concern about Meyers-and the slight but constant fear that was with him when he was in the Tucker persona- disappeared. He felt more at ease, more relaxed than he had all day.
However, it was not yet time to mix a drink and sit down with Elise. There were certain details? He stepped into the large living-room closet and opened the wall safe, put away the wallet that contained the Tucker papers. He removed his own wallet from the safe and slipped that into his jacket pocket, closed the round metal door, and spun the combination dial. Now it was time for a drink and for Elise.
She was in the white-on-white kitchen, sitting at the big Lane table, sipping a Jack Rose and reading the newspaper. He put his hands on her shoulders, leaned down, and kissed the side of her slim neck, his lips lingering just long enough to feel the steady pulse of blood in her throat.
She shook her head. Her yellow hair bounced. 'Just a minute. I'm reading about myself.'
'You're in the Times?'
'Ssshhh,' she said, bending more closely over the paper.
He took off his jacket, draped it over another chair, then went back into the main hall to the bar, where he fixed himself a vodka martini and admired two of his most expensive possessions. While his hands worked with the bottles and the ice cubes, he studied the two pieces of primitive art that so starkly decorated the cream-colored wall in front of him. There was a fragment of a fifth-century Edo shield, roughly half of a well-worked copper oval trimmed in silver and inlaid with tiny pieces of hand-carved ivory. The African artisan who had made it had lived on the east bank of the Niger River among peace-loving people who made shields and rarely went to war. From the same tribe, but crafted by a different man, was a hunting spear with an intricately carved nine-foot shaft and an ivory-graced iron head. Tucker had paid forty thousand dollars for the fragment of the shield some six months ago. In August he had disposed of a few less important items in his collection and had cleaned out a savings account to come up with the full sixty-five thousand that the spear had cost him. It was the spear that had so severely depleted his resources and had forced him to look for another job. But he did not mind. The great lance was an incredibly beautiful piece of work worth any temporary insolvency.
Furthermore, the spear and the shield and the other bits and pieces in the apartment lent substance to his cover as a freelance dealer in primitive art objects. And that cover was essential. It satisfied Elise, and it stalled his father's hired investigators. He did not profit much from his art dealings, certainly not enough to live in the style he preferred, but that was a fact his father's men could learn only by burglarizing the IRS files.
'You can come in here and kiss me now,' Elise called from the kitchen.
He went back out there and kissed her, lifting her from her chair, bringing her to her feet so that they could embrace. When she finished kissing him, he said, 'What's this about your being in the Times?'
She slipped out of his arms and tapped the paper, turned it around on the table so he could read it where he stood. 'I made the business pages. The article on advertising.' Her smile was wide and bright.
Bending over the newspaper, palms flat on the table, Tucker read the brief story. It concerned the careers of several of the currently most successful actors and actresses in television commercials, and it gave Elise the highest marks for beauty, charm and professional skill. 'With a copy of this in your resume,' Tucker said, 'you ought to be able to get a lot more money the next time you push a product.'
She grinned, dimples puckering her smooth cheeks and making her look quite unlike a cool, sophisticated actress. 'Your mind's in the same groove as mine-take the suckers for everything you can get out of them.'
If only you knew, Tucker thought, reminded of what he was planning for Oceanview Plaza. 'Nonsense,' he said. 'You're worth every penny you get, no matter how much it is.'
The Times reporter was right about her beauty. She was tall and willowy like a show girl, five-eight to Tucker's five-nine. Her legs were exquisite and long, her waist pinched up as if corseted, her breasts high and round and firm. She was a real blonde with wild green eyes, natural and wholesome-and yet sultry. Her complexion was as smooth as an air-brushed bosom in Playboy, an attribute that made it possible for her to play roles ranging from gosh-wow ingenues to slinky sexpots with equal success.
He was continually amazed that she wanted to live with him, for she was the sort of woman who usually was escorted around town by tall handsome men whose shoulders were as wide as doorways. Yet she had come, and she stayed, and they were happy with each other.
In all but one way their relationship was fresh and honest. Each came and went as he pleased, with no deceptions, lies or jealousy. They did not make plans for a mutual future because neither wanted the other to feel obligated to any prepared script. They earned and did not own each other. She paid half the rent and utilities, bought half the groceries, because that was the only way she would remain with him. They trusted each other, respected each other as equals. However, when it came to his 'business,' Tucker deceived her. It was not that he thought she would turn him over to the police if she knew that he was a thief; it was simply that he did not want to involve her in his own criminal activity in any way for which she might later have to suffer.
He turned away from the newspaper and put his arms around her again. She was wearing a lightweight knitted suit that clung to her and seemed to dissolve between them. 'The New York Times thinks you're beautiful,' he said.
'Then I must be beautiful.'
'You're a celebrity.'
'Impressed?'
'Terribly.'
'Want my autograph?'
'On an eight-by-ten glossy.'
She kissed his chin. 'Have you ever been to bed with a celebrity?'
'Never.'
'Now's your chance,' she said.
'Are you propositioning me?'
'That's it exactly.'
In the master bedroom she undressed him, and then he returned the favor. The buttons on her knit suit parted easily. The flimsy material seemed to melt away from her, flowing down across her full curves and puddling at her feet.
His voice was soft, almost inaudible, when he said, 'You are beautiful, Elise.'
'Do you believe everything you read in the papers?' she asked.
Later, they went out to the kitchen and made dinner. He put the steaks on and mixed the salad dressing while she cleaned and chopped the lettuce, celery, and carrots. They had lots of cheap wine and finished with Tia Maria and coffee.
'I'm whoozy,' she said.
'So am I.' '
'Defenseless,' she said.
'Are you really?'
'Utterly defenseless.'
He took her back into the bedroom and helped her slip out of her comfortable quilted houserobe, and then he took advantage of her. It lasted longer this time, was slower but more complete for both of them.
Well afterward, she said, 'Oh, you got a telephone call from your father's lawyer.'
He rose up, leaning on one elbow, and looked at her. Her face was half hidden in purple shadows as smooth as steamed velvet, half revealed by the warm orange light of the bedside lamp. Darkness molded to her body and subtly emphasized the ripe lines of it. 'You mean Littlefield called?' he asked.
'Yes.'
'When?'
'About one o'clock this afternoon.' She was lying on her back, but she turned slightly to face him. The shadows retreated from her face.
'Why didn't you tell me sooner?'
'I knew it would spoil the evening,' she said. 'I was horny. As you may have noticed. And I knew that if you had Littlefield and your father to worry about, you would never be in the mood.'
He laughed, cupped and. kissed one of her breasts. 'What did the bastard want?'
'I really don't know,' she said. 'You're to call him back. He left his home number in case you didn't get in until after five.'
