Chapter 12

STEVE pulled up a chair and sat across the break-fast table from Adele and the old familiar smile—her favorite one—was there on her face. Somehow, he thought it didn't match the severe two-piece gray suit she wore. Neither did the smile seem to go with the way her hair was rigidly done up in a tight bun.

"I thought we'd better have breakfast here in the dining room," she started. "It's getting a bit chilly out on the terrace."

"Why did you let me fall asleep out there?" he asked, amidst a spasm of coughing.

"Steve, darling," she gasped. "you've caught a cold!"

"You should've called me," he coughed again. "That under the open sky and moon bit is for June—not October!"

"Oh, but it was wonderful," she sighed ecstatically. "It made me feel like a young girl again."

"I'll let you know how wonderful it was when I catch pneumonia," he sarcasmed.

"I'm sorry, Steve, but you were sleeping so peacefully when I went to my bed—so I just covered you with a blanket." She shrugged, grinning devilishly. "How was I to know you'd kick off the blanket and treat my early-rising neighbors to a free show."

"Very funny," he managed, between a spurt of bronchial coughs. He sipped his orange juice and then yawned. "And what the hell time is it?"

"It's only eight o'clock," Adele replied, holding a wafer of rye toast. "I have to dash—an early appointment with my stockbroker and attorneys on all Street. But you take your time, Steve. We might possibly have lunch together."

"I have work to do—remember?"

"Yes," Adele beamed. "But I'm just dying to know how you made out with that bitch, Mildred, last night."

Steve shrugged inwardly, confirming his knowledge that the morning after—a female is always a female. "Sexually or business-wise?" Steve cracked.

"Steve, darling," she started, after a sip of coffee. "The way you charged into my arms last night answers the love-making end of it with Mildred. I'll assume you didn't press that phase of it too hard with her. Now tell me, what sort of dirty work did Sheldon set her up to?"

Steve hesitated, gulped black coffee while studying his scrambled eggs and sausages. Putting the pieces together, he was certain Mildred was operating on her own—ready to cut Sheldon's throat. He looked across the table at Adele; she'd never believe it. Women who are so damned shrewd with men never really understand their own kind. "Mildred feels that I deserve at least five thousand shares of the new stock issue," Steve pointedly informed Adele to bring the matter to a head.

"And you do, Steve, you most certainly do."

"Then I use my votes and those of any other stock-holders I can persuade to stab you in the back," Steve nonchalantly went on.

"Really?" Adele deadpanned with raised eyebrows. "Did she say what Sheldon will offer you?"

"I didn't wait around that long," Steve replied, eyes averted.

"That was foolish of you, Steve. It wouldn't hurt to know what Sheldon is up to."

Steve paused, sideglanced Adele. "Are you suggesting anything?"

Adele shrugged, eased into it. "You're not such a bad-looking guy, Steve . . ."

"Thanks," he deadpanned.

"You're single and if you were to give Mildred some sort of hope . . ." Adele let it hang.

"My eggs are getting cold," Steve informed her. "Give it to me in one dirty chunk."

"All right, Steve. Mildred might be losing all hope of Sheldon ever divorcing his wife to marry her. That bitch is looking for a husband with some sort of position so that she can play at being a damned lady. She has a six-year-old son she'd like to give a name to."

"A son?" Steve asked incredulously.

"That's not all," Adele dramatized. "An aged mother and a house out on Long Island to support." Adele calmed herself, took a sip of coffee. "Oh, that one is looking for a husband all right—a bit late."

Steve recalled Mildred's seemingly selfish plea to consolidate forces to gain financial independence. He felt something warm now toward Mildred, since she had kept her family obligations to herself.

"So why aren't you eating your breakfast now?" Adele asked pointedly, cutting into his thoughts.

Steve jabbed his fork into the eggs. "I'll have to think about it."

"I wouldn't overdo the thinking, Steve—too much thinking can be a dangerous thing."

"Look, I've got a mind of my own. Steve started angrily, but stopped short as Josie popped into sight from the kitchen.

"Miss Adele?" Josie started timidly. "Will Mister 'Crandon be having his breakfast now?"

"You might wake him and see," Adele calmly re-plied.

