Free Villiers Touch by Brian Garfield Page A

against his back, scratching through the silk of his shirt.
    Tension went out of his fibers. He lay across her, limp, feeling the rise and fall of her breathing under him. After a moment he got up.
    She opened her eyes and frowned. He went into the bathroom, spent two minutes, and came out again to put on his pants. Naomi got off the bed, not speaking, not even looking at him; she pulled her panties up and stooped, making herself round-shouldered, to fit her spectacular breasts into the twin hammocks of her bra, hitched it into adjustment, and straightened, elbows spread-eagled, to snap it behind her.
    He got into his jacket and straightened his tie, went to the mirror to comb his hair, and heard her say to his back, “Are you still rich?”
    â€œSure.” He turned around to regard her. “You always go with the winner, don’t you?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWhat if I go broke?”
    â€œThen I’ll find another winner.”
    He smiled. “Anyhow, you’re honest. I’m still rich. Do you need money?”
    â€œI always do. It takes me ten weeks to write a book, and I only get a fifteen hundred advance on it.” Her mouth twisted, and she added, “Just put it on the bed. That’s the way they do it, isn’t it?”
    â€œDon’t get sour, I only asked.”
    She said, “When I was thirteen I laid my best girl friend’s old man. I guess I’ve always been a whore. But not for money, Mace. Always for free, for fun. Once in a while they give me something—a bracelet or a watch. But it’s not pay. I never take pay. The difference may not look very important to you, but it does to me.”
    He said, not caring, “I understand. All right, you don’t want anything right now, because that would be too much like taking pay. Suppose we have dinner together, say Thursday night.”
    For some reason he sensed but did not comprehend, she gave him an enraged scowl and turned her back, folding her arms. She said in a low tone, “When you invite a girl to dinner, at least you could look as if you cared which way she’ll answer.”
    â€œI don’t make invitations unless I mean them.”
    â€œYou could look a little less bored.”
    â€œSuit yourself, then,” he said indifferently, and opened the door.
    When he glanced back, she had turned to watch him; her eyes were too wide and too bright. She said, “God damn you, you think you can come and go like a subway train.”
    He made no answer; he pulled the door shut and walked to the elevator.
    He emerged from the narrow apartment building onto a Greenwich Village street and looked around, planning to ambush a taxi before he saw the limousine and remembered that Sanders was driving him today. He crossed the curb diagonally and got into the luxurious back seat. Sanders had the engine idling and the air-conditioning on; it was cool but stuffy in the Cadillac.
    Sanders, via the rear-view mirror, gave his cowardly apologetic smile and said, “Where to?”
    â€œHackman’s office.”
    â€œYes, sir.” Sanders looked over his shoulder at the traffic and eased out into the flow. Villiers sat back and frowned at the back of Sanders’ billiard-ball head.
    They stopped for a traffic light, and Sanders cleared his throat. “Sir …”
    â€œWhat is it?” Villiers snapped.
    â€œMy mother, sir. She’s ill, and I was wondering if you’d be needing me for the evening. I mean—”
    â€œI may need you. I’ll let you know.”
    â€œYes, sir.” The traffic began to move, and Sanders turned into Seventh Avenue and manhandled the limousine through heavy traffic past St. Vincent’s Hospital, heading downtown toward the financial district.
    Tod Sanders was becoming an annoyance, Villiers thought. For a while it had amused him to put Sanders through hoops.
    Ten blocks farther downtown, Sanders said again, “I’m not