The Pirate

by Harold Robbins

  Somewhere in the distance she could hear herself screaming as orgasm after orgasm ripped her apart. She had never come like this before. Never. She, who had always thought that this kind of sexual excitement was only something that people talked or read about. A kind of game they played on themselves to hide their feelings. And if it were true, she felt that it was something beyond her capacity to feel. For her, sex was her triumph over the male; any satisfaction in it for her was purely accidental. But this was different. Now she was being used, she was being pleasured, she was giving, she was taking, she was being completed.

  Finally she could take it no more. “Stop,” she cried. “Please, stop!”

  His body came to a rest against her; he was still hard inside her. She looked up at him. In the dim red light the fine patina of sweat covering his face and chest glowed copper. His teeth shone white as he smiled. “You all right, white lady?”

  She nodded her head slowly. “Did you come?”

  “No,” he said. “That’s the on’y thing my pappy didn’t tell me. Use enough to make a lady happy an’ that’s just enough to keep you from makin’ it.”

  She stared at him for a long moment, then, suddenly and unaccountably, she began to cry.

  He watched her for a moment, then without speaking, got out of the bed and walked over to the sink. Bending over he swung the bidet out into the room and turned on the water. He straightened up and looked at her. “You have to let it run for a few minutes if you want to get hot water,” he explained.

  He opened the small cabinet over the sink and took out a towel and a washcloth which he hung over the connecting pipes. With a finger he tested the water. “It’s all ready for you,” he said.

  She looked at him without speaking.

  “You did say you only had an hour, didn’t you?” he asked.

  She nodded, sitting up. “I don’t know if I can walk.”

  He smiled. “You’ll be okay, once you get movin’.”

  She got out of bed. He was right. After the first step, the strength came back into her limbs. She squatted over the bidet and took the soap and washcloth from his outstretched hand. She washed herself quickly. The lukewarm water was refreshing. She picked up the towel and dried herself, then began to dress while he washed himself. “I’m sorry you didn’t make it,” she said.

  “That’s okay,” he said. “I promised you a trip to the moon and I wanted you to have it.”

  “I had it all right,” she said. “I’ll never forget it.”

  He was hesitant. “Maybe we could do it again sometime?”

  “Maybe,” she said. Dressed, she reached for her beach bag and took out some money. She ripped off a few large bills and held them out toward him. “I hope you don’t mind.”

  He took the money. “I could use it. But you don’t have to.”

  “I didn’t give you much else,” she said.

  “You gave me a lot, lady,” he said. “You left all your friends to come with me. That’s something.”

  Something in his tone of voice caught her. “Do you know me?”

  He shook his head. “No.”

  “Then why did you ask me?”

  “I saw you on the beach,” he said. “After that man sent Jacques out to meet you.”

  “You know Jacques?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he said. “I spent last night with him.”

  She was silent for a moment. “Is Jacques—”

  He nodded. “He’d rather be a girl.”

  “And you?”

  “I like to fuck,” he said. “I don’t give a damn as long as there’s a hole to stick it in.”

  “Do you know the man who spoke to Jacques?”

  “I never saw him before. He had dark hair and spoke French with an Arabic accent. I heard him say that Jacques had to get something by tonight because you were leaving for California tomorrow and that Jacques shouldn’t worry because he had fixed it so that the San Marco wouldn’t be able to take you back to Cannes.”

  Suddenly it all came together in her head. Youssef was the only one who knew that she was leaving tomorrow. He had come down from Paris to handle the flight arrangements for her on Baydr’s instructions.

  A long time ago she had heard there had once been a connection between Youssef and Princess Mara. And Mara had pushed Jacques on to her. What she didn’t understand was what possible benefit Youssef could get from it. Unless—unless he meant to use it against her with Baydr.

  An unfamiliar feeling of fear came over her. Youssef had never really liked her but that didn’t seem to be enough of an explanation for something like this. She just didn’t know. All she did know what that she had better get back to the villa tonight.

  But that was a problem. There were no taxis in St. Tropez after midnight. And she had given Guy, her chauffeur, the night off so she could not call him.

  She looked at Gerard. “Do you have a car?”

  “No.”

  “Damn!” A worried look crossed her face.

  “I have a bike,” he said. “I’ll take you back if you’ll ride behind me.”

  “You’re lovely,” she said, smiling suddenly. She threw her arms around him in a sudden burst of relief and kissed his cheek. “It should be great fun.”

  He put her arms down, suddenly embarrassed. “Don’t be too sure, lady. Just see if you think so after I get you there.”

  CHAPTER 3

  It was about two hours after they had taken off from Paris. The cabin attendants were busy preparing to serve lunch. Jordana looked back at Youssef. “I think I’d like to get some sleep now.”

  Youssef unfastened his seatbelt and rose to his feet. “I’ll have them prepare your seats right away.” He glanced at Diana, Jordana’s secretary. She was dozing in the window seat next to his, her unfinished drink resting on the tray in front of her.

  He made his way to the chief steward, who was standing near the galley. “Madame Al Fay would like to rest.”

