by Paul Kenyon
Annotation
Baroness Penelope St. John-Orsini has a hot assignment this time: to intercept a porn film that will bring down the American government if it leaks out. That means fast, violent action — with some steamy bedroom scenes for the Baroness. And porn purveyor Sully Flick wants to get her beautiful body on film, playing a death scene — for real!
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Paul Kenyon
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
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Paul Kenyon
Hard-core Murder
OCR Mysuli: [email protected]
Chapter 1
The Baroness crouched, the wicked little knife in her hand, and waited for the Indian to come at her.
She didn't much resemble the model whose face regularly adorned the pages of Vogue and Elle and Harper's Bazaar. Suzy Knickerbocker would have disowned her.
The startling ivory face, with those exquisite cheekbones and the fine generous mouth, was a tight mask of concentration. The enormous green eyes were narrowed, fixed unwaveringly on the broad hunting knife in the Indian's fist.
The skintight leotard she wore might, under other circumstances, have made a stunning display of her long legs and narrow-waisted torso. But at the moment her fine shoulders and splendid deep breasts were a feminine irrelevancy, like the cascades of rich black hair that she'd pinned back that morning to keep her opponent from getting a grip.
Right now, the Baroness Penelope St. John-Orsini was an instrument. Her magnificent body was a swift and deadly device for killing people.
The Indian rushed her. He was a big, bulky man with a chest like a beer keg, but he covered the space between them in a fraction of a second.
She fell over backward. Her left hand slapped the gymnasium mat, palm down. Her legs flew up like a pair of springboards. The right foot caught the big Cherokee in the solar plexus. The left foot struck him in the wrist, deflecting the knife. His blade snagged in the fabric of her leotard, tearing it the length of the thigh.
But by now she was launching herself backward from the oak-hard washboard of his belly. For good measure she scored him down the leg with her knife, slicing through his stiff jeans. He staggered, his massive body off balance.
She pivoted like a swinging gate on her left hand and caught him neatly behind the knees. He went down like a falling tree. The floor of the gym shook. Instantly she flung herself across his body, her left hand pinning his knife arm and her own knife passing, blade flat, across his throat.
"You're dead, Chief," she said.
The whole thing had taken less than five seconds.
Joe Skytop grinned ruefully at her. "That's funny. If I'm dead, why does my leg hurt?"
She stood up, releasing him, and he lumbered to his feet. The leg of his jeans flapped like an open curtain, showing a superficial scratch that oozed a few drops of blood.
"Thanks, Baroness," he said. "I deserved a deeper cut for being so slow."
She smiled at him. "You weren't slow, Joseph. But we're going to have to work on your frontal kicking defense."
Skytop nodded soberly. He was an expert knife fighter and a master of Unarmed Combat. In a one-to-one fight, there was hardly a man alive — Black Belt, Kung Fu champion, savate expert, bayonet man or any other style you could name — whom he couldn't take with his bare hands. But the Baroness was fast. She moved faster than anybody he'd ever seen.
"Let's look at your own leg, Baroness," he said.
She spread the fabric of her leotard to show him the inside of her thigh. There was a thin bloody line about six inches long, but it was only skin deep.
"I'm supposed to shoot you in a line of Scott Barrie beach clothes and bikinis this afternoon," he said reprovingly. "That color spread for Mademoiselle."
"You'll just have to pose me from the other side, Chief. Or I can cover the scratch with my other leg. Or something. You'll get beautiful pictures. You always do."
He nodded without false modesty. Despite his rough-and-tumble appearance, the big Cherokee was one of the hottest fashion photographers around.
"Why do you insist on using real knives for these workouts, Baroness?" he said. "They're just practice sessions. I don't mind a few accidental cuts and scratches, but your skin is worth money."
She laughed. "Real knives are more fun. You've got to worry a little about being cut. It's good for the reflexes."
