“Your hair—I really think you ought to do something with it. Would you like me to brush it for you?”
Without waiting for her reply, he had seized her brush off the small washstand, and holding her in front of him, pinned uncomfortably between his lean, hard body and the table, he began to brush her hair in long downward strokes, ignoring her pained, angry cries as he tugged the brush through tangled curls.
“What—what do you think to gain by this?” she panted furiously. “You’ve admitted you cannot stop me from going downstairs, and you certainly cannot talk me out of telling that nice young lieutenant everything I know. If you are half as smart as you pretend to be you’d have made your escape by now!”
He dropped the brush and swung her around to face him, his hands suddenly rough on her shoulders.
“It’s too late for me to run, Ginny. And besides, I never have enjoyed running away from danger. As a matter of fact, querida, I intend to escort you downstairs—it might prove kind of exciting, at that.”
“You’re crazy!” The words came out as a whisper. “They’d kill you!”
“But I’d take several of them along with me. And it’s better than a firing squad, or torture, although I’m sure you’d be sorry to miss that.”
“I’m not going to let you blackmail me into silence, Steve Morgan! I’ve too many scores to settle with you!”
“Then settle them with me, damn it! Tell them I kidnapped you, that you’re here against your will—but you say anything about my being tied up with the Juaristas and there’ll be a half-dozen or more innocent people slaughtered, as an example to the rest of the town. You saw that village? You want the same thing to happen here? I’ll tell you how they do it, Ginny—they order everyone outside and start counting, and usually every fifth person gets it. But sometimes, they go berserk, your gallant Frenchmen—they find they can’t stop shooting. And when it’s done—you’ll be here to entertain them, won’t you? There’s a whole troop of them—seven Frenchmen and about fifteen Mexican Irregulars. They should keep you busy until nightfall, at least.”
“No, no, no! I don’t believe you! You’re lying—you’ve lied to me right along! They wouldn’t.”
A soft, nervous tapping at the door made Ginny fall silent, biting her lip to hold her anger in check.
“Esteban! For the Blessed Virgin’s sake! Those French soldados are getting too rowdy! They threaten to come upstairs and tear the place apart if the Señorita does not come downstairs.”
“You can tell them she’ll be down directly. She’s just fixing her hair so it will look extra pretty, aren’t you love? Don’t worry, mamacita—just tell them what I told you to say—remember, you are not happy at having us here!”
Ginny heard the fat woman’s footsteps recede, and found herself staring at Steve. He was dressed somberly, all in black except for his blue brocaded vest. The broadcloth jacket he wore was long enough to cover the holstered gun that rode low on his hip.
“You look as if you are dressed for a funeral!” she blurted out unthinkingly, and flushed with anger when he laughed.
“For my own, perhaps! And now, sweetheart, why don’t you hurry up and do something with your hair? Our would be conquerors obviously don’t like to be kept waiting.”
He took her arm when they walked downstairs, and Ginny, better attuned to his moods by now, could feel the tension—that high-strung, devil-may-care quality in his mood that usually went with danger. He was gambling on her, of course, but she was beginning to believe that he actually enjoyed the excitement of taking risks. She thought viciously that she intended to enjoy the afternoon too. She’d play a cat and mouse game with him; make him wait, wondering when the moment would come—and then she’d accuse him when he least expected it; just when he was beginning to feel sure of her….
The cantina was noisy with loud voices calling in French and in Spanish for more liquor and louder music, more women. Uniforms were everywhere—there were no civilians to be seen. In a corner a small mariachi band played furiously, as if their lives depended on it.
The Frenchmen had drunk enough to become boisterous. Their Mexican counterparts were more occupied with Vera’s selection of pretty putas.
“Hey, you fat old whore!” One of the soldiers called out in French as Ginny and Steve paused at the foot of the stairs. “Where’s the woman?” There was a raucous laugh from one of his companions.
