Harold Robbins Thriller Collection

by Harold Robbins

  She came out of the water and dropped to the mattress beside him. “What do I do?” she asked. “Sprinkle it on me?”

  He shook his head. “Put a little on your hands, rub them together until it’s a fine paste, then apply it. Spread it very thin. A little goes a long way.”

  “Okay,” she said.

  He watched her for a moment. “I’ll do your tits if you like.”

  She laughed. “I can do those myself. But you can do my back if you want.”

  “Some people are always taking the joy out of life,” he grumbled. “Jesus, I’m hungry. When are we going to eat?”

  “Patrick should be here any minute,” she answered. “He said he would join us for lunch.”

  “He’ll never make it,” Harvey said, “the way he was when we left him last night. He was so far out of it that he’ll be lucky if he wakes up by the weekend.”

  “He’ll make it,” she laughed. “But I still think you shouldn’t have laid some of that number eight on him.”

  “He was asking for it,” Harvey said. “He kept saying that none of our shit held a candle to that Moroccan hash he had.” He laughed. “Did you see his face after he had just two tokes? He was out to lunch.”

  She laughed with him. “He sure was. I never saw him like that. But he’ll get up and do a few lines. He’ll be here all right. “She turned away from him. “Now do my back.”

  Patrick struggled up from sleep. He opened his eyes slowly to the dark of the master cabin. Not a sliver of light slipped through the double curtains hiding the portholes. He reached behind him, pressing a button on the wall behind the giant circular headboard of his bed. Slowly the light began to seep in as the curtains drew back on their electric tracks.

  He pushed himself into a sitting position and turned his head, staring at the bare bottom which was all that was revealed by the blankets covering the girl sleeping next to him. He slapped it gently. “Wake up, Anne.”

  The bottom wiggled at him and the voice came from under the blanket. “It’s not Anne, it’s Meg.”

  He slapped the bottom again. “Wake up anyway.” He reached for the telephone on the bed stand.

  The steward answered. “Good morning, milord.”

  “Good morning. What time is it?”

  “One p.m., milord.”

  “I’ll have some tea,” he said.

  Meg’s voice came, still muffled by the covers. “I’d like some orange juice and coffee.”

  “And orange juice and coffee,” Patrick added.

  “Yes, milord. Right away.”

  Patrick put down the telephone and stared at the girl’s bottom. “I say, you have a really cute little bum.”

  The girl stirred, turning, then sitting up in bed beside him. She shook her head, the long curling ringlets of red hair framing her face. Even her smile betrayed her Irish ancestry, crinkling her freckled white face and the corners of her blue eyes. “That’s what you said last night, but then you were asleep before I came out of the loo.”

  He laughed. “That American friend of Lauren’s seems to be handing out time bombs.”

  “It was your fault,” she said. “You kept saying that you wanted a toke.”

  “I don’t remember,” he said. “What happened to Anne?”

  “She got up early. She said she wanted to go to the beach.”

  There was a gentle knock at the door and the steward entered with a breakfast tray. “Good morning, milord. Good morning, miss.” He placed the tray on the bed between them.

  Patrick looked up at the man. “Any messages?”

  “Yes, milord. Miss Janette called. She said she would be arriving at the Nice airport on the six o’clock flight this evening with a friend and would you be kind enough to send the helicopter for her.”

  Patrick nodded. “Do that.” He reached for the pot of tea. “Tell the captain to take the boat out to Maurea Beach. I promised some people I would meet them there at two o’clock.”

  The steward left the stateroom and Meg sat up in bed, the sheet that had been covering her falling to her waist. “May I pour your tea?”

  “Please.” He watched her pouring the tea, her firm full breasts swelling against her arms as she leaned over the teapot.

  “Milk?”

  “Yes, thank you,” he answered, still looking at the richness of her breasts.

  “That all right?” She glanced at him, still holding the small pitcher of warm milk. “You have a funny expression on your face.”

