Chapter 1
Janice cupped a yawn and, blinking her robin egg eyes against the sun refracting through the window, let her head lean limply back against the scratchy blue and beige tweed of the train seat headrest. Her long, straight, honey blonde hair caught the dancing light of the sun and tossed it towards the mirrors rimming the headrest across from her. A little sigh of travel fatigue escaped from her soft, reddened lips as she stared absent-mindedly at the countryside near Aulnoye, France as it flashed by the train's bay-sized window to the right of her, terrain where cows lulled contentedly in green meadows and birds perched on craggy edges of jutting rocks that served to the cattle confined within the stone walls of their pastoral prisons. It all seemed so terribly desolate, compared to Boston, the twenty year old coed decided. Something caught her eye, then, and she pressed her nose to the window to get a better look at the fleeting image of a bent-over country woman shabbily attired in a fashionless long dress, her greying hair tucked under a peasant scarf, her small feet protected by the high-top boots as, from a wagon, she pitched manure. A giggle rumbled from Janice's pretty lips.
The handsome young man across from her lifted his head from the Times Herald he was reading. "What's so funny, Janice?" he asked over the rim of his tortoise shell glasses that hid a pair of pale gray eyes tinged with thickly curling lashes.
"Oh, you missed it, Charles! You should have seen that poor old country bumpkin out there shoveling . . . " She cleared her throat and lowered her eyes, a smile giving away her merriment. ". . . shoveling cow droppings onto the field. Can you imagine living like that? I mean, really!"
Charles shot a quizzical look her way. "That's the beauty of traveling. You learn how truly lucky you are to be living in democratic America, instead of these socialist countries where people grovel for a living," he explained in his typically dogmatic, matter-of-fact tone that was as measured as the facts he conveyed.
"But can you imagine me shoveling manure?" she clasped her tiny hands, then hastened to cover her . mouth because of a rebellious giggle welling in her throat. Charles, she knew, didn't approve of sudden outbursts, even if they were alone in a first class compartment with the door closed and curtains drawn. "Okay, Charles, here's one for you." She sat forward in her seat making her taut, melonous breasts strain against the cool blue linen of her dress. "Who would you rather marry, me or that woman shoveling manure?"
Charles forced a tight little smile. "Oh, Janice.. . there's no choice to be made," he answered, clucking his tongue and picking up his newspaper to resume his reading.
Still, it was funny to Janice to think that women-however similar in their bodily functions, their needs for affection and desire for motherhood-could be so radically different in lifestyles. The thought amused her.
She relaxed back in the seat again and, with a swooshing sound, crossed her stockinged legs, her fingers toying with the tourist guide book in her lap while she watched Charles with his lean, handsome face, his classic features sitting opposite her in his proper long-sleeved shirt with the initialed pocket, sweater vest, and gabardine pants.
A tiny glow of pride, no bigger than the glint of a sun ray peeking through the cumulous clouds overhead lighted in Janice.
How absolutely fortunate she was to be engaged to Charles Edward Tarrington III.
He was an ambitious young man, rather quiet and intellectual, but terribly dedicated to his upcoming profession as proven in this his last year at Harvard Law School when he'd been preening himself for a political career while working for an oil company lobbyist. The extra money his part time job brought in was in essence meaningless. The Tarringtons, a well established New England family had all the money they needed, and what they didn't have, Janice Meredith Quincy's family did.
Neither of them talked about money . . . not about how much they should spend on an apartment when they got married next June, not where they could afford to take a honeymoon. Like Janice, Charles had been brought up to believe it was vulgar to talk about one's wealth as it was to talk about sex. And yet it was obvious that both families had money, and she and Charles were living proof that they had indulged in sex! She thought fleetingly of telling that to Charles, then decided against it. Charles wouldn't think that very funny. He wasn't much on humor.
That sometimes bothered Janice, though she always quickly repressed the thought. His devotion to his work compensated tenfold. In her two years at Vassar she'd never dated one boy who was as determined or conscientious or well respected as Charles who stood at the head of his class. His professors-old friends of his family-openly admired Charles for his moral rectitude and propriety, two qualities requisite if one had an eye on the political arena.
Charles glanced up from his paper, then flicked his wrist to check his watch. "Are you hungry? Perhaps we should catch a bite before we change trains in Bruxelles. I hear the trains there are abominable."
"Certainly, Charles," she nodded, wondering vaguely what would happen if she said no. She wasn't hungry and she actually considered doing it, but something in his manner put her off, and she merely said, as always, "Yes, Charles."
"Let's go to the dining car then. We have about an hour before the stop in Bruxelles. That should give us sufficient time to eat," he stated, rising from his seat and to make certain his wallet was still safe, patted his vest pocket with a delicate hand that looked as if it had never been dirty-even as a child.
They ambled down the train's corridor, Janice trailing her hand along the railing below the window, her alligator handbag slung over her shoulders, as they passed compartment after compartment. Between the cars near the water closet they nodded to the uniformed, mustached conductor who sat on a low stool munching his sandwich. The third car down was the crowded snack bar where the second class passengers munched french fries and mayonnaise and dribbled mustard on sausages. With relief, Charles opened the door to the dining car where the tables were covered with white cloths and fresh flowers were daintily centered on each table in crystal vases, while waiters in full regalia whisked around the narrow car as quietly as cats.
