Harold Robbins Thriller Collection

by Harold Robbins

  A moment later, she looked up at him smiling. “I needed that,” she gasped, “it’s been so long.” She glanced over his shoulder at the house. “You better let me go, he’s still watching.”

  Dax shook his head, not letting go of her buttocks.

  She looked at him in surprise. “You’re still hard!” she exclaimed, a note of wonder coming into her voice. She threw her head back in a half scream as he thrust himself into her again. “Oh, God!” she cried. “Oh, God! God!”

  Hadley wasn’t the only person watching. Caroline turned away from the window as they came up on the beach out of the water. Something had happened between them. She was sure of it even if she hadn’t been able to see what or how. She knew Sue Ann well enough to tell just by the way she walked.

  She walked back into the dimness of the room and got into bed. Despite the heat, she shivered and pulled the sheets up over her. What’s the matter with me, she thought. I’m not even jealous.

  She heard the soft slap of footsteps outside, then the sound of the door opening. She closed her eyes and pretended she was asleep. When she heard Dax come over to the side of the bed, she opened her eyes as if she had just awakened.

  He looked down at her. “Good morning.”

  She forced a sleepy smile. “What time is it?”

  “A few minutes after ten.” He looked at her carefully. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine, I just felt tired.” She sat up in bed. “How is it out?”

  “Beautiful. I was in the water. It’s nice and warm.” He turned and walked over to the dresser and slipped out of his bathing trunks. “Oh,” he added, as if it were an afterthought, “Sue Ann was down on the beach.”

  She looked at the band of white around his hips and buttocks. She never could get over how dark he became; she knew of no one who took to the sun the way he did. He took off his wristwatch and came back to the side of the bed.

  “I think we’ll go out to Hollywood. I have an invitation from Speidel. He wants me to play polo.”

  A powerful male odor emanated from him. She closed her eyes so she would not see him standing over her. Something had happened with Sue Ann, now she was sure of it. “Will Giselle be there?”

  He shrugged. “I suppose so. She’s starting a picture.”

  Joe Speidel was the head of one of the big studios. He was also a producer, and in his own estimation a great polo player. He had organized a team that pandered to his vanity and he loved attracting important players. Dax was his prize catch, even more important than the Oscars that lined his studio mantelpiece.

  She opened her eyes and looked up at him. His face was impassive. A faint annoyance came into her voice. “Go put something on. You know I can’t stand your standing over me like that.”

  “I’m going to take a shower.” He walked toward the bathroom, then in the doorway he turned. “What do you say?” he asked politely. “Shall we go?”

  “Does it really make any difference?” Then when he didn’t answer her, she said, “Oh, all right. I suppose we might as well.”

  The bathroom door closed and a moment later she heard the sound of the shower. She rolled over and got out of bed. She crossed to the dresser and picked up his swimming trunks. Then angrily she flung them back on the dresser.

  She went back to the window. Sue Ann was lying on the beach, stretched out like a cat basking in the sun. She turned back into the room and threw herself across the bed. An animal, she thought, that’s all he is. He’d couple with anything.

  A goddamn animal.

  123

  Caroline had not felt like that in the beginning. Then she had felt only gratitude and shelter in his presence. Even in Paris during the long weeks they were waiting for the Germans to approve her exit visa, she had felt safe living in the consulate. Eventually the approval came through. They had to let her go. They did not dare disturb their relationship with Corteguay so long as there was a chance that they might get Corteguayan beef.

  They went down to Lisbon by a rickety, uncomfortable old train and waited there for a Corteguayan ship that would take them across the Atlantic. Even then she felt relatively secure; she had gained a little weight and the nightmares that tortured her sleep were beginning to stop. Until she saw the man in the restaurant while they were at dinner.

  Dax paused, his fork halfway to his mouth. Her face had suddenly gone white. “What’s the matter?”

  “That man!” she whispered hoarsely. “He’s come to take me back!”

  “Nonsense,” Dax said sharply. “No one can take you back.”

  “He can,” she insisted, sick fear knotting her stomach. “He’s come after me. He knows he can make me do anything he wants!”

  Dax turned to look. The man was wearing an ordinary gray suit, not even glancing in their direction. His tightly cropped blond head was bent over his plate as he shoveled spoonsful of soup into his fleshy mouth.

  “Take me upstairs!” Her voice turned him back to her. “Please, Dax!”

  He got instantly to his feet, sensing her near hysteria. “Come,” he said, taking her arm.

  He felt her trembling against him as they walked past the German. They crossed the lobby and went up to their room. Once the door was closed, she dissolved in a paroxysm of tears.

  He held her to him closely. “Don’t be afraid,” he whispered, “I won’t let him harm you.”

  “He made me do such terrible things,” she sobbed. “And all the while he laughed at me because he knew I would do them.”

  “Don’t think about it anymore,” he said, his voice hardening. “I promise you he’ll never bother you again.”

