Soulstorm. Part 8

"Will they, c.u.mmings?"

c.u.mmings couldn't speak, could only look at Neville's calm eyes that had been so wild only a moment before. Finally the words came. "What do you want? What do you really want from me?"

"Not much," Neville said softly. "Just to see you scared s.h.i.+tless. Maybe to even see you cry." He chuckled. "Yes. I want to see you cry, c.u.mmings. How about it?"

c.u.mmings stirred then, clenching his jaw so that the muscles stood out starkly.

"Cry, c.u.mmings. Cry. And I'll give you a letter of reference. Hmm?"

"You're crazy." He could hear his voice trembling and hated himself for it.

"Crazy, huh? Fine. At least I'm not an a.s.shole. Now, get out of this room. You're not to come in here again. That's one of my 'reasonable requests.' Got it?"

It's too late was all that c.u.mmings could think. I've blown it. But the million-the million would still be his. They'd signed the papers, so Neville could go and ...

"f.u.c.k you, Neville."

Neville winced, and his smile faded momentarily as if a cloud had pa.s.sed over a lake at noon.

"Who the f.u.c.k do you think you are?" c.u.mmings went on.

"Your employer, for-"

c.u.mmings laughed. "My employer? Sure. But that doesn't keep you from being a b.a.s.t.a.r.d. And it doesn't mean I have to kiss your a.s.s either. I'll fulfill my part of the bargain. I'll spend the month here with you." c.u.mmings's mind was racing. He knew what he was saying and didn't care. There was no way Neville would ever do a thing for him, and if he had the million, he had nothing to lose. So vengeance sprang up in c.u.mmings's soul as it had done innumerable times in the past. This was a contest he knew he could win. Neville was merely sardonic. c.u.mmings was vicious with the studied venom that only experience can bring.

"Yeah, I'll stay. But I don't like being around you any more than you like me. You stink, Neville. You stink of easy money and never doing a day's work in your life."

Neville whitened, and inside c.u.mmings crowed, found it!

"So you play the lord of the manor and get us up here to play your G.o.dd.a.m.ned games with us. Well, I don't play with kids! And that's all you are here, brother-a rich kid at summer camp, no better than the rest of us, and when it comes right down to it, a h.e.l.luva lot poorer, because you don't know how to do s.h.i.+t! Your wife wipe your a.s.s for you?"

Neville shot out of his chair, trembling with rage. "Don't you. . ."

". . . dare mention my wife like that," c.u.mmings finished mockingly. "Okay, Ace, I won't. In fact, I won't even talk to you again, how's that?" He started purposefully toward the door, then turned. "As for crying, Mr. Neville, we'll just see who breaks down first before the month is over. And if you care to wager, I've got a million bucks just waiting for a sucker."

He went into the hall, slamming the door behind him. b.a.s.t.a.r.d! he thought, not sure whether he meant himself or Neville. He'd been a fool to talk to Neville like that, but he couldn't help it. All his life he'd sucked a.s.s with people just like Neville, wearing that same supercilious look of calculated pomp. Jesus, what fun it had been to crack that mask so that the scars showed underneath! Neville had looked guilty, absolutely guilty. And angry. There was that too.

But what could Neville do here in The Pines? Not a G.o.dd.a.m.n thing, that was for sure. But what about later, when they were out? Neville was a rich man with powerful friends, and c.u.mmings knew himself too well-the million wouldn't last forever. Even if it did, if he invested wisely and lived on the interest, he knew he couldn't stay out of the arena. He was a soldier just as much as McNeely was. The compet.i.tion was his life. To sit on a houseboat in Florida drinking pina coladas all day would kill him as surely as a stress stroke. He'd have to work again, and s.h.i.+pping was all he knew.

Neville could hurt him, hurt him badly.

If Neville survived.

A month was a long time. Things could happen. Things could happen.

The thought of seducing Gabrielle Neville came a short time later. At first it was merely a tickle of thought, as he remembered how long it had been since he'd had a woman. But once the idea had established itself, it would not go away, and he found himself aching for her. He considered masturbation, but something stopped him, and he could not tell whether it was his own pride or the feeling of being watched that had hung over him since seeing the man and woman on his bed.

The more he thought about Neville's wife, the more convinced he became that he could make love to her. He'd never been turned down before, even by the more outwardly virtuous of his a.s.sociates' wives, although admittedly there were those women to whom he would not make a proposal due to some quality about them that seemed to guarantee frustration.

Or perhaps, he thought, it was the lack of a quality that he sensed in them. There was an aura, faint and indefinable, about those women who responded eagerly. A spoor, was that the word? Whatever it was, Gabrielle Neville had had it. It hung around her like a red shawl.

Like a b.i.t.c.h in heat. He smiled, thinking about when he'd like Neville to find out about it. In one way, it would be nice to withhold the information until the month was up, then spring it as they left. That would certainly be the easiest.

But in another way, wouldn't it be nice if Neville knew before they left. Then c.u.mmings could feel his hate and rage at being trapped in a house with the man who'd cuckolded him.