Charles pulled out the chair for his fiancee, then tucked his own in under the table in a most polished Bostonian manner. "Would you like to try the veal Marsala . . . and asparagus? And perhaps a fine wine?"
Charles always suggested the dinner. He gave the order in French perfect enough to make the waiter raise his eyebrows in appreciation. Janice noticed the little premature lines of age etched around his eyes. He'd worked so hard this year and this vacation was good for him, and for her, too. How else would she have dared venture off to Europe by herself, enroll in the Sorbonne and head off for Amsterdam, Munich, and London by herself, without her dear Charles to guide the way.
No doubt this coming year at the Sorbonne would be a lonely one, despite Paris' romantic allure. But she knew too, that if she was to marry Charles Edward Tarrington III she must polish off her cosmopolitan beginnings, continue with her art history degree and perfect her French and Italian. It was her duty now. to learn the language of a socialite, know how to meet dignitaries with presidential flare and diplomatically run a household full of servants. That would be her life, and if that meant eating veal when she wanted spaghetti, so be it.
The waiter appeared with the wine, carried on a silver tray. He set the long stemmed glasses in front of the couple and let Charles taste it. It was to his liking. "Perfect for the asparagus," hastened Charles, letting her know it was proper for her to drink her wine before the entree reached the table.
"Cheers. To you, Charles, for doing so wonderfully well at Harvard!"
"Cheers!" echoed Charles clinking her glass.
The wine tingled on Janice's tongue as she sipped it, and sent a warm glow through her as she swallowed. It made her very happy. Now that school was over and they had six weeks to travel together, Charles would have time for her. She" thought back over the six months of their engagement. It had been so . . . so impersonal, and now that they were traveling together maybe that would change. Not that they slept together. Janice would never have thought of sleeping with Charles any more than he would have thought to ask that of her. But still, even though they were together now twenty-four hours a day (discounting the time they slept in their separate hotel rooms) there had been none of those little intimacies between them that existed between other young lovers. No kisses after she'd slipped into her negligee and he his pajamas and robe . . . no fervent stroking of the thigh.
"Charles, are you still going to stop off in Rotterdam to visit your aunt?" she asked, watching the waiter discreetly slip a plate of asparagus before them.
"Yes, Janice. I promised mother. But I'm afraid we can't both stay there. Certainly they would find it improper for two unmarried people to be traveling together. This is risque enough as it is." He speared the lemon wedge with his fork and squeezed the fresh juice over the oozing mayonnaise.
Janice gazed intently at him. "But we are engaged, surely that must mean something to her."
"Not my Aunt Sybil, I'm afraid." He hastened to lighten her fears by lying his delicate hand on her tiny one. "Nothing bad is going to happen to you, dear. I've made reservations for you to sleep in a private compartment on the train, and when you get to Amsterdam call a taxi to take you to the Damtrack Hotel and I'll meet you there the next day at twelve sharp. Oh, and don't forget," he said, raising a finger, "you also change trains in Antwerp."
"But, I. . . Charles.. . " Janice drew in her breath and forked a mouthful of asparagus. As much as she loathed the idea of being on a train alone, there was no rebuttal to Charles' suggestion. All was safe, or cautious Charles would never have suggested it. What would he think of her, anyway, if she was too scared to spend a night alone on a train?
"I know you're worried, Janice, but the crime in Amsterdam is all centered around drugs. If you aren't foolish enough to purchase any, and nobody plants any on you . . . so why worry, Janice?" He threw up his hands to make his point.
His comment touched off a question that Janice had been wondering about for some time since she'd started college. Though she'd never put a marijuana cigarette to her lips, she had several friends who had, and somehow she couldn't consider those girls criminals because they indulged in one vice. "Do you really think that somebody is a criminal because he tries drugs now and then? Oh, I don't mean heroin or cocaine, but just plain marijuana . . . why even the president's son has admitted to smoking it."
Charles smiled indulgently at Janice, showing her unmistakably that he considered her as foolish as she was naive. "My dear, I'm afraid you've been the victim of a too liberal education." Taking another sip of his Pouilly Fuisse, he recalled one drug trial he'd attended during his first year in law school.
A commune of young people had been hauled in from the slums of Boston, a crowd of dirty, foul-mouthed, raggedly dressed bums. From the moment he set eyes on them, he considered them no more than common criminals.
The men were bad enough, with their lack of respect for the court. They didn't even dress decently, but came in work shirts open at the neck to show off their hairy chests. They didn't even wear suits and ties like others in the court!
But the women! My Lord! Some of them wore sweaters so tight you could actually see their nipples standing straight up under them. Or they wore blouses cut so low and open so wide that their round, full breasts actually bounced out. Then there was the redhead in the see-through blouse who might as well have been naked. The two round spheres of her firm full breasts and the rosy aureoles were vivid against the snowy flesh of her pert, hard little nipples.