  “I’m slightly surprised.” He smiled, throwing the coverlet from him, revealing his erection. “I have a hard on.”

  She put down the pitcher and then patted his penis lightly. “That’s lovely,” she said.

  He smiled again. “How about giving me a little head?”

  “Of course,” she answered. “But you can hold it for just a minute? I can’t eat a thing until after I’ve had my juice and coffee.”

  Everything seemed to change the moment Janette stepped out of the helicopter on the front lawn. The sun was falling to the mountains in the west behind Sainte-Maxime and it seemed to Harvey as if she had suddenly sprung from the earth beneath her feet as its golden rays shot through the thin white dress whose skirt she held against her thighs as she ran from the downdraft of the slowing rotors.

  A moment later, almost before she had finished greeting them, it seemed as if all Saint-Tropez had turned up. Cars began to appear in the driveway, people came as if from all over. Within an hour the quiet of the villa had turned into bedlam, everyone shouting and screaming and laughing, not seeming to listen to anyone else. Or maybe it seemed that way to Harvey because most of the time he did not understand what they were saying. He didn’t speak a word of French.

  He moved through the crowded living room toward the staircase. Champagne was not his scene. He was going to have himself a few tokes.

  Lauren caught him at the foot of the staircase. “Where are you going?”

  “I need a smoke,” he said.

  She glanced around the room, then smiled. “I think I do too.”

  It was quieter in his room as he closed the door. He rolled the joint quickly and lit it. He dragged on it, then passed it to her. “Is it always like this?”

  She shrugged, taking the smoke deeply into her lungs. “I don’t know. This is the first time for me.”

  “I liked it better when we had the place to ourselves,” he said.

  “It’s her house,” Lauren said.

  “I know,” Harvey said. “I’m not complaining. Your sister is something else. Is there anyone in town she doesn’t know?”

  Lauren giggled. She was feeling the grass. “I guess not.”

  “Do you like it?” he asked.

  “It’s not my scene. But, then, like you, I’m just a visitor here.” She passed the joint back to him. “That’s good. What number is that?”

  “It’s a new one. Number twelve. Straight up high,” he said.

  “What’s happening with the seedless?”

  “We’re getting there,” he said. “It’s just taking time.”

  “Do you have anymore of that Humboldt clay with you? It really works and I’d like Janette to have some.”

  “Sure,” he said. “Is she staying down for long?”

  “She’s going to New York on Monday. Something just came up. Otherwise she would have stayed for the week.”

  “She’s really into business, isn’t she?”

  Lauren nodded.

  “Who’s that girl with her? Stéphane?”

  “A girlfriend.”

  “A girlfriend, girlfriend. Or—?”

  Lauren didn’t answer.

  “Hey, I don’t mean to pry,” he said.

  “It’s okay,” she said. She walked over to the window. He followed her and they looked down at the helicopter on the lawn. “What do you think of Patrick?” she asked.

  “I like him,” Harvey said. “He’s cuckoo. But he’s okay.”

  “He wants Janette to marry him
,” she said.

  “Oh.” He dragged on the joint once more, then passed it again. “I thought he was having a thing with those two girls. You know they’re both in his cabin with him.”

  “Yeah,” she answered. “I don’t really get it.”

  “That makes two of us,” he laughed. “This is really another world. It sure as hell ain’t Paradise Cove.”

  She laughed with him. “It sure as hell ain’t.”

  It seemed as if no one ever slept. Dinner that night was late aboard Patrick’s yacht, the Fantasist, in the port of Saint-Tropez. It was buffet style and people seemed to come and go at will. After a while Harvey lost count of the number of guests. At one point he had guessed that there were more than forty.

  The noise of the music blaring from the stereo speakers throughout the boat was almost drowned by the sound of voices shouting above it. No one seemed to speak in a normal conversational tone. There was no point to it—if they did, they would not be heard.

