Harold Robbins Thriller Collection

by Harold Robbins

  Quickly she did the two lines and handed the bill back to him. She felt her pulse quicken as the coke exploded in her head. “It is good.”

  “It’s not the crap they sell here in Paris,” he said, picking up his drink. “Cheers.”

  “Cheers.” They sipped at their drink.

  “When your mother was there it was different,” he said. “She had ideas, there was a feeling of excitement. We were doing things. Now all that is gone. All Johann wants to do is keep steady, just hold on to what we have. Expansion costs money and he won’t take any chances.”

  “But we’ve been making money, haven’t we?” she asked.

  “Of course,” he said. “But we should be making a lot more. Compared to some of the other companies we’ve been standing still.” He looked at her. “Are you really serious about coming to work here?”

  She nodded.

  He smiled. “Then maybe there’s a chance for us yet. With you around Johann might be more venturesome.”

  She looked at him. “I didn’t come up here to talk business.”

  He pulled at the knot that tied her shirt closed. It fell open revealing the nipples already distended with excitement. “Jesus!” he said, leaning forward to take one in his mouth.

  She turned his face up to her. “Shiki said my breasts were too big.”

  “What the hell does he know?” he asked, burying his face between them, pressing them against his cheek with either hand. “They’re beautiful.”

  “I asked him to eat my pussy,” she said. “But he wouldn’t.”

  “You don’t have to ask me. Just get out of those damn jeans.”

  She rose to her feet in front of him. She pulled the snap and then the zipper and pushed the jeans down over her hips. “He said my ass was too big too,” she said, turning away from him and bending slightly forward so that her buttocks were practically thrust into his face.

  He was silent.

  “Slap my ass,” she said.

  He hit her playfully.

  “Harder,” she said. “Like you mean it.”

  “I don’t want to hurt you,” he said.

  “You won’t hurt me,” she said. “Do what I tell you. Hit me hard.”

  His open hand cracked across her buttock. He could see the white handprint on it. He hesitated.

  “More,” she said fiercely. “Don’t stop.”

  His hand began to rise and fall rapidly. He could see the white handprints turning red on her buttocks and suddenly he realized that she was grinding her hips and moaning, masturbating herself at the same time. Excitement began to rise in him and suddenly he was angry. The bitch was just using him to get off. Now he really began to hit her.

  “I’m coming,” she cried. “I can’t stop coming!”

  Angrily he spun her around to face him. There was a strange inner look on her face. She didn’t even seem to see him. Without thinking, he slapped her face. “What about me, you bitch?”

  She stared at him, suddenly silent, then her eyes fell before his gaze. She sank to her knees before him, her fingers quickly opening his trousers. She thrust her hand into his trousers, freeing him, and then further underneath him until a finger found his anus. “I want you to come in my mouth,” she said, covering him with her lips.

  A moment later he felt his testes explode and the semen bursting forth. The orgasm wracked his body and began to subside, but still she didn’t stop. With one hand she held him still rigid and kept drawing on his glans until he could no longer bear the agony, his penis feeling like nothing but raw nerve ends. He sank his hand in her hair and pulled her away from him.

  Her cheeks and chin were covered with semen that had escaped her mouth. For a long moment he stared at her until he caught his breath. “You’re crazy,” he said.

  Her eyes suddenly turned cold. “I’m not like my mother,” she said angrily. “Don’t ever say that to me again.”

  She started to get to her feet. His hands on her shoulders kept her down. “I didn’t mean that kind of crazy,” he said quickly. “I meant crazy great.”

  He felt the tension leave her. “You fucked with my mother, didn’t you?”

  He nodded.

  “Was she good?”

  He looked at her. “Yes. But not like you. You’re fantastic.”

  “She wasn’t really crazy,” she said. “She had a nervous breakdown.

  She was working too hard and there were too many things on her mind.”

  “I know that,” he said.

  She rose to her feet. “Christ, I’m soaking wet. I must have come a thousand times.” She wiped herself with her fingers then raised them to her mouth and sucked them. Again she pressed her fingers into herself. This time she held them out to him. “Taste me.”

  Slowly he licked her fingers.

  “Good?” she asked.

  “Like honey.”

  “As good as my mother?”

  “Better,” he said.

  She laughed aloud and pulled his face toward her. “Then eat me,” she said.

  Johann parked the car in front of her apartment house. He sat there a moment with the motor running, then reached across to open the door for her.

  “It’s early yet. Why don’t you come in for a nightcap?” she asked.

  He smiled to himself as he always did when she spoke German. The faint American accent gave the language a strange musical sound, a softness it did not ordinarily have. He answered in English. “Thank you,” as he switched off the motor.

  The light scent of her perfume and the warmth of her body seemed to permeate him as they stood in the tiny elevator barely large enough for the two of them as it took them up to her apartment on the third floor. He felt a slight sense of relief when it finally stopped and he could hold the door to let her out. He followed her to her apartment and waited while she opened the door with her key, then followed her inside.

