Chapter 8
Roger Martin didn't know what to do with himself. During the day his wife had been tolerantly cordial to him, neither angry nor pleased. It was her greatest weapon, this ability to politely ignore him. There was no effective means of combating it. He could not start a fight with her because she simply would not fight. He could not try to divert her with an off-color story; she would merely smile vaguely and make him feel asinine.
Perhaps a drink would loosen him up. He had two or three and it helped him feel better. But Vicky was as remote and unapproachable as ever.
There was a serious breach between them, he was aware, but he didn't quite know what had caused it. His comments about Patrick Doyle? He had spoken disparagingly of the man previously and she hadn't seemed to mind. Was it because she had in some way learned about Sabrina? The thought stupefied him. What if she had come into the cabin and seen them?
That would explain everything. Perhaps he might hint at it to her and find out. But what good would it do? Do you just laugh it off and say it was a tragic mistake? Hmmm. That session with Sabrina had scarcely been tragic. The only sad part was that it had not lasted longer. Nights longer.
Ensconced at a table in the lounge, Roger felt happily miserable. Again he had failed to assert his husbandly authority. Could it be that Vicky was determined not to meet him halfway? So it would seem. No matter what he did, it turned into mud. All his money couldn't change his luck for the better. Maybe he was fated to go through life with the world against him.
All around him people were joking and laughing, having the good time they were paying for. The women were especially attractive away from their everyday chores. The men were calm and assured, safe in their wives' love. Dammit, why couldn't he be one of them?
He stiffened when he saw Patrick Doyle appear in the doorway. Here was a goddamn golden opportunity to let off some steam. As soon as that bastard came into the lounge he would just walk over and slug him. Pow--right in the kisser.
Behind Doyle was a girl, a very pretty girl that Roger had seen earlier. Just like Doyle to have something as delectable as that on the string. Roger was all the more determined to make a scene. It would ruin the old know-it-all in the girl's eyes.
He was half out of his chair when Doyle and the girl turned and disappeared. Roger hesitated, wondering if he should follow his hated nemesis and have it out with him on the deck. He took a tentative step, felt the roll of the floor, swayed and sat down again. Damn ship wasn't safe. A fellow couldn't move without endangering his life. He'd have to talk to the captain about it in the morning. And he'd see Doyle, too, tomorrow.
Where in hell was Sabrina Moore?
He called for a double shot of whiskey and gulped it down angrily. Who did that babe think she was--giving him the brush. She knew he would be here at the bar. Why didn't she show up?
Bravely he rose and went out. The windswept decks were deserted as he hunted for Sabrina's cabin. Dimly he recalled having been there in the corridor a hundred years ago, but now all the doors looked alike. But there was a solution for that, and he located the wall-roster that listed the passengers and their staterooms. Running his finger down the list, he came to her name and number.
Hah! Thought she could fool him, did she?
A pair of matrons stood aside to let him pass and he glowered at them. At Sabrina's door he paused. A crafty grin spread over his face. He could knock and say it was a telegram. Western Union. Hmmm. Did they have Western Union on boats? Then how about saying it was the florist delivering flowers? Of course he could always say it was Roger Martin.
But he dismissed that idea as utterly absurd and pressed his ear to the panel. Silence. Wasn't she in? Maybe he could steal a peep through the porthole and make sure.
Gingerly he opened the door to the deck and went out. It was so dark that he stumbled over a chair. But he found the right place, and after looking around to see if there were any snoopers, he sidled up to the porthole and peered in.
Sabrina was there.
She was standing at the washbasin soaping a handful of lingerie. She wore only bra and panties. The back strap bit gently into her flesh. When she bent forward he could see the rounded solidity of one of those gorgeous breasts. Even covered, it was disturbing to him. Avidly he let his gaze roam over the curves that had lifted him to undreamed of glories.
And so engrossed was he in the bewitching sight that he forgot what he had come for.
Oh, yes.
He was supposed to go in.
Reluctantly he stopped peeking and went back into the corridor. With no hesitation this time he put his hand on the doorknob and twisted it. It gave quickly. The ship lurched and Roger tumbled over the steel sill and fell.
The knob snatched itself from his grip. A feminine scream cut into his ears. When he finally got oriented he was lying on his back and looking up at the startled figure of Sabrina Moore.
She was high and far away. But from this angle he could still see how enchanting she was. Her legs were incredibly long, with thighs that were huge. Then the swatch of cloth at her loins, tight and revealing, almost transparent. Above that, the jutting cliffs of her breasts and then the frozen anger of her face, topped by the swirl of coppery hair.
"Darling..." Roger grinned. "How nice of you to ask me in." One of his hands reached up to slide along a naked leg. How soft and silky it was!
"Get out," he heard a husky voice say. "Get the hell out of my room, you drunken sot."
"Now, now, sweetie, calm down, huh? I just wanted to pay a nice friendly visit."
Somehow he managed to get to his knees, then up on one foot, then both--supported by the wall. Sabrina kept swaying this way and that, so he threw out his arms to hold her still. Clutching her to him, he could feel the soft warmth of her flesh. His hand moved to paw a tempting mound.
Sabrina cocked an arm and loosed a slap. Roger staggered back, hurt more by her unreasonable attitude than by the blow. He looked at her, somewhat aggrieved.
"Honey, what was that for? Why should you hit me? I didn't do anything to you, did I?"
"No. And you're not going to, Roger. I don't mind seeing you but not in this condition. If you really wanted to visit me, you could have at least had the courtesy to stay sober."