She ripped away the torn leg of the leotard. Skytop sawed away at the ripped jeans, then gave up and took them off. He faced her in his jockey shorts, a huge mahogany figure with massively muscled arms and legs, and a face like a copper eagle.
"What next, Baroness?" he said. "Want to work on some more knife defenses?"
"No, I think we'll review the Kung Fu kicks."
The door to the gym opened, and a big, baby-faced blonde girl in a starched white uniform stepped inside.
"There's a call for you, Baroness," she said with the trace of a Swedish accent. "You can take it on the phone by the pool."
"Not now, Inga. Joe and I will be working out for another hour."
"It's Mr. O'Shea. He's calling from Corsica."
The Baroness gave a tinkling laugh. "Terence? Did he say what he's doing there?"
"He's making a picture. He says if you don't talk to him, he'll throw himself off the top of Mount Cinto. I think he means it."
"I wouldn't put it past the crazy fool. All right, I'll take the call." She turned to Skytop. "That's all for this morning, Joe. I'll meet you on the beach at Viareggio this afternoon for those Mademoiselle shots. Pick up Fiona and Yvette. We'll want to use them, too."
She headed toward the door, loosening her hair on the way. As she passed Inga, the blonde girl looked disapprovingly at the torn leotard and the long cut on her leg. Walking through the marble gallery that led to the pool, she could hear Inga's voice, scolding Skytop.
"Joe Skytop!" Inga was saying. "You big clumsy oaf! You're too rough! Why can't you be more careful when you practice with the Baroness…"
The pool was a sparkling blue under the deep Tuscan sky. She crossed the tile apron and settled down at one of the poolside tables. A phone was plugged in, its receiver off the hook.
She picked up the phone. "Terence, you idiot! Is it you?"
"You're bloody right it's me!" the familiar lilting voice said in her ear. There was a buzz of static. "Darling girl, I'm going crazy here! There's nothing to do except eat pâté de merle and watch the quaint shepherds screwing their goats."
"What are you doing in Corsica?"
"I'm making a film. A bloody Foreign Legion epic. The French government is letting us shoot inside the Citadelle Montlaur. And Penny, would you believe it…" His voice became crafty. "The bloody fools are paying me a half-million dollars and ten percent of the gross."
"If you finish the picture, Terence. How far behind schedule are you?"
"I'm on my best behavior," he protested. "No boozing, no wenching, no pranks. I've rented a villa near Propriano, and I sit here like a bloody priest, nursing a few watered scotches at night. You've got to come to my rescue!"
"I thought you said no wenching."
"You're not a wench. You're an angel."
"A very busy angel, darling. I'm due in front of a camera this afternoon, and then there's a whole series of appointments in Rome the rest of the week to see the new co
llections."
There was more static at the other end. "Bugger this afternoon! You've got an army of lovely girls working for you. Have one of them model instead! And as for the new collections, let that Jap fashion coordinator look at them for you. That's what employees are for, dear girl."
Penelope laughed. "Terence, darling, you seem to think that Corsica is next door to Florence. It's a two-hour drive from my villa to Livorno, then another nine hours by boat."
"I can't wait that long. I've got a bloody painful hard-on. I've got to do something about it before lunch."
"What about your leading lady? Don't you always give them the honor?"
"Laureen? She's a dyke. Besides, I think she has a dose."
"There are always those quaint Corsican goats."
He groaned. "Penny love, don't torment me! If you don't get down here this morning, I swear I'll jump off the Citadel at Corte. It's a five-hundred-foot sheer drop."
She laughed again. "The Foreign Legion doesn't allow visitors."
"The bloody hell they don't! We're shooting there this afternoon."
"You gave yourself away, Terence darling. I thought you were behaving. If you're shooting today, you can't afford to dally with me."
"It'll only cost me twenty thousand for the day. That's what the penalty clause in my contract says."
"Am I worth twenty thousand dollars to you, Terence darling?" she said mischievously.
"Damned bloody right you are!" he exploded.
