Chapter 11
John wondered, idly, how this old man knew so much about it. Maybe he was not as old as his years. John went back to the liquor cabinet, got his drink, carried it to where the old man sat. "Mind getting me a brandy, young man?"
"Sure," John said. "Big one?"
"Big one," the old man said. John brought him the brandy. The old man thanked him, tasted of it, made a face. "My son still doesn't know good brandy from bad," he said. He put the glass down, looked up at John, fingered his trim white mustache. "I'm going to ask you a question, Deering. I'm supposed to stay out of this altogether, but I see no point in doing so any longer.
I-" He stopped, picked up his brandy, took a sip, put it down again. "How are you making out with my son's wife?"
John stared at him, hoping his face was not betraying him. "I beg your pardon," he said quietly.
The old man grinned, waved his hand about. "Oh, come now, young man. I know all about it. I was the man who paid you the ten thousand dollars. Twice, I might add."
John said it slowly, evenly. "I know nothing about any tener-twenty thousand dollars, Mr. Ainsworth."
"You mean they didn't give it to you forer-services rendered?"
"I'm afraid," John said a trifle stiffly, "I don't know what you're talking about."
The old man nodded, fingered his mustache. "All right, Deering. Play it your way if you wish. I'll keep out of it. I want to know just one thing, then I'll shut up. Is my daughter-in-law going to give me a grandchild?"
"How would I know anything about that?" John said, still playing it cool.
The old man regarded him severely. "I have a feeling something's wrong. Is something wrong, young man?"
"I wouldn't know," John said, annoyed at his questioning.
"I see. You won't talk about the matter. Is that it?"
John carried his drink to a chair, sat down, lighted a cigarette, and looked at the old man.
Should he talk openly to him about this crazy matter or should he continue to play the part of the ... the what? his mind asked him. He did not know.
"I think I know what's wrong, Deering. They cheated you out of the money, didn't they? They probably offered you a small portion of what I handed over to them, telling them to give it all to you. Is that true?"
John took a deep breath. "Yes," he said shortly.
The old man frowned. "I never saw such greedy people. None of them, my son included, ever did a day's work in their lives. They're a sorry lot, my people, I'm sorry to say. Joan is the best of the lot, but even she is-" He broke off, then said, "Tell me this, young man. Is, Julia going to have a child?"
"I couldn't say," John said coldly.
The old gentleman sighed, "I don't have much time left on this earth. I want a grandchild more than anything else. My son ... he's worthless ... he's a-well, he's not a man. He disgusts me. I suppose I should be more tolerant of him; he can't help being the way he is. In a way, he can't. In another way, there is no reason at all these days for a man to be ... homosexual. Any doctor of endocrinology could correct that, in time." The old man leaned forward. "They can inject certain hormones, perform operations on a man and remove his homosexuality. Did you know that, young man?"
John was surprised. "No," he said. "I never heard of such a thing."
"Unfortunately, the public at large doesn't know it, either. I made something of a study of it, talked to some of these fine doctors. I tell you, young man, the things an endocrinologist can do nowadays is unbelievable. This is truly an amazing science."
John said nothing. He did not know what to say.
"I've told my son about these matters, but he won't do a thing about it. He, damnit, wants to be the way he is." The old man sighed again, looked over at John. "Wish I could have a son like you, young man. You strike me as being a real man."
"Would you like another brandy?" John said, wanting to get him off the subject.
"No thanks. I don't like this junk my son buys. I came here to have another talk with him, by the way. Do you know where he is?"
"I understand he's Dl," John said carefully. "He may be in his room."
"Harvey Ainsworth got to his feet. "I'll just go up to his room. I tried to talk to him this afternoon, but his wife wouldn't allow it." The old man walked out of the room leaving John alone. A moment later he returned to the doorway, stuck his head in, grinned at John.
"I hope you can give her a child, young man," he said. "I'll see to it you're well paid for your efforts, even if they have cheated you."
