“I hope you don’t mind me using your proper name. I found it in one of those important-looking documents on your desk.”
I thought about her rifling through my things and pushed aside the indignation that had every right to be there.
“The trees are beautiful, like a garden,” she said, looking down at the photographs. “I wish to walk through them one day. Can we do that, John?”
I stayed quiet.
“You weren’t close to your father were you?”
I held my reply for a moment until I said, “About as close as the next room or sitting across a long table.”
“And your mother, you felt sorry for her, and you loved neither one of them truly, but how could someone like you love such banality.”
“You really do need to mind your own damn business.”
She approached a large world globe positioned on the floor and spun it a few times, gliding her fingers along the surface. She asked, “You have maps of the South Pacific and Australia on your wall. Why Australia?”
“Because it’s a large island surrounded by a huge ocean that a person could get lost on and never be seen again. Not to mention, it has laid-back, friendly inhabitants who have a cool way of speaking the English language.” I cocked a half-hearted grin after my attempt at an Aussie accent.
“It sounds as though you’re ready, indeed.” She rolled her eyes.
I asked, “Is there a point in a person’s life where they no longer have to hide, where life is more than just a throw of dice?”
Her eyes glanced my way. I waited a few beats until I added, “A point of entropy, that momentary summit where inertia ends and moving objects look for a place to fall. When unanswerable questions finally get answered?”
She began pacing slowly through the room. “An answer to what exactly?”
“What else, this meaningless existence.”
“That’s all rather brooding, don’t you think?”
“Do you believe there’s any hope for humanity?”
“Hardly a hope or redemption, I should think. Why are asking me such questions?”
“Because you don’t seem concerned with money or what the hell people think. You seem privy to something, something twisted yet gracious and even dignified. You’re a professional, a dancer, as far as I can tell, but I’m betting on something a little more nefarious. You’re competitive, yet prosaic; the same way an animal is benign one moment and then an impulsive predator the next.”
“You mean killer, don’t you?”
“Do I?”
She stopped and looked at me. The cryptic gaze she had a moment ago was gone; it was back to Princess Catherine.
“You seem afraid of my questions,” I said.
“And you seem most afraid of my impulsive answers.” Her attention directed toward an assortment of museum pieces I had in my office. “Your collections are exquisite. These figures are from the Ming dynasty, and this clay pottery is Mesoamerican. It appears you’ve trotted the globe quite extensively.”
“Some are gifts and some I’ve collected.” I enjoyed the way she backpedaled, the way the wheels turned brilliantly out of sync in her head.
“Gifts?” she said. “You have a fortune of gifts. Are you sure they’re not payments, Jack, or perhaps trophies?”
“I don’t need the money. It’s Jack now, huh?”
“Yes. Jack the gigolo.” She murmured out a laugh and stepped across the room, then paused. “That sword on the wall,” she said. “It’s Samurai, and based on its size, I’d say it’s not a warrior’s length but a Shoto style, usually used by low-level Samurai or merchants of the day. A good length for you.”
“And how are you such an expert on weapons of antiquity?”
“I’ve handled my share of swords, I dare say. My father was a curator for a museum in London. He taught me much; the same way your father taught you much. Where are his swords, by the way?”
“Fuck you.”
“You do need to feel it, John, what happened that summer’s eve, or else you’ll never heal.”
I felt paralyzed, unable to commend her on her touché moment or grab her by the hair and drag her beautiful ass out of the room.
She lifted the sword from the wall and asked, “Do you know what the most lethal type of weapon is?”
“A sharp stake through the heart?”
She stepped over to me and stood close, pointing the sword toward the ceiling. “It’s an animal’s claw. It’s because of its conical shape, curled like a hook. It punctures, rips, and tears the flesh. I know you’ve pondered the subject. You were alluding to it quite cleverly that day on the ferry when you were playing the sleuth and also just a moment ago when you mentioned tame animals becoming impulsive hunters.” She lowered the blade until it touched my face. She began scraping the sharp point delicately against my cheek.
She went on, “A claw exposes the flesh more brutally, more justifiably, not like a broad blade such as this that makes only exacting, razor cuts.” She studied my eyes, running the cold broad blade on one side of my face and then the other. I stood rigid. A thin smile pursed her lips. She scoffed out a laugh, then pulled the blade away. “I do find it attractive in a man who knows how I prefer things.” She crossed the room and hung the sword in its place. She continued nosing through my room and said, “Last night while you were asleep, I opened some binders on your desk that were full of numbers and notes and such, including that old family album. I hope you don’t mind.”
“I do, actually.”
“You give all proceeds from your real estate commissions and earnings from your ranch to local charities, specifically shelters for abused children, battered wives, and the homeless. Why?”
“Rich guys need tax shelters.”
“You really don’t fit the plutocratic lifestyle, Jack, nor are you awfully good at being a gigolo.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“In one folder you have surveillance photos of me, Lena, and Angela. It appears we’re all double agents in some sort of espionage game, doesn’t it?”
“Let the game begin.” The game had begun and with all the subtleties of two hunters, one killer, maneuvering cagily inside a close-quartered room.