"I'll see. you in an hour. Meet me in the waiting lounge at Bastia."
She hung up. She turned around in her chair. Inga was standing there, a tray with a tall, iced bloody mary in her hands.
"How are you going to get there in an hour?" Inga said.
"Tell Eric to bring out the Porsche. Tell him to leave it in the driveway, motor running. Then have him call Mario. I want the Learjet fueled, on the runway and cleared for Bastia in fifteen minutes. And fix me a picnic lunch."
She took a sip of the bloody mary and put it back on the tray. She stripped off the torn leotard and dived, nude, into the pool. When she climbed out, dripping, a moment later, Inga was ready with a fluffy towel.
"That was my shower," Penelope said. "Now hurry! Meet me at the Porsche with the lunch in five minutes."
She sprinted, naked, for the wedding cake façade of the palazzo. Carlo, the elderly gardener looked up and shook his head as she ran past him into the villa. He still wasn't used to the antics of the strange American lady who had married into the Orsini family title and fortune. If the Baron were alive now!
Penelope hurried barefoot along the colonnaded marble loggia that ran the length of the garden side of the palazzo. It was hung with Orsini family portraits, including a rare Giotto, a Ghirlandaio, an authenticated Da Vinci and a priceless Tintoretto. She slowed down to pick up the bra she'd left draped over a portrait bust by Donatello on her way to the pool the day before, and fastened it behind her as she burst into the cavernous formal drawing room.
Joe Skytop was just coming through on his way out, his hair still wet from his shower, a fresh pair of jeans on. He showed no surprise at her near-nakedness. He'd taken thousands of photos of her, in every stage of dress and undress.
"Joe, I won't be able to make the Mademoiselle session this afternoon," she flung at him. "Use Fiona and Yvette instead. Take Inga along if you think you need her."
She ran up the pink marble staircase to her bedroom. She squeezed herself into a tight, white nylon jump suit and a pair of sailcloth shoes, then stuffed a bikini, a sleeveless jersey and a pair of shorts into a flight bag. She started to leave, then went back.
There were two pieces of basic equipment she didn't like to travel without.
The first was the Bernardelli VB.
She reached under her dressing table and released it from its magnetic catch. It was a little gold-plated gun, not much larger than a pack of cigarettes. Its manufacturer claimed it was the smallest automatic made — smaller than a Derringer or a Beretta Minx M2. But it packed a bigger punch than either of them: five .25 caliber slugs.
She slipped the tiny automatic into the leg pocket of the jumpsuit. It didn't bulge at all.
The second item was in plain sight on top of the table.
It was a liquid-crystal watch from Tiffany in a twenty-four-karat gold case. The face was blank at the moment. When you wanted the time, you pushed a button, and numbers showing hour, minutes and seconds flashed on the tiny screen.
It still worked, only now it did more than tell the time. An array of pinhead-size electronic components were crammed into every available interior space, powered by their own cesium battery.
She sighed, and put it on her wrist. It didn't belong to her. She belonged to it.
The little red Porsche was waiting in the driveway, its motor going. Eric stood beside it, a tall slender man with blond hair and overhandsome Nordic features. He was a top male model for her company, International Models, Inc. He was also one of the toughest agents on her team.
"The jet will be ready by the time you get there, Baroness," he said. "Mario's warming it up now."
Penelope vaulted into the driver's seat, not bothering to use the door. The rearview mirror showed Inga hurrying from the villa, a wicker picnic basket in her hand. Penelope waited the fractional second Inga needed, then put the Porsche into gear. The little sports car was already moving as Inga dropped the basket into the seat beside her.
"Arrivederci!" Penelope called as the Porsche leaped ahead.
The road was crowded with morning traffic as she turned down the route toward Sesto. She raced the car past a succession of terrified drivers, skinning past them whenever there was a bare inch or two of space, pulling out into the oncoming lane and back again scant seconds in time to avoid collisions, seeing the faces turn white and listening to the horns blare in her wake.
