked off the set, her face slightly grim. Bill Brophy turned to Randy Kessenger and shrugged. "What's with her tonight?" he asked, and Randy merely shook his head sympathetically. "She's got problems," he said, and the two men watched as Hilary's small figure disappeared from sight. "Yeah," said Brophy cynically. "Don't we all?"

Hilary pushed through the doors and into the hallway, making her way swiftly to her office. As she entered her own domain, Chester Leftwich looked up from his desk and smiled weakly at her. "Great, just great," he said in his thin voice.

"Thanks, Ches," she said briefly, going to her desk and picking up the small stack of memos which had accumulated in the short time she had been in the studio. Summarily she glanced through them; then her eyes were riveted on one.

"Who left this here?" she demanded, waving the piece of paper at Chester. He shrugged. "I don't know," he said vaguely, turning back to his typewriter.

"Chester," she snapped. "You know goddamn well who comes in and out of this office. And most of these are in your own writing. Now who left this one here?"

Wearily he rose and shuffled over to her, taking the memo and glancing at it casually.

"I don't know, Hilary. I don't remember it being there before. It isn't my writing."

"I know that," she snapped impatiently.

"Then whose? Don't you have any idea?"

"Hilary," he said, staring at her through watery eyes, "I've been sitting there, doing my job, ever since you left. I don't have eyes in the back—"

"Of your head," she concluded for him, her eyes flashing, her voice icy. "What the fuck have you been doing?"

His face crumbled and for a moment she thought he was going to collapse into tears. "Hilary," he muttered shakily, "don't talk like that to me. Please, Hilary. I don't know who left that memo, and I don't even know what it means."

She glanced back at the scrawl. Tonight you will know, was all it said, in a very childish handwriting, almost illegible.

She sat down and reached for a cigarette. Chester stood, staring at her, his hands shaking. Finally she looked up at him.

"Go back to your desk," she said in a conciliatory tone. "Sorry I shouted at you, Chester, but I'm..." She waved her hands helplessly, and leaved back in her chair.

He stared at her, then managed a smile. "I know, I know," he murmured. "You're under a great strain. I'm sorry, Hilary. But please don't shout at me. And please don't use that word again. I don't like it."

She frowned and glared at him. "What word?" she demanded.

"You know," he said, averting his eyes from her body, over which they had been roaming with obvious enjoyment.

"Oh." She grinned. "That." She laughed; then her body shook with a paroxysm of mirth. "Whatsamatter, Chester, baby, don't you approve of women cussing?"

"Not you, Hilary," he said. "Anyone but you."

"Oh, poor baby," she said, wiping her eyes, thankful for the outburst of merriment that had, for the moment, chased the fears from her mind. "If you don't like that word, Chester, don't you like what it stands for?"

His eyes widened, and he turned and went back to his desk, his face scarlet.

"I asked you something, Chester."

He turned back to her. "I'd rather not discuss it," he replied primly. "Besides, there's no reason to be coarse. It's bad enough what you say over the air without using words like that. It... it isn't ladylike."

"Okay, so I'm a rough broad," she said, gathering the papers together on her desk and preparing to leave, "but that's the name of this game. And if you plan to stick around here, you'd better get rid of those Midwestern inhibitions, Chester. You remind me of Dallas, and God knows that's something I don't want to be reminded of."

"And what's wrong with Dallas?" he said angrily, turning to her, and she was surprised at the genuine anger in his face.

"Nothing that a little culture and civilization wouldn't help," she said briefly. "Why?"

"Because..." He hesitated. "Because I'm from Texas."

"You are?" She stopped and stared at him. "But you don't sound like it."

"No. I came to New York ten years ago. I've lost my accent."

"You sure have, honey," she said, affecting her Texas twang again. "Wish the hell I could," she added ruefully. "It slips out when I least expect it, despite what Viola Harding did for me."

He laughed shortly. "New York does a lot of things to people," he said sadly. "Sometimes I wish I were back in Pecos. Life is so much simpler there. The people so much nicer."

She gathered her work, stuffed her briefcase, and glanced over her desk for a final check. "Depends what you look for in people," she said, her voice slightly patronizing, and wondering why she was even pursuing such a fatuous subject with him. "Pecos is the end of the world as far as I'm concerned. Give me a fast city any day, Chester. Keeps the old corpuscles going."

"Not for me," he said slowly, still staring at her. "In Pecos, people are real. Here they only like you if you're somebody."

"Then you've just got to make a name for yourself, Ches," she said, almost gaily. "Like I have."

"Maybe, Hilary," he said softly. "But then..

He paused, and she stared strangely at him as she moved to the door. "Then what?" she demanded brightly, and he shook his head.

"Nothing," he said. "Good night, Hilary."

"Good night, Chester," she said. "See you tomorrow."

She walked out, closing the door carefully behind her. He sat, staring after her. He bit his lip and turned back to the typewriter. He typed a few words, then suddenly lifted his hands to his face and sobbed, his body wracked with emotion. The feeling passed, and he reached for a Kleenex, blew his nose noisily, and resumed typing the rough draft of the next day's show, sniffling occasionally.

* * *

Roger was waiting at the curb, and Hilary walked forward, her head high, not looking anywhere but in front of her. She climbed in the car and they sped off through the streets, slick with an unexpected shower that turned the blacktop to a thousand reflections of the winking lights from the buildings on each side. He stared at her a moment, then grinned.

"Nervous?"

"Shit scared, if you must know."

"Don't be. It'll be okay."

"If you say so. But I still don't like it."

"What makes you think I do?"

"Okay. Okay."

They drove on in silence, then Hilary realized something unusual.

"How come you're driving?" she asked curiously.

"I felt it would be safer than having the studio driver."

"Maybe you're right."

He glanced at her with a smile. "You're such a nosy one," he chided her pleasantly. "No wonder you make a good gossip columnist."

She laughed briefly. "I hate that word."

"It's true."

"Yeah, I guess so. I'd rather be called a..." She paused, then laughed loudly. "I don't know. Shit. I can't even think tonight."

"Relax. We're almost there."

"Yeah. The last steps to the gallows, it feels like."

"Shut up."

Moments later the car slid silently beneath the concrete tower and found its accustomed place near the far wall by the elevators. Without further conversation, they stepped out and rode up, entering the apartment with a sigh of relief.

"We made it," Hilary said, feeling her spirits rising for some unknown reason. "And God knows I want a drink. Make it a double, Roger."

"Coming right up."

He threw his coat carelessly on the couch and went to the bar, mixing them both stiff slugs of Scotch and taking the glasses over to where she sat in the big overstuffed chair by the fireplace.

Thankfully she put her lips to the cool rim and gulped.

"Oh, that's better," she said, feeling the alcohol warm her throat and send a comforting glow through her stomach. "Now what?"

"Now," he said, settling opposite her on the couch, "we just wait."

She giggled. "I feel like we're on stage with no audience, or rather an unseen one."

"Unseen?"

"Yes. If what you're thinking is true, then we're being watched. Right now. Don't you agree?"

"No. How could anyone see what goes on in this apartment?"

"Oh, not necessarily watching like that. I mean, someone is picturing us here, and will give us ten minutes or so to hop in the sack, and then..." She shrugged. "I don't know. I never was very good at this sort of thing. I gave up murder mysteries when I was fifteen."

He laughed. "That's when you discovered sex, eh?"

"That's a laugh. It was old hat by then."

"Oh. Tell me about it."

There was something in his tone of voice that made her stare curiously at him. "I don't think it makes very good telling. Everyone goes through puberty with the usual traumas. Mine were no different from most people's. I just found out early and that was that. I must admit it was a big letdown. Maybe I picked the wrong guys. I don't really remember. It didn't mean that much, I know. Not like it does now, with the right guy."

He smiled. "Would you call me a right guy?"

She nodded. "Yes," she replied honestly. "I'd say you were. At least you're one of the few who've really made things happen for me in bed."

"Hm. Maybe we should repeat the encounter if it was that enjoyable," he remarked pleasantly.

She laughed. "Roger, I'm just making conversation because I'm scared inside, scared to death. Sex right now would be..." She shook her head. "Almost indecent."

"Oh. You mean you're not in the mood?"

