Chapter 5

Inevitably, word of Patrick Doyle's illustrious presence on board the Siwanoy got around. Once begun, it traveled with the speed of a prairie fire. Needless to say, the great man dealt with the unsought notoriety in his usual manner.

A representative of a nationwide chain of newspapers tried to talk him into doing a series of articles on his trip. As they shared coffee on the second day, the newsman became a pest. And Doyle got rid of him summarily. "My dear sir, I'm off to spend money, not grub for it."

A gushy, bosomy writer of slick pieces for women's magazines asked for an exclusive interview concerning his opinion of unisex fashions and related topics. To her he said, "Madam, just about all of my major opinions on any given subject can be found in the two volumes of my autobiography. As for my minor ones"--here he smiled sadly--"I don't have minor opinions."

The bosom of the authoress heaved as she turned pale and beat an unceremonious retreat.

A few of the younger fry--egged on by their cowardly parents--were bold enough to seek his autograph as he was stepping along on his morning constitutional. He was wearing a checkered cap, black silk cravat, gray tweeds-- with knickers--and carrying a walking stick. He stared at the gape-mouthed, gap-toothed little faces and then signed graciously in an outlandish all-but-indecipherable scrawl. Then, in a capricious moment, he switched tactics and made his name in the painful upright letters of first-grade printing. On another he simply made a large X and then wrote underneath the words "His Mark."

The young tourist set, the students and bookkeepers and ribbon clerks, were in awe of him and did little more than mumble a daring "Good morning, Mr. Doyle," as he passed. Then they proceeded to whisper excitedly behind his back. Aware of this, on one occasion he halted dead in his tracks, put on his most fearsome expression and whirled around. Two strides toward the whisperers sent them scampering for cover. Smiling, Doyle went on his way.

Older ladies (by the calendar, of his own generation) were a bit more brave, feeling, after all, he is no different from us and why shouldn't we treat him as a friend? Who knows but what the poor man is just aching for understanding, he certainly looks lonely enough.

Now come on, Gertrude, speak to him, just up and say hello and how does he like the trip; after all, you did see one of his plays and once rode on the same train with him so you must have a lot in common.

And for the hapless Gertrude, the great man obliged by imitating a hunchback with one eye and pinching her bottom. Which, in its own way, achieved a very much desired effect.

All things considered, though, Doyle knew it was developing pretty much as most of his journeys developed. Not any worse, at any rate, nor--apparently--promising to improve. Except in the matter of his human chess-pieces.

Doyle was forced to wonder about the prudency of his selections. That he had a rather hodgepodge collection this time was more than obvious. In many ways it was unpredictable-- which both pleased and bothered him. It was fun to create explosive situations, but when they got out of hand it could bring one of his rare moments of panic. True, the situation had not reached that stage yet, but there was always that possibility. For not all of his characters were really puppets. Including of course, the puppeteer.

Impossible as it seemed, Patrick Doyle was beginning to lose control of himself.

And it disturbed him.

Vicky Martin had reawakened the desire he had known for her when she was just eighteen, when he had plucked her like a fresh peach from a beauty contest he had judged. Even now, all these years later, he could recall the thrill that had jetted through him when he first saw her walk by, her girlish hips swaying in the white satin bathing suit. Since that time her pure shape had not altered, only the dimensions.

Where he had left Vicky as a dewy-eyed bride of Roger Martin, still warm from his bed of the night before, now he found her a woman. A full-grown, calculating, sex-conscious woman, quite aware of her power over men.

The need for possession filled him. Had he made this creature what she was?

On the other hand, there was his unreasoning contemplation of the youngster who had captured his fancy just from the purser's description. Upon actually seeing Tricia Goode he had been only mildly impressed, which was why he had so magnanimously brought her to the attention of Larry Stevens. But on subsequent review he realized she had, for him a definite appeal.

Boyishly slim but certainly feminine. The expressive eyes under the soft, dark hair. And depths of a new suffering, something extremely recent, evidently. That was what attracted him most. So often he had seen in women the signs of suffering, but they were embedded scars, bitter and acid, carried for years until only the telltale scars remained; the cause forgotten.