“I also saw inside a drawer a cigarette butt that you took from me that day on the ferry and then slipped inside your pocket? Is this some sort of fetish you California boys have, collecting smelly half-used things from pretty girls and then sniffing on them later?”
“Oops, you found me out.”
“After all, Jack, if you bring me home just to fuck me, then I should have every right to peep inside your drawers.”
“I fail to see the tradeoff.” I began toward the door.
“Why do you have a bedroom down the hall decorated for a woman? Are you waiting for her to come back?”
“There is no her.”
“Obviously. Why then have the room?”
I stopped at the door and faced her. “The room belongs to the co-owner of the house.”
“Then I thought correctly. The room is a shrine for a mother figure. Freud did say that the act of sex always has at least four people involved. You must really have a crowded bed at times. You’ve actually had over a thousand lovers; I saw them all catalogued in a folder over there, each one, as if you were stalking victims.”
“I prefer the word muses.”
She nodded toward my desk. “Hair and eye color, shapes and sizes, their ages, even how good or bad your muses were in bed.”
“I like keeping score.”
“I saw in another folder a collection of photographs of all the suffering souls, even children, whom you’ve harmed by your adulterous affairs. It’s rather macabre, don’t you think, setting out to destroy families and then donating the very commissions you earned while doing so toward charity for others. It all must play havoc with your conscience, if you have a conscience anymore. Are you through with it now, John?”
“I’m sure there are a few more souls I can ream o
ut and then save.”
“Haven’t you destroyed enough already, John, especially women? You won’t destroy me, though. I know exactly who you are and how to save you.”
I stepped across the room and clutched her arms and kissed her. She pushed me away and exited the room and began down the corridor. I followed her, then grabbed the bathrobe and pulled her toward me until she was warm and naked in my arms.
“Stop!” she shouted.
I backed away, watching her eyes, learning quickly of her twisted smile. I clutched her again, pinning her against the wall. I focused on her throat and drew in a thin breath, trying to smell it, that goddamn fragrance; only a hint of unburned, gourmet coffee clung to her breath.
I kissed her again with deep, driving kisses, pressing her against the wall until I lifted her legs onto my hips and penetrated her—gasps, whimpers, sharp fingernails into my backside—prodding me to pound harder until we both cried out an explosive release.
A moment of surrender crept between us until our eyes met. She broke away and ran through the corridor, and I followed her through the house, through the two French doors, and onto my private dock. She threw off the bathrobe and leapt naked into the marina until she ascended from the water with glistening face and sodden hair that rounded the lovely shape of her head.
“That water’s not safe to swim in, devil,” I called out.
“I’m waiting for you, John Albert Kidd. And please don’t stand there that way. The sun brings a look to your face that makes me not want to swim with you, so jump in now or I’ll swim away and you’ll never see me for the rest of Sunday.”
I dove in. We embraced and then picked up where we left off with more tongue-probing kisses and hand groping.
“Hold me, John,” she said. “Keep me afloat, I’m frightened.”
“Of what, devil?”
“Of you.”
I held her quivering body, treading my legs briskly so we wouldn’t sink. “We should get out of the marina,” I said. “It can get pretty brackish.”
“But I’m naked. Your snooty neighbors will see me, and what a stir that will make.”
“I think it’s too late for that.”
I swam to the dock and climbed to the deck. I snatched her bathrobe and covered her as she climbed out.
“Let’s go,” she said, stepping onto my yacht. “You did promise me a ride, John.”
I massaged the sting of briny water from my eyes and huffed out a subtle laugh. “I’ll get the keys.” I turned for the house, feeling as though the world was rushing toward me.
15
My 42 foot sloop healed smoothly through the swells that began to crest and cap in white. A steady wind beat across the beam as I trimmed the mainsail and foresail for a precise angle of attack. Catherine reclined in the cockpit, composing the delicate line of her arms and legs the way a model would. She wore a dark, brown bikini that complimented nicely her suntanned skin. She posed motionless, facing the sun, reflecting bright lights from the sunglasses she wore. I thought pleasantly of the sight of her and how a random store-bought swimsuit I had stowed aboard could fit her so well. I fixed the wheel to a steady course and moved to the cabin.
“How do you like your martinis, mate, gin or vodka?” I called out.
“Not a martini, love. May I have something cold with rum in it? It is rather warm.”
“A Daiquiri it is. Keep a watch on that traffic out there and on the belly of the sails.”
“The telltales are streaming and the draft is first-rate, Captain. No vessels in near sight.”
I peeked out and flashed a smile. The ice and ingredients mixed inside the blender. Moments later I carried both my smile and the two daiquiris to the deck and sat next to her. “You’re a good shipmate,” I said.
“I’ve been on many a ship, good Captain.”
“Cheers,” I said.
She giggled as she took a drink. I truly enjoyed seeing her this way.
She said, “It’s cold, and it helps.” She took off her sunglasses.
“Is the sun getting too hot for you?”
“I love the sun, especially out here.”
“I’m glad you’re here, Cat.”
She tilted her head and gave me a look. “Why did you call me Cat?”
