Джон Макдональд - S*E*V*E*N

But if you did not ride herd, if you did not put the clamp on them and tell them to make the compromises necessary to meet the deadline and cost projection, you could lose your ass to aesthetics.

You had to heed deadlines, because you had to stay a little bit ahead of the other predators involved in resort projects. The money goes to the lead runners, in delicious abundance. The farther back you are in the pack, the less the margin, the more dangerous the risk. And the ones in the rear copy too late and lose it all.

This was the condominium concept applied to resort apartment-hotel living. Own your own vacation apartment directly on one of the world’s greatest unspoiled beaches, and let management rent it for you when you are not using it. See brochure for special tax advantages available to U.S. citizens on this friendly tropic island.

So he had scrounged for the necessary risk capital in a tight-money market and put up the hotel portion and the first two wings, forty apartments per wing, of the projected eight wings. Seventy-one apartments sold thus far. Take it far enough to prove it works, then unload it. Four days now of dickering and maneuvering with Larssen from Stockholm, who arrived backstopped by his quartet of four cool-eyed young Swedish specialists.

Good to be outnumbered, he thought. Just me and my secretary and Lee Rountree, the large young man who had styled, and followed through on, the promotion program that had sold off seventy-one of the eighty so quickly and easily to good-risk customers. Not a lawyer or an accountant on our resident team. Left them on standby in Miami. Roy can slam the Lear over there and have them back here in one hour total flying time, plus the red tape at Miami International.

He could feel the last of the residual tension going out of his neck and shoulders and jaw muscles. At ten this morning they had been one hundred thousand Jamaica dollars apart. Larssen had suggested in his sleepy voice they split the difference. Aldo Bellinger had said they had already, in effect, done that. Long silence.

Aldo had finally said, “I guess I won’t get up and walk out, because there is a good chance we might do business again some day. And the next time I might not have an alternate buyer. Phone Kinkaid in Nassau and tell him I authorize him to tell you the top and final offer his clients made. If he gets too cautious, put me on the line. It comes to... let me do some conversion here... about twelve thousand Jamaica dollars more than my final offer to you. I’ll pay that premium to do business with you, Larssen, but not a hundred and twelve.”

It had taken the usual half hour to get through to Nassau. Aldo Bellinger had gone down to the pool. One of the young Swedes had come and got him and taken him back to Larssen’s apartment. Larssen had known Kinkaid would not lie. Everybody knew that, fortunately. So Larssen had shaken hands, told his people to go to work on the papers, and told them that he and Mr. Bellinger were going to spend some welcome time on the beach.

Bellinger could feel the residual heat of the sun under the brown hide of his thick shoulders and muscular back. The light from the departed sun flared on white high clouds, turning them salmon pink, and the beach and the sea turned a golden pink under the bright glow of the clouds. He saw a woman walking slowly along the beach on the wet packed sand left by the receding tide. She was coming toward him. He realized that it was Anne Faxton, his private executive secretary. Seven years of extraordinarily efficient, discreet, and loyal professional service. And in the last four years of the association, it had expanded into an emotional-sensual dimension as well. Nothing he or she had sought.

One of those tritenesses typical of the rich years of the old movies, of Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer prefabricated romance. Executive and secretary flying to important meeting. Airport closed by floods. Land at alternate airport eighty miles away. Too much in a hurry to wait for bus arranged by airline. Rent car. Have to take a detour. Heavy rains. Drive slowly through what appears to be a wide shallow torrent across highway. Front end drops into a washout. Lightning illuminates dark farmhouse behind them, on high ground. During break in rain, grab baggage and trudge through mud. Nobody home. Force porch window. Saturday. Evidence that family went to city to shop, probably cut off by rising water. No electricity. Phone out also. Fireplace. Candles. Kerosene and lantern in rear shed. Smashing rain and whistling wind and constant lightning. Secretary scared of thunderstorms all her life. Night gets colder. Sit on couch in front of fireplace. Loud crack of thunder makes her lunge, shuddering, into his arms. Extreme close-up, two shot, for kiss illuminated by dance of firelight. Storm and mood music on sound track. Camera angle on floor by couch, as one by one, sweater, blouse, skirt, bra, panties drop onto pile.

It had all seemed quite different by the bright morning light of the next day, the sky a high and cloudless blue, power and phone restored, a wrecker on the way to lift the undamaged car clear, the flood waters rapidly lowering.

Adult conversation. We shouldn’t have. It isn’t good practice. Can’t maintain efficient business relationship, employer and employee. Can’t afford to lose you, Anne. Depend on you for too many things, businesswise. Adult agreement. Go on as if it had never happened.

Would have been possible, he thought, if it had turned out to have been merely an average experience, or even a little better than average. But he had found himself tapping an entirely unexpected store of sexual energy and vitality in that narrow, brunette, small-breasted body. Wiry, limber, and demanding. Strong demands create strong responses. So it had been a lot better than very good.

So after the second violation of the pact, the tired old vow of going on as if it had never happened seemed idiotic. New agreement in order. Never never will the boss use the sporadic physical relationship as any kind of duty-hours leverage, and never never will the secretary take equivalent advantage. If it is there, and good, why waste it when the occasional opportunity presents itself? Don’t create opportunity. Let it happen in the course of business. Everybody is grown up. We’re not hurting anybody. And the usual risk was nonexistent, because his wife (now divorced) — after one experience of childbirth — had insisted he have a vasectomy. In fact, a welcome release of commercial tensions. Nothing wrong with affection. Under the circumstances, the only concession was the fifty-a-week raise which at first offended her so deeply he thought he had blown the whole ball bame. He asked Miss Faxton if she enjoyed the increased responsibilities he had given her in the operation and administration of his several corporate ventures. She said she did indeed enjoy them. He pointed out that he had given her raises commensurate with her increased duties because, enjoying the greater demands, she performed well. He pointed out that in this new area of mutual personal gratification she gave every impression of enjoying herself, and he could certify that her performance was excellent. Also, it did consume time which otherwise would be her own to use as she wished. She had stared at him, narrow-eyed, then wide-eyed, then suddenly guffawing in that genuine, open-throated, bawdy way that only the sensuous woman can properly carry off.

She came along the beach, stopping to stoop and pick up a shell from time to time. She took a deep tan readily, and she wore a navy blue bikini with narrow trim of white lace.

When she was near he waved his big arm in slow signal to her. She did not pretend not to see him. She looked up at him and then looked away, and continued her slow pace past the small sailboats pulled far above the high-tide line.