Free Where Love Has Gone by Harold Robbins

nymphomaniac, Mr. Corwin?”
    “That’s not what I’m trying to say, Mrs. Hayden,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “Nora is an artist. She finds both a certain stimulus and an escape in sex. She told me once that it helped bring her closer to people, to know more about them, to understand them better.”
    The old lady was still watching him. “Have you and Nora—?” She left the question hanging in the air.
    He met her eyes squarely. He nodded without speaking.
    She sighed softly and looked down at her desk. “Thank you for your honesty, Mr. Corwin. I didn’t mean to pry into your personal relationships.”
    “It’s been over for a long time,” he said. “I found that out the last time she came to my place.” “That was about six months ago? Just about the time of her show?”
    He nodded. “She seemed very upset. She’d been crying. It seems that young major who drove her over had been pretty rough on her.”
    “Major Carey,” she said. “He seemed such a nice young man.”
    “He said something that upset her. Anyway, I sent her home in a cab a half hour after she arrived.”
    “I wondered why she got home so early that night. I’d like to ask one favor of you, Mr. Corwin.” “Anything I can do, ma’am.”
    “Nora has a high regard for your opinion. Help me—help her keep out of trouble.” “I’ll try, Mrs. Hayden. For all our sakes.”
    “Thank you,” she said. Suddenly she seemed very tired. She leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. “Sometimes I think the best thing for her would be to get married. Perhaps then she would feel different.”
    “It might be.” But inside, Sam knew better. Girls like Nora never changed, married or not.
    They sat silently until Nora came into the room. “Mr. Corwin has agreed to our proposition,” her mother said.
    Nora smiled. She held out her hand. “Thanks, Sam.”
    “Don’t thank me,” he said. “You may be sorry before all this is over.”
    “I’ll take my chances.”
    “Okay,” he said, his voice brisk and businesslike. “Now—what are you working on?” “I’m getting ready for a show that Arlene Gately is giving in April.”
    “Cancel it.”
    “What on earth for?” “We can’t afford it.” “But I promised—”
    “Then you’ll have to break your promise,” Sam said gruffly. He turned to her mother. “Make out a check for ten thousand dollars. Nora and I are going to New York.”
    “New York?” Nora asked. “Why?”
    Her mother was looking questioningly at Sam. “New York,” he repeated. “I want Aaron Scaasi to give her a shot in April.”
    “I—I couldn’t do that.”
    “Why not?” he asked harshly.
    “Because Arlene has always been my agent. She’s put on every show I’ve ever had. I can’t just walk out on her after all this time.”
    “You can and you will. Arlene Gately may be very nice but she’s nothing but a small-time, small-town dealer and you’ve outgrown her. Aaron Scaasi is recognized as one of the leading dealers in the world. A show at his gallery will do more toward getting you that award than anything else right now.”
    “But how do you know he’ll do it?”
    “He’ll do it.” Sam smiled. “Your check for ten thousand dollars says that he will.”

    All this, of course, took place while I was still in the Pacific.
    I was a big man for the Somerset Maugham kind of story. The sweating, steaming jungle lulling the white man into a torpor, then seducing him with the aid of a lovely brown-skinned maiden to a happy way of life never dreamed of in dear old Blighty. It never was like that for me. I guess I was in the wrong jungle.
    It was always cold and dank at the airstrip north of Port Moresby, and no matter how many layers of clothing you wore, the chill ate its way into your bones. Your teeth always chattered, and your nose always ran, and it was easier to catch the flu than malaria. We spent most of our spare time huddling around the pot-bellied stove in the pilots’