Josie shuffled away from the table and Steve's eyes went suddenly to the third table setting—the setting he had given no special thought to before Josie's appearance. "Your husband?" Steve said in-credulously. "He's back from Australia?"

"Tommy's still asleep—the poor dear." Adele moaned. "He's so tired from the flight." She beamed suddenly. "He won another cup!"

"Jolly-Roger-dandy!" Steve sarcasmed angrily, pushing his chair back and rising to his feet. "Was he here while we were out on the terrace last night?"

"Well the poor dear was so exhausted that he went straight to bed—"

"Just great!" Steve shrilled. "And you didn't even bother to tell me!"

"Steve, stop raving like a maniac. You certainly knew I had a husband. I said he was down in Australia—not up on the moon."

"And he's snug in your bed while I'm out on the terrace freezing my behind off!" he roared.

"He has his own bedroom," Adele was quick to explain. "We have what you might call—an understanding. At this point it's a marriage in name only. Oh, it was Tommy's idea. For months now, before he went to Australia, he's been mysteriously engrossed with some female-bitch. I just can't seem to find out who she is. He keeps hiding her from me." Adele calmly pushed her chair back. "I have to dash now, Steve. Why don't you wait a while, finish your break-fast and meet Tommy."

"Well, la-de-da! Wouldn't that be cozy?" Steve fumed. "What would I talk about with your dear Tommy? The dangers of catching double-pneumonia while camping out in the nude on drafty penthouse terraces?" Steve raced in a straight line to the door, his necktie hanging out of the pocket of his jacket. His coat was somewhere about the place, but he was in no mood to find out exactly where.

"Stevie?" Adele cried out, "where you going? You need a shave."

With the door open, he suppressed his coughing and shouted back at her. "I'm relinquishing all my morning rights to the bathroom to Tommy!"

He slammed the door behind him, and in his angered state of mind, remembered little of the cab ride back to his apartment, of climbing the three flights of stairs, or unlocking his door. With great gusto he slammed the door marked 3-C closed behind him.

A quick shower, shave, change of clothing and a dash to the office. In his present frame of mind he was not only ready for the backstabbing game—but some crude, bloody hatcheting as well.

He cocked his head at the smell of coffee perking. He wheeled instantly toward the kitchenette area. He wheeled about again to take in his opened daybed =and the sheets folded back in disarray. He leaned for-ward to the unmistakable noise of running shower water coming through the opened bathroom door.

"Steve?" the female voice trailed from the shower. "Is that you?"

"Yeah," he replied hoarsely, recognizing Mildred Whitney's velvety tone. It was his apartment, he assured himself as he stepped closer to the opened bathroom door. "Yeah, it's me, all right."

"I must've fallen asleep after you left, Steve."

"That's too bad," he replied dumbly.

"That's what I told myself this morning," she shouted over the steady patter of the cascading water, then stressed, "when I woke up all alone."

"Sorry to have disappointed you," he replied.

"It's understandable," she called out. "Business first!"

Annoyed, Steve stepped closer to the opened door. He stopped short, swallowed hard at the sight of the delightful silhouette through the transparent shower curtain. He saw Mildred at a side angle: the long flow of her legs willowy, her hips snakelike and slim, the slope of her buttocks well-defined. Through the transparent curtain he watched her soap herself hurriedly but thoroughly; her face directed into the force of the shower, the water pelting the firm juts of her bosom and cascading down the cleavage.

She destroyed the delightful water-nymphet image for him by turning suddenly, jamming her head only through the tightly clenched curtains. "Did you say something, Steve?"

"Nothing," he replied, starting in again with his cough.

"Steve, are you catching cold?"

"I did already."

"Now how did you do that?" she asked, blinking soap out of her eyes.

"I'm a boy scout," he quipped. "Overnight camping expedition."

"I'll bet," she sarcasmed; then she gestured with a flip of her chin at the large bath towel on the rack. "Be a darling and hand me that towel."

Steve hesitated, mentally measuring the steps from the shower to the towel rack. He smiled widely. "You don't look crippled; why don't you get it?"

"Steve, is that any way to treat a guest?"