Not so with Tricia Goode. The ache was still fresh in her. He had looked closely at her wounded-deer eyes and he was convinced. The girl's troubles were of recent vintage. It was only too clear that she needed a shoulder upon which to rest her head. That the shoulder should be his was a notion he found stimulating. Who knew better how to soothe an unhappy maiden?

And consequently he could no longer assume that he was calling all the plays in this game. His dual yearning for both Vicky and Tricia was enormously disconcerting.

Legally, of course, he could not make an open pitch for Vicky Martin. And morally he felt honor-bound to leave Tricia Goode free, now that he had gotten the Stevens lad so interested in her by that impulsive discussion of her measurements.

He liked the young fellow. And impetuous as his gesture had been--about the house design-- he had meant it. He was planning on building in the near future. And an unfledged architect might be just the one to come up with some brand-new ideas.

But now he almost wished that their dinner conversation had been confined to architecture. He didn't care to look upon Larry Stevens as a competitor. After all, to a certain extent he was practically paving the way for the boy. And if he never did anything else with consistency, he did keep his word.

What he hoped for now was that he would be able to continue to keep it...

That morning, Tricia Goode was routed out of bed just after dawn by an exuberant Lee Jergens who intended to greet the day healthily. Clad in blue shorts and a form-fitting wool shirt, she yanked Tricia from the bed by one foot and ordered her into exercise garb. The girl staggered about sleepily, washing her face, finding garments in the suitcase, forgetting to put on makeup. Lee kept after her like a terrier.

Somehow, Tricia made it.

The decks were all but vacant, with only a few hardy souls out to welcome the new day. Tricia shivered and envied the unhealthy ones still in bed waiting for breakfast. Dazedly she started back to the cabin when Lee seized her arm and propelled her aft. They did a turn around the deck briskly and with each step, Tricia felt life seeping back into her. Lee maintained a constant and not unpleasant stream of chatter.

The air was chill and Tricia had to rub her thighs to keep the circulation going. The coldness pierced her thin blouse to tantalize her breasts. She wondered if she was in any condition to be prancing around like this. In fact, if she...

No. There was no sense worrying about that. And she had been awake a full half-hour without giving any thought to Walter. It both appalled and encouraged her. It was frightening in that she was letting herself get used to the idea so quickly. But it was good that she was able to dismiss it and return to at least a semblance of normal living.

It was interesting to watch Lee Jergen's body as it went through its liquid movements without any visible effort. Springing high into the air, arms and legs thrown apart, the browned limbs flashing in the just-risen sun. Dropping to her hands and shooting her legs back alternately. Push-ups, sit-ups--no matter what Lee did she managed to make it look incredibly easy, scarcely breathing hard from the exertion.

But Tricia marveled most at the woman's superb physical condition. True, the legs weren't quite as softly feminine as her own. The calves and thighs were too muscular, but they were well-shaped. And the bosom was remarkably firm.

Finally Lee relented and they headed back to the cabin. Tricia's body tingled with energy, but she was ready nonetheless for another couple of hours in the recumbent position. And shedding the exercise garments hastily, she flopped on the bunk and stretched out with lazy languor.

Lee, hands on hips, stared down at her.

It was a disquieting moment. Tricia tried to pretend that she didn't notice what the woman was staring at. And she regretted having removed her shorts in such a hurry. Only the flimsiest of briefs encased her hips. And from the way Lee was staring, it might as well have been nothing at all. For the first time, the athletic blonde appeared to be out of breath.

Never--even during that terrible hour at the hotel--had Tricia felt so helpless. And a strange kind of helplessness it was. Exciting and awful at once. Not the same as it had been with Walter. This wasn't fear. With Walter she had had a pretty good idea of the mechanics of the act. With Lee she had absolutely no concept of what was going to take place.

Anything could happen.

No, she no longer had any doubts that Lee's interest in her was sexual. But how? Why? When? With what?

She couldn't begin to guess. All she knew was that something was brewing. Something wild. And in her own body--coming to the surface now--was a responsive chord.

Lee sat on the edge of the bed, still looking at her, and quite deliberately reached out and placed her palm on the swell of Tricia's stomach.

