Chapter 13
Roger Martin, following the shambles made of his party by Patrick Doyle, despaired of ever regaining face with his lovely wife. Recalling that his proposition to the Goode girl had been favorably received, he decided to do something about it before the vessel docked.
So what if Vicky was cool to him? Hadn't Tricia Goode shown considerable interest? Okay. If that was what Vicky wanted--an out-and-out war--well, she'd get it. No matter how standoffish she was, she could still get jealous. Let her get jealous of Tricia Goode then. The girl was much younger and in many ways more desirable. He ought to go to Vicky and lay his cards on the table. Tell her he wanted a divorce and suggest a settlement of some kind. And he would be generous with her, of course, so generous that she couldn't refuse.
Then he would be free to talk to Tricia as he really wanted to. That sweet kid deserved more than a proposition, she deserved an honest proposal. And he was certain that she would accept. True, she had not openly displayed her feeling for him, but it was obvious that silence meant practically approval. Besides, he could feel it. He was older, very rich, cultured. Probably she had been afraid to make a forthright play for him. That was the way some girls were. And if he had his way about it, that was the way he would keep her. Never let her get aggressive or forward. Yes, he would be a man and never let her forget that fact. That was the way he should have acted toward Vicky right in the very beginning.
But it was too late for that now. His love for Vicky wasn't altogether dead, of course, but he would get over it eventually. And this was as good a time as any to make the big break. Why not head back to the cabin right now?
He left the bar. The chill sea air cleared his head and he was prepared for a battle royal with his spouse. At the cabin door, though, he hesitated just a moment to further gird his loins. The room was dark, but he knew she was there.
And then he heard the noise. Sobbing. Vicky's crying always had affected him even when he knew she was using it as a weapon. He couldn't help but wince at the sound. Now he listened intently to detect a false note.
He pushed the door open. As soon as she was aware of his presence, the sobs were choked off and a thick silence fell. Roger frowned in the darkness. If she was acting, the mournful noises would become louder and not quieter. This just wasn't going according to the book. A nameless fear squeezed his heart.
"Vicky?"
No answer.
Again, "Vicky? Are you there?"
A tremulous sigh sounded. "Yes, Roger, I'm here."
The pain in her voice throttled the sarcastic words he was about to hurl. "Something wrong?"
"No. I'm all right." The bed squeaked as she changed positions. There was a faint sniffle. And then a more subdued renewal of the piteous wailing.
Roger went to the bed and reached for his wife: Her form stirred under the covers, soft and appealing, but at this moment he was not thinking of sex. "You're crying," he said. "Something is wrong. What is it? Won't you tell me?"
The answer was an outburst of tears--real tears--and then she flung herself into his arms. Warm and wet, the liquid from her eyes flowed upon his face, salty on his lips. She was wearing a nightdress that was next to nothing at all. The curves and softness he had known for years --and yet didn't really know--now melted to his touch.
"You should hate me, Roger," she managed to mumble. "You should. Oh, I've been such a fool." She broke down, sobbing.
"Honey, what are you saying?"
"I'm a fool. I've been one for five years. No, I don't mean because I married you. I suppose that was the only intelligent thing I ever did."
Stunned, practically flabbergasted, Roger groped for words that just wouldn't come. He was glad that it was dark enough so that she couldn't read his expression.
"And I'm just recognizing it," she continued. "I've just begun to realize how unfair I've been to you. How I've nagged and baited you. How I've taunted you and made you go off with other women to seek the love I refused to give. How I've hurt you. Well, now you can have the last laugh."
"I don't want to laugh," he said. As if he were nearing the end of a black tunnel, he saw a glimmer of light.
Her hands, damp with the tears of anguish, cupped his face. "I don't even deserve to have you listen to me. You started on this trip with the idea of seeing what we could do to preserve our marriage. And I started on it to see if I couldn't keep on with my affair with Patrick Doyle. Oh, I know this must hurt you--and it tortures me. When I finally woke up and found that Doyle had used me as a plaything for the past five years, I was disgusted with myself."
She pressed close to him and the warm breasts were against his shirt. He slipped a hand down her back, a gesture of habit, a holdover from earlier days. She responded quickly by snuggling close.