“The old one has a good head for business, I’ll say that for her! Providing a little French poule especially for us…”
His voice trailed off as he looked up to see that the same little pigeon he’d been talking about had come downstairs at last, clinging tightly to the arm of a tall, bearded North American, who was staring coldly at him.
In the sudden hush that followed, Ginny could not, indeed, stop herself from clutching on Steve’s arm. She had heard the comments they were making about her, and now, she saw naked desire that they did not bother to hide in the face of every man in the room.
In a drawling, somehow affected voice that suddenly sounded very southern, Ginny heard Steve drawl, “I’m afraid there seems to be some mistake. This lady, gentlemen,” and he put the slightest sarcastic inflection on the word “gentlemen,” “happens to be my wife.”
Ginny sucked in her breath, anger blinding her for a moment so that she swayed. It was perhaps fortunate that Madame Vera chose the same moment to come bustling up, her arms akimbo, huge breasts quivering with every step under the bright red satin of her gown.
“There! What did I tell you? I did not want you here—I told you this was no place for a man with his wife. But gringos—” she turned to the table occupied by the slightly built French lieutenant and threw out her arms in despair “—ay di mi! What can one say to a gringo, tell me that? He forced his way inside—he said they were too tired to look further for accommodations—what could I do?”
“Hold on here!” Steve’s voice sounded annoyed. “I paid you in advance, didn’t I? Good ol’ American dollars, too. This goddam country! Rent a room for a night in some fleabag place and my sweet li’l wife gets insulted! Well, sirs, let me tell you—”
“Monsieur! If you please—a moment—”
The lieutenant had risen hastily and was making his way towards them, bowing to Ginny as he came closer. He was the one, of course, who had first made her conscious of her nakedness by the way he had looked at her, and now, against her will, Ginny found herself blushing when she encountered his long, assessing look that took her in from head to foot.
“Monsieur, you must excuse my men—we have been travelling hard and long, you see—a natural mistake, when we saw madame at the window—well—” he spread his hands out, palms up, in an apologetic gesture, although the shooting sidewise glance he gave Ginny was insolent in its implications.
“I beg you, monsieur, to accept my apologies. We intended no disrespect, you’ll understand how it is, I’m sure! Perhaps you’ll join me at my table for a while? Some champagne?”
“Well, now, sir—that sounds like a mighty kind offer, but I don’t know if my wife—”
The stumbling hesitancy of the big American’s speech made the lieutenant dismiss him almost immediately as a stupid oaf. A typical Americaine, of course! But the wife—ah, she was too pretty to be a wife. His mistress, more likely, and judging by how quickly the man’s bluster had died away in the face of his tact—who knew? Perhaps some arrangements could be made…
While he was thinking swiftly, the Frenchman brought his heels together and bowed gracefully to Ginny.
“If madame will permit me? I have been away from France for two years now, and I crave the soft, pretty speech of a countrywoman—the champagne is good, I assure you—” he spoke in quick, idiomatic French and Ginny hesitated looking up at Steve. He was glancing down at her, a strange, half-smile pulling at his mouth.
“I can’t understand the half of what the feller’s saying, of course, but if you wanna drink champagne, my love, then I see no harm in jo
ining the lieutenant.”
What was he up to now? What was he planning? Whatever it was, she would take care that it did not succeed! What an actor he was—she’d like to teach him a lesson; show him that she could act just as well!
Ginny smiled archly at the young soldier, and then bit her lip in mock-confusion.
“Well—well as long as you’re sure you understand, and your men too, that I’m not—not—”
“Ah, Bon Dieu, madame! Do not think it! Again, I beg your pardon a million times…”
“Are we gonna have a drink or aren’t we?”
Rather annoyed at having his speech cut short the Frenchman bowed curtly.
“But of course, monsieur! And permit me to introduce myself—Lieutenant François d’Argent—at your service, monsieur et madame!”
“Name’s Gray. John Gray. And this little lady here is my wife Virginia.”