John felt his face burning. Damn this old man, anyway. He talked to John, as if he were some kind of professional stud, or something. John was irritated and to alleviate this, got up and fixed himself a strong drink, draining the glass quickly. He got another, carried it to the sofa, lay down, his hand behind his head.
There was a loud clap of thunder and John looked over at the window, saw it was raining hard outside. Lightning flashed, followed by more thunder. It was extremely dark out of doors now. John continued to look at the window, now and then taking a swallow of his drink. He wondered where Joan and Julia were-he found it difficult to believe what the old man had suggested-that they were out somewhere buying Benzedrine. He had no basis for not believing the old man; he just found it hard to believe. Joan Herlick had not struck him as being an addict of any kind. Julia was something different-she might be; she could become fairly wild, at times.
He wondered if being wild sexually had anything to do with the taking of this particular drug (or the other way around)-the old man had said something about it, but maybe the old man was a blow-hard, pretending to knowledge that was nonexistent John knew that some old men seemed to like nothing better than to try to impress a younger guy with their erudition, real or phony.
He heard a sound, looked up, saw Harvey Ainsworth entering the room.
"Damned fool," the old man growled. "Won't let me in his room. Wouldn't even answer when I called through the door to him."
John sat up, placed his drink on the coffee table. The old man, he saw, was red-faced, looked angry. He watched him as he crossed the room and angrily poured himself a brandy. The old man went to the window, looked out at the falling rain.
"Looks like a cloudburst," he muttered. "I'll not be able to go home in this storm."
"I doubt if it will last long," John commented. "Rain this time of year usually doesn't."
Harvey Ainsworth swore, walked back to where John was. "That damned son of mine," he sputtered. "He drives me crazy." He finished off his drink, threw the glass angrily at the fireplace. It shattered into many pieces. He picked up his umbrella from the corner, walked to the hallway door, stopped. "Goodbye, young man. Do your best for me, won't you?"
John felt like telling him to go to hell, but he just stared at him without speaking.
Harvey Ainsworth walked out of the house into the pouring rain. John went to the door, closed it, for the old man had left it open, probably because he was angry and upset. Rain had already blown in and the new, green carpeting was wet near the doorway. John returned to the room, lay down on the sofa and waited for the women to return from wherever they had gone.
He must have dropped off to sleep again, for when he awakened, his glass was lying on the carpet, its contents spilled. He sat up, rubbed his eyes, saw the glass, picked it up, put it on the coffee table.
He did not see her standing in the doorway.
"Hi," she said, and he looked up, momentarily startled.
He got to his feet. "Hello, Joanie. Feeling okay now?" He looked at her eyes closely. They were not red as they had been. In fact, she did not look as if she had had a drink all day. He was surprised. "I've been waiting for you," he went on. "Did you go out?"
She did not answer immediately. He looked her over, saw that she was not wet, that she was wearing briefs and the narrow halter that barely covered her nipples, let alone her bosom.
"What's the matter?" he said. "Can't you talk?" He looked at her eyes as he asked her, saw they were large. He recalled having read somewhere that Benzedrine makes the eyes large; it also sobers people up fast.
She ran into the room, threw her arms about him. "I'm so glad to see you," she murmured, placing her head on his chest as she so often did. "I've missed you so much, John."
Apparently, he thought, you forget I saw you earlier in the day. Aloud he said, "How does it happen you aren't wet if you were outside?"
She drew back, looked up at him wide-eyed. "I haven't been outside. I've been sleeping in my room."
He started to say, "Well, you weren't there a while ago," but refrained from it. "You look nice in your briefs and halter," he said, and meant it. He could see down the front of her halter and it was as though she were wearing nothing over her bosom. He enjoyed looking at her like this. Even though he had made love twice, he still felt a stirring in him. It seemed he could not get enough of either of these women.
"I understand," he said gently, "that you're a free woman again, though I'm sorry about the accident."
"I don't want to talk about that, John," she said softly, and snuggled her face against him.
"I can understand that," he said. "I don't blame you."
She drew back quickly, looked up at him. "What do you mean by that she asked sharply.
He was surprised by the intense look in her eyes. "Nothing. Why the sharp reaction?"