"Don't misunderstand, Roger. I'm not looking for pity or sympathy or even mercy. If you go, then I won't blame you. You see, when I married you, well, it was a marriage of convenience. You were rich and well-known and I could live the high-life. At the same time I could control you so that I could get away with just about anything. Because you loved me. I even refused to have babies because I thought it would make me unattractive to men. Men!"
"Vicky... Vicky..."
"So here I am, my dream of Patrick Doyle all smashed. I hate him, Roger, and for the first time I can see what a wreck he has made of my life. And yet I still have love inside me--and I've just figured out why. It's because of you. Because you've never let me down. When I got into trouble you were always there. I took you for granted. And now I... I..."
"Hush, darling. Don't talk."
"No, let me say it. You can get up and leave if you want to. But I have to say it first. Roger, I love you."
The room whirled and tipped. It was the first time he had ever heard Vicky utter the words and now they rang in his ears like gigantic bells. And she was not lying, he was sure, she wasn't just making it up. The very touch and feel of her was the truth. She responded to his hands, to his kisses, with a heat that astonished him. The night blazed with the brilliant flame of his new-found love. Of his re-found love.
Locked in the urgency of her embrace, once again enfolded by the body he so worshipped, experiencing the velvet sensation of her breasts, her legs, he felt a wildly surging ecstasy. Only for the span of a few seconds did he delay it.
"Do you mean it, Vicky? You really mean it?"
"Yes," she whispered adoringly. "Yes, yes, yes."
"And you'll obey me and truly be my wife?"
"I will, Roger, oh darling, I will."
"And we can have a family?"
What she did then dispelled all doubts from his mind. She moved meaningfully, rising, arching, straining against him, imprisoning him in her arms as if to engulf him.
In that gesture of abandon his question was answered. All his questions. And only then did he let himself merge with that delightful flesh that was now--and would forever be--at his beck and call.
Work was beginning to pile up for Paul Taylor. Already the passengers were haunting him with requests for changing dollars into francs and checking hotel reservations and asking endless, stupid questions about languages, customs and sights to see. At the same time he had to prepare his lists for the customs people, besides seeing that none of the crew members were plotting to smuggle anything ashore. So many things to do.
But not so many that he could not dwell on the beautiful girl named Tricia Goode.
The memory of those two kisses the second day out burned in his brain. Due to circumstances beyond the control of either, they had been prevented from repeating the episode. Nevertheless, the few words they had exchanged, the look in her eyes, told him that she had not forgotten. And that she was waiting for him to initiate the next move.
At his elbow, a stout librarian was chattering about the feasibility of finding rare manuscripts in the Flea Market along the Seine in Paris. She was getting on his nerves.
"By all means," he said. "I'm sure you won't have any difficulty at all. But you'd better hold on to your false teeth or they'll steal them right out of your mouth."
"Mr. Taylor!"
He would be reported for that, but what the hell, who cared? He had more important things on his mind. The book, for instance. The book that he was going to take to Tricia Goode as a farewell offering. Only it wouldn't be farewell, of course, but a brand-new hello. She would understand. It was too soon to do much more than make a date for the future, but not too soon to be thinking about what to say on that date. He was already figuring out how to word his proposal of marriage.
In his cabin, Patrick Doyle looked up from the page on which he was writing with his gold pen and looked out the open porthole. Lights denoting islands flickered in the distance over the water, and a wave of nostalgia swept him. He was returning to the land where he had experienced so many triumphs. Very likely his French friends would remember him and would do something splendid to his honor to show their appreciation.
But he did not feel in a festive mood. His normally ordered mind was leaping about in fits and starts. And he knew why, of course. He never fooled himself about his daydreams.
It wasn't France that gave him this belly-sickness.
It wasn't the new novel that made him sad.
It wasn't the rolling sea that disrupted his thoughts.
It wasn't the thought of Sabrina Moore's anxious invitation to come to her cabin for the last night. Nor was it that his long affair with Vicky Martin had ended. No, it was none of these things.
It was Tricia Goode.