  It was a small apartment, what the French called a “studio,” which consisted of a fair-sized room with a bed that doubled as a couch during the day, a kitchen in a double-doored closet, and a separate bathroom. A lamp was glowing in the far corner of the room, and that, more than anything else, showed that she was basically American. No Frenchman or other European would leave a light on while he was not at home.

  She gestured toward an armchair. “I have whiskey, gin, vodka and cognac.”

  “Cognac, please.” He watched while she opened the small kitchen doors and took down the bottle and two glasses from the closet over the sink. She poured the golden liquor into the glasses, then came back to him. He took one from her hand. “Thank you,” he said.

  She smiled. “Are you always so formal when you come to a lady’s apartment?” she asked, speaking in English now.

  “Habit,” he answered. He held up his glass. “Santé.”

  They clinked glasses and sipped. “You can sit down now,” she said, crossing to the couch and sitting opposite him.

  He sat down carefully as the chair was fragile and might break under him. It was deceptively comfortable and he sank into it. He swirled the cognac in his glass and sipped at it again.

  “Dinner was lovely,” she said. “I really enjoyed it.”

  “You didn’t eat much.”

  She laughed. “I have to watch my diet.”

  “Why? You look perfect to me.”

  She laughed again. “That’s why I have to watch it. Every ounce I swallow turns into a pound on me.”

  He was silent for a moment. “Anyway, I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

  “I did, really.” Then she too was silent.

  He sipped at his cognac again. “I suppose I’d better finish my drink and go,” he said. “I have to be at work early tomorrow.”

  “Johann,” she said. “I’ll be going back to the States next week.”

  He nodded slowly. “I thought you might be. When do you plan your next trip back here?”

  She met his eyes. “I don’t think I’ll be coming back. At least not for a long time.”
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  He felt a sinking feeling in his chest. “I’m sorry, Heidi. I’ve come to look forward to your visits.”

  “I am too,” she said. “But only because I’ll miss you.”

  He was silent again, swirling the amber liquid in his glass.

  “I’ve been coming to Paris every third month for two years now, Johann,” she said. “And each time we see each other. Lunch, dinners. I can’t count how many times. I know how you feel about me, yet you never say anything. Never. Why, Johann? I don’t understand, why?”

  He took a deep breath, meeting the hurt look in her blue eyes. “I’m forty-six years old, Heidi. Seventeen years older than you.”

  “Sixteen,” she said quickly. “I’ll be thirty next month.”

  He didn’t smile. “I’m a serious man, a respectful man. I’m not a playboy who would have a casual affair with you. I like you too much.”

  “I’m not a child, Johann. I’m a woman. And a divorced woman at that. Don’t you think that I have feelings too? And desires?” She shook her head. “But you never said anything. And you still haven’t told me why.”

  “I have responsibilities, heavy responsibilities,” he said.

  “I know about that,” she said. “Janette and Lauren. I haven’t been deaf and you’ve certainly talked enough about it. But does that mean that you cannot have a life of your own? Or a family of your own if you should want it?”

  “They have no one but me to protect them. I made a promise. First to von Brenner. Then to Tanya. I can’t go back on my word.”

  “I’m not saying you should go back on your word,” she said. “I’m only saying that you’re entitled to have a life of your own, that’s all.”

  “Heidi,” he said.

  She heard the pain in his voice and rose from the couch. She sank to her knees in front of him and looked up into his face. “I love you, Johann, Do you love me?”

  “Yes.” The words tumbled from his lips. “Yes, I love you.”

  “Then, for God’s sake, kiss me,” she cried. “You know in all of two years, you never even once kissed me.”

  He leaned down toward her as her arms went up around his neck, his mouth searching her soft lips and tasting the salt of her tears.

  She found a place to park, jumped her car onto the sidewalk and got out and locked it. She smiled, pleased with herself. That was one of the advantages of a mini—it could be parked anywhere.

  It was a little after eleven o’clock at night but in La Coupole it was high noon. The theaters were just beginning to empty and already the brasserie was jammed with people. She pushed her way through the crowds waiting for a table and went to the back of the restaurant. There was a table in the far corner that had everything but their names on it. From seven in the evening on, one or the other of their crowd was always sitting there. They had an unspoken rule that until two o’clock in the morning whoever was at the table could not leave until someone came in to take it over. If it was empty for even one minute, it would be gone, and then they would have to stand in line like the rest of the crowd.

  Marie-Thérése and Françoise were sitting at the table, Coca-Colas in front of them, staring at Jean, whose head was resting on his folded arms on the table, his untouched pastis next to his elbow. She bent over and kissed both girls on the cheek, then straightened up. “What’s the matter with him?” she asked.

  “He’s out of it,” Françoise said in a disgusted voice. Jean was her boyfriend. “Some Moroccan laid a cube of black hash on him. I took two hits and was a high as a kite but he wouldn’t quit until it was almost all gone. I don’t know how he even made it to the table.”

  “Asshole,” she said, sitting down next to him.

  The waiter appeared as if by magic. “Bon soir, Janette,” he smiled. “What’ll it be tonight?”

  “Bon soir, Sami,” she smiled back up at him. “I’m hungry tonight. I’ll have a hamburger au cheval, frites and a beer.”

