Chapter 3

He found plenty of clothing in the closet.

Most of it looked as if it had never been worn. He selected a dark suit, put it on. He looked at himself in a mirror, decided he looked good in it. The suit, of course, belonged to Keith Ainsworth, who was of the same build as John. Thus the nice fit. He stood looking at himself, wondering what he was supposed to do now. He did not like the idea of wearing another man's clothes, but his own were a mess. He shrugged.

He found cigarettes in the room, lighted one, stood inhaling it. He wished he had a drink. No one had said anything about his staying in the bedroom. He left it, went down the stairs to the front room, looked in. There was no one in the room. He entered, went to the liquor cabinet, poured himself a long drink of bourbon, carried it to a sofa, sat down and began to sip it. He could tell it was expensive stuff by the way it tasted, went down. John Deering liked good whiskey.

A few minutes later he heard someone at the front door. Recalling Joanie had told him there were no servants, he waited until he was certain no one else was going to answer the door. He pulled it open. An elderly man stood there. He had white hair, a trim white mustache. He carried a dapper-looking cane.

"Hello there," he said to John.

John thought he looked surprised. "Hello," he said back to the man.

"Is my son at home?"

"I suppose you mean Mr. Ainsworth."

"Yes. Keith Ainsworth. Do you know if he's in?"

"No. I'm afraid I don't. I-"

The man looked John over swiftly. "Mind telling me who you are?"

"My name is John Deering."

"Do I come in or are you going to make me stand on the veranda?"

John stepped out of the way, said nothing.

The white-haired man smiled slightly. "I see you're going to let me in. Thank you, young man."

He entered the hall and John closed the door.

"I need a drink," the man said. "Come with me to the big room."

John nodded, not knowing what else to do, followed the man into the room. The man went directly to the cabinet, poured himself a good-sized hooker of brandy, turned about.

"How about you, young man? Will you have one?"

"I have one already," John said. "Thanks."

"I'm Harvey Ainsworth," he called over to John. "My son is Keith."

John said nothing but, "Glad to know you, Mr. Ainsworth."

Ainsworth brought his drink over to where John was standing, looked him over from head to foot. "You look something like Keith, young man, except he's older than you and...." Here he looked John straight in the eye. "I hope," he went on, "that you aren't a big sissy like he is."

John said nothing, just looked at him.

The old gentlemen flushed a trifle. "Sorry," he muttered. "Didn't mean to sound rude. I retract that last statement."

"Quite all right," John said evenly.

The old man sat down heavily, his cane clattering to the floor. He made no attempt to retrieve it, but looked up at John. "Do you work for my son?" he asked.

"I believe so," John said.

"You believe so. Don't you know?"

"Not for certain. Not yet, that is."

"I see." The old man took a drink of his brandy, coughed a bit. "Cheap stuff. My son never did know how to order good brandy. Takes a man to do that."

John thought he was bearing down quite hard on his son, but said nothing. This was none of his business.

The old man again seemed to be studying John. "You look like a rough-and-ready type," he said. "What did you do before working for my son, if I may ask?"

John picked up his drink, took a sip. "Nothing," he said.

"Nothing? Make a living at nothing?"

"Sometimes. Sometimes no."

The old man was quiet for a time. Then: "I don't suppose you know if my son's wife is about the place, do you?"

"I believe so," John said.

"Would you mind going and finding her? I want to talk to her."

"No. I wouldn't mind, but I believe Mrs. Ainsworth is ill and in bed."

The old man made a face. "Hell, she's not ill. She's just putting on some kind of act. I know her. Go fetch her, young man."

"I'm sorry. I don't believe she would like that."

"Never mind what she likes. Just tell her I'm here, that I want to speak to her."

"All right. I'll try."

"Good for you, young man. I like to see a man try."

John thought that was rather an odd statement under the circumstances, but he did not remark on it. He excused himself, left the room, walked down the hall to the stairs, went up them to Mrs. Ainsworth's room. He rapped on the door.

"Who is it?" she called out to him.

"John Deering. Mr. Harvey Ainsworth is downstairs. He sent me up to ask you to come down and speak with him."

"Come inside the room, Mr. Deering," she said.

He opened the door, stopped in his tracks, his mouth flying open. She was sitting up on the bed, her shoulder straps down, exposing both of her breasts again. He moistened his lips nervously. Was this deliberate, too? It looked that way.