The sun gleamed brightly on the buildings of Le Havre. Atop the hills, cows gazed peacefully on green meadows. And through the jetties the Siwanoy pushed its way.
At the rail, Lee Jergens and Sue Trask gazed at the city that spread over the near hills and continued on out of sight. This was the first city of the Old World for them. Beyond, stretching for thousands of miles, lay the wonders and mysteries and adventures of an entire continent. In many ways, a new world.
"Did you ask her?" Sue said, with a smile.
"Yes. She'll meet us here in five minutes."
"How did she sound?"
"Enthusiastic. I know very well she had hoped to grab herself a rich lover to show her around, but she's willing to go at least as far as Paris with me."
Sue chuckled. "That's all we'll need. I swear, just give me two hours with any woman and I'll make a convert out of her."
"Well, don't go wild over her," Lee chided. "You'd better not forget about us--you and me."
"Hardly. I've been trying to find you ever since school. I'm not about to let you get away now. I suggested her because she's so cute and has such a marvelous body. I'm sure the three of us can have some great times together."
Remembering some great times on the boat, Lee nodded emphatically and shivered in anticipation.
"How much have you told her?" Sue said. "I mean, did you say we wanted to travel together --to study and junk like that?"
Lee laughed. "She said she wanted to study, too--men. But she figured that you and I weren't the ugliest women she had ever seen and thought that between the three of us we could attract a pretty good brand." Again she laughed.
Sue's hand stole along the rail and closed on Lee's. "What a wonderful liar you are."
"Thank you, sweet. All I ask is that you don't throw a monkey wrench in the works by making your play too soon."
"Worry not. I can restrain myself."
Suddenly, behind them, was the voice: "Hi, Lee. Sue. What evil plots are you two cooking up?"
They turned. Sabrina Moore, her hair strikingly fiery in the sunshine, stood there allowing the breeze to paste her dress to her legs, against the round flatness of her tummy and the projected mounds of her bosom.
"Ah, there," Lee said, extending a welcoming hand, "come and join us, Sabrina. We were just talking about you."
Somehow--but with great difficulty--Larry Stevens managed to cram the last sock into his duffel bag and fit the padlock to the ringed openings. Hefting it, he almost fell down. But that was because he was out of shape. A few days of lugging the thing on the roads of France would fix him up.
He had risen at dawn and started the irksome chore. Consequently there had been no opportunity to seek out Tricia Goode. And he had to, of course, to make a definite date to meet in Paris. Nor would he take no for an answer. A man in love couldn't let himself be stopped short of his goal.
Besides, she wouldn't say now, especially if the design for the house pleased Patrick Doyle. A young man without a job was one thing, but an architect with a fine commission was something else again. But he prayed fervently that he wasn't counting his proverbial chickens before they hatched. First there was Doyle himself to be reckoned with. After that, Tricia.
With the roll of paper--his brainchild--under his arm, Larry headed for Doyle's cabin. Cameramen and reporters were milling around in the corridor. Pushing his way through, he got close to the door only to be halted by a crewman on guard. Indignant at such cavalier treatment, Larry snarled his name. The man opened the door a crack and repeated it.
"It's about time," Doyle's voice shouted over the hubbub. "Send him in."
The interior of the cabin resembled the aftermath of a typhoon. Clothes, papers, suitcases, trunks and a goodly sprinkling of hangers-on cluttered the place.
As soon as Larry was inside, Doyle raised a hand for silence and then announced, "Good-day, all. I'm going to be busy now. I'll see you all on the dock."
Expertly he shooed them out, almost including Larry, whom he seized at the last instant. "Not you, my boy. You're the one I want to see."
The door closed and Doyle heaved a monumental sigh. He drew a finger over his trim mustache and straightened his tie. "Now let's have a drink, shall we?"
It never failed to surprise Larry, the sense of security he felt in Doyle's presence. His doubts and fears seemed to vanish as they tipped their glasses together.
"Ahhhhh," Doyle approved, smacking his lips. "Amazing how cognac tastes better on this side of the ocean than on the other. But enough of that. Let's see what you've got for me."
Larry unrolled his sheets of drawing paper, spread them on the top of the bureau and stood aside. His heart pounded, but he remained deliberately quiet. The thing was out of his hands now. Actually, he couldn't have spoken if he had wanted to.