"Hell, no." Her voice was staccato. "Definitely no. It's the last thing I'd welcome."

He moved a little in his corner of the couch, adjusting his crotch with his free hand, staring at her intently. "You know, I've often felt the best sex is when we don't really want it."

"That's your opinion."

"No, that's my hangup." He stood up, and she noticed with sudden alarm that a suspicious bulge protruded from within his pants between his thighs. He walked forward and sat on the arm of the chair. "See, I'm even half-hard right now. It's not just because you're lovely and I want to fuck you, Hilary. It's because you don't want to. If you'd been completely agreeable, I doubt whether I'd have even got a hard-on." Hilary found her heart beginning a wild tattoo, and she looked up into his eyes and saw a vicious intent there.

"Roger..." she began, but his arm came around her shoulders and his lips descended upon her mouth. She felt a stab of pain as his teeth sank into her flesh and his tongue probed. Desperately she pushed against him and heard his glass go crashing across the floor as he slipped off the arm of the chair and fell backward. She stood up quickly and retreated across the room.

He climbed to his feet, his face livid and his chest heaving. "You little bitch," he spat out. "Don't you ever push me away again. I brought you here to fuck, and by damn, we're gonna tie one on, you and me."

He came at her almost with a leap, and she felt his strong arms enclose her, pinning her hands to her sides. His face closed in and she shut her eyes, knowing that in seconds his hot breath would be on her and his mouth cover her own, and she felt a wave of nausea rise from her stomach.

"Roger, stop, please..." Her words ended as he kissed her passionately, pressing his body against hers, and she felt his rising sex pushing between her legs, rubbing against her thigh. Her mind reeled under the unexpectedness of his attack. As she slowly let her own lips respond, his violence abated and he relaxed into the eternal sensuality of such a moment. She knew instinctively that if she cooperated, she might have a chance of evading the ultimate.

She pressed herself to him, letting her tongue linger on his own, and her lips sucked on his mouth and she felt him respond, heard him moan softly in his throat in appreciation. His hands loosened their firmness on her body and slid around, arranging themselves in the typical lovers' embrace. They stood, kissing, and she felt his sex grow firmer and harder as he began rotating his hips against her, rubbing his penis and bringing it to full erection within his pants. He broke away and stared at her.

"Christ, but you're something else," he muttered. "You just don't know, Hilary. You just don't know."

His hands were at his side; she was free of his embrace, and with lightning speed she turned and fled across the room. He cursed and jumped after her, but she evaded him and stood behind the couch.

"Roger!" Her voice was like a whiplash. "You touch me once more, and by heaven I'll scream my fucking head off so loud they'll hear me down at the docks."

He laughed evilly and slowly put out his hand. "Come here, Hilary," he said wheedlingly. "You can't escape. Now let's be sensible. You know why we came here."

"We came here to act as bait," she shouted. "Not to roll in the hay. For Chrissake, next thing you'll be telling me you didn't even call the police."

"How clever of you, my dear," he said softly. "And how right. No, the police were not called. No one knows. You remember there wasn't even a driver. No one knows we're here tonight. Just you and me, and we're going to have the biggest ball you've ever had in your life."

"Not on your life," she snapped, turning and rushing for the door. Her fingers gripped the handle and turned, but the door remained solid. As she struggled with the lock, she felt his arms close around her, spinning her around. Then her brain reeled beneath the impact of his hand across her cheek. She felt her head jerk back, and for a moment blackness engulfed her; then she felt herself being lifted and carried, weakly resisting, toward the bedroom. She thought she would throw up, but the feeling passed, and she opened her eyes. She was lying on the bed and her arms were already strapped to the bedposts, and Roger was busily wrapping the leather around her ankles. She screamed, and he laughed softly.

"Please continue," he said roughly. "I love it when you scream. They all scream at first. Then they enjoy it. Every woman wants to be bound, beaten and fucked to a standstill, or didn't you know that, my dear?" His voice had become low, soft, and Hilary felt a thrill of recognition flood her consciousness. "Yes, my dear, it will be most enjoyable once you accept it. They all do. I'm just going to act out your hidden frustrations. You've heard of group therapy, haven't you, my dear? Well, this is called sex therapy. It's quite beneficial for the libido. Enables you to have multiple orgasms. Enjoy sex like it should be. All sorts of fringe benefits. You'll be a different woman when I'm through, my dear."

Hilary stared disbelievingly at him. "You," she whispered. "You're the voice on the phone."

"What voice, my dear?" he replied, beginning to remove his clothes. "There are lots of voices on phones these days. Big voices, little voices, male voices, female voices..." His voice became muffled as he tugged off his shirt and underwear. He stood naked, his sex standing out erect in front of him. "See how he's getting all ready for that tight little pussy of yours? He just can't wait till he sinks himself into you.

But tonight there'll be a little variation, something that may surprise you, my dear."

He turned and went over to the closet, and Hilary stared, almost believing she was in the middle of a horrible nightmare, as he slid the large mirrored door back to reveal a rack of dresses. Roger turned his head and grinned coyly. "Let's see, you're the... yes, the jade-green type," he said softly, reaching out and taking down a full-length dress of shimmering green sequins. "I think this will be good for starters." He lowered the garment and stepped delicately into the skirt, pulling it up over his hips and over his chest, clipping the fastener around the neck. The skirt was slit up each side, and she saw his legs through the opening as he slowly approached the bed. "Now, to get you in the right shape for a session," he said, and then, almost to himself, he added, "I do so love undressing women." His hands reached out and began fumbling with her shoes. Hilary squirmed but found herself unable to move within the confines of the straps.

"Roger!" She screamed, and then from her lips an earsplitting shriek rent the air. He laughed and sat back, savoring the sound.

When her lungs had exhausted themselves, he leaned forward again, an expression of sublime ecstasy on his face. "Very good, my dear, very good," he said.

She stared hard and suddenly noticed his eyes: glazed, almost unseeing. Her heart beat afresh.

"Roger, what are you on?"

"All sorts of things, my dear," he replied. "I can't quite recall which little capsule I popped between my lips when I was mixing the drinks, but it's making me feel real good. Beautiful, in fact. I think I am beautiful, don't you agree, my dear? This color really suits me. At least that's what I think, and anyone else's opinion doesn't really concern me."

Hilary struggled ineffectually against the straps again, then relaxed, exhausted. "Roger, please..." Then she took hold of her sanity. "Roger, just tell me one thing, will you?" Oh, God, she thought, if I can bring him out of it. If only... "Roger, it hasn't been you, has it? Tell me, it wasn't you who... "

"Who got Alma knocked off? Of course not. I wouldn't do anything so terrible as that, now, would I? If there was anyone I would want knocked off, it'd be you, my dear. But I'm really not a violent type. I just like to get my kicks in rather unorthodox ways. No harm in that, really, is there?"

"Roger..." Her voice shook in desperation. "But if it wasn't you, then who?"

"That's what we'll find out tonight," he replied suavely. "Because I'm sure whoever it is will come here and will find us together and then we'll both know. Doesn't that make sense?"

She shook her head. "Roger, you're insane."

"Don't you ever say that," he said angrily, his hand coming down and slapping her thigh as he pulled off her stockings. "Hm, what a lovely leg that is. Almost as pretty as mine." He extended his own limb and gazed at it appreciatively. "I really should shave," he muttered to himself. "I can't stand all that hair." He reached up for her panties and pulled them down slowly, lifting them over her knees to lay rolled up next to the hose around her ankles. "Tsk, tsk," he said, shaking his head. "We can't get them off. The straps, you know," He giggled. "Well, where there's a will, there's a way." He walked unsteadily over to the bureau, scratched in a drawer and came back with a large pair of scissors.

Hilary watched in horror as he cut through the material and ripped off the hose and the panties. "There, that's better," he said. "Now I think, the rest of those obscene garments." He leaned over her and she felt the cold edge of the scissors as they glided over her flesh, the blades cutting through the fabric of her dress and her slip, sawing momentarily through the thicker texture of her bra. She closed her eyes and felt her body jerk as he ripped off the desecrated garments, leaving her naked body strapped down to the bed. She heard the scissors land on the floor and then his heavy breath brushed her thighs. She opened her eyes to see him kneeling between her legs, about to lower his mouth on her quivering mound.

