Harold Robbins Thriller Collection

by Harold Robbins

“I haven’t seen her,” Janette answered.

  “She wasn’t in her room,” he said.

  Janette smiled. “You sound worried.”

  “I’m not,” he denied quickly. “But usually we meet early to go to the beach before the crowds.”

  “Did she go to the port with the others for breakfast?” Janette asked.

  “Yes,” he answered. “But that was at four this morning.”

  “Then she was probably too tired to come back and stayed on Patrick’s boat. Chances are they’ll be at the beach by the time we get there.”

  He nodded.

  She finished covering the front of her body with the clay and rolled over on her stomach. “Will you do my back?”

  “Sure.” He knelt and began to spread the thin film of clay over her. He stopped just short of her buttocks, skipped over them and continued on down her legs.

  She turned her head to look up at him. “Don’t do a half-ass job.” She smiled. “That can get sunburned too.”

  Janette had been right. The Fantasist was anchored off the beach when they got there. Lauren, Patrick and his two girls were already stretched out on their mattresses. Lauren was the only one awake—the others were fast asleep.

  Lauren got to her feet as they approached. There was a note of excitement in her voice. “Patrick wants to take us to Sardinia on the boat.”

  “Where’s that?” Harvey asked.

  “In Italy,” Lauren answered. “Patrick says the beaches are not as crowded and the water is a lot cleaner.”

  “Wonderful,” Janette said. “It will be fun and Sardinia is quite beautiful. We can all meet here next weekend. I’ll be back by then.”

  Patrick opened his eyes, shielding them from the sun with the palm of his hand. He squinted at Janette. “Your sister is nuts,” he grumbled. “She woke us up this morning at eight o’clock.”

  “You didn’t have to get up,” Lauren said.

  “No one can ever accuse me of being impolite to my guests,” he said. He turned back to Janette. “What’s this about you going to New York?”

  “I have to,” Janette said. “But I’ll be back by the weekend.”

  “Shit,” Patrick said. He sat up. “I might as well give up ever expecting you to spend some time with us.”

  Janette smiled. “You never can tell.”

  He looked into Janette’s eyes. “And after all the goodies I had in store for you.”

  She laughed. “Isn’t it you English who have the saying ‘Business before pleasure’?”

  “I never heard it,” he said.

  “You never had to,” she replied. “Now, be a good boy and don’t sulk. You go to Sardinia and have a good time. Mama will come back on the weekend and we’ll have our chance then.”

  Patrick shook his head. “Next week it will be something else.”

  Janette laughed. “Don’t be a pessimist or you’ll convince me you gave your boat the wrong name.”

  Patrick’s two girls left the boat on the second day they were in Porto Cervo. Harvey came out on deck at eight o’clock in the morning and saw them standing on the rear deck while their luggage was being carried down the gangplank to a waiting car. “Hey, where are you two going?” he asked.

  “Back to Saint-Tro,” Meg answered.

  “What’s the rush? We’ll be back there on the weekend.”

  Anne looked at him with a kind of contempt. “Patrick’s decided to become a monk. He’s kicked us out of his cabin.”

  “Besides we didn’t come down here to lay around on the boat every night bored out of our minds. All he wants to do is smoke dope and talk philosophy with your girlfriend,” Meg added.

  “I didn’t notice them talking that much,” Harvey said.

  “How would you?” Meg asked scornfully. “You’re always more stoned than they are.”

  The last of their bags went down the gangplank. Anne looked at Harvey. “Well, ta-ta, old dear. And if you want a little advice, keep an eye on your girlfriend or Vicar Patrick will convert her out of your life.”

  He watched them go down the gangplank and get into the car. The car moved down the pier and then turned up a road and out of sight. He went back inside the main-deck salon and then to the dining salon. He sat down at the table.

  “Bacon and scrambled eggs, sir?” the steward asked.

  He almost agreed before he remembered he was a vegetarian. “No bacon,” he said quickly. “Just the scrambled eggs.” Now that he thought about it, the girls weren’t all wrong. It seemed that almost every time he was with them, Lauren and Patrick were in deep discussion. Absently he ate the eggs. What in hell did they have so much to talk about?

  “All my life I’ve been hearing about my father,” Patrick said. “From the time I first went to Eton they began making comparisons. And none of them were good.

  “I kept telling them I wasn’t my father. I was me. I was different. But that didn’t matter to them. I had to be my father. So finally I told them all to fuck off.”

  Lauren lay naked on her stomach in the sand of the deserted beach. She turned her head on her arms so that she could look at him. “Didn’t you ever want to do anything?”

  “What was there left for me to do?” Patrick asked, his eyes studying the lovely curve of her derrière. “My father did everything.”

  Lauren put her face back in her arms. “There has to be something you want to do,” she said.

  “Of course there is,” Patrick said.

  “What’s that?” she asked, her voice muffled by her arms.

  “I’d love to run my tongue down your crack from your asshole to your quim and back,” Patrick said.

  She laughed. “I mean, seriously.”

  “I’m serious,” he said.

  “I told you I’m not into friendly fucking,” she said. “I think it should mean something more than just a sport.”

