Furthermore, the spear and the shield and the other bits and pieces in the apartment lent substance to his cover as a freelance dealer in primitive art objects. And that cover was essential. It satisfied Elise, and it stalled his father's hired investigators. He did not profit much from his art dealings, certainly not enough to live in the style he preferred, but that was a fact his father's men could learn only by burglarizing the IRS files.
"You can come in here and kiss me now," Elise called from the kitchen.
He went back out there and kissed her, lifting her from her chair, bringing her to her feet so that they could embrace. When she finished kissing him, he said, "What's this about your being in the Times?"
She slipped out of his arms and tapped the paper, turned it around on the table so he could read it where he stood. "I made the business pages. The article on advertising." Her smile was wide and bright.
Bending over the newspaper, palms flat on the table, Tucker read the brief story. It concerned the careers of several of the currently most successful actors and actresses in television commercials, and it gave Elise the highest marks for beauty, charm and professional skill. "With a copy of this in your resume," Tucker said, "you ought to be able to get a lot more money the next time you push a product."
She grinned, dimples puckering her smooth cheeks and making her look quite unlike a cool, sophisticated actress. "Your mind's in the same groove as mine-take the suckers for everything you can get out of them."
If only you knew, Tucker thought, reminded of what he was planning for Oceanview Plaza. "Nonsense," he said. "You're worth every penny you get, no matter how much it is."
The Times reporter was right about her beauty. She was tall and willowy like a show girl, five-eight to Tucker's five-nine. Her legs were exquisite and long, her waist pinched up as if corseted, her breasts high and round and firm. She was a real blonde with wild green eyes, natural and wholesome-and yet sultry. Her complexion was as smooth as an air-brushed bosom in Playboy, an attribute that made it possible for her to play roles ranging from gosh-wow ingenues to slinky sexpots with equal success.
He was continually amazed that she wanted to live with him, for she was the sort of woman who usually was escorted around town by tall handsome men whose shoulders were as wide as doorways. Yet she had come, and she stayed, and they were happy with each other.
In all but one way their relationship was fresh and honest. Each came and went as he pleased, with no deceptions, lies or jealousy. They did not make plans for a mutual future because neither wanted the other to feel obligated to any prepared script. They earned and did not own each other. She paid half the rent and utilities, bought half the groceries, because that was the only way she would remain with him. They trusted each other, respected each other as equals. However, when it came to his "business," Tucker deceived her. It was not that he thought she would turn him over to the police if she knew that he was a thief; it was simply that he did not want to involve her in his own criminal activity in any way for which she might later have to suffer.
He turned away from the newspaper and put his arms around her again. She was wearing a lightweight knitted suit that clung to her and seemed to dissolve between them. "The New York Times thinks you're beautiful," he said.
"Then I must be beautiful."
"You're a celebrity."
"Impressed?"
"Terribly."
"Want my autograph?"
"On an eight-by-ten glossy."
She kissed his chin. "Have you ever been to bed with a celebrity?"
"Never."
"Now's your chance," she said.
"Are you propositioning me?"
"That's it exactly."
In the master bedroom she undressed him, and then he returned the favor. The buttons on her knit suit parted easily. The flimsy material seemed to melt away from her, flowing down across her full curves and puddling at her feet.
His voice was soft, almost inaudible, when he said, "You are beautiful, Elise."
"Do you believe everything you read in the papers?" she asked.
Later, they went out to the kitchen and made dinner. He put the steaks on and mixed the salad dressing while she cleaned and chopped the lettuce, celery, and carrots. They had lots of cheap wine and finished with Tia Maria and coffee.
"I'm whoozy," she said.
"So am I." "
"Defenseless," she said.
"Are you really?"
"Utterly defenseless."
He took her back into the bedroom and helped her slip out of her comfortable quilted houserobe, and then he took advantage of her. It lasted longer this time, was slower but more complete for both of them.
Well afterward, she said, "Oh, you got a telephone call from your father's lawyer."
He rose up, leaning on one elbow, and looked at her. Her face was half hidden in purple shadows as smooth as steamed velvet, half revealed by the warm orange light of the bedside lamp. Darkness molded to her body and subtly emphasized the ripe lines of it. "You mean Littlefield called?" he asked.
"Yes."
"When?"
"About one o'clock this afternoon." She was lying on her back, but she turned slightly to face him. The shadows retreated from her face.
"Why didn't you tell me sooner?"
"I knew it would spoil the evening," she said. "I was horny. As you may have noticed. And I knew that if you had Littlefield and your father to worry about, you would never be in the mood."
He laughed, cupped and. kissed one of her breasts. "What did the bastard want?"
"I really don't know," she said. "You're to call him back. He left his home number in case you didn't get in until after five."
"The hell with him," Tucker said, falling back against his pillows.
Elise sat up and ran her hands through her long yellow hair, combing it into dozens of bright banners. "You'd better call him, Michael. Maybe something has happened to your father. He could be sick or hurt."
"Unless the old goat died," Tucker said, "I don't want to be bothered by Littlefield."
"That's cruel," she said.
It was, and it hurt. "But it's also true."
"Call him back anyway," she said, tucking her bright hair behind her ears. Her ears were like delicate shells. "When you are finished with him, I'll have a drink ready for you." She waited, watching him closely. The reflection of the bedside lamp made a star in the center of each green eye. "You know, maybe your father has seen the light at long last."
He laughed.
"No, really. Maybe he's willing to let you have your inheritance."
"Fat chance," Tucker said. "The old man never softens his stand once he's taken it. He just gets more adamant than ever. The only way I'll get what my mother left me is to fight him from one court to the next." There was uncontrolled bitterness in his voice, and his dark eyes hardened when he thought about his father.
"You've gone through a couple of courts already," she said. "And you're no further ahead."
"Sooner or later," Tucker said, "I'll get a judge who is not impressed with my father's name and money. An honest judge. And the old man's high-powered, high-priced lawyers will finally make a mistake "
She said nothing.
He looked at her, knew pretty much what she was thinking, sighed loudly. "Oh, hell I guess there's always the slim chance that he's sick. And if he's sick enough, he might decide it's time for him to give in on a few points." He got up and put on a dark blue silk robe. "I'm going to need that drink when I get back."