"Roger!" Her voice screamed piteously, and he laughed softly.

"Don't tell me you're going to turn down a good blowjob?" he demanded. "Although I think the technical term is muffdiving. No matter, my dear. Eating pussy is one of my favorite pastimes, especially with something as enticing as this." His mouth came down and she felt his slobbering lips probe her labia and his tongue push in to her clitoris, rubbing it desperately. She felt her stomach heave, but nothing came up; she lay still, sobbing, while his hands played up and down her flesh, touching her nipples, pressing the exquisite fullness of her breasts, gliding over her flat stomach and up and down her legs, while his tongue licked her to sensuous awareness of his presence within her and her clitoris rose to hardness to match that of his penis that stood throbbing between his legs, its shape outlined beneath the folds of the dress that draped obscenely around his body.

For a moment she recalled their first night together and the unmitigated masculinity of his approach, his assault upon her body and her mind, and the infinite satisfaction she experienced after the encounter; this was scarcely the same man. His voice, his manner, his obvious perversion of roles, all blasted her mind with incomprehensible questions that she was in no condition to analyze or rationalize. Even in her groping for reality she remembered his conversation in his office earlier concerning the alleged phone call to him threatening his own life as well as that of Sally Markham. Yet he had been the only one to tell her, so it could have been merely another figment of his distorted mind...

She writhed as the prickles of pleasure began creeping unremittingly through her body, edging her closer to an overpowering feeling of ecstasy as his tongue pursued her flesh. His hands had pulled her open, and she looked down to see him licking her, starting almost at her anus and sliding up, savoring every juicy fold, every inch of steaming sex he could find, burying his nose deep within her and making little animal sounds. She wriggled and cried out, partly in fear, partly from the overpowering pleasure that was tingling in every nerve. He raised up and stared, glassy-eyed at her, giggling.

"You like that, huh?" he rasped. "Good. That's only for starters, my dear. There's gonna be lots more. We've got all night. All wonderful, sex-filled night. And when I'm through with you, Hilary Abbott, you'll have the best night of fucking to remember before you kick off."

Her eyes widened. "What do you mean?" she whispered.

"Just what I say, my dear," he said softly. "After all, many women have told me I'm so good in bed they're not sure whether they'll live through it. And right now I'm not sure whether you will." He laughed. "Don't worry. The only gun I've got is this one here." He reached under the dress and pulled out his penis, large, glistening and angry-looking. "Tell me, did you ever think one day you'd be fucked to death, little miss black mailer?"


CHAPTER EIGHT

Chester Leftwich wiped his eyes and continued typing. His mind was teeming with conflicting thoughts as he transferred the copy from the rough yellow sheets onto the clean white, crisp pages that would, unless the legal department thought otherwise, be spoken the following night over the air. His lip curled as he absorbed the innuendo of a sentence, and he sighed in exasperation. "What crap," he muttered to himself. "And people believe this shit."

He looked around to make sure no one had overheard him; then he giggled, thinking of how his mother in Pecos would have chastised him for using such language. "Remember, Chester," she used to say, "It's the devil speaking when you use cuss words. No true Baptist ever cusses. Them words is not for people like us. Good God-fearin' folk." His face creased in a smile as he thought of her lined, honest face; poor Mama, it was a pity she went to her reward so early in life. But then those winters in Pecos can be hazardous, and Mama had always been prone to chest complaints, and that final bout of pneumonia had been too much for her... That was when Chester had pulled up stakes (after all, there was no reason for him to stay now Mama was gone) and had gone to New York. He would be a writer, he reasoned; he had a good education. And only after ten months of near starvation had he accepted a job with the network. Two years of sincere application brought him to his present position. At least it paid the bills, he reasoned, though he was no further along with his novel...

"Where's Hilary?"

Chester started and looked up through his glasses to see Jim Finchley's head peering round the door, a look of deep concern on his face. "She left," he said briefly.

"How long ago?"

"Oh, about fifteen minutes, I guess."

Finchley came in and stood, biting his lip nervously.

"Do you know where she was going?"

"Nope. Mr. Nelson was taking her home, I expect."

Finchley gasped. "Christ. You sure?"

"Well, I'm not sure, Mr. Finchley, but I do know she was talking to him earlier. I mean, I overheard. Please don't tell her—"

"Shut up!" Jim's voice rasped angrily. "What did she say?"

"Nothing much. I mean, I just think maybe she was being driven home by him. I didn't mean—"

"Thanks." He cut short the conversation.

Jim slammed the door behind him and ran hastily down the hallway to his office. As he entered, the uniformed man looked up expectantly, and over against the wall the imposing figure of Josie Nelson turned and approached, a look of concern on her homely face.

"Well?"

Jim shrugged. "Her assistant says that she went home about fifteen minutes ago. He thinks Roger drove her."

Josie gave a short laugh. "He drove her? No way. His driver's sitting downstairs in the pool."

"Maybe he drove himself."

"Could be. But..." Josie's face reflected her concern. "If he did, that means he's taking her back to his apartment. Oh, Christ." She sat down, the chair creaking beneath her weight. "Jim, we've got to get over there."

"I think that might be advisable under the circumstances," said the police officer. "After all, from what we learned tonight..

"Yes, yes." Jim turned to Josie. "Look, Josie, I talked to Roger earlier this week. He confessed that he thought you might be behind this tragedy."

"He what?" Josie's face flushed angrily. "Oh, Christ." She ran a hand through her short gray hair, and Jim thought again how masculine she was, how tragically masculine. "Look, I'll level with you. Roger and I play games. Every couple does, I guess, only ours are a little more 'way-out. So be it. We don't hurt anyone. But the other night, just for kicks, I started acting out a little fantasy."

She smiled. "My psych told me once that everyone has fantasies. The only difference is some of us keep them under wraps. Sometimes we act 'em out. The other night I thought it'd be a real gas if I put Roger on to thinking I was tied in with the mob and had something to do with Alma's murder. I even told him it had been a mistake. That Hilary was supposed to get it." She shook her head sadly. "Jesus, if I'd only known how close to the truth I was. Only, you see, I didn't have anything to do with it at all. But obviously Roger..." Her voice trailed off. "Now... now it all fits." Her eyes brightened. "Hilary. She's got something on him. If she's out of the way..." She choked. "Oh, Christ. Let's get up there."

"Wait a minute," snapped the policeman. "Are you saying that your own husband might be involved in this mess?"

"I'm not saying anything," said Josie, moving toward the door, "I'm just scared shitless that something might be happening to Hilary. God knows I can't stand the bitch. She's the lowest thing that's ever crawled onto television, but she doesn't deserve to be knocked off just because she's a bitch." She reached the door. "Come on, let's go, goddamn it. I've got a key to the place."

Jim moved uncertainly to her. "Josie, I don't know. You may be jumping to conclusions and there could be one helluva scandal. Roger's a sane, sensible—"

"Crap!" Her voice whipped across the room. "Roger's been in and out of mental homes since he was twenty. I know. I married the guy. In my own weird way, I happen to love him, too. Come ff on.

Jim followed her out, and the policeman brought up the rear.

"Officer, can you come along, strictly as an observer?" Jim asked as they hurried down the hall. "I mean, this could be sticky. He's president of the network... "

"He's just another guy," came the calm reply. "And if he's breaking no laws, there'll be nothing to worry about. If not, then you'll be needing some help."

"Shut up!" Josie shouted, opening the door to the parking lot. "I hope you've got a fast car, officer. I just pray we're not too late." She pushed out into the darkness, and Jim had the insane desire to laugh, remembering Sydney Greenstreet lumbering across a deserted dock in some forgotten film years ago to save Hedy Lamarr from the clutches of Peter Lorre...

