John Davis - Unofficial and Deniable

Harker couldn’t conceal his wide smile. ‘I promise.’

The corners of her lovely mouth twitched. ‘And whatever happens in the morning, it won’t affect your decision as to whether you publish my book or not?’

The remnants of Harker’s conscience spluttered out. ‘Absolutely not.’

‘It’s a deal?’

‘It’s a deal.’

She regarded him for a long moment; then her mouth went into a wide grin. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘So. As they say in the classics, my place or yours?’

The CCB paid for the lunch, despite her protests. ‘I’d like to feel I’m retaining some measure of control over my virtue, Major – if I kick you out in the morning at least I won’t feel in your debt!’ It all seemed terribly funny – and very erotic: here was an unconditional agreement about carnal experimentation between two adults with no illusions, no promises, no complaints entertained afterwards. ‘No prisoners taken, Major?’ They were both smiling broadly as they walked down the steps of the New York Yacht Club and hailed a cab. And when the driver said ‘Where to?’ Josephine spluttered, ‘What the hell, let’s go to your place, driver!’ It seemed uproariously funny.

But when they reached Harker’s apartment block down on East 22nd Street, and opened the ornate wrought-iron gate into the archway, then crossed the courtyard towards the rear block, a solemnity seemed to descend on her. They walked in silence down the corridor to his door. While he unlocked his apartment, she stared at the floor. He opened the door and let her enter first. She took a few paces inside, then turned, and leant back against the wall.

She looked at him. ‘Sure this is wise? Mixing business with pleasure?’

With the last vestige of his conscience Harker replied, ‘I never said it was wise. I just said it wasn’t unusual.’ He added, ‘And we’re not in business yet.’

‘But I’m hoping we will be,’ Josephine said softly. She looked at him a long moment, then said solemnly: ‘You won’t feel compromised?’

Oh Jesus. ‘Not if you won’t.’

‘How can I be compromised? You’re the one who has to decide about my book.’ She looked at him. ‘If you want to pull out of our little deal, fine.’ She was clutching her folder to her breasts.

This was his out. He could kiss her on the cheek and offer to call her a taxi with a clear conscience. But he didn’t want to do that, he didn’t care about his conscience. He asked, ‘Do you want to pull out?’

She stood at the wall, looking at him from under her dark eyebrows. She shook her head slightly. ‘Uh-uh.’

Harker grinned. Then Josephine smiled widely, and he took her in his arms.

He crushed her against him, her folder between them. Then her arm went around his neck, and she kissed him ravenously. Their teeth clashed and her tongue flashed into his mouth and she moaned. His hand slid down her back over her buttocks and thighs. Oh, the wonderful soft smooth feel of her. She thrust her pelvis against his loins and kissed him hard: then she broke the kiss, and leant back in his arms, eyes smouldering.

‘Just please don’t bullshit me about my book,’ she breathed.

‘It’s a deal.’

Harker turned, took her hand, and led her down the short corridor, into his bedroom.

It was tidy, the double bed made because he had been away for most of the week. Josephine solemnly put her folder on to a table. Harker put his arms around her and kissed her again. Then he clutched her breast, and the full firm soft beauty of it made him groan. He plucked at the buttons of her blouse, and she peeled his jacket off his shoulders. Then her fingers went to his tie. They feverishly fumbled and pulled the garments off each other, their mouths crushed together, their hands groping and sliding. Then she turned out of his clasp, her hair awry. She opened the door to his bathroom.

She slid back the glass door of the shower and turned on the tap. Hot water began to gush. Steam billowed. She held out her hand to him. Harker struggled out of his trousers. Then he stepped under the teeming water and took her nakedness in his arms. And, oh, the glorious naked feel of her, her back and hips and belly and breasts and thighs against him as they kissed feverishly.

Harker woke up about midnight. Josephine was sprawled on the bed beside him, one long leg bent, her blonde tresses spreadeagled across the pillow. The bedside lamp was on, the night lights of Manhattan glowed in the big window.

He looked at her lying there: he could see the small scar on her left breast where she had shot herself, the exit scar near her armpit. Oh, she was beautiful, the swell of her hip, the line of her legs seemed the loveliest he had ever seen. And their lovemaking had been the most glorious he had ever known. The evening seemed a dream, a haze of breathtaking sensuality. And, oh, it felt like love.

What was he going to do about this?

He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling.

He had lived long enough to know it couldn’t be love yet, of course. But it was certainly the start of that delicious phenomenon, and what was absolutely certain was that he did not want to let this woman go – he simply had to pursue it. But what was equally clear was that no way could he betray her.

So there was only one honourable thing to do: get this publisher-author masquerade right out of the way, tell her that Harvest House could not publish her book, tell Felix Dupont that Josephine did not want him to do so because she had a better publisher in mind – and tell Dupont that he would learn absolutely nothing new about her anti-apartheid activities because she wasn’t interested in seeing him again.

Harker sighed grimly at the ceiling.

Yes, but when Dupont found out that he was still seeing her – as he would, sooner rather than later – the bastard would rub his hands in glee and put the screws on him to deliver information about her. He could not be party to a deception like that, so he would either have to deceive Dupont, or deliver insignificant information the bastard knew already.

Or refuse.

Yes, and if he refused he would be fired. Being fired from the CCB didn’t worry him – but fired from Harvest House? His American work-permit revoked? Sent back to Pretoria?

Harker sighed again. The only alternative was to take up her offer of walking out: drop her right now. Tell her that last night was all a big mistake. And that Harvest House didn’t think it wise to publish a political book …

Harker lay there beside her on the double bed in the glow of Manhattan’s lights. Yes, undoubtedly, that is what he should do. Get out of this potential briar patch of multiple deceit while he could still do so with reasonable grace and a reasonably clear conscience. It would wound her feelings, but only her pride and that would be good, she’d keep well away from him, from the clutches of the CC fucking B. In fact he would be the only one to be hurt.

He lay there, thinking it through. At least he had to go through the motions of reading her book and rejecting it.

He hated this. With all his lustful heart he just wanted to roll over and take her beautiful body in his arms again. But he had best get up and start reading that book so he could tell her when she woke up that Harvest would not publish it.

He got up off the bed carefully so as not to waken her, and pulled on trousers. He picked up her folder and walked barefoot across the room. He stopped at the door and looked back at her. What a crying-out pity …

It was one o’clock on a Sunday morning in June. He was wide-awake now. He went into his kitchen, opened the refrigerator and got a beer. He snapped the cap off and upended it to his mouth. He sighed grimly and returned to the living room, picked up the folder, and sat down on the sofa.