"What's the matter, Mr. Deering? Haven't you ever seen a woman before?"

He did not care for her tone of voice, but she was his employer, supposedly, so he held his tongue. He said merely, "Yes. I've seen women before, Mrs. Ainsworth." He managed to inject the right amount of politeness into his tone; just enough without overdoing it.

She glanced down at her bosom, looked up at him, smiled thinly. "You don't approve of me, Mr. Deering?"

"I came to deliver a message, nothing more, Mrs. Ainsworth."

"Look here," she said, but not too sharply. "I asked you a question. Please answer it. Do you approve of me?"

"Of course," he said, and meant it, partially. He certainly had no objections to her doing what she was doing. He, in fact, found it exhilarating sexually. He knew that he was rigid. He wondered if she could notice this.

Her eyes wandered down his front, came to a stop. Her lips parted. "Why, Mr. Deering," she said. "How nice."

He cleared his throat, did not know what to say to this, said nothing. He knew she was staring at him there; her eyes were wide; they held a lustful look, he thought, but could not be certain.

"Mr. Deering," she said. "Never mind that old fool downstairs. Come over here a moment."

He hesitated only a fraction of a moment, walked slowly around the bed, stopped just a foot from her. He knew she was going to do it even before she did. She reached out her hand, touching his prick through his pants. She left her hand there for a moment, drew in her breath slowly, let it out. He did the same, only faster.

"Excellent," she said softly, withdrawing her hand.

He did not know what to say, so again he remained silent.

"I think you're going to work out fine," she said, her voice sounding strange. "Now go down and tell the old man I can't see him ... tell him I'm too ill today."

John moved away from the bed. "All right," he said quietly, surprising himself by his calmness. He went to the door, pulled it open.

"Mr. Deering," she said. "As soon as you get rid of him, come back. I want to ... talk to you."

"All right," John said, and left the room. He went downstairs to where the old gentleman was sitting, still sipping his brandy.

"Mrs. Ainsworth told me to tell you she can't see you today. She is too ill, she said."

Harvey Ainsworth snorted, finished his drink, got to his feet, bent over agilely, picked up his cane. "She's a damned liar," he sputtered. "Tell her I'll be back tomorrow, maybe sooner. Tell her she'd damned well better see me then, young man."

John nodded, started to move toward the door.

"Good-bye, young man. No, don't bother. I'll see myself out."

"Good-bye, Mr. Ainsworth," he said, and watched the old man walk to the hall, open the front door and leave.

John turned and walked briskly up the stairs to Mrs. Ainsworth's room. He saw the door was partially open, pushed it farther open, entered. She was sitting on the bed in exactly the same manner. He closed the door slowly, turned and looked at her, excitement running through him. He recalled her touching his cock. He noticed he was perspiring a little. It was a hot day, but it was cool inside the stone house. His sweating was caused, he knew, by being highly aroused.

"Come here, John," she said, using his first name for the first time.

He walked over to the bed, saw her looking at him in a certain spot. Her breasts were still uncovered.

"Do you think I'm pretty, Johnny?" she asked.

"Yes," he said, almost blurting it.

"You mean you think the upper part of me is pretty?"

He frowned, not understanding her.

She pulled the sheet off her legs. He gasped at them, saw that both legs had been amputated below the knee. She had no feet. Otherwise her legs were beautiful, he thought. They were well-shaped, tanned, firm-looking. There was, he discovered, something wildly sexual about her legs being that way. He swallowed hard.

"Now ... do you think I'm pretty?" she asked, glancing at him sharply.

"Yes," he said. "You're very pretty, Mrs. Ainsworth."

She frowned slightly. "Are you putting on an act?

"No. I meant that. You're very pretty."

"My feet being off ... doesn't repel you?"

He took a breath, let it out slowly. "Of course not. Did you have an accident?"

She sighed. "I used to have the nicest legs in our set. Then, three years ago I was in a car wreck. Had to have them taken off. I wear artificial feet, of course. It's a great nuisance."

"I should imagine so," he said, not able to take his eyes off her legs.

"Are you sure you don't mind the way they look?"

He shook his head. "I find them ... er ... fascinating."

"Good," she said, and sighed.

He wondered what she would do next. She disappointed him-she did nothing. Nothing except to cover her legs with the sheet, lay back on the pillows and look at him.

"My husband," she said softly, "is not quite a man."

