Ричард Деминг - She’ll Hate Me Tomorrow

In any event he was certain there was no physical danger lurking in the cottage. And Christine was a beautiful woman.

Reaching out both hands, he cupped her plump breasts and gently rolled the nipples between his thumbs and forefingers. With a little gasp she started to draw back and raise her hands defensively, then halted with her back rigid and stared into his eyes.

He felt the nipples jut to rock hardness beneath his touch. Her back arched to push her breasts more firmly against his palms, her full lips parted and a peculiar strained expression appeared on her face.

“I can’t stand much of that,” she said in a strained voice. “I’ll fly right apart.”

With a slight smile, he continued the gentle massage. Her expression grew more strained and her bosom pressed harder against his palms. Suddenly she reached up with both hands to tear the negligée down off her shoulders and jerk her arms from the sleeves. Bare arms went about his neck and she threw herself against him convulsively, pulling his head down to hers and meeting his lips with her mouth wide open, while her pelvis mashed savagely against his loins.

Slipping one arm across her shoulders, Ross slid the other beneath her knees and effortlessly came to his feet. The negligée remained draped across the sofa as he carried her into the bedroom.

Moments later, his clothing was piled on a chair, and their bodies were twined together in mutual passion. Breathing heavily, her lips were glued against his and her tongue probed deeply into his mouth.

Minutes added up to a quarter of an hour, and then beyond. There was no sound in the room other than their labored breathing and the rhythmic creaking of bedsprings. Then her body began to shake uncontrollably, her lips drew back from his and she emitted a single gasp. An instant later both turned limp and motionless as they reached the peak of bliss in one mutual burst of tumultuous feeling...

Ross didn’t get home until six a.m. When he switched on his bedside light, the lump on the far side of the bed stirred, a blond head appeared from beneath the covers, and Stella peered up at him sleepily.

“Hi,” she said. “What time is it?”

“Six a.m.”

She said nothing more, merely watching from sleepy eyes as he undressed. When he climbed in next to her, she snuggled against him.

“I’m not going to act possessive any more,” she informed him.

“Oh?” he said, stroking her hair.

“I’m not even going to ask where you were or what you were doing. I figure that’s your business.”

“That’s nice.”

“Of course, if you want to tell me, I’ll listen.”

He laughed.

“I suppose you were with that woman all this time?”

“Uh-huh.”

“You don’t even lie about it,” she murmured reproachfully.

“Why should I? I consider myself a free agent.”

“I know. And I have a feeling that if I get pushy, you’ll send me back to the pink bedroom.”

“That’s easy to avoid,” he said. “Don’t get pushy.”

She sighed. “It takes a very understanding woman to put up with you, Clancy. I don’t think I want to know what you and that woman have been doing for four hours.”

“All right.”

“Do you feel like making love?” “No.”

“I thought you probably wouldn’t,” she said sadly. “Then just hold me and we’ll go to sleep.”

Stella was an unusually understanding woman, he thought as he drifted off to sleep.

The next day Ross couldn’t get the airline ticket out of his mind despite his rationalization of it the night before. After brooding about it for a time, he finally went down to his office about three p.m., looked up a Chicago phone number in his private address book and dialed it direct.

When a female voice said, “ Herald Express ,” he asked for the city room. When he got that, he asked for Jimmy Dolan.

A few moments passed before a bright, cheerful voice said, “Dolan speaking.”

“Hello, Jimmy,” the gambler said. “This is Clancy Ross.”

“Why you old son-of-a-gun!” Dolan said in a delighted voice. “When did you get in town?”

“I didn’t. I’m phoning long distance from St. Stephen.”

“Oh,” the reporter said, disappointed. “What’s up?”

“I need a favor.”

“Sure. They finally got to that honest wheel of yours, huh? How much? I haven’t a nickel myself, but my credit is unlimited.”

“Not money, you meathead. No wonder you’re always broke, if you borrow money to loan to people.”

“Not people, Clancy. Just a select few who I know would do the same for me. What is it you want?”

“Some information. You may be able to find it in your newspaper morgue, but more likely you’ll have to use contacts.”

“Shoot.”

For five minutes Ross explained exactly what he wanted.

When he finished, the reporter said, “Got it. I’ll go right to work on it and shoot you an air-mail special-delivery letter.”

When he hung up, Ross felt better. Even if it turned out that he had gone to unnecessary trouble, he liked to cover all bets.

Shortly after the club opened at four p.m. Ross took a local phone call in his office from a man who identified himself only as “Whisper.”

“I got something should be worth at least half a C,” Whisper said in a rasping voice.

“Yeah? What?”

“It’s all over the grapevine how you ran a couple of Syndicate hoods out of town for passing at some dame what works for you.”

“That isn’t worth a nickel,” Ross said. “I knew it when it happened, long before the grapevine did.”

“That ain’t the tip,” Whisper said huskily. “The word is out that the Syndicate’s pressuring Bix Lawson. He’s been told if he can’t control things in his own town, the Syndicate will move in to help him. They gave Bix till this coming weekend to come up with the girl — or else.”

“Well, well. What was Bix’s reaction?”

“He told the big boys from Chicago he’d come up with her.”

“I guess that’s worth half a C,” the gambler said. “You can pick it up any time, from either Sam Black or Oscar the headwaiter.”

Hanging up, he picked up the phone on his desk and got hold of Sam Black.

“Whisper will be in for a fifty, Sam,” he said. “Pass the word to Oscar, in case he hits him instead of you.”

“Okay,” Black said. “I was just going to phone you. Amos Morton is here to see you.”

“The cop?” Ross said, frowning.

“Uh-huh.”

“What’s he want?”

“He won’t say, but he’s got that official-business look about him and there’s some kind of legal document sticking out of his side pocket. It can’t be a search warrant, or he would have flashed it on me instead of just politely asking to see you.”

“Hmm,” Ross said. “I have an idea what it might be. Stall him for ten minutes. Keep giving the wrong signal to the elevator, so he’ll think it’s not on the main floor. As a matter of fact, it won’t be for a time.”

Hanging up, he left the office and walked down the hall to the gaming room. At that time of day there was a sprinkling of only half a dozen patrons and most of the employees were standing about idly. The two cocktail girls were chatting near the door to the small barroom. Ross crooked his finger at the smaller of the two, a pert little redhead of about twenty-five.

“Yes, Mr. Ross?” she said, coming over.

“Just follow me,” he said, returning to the foyer and motioning Stella out from behind the counter of the cloakroom.

When Stella joined them and gave Ross an inquiring look, he carefully studied the figures of both girls.

“You’re about the same size,” he decided. “Come on back to my office.”