  “Don’t tell me you’ve never fucked Harvey,” he said.

  “I didn’t say that,” she answered. “But we’re not into it on a steady basis. Once in a while, when we’re in the mood. But not that much. We love each other but not that way.”

  “I’m not asking for that much either,” Patrick said. “Just a little taste to sort of reassure me that you do like me.”

  She turned around, laughing. “I do like you,” she said. “But I’m not ready to fuck you yet. So stop being a pain in the ass and give me that jar of Humboldt clay before I begin to fry.”

  “Why don’t you just lie back and let me put it on you?” he asked.

  She laughed again. “Oh, no. You’ll only get turned on—then we’ll have an argument.”

  “I promise to keep tight control of myself at all times,” he said.

  She looked at him. “You mean it?”

  “Cross my heart,” he said, making the gesture.

  “Okay.” She lay back in the sand and closed her eyes. After a moment, she felt the moist coolness of the clay on his hand as he spread it carefully over her. It was good especially over her sun-warmed breasts. She felt the warmth going into her. It was really a good feeling. In spite of herself she felt her nipples hardening and the warmth growing between her legs.

  Abruptly she sat up and took the jar from his hand. “That’s enough,” she said in a firm voice.

  “Why?” he asked in an injured voice. “I was keeping my word.”

  “That’s right,” she said, applying the clay to herself. “But I was turning on. And it’s not time for me yet.”

  Suddenly he was angry. “You’re getting to be more like your sister every day,” he snapped. “You’re nothing but a prick teaser.”

  She stared at him for a moment unable to speak. Then she felt the tears welling into her eyes and she turned her face away from him. “Is that what you really think?” she asked in a tight, hurt voice.

  “What do you expect me to think?” He was still angry. “You parade naked in front of me like I’m not even human. How am I supposed to feel?”

  “I didn’t think
it was anything,” she said. “The other girls are naked all the time too. Nobody seemed to pay any attention to it.”

  “I don’t give a damn about the other girls,” he said. “That’s why I sent them away.”

  “That’s your business,” she said in the same tight voice. “I didn’t ask you to do it.”

  “No, you didn’t,” he said. “I never thought of that. Maybe you are more like Janette than I even thought. Maybe all you’re into is girls or big pricks.”

  She jumped to her feet quickly, pulling on her bikini, then began to run down the beach away from him. He ran after her, caught her and spun her around to face him. “Where do you think you’re going?” he asked.

  “Anywhere!” she snapped. “Just to get away from you. You’re really sick!”

  He saw the genuine hurt and the tears in her eyes and was as suddenly contrite as he had been angry. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it the way it sounded. I was angry.”

  She shook herself free of his grasp. “Leave me alone,” she cried. “I want to go back to the boat.”

  “I’m really sorry,” he said. “Look, I like you a lot. More than I even thought I did or could. Please don’t be angry with me. It won’t happen again.”

  She held the back of her hand to her nose and snuffled, looking up at him. “You didn’t mean what you said about my sister, did you?”

  “Of course not,” he said firmly. “I was just getting as frustrated with you as I did with her. You know how I really feel about her.”

  “How do you feel about her?”

  “I love her,” he said slowly, meeting the searching look in her eyes. “But I’m not in love with her,” he added softly. “I’m in love with you.”

  VI

  Book Four: Madame

  When he came out of the bathroom she was seated, naked, on the edge of the bed, holding a small mirror in one hand while with the other she carefully restored her eye makeup.

  He stopped, staring down at her, the towel tied around his waist still damp against his skin. “What are you doing?” he asked, his harsh Greek accent overriding his French.

  “Putting on my makeup,” she answered, without taking her eyes from the mirror.

  “What for?” he asked. “I thought you were staying for the night.”

  “I changed my mind,” she said, still not looking up.

  “We had business to talk about,” he said. “You don’t expect me to decide on a ten-million-dollar deal with one quick fuck.”

  “That’s right,” she agreed. She stood up and looked down at him. She was a full head taller than he. “You’ve already got what you wanted. Now you don’t have to waste your time on all the bullshit. And neither do I.”

  She walked past him into the bathroom and squatted across the bidet. Quickly she turned on the taps and the water began to swirl into the bowl.

  He followed her and watched while she took the washcloth and began to soap herself. “Is that the only reason you went to bed with me? The money?”

  She looked up at him, meeting his gaze without blinking. “Can you think of a better reason? I don’t care if you’re ten times richer than Onassis ever was. You’re even uglier and not half as attractive.”

  “You’re nothing but a whore,” he said insultingly.

  She didn’t answer.

  “Even if your cunt was lined with gold and diamonds, what makes you think it would be worth ten million dollars?”

  “I don’t think anything,” she said evenly, letting the soapy water out and turning the taps on again. “You’re the one that just ate it and fucked it. You tell me.” She looked down and turned off the water, then up at him. “Besides, I came here to talk business with you. Not to fuck with you. That was your idea.”

  “Bitch!” he snapped and stalked angrily from the bathroom.