* * *

In, out... deeper, more violent... Hilary closed her eyes, conscious only of the massive pounding of his penis between her legs and his occasional grunts. She felt the beads of sweat drip from his forehead and land on her breasts. His teeth dug into her neck and his tongue lashed across her flesh, his lips closing around her nipples, licking, sucking, biting, as his hips drove remorselessly up and down, each thrust plunging his rock-hard prick mercilessly into her quivering vagina. The eroticism had long since faded beneath the terror which invaded her senses, wondering whether at the inevitable climax of his passion, whether he would carry out his threat or whether he planned something even more violent, something even more horrible. In her mind she was convinced that he was beyond reason. His eyes, when they stared at her, were unseeing; the glaze was ghastly, frightening in the extreme. It was as though another man were on top of her, not Roger Nelson, the normally tender, kind and loving president of the network, the handsome, appealing man who had raised her emotions to such fever peak at their previous encounter. This was some twisted stranger who was venting his perverted passions upon her, and there was always the thought that beyond the sex was something even greater, more terrifying...

Suddenly he stopped, his penis deep within her. The lack of movement was almost as unbearable as his assault upon her body.

"You like this?" he demanded.

She remained silent, looking away from his contorted face.

"I spoke to you, cunt. Answer me. You like it?"

Numbly she nodded.

He laughed. "They tell me he's the biggest in the business," he said, withdrawing his penis until only the head was left within the red-hot folds of her labia, and he stared down under his body, admiring his own rigid length protruding from his thighs, its heavily veined shaft glinting from her juices that shone stickily in the light.

"Look, cunt," he snapped, forcing her to stare down her own body and see herself impaled upon his cock. "Doesn't that make you feel good? Isn't that something you really dig? That's really the pay off, isn't it? All the dirt you've been shoveling is finally paying off at the end of a big dick, and you never thought it would be mine, did you, when you started your little game? No-good blackmailing bitch!"

He lunged forward, pushing himself viciously into her and causing her to gasp with pain as she felt his cockhead cleave deeply, relentlessly into her until she felt her organs were being violated beyond endurance. His mouth descended over her nipples and he began biting her until she cried out. "Roger, Roger, please . .But he only laughed and continued, sinking his teeth into her flesh, leaving weals across her breasts and her neck as mute evidence of his sadism.

Hilary found her mind beginning to wander; she began to doubt whether this was real. She felt perhaps the nightmare was just that, and she had been transported on drugs into a world where fantasy became reality. But she knew the pain in her limbs was no nightmare. She prayed for it to end, perhaps even for her to pass out, to be beyond pain, beyond caring. But she feared a loss of consciousness, for she felt she might never awaken.

She was suddenly aware he was talking to her again. She opened her eyes and saw him above her, glaring down. "That's better," he snapped, bringing his hand down hard across her cheek. "Listen when Roger Nelson speaks. You want to know why?"

Instinctively, to avoid another blow, she nodded.

"You made one mistake," he muttered. "Using Sally Markham. Sally's the only one I've ever loved. We had a child together. My baby. Flesh of my loins, this same big dick that's giving you such a fucking good time right now, you cunt. And you were going to splash that around, were you? Ruin everything? You know why? Josie would never have stood for that. Josie can't have children. It's a big hangup with her. That's why she turned dyke. She wanted a kid more than anything, and she can't have one. If she knew I'd had one with Sally, it wouldn've been curtains, let me tell you. And I can't afford that. No, sir, I've put up with enough shit to get where I am, and no smartass little Texas trollop is going to queer my scene. Maybe you're wondering why I'm telling you, huh?"

Again, numbly, she nodded.

"Because, bitch, you're not going to be able to tell a word of this tomorrow, because tomorrow poor Hilary Abbott will be found, just like her dumbass secretary was found. Oh, it wasn't anyone but me who arranged that. I sound just like Josie on the phone and I happen to have a few numbers of hers that she doesn't know about."

He laughed wildly and threw his head back, his body undulating beneath his delirium.

"Yeah, the mob can come in handy sometimes. Especially when someone else will get the blame. I sure put on a big act for Josie. For everyone, didn't I? I even fooled you, little miss nosy-snatch, didn't I? I love you, Hilary, I love you, I love you." His voice rose into almost a scream and he laughed insanely again.

Hilary moved, and suddenly his eyes flared with awareness of her attempt to twist free. "Oh, no, you don't. You can't get loose, anyway. Maybe you want a little more fucking?" He descended on her and thrust his penis into her, humping in and out rapidly until his breath came in gasps and he stopped, slowly raising himself up, allowing his penis to withdraw slightly. "Love you? Me love you, when I've hated you ever since you showed your fucking face in this town. Sally told me everything, and what we have is worth anything. Anything. Even if it means getting rid of you, you cunt." He brought his hand down again and Hilary flinched beneath the blow, and her mind almost fled her reason. "No, baby, you went just too far, trying to mess around with Roger Nelson. I've got too much going for me. I figured I'd wait, though. Even had a little of your ol' pussy to make you feel I was just after your sex. Shit!" His voice had taken on a Texas twang, mocking her. "You should go back to that one-horse town you came from, but it's too late for that, now. It's always too late, isn't it?"

He stopped speaking and sniffed. Hilary stared up and saw tears rolling down his cheeks. "Oh, Christ, I mustn't cry," he whimpered. "I mustn't. It's too near... it's almost over." His voice rose in a scream and he lunged forward, his penis pulsating in her vagina, and she felt the sudden surge of his semen, shooting into her, mingling with her own juices and running out on to the bed. He was making little childish sounds and she saw fresh tears coursing down his face as he ejaculated on and on, almost as though he were unable to stop his orgasm.

With relief, she felt him soften and he raised up and his penis slipped out. He climbed off her and sat cross-legged on the bed, his hands trailing over her while he crooned softly. "Lovely tits. Lovely cunt. You are beautiful, you know that, Hilary. Why couldn't I be lovely like this? I always wanted to be... always, even when I was a little boy. You know something? My folks sent me away once because I dressed up in mother's wedding gown and walked down to the church. 'S true. The whole town was laughing at me, but I loved it. I wanted to get married. Oh, shit." He buried his head in his hands and wept, and Hilary felt her gorge slowly rising.

"Roger... Roger... I think I'm going to be sick."

He stared at her, and then angrily he slapped her cheek.

"Don't you puke over me," he shouted, and his words and the sting on her cheek chased the spasm in her stomach. "Goddamn cunt. You'll spoil it all."

He slid off the bed and walked over to the window and stared out. Her eyes followed him, sickened by the grotesque sight of his tall, masculine body in the green dress, ripped at the waist from his exertions. "Oh, God," she moaned, and she began weeping uncontrollably. She heard him patter over to the bed and felt him sit down, felt his hand wipe her tears from her cheek. She looked up and saw an expression, albeit fleeting, of extreme tenderness on his face.

"Please, Roger," she whimpered, summoning every waning ounce of her sanity. "Please, let me loose. Let me go. I promise I won't say anything. I'll leave. I'll go away. I'll never see you again. I promise. Please, Roger. No more. Let me loose. Roger!" He shook his head slowly. "No, it's too late for that," he said softly, sounding almost like his normal self, the Roger Nelson that everyone knew, the calm, efficient network president. "No, baby, it's too late."

He stood up and walked over to the bureau, opening a drawer and taking out a thin scarf. He turned and came back slowly, standing beside the bed and gazing down at her terrified face.

"I've often wondered how it is to be strangled," he mused, running the silky material through his fingers. "The softness, the tightness, choking the breath out of one, and then merciful blackness..." He laughed. "Hilary, I wish you could tell me. I would really like to know. Maybe it'd be better to strangle you another way, though. From the inside."

He laughed and threw the scarf down. "Yes, that's much better and much more appropriate." He closed his fist around his penis and began jerking it violently. "Come on, big cock, get hard for daddy. You've got a job to do."

She stared at his hand, moving with vicious rapidity up and down, coaxing his organ into firmness once more. She watched the end grow, broaden, expanding from the folds of foreskin that enclosed it, achieving its former hardness until his entire organ stood out menacingly from between his thighs.

"Okay, I think he's ready," he muttered. "This is gonna be fun, Hilary. I've never heard of anyone choking to death on a big dick. Have you?"

"Roger!" her voice rose in a scream as he climbed on the bed and straddled her chest, lowering the end of his cock toward her mouth. She felt the end touch her lips, rub back and forth, and then slide in.