A sunburned man in a white Fiat shook his fist at her as she pulled between him and an oil truck. She grinned and held out her hand with the sign of the horns. His face went livid with rage. An elderly man in an oncoming Alfa Romeo blanched and crossed himself when she scraped his front bumper just in time to get back in line. The car she pulled ahead of lost control and fetched up against one of the cypress trees lining the drive.
At last she was free of the city traffic, whizzing northward past a blur of moss-grown villa walls, olive groves and magnificent gardens. She turned her head for a quick look at Florence, laid out below her like a glittering beadbox. The palaces and churches stood out like colored dice. She could see the immense dome of Santa Maria del Fiore, flanked by Giotto's bell tower, and the crenelated tower of the Palazzo Vecchio.
Eight minutes later she was bouncing across the runway of the airfield near Sesto. She braked to a jarring stop under the tail of a Gates Learjet 25C. The six-seater executive jet was painted a brilliant sapphire, with the Orsini coat of arms emblazoned on its sides.
Mario, in greasy coveralls, was waiting next to it.
"E tutto a posto?" she said, tossing him the car keys.
"Si, Baronessa," he said. "Potra andare fino a Bastia."
"Benissimo," she said. She climbed into the cockpit and took the controls. Moments later the million-dollar jet was taxiing down the runway. She took off and headed west. At the Learjet's cruising speed of 500 miles per hour, she was winging over the mirrorlike surface of the Ligurian Sea within ten minutes. Twelve minutes after that, she could see the clean sandy beaches and rugged mountains of Corsica below her. She radioed for clearance, then set the forty-seven-foot jet down on a runway that was at least a hundred feet too short for it. She swooped in, gear and flaps down, just a whisper above the 120-miles-per-hour stall speed, and went bouncing crazily down the hard-packed strip. She hit the brakes hard, just in time to avoid ploughing into a sagging fence and the flock of curious goats behind it. The jet stood on its nose wheel, its tail rising into the air, then settled back with a jounce.
Terence was waiting for her in the lounge. He
unhooked a long leg from the arm of a chair and rose to greet her, a tall, loose-jointed man who moved with almost feline grace. He had one of those long, handsome, Celtic faces that would look ascetic but for the self-indulgent mouth and an unruly mop of reddish-blond hair. He was barefoot, to the disapproving stare of the Corsican officials behind the counter, and wore a beautifully pressed pair of white hip-huggers and a blue-and-white striped jersey.
"Penny, love, it's only forty-five minutes since I called you! You're a bloody marvel!"
It took her only a few minutes to clear Customs. The French officer touched his hat respectfully when he saw her passport, stamped it and handed it back to her. He chalked the flight bag and picnic basket and waved her on.
Terence's car was waiting outside, a shabby green MG that he airlifted everywhere with him at great expense. They climbed into the worn ostrich leather seats and he took off with a roar.
"What's in the basket, love?" he said.
"A picnic lunch."
"A picnic is it, then? I know a fine place."
They whizzed at terrifying speed along a curving mountain road that had no guardrails. Terence was a careless driver with a devil-may-care attitude toward blind curves and obstacles. He slowed down a couple of times for flocks of goats, nudging them aside with the hood of the MG. Finally he pulled off the road to show her a magnificent view of the Mediterranean, sparkling three hundred feet below at the foot of the cliffs. There was a fine sandy beach, sheltered by jagged rocks.
"The bloody tourists take over the whole east coast this time of year," Terence said, "but this stretch of ocean is too tough for them. I swim here mother naked all the time."
"How do we get down there?"
"We climb. There is an alternative."
"What's that?"
He flashed a boyish smile. "We can drop."
She slung the flight bag over her shoulder and handed him the picnic basket. "You can drop if you like, Terence darling, but don't let go of the lunch."
"I'll lead the way. If I see that bloody marvelous ass of yours bobbing in front of me, I'll lose my footing for sure."