  The night wore on, the buffet table never seemed to empty, one platter being replaced by another as soon as the food was gone. By midnight everyone was high, and it couldn’t have been the wine and champagne alone. There was a smell of smoking dope in the air, not the familiar odor of marijuana but more like opiated hashish to Harvey’s trained nose.

  It didn’t take him long to discover that there was a great deal of rolled, fat English-style hash-and-tobacco mixture being passed around. He immediately tied onto one. It had a good kick to it but not as good as his own.

  At one o’clock in the morning they moved to a discothéque called Papagayo at the far end of the port. The floor was jammed with jumping and sweating dancers. A live group blared from the small dance floor on the mezzanine. Here, too, the din prevented conversation and everybody shouted. Harvey, looking at the dance floor, couldn’t tell one girl from another. They were all dressed almost alike. Sheer see-through blouses, their breasts showing clearly, tight hot pants or micro-mini short skirts, some with bikini panties underneath, some with nothing, and high-heeled stack shoes or boots, their hair either very long and falling to their shoulders and waists or cut very short in boyish style. In contrast, the men were almost plain, tight black or white slacks and brightly colored printed shirts. Here, too, the odor of hash hung in the air.

  Harvey didn’t dance. He sat at the uncomfortable little table, nursing a glass of champagne he had no taste for, watching the action on the floor. In France, boys danced with boys, girls with girls, or they danced solo and no one seemed to pay any attention. He watched Lauren moving on the floor; she seemed to stand out from the others. The French seemed to bob up and down to the music almost like puppets on a string, while she seemed to flow with the rhythm. She was smiling up at Patrick, who was dancing with her.

  He searched the floor for Janette. Neither she nor her girlfriend were on the floor. After a moment, he caught sight of them coming from the washrooms toward the table. Janette whispered something to her girlfriend, who continued on to the dance floor and began to dance alone. Janette sat down beside him.

  “Are you enjoying yourself?” she asked, her voice carrying through the din.

  He nodded, looking at her. Her eyes were bright. He raised a finger, moistened it, then touched the side of her nose lightly. He tested his finger and smiled. “You waste a lot of powder.”

  She laughed. “How did you know?”

  “It takes one to know one,” he said. “Now, if you like, when we get home, I have some really special stuff.”

  “I heard,” she said. “Lauren told me all about you. What we get here in France is not that good. But it’s better than nothing.”

  “I guess so,” he said. “But it’s cut with speed or strych. I don’t like it. You come down too hard.”

  Patrick and Lauren came back to the table. “It’s getting dull here,” Patrick said. “What say we go over to the Cave du Roi?”

  Janette shook her head. “I don’t think so. Jacques is coming down from London in the morning and we have some business to discuss.”

  “I thought you were down for a weekend of fun,” Patrick said reproachfully.

  Janette smiled. “I am having fun. You all go on. I’ll go back to the villa.”

  “Wouldn’t hear of it,” Patrick said. “We’ll all go with you.”

  By the time they reached the villa it was after three o’clock in the morning and there were more than fifteen people with them. Almost as soon as they entered, the record player went on and the hash bombers appeared. There was enough smoke in the room to get stoned just by breathing. They might just as well have not left the discothéque, because the furniture was pushed back and they continued dancing. Soon everyone was hot and sweating and some of the girls began to remove their tops. First Meg and Anne, the two girls with Patrick, then the others, until only Lauren and Janette had their blouses on.

  The party spilled outside onto the terrace, then suddenly everyone was naked in the swimming pool. Lauren came and stood beside him as he watched the others, splashing in the pool. “What do you think?” she asked.

  He looked at her. “I see it but I don’t believe it.” She laughed. “You seem pretty straight,” he said.

  “I can’t get off on their shit,” she said.

  “Like everything else, it’s what you get used to,” he answered. He glanced around. “Where’s your sister?”

  “She’s gone to bed,” Lauren answered. “Why?”

  He gestured. “Her girlfriend’s going down on another girl over there at the far end of the pool.”