"Come on, more, more," he said, his voice low and wheedling. "Take him, baby. Suck him a little first. No sense letting this go to waste. Tell you what: you suck him a while and then I'll finish you off before you finish him off." He threw back his head and laughed loudly.

Hilary felt the grossness of the flesh in her mouth and she gagged as he pushed the enormous phallus deep into her throat. He pulled back just before she threw up, and he kept the end within her lips. "Suck, bitch, suck it," he snapped. "Suck good. Make him feel good." Desperately she moved her lips, running her tongue over the underside. The thought suddenly struck her: if she could make him achieve a climax...

She renewed her efforts, her lips licking, her tongue massaging his corona, knowing that sensitive spot beneath the flat head where the seat of his pleasure was focused. She heard him groan with appreciation. "Yeah, yeah... that's good, more, more, harder, harder!" His words were mumbled, almost incoherent, and she wondered whether the drug he had taken was perhaps overcoming him; that perhaps he might pass out and there would be a chance...

She sucked harder, drawing her lips over her teeth, making a firm channel for his penis to slide into. His hips began moving sensuously, thrusting carefully, adjusting his shaft to her mouth and throat, in, out, and she felt the sweat pouring down her sides and her breasts painfully pressed under his knees. Her body ached, but she continued, hoping to bring about his climax and gain time... time...

"Yeah, Hilary, that's more like it. Wow, baby, you sure know how to suck cock. Pity I can't keep you around for good. My own personal cocksucker..." He laughed, and then his face blanched and Hilary's heart almost stopped beating as they both heard a sound. An unmistakable closing of a door. Roger lifted up slightly, his head turned, listening. His penis withdrew enough for Hilary to move her head and escape the obstruction in her mouth, and, summoning all her strength, she screamed, a loud, shattering shriek of terror.

"Heeeeelp!" The shrillness echoed through the room, and there was a clatter of footsteps in the living room. Roger leaped off the bed and turned just as Jim Finchley burst into the bedroom. Behind him Hilary saw the vague outline of a figure in uniform, and beyond that the gross shape of Josie Nelson.

"Jesus Christ!" The expletive burst involuntarily from Jim's lips and his eyes widened in horror as he gazed across the room. Josie pushed past him. "Roger!" her voice thundered out, and Roger cowered back, shaking his head.

"No, Josie, no. Take them out. They mustn't see..." His normally deep voice disintegrated into a childish whimper, and he stared vaguely from one to the other.

Josie came slowly across the carpet, her hand outstretched, her face serious. "Come on, Mama's here, baby," she said softly, and Hilary felt waves of blackness sweeping up over her as she heard the voice and saw the large, incredible figure walking forward. "Come on, Roger, the party's over. Let's get dressed."

"No!" The shout burst from Roger's lips and he backed away toward the window. "No, Josie, get those men out of here."

"There are no men here, baby." Josie paused and turned to face Finchley and the policeman, who was standing, his jaw hanging, a look of utter disbelief on his face. "See, there's no one here. Just you and me, and the chick. Just like always. Roger, you took too much. You know how it affects you. Come on, now. Let's go lie down and sleep it off. I'll take care of everything."

She started walking slowly forward, almost reaching him, but he backed away until he was flattened against the window. He was shaking his head, and he clutched ineffectually at the glass behind him.

"Josie!" The word broke from his lips like a despairing cry of a child calling its mother.

"Okay, I'm here, booby-boy. Come on."

She almost reached him. He gave a soft cry and turned, his fingers finding the latch on the window, and before she could grab his body he fell back against the glass, pushing it open. The rush of Manhattan's night noises flooded in, blending with Hilary's scream as Roger slid backward, seemingly floating into space and down out of sight, his final cry echoing up eerily. Josie turned, her hands holding the torn remnants of the green dress. She stared at the fabric a moment, and then with a stifled sob she folded up like a pricked balloon and hit the floor before Jim or the policeman could catch her. The two men stared at each other, and then Jim went to the bed.

"She's out cold," he muttered.

"So's this one," said the policeman, taking the dress in his hand and turning it over, shaking his head sadly. "Christ, what a fucking mess."

"Yeach, and this is only the beginning," snapped Jim. "Come, help me unstrap her."


CHAPTER NINE

Hilary looked up as the door opened and the stiff-starched cap of the nurse appeared above the round, smiling face.

"A visitor, Miss Abbott. You feel like company?"

"I told you already," Hilary said pleasantly. "Let him in."

"How d'you know it's a he?" said the nurse, giggling.

"It has to be," Hilary replied, struggling up to a sitting position against the pillows. "It's Jim Finchley."

"You're damn right it is." The deep voice echoed across the room and Jim strode in, almost concealed by a large bunch of flowers. "Here, a little breath of the country."

"Oh, Jim, they're lovely."

The nurse came forward, smiling. "Shall I put those in a vase for you, Miss Abbott?"

Hilary nodded and the nurse departed with the flowers, closing the door quietly behind her.

Jim pulled up a chair, and after kissing Hilary quickly on the cheek settled himself beside her, smiling up happily at her beaming face.

"Good to see you," he murmured.

"Likewise," she returned, and they laughed. She put out her hand and took his, holding it tightly. "Well, how's everything back at the salt mine?"

"We're missing you. The mail is fantastic. You're the most popular person at the moment. The mail's causing quite a problem. But we're not complaining. Frankly," he added, "I had thought perhaps there'd be the opposite reaction. But it seems little Miss Viper-tongue has her loyal fans after all."

"I'm glad. I'm really not such a bitch, am I?"

"Of course not. That's just the big act that pulls in the listeners. Roger knew it. That's why he put you on."

She shook her head. "Not really. There was another reason, but that's best forgotten. Especially now. How's Josie?"

"Doing fine. She called me from Bermuda today. Seems she's recovering fine, and even confessed she may never return. Seems she finds the islands very much to her liking."

Hilary laughed drily. "You mean she finds some particular person on the islands to her liking."

"Have it your way."

"Anyway, to each his own." Hilary's face grew serious. "Anything more from the police?"

"Nope. That character they dug up will probably get off with a manslaughter charge. There's no proof against him, other than it was his gun that killed Alma. No fingerprints and so on. You know these bastards. They cover their tracks pretty well. It won't surprise me if he gets off scot-free."

"I still don't understand one thing," Hilary said, reaching for a cigarette and lighting it quickly before Jim could lean forward with a match. "Josie told me her family had connections with the mob but she herself never messed with any of them. So am I right in saying it was Roger who really was to blame?" She paused, seeing the indecision in his face. "I mean, it was Roger who arranged the business that Alma got into?"

"It's hard to say, Hilary," Jim said uneasily, crossing his legs and leaning back in his chair. "We do know that he had mental problems. Josie testified to this fact. It seems he was nonviolent most of the time; only when something really threatening came up did he trip out."

"Trip out? You mean drugs, or go off his rocker?"

"Both. Josie admitted they both used to have drug sessions and sex sessions. Roger had this thing about wanting to dress up in women's clothes, and Josie had her kicks by having sex with him in drag. Together with any poor unfortunate soul they coerced up there. Usually young hookers that Josie picked up down in the Village. Kids who were down and out, and usually junkies out for a quick buck and a thrill. Sad, really sad. I think this whole mess has put the fear of God into that woman, though. She told me before she went to Bermuda that she's decided to straighten up. Roger's death really hit her hard. I believe she really loved the guy."

"I can understand that." Hilary sighed and looked away out the window for a moment. "He could be tender. Almost beautiful, and I... well, I did have one night with him, and I think that was the start of it all. He was wonderful that night. He was all man. Nothing screwy then. Maybe it was all part of his sickness. I've heard of people with dual personalities before. Schizophrenics. It's an illness, just like... well, pneumonia, tuberculosis, whatever. But I never thought it affected someone like that. I mean, Roger was a different person that last night. He was something evil, something sick. Oh, Christ!" She bit her lip and breathed deeply.

"All right, enough." Jim leaned over and patted her leg and his face was strong and commanding. "Let's not talk about it any more. It's over. It's all over. Let's look forward."