Nor could Patrick Doyle, it seemed. For what dragged out like a century the man went over the work, his expression completely impassive. Then--abruptly--he went to the door and spoke a few words to the guard on duty. Back again, he continued to pore over the lines and figures.
It seemed like ages. Larry wondered what Doyle was waiting for. Good or bad, he wanted to hear the great man's opinion. Outside, the passengers were already filing off the ship to the buses and taxis. A band was playing on the dock; shouts and songs filled the air. The two of them would have to get moving soon. And still Doyle did not say a word.
Larry could stand it no longer. "Uh... no comment?"
"Not yet. And don't fret about the customs people. They'll be taking care of me separately and I told them to do the same for you. And for our mutual friend."
"Our mutual friend?"
The guard at the door said, "Miss Goode is here, sir."
Tricia came in hesitantly. She was even prettier than Larry remembered. Hair brushed and shining, dress without a wrinkle, legs adorned with smooth nylons, absurdly high heels that did delicious things to the curves of her calves.
"I--I don't understand," she said. "I was ready to disembark when the man came and..."
"It's all right." Doyle placed his hand on the drawings. "I've fixed it with customs, so you won't be in any trouble. But I wanted you to be here for the big presentation."
"Presentation?"
"Certainly." He held up some kind of legal-appearing document. "Here it is. My written agreement to commission Larry to design a house for one Patrick Doyle. Now let's see-- shall I hand it to you both together?"
Tricia froze. Larry reached out and took the paper.
"Congratulations," Doyle said. "And to you too, young lady. Somehow I've got the feeling that this is as important to you as it is to the architect."
Larry's face flamed. It was an embarrassing moment if ever there was one. What was the man trying to do, act like a matchmaker and throw them together?
"It's important." Tricia's expression showed anger, but her voice had a deadly flat quality. "More important than you may ever find out, you--you know-it-all." She whirled around suddenly and raced from the room.
Larry was shocked. But he couldn't bear to see the crestfallen look on Doyle's features. Quickly he gathered up the drawings and when the man made no effort to stop him, he slipped out the door. On the deck and on the dock there was utter chaos. But nowhere did he see Tricia, and he waited at the rail knowing that she would have to appear sooner or later. And then, without any snooping old busybody to interfere, he would take her in his arms and kiss her and they would face the world together. Although he should have done it back there in the cabin right under Doyle's nose. That was the way the great man had evidently intended it.
Presently--and with a jaunty air--Patrick Doyle came by behind a platoon of porters toting his luggage. As he passed, he stuck a card in Larry's breast-pocket.
"My addresses in Europe. Look me up, Larry, and we'll go over the final details."
They shook hands and then Doyle was gone, a debonair figure twirling a malacca cane, a snappy felt hat upon his head. Larry gazed at his disappearing back, a catch in his throat, still dazed by the rapid rush of events. But he just couldn't let the wonderful old guy out of his sight and he moved toward the gangplank and looked down.
Doyle had just about reached the bottom when Larry heard a cry behind him. He spun on his heel. Tricia was running along the deck. Larry grinned happily and held out his arms to catch her.
"Tricia," he said.
"Hello, Larry," the girl gasped. "Good-bye, I mean." She ducked under his outstretched arms and went racing down the gangplank, her hands sliding along the ropes. "Patrick! Patrick!"
The impeccably garbed figure turned.
"Wait for me," Tricia cried. "I'm coming with you."
Doyle's face broke into a broad smile. Tricia fell into his arms and kissed him. Then to Larry's ears came the words, shouted for all the world to hear. "I love you, Patrick Doyle, you pompous genius. I love you!"
Arm in arm, the couple walked into the bustling swirl of passengers and workmen on the dock. Larry stared after them until he could see them no longer.
At his elbow a voice sounded. "Larry?"
He turned and saw Paul Taylor regarding him with a wryly disappointed face. "Oh, hello there, purser. What's up?"
"Uh, I don't suppose you'd be interested in buying a book from me would you? It might help you to understand women better."
"Sounds interesting. What book?"