  “But we are about to serve déjeuner,” the steward protested.

  “She is not hungry.”

  “Oui, monsieur,” the steward said quickly. He left the galley and went back through the curtains that separated first class from economy.

  Youssef turned and looked at Jordana. Her eyes were completely hidden by the large dark glasses but there wasn’t a line on her face to indicate that she had not slept the night before. She was looking at the Air France magazine on her lap, and sipping from a glass of white wine.

  He suppressed a yawn. He was exhausted. He had been awake since four that morning when Jacques had called him from St. Tropez to tell him that she had disappeared.

  The San Marco was still in the port and there was no trace of her anywhere in the village. Jacques had been to every restaurant and discotheque that was still open. Youssef had put down the telephone still fuming.

  There was nothing he could do but wait until he went to the villa in the morning to take her to the airport. He could not get back to sleep. All the money he had given Jacques, all the plans he had made, were for naught. Even telling the mechanic at the Citroën garage to take the SM away from Jacques that morning had given him no satisfaction.

  Jordana had been at breakfast when he arrived at the villa about nine o’clock. She said nothing about the evening, nor did she mention anything about how she had returned home. Casually, he had found out from one of the security guards at the villa that she had arrived by taxi from Cannes at about five that morning.

  In the limousine on the way to the airport he had explained the arrangements for the flight. They had the last four seats in the first-class section. Two were for her. He and her secretary would occupy the seats directly behind. He had also reserved the first three seats in the economy section so that when she wanted to rest she could lie down there. Special handling had also been arranged for her luggage. It would be placed in the cabin so that she would not have to wait for it in Los Angeles. There would be a special U.S. Customs agent waiting for them on arrival
so that they could transfer quickly to the helicopter which would take them to Rancho del Sol. ETA for AF 003 was 4 P.M. Los Angeles time: dinner at Rancho del Sol was set for 8 P.M. If everything went according to schedule, she would have ample time to dress.

  The steward came back to him. “It is ready for madame.”

  “Thank you,” Youssef said. He walked back to the seat. “It’s okay,” he told her.

  She nodded and rose to her feet. She opened her purse and took out a small vial and shook two pills into her hand. She swallowed them quickly with a sip of wine. “That’s to make sure that I sleep.”

  “Of course.”

  “Please see that I’m awakened at least an hour and a half before we land.”

  “I’ll take care of that,” he answered. “Have a good rest.”

  She stared at him for a moment. “Thank you.”

  He watched her disappear through the curtains and sank back into his seat. Beside him, Diana stirred but did not open her eyes. He looked at his watch and glanced out the window. There were still eleven hours left. This time he did not suppress his yawn. He closed his eyes, hoping that he could get some rest.

  Air France had done a good job. Temporary curtains, like those used for the second flight crew or these extra-long nonstop flights, had been rigged around her seats. The window blinds were drawn and it was dark as she stretched out and pulled the blanket over her.

  She lay quietly waiting for the sleeping pills to take effect. She began to feel the aching protest of her body as the exhaustion seeped through her. She could still feel the pounding of the motorcycle against the road as they raced through the early dawn toward Cannes. She had made Gerard drop her at the railroad station in the center of the town. There were always taxis there.

  She had offered him more money but he had refused. “You’ve given me enough,” he said.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  He put the bike into gear. “Look me up when you come back to St. Tro.”

  “I will. And thank you again.”

  He took the crash helmet he had loaned her and strapped it onto the backseat. “Goodbye.”

  “Goodbye.” He gunned the engine and took off. She watched him turn the corner toward the sea, then walked over to the first taxi on line and got in.

  It had been daylight and a few minutes after five o’clock when she entered her bedroom at the villa. Her suitcases, neatly packed, were against the wall and still open in case there was anything she wanted to put in at the last minute. A note from her secretary was propped against the lamp on the night table. She picked it up. It was terse, in Diana’s usual style:

  Departure Villa—9 A.M.

  Departure Nice—Paris—10 A.M.

  Departure Paris—LA—12 N.

  ETA Los Angeles—4 P.M. Pacific Coast Time

  She looked at the clock again. If she wanted to have breakfast with the boys at seven o’clock, there was no point in her going to bed now. She would be better off trying to sleep on the plane.

  She went into the bathroom, opened the medicine cabinet and took out a vial of tablets. She popped a Dexamyl into her mouth and swallowed it with a drink of water. It would keep her going at least until the plane took off from Paris.

  Slowly she began to undress. When she was naked, she looked at herself in the full-length mirror that was built into the wall of her dressing room. There were faint bruises on her breasts where Gerard had squeezed them, but they could not be seen in dim light, and in the daytime a little body makeup would cover them. Her belly was just flat enough and there was no extra flesh on her hips or thighs. She placed her hand on her pubis and gently parting the soft blond hair, examined herself critically. Her vagina felt heavy and swollen and seemed slightly red and irritated. A faint tingling went through her as she thought about the way the black had taken her. She never dreamed that she could come as many times as she had. She turned back to the medicine cabinet and took out a packet of Massengill. A douche wouldn’t hurt and at least it would be soothing. As she mixed the solution another thought flashed through her mind.