  Lauren followed his gaze. She was silent for a moment. “That’s not my problem,” she said.

  Patrick came toward them. “I’m getting hungry. How about going down to Le Gorille for some ham and eggs?”

  “Great idea,” Lauren said. “I’m starved.”

  “Not me,” Harvey said. “I think I’ll turn in. I’m just a country boy. I’m not used to these hours.”

  Jacques had not lost any time. Janette was in the swimming pool at eleven o’clock in the morning when he arrived. Meticulously she followed her routine, the one she maintained throughout all the years she had spent time in the south of France. Every morning she faithfully swam fifty laps in the pool. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him approach, but she did not get out to greet him until she had finished the final lap. Then she climbed from the pool, the sun bathing her in its morning glow as she wrapped the large towel around her naked body.

  “The body still looks fantastic,” he said.

  “It takes work,” she answered. “I’m not getting younger.”

  He laughed. “You have a long way to go.”

  She walked to the table and picked up the bell lying on it. “Have you had breakfast?”

  “On the plane,” he said. “But I’ll have coffee with you.”

  The houseman came out and Janette ordered coffee. She sat down in a chair opposite Jacques, towel-dried her hair, then shook it to finish drying in the sun. She reached for the pack of cigarettes on the table and lit one. “How did it go in London?”

  “Better than we had hoped,” he answered. “We have orders for approximately fifty thousand pounds.”

  She nodded. Ten, fifteen thousand pounds was their average in London. “We’ll make money this year,” she said. “But we still have the problem. Where do we go from here? Maurice wants me to talk to Johann.”

  “Maybe you won’t have to,” Jacques said. “I took a chance and called John Fairchild. He got very excited. As you know, he loved the collection. And he also loves the power of being a king maker. He himself made a call to the president of the Kensington Mills, and within one hour I was called back.”

  The houseman brought the coffee and left. She filled his cup, then her own. “Do you think they’re really interested?” she asked. “Or are they just being polite to Fairchild?”

  “They’re hot,” he said emphatically. “I could sense it in their voices. Why else would they set a full-scale meeting wi
th the executive vice-president, the president and the chairman of the board? Kensington is a big company, the second-largest manufacturer of artificial fibers in the world after Du Pont, the second-largest manufacturer of cotton cloth after Burlington Mills. They have plants all over the world and turn out everything from the finest and most expensive quality to the cheapest. They’re not just being polite to anyone. And, even more important, they’re obviously not interested in going into anything they don’t think has a major market potential for their product.”

  She was silent a moment. “I hope you’re right. Yesterday it was almost as if the world was coming to an end.”

  “It wasn’t,” he said. “I’m returning to Paris tonight. I’ll get our things together and meet you at Orly Monday morning.”

  After he had left, she stretched out on an air mattress to take in the sun. Less than a moment later, a shadow fell across her eyes. She opened them. Harvey was standing there. “Good morning,” she said, making no move to cover herself.

  “Good morning,” he said. He held out a jar toward her. “Lauren thought you might like to have this.”

  She sat up and took it from him. “What is it?”

  “It’s a clay from northern California. The Indians used to use it to protect their skins and heal wounds. I found out that it’s the best tanning stuff I’ve ever used.”

  She took the cork from the bottle. “It looks like dirt to me.”

  He laughed. “It is dirt. And don’t pay attention to the smell. It goes away in a moment after you moisten it with water and put it on.”

  “Does it really work?” she asked doubtfully.

  “It’s worked on me and Lauren,” he said. “It also seems to make you dark quicker without burning. Put some on now. You’re all white. You’ll see how quickly it works.”

  “Okay,” she said. She dipped her hand into the pool, then mixed a little of the clay in her hands and began to rub it on her shoulders. “Like this?”

  “Even thinner. You don’t have to coat yourself. And you can use it on your face too.” He straightened up. “Did Lauren come down yet?”