Dump Jackson - Uncle_s awful urge

"I don't know… she just grooved on him. Maybe she was looking for a sugar daddy… how the hell was I supposed to tell her what she could and could not do? I mean, dig it Livingston, Amy's fucking independent, a free spirit…"

That had been the gist of what Rachel had told him, explaining how a few days before they were all scheduled to return home, she'd met a man at one of the cafes they were at, how the guy had come on really strong and how Amy had agreed to go out with him – "In style," avowed Rachel – for dinner.

"The next I knew she said she was gonna move in with the cat, said he was a gas and loaded with bread, that she'd live like a princess and smoke all the dope she wanted, he had everything you could ask for," the girl had concluded.

The man's name was Rene Martinon and supposedly, he kept an apartment in the city as well as a villa outside of Paris. That was all Drew had to go by. Once he had ensconced himself in his hotel room, he had the management send up a telephone directory. With the bellboy's help he was able to narrow his choice down to two possible individuals, both of whom bore the name of Rene Martinon, both of whom, flaunted properly acceptable and prestigious addresses.

Phone calls elicited responses at both numbers. But he hung up before speaking to his party, not wanting Amy to have any idea that he was on her trail… or Rene, for that matter. But the following morning, having divested himself of jet lag, he began his amateur sleuthing by arriving at around eight in the morning in front of one of the addresses he had gotten from the telephone directory.

The man who emerged from the private house seemed far too old to fit Rachel's description of a fellow of about his own age, replete with suave Continental manners. Nevertheless, after the gentleman had hailed a cab and left the area, Drew rang the doorbell and presently a young woman dressed in a maid's costume answered the door.

Five minutes later he knew that this was not his man. The Rene Martinon he sought lived five or six blocks away and so with a determined step he headed in the right direction, hoping that he would find his niece with a minimum of effort.

Unlike the "wrong" Martinon, this one lived in a small townhouse which he shared with another tenant. He let himself into the building and climbed the flight of stairs that led to the man's suite of rooms. No sounds emanated from the other side of the door.

But that didn't stop him or goad him into turning around, retracing his steps and accepting defeat. Rather, he pulled his shoulders back as if he was prepared for an immediate man-to-man confrontation. And then he took hold of the brass lion's head knocker and brought it down with three loud and resounding knocks.

A flurry of footsteps could be heard coming from the other side of the door. And then a voice, a young female voice in fact, was heard calling out, "Rene, Rene is that you, mon cher?" The French accent was not a native one and Drew was glad he spoke the language fairly fluently, having mastered it during several business trips he had made in the past few years to Paris and Marseilles.

He held his breath and waited as the doorknob turned, a lock was unlatched and then the ornate oak door swung open to reveal the suddenly startled figure of a young Nordic looking girl dressed in absolutely nothing but her birthday suit.

"Monsieur!" she cried out with alarm, ducking back out of sight and trying to close the door in his face.

But Drew, by no little means delighted, was also one step ahead of the youngster. He stuck his foot in the doorway so that she was unable to close the door in his face. "I'm looking for Amy, Amy Mitchell," he announced in English, his voice taking on a suitably authoritarian ring.

"Let go. I know nothing. I know nobody named Amy," the girl said in fluent English.

Danish or Swedish, Drew supposed from her accent.

"Will you just let me in a second to talk to you? Jesus, I'm not going to rape you, for God sakes," he exclaimed, though the thought had certainly entered his mind.

"Just a second then. Let me get a robe," she reluctantly replied and stepped away from the door as he moved forward. He let himself in catching a glimpse of a stark white ass in contrast to the winter tan the rest of her body fashionably embraced.

She brushed back a strand of sun bleached blonde hair and moved towards him, not the least bit put off now that she had something over her naked skin. "Now," she said, as if she was determined to take control of the situation and master any difficulties he might be about to strew in her path. "What is this about an Amy person, Mr…?"

"Mr. Livingston," he said curtly, at which point he reached into his left side jacket pocket and pulled out a thin and impressive looking alligator billfold with gold corner bracings. He flipped it open and flashed it before her un-communicating blue eyes. "F.B.I., C.I.A., Interpol liaison between the White House and French intelligence," he said with matter-of-fact curtness.

The identity cards had all been provided to him by a friend and were, by no means, even copies of the real thing. But they were enough to change the girl's tune once she had seen him flash the glassine protected identification before her suddenly widened and almost frightened eyes.

"I see," she said in a more subdued tone of voice and behind the front of her hastily donned bathrobe he was able to see the way her breasts rose and fell, fluttering hotly with each breath she took.

"Now we know that M. Martinon has been seen in the company of this American teenager. She is the daughter of a wealthy industrialist and the American authorities do not take lightly to this situation, Miss…?"

"Christine," she muttered.

"Christine what?"

"Pedersen," the word coming out of her full sensual lips with a note of submission and glumness. "But I don't see what this has to do with Rene."

"Oh you don't, do you," he snickered knowledgeably, pleased that the girl had fallen for his story, that she had believed the cards to be the genuine article and not phonies. "Well suppose we sit down and have ourselves a little chat, Miss Pedersen. It would be a terrible thing if the Danish or Swedish authorities had to bring you home to face possible kidnapping charges, as well as your intake of drugs, I may add."

She nodded her head and with a weary sigh led him away from the front door and into the living room. Drew was almost having a good time, enjoying this charade, the power-plays he was exerting upon the girl.

"I'm telling you, Mr. Livingston, I don't know anything about this. Rene lets me use his apartment when I come down from Stockholm. That's all," she told him.

"A likely story," he snorted contemptuously. "And where is M. Martinon now, may I ask?"

"In… in… I don't know. I have my own set of keys to the house. He wasn't here when I arrived, hasn't been here for the past week, in fact."

"May I see your passport then? You say you've been in Paris only one week, is that correct?"

"Well… uh," and she shuddered, not knowing what to say to him.

She knows a helluva lot more, a helluva lot more than even Rachel did, Drew thought to himself, wondering if the same kind of cajolery he had used upon Amy's girl friend could work in this case. But no, despite the fact that the girls were all of about the same approximate age, Swedish Christine was a hard cookie and a tough nut to crack.

He knew he'd have to take a different course of action, for no doubt the girl was far from blocked or inhibited in terms of her sexual experience. If anything, she just might be Martinon's young mistress, or one of any young mistresses, he thought to himself.

Everything seemed to be getting heavier and more confusing with each passing second.

"Well," he said again with impatience. "Are you going to show me your passport or aren't you, Miss Pedersen?"