  When she came out of the bathroom a few minutes later, he was in a dressing robe, seated in an armchair, sipping at a snifter of cognac. Silently he watched her pick up the camisole top and slip it on, covering her magnificent breasts, then snap the narrow garter belt around her waist and sit down on the edge of the bed facing him as she carefully put on her stockings. In spite of his anger he felt the heat rising again in him. The bitch knew all the tricks. No bikini pants ever covered her. Never wore them, she had said. She stood up and fastened her wraparound skirt and then buttoned the simple white silk shirt over it. She stepped into her high-heeled shoes.

  “Janette,” he said.

  She looked down at him without speaking.

  “I did want to talk business with you.”

  She spoke without rancor. “There’s really nothing to discuss. You’ve had the papers for more than two weeks now. I’m sure your financial people have gone over it and that you’ve already made up your mind. And I think I’ve answered the only question that had been left open. Now all you have to do is say yes or no.”

  “It’s not quite as simple as that,” he said.

  “Maybe,” she answered with a typically Gallic shrug. “Your problem may be complicated, but mine is simple. I need ten million to buy back distribution of my line before Kensington sells me out to the Japanese. Au revoir, Nico.”

  His voice stopped her at the door. “What will you do if I don’t give you the money?”

  She looked back at him and smiled slowly. “I’ll manage,” she said quietly. “This isn’t the first time I’ve been in a situation like this. And it may not be the last. But I’ve always survived.”

  “I’ll call you in the morning,” he said. “Maybe something can be worked out.”

  “Don’t bother,” she said quietly. “I think I already know the answer. And so do you.”

  He watched the door close behind her, took another sip of his cognac, then went to the window and looked out into the street. She came out of the house and he watched as her chauffeur opened the door for her to get into the car. He stood there until the Rolls limousine turned the far corner and was gone from his sight then heavily walked back into the room. A strange sadness came over him. If only this could have happened when he was twenty years younger. There weren’t many women like that a man could meet in one lifetime. It could have been quite beautiful.

  She sank into the soft leather of the right corner of the passenger compartment of the Rolls and lit a cigarette. Thoughtfully she looked out the window at the empty streets of Neuilly as the car made its way toward the autoroute to Paris. Strangely enough she felt neither depressed nor disappointed at the outcome of her visit with the Greek. From the very beginning of their discussions she had known she would never get an answer until she had gone to bed with him. That was the way it had to be. A man like Nico Caramanlis would never be satisfied until everything had been checked out.

  Still, it was worth the trying. One never really knew. And there weren’t many men around who had the kind of money she was looking for. Greeks and Arabs. They seemed to be the only people who managed to prosper in this torn up economic world of chronic energy shortages. And of the two, she preferred the Greeks. At least they weren’t as foreign. They were European.

  She glanced at the clock as the car moved onto the autoroute. The glowing dial read nine forty-five. She pressed a button and the window separating the driver’s compartment from the passenger’s rolled up and closed. She took the telephone from the console between the two jump seats and called home.

  “Résidence de la Beauville,” the butler’s voice answered.

  “C’est Madame,” she said. “Any messages?”

  “Only one, Madame,” he answered. “The marquis called and asked that you return his call as soon as possible whatever time you came in. He said it was very urgent and that he would be at home all night.”

  “Thank you, Jules,” she said, putting down the telephone. She hesitated a moment before calling Maurice. She didn’t really feel like talking to anyone just now. But then, she picked up the telephone and placed the call.

  His husky voice came on the phone. “Oui?”

>   “It’s Janette.”

  His voice grew excited. “Where are you? I’ve been trying to get you all afternoon.”

  “I’m on the autoroute from Neuilly,” she said.

  He chuckled. “You were fucking with the Greek. I could have told you that was a waste of time.”

  “How do you know that it was?” she asked.

  “It’s ten minutes to ten,” he said. “If there was anything you would still be there.”

  She was annoyed. “I’m calling because you said it was urgent.”

  “It is,” he said. “I must talk with you. Can you come here tonight?”

  “Can’t it wait until tomorrow?” she asked.

  “No,” he said. “Remember what we spoke about some years ago when I gave you the million francs?”

  “We spoke about many things,” she answered cautiously.

  “I don’t want to speak on the telephone,” he said. “It has to do with your mother and the Swiss banks. I have a man here who has some interesting information for us but he won’t give it to anyone but you.”

  She thought for a moment, then she remembered. Maurice had some wild idea that her mother had a fortune in gold secreted away in a Swiss bank. He also had an idea that Johann had known about it and kept the money for himself. “I’ll be there,” she said. “It should take me about an hour.”

  She put down the telephone and rolled down the compartment window. “René.”

  “Oui, Madame,” he answered without looking back.

  “We’ll go to the marquis’ apartment on the Ile Saint-Louis.”

  “Merci bien, Madame.”

  She pressed the button again and the window went up. There wasn’t any traffic on the autoroute. It shouldn’t take more than an hour. Quickly she opened her bag and searched through it for the small vial. If she was going to deal with Maurice it wouldn’t hurt for her to be more alert.

  Cupping her hands so that she could not be seen in the rearview mirror, she took two quick snorts, then slipped the vial back in her purse and leaned back. A moment later she felt her head open up. A flood of memories rushed through her brain.