I got up warily. I’d invested too much in catching up with her to chance her suddenly fleeing and losing me in the woods. But she didn’t try to run. She just sat up and wrapped her arms around herself, trying to stop the shivering that had seized her body.
“Christ, it’s cold!” she said.
“Northern nights. And besides, you’re soaked to the skin. You ought to get out of those wet clothes.”
“And what are you going to be doing while I’m lying around in the altogether?”
“Behaving like a gentleman!” I assured her. Yeah, I have my supercilious moments. “You can put this on,” I added, tossing her my tweed sport jacket.
She took the jacket, stood up, and started walking toward the edge of the clearing. I moved quickly to block her path. “What’s the matter?” she wanted to know.
“I don’t want you out of my sight. Sorry.”
“Is that how you get your kicks?”
“Think what you want.” I shrugged.
“All right, then!” Anger made her brazen. “Bug out your eyes and eat your liver, mister!” She stepped to the center of the clearing and kicked off her sandals.
The sweater came up slowly to reveal the bottom curve of the white brassiere encasing her heavy, up-tilted breasts. The skin of her midriff and the flesh over-flowing the top of the bra shone like polished ebony in the moonlight. The effect was of large, perfect black bubbles bursting from lacy white froth.
Her hands went to her midi-skirt. It buttoned down one side. She bent and started opening it from the hem, working her way up. Her long legs were shapely, but strong; smooth, but with muscles playing under the silky black thighs. She lay the midi-skirt down on top of the sweater.
Skimpy bikini panties hugged a rear end that was high, compact, pert, and round as a melon. Her hips were equally firm, but looked slightly plump by comparison with her flat belly. In the center of the belly, her navel was a deep, mysterious well in a sea of blackness.
She put on my jacket. Her hands reached under it and behind her. She released the bra snap. As she wriggled free of the halter, I glimpsed the black bubbles bursting free, taut purple nipples set in wide red aureoles springing proudly upward. She closed the jacket over the luscious globes. Only the deep cleavage between them showed.
She turned her back to me to remove the panties. She didn’t realize that the coattail separated. I was treated to a view of her succulent behind bobbing as she pushed the panties down her legs and stepped out of them. When she turned back to me, she’d buttoned the jacket. It reached about an inch down her thigh. All items were covered.
“Satisfied?” Her raspy voice was filled with sarcasm.
“Window shopping never satisfies me.”
“Tough.” Inside the jacket she was still shivering.
Her attitude being as hostile as it was, I decided to change the subject. “Somebody wants you dead,” I told her.
“Brilliant! How did you ever figure that out?”
I ignored the irony. “Why?” I wanted to know. That was the question: Why were they trying to kill her? And who?
“How come you ask so many questions?” she countered. “Who are you?”
“My name is Steve Victor. I’m trying to find Tom Swift.”
“Who’s Tom Swift?”
“A phone phreak.” I watched her narrowly, trying to gauge her reaction. “With a girl friend named Phoebe Phreeby.” Her eyes narrowed; that had definitely put her on her guard. “I’m looking for her too,” I added.
“So? I’m not Phoebe Phreeby.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. My name is Liberty Dix. I ought to know who I am. And I’m definitely not Phoebe Phreeby!”
Like they say, you can’t win ’em all!
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
How come the Eskimos don’t have an overpopulation problem? Given the freezing temperatures and those long winter nights, it seems logical that icy cold and ennui would naturally cause an increase in sexual activity. Yet Nanook and his bedmate, without benefit of the pill, produce so few offspring that Eskimo tribes face extinction. How come?
There’s more than one way to skin a walrus. That’s the answer. Jacketless and shivering in the still coldness of the Oregon night, it was about to be brought home to me.
“Your lips are turning blue,” Liberty Dix observed.
“You don’t exactly look overheated yourself.”
“The wind is blowing right up this jacket.” Her teeth were chattering. “And it’s all there is between me and the elements.”
“I remember,” I told her. “Listen,” I added, “this is no time to stand on formalities. If we don’t hang together, we’ll freeze separately.”
“What do you mean?”
“Body heat. It’s the only way we can keep warm.”
“Maybe you’d better spell it out, mister.” Suspicion iced over her black face.
“Call me ‘Steve.’ And why are you so hostile? I’m just offering you my body for warmth.”
“That’s damn white of you!”
“That’s damn trite of you!” I snapped back. “But if you’ve got a better idea, you’d better come up with it before we turn into separate-but-equal Popsicles.”
Shaking with the cold, Liberty gave in to my logic. She strode over and sat down next to me. When I put my arms around the tweed jacket, she didn’t protest. Under the rough material, I could feel her slender but voluptuous ebony body continue to tremble.
She huddled against my chest, her face burrowing into me like a child seeking reassurance. “You poor kid,” I said spontaneously. “You really have been having a rough time.”
Her answering sigh was a half-sob. Her body relaxed with the words, a signal perhaps that a little trust was replacing her suspicion of me. It was confirmed a moment later when she unbuttoned the jacket, pressed against me, and drew it around both of us as best she could.
The warmth of her large, globular breasts-in contrast to the coldness of her nose before-—was welcome. I unbuttoned my shirt and pressed my bare chest against her under the jacket around us both.
“That’s nice,” she murmured. “You’re a warm man.” She snuggled closer, sharp nipples biting into my flesh.
The movement caused the jacket to ride up over her hip and one impudent cheek of her bottom. I reached behind her to pull it down. “You’re like ice!” I ex- claimed.
“That’s the part that always gets coldest.”
“But you’ll freeze!” I slapped her there several times in rapid succession.
“Hey! What are you doing?” Liberty wriggled in protest, and I felt a quiver of lust at the sight.
“Trying to get the circulation going.”
“Oh. Well, try doing it gently.” Her hand reached behind her, closed over mine, and kneaded it gently into the soft, cold flesh. “Like this.”
“Like this?” I echoed.
“Mmmm.” She wriggled again, more slowly this time, more sensuously.
The plump flesh grew warmer under my ministrations. But in the moonlight I could see goose pimples on the backs of her well-curved, sturdy legs. I changed positions, stretching out on the ground. Then I drew her to me so that the lengths of our bodies were touching. She didn’t object.
On the contrary, she entwined her legs with mine in a quest for greater warmth. “I can’t feel my toes,” she said.
I sat up and took off my shoes and socks. I pulled the socks over her delicate feet and put my shoes back on my own tootsies. Then I had another thought. I stood up, took off my pants, and handed them to her. She pulled them on without standing. “But now your legs will freeze,” she commented as I lay back down be- side her once again.
“They’re not that cold.”
She reached out with her hand and ran the palm down the hairy side of my upper leg. “Well, it sure feels cold.” She shifted position so that her legs were wrapped around mine again.