"True. But I like to wipe the slate first. You see, I got in under somewhat... er... questionable circumstances. I won't go into that, because it's of no consequence now. I've proved myself in my position. But Roger regarded me as a threat, and in his own twisted way he wanted revenge, or whatever. How can you rationalize a warped mind? We can try for our own sakes, perhaps, but then, oh, Jim, it all makes me wish I'd never even thought of coming to New York, never had these crazy ambitions. Maybe I'd have been better off staying in Texas, marrying some clunk and raising a mess of kids."

He laughed. "Christ, you? A Texas housewife? Don't be ridiculous. You're one of the hottest properties on television now. I'm willing to bet another network weans you away with double the salary. You're dynamite, Hilary, and you know it. So don't have any regrets. If you knew the numbers of top names in the film business who've got their start by devious means, you'd feel you were in good company. What difference does it make? I know you, baby, and I know you're good people underneath that bitch front you put on for the viewers. And the real Hilary Abbott is the one I'm interested in." He paused. "The girl I want to marry."

Her eyes widened. "Marry? Oh, come off it, Jim."

"I mean it. Ever since we started working together. I've always been crazy about you. You know that."

"Well, maybe so. But marriage? That's not in my book. Not for the moment, anyway."

"Why not?"

"Because. Marriage means too much responsibility, too many of the things I'm not ready for."

"You love me, don't you?"

She stared at him and grinned. "I can't answer that. I don't know. There's a difference between a heart-throb and a hard-on, remember. I've got a hard-on for you, but that's all." She relented at the look of disappointment on his face. "But give me time, Jim. For your own sake."

"All right," he said, brightening visibly. "Sorry if I rushed things. But I do love you so much. And after what's happened, I want to make sure you've got someone to take care of you."

She laughed loudly and mashed her cigarette in the ashtray.

"I can take care of myself, dear heart," she murmured.

"Not if the past few days are any indication," he said shortly. "I think you need someone who knows how to keep you under lock and key."

"That's what I'm afraid of," she said gaily. "I don't thrive well behind bars."

"Oh, shut up," he said pleasantly. "You know that's not what I meant."

"I know what you meant," she replied. "I had someone else like you once. 'Way back in Texas. He had the same look on his face that you do now. And all I could see was that tired old farmhouse of his family's that he would one day inherit, and by that time I'd have six squalling brats at my heels, be fat and forty and have nothing to look forward to except the weekly social gathering at the church. No, thanks. Not for me, Jim." She held up her hand as he tried to speak. "And believe me, a plush penthouse in Manhattan can look the same as a weatherworn ranch in Texas, and even if you don't wear spurs, they're there all the same. Nope. Not yet. Maybe later. Till then, of course," she added with a mischievous twinkle, "there's nothing that says we can't enjoy each other often. As often as you care to, and I'm free."

"You're terrible," he said, rising and kissing her forehead. "Look, I've got to go." He checked his watch. "Christ, I'll just about make it for the show. Get well soon. We want you back. The network needs you."

"That's a crock of shit," she said softly. "You mean you need me."

"True. But hurry back, anyway."

"Okay. And thanks for the flowers."

"There'll be more tomorrow. And the day after that."

"Get out of here," she said, waving him off. He blew her a kiss and disappeared out the door. Hilary sighed and leaned back against the pillow. Wryly she shook her head. It was the same old story, she thought sadly; they all wanted to marry her, and she didn't want a wedding ring. An Emmy, maybe, but a wedding ring? Not yet, anyway.

* * *

The nurse came bustling in, her usually cheerful face creased, her eyes somber with concern. In her hands she carried a sheaf of newspapers. "Miss Abbott, you asked, but I don't know whether I should—"

"Give those to me!" Hilary's voice cut across the room as though she were back in her office handing out staccato orders to her staff. The nurse handed over the papers and Hilary pushed herself upright and leaned back into the pillows, her eyes scanning the headlines, her heart beating wildly.

"Christ!" Her voice was almost inaudible.

"It's terrible, just terrible," said the nurse.

"Thanks. Now please-get out and leave me alone."

Obediently the plump woman disappeared and the room was silent, except for the rustling of the newspapers as Hilary turned page after page, went from one to the other. "Bastards," she whispered. "Fucking no-good yellow journalists."

She flung the offending papers on the bed over her legs and sat still. She reached for a cigarette and lay back, inhaling deeply, her eyes still focused on the top headline. The large block letters told all: LEADING GOSSIP COLUMNIST LINKED TO NETWORK PRESIDENT'S DEATH. There was a picture of her, taken with Roger at a press party, together with the ghastly mutilation of his body as it lay spreadeagled on the sidewalk below his apartment building. Inconsequentially, she noted they had the decency to airbrush out the genitals with a convenient shadow. Otherwise his body was naked, but horribly distorted, and his face stared unseeingly, the mouth hanging open obscenely. Death was seldom attractive, she thought, especially after a fall from one of the tallest buildings in town.

"Where did they get all that garbage?" she said aloud, frowning as she tried to piece together facts that might have resulted in a leak. She picked up the newspaper again and read over the copy; it was riddled with generalities, suppositions and so-called conclusions. All very vague, but sufficient to put the mark of Cain upon her. She wondered whether it was strong enough to provide the basis for a lawsuit. No matter, the network legal department would probably handle it. But it certainly didn't help any, that was for sure. Christ, she wondered how this would affect her position.

The phone jangled beside her, and automatically she reached for the instrument.

"Hilary? Jim. Have you—"

"Yes. Garbage. Filth."

"We know. We know. But how?"

"You tell me."

"I don't know what's going to happen. There's a meeting upstairs in a half-hour. God knows what's going to be decided, but I don't have much hope. The network has always stayed away from this sort of thing."

"Let the chips fall, baby. There's nothing we can do."

"But I want to. I don't want you thrown out just because of a muckraking yellow sheet."

"Jim." She laughed dryly. "When you deal in dirt, sometimes a little of it rubs off."

"This is no time to get philosophical. Your future's at stake."

"So what? Name me one person who hasn't had some scandal connected with their name, and they've survived. I'll come out smelling like a rose, take it from me."

"I hope so. Take care. I must run now. I'll call you as soon as the meeting's over."

"Okay. And thanks, Jim."

She replaced the receiver and lit another cigarette. Then slowly a grin spread over her face. She shook her head, mashed the cigarette in the ashtray and rolled over, closing her eyes. Sleep. It was the only thing she could do right now. Wake me when it x over...

* * *

As Hilary drifted off, she found herself once more back in Waxahachie, and she was running down the main street, her hair streaming behind her in the breeze. She was singing at the top of her voice, and as she got to the drugstore old Mr. Carruthers came out and grinned at her. "You sound awful happy today, young lady," he commented, and she went up to him and smiled. "I sure am," she replied, "but I'll be happier if you give me one of those gumdrops.

He laughed, but turned and went inside. Hilary followed him in and stood beside the counter, her head barely clearing the top, her eyes staring as his hand reached into the large glass jar and took out the small, round, cherry-colored confection. His hand came out, and as she extended her fingers she felt him grab her. His face became larger and larger and his body descended upon hers, and she cowered back, screaming. The gumdrop became the size of a football; it became a cloud that covered her face, and she felt his clammy hands over her, feeling her legs, sliding up her thighs until his short stubby fingers were probing her, feeling that virgin-soft crevice. She tried to fight, but he was bigger, stronger, more powerful. She was on her back in the middle of the drugstore, and he was on top of her, and just at that moment the bell above the door tinkled and Hilary looked over to see a dozen or more women standing there, watching. Their faces were expressionless, but there was a hum of conversation even though their mouths were not moving. "Yes, there she is."

"There she goes again."

"Little whore."

"Just like we said."

"Seducing poor Mr. Carruthers, and him with his wife not yet cold in her grave."

"Hilary Abbott, you're no good."

"She never was." With a gigantic effort, Hilary pushed and found herself floating high over the drugstore, speeding through the sky, far above Waxahachie, far above the Texas prairie, and she was looking down on the city of Dallas suddenly, and she opened her mouth and shouted, "Hey, here I am, lookit, you all, look at me. Hilary Abbott... Hilary... "

She opened her eyes.

"Hilary... Hilary..." The nurse was standing over her, shaking her by the shoulder. "Good heavens, you scared the daylights out of me. I heard you screaming clear down the hall. Are you all right?"