Nerves quivered at the instant of contact. Tricia tensed. A kind of hunger was heavy in her, yet it was not a hunger for food or for anything she recognized. It was unfamiliar and she related it vaguely to the night at the hotel. There were no achings or violent yearnings--merely a strange hunger. Lee's strong hand had calmed it for a moment, but it was still there.

In an involuntary motion, Tricia writhed and twisted. The hand followed her. It began to make tiny circles on the layer of bare skin. Like soft caresses.

"Is there anything," Lee murmured in hushed tones, "as lovely as a woman's body?"

It took Tricia a minute to realize that Lee was really talking to herself. Certainly her discourse seemed to be addressed to no one in particular.

"The way it is constructed, every part in harmony with every other part. No sudden changes to ruin the symmetry. Not one thing needed, no one thing extra. See how the legs taper from slim ankles to round thighs and then come together as if fashioned by a master locksmith. And the breasts--two are just enough for balance and there could be no other shape for them but the ones they already have. There could be no improvement."

Tricia lay on her back, letting the words soothe her ears and add to her somnolence. She had to quell a sudden urge to drag Lee down from her height and clasp her close. She felt a need to slide her hand along the length of the nearest thigh.

Slowly, gradually, the straying hand was finding new areas of exploration. Infinite tenderness shoe in Lee's face. Not the burning lust that Walter had displayed. This person--this woman--knew...

Tricia was about to lift her arms in silent invitation. She couldn't bear to wait another moment for what was coming. She had to meet it halfway. "Lee..."

A loud noise froze her. A knock on the door-- and it came again, harsh, demanding, insistent.

"Miss Goode? Are you there?"

The intrusive masculine voice could not be denied. Dizzily, Tricia struggled to a sitting position, astonished at the change that had come over Lee. The woman's features were a mask of hatred and anger.

"Yes?" It was an effort to get the word out.

"Taylor--ship's purser," the voice said. "May I see you? It's about your passport."

"Right now?"

"As soon as possible, if you would. I have to send the information to New York by radio."

"All right. I'll be with you in a minute."

Deliberately avoiding Lee's gaze, she drew on her shorts, straightened her blouse and fiddled with her hair. Her fingers were numb. Inside her tummy was a tumbling cement-mixer and she leaned against the dresser to shake the sensation off. Her lungs were choked with invisible smoke.

Without a word she left Lee sitting on the bed. The blonde's fingers were digging into the coverlet. Tricia regained composure, opened the door and stepped out.

Paul Taylor was in the corridor, examining a sheaf of papers in his hand. He looked up and smiled professionally. "Sorry to disturb you, Miss Goode," he said, "but when we get an order from the company we have to comply."

Taylor's face glowed as if it had just been shaved. White teeth contrasted with his mahogany tan. Under the peak of his cap and in front of his ears the pale blondness of his hair was visible. Tricia had the confusing impression that she was peering at a male version of Lee Jergens.

"Would you like to step down to my place?" he said.

"Of course."

It turned out to be a minor matter. At the pier she had gone through so fast that the agent had miscopied the number on her passport. The error was discovered only after the ship had left. And since the State Department was rather sticky about such details, they had had no choice but to have the purser check the number and radio it back to the mainland.

Somewhat hollowly, Tricia sat next to Taylor's desk. She didn't feel like a woman at all, but like a thing. A number. Her eyes roamed the room as the purser rifled through papers and made notes from her passport. Pictures clipped from magazines decorated the walls--the usual glamor-girl poses, a couple of ships, a seascape, a nautical map of the Atlantic.

Along one wall was a two-shelved bookcase, and she read the titles on display. Some currently popular novels, a mess of brightly colored paperbacks, a volume on navigation, a book of sea stories, something by the Marquis de Sade, a heavy tome on...

The Marquis de Sade!

The name rang loud and clear in her memory. It brought back the nostalgic pang of schooldays and dormitories and the unforgettable thrill that came with the opening of new books. And also the unmistakable recollection of a dark and unfathomable evil. Girls reading after lights-out hours with gasps and giggles and eager whispers. The same girls relating by day what they had read by night, using the word "sadism" with a kind of feverish relish. It had left her feeling sick and ashamed. So graphic were her classmates in their descriptions of the eerie doings that she had even had nightmares about them.

Yet she had never read a word of the forbidden books; her sole knowledge came second-hand, abetted by her lively imagination. But that didn't prevent her from fearing de Sade as she had feared Dracula and Frankenstein's monster.

