Free Sinners by Jackie Collins Page A

these things. Anyway he was brought in by Sam Plum who is the faggot agent.’
    Sunday rubbed some oil on her body and lay back. It was good to get to know people. Carey had said she was strange because she stayed alone all the time. Well, Carey didn’t know the full story about Paulo. About the hurt he had left behind, and the lingering guilt – which she knew she had no reason to feel, but couldn’t help.
    Soon Branch Strong (formerly Sydney Blumcor from the Bronx) came lumbering over. He had a smooth good-looking face without a trace of character.
    ‘Hello there, little ladies,’ he said. ‘Hot enough for you?’
    ‘Yeah.’ Dindi grinned. ‘Hey, Branch, this is Sunday Simmons.’
    ‘Pleased to meet you,’ he said, rubbing oily hands over his muscle-bound stomach. He thought he had never seen such a beautiful girl as Sunday, and the body on her – wowee – what a couple they would make!
    ‘When do you test?’ Dindi asked.
    ‘Tomorrow,’ he replied nervously. ‘Keep your fingers crossed.’
    ‘You bet.’ she giggled. ‘I’d cross my legs too but that would be too boring.’
    Sunday stood up. ‘I think I’ll swim.’ She walked to the deep end of the pool and dived off the low board. Then she swam a length under water.
    Branch watched admiringly. ‘She’s really something,’ he said with a note of awe.
    ‘Yeah,’ Dindi agreed. ‘But a bit uptight – no action – you understand?’
    ‘Huh?’
    ‘Forget it.’ She decided Branch Strong was a big good-looking hunk of blond idiot. He was still watching Sunday in the pool, his mouth hanging slackly open, his tongue nervously jumping up and down, Dindi had to admit that Sunday certainly was a fantastic-looking girl, but she didn’t seem to have much personality, a bit of a drag really. Dindi wondered what she would say if she told her about the scene she and her Roman boyfriend, old Prince Benno, had had with her faggy husband, the one who had knocked himself off. Three days locked up in a Rome hotel room. What a time that had been. Only a few weeks before he killed himself.
    Sunday emerged from the pool and lay down. ‘It’s absolutely lovely, you must go in.’ She draped her wet hair over the back of the chair and closed her eyes. The sun was hot, and as it dried the tiny rivulets of water on her body, she fell into a light sleep.
    Branch didn’t take his eyes off her.

 

Chapter Twelve
    Herbert Lincoln Jefferson smiled contentedly, displaying one black tooth amongst a row of off-white ones. For someone so obsessed with bodily cleanliness, he held the inside of his mouth in complete disregard, cleaning his teeth only when he remembered, which wasn’t often.
    He stood under the rusty shower, soaping his thin hairless body and grinning all the while.
    It had taken him two weeks but at last he had done it. He had written a letter to Sunday Simmons of such poetic obscenity that the mere thought of it excited him – in spite of the fact that he had only five minutes previously ejaculated into a plastic bag to be enclosed with the precious letter.
    He stroked his fine upstanding member with soap and felt very proud of himself. What a man he was! What joy and thrills he could give to any woman!
    The wait had been worth it. As soon as he saw Sunday he had realized that this was the girl for him. To hell with Angela Carter and all the other past recipients of his letters. This was the woman he dreamed about. Perfect, from her tawny mane of hair to her rounded sensual body. Even her feet, peeking at him through gold sandals, were sexy.
    On the drive to the Milan house he watched her in the rear-view mirror. Once her big browny-yellow eyes met his, and he coughed unobtrusively, making some remark about the weather.
    Since that night he had hoped to be assigned to drive her again, but no such luck. So he had started to compose a letter. His early efforts did not meet with his approval. The first letter had to be something special, something that