Hilary sat up in the bed and smiled weakly. "Yeah. I'm okay. Just a nightmare. Whatever."

"You want some coffee, maybe? Or some orange juice?"

Hilary laughed dryly. "I need a drink."

The nurse clucked her tongue. "No drinking here, you know that." Then she smiled. "But you'll be going home soon. I guess that'll be the best thing of all for you."

"Home." Hilary smiled ruefully. "Yeah. Home." Unconsciously her Texas accent slipped back, and the nurse's eyes opened wide, and she laughed.

"Why, Miss Abbott, you sounded just like a cousin I have who lives in Fort Worth."

"I should. I'm from Texas."

"You are? How about that? I'd never have said it from the way you sound on the air."

"How do I sound on the air?"

"Oh, very Hollywood, very sophisticated. You know."

"You watch me all the time?"

"Oh, yes, always. I'm a big fan of yours. I like all that Hollywood gossip. Always have." Hilary laughed. "Well, that's nice to know." The telephone cut off their chatter, and Hilary reached eagerly for the instrument.

"Hilary? Jim. I just got out of the meeting."

"Well? Am I canned or what?"

"There's a big question mark at this point. Some of the board want to dispense with your services. Others, and mostly those in programming, want to keep you on, despite the scandal. The matter rests now."

"Well, when'll they decide?"

"After they check the mail this coming week. They feel if public sentiment goes against you, they'll have to kill your spot on the show. If it doesn't matter, then you'll stay. I guess it's up to your fans now, baby."

"Crap. Who hasn't had a bit of scandal in their past? It'll improve the ratings."

"I know that, but there's the matter of morals. The big wheels are very touchy about after-hours activities of people like yourself.

Especially when it involves someone like the president. After all, that's like being caught with Jesus Christ with your pants down. Oh, well, take care. I gotta go. I'll drop in later."

"Okay. Thanks for calling."

"Take care. I love you."

" 'Bye, Jim."

Hilary hung up the phone and lay back, thinking. She had the vague feeling that she would never return to the network—that her tenure had expired, her luck had run out. Or had it? After all, she had made a meteoric climb on the strength of her own guts and bravado. Although her methods may have been questionable, once she got her break she came through like a trooper; she pushed the ratings up phenomenally, and had become a national figure almost overnight. She knew that counted for something, certainly far more than a tawdry piece of scandal that would be forgotten in a week. Especially in New York, where the daily press sparked the public's imagination and interest that was as flighty as the items that oozed over the front pages like slime from the cesspools of society. It was indeed unfortunate that the item had hit the tabloids; they would no doubt milk it for all it was worth. After all, it was not every day that a network president plunged naked to the sidewalk after a sex orgy with one of his employees... The sex orgy had only been hinted at, naturally. It was normally taken for granted that such a result could only come from matters other than business, especially when the visitor was young, beautiful, and happened to be Hilary Abbott, scion of sex on the airwaves...

Hilary began going over the events of the preceding week. She remembered her discussions with Jim, with Roger, with everyone connected with the shocking train of circumstances that had started out so seemingly innocently. She knew that Josie, jealous as she had been of Roger, would not have gone as far as murder. Despite her leanings and her drinking and her drug-taking, she knew where to draw the line, something that Roger in his madness could not. And never once had she suspected that, despite his acceding to her demands, Roger had been harboring a growing hatred that had culminated in his eventual desire to eliminate her from his life, and that he had used his wife's unsavory connections to bring about the train of events that had rocked the television industry to its foundations. Television, hell; after the morning papers, she knew the entire city of New York was talking about the scandal. She had hoped that the matter would have been another routine suicide, forgetting that news was news and often meant money for informers who ranged from apartment house doormen to passers-by on the street, eager to cash in on anything that might mean a buck in their pockets, no matter what the consequences, or the ruin for certain people's lives...

But then, she thought, isn't that the premise on which the program was built: her own gossip, her own innuendoes that, while innocuous enough on the surface, assumed major proportions when delivered with that now-famous sneer, the curled lip, the meaningful glance with the eyes... Yes, when you deal in dirt, a little of it has to rub off. All's fair in love and war and network ratings... For all she knew, it could have been a rival network who was responsible for the headlines in the papers, hoping thereby to eliminate her as competition. It was possible. Anything was possible in this evil, vicious city...

On a sudden impulse, Hilary whipped back the covers and slid out of bed, going over to the closet and reaching for her clothes. In a few minutes she was dressed. Just as she was applying her makeup, the door opened and the nurse entered with a tray. "Time for our lu—" The nurse stopped, her eyes flared. "Miss Abbott, what are you doing? You're supposed to stay—"

"I'm leaving," Hilary snapped. "And you can't stop me. I'm feeling fine."

"You're not. You've had a breakdown. You're..." The nurse floundered for words as she moved quickly to the table and deposited the tray safely on the surface. "Miss Abbott..." She came over and tried to guide Hilary back to the bed.

"Leave me alone." Hilary's voice rose angrily. "I'm perfectly all right, and I have things to do. Important things," she added. "More important than lying in this hard, uncomfortable bed and letting my career go down the drain. Thanks, nurse, but I have to go." She ran a comb through her hair, closed her purse and, pushing the nurse peremptorily aside, she walked to the door and opened it.

"Miss Abbott. .

Her voice followed Hilary as she stormed down the corridor and passed the nurse's station by the elevators. The superintendent looked up, gasped, and called to her, but Hilary was into an elevator and on her way down before she could get out from behind the desk. Hilary smiled to herself. Yes, she had things to do all right... many things...

* * *

The taxi pulled up outside the bustling foyer of the network headquarters. Hilary hurried inside, aware of the curious stares from the receptionist and staff members who passed her as she made her way to her office. She flung open the door and walked in, going to her desk even before Chester could turn, gasp and say in his curiously high-pitched voice, "Hilary, what are you doing here? You're supposed to be in the hospital—"

"Hello, Chester," she said briskly. "Do we have a show for tonight?"

"Er... no, of course we don't. How could we?"

"Well, settle down and get something together. I'm going on. The lead story I'll write myself. It may take all the time. But give me some extra garbage just in case. Okay?"

"Er... yes, of course." He paused, staring bug-eyed at her. "Are you all right, Hilary?"

"I'm fine, Chester. How're you?"

"I'm okay, thanks."

"Good. Then get your sweet ass in gear."

"Sure, sure, Hilary," he agreed hastily.

She pulled a sheet of paper from the drawer, inserted it into the typewriter and began typing rapidly. Her thoughts flew, the words came quickly, and the page began filling up with copy. Fight fire with fire, she thought, smiling to herself. By damn, if they thought she'd been provocative before, just wait... She just hoped the legal department wouldn't cut too much of what she wanted to say. Even if they did, she still intended ad-libbing...

* * *

The studio hummed with activity, and last-minute preparations were being made prior to the airtime. Bill Brophy and Randy Kessenger were in place behind their desk, chatting and going over the news items. "I don't know how she did it," said Randy, "but God knows we should have the biggest rating in history this evening."

"And why not?" replied Brophy, grinning, "I don't care what she says, but I heard a rumor that she's not going to read the script cleared by the legal department."

Kessenger shrugged. "Then it could be her last show."

"Maybe she intends it to be," replied Brophy, "I hope not, though. I've gotten used to her."

The door at the end of the studio opened and Hilary came walking in, head high, looking even more ravishing than usual in a new sequined dress that barely made it over her breasts. Brophy gasped. "Christ," he whispered. "Look at that."

Aware that every eye was on her, Hilary walked over to her desk, smiling at the floor crew, acknowledging their greetings, and then nodding to Brophy and Kessenger. "Gentlemen," she said, rather formally. "We gird our loins for battle."

They laughed, and her face relaxed slightly. Her hands were trembling, but she felt confident. For once, Hilary knew she was about to skate on dangerously thin ice; if it broke, she had only herself to blame. But she felt confident... more than ever before, and she felt a strange excitement.

She looked up as Jim Finchley entered and came over to her.

"Hilary, are you all right?"

She nodded. "A little nervous, but I'll be fine."

