She couldn’t conceal her surprise. “How did you do that?”
“Proper conversation,” Carter said. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
“What?”
“The rest of your offer.”
Her lips parted showing sharp, white teeth. “All night,” she whispered. “I’m going to make love to you all night.”
Her hands slid down her thighs, to the hem of the nightie just above her knees. Still moving slowly, she raised it, revealing her long, slender legs inch by quivering inch. When it was at a point just below the juncture of her legs, she swayed her body around so that her back was to him. The nightie inched up higher and now he could see the firm, high globes of her buttocks. Her rhythmical movement quickened. The muscles of her derrière rippled and the flesh began to jump with a sort of erotic frenzy.
Then she quickly pulled the garment over her head, flipped it away, and turned to face him.
He let his eyes roam over her body, at the firmness and the maturity of her breasts, the sweeping curve of her hips. She seemed to delight in feeling his eyes on her, for she lifted her long hair with the tips of her fingers and turned around slowly, displaying herself.
“Well?” she murmured.
“Nice,” Carter said, “damn nice. See you in the morning.”
“What?” she cried.
“Just wanted to see if your word was good,” he said over his shoulder as he let himself out. “’Night.”
Eleven
Carter was the first one down the next morning. Young-and-lean and short-and-chunky were waiting for him in the lobby. They looked tense, so Carter was sure they had gotten the word on Bourlein and his busty brunette friend.
The young one grabbed Carter’s bag. “The car is in front, Senhor Huzel. The hotel bill has been taken care of by Senhor Bolivar.”
“Nice of him.”
Carter followed him out the door. The little sedan had been replaced by a Mercedes limo. Carter crawled in the back. Seconds later, short-and-chunky emerged with Verna Rashkin. She joined Carter in the rear with a smirk on her face.
“I didn’t notice your face last night. You look like hell.”
Carter smiled. “I feel fine.”
Actually, he was sore as hell. The crack across the bridge of his nose had blackened both his eyes, which were a puffy lavender-brown. His lips had swollen, giving his face an even more prognathous look than normal. The tape above his cheekbones, over his eye, and at his ear made him look like the comic-strip caricature of a man lately thrown out of a beer hall.
The limo pulled into traffic and they were silent all the way to the airport.
The plane was a twin-engine Bonanza, not new but in excellent shape. The bags were loaded and Carter buckled himself in. He was surprised when the woman seated herself as far from him as possible. He wasn’t surprised when the two watchers crawled in and took seats in the rear.
The pilot didn’t even turn around. He already had the off-side engine humming. The hatch was barely secure when the second engine burped to life and the tail swung around.
In no time they were in the takeoff area and turned into the wind. He spoke into his headpiece and advanced the throttles.
The takeoff was smooth and they climbed about five hundred feet per minute. The pilot began a 90-degree left turn, followed by a 45-degree right turn, in order to leave the traffic pattern. He leveled off at three thousand feet. The green and brown earth dropped away below, and they headed toward the never-ending blue sky.
The Bonanza followed the ribbon of coastline below. From this altitude it looked like a chemist’s bizarre experiment — browns, greens, blues, and grays moving between sunlight and shadow. The shoreline itself often became obscured by mountains dropping into the water.
About twenty minutes after takeoff there was another bank to the right and they headed inland. Carter looked down at the dense jungle and shuddered slightly. He hoped he wouldn’t have to come back out on foot.
Short-and-chunky played steward. Verna Rashkin wanted a Bloody Mary. Carter declined anything and leaned back on the headrest. He forced himself to half-doze for the next hour, until he felt the plane start its descent.
The flaps came down. They banked 45 degrees into the wind and swooped over the shimmering asphalt runway. Mountains and water diminished as the plane descended. The landing gear dropped the wheels down, and then the plane was bumping and squeaking along sun-softened pitch seams. The pilot taxied right down the runway to the first Quonset-style hangar. The crackling, robotlike voice from the control tower ceased.
The pilot turned in his seat. “This is Paranavi. The helicopter will take you the rest of the way.”
They scrambled down the steps and under the wing of the Bonanza toward a blue-and-red helicopter whose rotor was already beginning to turn.
Once inside, Carter removed a pair of dark glasses from the pocket of his jacket and put them on against the glare in the helicopter’s bubble.
“Is it far?” he asked the pilot.
“Not far,” the man replied, pointing toward the mountains. “Up there, maybe twenty minutes.”
It was nineteen. The chopper swooped low, flying over a large estate surrounded by mountains. There were several barns, fields of grazing horses and cattle, small barracklike houses, and a lake.
The chopper roared over the outbuildings and Carter heard a gasp from across the aisle. He looked, and saw why Verna had gasped.
The house was awesome, a huge, rambling affair built of stone and glass. It was set directly against a jut of mountain rock that provided perfect protection from the rear. To the right were the garages, servants’ quarters, and accommodation for guards, ten of whom Bolivar kept in permanent residence, on a rotating basis. The stables for the horses were to the left, where there was more land available. The center of the huge winding drive was permanently watered, and therefore green, garden area, with a playing fountain and a blaze of flowers.
“He must own the whole valley!” Verna exclaimed.
“Probably,” Carter replied dryly, “and most of the mountains as well.”
The helicopter landed on the lawn and the engine was killed at once. They stepped to the ground to be met by a striking blond woman, so tall that her eyes were level with Carter’s. She sported a voluptuous, hourglass figure in a white crocheted sweater of an open-weave stitch, and jade green, silk slacks. A matching green cardigan draped over her shoulders obstructed most of the view. The only jewelry she had on was a large square-cut emerald on the third finger of her left hand. Its color matched almost exactly the color of her eyes. She was beautiful — ten years and twenty pounds less and she must have been spectacular.
“I am Eva, Senhor Bolivar’s housekeeper. Anything you need while you are here, do not hesitate to ask me. Senhor Bolivar is hunting at the moment. He will join us for dinner. This way, please. I will show you to your rooms.” Her accent was Bavarian and it was heavy.
They moved obediently behind her, Carter expecting at any time to hear The Ride of the Valkyries.
Up close, inside the house was even more immense and awe-inspiring. It was two stories high and shaped like an L, with the short arm cantilevered out over a sloping landscaped hill. The short arm was only a single story, and comprised the living room, with the terrace right alongside; at right angles was the long arm, two floors of bedrooms, a dining room, and probably a study as well. Carter’s room was on the second floor, near the bend in the L.
The entire building was constructed from glass and stone, and inside and out, it was sharp, clean, bare, and smooth. The unsparing, almost harsh quality of the lines was broken by the occasional use of bricks to add texture, and the low stone walls that ran around the house, screening it from the view of anyone for miles.