“Because your eyes are like cat eyes in the sun...a luminous green and damn stunning.” I gazed upon the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen.
“They’re ferocious too, John Albert.”
I looked away, checking the point of the yacht. The wind held a steady drone against the sails.
“Are you angry with me, John?”
I looked at her. “Please don’t call me John.”
“Why not? Is it because your mother called you John?”
“Leave my mother out of this.”
“But you called me devil earlier, so you must be angry.”
“I’m not angry.”
“You savaged my dress last night and raped me in the foyer and in the corridor this morning, so you must be angry. Did you rape me because I remind you of someone?” She dipped her finger in the Daiquiri, stirring the contents, then licked her finger.
I locked on her face, her question, a tone in her voice that made clear a shrewd madness possessed her and that she was in lead position of this dance.
She went on, “Sexual aggression is sometimes the best way for a woman to know what a man is suffering from. In fact, you’re the only man who’s ever pinned me against a wall like that.” She licked her finger again and creased a smile.
I stood and moved along the deck and adjusted the starboard fairlead. I looked back to see her turning the wench to trim the jib. I gripped one of the shrouds and peered out toward the horizon, keeping my back to her. A distant ridge of clouds rested on the horizon, and, as usual, I couldn’t see anything.
“Will you come with me, Catherine?” I asked, keeping my sight toward the horizon.
“Come with you where?”
“To a place we both need to go.”
She was quiet for a moment until she said, “You mean where you need to go, don’t you?”
I peered more acutely at the mass of gray, woolen clouds. I felt alone suddenly, very alone.
“And just how far will we need to go, John?”
“How far do you want to go?” My voice was hesitant, ensnared.
“Are you sure you want me to answer that?”
I turned and looked at her. I decided not to play her hand, not yet, anyway.
She asked again, “How far do we need to go, John?”
“As far as the night begins and where the wind stops blowing.”
“That’s rather vague. Will we have enough provisions?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“You’re just a gigolo. How could you know?”
No matter the woman, they all knew how to plant their foot succinctly up a man’s groin.
She put her sunglasses on, wearing that damn beautiful, know-it-all smile. I went into the cabin to make another drink. From the cupboard I pulled a can of assorted nuts, which was a fitting snack for a date like this. When I returned to the cockpit, my first mate had a spear gun in her hands.
“What are you doing with that, devil?”
“I found it stowed in that locker over there.” She nodded toward an open storage compartment in the cockpit.
“Here, give me that,” I said, reaching for the spear gun. “You can kill yourself with that.”
“I hardly think so. It’s not even cocked.”
“It’s cocked enough. How did you get inside that locker? It was locked.” I secured the gun in the locker.
“I simply opened it. Why do you have such weapons? I saw one more stored inside.”
“I like to dive, and I never dive alone.”
“Aren’t these sorts of weapons supposed to be tethered to a projectile?”
“It depends on how you want to retrieve your kill, the easy way or the sporting way.” Nice touch, Jack, fumble the bait
, nice and easy.
A look stirred in her face. She had taken the bait, which was what I was afraid of. I handed her the drink and snuggled the can of roasted nuts between my own busted nuts. I studied the locker for a moment, knowing for sure I had set the combination just yesterday. She grasped my arm, slowly pressing her fingernails into my skin. Ouch!
“I do love being with you, John. You’re fun, serene, and I enjoy so much the way you look at me with that grave secret on your face.” She released my arm. “Oh bloody hell, Jack; I’m having a grand time with you, actually. Let’s make a night of this, shall we?” She giggled from the effect of the Daiquiri.
She took off her sunglasses, and when I saw her eyes I decided the only thing a sporting guy could do with a bedeviled cat like her was indeed hold her captive through the night. I checked my watch. The time had leapt through the day and the breeze would begin to wane once the sun settled into the sea. I scrutinized the claw marks in my arm, the locker where I kept my spear gun, and my inebriated senses, all prerequisites, I supposed, for a musing day at sea with a gorgeous enigma of feminine splendor.
I stood, released the halyard, and lowered the main sail, then wrapped it to the boom and released the sheets of the foresail. I turned on a small motor that furrowed the large sail around the forestay. I retrieved a handheld GPS monitor from the cabin and marked my course to somewhere that was nowhere. I started the engine and began the heading.
With her arms spread out on the rail and her legs tucked under her, my captive kitty reclined inside the cockpit, gazing toward the horizon.
16
The breeze had stopped and the sun was now setting. My yacht spotted nicely atop a calm current. Both the stern and bow anchors lay forty fathoms deep with the cabin lights glowing warm and secluded against the dark, purple horizon. High on the mast, the anchor light burned star bright against the evening sky.
Catherine and I had eaten dinner, including two martinis each. We reclined in the berth of the bow with only a thin bed sheet covering our naked bodies. I held her in my arms, stroking her with my hand. I loved her very much now, but couldn’t believe any of it.
I watched how the vodka in her martinis and the long, warm day caused her eyes to fade in and out. I traveled my fingers carefully along her face and neck, but I couldn’t smell it or feel it, that trigger, that sweet, peppery stench; not with her...but why?
The Irresistible Muse of Jack Kidd Page 11