Free Jack 1939 by Francine Mathews

heat, the promiscuous smells. He managed to let go of his gut, shuffling in a half crouch toward the cooler air of the passage, breathing heavily. Pain shafted through his abdomen to his lungs. He was propelled up the gangway to the Second Class Promenade Deck and hung on the rail. He hated his bitch of a body.
    He was desperately and wrenchingly sick over the side of the ship.
    Bitter cold, sharp as glass. The brine wash of the salt sea, far below the canyon wall of the
Queen Mary
. His entire digestive tract felt like it was being tossed over the side and he was probably puking blood. He should have gotten the DOCA into his leg sooner. Damn the Atlantic in February—
    “How old are you, then?” she asked. “Seventeen? Eighteen?”
    He pulled his head up from the rail.
    Not Dobler, but Diana Playfair, standing tall as a French tulip in a sheer silk gown the color and texture of champagne. There were black velvet bows looped in the champagne and the black jet of her hair fell like a curtain on her porcelain brow. Her arms were bare and the skin was shuddering with cold. He ought to do something about that. It wasn’t right that she was freezing because somebody’d slugged him in the gut.
    He fished a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his mouth.
    “Willi’s gone for a glass of water. I said I’d stay.”
    “Willi got the better of that deal.”
    “He usually does.” She was hugging herself now, her beautiful shoulders hunched in the frigid air. “He said you’re one of Ambassador Kennedy’s boys. What do they call you?”
    “Jack.”
    “I’m Diana Playfair.”
    “I know.” He shrugged out of his dinner jacket and draped it carefully over her shoulders. “I made a point of learning your name after I lit your cigarette.”
    “What cigarette?” Her fingers lifted his lapel, her shoulders relaxing a trifle in the jacket’s warmth.
    “The one you smoked as we pulled out of New York. In a pencil skirt and a swan of a hat.”
    “Ah. The Promenade Deck.” The memory pleased her. Probably because she’d walked away from him so coolly.
    “I had to know the name of something that beautiful. Before it vanished forever.”
    Arrested, she ran her eyes over his thin frame, the stark white of his dress shirt against the blackened sea. “Exactly how old are you, Jack Kennedy?”
    He smiled crookedly. “Older than I look.”

NINE. THE WARNING
    THEY CARRIED HIM OFF to Diana’s stateroom and watched while he swallowed a couple of aspirins with a snifter of brandy.
    “You were
punched?
” Diana repeated. “By a complete stranger? The man must have been drunk.”
    She sank into a chair and crossed her legs. The champagne gown was slit to the thigh. Her pumps were black velvet. In between was a sleek expanse of skin.
    “Don’t ask.” He dragged his eyes from Diana and set his brandy glass carefully on a table. The stateroom was far more feminine than his—a dressing gown was spread across the turned-down berth, a pair of gilt slippers perched beneath it. An elusive scent teased the air; the scent of Diana’s skin, as he remembered her standing in darkness.
    “What were you two doing down in Tourist anyway?”
    She shrugged. “Looking for a bit of fun.”
    “And found me.” His mouth twisted. “I’m grateful to you both. You turned up right before that joker decided to finish the job. I don’t suppose you got a look at his face?”
    Diana’s gaze drifted from Jack to Dobler, who was leaning against the cabin door smoking pensively. The German sighed and slid into the remaining armchair. Jack waited while he arranged himself, his cigarette, the crease in his trousers. Then Dobler said, “I may have. Describe him, if you please.”
    Jack closed his eyes. The brandy was settling badly in his stomach. “He was shorter than I am, but about twice my weight. Not,” he admitted, “that that’s difficult. Chest like steel, a fist like a pile driver.”
    “Coloring? Features? . . .