"Who says I'm not sober?"
"Good night," she snapped, pushing him toward the door.
"But I just got here."
"It's already been too long. And next time, knock."
Roger stepped back to regard her objectively. Without makeup, her face seemed a bit pale. But she was not any the less alluring for it. She even seemed not quite so formidable this way. Not like an unapproachable glamor queen. More human. And angry she was actually lovelier. Like Vicky. When she got angry, he always got aroused, somehow.
But right now there was nothing he wanted more than to get that bra off this woman's body. He lunged and grabbed for the shoulder straps. Sabrina Moore dodged him and then ducked away, spinning around, and this time his fingers hooked into the band of her panties. For an instant she stood still. Then she moved; there was a sharp snap as the elastic broke. The small bit of gauzy fabric sighed away from her hips.
Roger smiled. The victory was as good as won. Now that she was half naked she would be unable to resist him. All he had to do was touch her and that would do it.
A balled fist caught him just below the eye. Another squashed his left ear. Then fingernails were clawing at him. An endless series of enraged cries filled the room. So did Sabrina. There were at least four of her coming at him from every direction.
He retreated, covering his face with his hands. The bombardment continued even when he got to the door. His last sight of the beautiful hellcat came as she kicked out at him, missing and thus causing her near-nude flesh to quiver violently.
And never had he heard such language.
The door slammed with an echoing bang. Roger stood there a long moment, dumbfounded and profoundly shocked. Such fury! He hadn't suspected that the woman was crazy, but this certainly proved it. Absolutely insane. Treating him like a drunken slob. And after everything he had done for her. Talk about ingratitude.
The deck was emptier and darker now, but the silence was welcome after that outburst. He leaned on the rail, dug out a handkerchief and dabbed at the streaks on his face.
This, then, was the final proof. He--Roger Martin--no matter how hard he tried to be kind and thoughtful and generous, was being ganged up on. There was a conspiracy against him.
Uh, huh. A conspiracy. They were all in on it. Sabrina must have squealed to Vicky. That would explain his wife's attitude. And Doyle's too. Oh yes, he had seen that bastard's derisive look in the doorway of the lounge earlier. Then there was the bartender, hiding his smug laugh. Uh-huh. The whole damn bunch of them. All out to make Roger Martin feel foolish.
Well, they had succeeded, damn them, they had succeeded beyond their wildest dreams.
Below him the froth from the ship was white and gleaming in the dark water. It seemed so close and inviting. Hypnotically it held his eyes until all that existed was the sea that rose and fell monotonously. The waves beckoned, frightening friendly, gay, charming. The hiss sounded in his ears.
Under his hands the rail was hard and cold. Behind him he could hear the faintly raucous noise from the lounge. The fools. Wasting their time in that place, drinking up their money, pretending to have a good time. Didn't they know that this was much better? Out here there was peace and contentment.
A sudden desire to feel what it was like in that black ocean came upon him. Think of bobbing up and down like a cork and then watching the lights of the ship recede in the night. Then they would miss him. Then they would know that he had won, after all. Uh-huh. Outwitted the whole bloody bunch of them.
And even if the ship turned around and came back to look for him with searchlights raking the waves, he wouldn't signal or anything. The last laugh would be his. Yet he would let Vicky appreciate him then. Let her realize she had done this, had put him beyond where she could hurt him.
Yes, he would do it.
With one foot on the rail, he paused. The chill wind smacked his face and insinuated itself into his shirt. It was cold, all right. It really was. And it would sure be a damn sight colder in the water. What he needed was a belt of booze to keep him warm. It wouldn't be so good to freeze to death before he had the chance to laugh at them all. A stiff drink, yes.
He made his way back to the lounge. It was pretty well cleared out by now, but there were a few diehards. Roger passed them, smiling secretly as he went to his favorite table. Just one drink and then he would go. This was his moment. They would remember this tomorrow when they talked in hushed tones of the man who had had the courage to face the ocean alone. How he had come in, ordered one whiskey and stared thoughtfully into space, a jaw muscle rippling slowly. They would recall his smile.
The shot went down so easily and tasted so good that he called for another. The waiter did not notice that Death was at the table, too. Roger felt a great warmth for the man, his last contact with the living before facing the end. Perhaps he would let the fellow in on his secret. Order another drink to get him back.
He ordered two but did not speak to the waiter about his plans. The time would come. Right now he had to get warm enough to brave the cold sea. He could say something to the fellow on the way out. Maybe hesitate at the door, hand him a fifty-dollar bill, thank him politely, smile sardonically, toss him a casual salute, perhaps, and then step out into the night. Into eternity.
Steely-eyed, he gazed around the lounge. No, they would never forget this night. As long as the Siwanoy plowed back and forth across the Atlantic they would never forget the man who had beaten them at their own game. Never... never... never...
After his sixth straight shot, Roger Martin tried to get to his feet. The vessel rolled; he groped for the chair he had left, missed it and then crumpled into a ball on the floor. Vaguely he wondered how it had happened. Had one of his conspiring enemies cut him down with a machine-gun?
Presently the waiter and the bartender exchanged bored glances and walked over to the unconscious heap that was now snoring open-mouthed up at them. Together they lifted him, sharing the burden between them, and lugged him, feet dragging, down to his stateroom, pushed open the door and deposited their load on the nearest bed. Then--still bored--they went back to the lounge and closed up for the night.