Again she buried her face on his chest. "Let's don't talk, John. Pick me up. Take me upstairs. I need to be loved."
"All right."
He picked her up in his arms, carried her out to the hall, went down it, up the stairs and to the room he had put her in earlier. He turned on the lights, placed her on the bed. She lay looking up at him, her lips parted, her eyes filled with something he could not fathom. It was not merely lust-there was something else there. He wondered if perhaps she might be high, after all. He shrugged the thought away. If she wanted to talk pills, that was her business.
"Hey," he said. "You're pretty, lying there like that."
She smiled up at him, undid her halter, threw it to the floor. She lay there, her breasts exposed to him. He felt excitement taking over as it always did when he saw her body like this. He sat on the edge of the bed, leaned down, took a nipple between his lips, ran his tongue about on it.
She sighed, began to tug at his hair.
He went to the other breast, did the same thing. She sighed again, louder this time, pulled his hair hard. It hurt.
"Hey," he said. "Don't pull it out. It's all I have."
She smiled up at him tensely. "You've got more than just hair, John Deering."
There was a great flash of lightning outside the window, a loud roll of thunder. The lights in the room dimmed, came on bright again, dimmed once more and went out entirely.
"That's a bad storm," he said, disappointed now that he could no longer see her nudity.
He heard her roll off the bed, run across the floor. "I'll be right back," she told him. He heard her opening the door, run down the hallway. A few moments later, she returned. He heard her come toward the bed, crawl on it.
"I went to get a flashlight out of my room, but my door is locked."
"Didn't you know your uncle is in your room?" he asked her.
She was silent. Then: "I guess I forgot," she said.
"What did you want with a flashlight?"
He felt her roll over on the bed and kiss his face. She found his mouth, kissed it, and he kissed her back. She pulled away. "Silly, I wanted to see you. How can I see you in the dark?"
"You don't have to see me. I look the same as always." He had not intended speaking so harshly. It had slipped out. He recalled what the old man had told him about the twenty thousand dollars, how these women had taken him down the line, cheating him by lying to him constantly. He fought to gain control over his feelings, but the more he thought about it the more annoyed he became. Finally, he sat up on the bed, threw his feet off it; a moment later he stood up.
"What are you doing, John?" she whispered.
"I'm gonna get a drink."
He stumbled in the darkness to the doorway.
"Come back, darling. You can have a drink later," she begged.
But he kept going. He had to get away from her for the moment. He had a wild feeling running through him that he could not understand.
He went down the stairs, feeling his way carefully. Once he tripped and nearly fell headlong. He recovered his balance by reaching out frantically and grasping the stair railing. He stopped for a moment, realizing that had he fallen he would have plunged all the way down the long, steep staircase. He could have easily broken his neck. He heard a sound behind him just as he again started down the stairs.
"Come back, John," she whispered to him "Please don't go downstairs, please?"
He wet his lips. They were very dry, for some reason. "I'm gonna get a drink," he told her. "I'll be back soon."
"But I don't want you to leave me."
He could not see her, could only hear her. She was at the top of the stairs if the sound of her voice was an indication. "For pete's sake," he said, slightly annoyed. "I told you I'd be right back."
She did not speak.
From where he stood, he could see up the downstairs hallway to the door. What he saw surprised him. Through the window of the front door he could see a light in the house across the way. How did it happen that house had lights and this one did not? Maybe it had not been a power failure after all. Perhaps the storm had not knocked out transformers or whatever in the district.
He moved down a step, stumbled again.
"John," she said. "Please come back upstairs."
He drew in his breath, let it out slowly. "All right, if you insist on it. I can't understand why you won't let me have a drink.
He turned around, walked back up the stairs. He felt her clutch at his arm, slip her arm about mm, clinging to him.
"Thank you, John," she whispered.
He put his arms about her waist, steered her back in the general direction of the bedroom door. He found it after a bit of groping. The house was pitch dark; it was impossible to see anything at all. They entered the room. He was surprised when she pulled away from him, shut the door carefully. He heard her lock it.
