Free The Annihilators by Donald Hamilton Page A

whispered.
    I didn’t believe a word of it, of course. This handsome woman might well be more passionate than she allowed herself to appear; but that she’d be totally at the mercy of her passions was not credible. And while I like to think I’m as charming as the next guy in my rough-hewn way, I always remember that a lot of good, and more not-so-good, men have died from overestimating the attraction they exerted upon the opposite sex. No, I didn’t buy it for a moment. But the lady was committed now. She’d offered herself to me without reservation. There was no gentle way of refusing her. However I put it, I would be saying crudely:
Sorry, babe, tonight’s my night to be virtuous, and anyway you’re really not all that desirable.
    I said, “Sure. Need. Well, you’re the managing lady. Tell me how you’d like this managed, lady.” When she hesitated, I asked baldly, “Do you want to be kissed, for a start?”
    She shook her head-minutely. “No. I think we can dispense with the phony kisses.” Her voice was very calm. “But you may undress me if you wish. Just be… be careful, please. Aside from a rather dressy dress, these are the only civilized clothes I brought along.”
    “Careful Felton is my middle name.”
    I set my glass aside. I took hers from her hand and put it beside mine. I stepped forward deliberately and started to unbutton her silk shirt, aware that she was wearing some kind of a faint but pleasant fragrance. Being a cynical bastard, I had a vision of her dabbing it on with grim resignation, preparing herself for the disgusting seduction scene she was being compelled to stage. Compelled how?
    “Sam.” When I looked at her, having unfastened three small pearly buttons to reveal a rather pretty white slip with lace on it, she said, “Please. You’re looking so… so goddamned cynical. You’re making me feel cheap and dirty. Can’t you see I wouldn’t be doing this if I could help myself?”
    I wanted to ask why she couldn’t help herself; but I knew that all I’d get would be the same phony nympho routine. I straightened up to face her. She was rather disheveled-looking now, with her blouse gaping to reveal her underwear; and I felt very sorry for both of us, trapped in this lousy sex production.
    I said, “You’re the one who specified this crummy coldblooded approach, Frances.”
    Then I reached out and tipped her chin up a little—she was tall enough that it didn’t take much—and bent forward to kiss her. Her lips were cool and unresponsive at first, hardly the lips of a compulsive sex-freak, but after a little they remembered how this was done, and after a little longer they began to enjoy it. Her body relaxed gradually and allowed itself to be brought into contact with mine; soon she was helping to draw us together fiercely, her fingers digging into my back. When we parted at last we were both breathing hard and no questions or reservations remained.
    I said, “That takes care of that ladylike lipstick. Now you’d better get your own damn clothes off if you want to be able to wear them again.”
    I turned away, fumbling with the buttons of my shirt. When I turned back, stripped, she was standing there with her garments neatly arranged on a nearby chair. She awaited me nude with a certain regal and at the same time rather touching pride that was quite justified. She was even more striking, naked, than she had been dressed.
    It had been a long time since I’d seen a truly white lady. They’re all so healthy and brown these days, with cute little bikini-marks, and it’s very nice, no doubt; but this one gleamed like pale marble or, since it was a warm glow, finely polished ivory. I’d kind of expected a lean, strong, rawboned body, but she looked almost fragile, all white like that; a long, slim lovely shape with everything perfectly formed, just slightly attenuated to make a tall woman out of a limited amount of material.
    She waited, unmoving, as I approached, and we