forgotten. There was a light tap on the door of his cabin. Oh Mark, do let me hide in here for a moment. Irene Leuchars pushed quickly past him before he could protest, and she ordered, Quickly, lock the door. Her tone made him obey immediately, but when he turned back to her he had immediate misgivings.
She had been drinking. The flush of her cheeks was not all rouge, the glitter in her eyes was feverish, and when she laughed it was unnaturally high.
What's the trouble? he asked.
Oh God, darling, I have had the most dreadful time.
That Charlie Eastman is absolutely hounding me. I swear I'm terrified to go back to my cabin. I'll talk to him, Mark offered, but she stopped him quickly. Oh, don't make a scene. He's not worth it. She flicked the tail of the ostrich feather boa over her shoulder. I'll just sit here for a while, if you don't mind. Her dress was made of layers of filmy material that floated in a cloud about her as she moved, and her shoulders were bare, the bodice cut so low that her breasts bulged out, very round and smooth and white and deeply divided. Do you mind? she demanded, very aware of the direction of his eyes, and he lifted them quickly to her face. She made a move of impatience as she waited for his reply.
Her lipstick was startling crimson and glossy, so her lips had a full ripe look.
He knew he must get her out of his cabin. He knew that he was in danger. He knew how vulnerable he was, how powerful her family, and he guessed how shallow and callous she could be. But he was lonely, achingly grindingly lonely. You can stay, of course, he told her, and she drooped her eyelids and ran a sharp pink tongue across the painted lips.
Have you got a drink, darling? No, I'm sorry. Don't be, don't ever be sorry. She swayed against him and he could smell the liquor on her breath, but it was not offensive and, with her perfume, blended into a spicy fragrance. Look, she told him, holding up the silver evening bag she carried. The 'It' girl with every home comfort, and she took a small silver jewelled flask from the bag. Every comfort known to man, she repeated, and parted her lips in a lewd but intensely provocative pout. Come and I'll give you a little sample. Her voice dropped to a husky whisper, and then she laughed and swirled away in a waltzing turn, humming a bar of the Blue Danube and the gossamer of her skirts floated about her thighs.
Clad in silk, her limbs gleamed in the soft light and when she dropped carelessly on to Mark's bunk, her skirts ballooned and then settled so high that he could see that the black elastic suspender-belt that held her stocking tops
was decorated with embroidered butterflies. The butterflies were spangled with brilliant colour and in exotic contrast to the pale soft skin of her inner thighs. Come, Markie, come and have a little itsy bitsy drinkie. She patted the bunk beside her and then wriggled her bottom across to make room for him. The skirts rucked up higher and exposed the wedge of her panties between her thighs. The material was so sheer that he could see the pale red- gold curls trapped and flattened by the silk.
Mark felt something crack inside him. For another moment, he tried to reckon consequence, to force himself back on to the course that was both moral and safe, but he new that in reality the decision was made when he had allowed her to stay. Come, Mark. she held the flask like bait, and the light reflected off it in silver splinters that she played into his eyes. The crack opened, and like a bursting dam, all restraint was swept aside. She recognized the moment and her eyes flared with triumph and she welcomed him to the bed with a little animal squeal, and with slim pale arms that wrapped about his neck with startling strength.
She was small and strong quick and demanding, and as skilled as Helena MacDonald, but she was different, so very different.
Her youth gave her flesh a sweetness and freshness, her skin an unblemished lustre, a luscious plasticity that was made more startling by her pale pigmentation.
When she slipped the strap off one shoulder and popped one of her glossy breasts out of the top of her bodice, offering it to Mark with a sound in her throat which was like the purr of a cat, he gasped aloud. It was white as porcelain and had the same sheen, too large for the slim fragile body but hard and firm and springy to his touch.
The nipple was tiny, set like a small jewel in the perfect coin of its aureole, so pale and delicate pink when he remembered Helena, dark and puckered and sprinkled with sparse black hair. Wait, Mark. Wait, she chuckled breathlessly, and stood quickly to drop the boa and dress to the cabin floor in one quick movement, and then to slip the sheer underwear to her ankles and kick it carelessly aside. She lifted her hands above her head and twirled slowly in front of him.
Yes? she asked. Yes, he agreed. Oh very much yes Her body was hairless and smooth except for that pale red mist that hazed the fat mound at the base of her belly, and her breasts rode high and arrogant.
She came back to him, kneeling over him. There, she whispered. There's a good boy, she crooned, but her hands were busy, unbuckling, unbuttoning, questing, finding, and then it was her turn to gasp.
Oh, Mark, you clever boy, all by yourself too! No, he laughed. I had a little help, And you are going to get a lot more, she promised, and dropped her soft, fluffy golden head over him. He thought that her mouth was as red and voracious as one of those low-tide rock-pool anemones that he had fed with such delight as a child, watching it softly enfold each tidbit, sucking it in deeply. Oh God, he croaked, for her mouth was hot, hotter and deeper than any sea animal could ever be.
Irene Leuchars carried her shoes in one hand and the feather boa hung over her other arm and trailed on the floor behind her. Her hair stood out in a soft pale halo around her head, and her eyes were underlined by dark blue smudges of sleeplessness, while the outline of her mouth was smudged and blurred, her lips puffed and inflamed. God! she whispered, I'm still tiddly, and she giggled, and lurched unsteadily to the roll of the ship. Then she pulled up the strap which had slipped from her shoulder.
Behind her in the long passageway, there was a clatter of china and she glanced back, startled. One of the whitejacketed stewards was pushing a trolley of cups and pots towards her. The morning ritual of tea and biscuits was beginning and she had not realized the hour.
Irene hurried away, turning the corner from the steward's sly and knowing grin, and she reached the door of Storm Courtney's cabin without another encounter.
She hammered on the door with the heel of one shoe, but it was a full five minutes before the door swung open and Storm looked out at her, a gown wrapped around her shoulders and her big dark eyes owlish from sleep. Irene, are you crazy? she asked. It's still night! Then she saw Irene's attire and smelled the rich perfume of her breath. Where on earth have you been? Irene pushed the door open and almost tripped over the threshold. You're drunk! accused Storm resignedly, closing the door behind her. No. Irene shook her head. It isn't liquor, it's ecstasy. Where have you been? Storm asked again. I thought you were in bed hours ago. I have flown to the moon, intoned Irene