"What's the matter?" he said, reaching out for her. His arm found her, drew her close. She was trembling. "What's the matter with you?" he repeated.
"I'm c-cold," she said. "Let's get back in bed."
He felt of her face. "You aren't cold," he said. "You're frightened."
"No," she said quickly, too quickly. "You're mistaken. You're always saying I'm frightened. I'm not."
"All right," he said. "Have it your way."
He led her to the bed and they lay down on it together. He had no great desire to make love to her. He had had enough of lovemaking for the time-or so he thought, but when she began to feel about his body, he rose to meet her hands. She unzipped him, snaked her hand inside his pants, found him with her warm fingers. He sucked in his breath, turned over on his side facing her. He ran his hands over her breasts-she had not replaced the halter-heard her sigh deeply.
"John," she said. "I want to. Do you?"
He wanted to tell her to go slow, to cool it, to give him time, but he did not. When she bent her head and kissed him passionately in a certain place, he became very much aroused. She straightened up, spoke softly in her ear.
"I want you so much, darling."
"Then why did you stop?" he asked.
She said nothing, bent her head again and resumed. He thought the top of his skull was going to come off, it felt so wildly exhilarating.
The slamming of the front door-probably it was the front door-downstairs caused their passion to slacken. He started to get up from the bed, but she wrapped her arms about him, hugging him to her tightly.
"Don't go, John. Stay with me," she said, her voice sounding strained.
"Why," he said, "are you so intent on keeping me from going downstairs?"
She did not answer him, but frantically slipped her arms down until she was hugging his hips. He was on his knees then and slowly he sank down on his back as he felt the wet warmth of her lips eagerly seeking him out, heard her breathing coming in furious, little gasps.
He did not know how long he slept afterward.
When he opened his eyes, the .lights were turned on again. He rose, looked for her. She was not in the bed, nor in the room. He saw a bottle of whiskey on the dresser, started to reach for it, decided he would go and look for her instead. He climbed off the bed, went to the door, turning the knob. He was surprised to find it locked. He went to the bathroom, found the door leading into the next room also locked.
He returned to the bed, found his cigarettes, lighted one, holding it off the side of the bed in case he might fall asleep again. Finally, he got the bottle, had a drink from it, then replaced it on the dresser. He climbed back in bed, lay there looking at the ceiling, smoking, wondering why she had locked him in-if she had.
He got up once, went to the door, tried it again. He grinned to himself, went back to the bed again, sat down, reached for the bottle.
He took a long drink this time. He noticed his hands were shaking slightly. It was probably from his earlier hangover, he decided, and promptly forgot about it.
He finished the cigarette, snubbed it out, promptly wanted another. He discovered he had run out of matches. He went to the dresser, looked through the drawers until he found a pack. He lighted his cigarette, tossed the matches on the dresser top, glanced down at the open drawer. His eyes caught sight of an insurance policy. John had sold life insurance a few years before and he immediately recognized it for what it was.
It was a double indemnity policy on one Mark Harkins. The beneficiary was Joan C. Harkins. The amount of the policy was for fifty thousand dollars. One hundred thousand double indemnity.
John studied it for some time, dropped it back in the drawer, closed the drawer. He took a deep drag on his cigarette, turned about, looked at the door leading to the hallway.
He was possessed by a very strange urge. He wanted to hit somebody, something. Once again, he went to the door, tried the knob. It was locked of course. He returned to the dresser, remembering he had seen a ring of keys in one of the drawers. He found it, took it to the door, tried all the keys. None of them was useful. He went to the bathroom, tried several of the keys until he found one that would unlock that door. He stepped out into the next room, crossed over it swiftly, opened the door to the hall, stopped. He heard a sound. He listened intently. It sounded like someone using a hammer. He moved down the hall to the head of the stairs, went down them partway, stopped. He saw them then. Tne two women were on their hands and knees laying carpeting on the hallway floor. The carpeting they were putting down looked like the old one--the maroon-colored carpet. Why were they doing it at this late hour? he asked himself. He glanced at his watch, saw it was half-past-one.