"I'm not sure what to say, but believe me, I'm on your side," he whispered, putting a hand on her arm. "Every goddamn member of this network will be watching you tonight."

"I hope there'll be more than that," she replied evenly. "I hope every goddamn citizen in New York'll be watching."

"I think they will be."

The time signals came over the intercom and last-minute preparations added to the general feeling of tension. The opening music blared, and Hilary took a deep breath and positioned herself in readiness for facing the cameras...

"Good evening. This is Bill Brophy with the news."

The studio resounded to the strong voice that was familiar to millions, and Hilary waited. Her spot was five minutes into the show, after the major news items. She found the waiting interminable and bit her lip nervously, then stopped, knowing that she would only ruin her lipstick.

"And now, ladies and gentlemen, with the latest from Hollywood, Miss Hilary Abbott."

The red light glowed on the camera. Chin up. Smile.

"Ladies and gentlemen, tonight I have something to say that has little to do with Hollywood," Hilary began. "As you know, my secretary, Alma Golden, was murdered and I swore publicly that I would do everything in my power to bring the criminals to justice. By now you are aware that our very efficient police force has got someone behind bars and the process of justice will be enforced. However, there are certain facts which I want to reveal that might clarify an item which today was splashed across the front pages, and which many have taken to be an indication of this reporter's lack of morality. I quote from one of the items."

Hilary picked up the front page of a tabloid and quoted: "'What we want to know is: what was Hilary Abbott doing alone in Roger Nelson's apartment prior to the time that the former network president hit the sidewalk, naked, and very dead.' Ladies and gentlemen, I'd like to tell you. Prior to that unhappy episode, Roger Nelson had come to me, informing me of certain suspicions he had regarding the death of my secretary. It was obvious that I was the focal point of this madman's intentions, whoever it was that intended to put an end to my life. Roger Nelson suggested that I accompany him to his apartment, to act as bait, and hopefully draw this maniac out of hiding. He felt that whoever it was would know of our being there, and would act accordingly. I agreed, because, as you all know, I had pledged myself to assist in bringing Alma's murderer to justice. It was only after I arrived at Roger Nelson's apartment that I began to realize that the maniac was indeed there; it was Roger Nelson himself. It appears that in his twisted mind, he had decided that I constituted a threat to his position, and had decided to eliminate me.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the problem of mental illness is a major blot in our society, but one which can affect our lives most tragically, from the ordinary man in the street to network presidents. A case of tuberculosis or ulcers receives the listener's instant sympathy; I am asking the same degree of understanding for this situation. In his warped mind, Roger Nelson was only protecting his own interests. The fact that he intended taking a human life in the process only stresses the seriousness of his condition. Had circumstances been different, he might well be alive today, and confined to an institution. But he fell to his death, thereby solving the situation in many ways, all except one. Namely, this reporter's future, which is now in jeopardy due to the network's understandable concern over the public reaction to my involvement in this tragedy. What I am saying, ladies and gentlemen, is that my job depends upon you."

Hilary stared very directly and sincerely into the camera. "There may be many of you who regard my presence here as objectionable. God knows I've received enough hate mail to fill a bushel basket. But I've also received hundreds of letters which make me feel most of you would like to see me continue on this program. I ask you to be the judge in this matter. They say it takes a lifetime to build a reputation and only five minutes to lose it. In the past five minutes, talking to you, I may have lost mine. I can only hope I am mistaken." She smiled warmly. "And now back to Bill Brophy and the news."

The red light clicked off and Hilary relaxed. Her heart was beating very fast and she found her body beginning to shake.

She knew if she stayed on the set, she would not be able to remain calm during the final fade-out. Quietly she gathered her papers and walked off, making sure not to let her heels make any sound on the floor while Kessenger was busy with the sports. She rounded the edge of the set and walked right into Jim Finchley. His arms automatically went round her, and she took a deep breath and was thankful for his presence. She leaned against him for a moment, then she looked up, smiled gratefully and moved her head, indicating for them to retreat through the door. When they were in the hallway, she paused. "Okay?" she asked, and he nodded.

"Yup," he replied, "Sounded good. Now all we can do is wait."

Together they walked back to her office, pushing into the room and collapsing into chairs. Hilary reached for a cigarette and leaned back, inhaling deeply. She felt inestimably relieved, and she smiled across at him. "Tell me, Jim Finchley, do you really think it'll do any good?" she asked.

"You really want to know?"

"Of course."

"No."

"You mean I'm through here, whatever the public says?"

"I think so. At least that's the feeling I get from the general mood of the directors. I mean, from what has filtered down to me, that is. But let's not start wearing black until we get the final word."

"And when will that be?"

"Maybe tomorrow. Perhaps sooner. Who knows?"

"Yeah. Who knows?"

They were silent, listening to the muted volume from the monitor above the desk. Hilary's eyes strayed up to Bill Brophy's miniature face on the small set, and she smiled. "You know, if it is the end, it certainly has had its moments," she murmured.

"Don't talk like that," he said brusquely.

"No, I have to. I'm a very practical person. If I'm through here, there's not much I can do except go back to Texas, and that will be that. Maybe a local show. Who knows? But no more bigtime for me, not if this network has given me the brush. No one else'd touch me, and you know it."

"Disagree. I think if you do get the ax, you can name your own price, especially in Los Angeles. Those independent stations there thrive on controversial figures. And they pay good, too."

"Maybe. But something tells me that's not going to happen."

At that moment the phone jangled out its summons. Hilary reached for the instrument and answered. She heard the operator on the line, a muffled click, and then a strange masculine voice rang in her ear: "Is this Hilary Abbott?"

"Yes. Who is this?"

"This is Ellery Slaughter. I'm head of news and special events for Channel 32 in Los Angeles. I just heard you on the air."

"Oh."

"I want you to know that if you're out of a job, there's one waiting for you here."

Hilary laughed. "That's nice to know, Mr. Slaughter. But at present I can't say."

"Okay. Just wanted you to know that we're first in line."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, to tell you the truth, the rumor around L.A. is that two of the other channels are after you. I thought it might be wise to get in my first lick."

"How nice." Hilary paused, and thought a moment. "Of course, you know I'm expensive."

Slaughter's deep laugh came back. "All good things are, Hilary. We're willing to meet your figure."

"What do you mean, meet my figure?"

"I mean whatever you're getting now."

"Sorry, Mr. Slaughter, but when I change jobs, it's always for a higher price. Like double, usually."

"I said we'd meet your figure. If that's what you're asking, that's what you'll get."

"You sound pretty anxious to get me."

"We are. We're a new station and we're hungry for ratings. We know you'll get them for us. We're willing to pay for that."

"Okay. Sounds fair enough. Can I call you back?"

"Right." He gave her the phone number, wished her luck and hung up. Hilary replaced the receiver and turned to Jim, her face beaming in triumph.

"Know who that was?"

He laughed. "No, but I can guess."

She told him, and his face broke into a wide grin. "Oh, wow, that's great."

She eyed him coyly. "I told them double what I was getting now, but I forgot one thing that's suddenly become very important."

"What?"

"If I go, I not only want double salary, but I also want my own producer along. At double his present salary."

He came round the desk and took her into his arms. "Hilary." Their mouths met, and she embraced him, holding him close, feeling his masculinity pressing against her, and she responded from deep within. They clung together, lost in the world of each other; they never even heard the door open as Chester Leftwich entered. Only his startled gasp separated them, and his horrified expression brought an immediate spasm of laughter from them both. His eyes roamed down their bodies, noticing the suspicious bulge that threatened to burst from Jim's pants. "Oh, dear," he said, sitting down abruptly.

"What's the matter, Ches?" asked Hilary. "Can't a girl kiss her future husband if she wants to?"

"Well, I'll be goddamned," Chester said, averting his eyes, his face scarlet with embarrassment. "Oh, I'm sorry, Hilary. I didn't mean to cuss in front of you."

"That's all right," she replied easily. "Right now I feel so good I wouldn't mind if you stripped stark naked and joined us."

"Hilary!"

She hardly heard him; she had turned back to Jim and was once more feeling his lips on her own, his arms enclosing her, and within her heart she knew it had all been worth it, just to find someone to make her days worth living and her nights worth waiting for...


The End