Both had their advantages and disadvantages. He decided to play it as it lay. First things first. He couldn't f.u.c.k her if he couldn't find her.

He left his suite and started to look for Gabrielle Neville.

She was in the billiard room.

She was wearing a dark brown bulky sweater in which her trim figure was totally lost, and a pair of camel slacks. She wore no makeup, and she didn't need any. She was alone.

His entrance startled her so that she m.u.f.fed her shot, but she laughed easily at the rattling b.a.l.l.s. "Mr. c.u.mmings," she said, "I'm afraid you caught me at my worst."

He smiled charmingly. "Your form looked good."

She ignored the compliment. "Mr. McNeely and Mr. Wickstrom have been trying to teach me eight ball. At their peril, I'm afraid."

"Oh. Are they around?"

"They went up to the lounge for a drink. I decided I needed the practice more."

"I can hardly believe you'd need practice."

Her answering smile was a bit crooked, and he cautioned himself not to move too quickly.

"I mean, surely you've played the game before?"

"No, I haven't. A little billiards years ago," she said, gesturing to the smooth pocketless table across the room, "but David was never interested in pool, so I never was either. But it seems that it's all there is to do around here."

"Well, in that case shall we play a game?"

"Fine. Eight ball is the only one I know so far."

"Eight ball it is, then." c.u.mmings was a fair pool player. He'd had a table ever since he'd had a house with a rec room, and he beat Gabrielle handily in the first game. In the second he helped her more, suggesting the easiest shots, and at one point correcting her stance and grip so that he was able to put his arms around her. When she made no attempt to shrug off his instructive embrace, he grew even more confident. At first he had not been sure that the aura had been there, but now, as they stood pressed together, his fingers intertwined with hers on the end of the cue, he could sense it clearly.

"That's right," he purred into her ear. "That's the way."

"Like this, then?"

"Exactly." He stepped away and let her make the shot. The ball caught the edge of the pocket and swung in with a soft plunk.

She laughed. "You're a good teacher, Mr. c.u.mmings."

"Seth. My shot now."

They played a few more games while c.u.mmings let the warmth grow into intimacy, and soon he knew the outlines of her life story. It was only bare bones, but he could see behind the words enough to know that something was missing, that she was desperately unhappy with her life. She loves her husband, he thought oddly. But still he knew that she was ready for something more.

After the fifth game, which he only narrowly won, he put his cue into the rack with a mock sigh. "I'm afraid I've had it."

"Oh, come on. Next game I'll beat you."

"I don't doubt it, so call it masculine pride. All I want is a tall cool drink."

"Let's go to the lounge then. George and Kelly are probably still there." She placed her cue beside his in the rack.

"To tell the truth," he said offhandedly, "I've had my heart set on a Gilbey's for the past half hour. There's only Gordon's in the bar, I believe."

"I think you're right. But gallons of it." She laughed.

"I brought a fifth of Gilbey's with me just in case. Can I make you a drink in my suite?" Come on, baby. . .

"Oh . . ." The thought bothered her, he could tell. "I don't know, I . . ." Something quick.

"I've got ice and tonic. That's one good thing about never knowing whether the sun's over the yardarm or not." He chuckled and crossed to the door. "Join me?"

"Perhaps some other time. I . . ."

"Have a plane to catch? Come on, I don't bite. At least not on one drink."

She laughed. "All right. I'd love some of your Gilbey's."

In his living room they sat on the couch with their drinks and talked some more. One drink turned into two, then three, and c.u.mmings wondered how long it had been since he'd found her in the billiard room. Two hours? Three? It felt like days.

Finally there was a long lull in the conversation. He swirled the ice around in his gla.s.s and watched it as it melted. Then he said very softly, "It's a shame you're here."

"What do you mean?"

"In this house. Shut up like this." He paused. "It's like putting a rose in a dark trunk in the attic."

"Very pretty," she said with just a trace of wryness. "It's not that bad."

"Why did he bring you?"

"He didn't want to at first. I wanted to come."

At last he looked at her, trying to appear confused, strong, and tender all at once. "I'm glad you came," he said. "Otherwise I never would have met you."

She laughed. It was not a polite, flattered, girlish laugh at all, but mocking and superior, a laugh that made c.u.mmings feel like a perfect fool. "Mr. c.u.mmings," she said with a hint of coyness, "I believe you want to take me to bed."

"The thought had"-she said it with him-"crossed my mind." He chuckled, trying to retain as much dignity as possible. "I apologize for being so obvious."

"I'm married, you know," she said, "and you're supposed to be working for me and my husband. I don't think there's anything in our agreement about attempted adultery."

The harsh mockery had softened now into a barbed teasing. Maybe, he thought, maybe there was still a chance. "You can't blame me for trying."

"I suppose not. But it's hard to feel flattered when I have absolutely no compet.i.tion." She stood up. "Thanks for the drinks and for the compliment, though I don't suppose David would think of it as such."

"You're going?"