A wild, facetious feeling passed over him. He returned to the room, had one more drink, put on his clothing, walked back to the stairs. He went down them quietly. Neither woman saw him until he was on the ground floor.
He coughed on purpose.
They glanced up at the same time. Neither of them spoke, neither moved. Both were still on their knees.
He walked up the hallway, stepped past them without speaking. He had a grin on his face. He felt good for a reason he did not understand. Perhaps it was the whiskey. He opened the front door, saw the storm had passed.
He looked at the two women, saw Mrs. Ainsworth's steel shoes on the floor near her. The women had turned and were staring at him blankly, each with the same bleak expression on her face.
"Good night, ladies," he said. "I couldn't sleep what with all this carpet-laying and hammering. I'm going to my hotel. Will you kindly get in touch when you need my-er-services again."
He stepped out into the night, closing the door softly.
The following evening the phone in his room rang. He looked at it, let it ring a while, finally picked up the receiver.
"Hello," he said.
"Mr. Deering? Is that you?"
John thought he recognized the voice of Harvey Ainsworth. "Yes, who is this?"
"Harvey Ainsworth. I'd like to talk to you, if I may."
"Shoot," John said good-naturedly.
"No. Not over the phone. Could I come up to your room?"
"You sound as if you were down in the lobby, are you?"
"Yes. May I come up for a while?"
John took a deep breath. He did not care to talk to this old man, but said, "Okay, come up." He told him the room number and hung up.
A few minutes later, there was a knock on the door. He opened it and Ainsworth stood there. John saw immediately that the old man was very white; he looked worried.
"Hello. Come in," John said, pulling the door back.
"Hello, Mr. Deering. I won't take up much of your time."
John shrugged, pointed to a chair. "Have a seat, Mr. Ainsworth."
The old man looked about. "Nice room you have, Mr. Deering." He paused, cleared his throat. "I'll come right to the point, if I may. Did my son and daughter-in-law pay you the twenty thousand dollars, Mr. Deering?"
John studied the old man's eyes. What the hell was this? "I've already told you, Mr. Ainsworth. They did not."
"Yes, I know you did." The old man ran his fingers nervously over his white mustache. He was wearing a Homburg hat and now he removed it, brushed back his white hair, replaced the hat on his head. "However ... they tell me they did pay it to you. Now, who am I to believe, you or them?"
"Suit yourself about it," John said coldly. "Who do you want to believe?"
"I don't know, young man. Why should they tell me they gave you the money if they didn't?"
"Maybe they're lying and greedy," John said even more coldly.
The old man nodded, removed his hat again, once again smoothed down his hair and replaced the hat. "Yes. I know they're greedy, very much so. All they can think of is money." Here the man sighed, looked at John. "Unfortunately, I have no more to give them. I've been wiped out."
"You've lost your money, Mr. Ainsworth. How, may I ask?"
"Holdings in far eastern countries. My company ... everything had been taken over by the government; expropriated, they call it."
John wondered why the old gentleman was relating all of this to him. What had he to do with it? He said nothing, kept looking at the man, noticing how upset he was.
"Well," Ainsworth said, at length, turning toward the door. "If you say you don't have the money, then I suppose HI have to accept that."
"It's the truth," John said.
Ainsworth paused with his hand on the doorknob. "I was going to ask you to return a part of it, Mr. Deering. That's how hard up I am."
"Sorry," John said. "Talk to your son about it. He must have it."
"Yes, of course. Thank you for letting me talk to you, young man."
"Quite all right," John said, and watched the old man as he walked out of the room and down the corridor. A few moments later, John closed the door, lighted a cigarette, and pondered the matter. It was obvious that Keith Ainsworth and wife had taken the old man's money and kept it. Why couldn't the old guy see that?
He stepped out of the room, looked down the corridor, saw the old man waiting for the elevator. He walked down to where he was.
"Mr. Ainsworth," he said. "Tell me something. How was Joan's husband killed?"
