Chapter 10

Much time elapsed before I discovered that my cheek was pressed tightly against her moist soft one, and it stayed that way because I couldn't move away. Finally I began to realize that she was completely motionless.

"Zora," I whispered in her ear.

She didn't reply, and she didn't move a muscle.

Slowly I moved away from her and sat up. Then my hand found the light cord button that dangled over the head of the bed. I flicked it on.

Her eyes were closed and her lovely face was relaxed, looking angelic in its repose the way her damp hair was spilled around her head. Her face was very pale, and she hadn't stirred with the flash of the light.

Then I realized that she must have fainted at the finale.

I found myself staring at her exquisite body, savoring its soft curves and lines, until my glance finally moved down to her waist.

There was a livid and red, ugly and distorted two-inch wide scar running erratically, like a finger of lightning, from her right hip bone to the left groin, looking even more grotesque because she was really a brunette.

I pulled my glance away, brought it back up to her face with the high, sculptured cheekbones, the swollen and full red lips, then to her wonderful breasts, swollen and standing proud and erect even though she was lying on her back, back down to the graceful curve of her hips, the firm thighs and shapely legs. She was perfect in every respect.

Except for that damned scar.

I looked at it again, but unseeing this time, and I remembered the way she'd turned out the light tonight before she'd undressed, and the way she stopped me last night from going down into the tops of her shorts, and later the way she'd hurriedly stuffed the blouse down into the waistband of her shorts again.

I wondered now how it had really happened, and when, and whether it had been an accident, or whether someone had cut her open on purpose, to mar that otherwise beautifully perfect body.

Then a wave of compassion swept over me, and I felt my heart fill and it seemed to turn over several times. I reached up and turned out the light.

I sank down on the bed beside her, and searched until my lips found hers. They were cool and unresponsive and I kissed her tenderly and so considerately until eventually I felt her begin to respond, then finally stir. The next moment her arms went around me and her fingers tenderly stroked the back of my head.

"Cherie?" she asked softly.

"What?"

"Did I really?"

"Yes, really?"

"I mean-did I really faint at the end?"

"Yes."

She pulled her head forward and pressed it tightly to her breasts. "That has never happened to me. Never."

"Then I'm glad it happened tonight."

She sighed luxuriously. "Why is my head down here? It is very low."

"The bed broke."

She laughed silently. "Everything happened tonight."

I remembered seeing the scar under the light. "Yes," I agreed, "everything."

Her fingers were caressing my ear and the side of my face. "Cherie?"

"What?"

"Does this fainting at the end happen to many women-with you?"

"It has never happened before. I have heard about it though."

"I have heard about it too. But I never thought it could happen to me." After a lengthy pause she asked, "Does it happen only once?"

"I don't know."

"Only once in a lifetime? Or could it happen twice?"

I said, "Everything is possible-even twice in one night."

I kissed soft warm perfumed valley of her breasts, and then I kissed her breasts, those luscious, lovely exquisite breasts that were poised like mountains, their peaks pointed turgid nipples that reacted joyously each time the tip of my tongue contacted them, pulsing violently and proudly, and at the same time she was undulating, all of her becoming aroused again, and I lost the weariness and the emptiness that had weighted me down, and the blood began to fill me up again and I felt strong and violent and the wanting within me became just as wild and turbulent as before.

This time we began more slowly and gently, languidly kissing and caressing, tarrying, toying, teasing, tickling. But soon the desire and the flames flared up savagely and violently, and there was no more moving slowly and carefully, only the viciousness, and the hurts, and the terrifying, and the bed didn't break a second tune, nor did she faint this time.

Then some time later, wearily and slowly, we moved ourselves around until our feet were pointing downward, following the slope of the bed, and I put my arm around her and pulled her close and she snuggled against me and put her head into the hollow of my shoulder.

I fell into a deep sleep, the drugged, bone-weary, black-pitted type of sleep, and when I opened my eyes again and looked about, the sun was already in the room.

Zora was no longer there.

I couldn't even guess at the approximate time she might have awakened and departed.

It was another brilliantly beautiful day, with the sun at its very best. I enjoyed it completely as I breakfasted outside, and I would have liked to dawdled over my coffee for several more hours, but this was the day I had to drop by the consulate.