"This one. It's by the Marquis de Sade."
A dry chuckle popped from Larry's lips. "No, thanks," he said. "I know the author."
That night Tricia and Doyle stayed at a quaint little hotel in Paris, before moving on to Doyle's Villa. The hotel was named La Regency Opera, was right around the corner from the huge opera house, and Tricia was thrilled to death with the French-speaking, madam-type bosomy woman at the front desk, and with the little caged elevator that only could accommodate two people. It took Tricia and Doyle only up to the third floor and they had to climb a flight of stairs to the penthouse apartment.
They had dinner at a tiny, down-off-the sidewalk French restaurant that only had three tables, and after that they played tourist and caught the all-nude show at the Moulin Rouge, followed by pastry-at-midnight at a sidewalk cafe and a furious ride back to the hotel.
The bathroom of the penthouse suite had a see-through glass door and Tricia waved out to Doyle while sitting on the throne. The tub had a sit-in tile seat that fascinated Tricia and she took three baths in the twenty-four hours.
In the huge circular bed that night, Patrick Doyle said to her; "I shall treat you miserably, of course, you know that."
"Yes, I know that."
"Then why choose me?"
"Because you are the first real man I have ever met."
"I agree," Doyle said, and dropped the satin robe from his body.
Doyle was on his knees on the bed, and soon he slid upwards toward her face, turning her head to one side so she could see the profile of his monstrous erection. Then he let the head of his prick lurch and slide against her parted pleading mouth, and he could feel the piercing hot eyes on his member as it touched the lips.
Doyle slipped his sweltering-thick rod in deeper against the slippery heat of her tongue, thrusting his loins fully forward until Tricia's warm and gulping mouth was overflowing with his hot and round flesh.
He felt the soft beginnings of fury and fluid welling up inside of him as she now gave to sucking wildly at the velvet heat in her mouth, received him right down to the hilt, driven by a sensuous quick greed for all of this man's explosive moistures as his cock seared angrily inside her mouth.
Doyle glanced at the suite's mirrored wall for a brief flash of this exquisite tableau. Then he gazed down at his prick slowly sliding in and out of that full mouth, those pouting O-shaped lips, and he could see the euphoric look of contentment in her eyes, watched the hard-nippled breasts as he jammed his brute-cock more swiftly in and out against that oven-like tongue of hers.
Her head was bobbing forward and down onto his thick spear and her teeth now and then chafed against the burning shank of it, which made it grow even more fretful and eager.
"I'm going to drown right down in your throat, girl," he cooed, still looking directly into her eyes.
The bed was wheezing and rattling beneath them.
And with a sigh he sank fully onto her, collapsing like a wounded buffalo, while Tricia moaned and hurled her crotch up to greet and claim the two fingers he offered, never ceasing to try to stuff more of his cock fully inside her busily loving mouth. Tricia parted her lips wider as Doyle crushed his meat down her throat and let it explode in the searing fire that was there.
She held it, and he watched her sweet thirsty swallows as her body wrenched and tossed in its own secret surge that melted and joined the still-lunging fingers, her first ardent drippings racing down his fingers to puddle his palm.
Tricia's mouth didn't stop sucking, draining him, emptying him.
"Ohhh, take this one," Tricia moaned, pointing a finger to a warm heavy breast with its rigid nipple twitching.
In the next instant he was sucking at her, his tongue traveling, mouth and hand probing every crevice and curve.
Then he turned her over on the bed and gripped her shoulders as she shot her round bottom up towards his cock, jutting up on her knees while her upper portions lay prone on the pillow.
Doyle neared the target, prodding thickly at the taut anal lips for a second, and then plunging deliciously, fully up into that throbbing back chamber, and Tricia was biting her lips with the sudden thrill of excruciating pain and joy that flooded and swarmed at her loins.
She squirmed and squealed and jerked her body back for more of it, while Doyle drove it into her with a breath-taking rapidity, both gasping and feverish with the intimate, burning contact, his balls swinging back and forth against her.
Thousands of miles away, in a tiny furnished room on 84th Street in New York, Walter simply masturbated and wondered if he would ever hear from Tricia Goode again.
He wouldn't.