Free The Loves of Harry Dancer by Lawrence Sanders

crack of thunder makes him start. Howitzer shot right over his home. His garden. In the following stab of lightning he sees her planted. Arms outstretched. Face raised to the downpour.
    “Nut,” he says. Aloud.
    Goes into the downstairs bathroom. Gets towels and Sylvia’s heavy terry robe. Monogram SD on the pocket. He comes back to the glass doors and waits.
    She finally dashes across the patio. He slides the door open for her. She comes in. Squealing with delight. Hair sodden. Body dripping. He wraps towels about her. Begins to rub her dry. Then gets her into the robe. She uses a towel on her hair.
    “Cold?” he asks her.
    “It was super,” she says. Still bubbling. “Just super. The rain felt like pins and needles.”
    “You better have a drink,” he says. “Brandy?”
    “Whatever.”
    He pours her a small Courvoisier. And another gin for himself. When he brings the drinks back to the living room, she is seated on the floor. Bare legs spread. Still tousling her hair. He sits on the couch near her. Holding their drinks.
    “You’re a wild one,” he says.
    “An hour ago you called me a strange one.”
    “So you are. Strange and wild.”
    “I guess I was,” she says. Grinning up at him. “When I was young.”
    “When you were young? Ho-ho. And what are you now—ancient?”
    “You’d be surprised,” she says.
    She rises. Tosses the towel aside. Curls up on the couch close to him. Takes her drink. The robe falls open. He looks down.
    “Nice?” she asks.
    “Very nice,” he says. Sliding an arm about her shoulders.
    “Harry, have you been thinking about it?”
    “About what?” he says. Knowing.
    “Taking me out of the Tipple Inn.”
    “I can’t go for a thousand a week, Sally.”
    “I didn’t expect you to. Five hundred?”
    Looking down at her…
    “All right,” he says, “let’s try it. Either of us can cancel at any time without giving any reason. Okay?”
    “Sure,” she says, “I’ll go along with that. You want me to move in here?”
    “No,” he says. “It wouldn’t look right. Stay where you are.”
    “But I can stop over here, can’t I? Occasionally.”
    “Of course.”
    “Like tonight?”
    Her ashy scent is stronger. Sweet char.
    “Yes,” he says. “Like tonight.”
    “Good brandy,” she says. Sipping. “Want a taste?”
    She dips a forefinger into her glass. Smears her nipples. Pulls his head down.
    “Taste,” she commands.
    He obeys.
    “What’s upstairs?” she asks.
    “Bedrooms.”
    “Well?”
    They go up the stairs slowly. Hand in hand. He pulls blanket and sheet down on his bed. Sylvia’s bed. Then closes the blinds.
    “Leave the light on,” she says. “I like to watch.” Then: “Let me do the work tonight. All right?”
    “No, I want to do the work.”
    “We’ll both do the work.”
    “Me first,” he says. Laughing.
    “No, me first,” she says.
    She crouches over him. Drifts her damp hair back and forth over his body. Feathering him. Watching his reaction. He reaches up for her. Pulls her down atop him. Unexpectedly she kisses him on the lips. Soft. Tender. Then moves away.
    “Harry,” she says, “I think I’ve got a problem.”
    “What’s that?”
    “I love you.”

20
    T he Corporation’s Chief of Operations has a private chamber adjoining his office. Not much larger than a walk-in closet. Austere. Furnished only with an antique prie-dieu. It is rumored he naps in there.
    He does not. But within that soundproofed hidey-hole, he meditates. Plays chess games in his mind. Planning moves to keep him ahead of the Others. Sometimes, checkmated, he accepts defeat. Or settles for a draw.
    But not in the case of Harry Dancer. Not yet.
    Latest intelligence has been puzzling. Norma Gravesend reports that all personnel assigned to the Dancer operation have been informed that Herman K. Tischman, the Corporation’s muscle, has been turned.
    In his closet, kneeling painfully, the Chief ponders the significance of that. He can understand the