"Oh, yes. Now that I know your intentions." The smile vanished. "Don't get me wrong. I'm not cold. I'm not a frigid b.i.t.c.h. But I don't screw on command, and when I do, I do the talking." Her manner was cool, but c.u.mmings noticed the way she clenched her hands, the beads of sweat on her upper lip, the way her voice shook ever so slightly. The toughness was an act.

She was scared. But of what? Of him? Let it go, he thought. Let it go for now. He spread his hands and let a smile's shadow cross his face. "At your service, Mrs. Neville. My door is never locked."

Her face grew flushed, and she turned and walked rather unsteadily out the door.

c.u.mmings sat there, unsure of what had just happened. She'd turned him down, but he knew she hadn't wanted to. It had been the aura he'd sensed on first meeting her that gave him so much certainty. Then why had she walked out? What was she so G.o.dd.a.m.ned scared of?

He reached down and rubbed the erection that pressed against the crotch of his trousers. Soon. When they want it that bad, it's only a matter of time. He'd made the offer. She'd come to him sooner or later. He yawned, and stretched almost painfully. Despite the exercising, or perhaps because of it, his muscles were sore. A nap would feel good right now. He tossed off his clothes and showered, keeping an eye on the bedroom through the bathroom door just in case anyone or anything should make a reappearance, but no one did. Then he crawled between the cool sheets of the bed, thinking that he couldn't sleep on the couch all month. No dark images kept him awake, and he fell asleep almost instantly.

He awoke in darkness, and tried to remember if he'd turned out the lamp before slipping into bed. Then a crack of light showed at the other side of the room, and he stiffened, his breath caught in his throat. The door to the living room was slowly being opened, letting a dim distorted triangle of light into the room. It admitted something else too.

She was through the door in a second, so that all he saw was a glimpse of smooth naked skin and dark hair framing a pale face. He started to say "Gabrielle," but her softly whispered shh stopped him.

Then she was beside him in the bed, pressing closely against him so that her body molded itself to his. She was so cold, he nearly gasped with the shock. "Here," he whispered, putting his arms around her. "You're freezing."

She giggled. "I know," she said, "warm me up," and she reached down between his legs and began to pull on him purposefully, like a baker kneading dough.

He moved so that she could handle him more easily, and then kissed her. Her tongue filled his mouth, and he wondered for a moment if this was really happening or if it was a dream. The urgency of her touch convinced him of its reality, and in another moment he was on top of her. She was moist without foreplay and he entered her smoothly, surprised at the rabbitlike quickness of their union. He was usually a slow lover, and enjoyed the hundred touches, licks, and teases of long foreplay, but there was something about Gabrielle Neville, he thought, that made him priapic. As he thrust again and again and felt her answer back with equal force, he was amazed at the transition that seemed to have taken place in her. The aura, he said to himself, the aura never lies.

But suddenly he realized that now, when it should have been at its height, he could not detect it at all.

He froze, although she kept moving beneath him. Then she seemed to notice his lack of activity, and moaned. "What's wrong? Baby? What's wrong? Oh, keep going, keep moving, baby," and her fingers began playing with the s.p.a.ce behind his s.c.r.o.t.u.m. He hardened again and started to move.

So what? Aura or not, who cares? He was freaking a little, that was all, thinking things that didn't make any sense. Aura schmaura. Her whole f.u.c.king body's an aura! And he slammed against her, driving them both to a climax that lasted until he fell into an exhausted sleep.

c.u.mmings didn't remember her leaving, but he was alone in the bed when he awoke. He felt totally rested, and figured he must have been out a good eight or nine hours. He reached over and turned on the bedside light, then flipped back the sheets.

The bed was rumpled as h.e.l.l, but there were no stiff stains to bear evidence to their lovemaking. It had all, he thought with satisfaction, been tucked neatly away. He wondered if she was on the pill, and hoped that she wasn't, that maybe he'd knocked her up.

Congratulations, Mr. Neville, you're the father of a bouncing baby c.u.mmings.

He ran his finger over her pillow, hoping to pick up a stray hair for remembrance, but there was nothing. In fact, the pillow was fluffed up, so that there was no indentation from where her head had rested. In case Neville should walk in on me while I'm sleeping, no doubt. Not often you meet a good f.u.c.k who's smart too.

He got dressed. Though he'd thought of was.h.i.+ng up, he decided against it. He liked the dried feel of her on his groin. If he ran into Neville, maybe the man would smell his wife's s.e.x exuding from c.u.mmings. That would be nice.

He didn't meet Neville, but he did meet Gabrielle. She was in the kitchen eating an apple and talking with George McNeely.

"h.e.l.lo, Seth," said McNeely. "Seen any ghosts lately?"

"Please, George," Gabrielle said. "It's nothing to joke about."

McNeely shook his head. "Forgive me, but I think you're wrong. We've got to joke about them, like we joke about death. It's the only way we can accept them without descending into pathos." He smiled apologetically and stood up. "Join us for pinochle, Seth? Kelly's looking for the cards and it's a better game four-handed than three."