It seemed, Tricia realized ruefully as she watched Paul Taylor check the papers, that her entire life had just been one Pandora's Box of petty fears.

"How are you fixed for reading material?" he asked, glancing up suddenly.

She wondered, frantically, if he had divined her thoughts. And she murmured something about having packed so economically that there had not been space even for a dime novel.

"Then why not borrow some of mine?"

"Well..."

"I insist. What do you like?"

Her eyes followed as he rose and went to the bookcase. As he moved she could not ignore his almost overwhelming masculinity--his well-muscled torso, his powerful legs.

"I've got some good ones here," he went on. "A decent library comes in mighty handy at sea. Time hangs heavy, especially when the weather is bad."

His hands were running over the titles. But he wasn't looking at them. He was looking directly at her.

Tricia flushed. "That book," she heard herself blurt out. "The one over there. Is it an autobiography?"

"De Sade?" The purser chuckled affably. "Hardly. Haven't you ever read it?"

"No." She spoke in truth and yet she had the odd feeling that she was telling a lie.

He regarded her paternally. "In that case I doubt whether I should be the first to let you see it. It's really not intended for innocent young girls."

"Who's an innocent young girl?" she said bellicosely. "I mean, uh, well, I mean that has nothing to do with reading, does it?"

"Perhaps not. It can't hurt the now-innocents, certainly, and it might just educate the naive ones."

"I'm not naive."

"Who said you were? Relax, Miss Goode. I'm not making any criminal accusations. If you must have this book then I won't stop you. Just don't say I didn't give you warning."

Having achieved a sort of victory, Tricia felt sheepish. "Is it really so naughty?"

Intrigued by the book, she had forgotten to be offended by this-- servant's brashness. And he was a servant, wasn't he? This was his job and he was supposed to show respect for the paying passengers, not condescension.

Then it occurred to her that respect must be earned and not commanded. Obviously she had not earned it.

Taylor grinned. "Naughty is a pretty mild term, not to say inaccurate. But if by using it you mean does the book deal frankly with sex and sadism, then yes, it does. More than mere sensationalism, though, it does have a good deal of meat in it. The Marquis de Sade was a brilliant man and his observations on human behavior are classics. True, the name has come to be synonymous with depravity, but if you can take the wicked parts lightly, you might find the total work very instructive."

When he placed the heavy volume in her hands she came close to dropping it. A peculiar apprehension gripped her. As if she were on the verge of a taboo revelation. There it was again--that word. This had been a week of revelations.

... her first sight of a naked man.

... her first real sexual experience.

... her first contact with another woman's passion.

... her first exposure to a "bad" book.

Any other time just one such revelation would have put her in a state of shock for a month. Yet here were the secrets of life unfolding for her so rapidly that she could hardly keep up with them. Nor did she feel particularly inadequate either. Maybe she had hidden depths of resiliency. Could it be possible that she was not as ineffectual and helpless as she had led herself to believe? She sure felt that way.

And the hell with this impudent purser!

"Of course I'll take it," she said bluntly. "Although I doubt if I'll learn much from it."

They were standing shoulder to shoulder, not quite touching. Acutely aware of the man's vitality, Tricia feigned concentration on the words of the title page. The print blurred. The band of her shorts seemed exceedingly tight. That the fellow was going to kiss her she had absolutely no doubt. The fact was there--all it needed was the fulfilling. The surprising part was that she was making no attempt to avoid it. Not that she could.

The next thing she knew, he had taken hold of her shoulders and turned her to him. Then his face was over hers, his big arms closed inexorably and his mouth came down. Not violently. Not demandingly. Just meeting hers.

He wasn't crushing her, but they were in close contact now and the points of her breasts met his chest. The flame that she expected to rage into life flickered, dimmed--and went out. He released her and they looked at each other.

The man didn't laugh. Nor even smile. He was simply gazing into her eyes calmly. No mockery. No disdain. And there wasn't anything hateful about him.

"You shouldn't have done that," she said at last.

"I know. But I did, didn't I?"

"Yes, you did."