  “Right away,” Sami said, disappearing as magically as he had come.

  She looked around the restaurant. “Anybody around?”

  “Nobody.” Marie-Thérése shrugged her shoulders. She looked across the table at Janette. “Where have you been? Your eyes look funny.”

  Janette laughed. “It’s just the light in here. It always takes me a few minutes to get used to it.”

  “Don’t give me that shit,” Marie-Thérése said. “I know you. You’re on something.”

  Janette felt good, strong and full of energy. She laughed again, patting the shirt pocket over her breast. “Coke,” she said, lowering her voice to a whisper. “And I’ve got enough here for all of us.”

  Sami came back to the table and put her hamburger and beer down in front of her. She began to eat voraciously. “I’m starved,” she said between mouthfuls.

  “I don’t get it,” Françoise said. “I heard coke was supposed to kill your appetite.”

  “Nobody told me,” Janette said, picking up some of the frites with her fingers and dipping them into the mustard before placing them in her mouth. “As soon as I finish we’ll get out of here and go over to my place.”

  “What about Jean?” Françoise asked.

  “The hell with him,” she answered. “Let him sleep. They’ll throw him out in the morning.”

  “I couldn’t do that,” Françoise said hesitantly. “He’d never talk to me again.”

  “You wouldn’t be missing anything,” Janette said. “I’ve never heard him say anything that made sense.”

  Françoise was beginning to get angry. “You don’t like him because he won’t jump when you snap your fingers.”

  Janette stared at her. “I don’t like him because he’s stupid,” she said flatly. “And I have no patience with stupid people.” She wiped the last of the egg yolk from her plate with two frites and pushed the empty plate away from her. She held up her hand for the waiter. “I’m getting a coffee and then I’m going. Either of you like anything?”

  “No, thanks,” Françoise answered. She glanced at Jean. “I’m getting worried. I can’t sit here all night with him.”

  Sami did his magic act. Janette wiped her fingers with her napkin and handed it to him. “Two double espressos and another napkin, please.”

  “Right away,” he said, clearing the plates away from in front of her. He was back in a moment with the coffee. He put one down in front of her and looked around the table questioningly.

  “It’s for him.” Janette gestured at Jean.

  Sami looked, then shrugged his shoulders and put the coffee down. He began to turn away but Janette stopped him.

  “Check, please.”

  Sami flipped open his little order pad, made a note with his pencil, then tore out the sheet and gave it to her. “Thirty-eight francs,” he said.

  She gave him a fifty-franc note. “Keep the change.”

  Sami smiled. “Merci, Janette.” Then he was gone.

  Janette gulped her coffee and put the empty cup down.

  “How are you going to get him to drink the coffee?” Françoise asked.

  “Easy,” Janette answered. Casually she picked up the pitcher of water from the center of the table and poured it over Jean’s head.

  He came up sputtering, knocking his books from the table. He shook his head groggily. “Merde,” he muttered.

  Janette gave him the napkin and pushed the coffee toward him. “Dry yourself and drink your coffee, sleeping beauty.”

  He rubbed at his face with the napkin. “What did you do that for?”

  Janette laughed. “Your girlfriend was worried that you might sleep here all night.” She got to her feet. Marie-Thérése got out of her chair. Janette looked down at Françoise. “He’s awake now. You can come if you like.”

  Françoise looked at Jean, then up at her. “I think I’d better stay.”

  “Suit yourself.” She turned away. “Let’s go, Marie-Thérése.”

  They left so quickly that they pushed right past a young man who was coming tow
ard the table. He stopped at the table, looked after them, then sank into a chair. “What’s with Janette?” he asked. “She almost knocks me down and then doesn’t even say hello.”

  “I think the dike bitch is in heat,” Françoise said snidely. “She couldn’t get Marie-Thérése away from the table fast enough.”

  “Just my luck,” the young man said. “Do you think if I went after them, they’d let me watch? I’d love to see them get it on.”

  “Me, too, Michel,” Jean said, suddenly awake. “Let’s all go after them.”

  “You sit there and drink your coffee,” Françoise said angrily.

  “Where have you been all night?” Marie-Thérése complained as Janette backed the car onto the road. “You told me you would be there at nine o’clock.”

  Janette flashed the headlights, then cut out into traffic, ignoring the squeal of brakes and the blaring horns behind her. She gunned the car into the center lane, then turned left at the corner past the restaurant without signaling in order to beat the traffic light, which was just beginning to change. She double-shifted into third and settled into the wide boulevard at a steady sixty kilometers.

  “You are high,” Marie-Thérése said. “You’re driving like an Italian.”

  Janette didn’t answer. She switched on the radio and the music of Europe I flooded into the small car.

  “You know how Sami hustles,” Marie-Thérése said. “I drank so many Cokes I’ll be pissing mud for a week.” She took out a package of cigarettes and lit two, passing one over to Janette. “You still didn’t tell me where you were.”

  “I told you I was going up to the office to see Johann,” Janette said.

  “The office closes at six o’clock. You didn’t get to the restaurant until after eleven.”