  But it took more than his promise to calm her. It had taken three of the pills the doctor had prescribed for her insomnia. At last she was asleep and he had stood there looking down at her. Her face was flushed and glistening with self-induced fever. Gently he drew the sheets up around her and then went out silently, locking the door behind him.

  She awoke in the morning with a heavy drugged feeling. She got out of bed and, putting on her robe, went into the other room. Dax had been sitting at the table having coffee, smoking one of his thin black cigars. He looked up at her. “Have some coffee.”

  She sat down, glancing at the newspaper beside her plate. The photograph of the German leaped out at her from the front page, with bold black type over it.

  O ALEMAO ASSASSINADO!

  She looked up at Dax. “He’s dead!”

  “Yes,” he answered, his eyes hidden in a veil of smoke. “I promised that he would never bother you again.”

  She should have felt reassured but there was something in the matter-of-fact way in which he had spoken that suddenly gave her a new picture of him. And this, oddly enough, frightened her even more. The savage sleeping just below the polished civilized exterior needed but a word to revert to violence.

  The nightmares came back, and it wasn’t until they had almost reached New York many weeks later that they began to disappear. Then another feeling for him began to take over. There was a warmth between them then. A kind of love. Not the sort she had imagined she would one day feel before the Germans had taken her off to prison. But more like what she had for her brother, Robert. A feeling that he would protect her and care for her. Or what she felt for her father, that nothing would harm her so long as he watched over her.

  The baron had been at the dock to meet them. So had the Corteguayan consul, along with the reporters. There had been a great deal of noise and confusion and at the end of it she had found herself alone with her father in his limousine as they sped up Park Avenue. Dax was in another car with the consul. Something had come up and he had to go directly to the consulate. But he would join them later for dinner.

  The baron leaned back in his seat and studied her. There was a strangely contemplative look in his eyes.

  “What do you see, Daddy?”

  Unexpectedly, tears came to his eyes. “My little girl. My baby.”

  Then for some unknown reas
on she, too, had started to cry. Perhaps it had been the way he said it, or the realization that she would never again be his little girl.

  “Robert. We haven’t heard a word from Robert.” The baron took out his handkerchief. “I’m afraid they’ve captured him.”

  “No, Robert is safe.”

  He looked at her. “You know? How? Where is he?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know, Daddy. But Dax says he’s safe.”

  A strange look had flashed over his face. For a moment she thought it was an expression of resentment. Then it was gone, and his voice was flat and unemotional. “How does he know?”

  There was an almost childlike faith in her answer. “If Dax says so, it is so.”

  For a moment, the baron recalled the first time he had seen Dax—the boy, half asleep in his father’s arms, in Madame Blanchette’s parlor. It seemed almost as if he had known then how inextricably entwined their lives were to become. “Your husband,” he said, “do you love him?”

  Caroline looked at him in surprise. As if it were the first time she had even thought about it. “Of course.”

  The baron was silent for a moment, then he said quietly, “He is a very strong man. And you—”

  “He is also a very kind man, Papa. And very understanding.”

  “But you’re so frail. I mean—”

  “It’s all right, Papa, Dax understands. And I won’t always be like this. Now that I am back with you I shall get my strength back. You will see. Perhaps soon there will be grandchildren for you to play with—”

  “No!” The baron’s voice contained almost a note of anguish. “There must be no children!”

  “Papa!”

  “Don’t you understand?” he asked savagely. “They might be black! There must be no children.”

  She had just awakened from her nap when Dax came into the room. “There must be a mistake,” he said. “My room is across the hall.”

  She couldn’t meet his eyes. “Papa thought it might be better this way for a while. Just until I’m myself again.”

  “Is that what you want?”

  “I don’t know—”

  He had not waited for her to complete her sentence. “For this one night it won’t matter,” he said angrily. “But when I come back it will. By then I hope you will know what you want.” He started for the door.

  “Dax!” she cried after him in sudden fear. “Where are you going?”

  He stopped and turned. “I received word at the consulate that I’m to leave for home tomorrow. From there I’m going back to Europe.”

  “But we just got here. You can’t go!”

  “No?” There was an ironic smile on his face. “Does your father also say that?”

  The door closed behind him and she stared at it. Slowly the tears came to her eyes. It wasn’t right. Nothing was right anymore. If only she could feel the way she had before the war.

  He was in his robe, seated at the small desk, when she came into his room later that night. There were sheets of paper spread out on the desk before him. He looked up at her, then at his watch. “It’s almost one o’clock. You should be sleeping.”

  “I couldn’t sleep.” She hesitated in the doorway. “May I come in?”

  He nodded. She walked over to the bed. “What are you doing?”

  “Reading reports. I am far behind in much of my work.”

  For a moment she was surprised. Somehow she had never associated him with work, at least not the dull, routine kind. Then she felt foolish. She should have known better. “I didn’t realize,” she said half apologetically. “I must have been a great interference.”

  He reached for a cigarette. “It doesn’t matter. I was due for a change.”