Again, Ginny sucked in her breath, rage almost choking her. He was going too far! But she permitted the Lieutenant to lead them to his table, set slightly apart from the others, and smiled her acknowledgement of true French gallantry as his men all rose to their feet, bowing as she passed.
Before a half hour had passed, the bottle of champagne had become several bottles, and the rest of the Frenchmen had also crowded around, annoying their lieutenant. A stocky, rather sour-faced sergeant kept refilling the American’s glass, and he, dolt that he was, seemed happy enough to drink all he pleased and smoke his cigar, smiling indulgently as the swift, laughing conversation in French flowed around him.
D’Argent noticed that the woman’s face was flushed with pleasure and excitement, although no doubt the champagne had something to do with it as well. He took care to keep her glass full as well.
But they were certainly a strange and ill-matched pair, these two! He had already found out, by clever, off-hand questioning, that the big American was from Texas. He was a cattle buyer, and actually admitted that he was poor, since the war. He was in Mexico trying to buy cattle with what money he had left—planning to have them driven all the way to some outlandishly named town in Kansas where he thought to make an enormous profit.
“Gotta keep my babydoll here in silks and pretty gewgaws,” he’d chuckled in his crude way, and catching the glance that the woman threw at him, François could have sworn he read dislike in it.
Ah, he thought to himself with satisfaction, so all is not well here! Madame—if she is Madame Gray—is bored. Who can blame her? And her husband as much as admitted, later on, that his wife had insisted on accompanying him on this foolish journey.
“My little Ginny is kinda jealous, I guess,” he said with a foolish laugh. “Thought I’d be out chasin’ pretty Señoritas an’ not attendin’ to business unless she came along.”
The pretty little Ginette had choked on her champagne at that moment, and her rough idiot of a husband had made matters worse by thumping her unfeelingly on the back.
“Now, babydoll—you always do drink that stuff too fast. An’ come to think of it, you do look kinda flushed. Mebbe we should find someplace to eat—I’m feeling plumb starved myself!”
Thinking quickly, d’Argent had managed to avert a domestic crisis by suggesting they should do him the honor of dining with him—no, but he insisted! Sergeant Pichon was an excellent cook—he would go ahead immediately and begin to prepare the meal. Madame Gray had begun to smile at once, saying sweetly that she would just love it—he was the kindest man; and when d’Argent, who had contrived to sit next to her, pressed her foot meaningfully under the table, she had continued to smile.
Ginny felt heady with the champagne and the excitement of the game she was playing. She hoped Steve was sweating it out. Let him! It was his turn now, and at any time she pleased she could turn the tables on him by telling these people who he was and what he was. And in the meantime she was enjoying being able to speak French again, to ask questions about her beloved Paris, and above all to be flattered and treated as a beautiful woman should be treated.
It was perhaps because of the champagne that Ginny did not realize that Lieutenant d’Argent was growing more and more puzzled as their conversation continued.
So Madame Gray had lived in Paris for many years and was, in fact half-French. From his carefully thrown-out questions he had already learned that she knew almost nothing about the more popular bistros, such as he and his friends had frequented. She talked of an uncle and aunt—named a quiet residential street whose houses were owned by the very rich and very influential—it could not be possible that she had actually lived in one of these houses, unless, of course she had been a maid or a governess! And if she’d been the latter it would account for her ladylike manner of speaking. It had to be that, of course. A rich young woman of gentle birth would certainly not be careering around a country at war with an obviously boorish American. Nor would she sleep in a shabby cantina run by a madame of rather dubious repute.
As the wine continued to flow the Mexican Irregulars began to get more and more boisterous. Some of them had already retired upstairs with the Señoritas of their choice. D’Argent noticed, with contempt curling his lip, that the American seemed to be falling asleep. It was clear he wasn’t used to champagne, and indeed, that the good wine was wasted on him. But madame was a different matter—madame was growing quite gay, and prettier by the moment. Even the cheap and rather garish dress she wore did nothing to detract from her beauty. A lovely discontented woman—a husband who was too stupid to notice what was going on beneath his nose—what could be more perfect? And he, François, had not had a woman for over a month, if you did not count the few he had taken by force—dirty Mexican sluts who had screamed insults and struggled. This woman would not fight against him, he was more sure of it with every minute that passed!