Driving into Genoa, I found my thoughts returning to the night before, and now that it was no longer dark, the things I remembered doing and seeing the night before seemed a bit unreal. There were moments during the morning when I was certain that Zora hadn't been there at all, but the bed had been broken when I awakened, so the rest of it had to be true too.

The parking lot directly across the street from the consulate was filled, and so I drove on until I found a parking lot on a neighboring street. I paid my hundred lire to the attendant; and then I began walking towards the Consulate.

Johnny Longo of the Questura's office was standing at the edge of the sidewalk as though he'd been waiting for me.

"Johnny," I said as we shook hands, "how have you been?"

"Fine, fine." He grinned and nodded. "And you?"

"Wonderful."

"How about a coffee?"

"That's a great idea." I followed him into a bar and we both ordered espresso.

"The weather remains hot," he said.

"It's not so bad, Johnny."

"You like the hot weathers?"

"When I'm in Europe, I'll take anything."

His face was flushed and he'd already loosened his tie, but he was still wearing his hat and jacket. As an after thought he said, "Maybe September will be cooler."

The bartender set the two cups in front of us. Johnny held the silver sugar bowl and I scooped out a teaspoonful of sugar. "Thanks, Johnny."

While he was helping himself to the sugar he asked, "By the way, did you ever find that woman-Zora?"

I concentrated on stirring in my sugar. "I haven't had much time. I've been relaxing out at Santa Margherita."

"Did you see her last night?"

I finished stirring, and I put the spoon down, very carefully. He was still smiling, but he was talking like a cop.

I grinned at him, as though we were still discussing the weather, "I couldn't be that lucky, Johnny."

"The portiere of the building she lives in reported an American had been there last night, about eleven o'clock, looking for the signorina. The description he gave me made me think of you, immediately."

"Really?"

Johnny nodded. After he'd taken a sip of espresso he said. "I was hoping it had been you there last night."

"Why?"

"Because if you'd been there and seen her, I you might know where she is today."

"Come on, Johnny," I kidded, "don't tell me you're trying to find her now, too?"

He nodded. "We are trying to find her. We, the police, want to talk to her."

I finished my espresso before I asked the next question. "And why do the police want to talk to her?"

"Murder."

My stomach muscles tightened but I kept my voice casual. "That means someone was killed."

"She killed her lover by breaking a vase over his head in the apartment."

I thought of George, realizing that if it were he whom she'd killed I'd have to write reports of explanation to Washington for the rest of the present administration. I was afraid of the answer, but I had to ask the question. "Do I know him-her lover?"

"Nick Galopolos, it was. He was at the cocktail party. I believe I was talking to you when he joined our group."

"That right," I said. "I remember him now."

Johnny shoved aside his empty cup. "Well, I have much work to do."

"Thanks for the espresso."

"Prego."

We parted outside and I continued on to the consulate. I doubted whether Johnny had believed the things I'd told him, and he'd check it all out later. I remembered seeing a big vase in Zora's apartment that first night, and now wondered whether it had been the one he'd mentioned as the murder weapon. Had she killed Nick before eleven, before I arrived, or afterwards? Maybe he had gotten suspicious about us and waited in the apartment for her return. A few words, threats, the flare of anger, and she could have grabbed the vase and hit him with it. That was the nice solution.

Inside the consulate an Italian clerk took me in to see George because Pat was momentarily away from her desk.

When I stepped into his office, he came around his desk and said solemnly, "Hello, Chris."

"How's everything going, George?"

"I can't complain," he said. Waving me to a chair he then went over and settled onto the couch. "I've been thinking about you, Chris."

His face was grim.

I should have stayed in Santa Margherita, I told myself. The tone of his voice and the look on his face probably meant that he wanted to talk about Terry and that day at the house.

Then he continued, "I have to talk to somebody, Chris. You're a fellow employee, so to speak. I can't talk to Terry about it, or my friends." He pulled up his glance, and I saw that his eyes were drugged with worry. "I've got problems."

"They can't be that bad, George."

He shook his head as though he didn't want to listen. "I've gotten myself in a rotten mess, one that will probably ruin me. I've got to tell you about it. I need your advice.

That was exactly what I'd come over to Europe for. To learn all about George's problems. But he'd never get advice from me. That would come directly from Washington.

And because he'd volunteered the information I didn't even have to tell him what I intended to do with it.