  What if the black had venereal disease? There was always a possibility especially since she knew he was bi. Somewhere she had read that homosexuals had the highest rate of venereal infections. Again she opened the medicine cabinet. This time she swallowed two penicillin tablets. She put the vial in her handbag so that she would not forget to keep taking them for the next few days.

  The Dexamyl was beginning to take effect and when she finished her douche she went right into the shower. Hot and cold, hot and cold, hot and cold, three times as she had learned to do it from Baydr. When she stepped out of the shower, she felt as refreshed as if she had slept all night.

  She sat down at her dressing table and slowly began to put on her makeup. Afterward she dressed and went downstairs to the breakfast room to join the boys.

  They were surprised to see her. Usually she did not have breakfast with them. Instead they would come to her room after she had awakened, which was generally just before their lunch.

  “Where are you going, Mommy?” Muhammad asked.

  “I’m going to meet Daddy in California.”

  His face brightened. “Are we going too?”

  “No, darling. It’s just a quick trip. I will be back in a few days.”

  He was visibly disappointed. “Will Daddy be coming back with you?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. It was the truth. She didn’t know. Baydr had only asked her to join him. He had said nothing about his future plans.

  “I hope he does come,” Samir said.

  “I hope so too,” she said.

  “I want him to hear how well we speak Arabic,” the little one said.

  “Will you tell him, Mommy?” Muhammad asked.

  “I will tell him. Daddy will be very proud of you.”

  Both children smiled. “Also tell him that we miss him,” Muhammad said.

  “I will.”

  Samir looked up at her. “Why doesn’t Daddy come home like other daddies? My friends’ daddies come home every night. Doesn’t he like us?”

  “Daddy loves you both, but Daddy is very busy and has to work very hard. He wants to come home to see you but he can’t.”

  “I wish he could come home like other daddies,” Samir said.

  “What are you doing today?” Jordana asked to change the subject.

  Muhammad’s face brightened. “Nanny’s taking us on a picnic.”

  “That should be fun.”

  “It’s all right,” he said. “But it’s more fun when Daddy takes us water-skiing.”

  She looked at her sons. There was something about their serious faces and large dark eyes that reached into her heart. In many ways they were miniatures of their father, and sometimes she felt that there was very little that she could do for them. Boys needed to model themselves after their father. She wondered if Baydr knew that. Sometimes she wondered if Baydr cared about anything but his business.

  The nanny came into the room. “Time for your riding lesson, boys,” she said in her dry Scottish voice. “The teacher is here.”

  They jumped from their chairs and ran, whooping, to the door. “Just a moment, boys,” the nanny said. “Haven’t you forgotten something?”

  The two boys looked at each other, then, shamefacedly, trooped back to their mother. They held their cheeks up to be kissed.

  “I have an idea,” Samir said, looking at her.

  She looked at the little one, a smile coming to her face. She knew what was coming. “Yes?”

  “When you come back, you surprise us with a present,” he said seriously. “Don’t you think that’s a good idea?”

  “It’s a good idea. What kind of a present do you have in mind?”

  He leaned over and whispered into his brother’s ear. Muhammad nodded. “You know those baseball caps that Daddy wears when he’s on the boat?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  “Can you get some like those?” he asked.


  “I’ll try.”

  “Thank you, Mommy,” they chorused. She kissed them again and they ran off without a backward glance. She sat at the table for a moment, then rose and went back to her room. At nine o’clock, when Youssef arrived with the limousine, she was waiting for him.

  ***

  The drone of the jets and the sleeping pills began to take effect. She closed her eyes and thought about Youssef. What had he been trying to do? Was he acting on his own or at Baydr’s instructions? It was odd that Baydr had been away for almost three months. That was longer than they had ever been separated before. And it wasn’t just another woman. She understood him better than that. She had known about Baydr and his women long before they had gotten married. Just as he had known about her passing affairs.

  No, this was something else. Deeper and more important. But she would never know what it was unless he told her.

  Though he had been Westernized in many ways and she had become a Muslim, they were still separated by a thousand years of different philosophies. Because although the Prophet had granted women more rights than they had ever had until that time, he still had not granted them full equality. In truth all their rights were subject to man’s pleasure.

  That was one thing that was clear in their relationship. She knew it and he knew it. There was nothing she had that he could not take away from her if he so desired, even her children.

  A chill ran through her. Then she dismissed the thought. No, he would never do that. He still needed her in many ways. Like now, when he wanted her to appear beside him in the Western world so that they would not think him so much a stranger.

  This was Jordana’s last thought before she fell asleep.

  CHAPTER 4

  The noon sun filtered through the trees into the loggia outside the Polo Lounge of the Beverly Hills Hotel, tracing delicate lines on the pink tablecloths. Baydr sat in the shadows of one of the booths, sheltered from the sun. Carriage and the two Japanese were opposite him. He watched them as they finished their lunch.

  Meticulously, their knives and forks were placed lengthwise across their plates in the European manner, to signify that they were finished with the course.