  She looked at him. “Must you go back to Europe?”

  He smiled. “I go where my president sends me. That is my life.”

  “But the war—the danger.”

  “My country is neutral. I am neutral.”

  “For how long? Sooner or later the United States will get into it. Then all of South America, your country included.”

  “If that happens, I will come back here.”

  “If the Nazis let you, you mean,” she said somberly.

  “There is an international law governing such matters.”

  “Don’t talk to me as if I were a child! I know what the Nazis think of international law.”

  “It is my work. I have no choice.”

  “You could resign.”

  He laughed. “What would I do then?”

  “My father would be delighted to have you in the bank.”

  “No, thanks. I’m afraid I wouldn’t do at all well as a banker. I’m not the type.”

  “There must be something else you can do.”

  “Sure.” He smiled again. “But professional polo players don’t make much money.”

  “You’re treating me like a child again,” she said petulantly. “I’m not a baby anymore.”

  “I know.”

  She felt her face flush under his eyes. She looked down at the floor. “I haven’t been much of a wife to you, have I?”

  “You have been through a great deal. It takes time to recover.”

  She still did not look at him. “I want to be a good wife to you. I am very grateful for what you have done.”

  He put out his cigarette and got to his feet. “Don’t be grateful. I married you because I wanted to.”

  “But you weren’t in love with me.” It was more a statement than a question. “There was that girl Giselle.”

  “I am a man,” he said simply. “There always have been girls.”

  “She was not just a girl,” Caroline persisted, “you were in love. Even I could see that.”

  “What if we were? You are the one I married.”

  “Why did you marry me? Was it because there was no other way to free me from the Nazis?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Would you like a divorce?”

  He looked at her and shook his head. “No. Would you?”

  “No. May I have a cigarette?”

  Silently he held open his case and lit it when she took one. “I wanted to marry you,” she said. “Before the war I had already made up my mind. But—”

  “But what?”

  “In prison.” She felt the tears coming to her eyes and tried to hold them back. “You don’t know how I felt. I wasn’t clean. What they did. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever feel clean again.”

  She was crying now and couldn’t stop. He reached out and brought her head into his lap. “Stop,” he said softly, “you must stop blaming yourself. I know what fear can make one do. Once, when I was a boy, I put a bullet into my grandfather’s heart so I myself would not be killed.”

  She looked into his face. There were lines in it she had never noticed before, lines of pain and sorrow. Sympathy suddenly flowed through her. She caught his hand and kissed it. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’ve been a fool thinking only of myself.”

  His eyes were soft and gentle. “Come, it is time you returned to your bed.”

  She stayed his hand. “I want to spend the night with you.” His eyes were questioning.

  “I can’t keep you from going away, but it’s time I became your wife instead of just the girl you married.”

  And she tried. She really tried. But when the moment came and he entered her, she felt only panic. All she could think of was the prison and the long probing instruments they had used to torture her.

  She screamed and raved and tore and fought him away from her. Then she turned her face into the pillow and cried. After a while she fell asleep. In the morning when she awoke, Dax was already gone.

  124

  Somehow the phrase stuck in Caroline’s mind. “I am a man. There have always been girls.” With the war and afterward, many things had changed. Not that. The stories would come back to her. In many ways, from many places. There were always girls wherever he was.

  Once toward the end of
the war, after an especially messy scandal had been headlined in the papers, her father came angrily into her room waving the newspaper. “What are you going to do about this?”

  Caroline took the paper from his hand and glanced at the headline blazoned across the front page of the New York tabloid:

  INTERNATIONAL PLAYBOY-DIPLOMAT

  NAMED AS CORRESPONDENT.

  In Rome, where Dax lived under special diplomatic immunities, he had been charged with conducting an affair with the wife of an Italian count. She handed the paper back to her father. “Dax will be pleased,” she observed dryly. “At least they got in the word ‘diplomat.’”

  Her father stared at her. “Is that all you have to say?”

  “What more is there to say?”

  “He is making a fool of you. Of me. Of our family. The whole world is laughing at us.”

  “He is a man. When a man is away from home only a fool would expect him not to get involved with women.”

  “He’s not a man,” her father retorted angrily, “he’s an animal!”

  “Papa, why are you so upset when I am not? He is my husband.”

  “Do you like this kind of notoriety?”

  “No, but I have no control over the headlines. What would you have me do?”

  “Divorce him.”

  “No.”

  He stared at her for a moment. “I don’t understand you.”

  “That’s right, Papa, you don’t understand me. Nor do you understand Dax.”

  “I suppose you do?”

  “In a way,” Caroline answered thoughtfully. “If any woman can really ever understand the man to whom she is married.

  “Perhaps Dax is an animal as you say. Press the right buttons and he reacts. I’ve seen it. To hatred and danger with violence; to pity with gentleness and understanding; to a woman…” She paused, hesitating a moment, then added almost apologetically, “I can guess though I’ve never really been a woman for him. To a woman he reacts like a man.”