John felt the hair on the back of his neck doing something. He just looked at her.

"Before my accident, I used to manage to find plenty of ... male companionship ... but now ... well, I'm somewhat handicapped, you see."

"Yes," he murmured. "I can understand that."

"I think you'd better leave now, Mr. Deering," she said, and turned her face away from him.

"You mean leave the house?" he blurted, feeling disappointed.

She turned her head, looked him in the eye, smiled. "My goodness no ... just the room ... and only for the time being."

"All right," he said, and turned to go.

"John," she said. "Did I hurt your feelings?"

He turned around. "No, Mrs. Ainsworth. My feelings are not easily hurt."

"You are disappointed, then?"

He found it in himself to smile. "I'll get over it."

"Do you really think I'm pretty?"

He was surprised at her pressing this so much. "Yes. Yes, I do."

"Good. That'll make it a whole lot easier."

He frowned slightly. "Mind telling me what?"

"I'll tell you in a few days, maybe sooner, John."

"You're very mysterious," he said, but grinned.

"No, I'm not. I just have to be careful."

"About what?" he asked, hoping she would come out with it.

She smiled. "That will have to wait a while, too." He walked to the door, opened it. "Good-bye then," he said.

"Good-bye-but only for now, Mr. Deering," she said candidly. "All right."

He walked into the hall feeling let down. She had gotten him aroused, then sent him away. He decided he would look about the house for Joan. No, Joanie, he corrected in his mind. I need someone. I've never been so up in the air in my life as I am now. He wondered what really was the matter with him. He was acting like a sexually aroused schoolboy. John Deering had been kicking about the country long enough to be able to handle temporary rejection. Hell, he had known that many times.

He went down to the large room, poured himself another drink, drained the glass in one fast gulp. He had another, left the room, walked down the hall searching for Joanie. He found her in what she later called the music room. There was a grand piano in the room, stereo, a television set and assorted pieces of furniture. Joanie, at the moment he entered, was sitting at the piano playing a simple tune. He stood in the doorway listening to her. She played fairly well, he thought. He walked up behind her, placed his hands on her shoulders.

She jumped up and screamed.

"Hey," he said, taken aback. "What's wrong with you?"

She seemed to be having trouble regaining her breath. "You s-startled me," she gasped.

"I'm sorry, Joanie," he said gently. "I didn't mean to."

"Oh, it's all right," she said, sitting back down on the bench. "For a moment, I thought you were my uncle Keith, you looked so much like him ... in a way, that is."

This surprised him a little. He could not picture Keith Ainsworth as being the type who would put his hands on a girl, especially after what he had just learned from Mrs. Ainsworth.

"I don't really look like him, do I?" he asked.

"No. Not really. Only to the casual glance. You're much more masculine than he."

"Thanks," he said dryly.

"No. I mean it. You are, John."

For some reason, this line of talk made him uncomfortable. He changed the subject. "What was that you were playing?"

"Minute Waltz," she said. "Did you like it?"

"Yes."

She turned about quickly on the bench, looked up at him, bit her lips. "You must think I'm an awful dope."

"Why do you say that?"

"The way I acted ... in your room."

He shook his head. "I don't think you're a dope. I think you're nice, pretty and sweet."

She smiled. "Why, thank you, John. You said that very nicely."

"One thing puzzles me, though," he said, looking down into her eyes. "Why did you want me to leave my trousers off?"

She actually blushed. "Oh, I'm just awful, John." She struck a minor seventh chord, probably to cover her embarrassment.

"I don't think so," he said, and leaned over suddenly and kissed her bare shoulder.

She shivered, laughed. "Boy," she said. "That gives me goose pimples, all right."

"Seems to me I heard you say that before, that goose pimple thing."

She laughed, struck another chord, released it, turned around on the bench. "You know something?" she said.

"What?"

"I think I'm getting a crush on you."

"Good for you. How big a crush?"

She held her hand aloft, spacing her thumb and forefinger a few inches apart. "Like so," she said, smiling.

"That's not a very big crush," he said, sitting on the bench beside her. It was nice having his body against hers. Hers was nice and soft and ... well, pleasant to the touch.

"Maybe it's a little bit bigger than that," she said.

He looked down the front of her dress. He could easily see most of her bosom. He felt it happening to him. "Would you like to ... go somewhere?" he asked, looking her in the eye now.

"Where?" she asked, looking innocent