They stood in silence. With her increased rate of breathing, her breasts rose and fell, brushing against his jacket. An abrupt desire roared through her, a desire to fling herself against him, to have his arms tighten around her, to feel the rocklike hardness of his body. But she didn't move.

Taylor stepped back. "The book," he said. "You can take it if you really want it."

"Do you think I should?"

"In all honesty--no."

"Why not?"

"You're not ready for it."

"All right," she said. "Then I won't take it." She tossed the volume upon his desk.

"Uh, you'd better get back topside before your roommate sends out an alarm."

"Yes, I suppose I'd better."

He kissed her again, harder this time, pulling her to him. Her breasts mashed against his frame. His hands were weighty on the small of her back. His legs were pillars touching her thighs.

When he let go and drew away, she felt that for the first time in her life she had really been kissed. Not as a child or as a blushing virgin. But as a woman.

He opened the door and she stepped out into the corridor. As she went up the stairs to the next deck it dawned on her that another revelation had forced its way into her existence.

And this was one she liked.

"What time did you get in last night, darling?"

At the words, Roger Martin lifted his eyes from his coffee cup and looked over the twenty-four inches that separated his bed from his wife's.

"Who, me?" he asked, stalling.

Vicky seemed to be on the verge of making some sarcastic remark. But she must have changed her mind. When she spoke, her tone was without rancor.

"I waited," she said. "You were going to bring the drinks, but you never showed up. So after a while I went down to the gameroom figuring I might see you there. But no Roger. By then I was so exhausted I came back here and went to bed. I never did hear you come in."

Roger waited for the flood of anger that always filled him when Vicky questioned him in this cat-and-mouse manner. But the flood wouldn't come. And he realized that it wouldn't, either. Not this morning.

He spread a gob of butter on his toast. "It was just one of those things," he said. "Ran into a guy I know and we got to drinking and swapping lies. Naturally, I feel bad about standing you up, honey, but maybe it was a good thing--the way I was getting, I mean. That black mood was chasing me."

"Perhaps so." Vicky smiled sympathetically. "I didn't mean to accuse you, dear. I was just curious." She reached over and patted his hand. "You are my husband, aren't you?"

"Who says not?" A laugh almost welled up and burst out. He choked it down. "But it wasn't very nice to leave you waiting on deck like that."

"As long as you enjoyed yourself..."

"Well, I guess I did."

"Grand. I'm glad."

"You look lovely, Vicky. You really do."

She did. Her face was alive with a secret animation, the very picture of someone who has slept well. The pink peaks of her breasts were visible under the diaphanous folds of her negligee. Round and fresh. When she raised her arms to stretch, Roger had the impression of a nymph rising from the water. White arms curved fetchingly. Hair tumbled, happily tousled.

"It's the salty sea air," she said.

"Whatever it is, you should have more of it."

"Maybe I will," she replied. "You too."

Roger's heart skipped a beat. "That all depends. I did drink a little too much last night, but oddly enough I don't have a big hangover."

"That's funny. Not disappointed, are you?"

"Hell, no. Maybe I should try it again."

"I would if I were you."

Vicky sipped the last of her coffee and dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. On most days she looked soft and alluring but rarely this much. She moved toward the bathroom, the robe rustling behind her. At the door she let the filmy thing slip down, hesitating and glancing back over her shoulder.

He caught his breath. She looked more perfect than he had ever seen her. The tantalizing lines and curves, the incredible beauty of the divisions of her hips, the slender width of her waist. He stared at her, drinking the entire vision in like a thirsty desert wanderer.

This was fantastic, he knew. Only hours ago he had left the bed of another woman, following as complete a bout of lovemaking as he could recall. From this cabin he had escorted Sabrina Moore back to her own--with every intention of parting at her door. But he had wound up inside on her bed.

So now he should have been somewhat purged of desire for Vicky, but it was there as usual and as strong as ever. Stronger? Curious, but it might just be.

He stood up. She was still watching him over her creamy shoulder, an odd expression on her face. One breast peeked prettily through the crook of her arm.

The shower, he thought with a wild brilliance. The shower. Why not? She must be waiting for me.

When he got to the door she turned and preceded him, stepping into the stall but leaving the curtain open. Her hands went up to adjust the nozzle before twisting the taps, and she looked like an alabaster satin statuette.