Ainsworth turned about just as the elevator doors opened. The operator said, "Down" and he nodded to the man, turned to John. "Auto accident. Joan was driving. Car ran off the road, went down a high embankment. Joan managed to jump out, but Mark couldn't make it."
"I see. Thanks. Good-bye, Mr. Ainsworth."
The old man looked at him curiously, nodded, stepped all the way into the elevator. The doors closed suddenly, John turned and walked back to his room.
It was some time later that he left the hotel, went to the parking lot, got his car and drove to the Ainsworth residence. He parked the car in the drive, jumped out, went to the door, punched the doorbell button.
Julia Ainsworth opened the door. He saw she was wearing only a halter and slacks. The halter barely covered her breasts; the slacks fitted her buttocks like skin. She smiled widely when she saw who it was.
"Hello, Johnny," she said. This was the first time she had called him that.
He looked at her eyes suspiciously. They were very large, but otherwise okay. For a moment, he thought she might be flying by her use of "Johnny" in that tone of voice. "Hi," he said. "May I come in?"
She was all smiles now. "Why certainly. I don't know anyone I'd rather have call on me."
He stepped into the hallway, looked at the carpeting. It was the old one, the maroon one. He recalled their ridiculous action in laying the carpeting in the middle of the night, changing from the light green one back to the maroon, started to remark about it facetiously, restrained himself.
"Come in the front room, John," she said, and proceeded in that direction.
He noticed that she was limping with her steel shoes. She glanced down at them-the slacks did not cover them altogether-saw that one of the shoes was bent quite a bit. When they were inside the room, she turned and asked him if he'd like a drink. He told her "later," looked at her face.
"What happened?" he asked, meaning the bent shoe.
"What?" she said, looking surprised. "Couldn't help but notice you were limping. What happened to one of your shoes?"
He thought he saw a strange glint in her eyes but was not certain of it. Her face seemed relaxed enough. "Oh ... that. Why, I dropped one shoe and it fell all the way down the staircase, bent it a little. I'll have to get a new one as soon as I can."
"Is ... Joan in?" he asked, after a moment.
"Oh...." she said, pouting. "I thought you came to see me, John."
He grinned. "I did."
She deliberately stretched her arms high above her head, causing one breast to pop out of her halter. He stared at it. She did not lower her arms immediately. John felt something happening to him, tried to turn his eyes away from her. He wanted to see Joan this time, but the sight of her breast was fast putting Joan out of his thoughts.
She smiled over at him, glanced down as though accidentally, saw the breast exposed, smiled more broadly. "Goodness," she said. "These skinny halters don't cover me very well, do you think?"
"You look very nice, Mrs. Ainsworth," he heard himself say. "Aren't you afraid your husband might walk in, though?"
She frowned, erased the frown swiftly. "Oh, he's not here any longer. Keith and I are getting a divorce, John."
Sure, John thought-his old man's money is gone, so you're getting rid of him. "I see," he said briefly.
She came closer to him, the breast still hanging out, bewitchingly exposed to his view. "Would you care to ... come upstairs, Mr. Deering?"
He grinned. Whenever she made a proposition, it was "Mr. Deering" instead of John. He looked down at the exposed breast, felt a bit silly about seeing it. Everything about this woman was so confounded absurd ... well, almost everything. In bed, she was not that way, not at all. He wondered what she would do if he grabbed her and made her on the floor. Probably she would welcome it.
"I might, later," he said, in answer to her question. "Right now T want to see Joan."
A furious look came over her face. "You like her better, don't you, Mr. Deering? She isn't a cripple."
He stared at her, saw the dark look in her eyes. Almost immediately it vanished to be replaced by a gender one. Amazing woman, he thought-she can turn her emotions on and off like a water faucet.
"Sorry you feel that way, Mrs. Ainsworth. It's all in your mind. I've never intimated any such thing."
She mumbled something he did not hear clearly. "I beg your pardon," he said. "Nothing," she said clearly. "I apologize for that remark. It was unfair and unkind of me."
"Forget it," he said.
