Chapter 12

"I heard you were going to leave us," Joanne Murray said.

"That's what they tell me," I said.

I was in my room, ostensibly packing. Actually, there wasn't much to pack, just a few things I could throw together in a few minutes. Joanne sneaked in to talk to me, and we closed the door so no one could see here there. Even if Charlotte Rice discovered us together, it would make little difference as far as my job was concerned. And I wanted Joanne there, so I could complete the job I'd started out to do.

One of the girls was supposed to have a diamond-shaped birthmark in a place not normally seen by the world. So far I'd eliminated five out of the seven, and only two remained to investigate. Logically, it didn't matter which of the two I chose, but accessibility was a factor. Mary Ellen Cuthbert, while a sweet girl, was not overly friendly. Joanne Murray, while a sweet girl, was overly friendly, and if my plans worked out she would soon get even more overly friendly.

"I'm going to miss you, Chris," she said. "Maybe the new man can play ping pong, too," I suggested.

She pouted. "That's not what I mean, and you know it."

I laughed. "I know. Come over here beside me," I said, patting the bed. "I want to talk to you."

She was wearing her short-shorts that appeared to be glued on, but I noticed there was a button and a zipper on the side, and a pair of snug panties underneath. She sat down beside me and crossed her slim youthful legs. Her midriff was bare, and she was wearing only the brief halter tied in back that had failed her during a crucial moment in a ping pong game. The halter was not doing the job now, but it was trying. The odds against it, however, were tremendous, and the cloth had slipped down almost to the tips of her creamy woman's flesh with the deep valley separting them. I recalled pleasantly how she had looked naked to the waist.

She inhaled deeply and gave her blonde head a toss. "Did I tell you that my agent said I might become another Marilyn Monroe?"

"I believe you mentioned it," I said, edging closer to her on the bed. " But I think you make a first-rate Joanne Murray."

"That's what I like most about you, Chris," she confided. "You think of me as a person, not merely as a sex symbol."

"You are a person, Joanne," I said. I gently touched her arm with my fingers, moved the fingers along the arm, barely touching it. "You're a distinct, individual human being, and you should act like yourself."

"Of course, there's nothing wrong with looking like Marilyn Monroe," she said.

"Not a thing in the world," I agreed.

She turned to face me, and I put out my other hand and took her shoulder in that and pulled her toward me. She smiled and didn't resist. My arms went around in back of her, my fingers touching the knot holding her halter in place, and she put her arms around my waist and turned her face expectantly upward, closing the eyes, parting the lips slightly. In that instant, my probing fingers destroyed the knot, and the halter fell between us.

"Chris," she said, and her eyes opened in surprise.

I didn't answer. I kissed her on the cheek and on the corner of the mouth and then full on the mouth, and she closed her eyes again. Our tongues worked into each others' mouths, and I ran my hands along her smooth naked back. She moaned without leaving my mouth and twisted her body slightly to allow my hands greater freedom.

She clung to me, her lips working fervently, her breath coming in short irregular gasps. The kiss seemed to be becoming more than a kiss to her; it was practically an entire act of love, a consummation all in itself.

My hand slid down along the slope of her side to the edge of the shorts, to the button and the zipper. She stiffened perceptibly, and took my hand in hers and returned it to its former position.

"You know," she said, "I thought you'd never make a pass at me. I was beginning to feel insulated."

She began nibbling at my ear and rubbing herself against me. My hand slipped from its resting place again and glided slowly downward, across her stomach this time, to the brief shorts. Her skin felt cold suddenly, as her hand went down to mine. Before it could touch me, I had flicked open the buttons and was tugging at the zipper.

"No, Chris, please," she said. "I don't want to."

That one stopped me cold. "You don't want to? What about all these preliminaries? The kissing, the bare bosom bit? What do you think all this is leading up to, a game of ping pong?"

"Don't be angry with me, Chris," she begged.

"Angry, who's angry? You just lead me on, get me all hot and bothered, and then you expect to nonchalantly slam the gate and expect me to just forget it!"

She hesitated. "You won't believe this," she said finally, "but-but, well, I'm a virgin. I'm twenty-two years old and a virgin."

"Don't you think it's about time for a change, then?" I suggested.

"I-I guess I've got what you might call a psychological block. I'm supposed to be a sexpot, someone who knows and has experienced everything about sex. And I try to act the part-at least above the navel. But I've never been able to go all the way. Never. I wanted to with you, honest I did, but when you started touching me I almost screamed. It was terrible." She looked away. "You probably hate me."

"No, I don't hate you, Joanne. I think I'm just beginning to understand you."

I reached for her, but she pulled away and stood up.

She snatched up the halter, hastily tied it in place. I didn't stop her.

"I-I'd better go," she said. "I'm sorry."

She turned, opened the door, and fled down the corridor. I didn't go after her. I was too busy wondering if she really did have a psychological block that made her keep her panties on-or was it that she had a birthmark she didn't want me to see?