Steve gave in, handed her the enormous towel. He even surprised himself by nobly turning the other way as she reached for it. He stepped briskly through the open bathroom door, away from temptation. He waited impatiently as the sound of running water ceased and in its place came her groans and ecstaticshudderings as she dried herself. He stepped aside slightly as she emerged with the towel draped securely about her, revealing only the lower portion of her thighs at one level and the tanned crest of her bosom and shoulders at the other level.

Steve smiled. "That towel of mine never had it so good."

She wet her lips, then flicked them as though brewing a worthy retort, when the coffee pot started boiling over and she dashed to it, quickly lowering the flame to allow the coffee to brew.

"This looks real husband'n-wifey," Steve quipped.

She turned, placed her hands on the side of her toweled-hips. "If it really were—you damned sure wouldn't have been out all night in some other female's bed!"

"I'll bet you'd be a tyrant?"

She smiled lewdly. "I'll bet you'd have no reason to find other women!"

Steve shook his head violently. "Mildred, I'm trying like hell to add you up—"

"The way you were looking at me—I thought you'd rather subtract this towel."

"You made your little speech last night," Steve gestured hopelessly. "So I cancelled out everything but business between the two of us." He hesitated. "But you're still here."

"It's a long story," she shrugged, "and my boss expects me into work by nine."

"You're already late," Steve replied, not bothering to check the time. He gazed on the even flow of her and swallowed hard, feeling his legs go rubbery. "So why not be good'n late?"

Mildred gathered the sheer hose at the foot of the daybed and seated herself. "Sheldon would like that."

Steve pulled himself together and measured his steps to her. He stared down at the flaming tresses, gently lowered his hands and ran them through the lustrous thickness, the electricity instantly tingling his fingertips. "I like your hair," he said softly. "You'll never know how I used to admire you at those damned sales meetings." He cupped her face up to him. "Always from a distance."

She took his hands warmly in hers, brought them to her lips. "There's no distance between us now, Steve."

He knelt down before her. "And tell me, Mildred," he said, "when I was sitting out there as one of the salesmen—if I'd have asked you? Would you have come here?"

She hesitated devilishly, kissing his fingertips as her knees lodged into his midsection. "Steve, you never asked me."

Steve was forced to smile. "You know, you've got me there."

She nodded. "But now you've got me," she whimpered suggestively.

Steve's hand tightened on the rim of the towel protecting her nudity, his eyes fixed on her face. A face so soft of lip and feature and yet stamped with an indelible invitation to depravity. Steve's gaze remained on her, unable to grasp the mystery. What was it with her?

Strictly for business? For sheer kicks?

Or maybe, just maybe, she, too, was desperately seeking something.

Oh, the hell, he thought, one fling. One wild fling! And he tore the towel away from the throbbing con-tour of her. Steve raised himself, his lips working feverishly about her neck, about the lobe of her ear until her claw-like nails dug deeply into his back.

With one sweeping scoop he cradled her, his hands mauling at the high cushion of her buttocks as her body throbbed against him.

She clawed suddenly at his clothing. He dizzily managed it to his feet. The fire within still raging, he peeled. off his clothing. And when he returned to her, she sought him with desperation, weaving the flow of her nudity to his body, her teeth marking the soft flesh of his neck. She lifted her parted lips to Steve's, and her kisses were the warmest he had ever experienced. The way she twisted and squirmed, Steve thought, she was either a nymphomaniac—or Sheldon wasn't capable of satisfying her.

When she took his underlip between her teeth and bit hard, a torrent of anger and passion rose inside him. He hurled the full weight of his body against her, mashing her taut belly, slowing the erotic pistoning of her hips.

Steve raised himself slightly over her now submissive, waiting body. He hesitated, viewing his prey. The moan deep in her throat was a pitiful, begging sound to Steve and he blanketed her with his body.

He was aware only of the sharp nails digging into his back, begging for prompt fulfillment. Steve recalled all those miserable Monday morning sales meetings with the unobtainable Mildred perched seductively on her throne—each and every Monday morning he had been forced to sit there, lusting hopelessly, eating his heart out—and it goaded him on, giving him strength to sadistically seek a new peak of pleasure. And Steve Turko didn't give a damn how long it would take to find that high point. Even if it took all day.