She came still closer. He felt the stirring in him growing. She put her hand on his arm, squeezing his arm a little, looked up into his eyes. Then her arms slipped about his body and she pressed her breasts tightly against his chest.
"Oh. John." she sighed. "You excite me so much. All I have to do is look at you and I'm ready."
He glanced down, saw that both breasts were now exposed and touching him. He wanted to remove his coat and shirt and feel them against his skin, but he did not do this. He put his arm about her, pressed her against him. She must have felt him down below, for she gasped.
"I never saw such a man," she said tensely. "Do you ever think of anything else?" But she smiled when she said it.
He grinned tightly. "Not when I'm with a beautiful woman."
"Am I beautiful, John?"
Why do women always have to be that? he asked himself. "Yes," he said, meaning it. There was no question but what she was beautiful. She was not only beautiful-beauty, he knew, was of no account just by itself-she was not only beautiful; she was passionate, and this is the important thing to a man.
"Wouldn't you like to ... get fresh with me, John?" She pressed her loins against his tightly, making her remark sound almost hilarious.
He grinned. "Yes," he said. "I would, as a matter-of-fact."
She pulled his head down with one hand, placed her wet mouth over his, tongue-kissed him passionately. At the same time she placed her other hand at the small of his back thrust her loins at him, began to move them against him in circular motion.
He could not stand much of this without doing something about it. The passion of this woman was unbelievable, at times. He put his arms about her, pulled her even closer to his body. He knew he was rigid, knew that she could feel his cock. She drew her mouth from his, gasped loudly, covered his lips with more kisses. He ran his tongue into her mouth, tasting the delicious moisture of it. He pulled her down on the sofa, lay upon her and still she writhed her hips against his. He felt her hand go down to her waist, felt her doing something to the button on her slacks, felt her attempt to pull the slacks off her hips. He reached down, yanked them off her almost frantically. She parted her legs, and he crawled between them. Instantly, her legs shot up to wrap themselves about his back. Her steel shoes struck him in the back, momentarily knocking the wind out of him. He sucked in air desperately, got it, was breathing all right now. She placed her mouth on his and again he felt the warm wetness of it. She snaked her tongue into his mouth, groaned.
He started to make his move when a sound came from the hallway. He jumped off her quickly, zipped himself, while she pulled up her slacks, got to her feet, walked away from him a bit.
"Well!" Joan said from the doorway. "I didn't know you were here, John."
John had mixed feelings. He was glad to see Joan but frustrated at being interrupted. His face seemed to be burning. One of these days, he told himself, I'm taking precautions to lock all doors before making love in this house. Everyone around here has a habit of walking in at the wrong time.
Joan came all the way into the room. John saw her glance sharply toward Mrs. Ainsworth. He knew that Joan was cognizant of what had been about to take place. It showed on her face. He suppressed a grin. He could not have cared less. There was something wildly exciting about having these two women vying for his favors. Thinking of this nearly caused him to lose control and burst out in laughter. He held himself in, merely smiled as she took his hand.
"Come, John," Joan said silkily. "I want you to come up to my room for a while. I have to talk to you."
John looked into her dark eyes, saw the lust, looked over quickly at Mrs. Ainsworth's eyes, saw the even greater lust in hers. A wild feeling came over him. He put the thought into words.
"Why don't we all go upstairs," he suggested. He watched the reactions of the women. Joan seemed to be annoyed, Mrs. Ainsworth pleased. Mrs. Ainsworth came over closer to them.
"A splendid idea," she said thickly, "if Joan will agree."
John looked at Joan's eyes again. He saw the growing fury in them, knew she was trying to restrain herself.
She bit her lips, looked at him. "No," she said coldly. "I'll not be a party to such a thing."
Julia looked angry for a moment, but then she seemed to force a smile across her lips. "Why don't we just sit down and have a few drinks together, then?"
Joan was angry-looking now, but John was enjoying this immensely. He would have liked nothing better than to go to bed with both women, but that, apparently, was not what Joanie had in mind.
"Are you coming with me, John, or not?" Joan Herlick asked him quietly.