He took off his pajamas. "Room for two?" he asked, striving to keep his voice from quavering.

"There might be." She drew the curtain.

The gesture slowed him down. He didn't know whether to take it as an acceptance or a rejection. Putting off the decision, he went to the basin to shave. If she really wanted him in there, well, it wouldn't hurt if she had to wait a bit.

"Wonder if we'll see Doyle today," he said conversationally. It was safer to talk about anything rather than last night. "I imagine he's being his usual self--telling the captain how to run the damn boat. What a pain in the ass he is. Honestly, Vicky, how did you ever stomach him?"

From the stall came the splash of water.

"Not that I'm really worried," Roger went on. "Last night I was a little upset, I guess. But he's too smart to come sniffing around when I'm here."

Roger spread lather over his face. "What the hell, I'll even go so far as to have a drink with him. After all, there's no reason why we have to hide," he said assuringly.

The shower kept gushing.

"He does seem to think he's got some sort of claim on you, Vicky. So he'd better find out that it's all in his mind. You're my wife." Roger's tone was possessive. "And it's high time he realized that fact. Let's see now--when was the last time you saw him? Hmm, must have been five years ago. But for a bastard like Doyle, it's still too recent."

Roger grinned at himself in the mirror, his face like that of a white-bearded, virile giant. He curled his lip and beetled his brows, coming to the conclusion that he looked mighty powerful that way. As well he should. Poor Sabrina. It might be days before she would be the same again. He smiled a cynical smile, enjoying the mirrored reflection.

Carefully he began scraping the lather off with his safety razor, waggling his jaws and pulling his lips back from his teeth. Steam was fogging the glass. He could no longer see the shower behind his back.

The sound of the water changed, somehow. It seemed to hesitate and then rush in a solid downpour once again.

"Hey, there's a thought for Patrick Doyle." Roger chuckled at his witticism. "You know, I think he's still inclined, but don't let him kid you. It's all in his mind."

His laughter erupted and he had to grab the metal handle to keep from falling. "All in his mind," he repeated, doubling up over the basin and dropping his razor. "How about that, honey?" he managed to gasp.

Not a word came from the stall. The water kept cascading down and it was unaccountably loud.

"Vicky?" He cocked his head. "Vicky?"

The realization was like a blow from a hammer. He went to the shower and pulled the curtain aside. All he saw was the falling torrent of water.

Quickly he moved to the door that led to the cabin. The place was empty. Vicky was gone. She had slipped out behind him, dressed hurriedly and disappeared.

And he knew why, of course. He had to bring up the name of that Doyle character. And he should have known better. What a brainwave that was. Brilliant. Oh sure. Martin, you stupid idiot, when will you learn to keep your trap shut?

Picturing how it could have been if he had not been so stupid, he weighed for a moment the idea of standing over the bowl and masturbating, picturing the shower scene as it should have been played.

The shower water running in both their mouths; tightening his hold on her buttocks and driving himself into Vicky, his mouth comes down on hers under the needle spray of the shower, her eager tongue pushes between his lips; shuddering with the feel of her filmy-drenched skin, the water swirls around their slow-moving bodies, caressing him, exciting him; he begins to drive and thrust, pulling and pinching her flesh, his face wet with sweat and water, bearing tight to her body, grunting and groaning, pouring himself into that deliciously warm cunt of hers, her eyes look up into his, flashing wildly with the feel of his prick stuffed deep inside her gulping belly, their wet bodies mold into one heaving mass, she digs her fingers into his back and pushes her twisting, water-rivuleted hips against his groin, working it furiously into that woman-drenched, water-drenched sweetly grasping pussy of hers, wet-fucking her until she's helplessly tweak with orgasms, coming again and again on his still-hard cock until... until...

"Shit," Roger said aloud to himself in the lonely cabin bathroom. "Now that sonofabitch Doyle has got me dreaming about fucking my own wife!"

He didn't masturbate.

He didn't do anything. He just stood there looking at himself in the mirror and, going up on his toes, he could see the bright erection that had raised itself, the passion in it still unspent, and a sad look came over Roger's face.

Somewhere in the pit of his stomach the turmoil of nausea that combines guilt and need gripped him with strong fingers and he murmured, "Jesus!"