Smiling, leaning closer to her under the cover of the conversation tactfully engaged in by his men, Lieutenant d’Argent let his compliments become more ardent, his innuendos more daring. Once or twice Madame Gray, or Ginette, as he had already begun to think of her in his mind, actually blushed. He became bolder, positive now that her uncivilized brute of a husband knew no French, and her beautiful green eyes dropped under his—he noticed that she glanced doubtfully at her husband, and smiled.
“He’s falling asleep—your husband,” he said softly in French. “Although me, I cannot understand how he could do so, with such loveliness beside him. Ah, if I could only show you how much I appreciate your presence here…!” Again, his foot pressed against hers under the table.
“You become too bold, monsieur!” she said sharply, adding in an undertone, “and if I were you I would not underestimate him. It could be dangerous.”
Did she mean that her husband was jealous? Certainly it did not seem so. But perhaps she was only playing coy.
“Madame,” d’Argent said earnestly, “I cannot blame any man for being jealous of such a precious possession! But if you’ll permit me, as an admirer of your beauty and elegance, to ask an intimate question—what do you really do here, with such an unappreciative man? This is no place for a woman, this crazy country, and particularly not for one as lovely as you. In Mexico City, now—”
As he let his voice trail away suggestively Ginny thought confusedly that perhaps this was her chance to explain. The young lieutenant would surely be only to eager to help her, although she did not particularly care for his overly bold manner. But when he understood—
“Monsieur,” she began haltingly, trying to choose her words, “perhaps I should explain…”
“My love, it’s getting late. Perhaps the good lieutenant’s cook wasn’t able to find anything to fix for supper. In any case I think we oughta leave these gentlemen to their warlike duties and find ourselves some place to eat. You know how sleepy I always get when I drink on an empty stomach!”
The lieutenant’s face had darkened at the unfortunate interruption. And something in the tone of the big American’s voice set his teeth on edge, although it was nothing to put one’s finge
r on. But the man was a dolt, of course. One could not mistake it. D’Argent contemptuously dismissed the gun that the man wore. All American cowboys wore guns—to them, it was a part of dressing up. And besides, what could one gun do against a troop of French soldiers? He forced himself to smile and speak soothingly.
“Monsieur—no need to worry, I assure you! Pichon will be here in a few minutes, or better still, let us go now to my quarters—I have an excellent brand of champagne myself that I would love to have you try. And I am sure the meal will be to your liking, and madame’s.”
His glance at Ginny was languishing, and she flushed, although she was still puzzled and angry that Steve had interrupted when he did. She caught him looking at her with that infuriatingly mocking smile, one eyebrow tilted slightly as if to say he left the decision up to her. And even Lieutenant d’Argent was watching her expectantly.
“I haven’t had a decent meal in months, as you very well know!” she said rather sullenly to Steve. And then, with a sudden smile she put her hand flirtatiously on his arm and looked up at him, fluttering her eyelashes in a deliberate parody. “Please—you cannot refuse me!”
He caught her meaning, of course, as she had meant him to do. Only she noticed the slight tautening of his lips, and she gloated inwardly. Let him walk the tightrope for a while longer! She could betray him at any moment she pleased, and he knew it. The thought gave her an intoxicating sense of power.
“My love—how well you know that I can refuse you nothing! And our thanks again, Lieutenant.”
Steve stood up, pushing his chair over clumsily as he did.
He saw Ginny wince, and smiled amusedly at her. The little bitch, she was enjoying herself! But he had to hand it to her—it was her turn to be on top, and she was taking it.
D’Argent was explaining hurriedly to his men that he was going back to his quarters and the Americans would be his guests. Some of the men gave him sly, congratulatory smiles that he pretended not to notice.
Sweet Savage Love Page 26