There was a certain assertiveness in her tone that he did not like, especially. He studied her dark eyes, shook his head. He was not going to allow either of these women to dictate what he should do. He walked to the sofa, sat down, looked at first one, then the other of them.
"One of you," he said casually, "go and get me a drink. Bourbon. A double. No mix."
The two women glanced at him, at one another, neither of them moving. He looked at them, smiled. "You, Mrs. Ainsworth, get me a drink."
She smiled. "Of course, John, darling. Right away."
At the word "darling", he saw Joan stiffen. He also saw her run across the room to the liquor cabinet, saw her get there sooner than Julia Ainsworth, saw her grab up a glass and pour him the double shot. He saw something else. He saw the anger in Julia's eyes at this. John lay down on the sofa, grinned to himself. Beautiful. He could, if he chose, play one woman against the other. They had been playing with him long enough, lying to him, being phony and so on.
Joan brought the drink to him, sitting down on the sofa beside him. "Here's your bourbon, darling," she said, using the same word Julia had used.
"Thanks," he said, taking the glass from her hands. He put it to his mouth, took a drink, set the glass down on the coffee table. He put his arm about her to see what effect it would have on Mrs. Ainsworth. He glanced over at her casually, saw the hate in her eyes. That was the effect it had. At least, he thought it was hate-it looked like it. A moment later, the look was gone. She had done it again-changed her emotions almost at will. He'd have to watch her; she was not predictable. Wait a minute, his mind told him. What are you thinking about? Watch her? Watch her for what? Why isn't she predictable?
His unconscious mind was shoving something up to him, but he could not consciously grasp it. He shook his head, annoyed at himself.
"Drink your whiskey, darling," Joan said, "and then come up to my room with me."
"All right," he said, deciding he had had enough fun with them for the moment, this kind of fun, that is. He reached for his glass, drained it, coughed a bit, got to his feet.
Joan put her arm about his waist and he did likewise to her. They walked to the doorway of the hall.
"Just a minute, you two," Mrs. Ainsworth called out. John stopped, causing Joan almost to lose her balance, turned around. "If you go upstairs, Mr. Deering, I'll-" But she did not finish it.
"You'll do what?" he asked.
She made a face, turned her head away. "Nothing. Go with her, if you think you'd rather. "
John removed Joan's arm from about him. He walked over to Mrs. Ainsworth. "What will you do to me if I go upstairs?" he asked, amused.
She again turned away from him. "Nothing," she said.
"Good," he said. "Don't make threats, Mrs. Ainsworth, not if you don't want to be spanked."
"Don't you dare speak that way to me, John Deering."
"Mrs. Ainsworth, I'll speak to you any damned way I choose."
The two women seemed then to be sticking together. Joan came over to him, touched his arm, said, "Don't talk like that to Julia. I don't like it."
John brushed her hand off his arm. "I'll speak as I see fit," he said. "And to you, also, I might add."
"What's the matter with him, Joan?" Mrs. Ainsworth asked.
"Nothing," John said. "Not a thing. I'll say what I want to say. It matters nothing to me what you two think."
The two women were silent and he studied each of them in turn. "By the way," he said to them both, "I see you got your carpet all laid. A fine job, too, but why do it in the middle of the night?"
Neither of them answered him.
John smiled. "You don't have to tell me, you know. I think I already know why you changed the carpet last night.
The women exchanged glances.
John took Joan by the arm. "But I don't care to talk about that right now. You and I are going up to your room."
She tried to pull away from him. "I've changed my mind," she told him icily. "I don't want you, I won't let you go upstairs with me."
"You don't have anything to say about it," he told her and picked her up bodily.
Joan had done a complete about-face. She struggled, kicked at him. She might as well have saved her strength. She was like a little child struggling in his powerful arms.
"Damn you, John Deering, put me down. I demand you put me down."
He laughed, carried her to the hallway door. "What will you do if I don't?"
"I'll ... I'll ... kill you, damn you, you insufferable male!"
He laughed again. "You mean like you killed your insufferable husband?"