She'd worn jeans, too . . . jeans so tight they looked painted on. They pulled and strained across the round curve of her buttocks, cupping them, molding them to her skin, rippling like flesh itself as she moved lasciviously across the room. Charles had noticed that the pants bunched and caught in the furrow of her buttocks, outlining the little pucker of her anus. And every man in the courtroom was staring at her, practically panting with sheer, raw lust!
But the most disgusting of them all, Charles remembered, was the girl who'd come in late and taken a seat in the front row. She was young and slim-about Janice's age and size, he guessed-with a waist he could have spanned with his two hands. She'd even had a certain beauty, with her olive skin, the raven hair that hung to her shoulders, the eyes round and black. She wore a blue jean skirt that barely covered the hard little half-moons of her sensuous buttocks, barely concealed the vee of her crotch.
The girl's full rich thighs were bare-why didn't these women wear bras and girdles and stockings like decent people? Her breasts were lewdly tilted, the nipples taut under the sheer summer blouse she wore.
She flashed Charles a knowing look as she passed the bench, a look that told him as plainly as words that she would be willing to do anything he wanted. Her walk had been an open invitation to him and every other man in the courtroom. Hips undulating sensually, she prowled the room like a bitch in heat, just begging for some man to shove his rock-hard penis deep into her little quivering belly. And there were plenty of men there who were willing, too!
A deceptive calm settled over the place when this girl sat down, just in the witness chair. She smoothed her skirt over the lushness of her hips, pressed her knees together, even crossed her ankles demurely. Beneath the calm, though, was a subdued current of sexuality that threatened to erupt. She answered the questions in a bored voice and when she became tired of the lengthy questions and accusations, her body went slack, and the girl sprawled in the chair now, legs wide apart, knees splayed out teasingly. Charles stared slack-jawed when he realized this girl wasn't wearing any panties. No thin strip of nylon, however narrow, however flimsy, concealed the quivering flesh of her smooth, curving thighs. There was nothing to hide the thin triangle of dark, silken curls that grew so sparsely there in the tight little vee between her legs, nothing to hide the delicate pink-tinted edges of her moist, pouting little pussy.
The girl shifted in the seat, and now her legs slid farther apart, her smooth-skinned, swelling thighs spread open even wider. The pink-tipped hair-lined split lay open now, parted like the petals of a flower, and revealed the tiny bud of her clitoris that nestled within.
Charles stared in fascinated shock. The tiny, blushing mound attracted him and held his attention riveted to it. He yearned to turn away, to ignore the tender tip of flesh, to close his eyes and his mind. But he was transfixed, powerless, trapped by her lewdity. His palms grew moist and his entire body dripped with sweat. He had no idea how long he sat there while the clerk knocked to call the court back to order.
He listened and took notes, his eyes on the ceiling, trying to concentrate on the arguments of the lawyers. But his mind kept wandering back to the girl. He could imagine her thrashing around in bed somewhere with some man she'd picked up! Lying there with her legs flung wide while he licked and sucked there between them. Or licking him, sucking him, taking him into her mouth until she almost swallowed his hard, jutting cock.
She was a drug user, a menace to society, Charles had thought. And he thought that now, too, as he sat in the dining car, staring at Janice over his wine glass rim as in his mind he reviewed the article he'd read moments ago in the Times Herald about a gang of heroin smugglers who'd crossed the Cambodian border with a purported wealth of fifty-two kilos of pure, uncut heroin, freshly harvested from the hills of the Golden Triangle. From the article's report, the police were on their tails, suspecting the criminals were heading north via train. Of course, Charles couldn't tell Janice that.
Janice nibbled at her asparagus, wondering why Charles wasn't talking to her? Whatever was on his mind, he seemed a hundred miles away.
They finished their lunch in near silence, and drank the wine to the bottom of the bottle. After Charles had paid and tipped the waiter, five minutes remained before arrival in Bruxelles where they would change trains. On their way again, headed for Rotterdam where Charles would stay with his wealthy Aunt Sybil.
The train rumbled over the bridge of Rotterdam and Janice could see to the right of her the famous Rotterdam Cathedral, dark and mysterious, not far from the waters where Dutch ships lined up laden with cargoes destined for faraway places. Her heart gave a small patter when she realized this is where she would say goodbye to Charles.
"Right on time," remarked Charles, looking at his watch. "I'll be seeing you tomorrow, Janice." His tone was cool, his manners almost offhand.
Janice sighed and sat back in the seat. Would Charles always be like this . . . even after they were married?
"I'll miss you, Charles," she whispered, slipping closer to her fiancé, inching nearer to him until her marvelously molded young thighs brushed against his. The contact sent a little electric spark charging through her that seemed to set her on fire. Tiny flickers of flame licked at her loins deliciously.
Charles' very nearness teased and tantalized, until a thrill of pleasure caressed her whole body, crawled over her flesh, making it tingle maddeningly.
Aching for him to take her in his arms, she let her head fall on Charles' shoulder. Surely he felt something, too! But if he did, Charles showed no sign of it. When the train chugged to a stop, he lifted his bags from the rack overhead, kissed Janice lightly on the lips, and deboarded the train.
Would he always be like this, she asked herself again, dreading the four hour lay-over in Antwerp before continuing on to Amsterdam.