The Pirate (17 page)

He smiled. “A friend of mine just in from Istanbul dropped it off. He also laid some righteous good coke on me. Ever use it?”

“Sometimes,” she said, passing the joint back to him. She looked at him as he dragged on it. She put down her beach bag and moved toward him. She felt the buzzing in her head and the wetness between her legs. It was really good grass if one toke could do that. She pulled at the knot of his shirt. “Are we going to talk or fuck?” she asked. “I only have an hour.”

Deliberately, he placed the joint in an ashtray and then pushed the see-through blouse down from her shoulders exposing her naked breasts. He cupped one in each hand, squeezing the nipples between a thumb and forefinger until the pain suddenly flashed through her. “White bitch,” he said, smiling.

Her smile was as taunting as his own. “Nigger!”

His hands pressed her to her knees in front of him. “You better learn to beg a little if you want some black cock in your hot little pussy.”

She had the shirt untied, now she pulled at the zipper on his jeans. He wore nothing underneath and his phallus leapt free as she pulled the pants down around his knees. She put a hand on his shaft and pulled it toward her mouth.

His hand held her face away from him. “Beg!” he said sharply.

She looked up at him. “Please,” she whispered.

He smiled and relaxed his hands, letting her take him in her mouth while he reached into the open bureau drawer and took out a small vial filled with coke. The tiny gold spoon was attached to the cap with a small bead chain. Expertly, he took a spoonful and snorted it up each nostril. Then he looked down at her. “Your turn,” he said.

“I’m happy,” she said, kissing him and licking at his testicles. “I don’t need any.”

He pulled at her hair, snapping her bead back. “White bitch!” He lifted her to her feet and filled a spoon and held it under a nostril. “You do as I say. Snort!”

She sniffed and the powder lifted from the spoon into her nose. Almost in the same second he had the filled spoon under the other nostril. This time she snorted without his saying a word. She felt the faint numbness in her nose almost immediately, then the powder exploded in her brain and she felt the strength pouring right into her genitals. “God!” she exclaimed. “That’s wild. I came just sniffing it.”

He laughed. “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet, baby. I’m goin’ to show you some tricks my pappy taught me with that stuff.”

A moment later they were naked on the bed and she was laughing. She had never felt so good. He took another spoonful and rubbed it on his gums, making her do the same. Then he licked her nipples until they were wet from his tongue and sprinkled a little of the white powder on them and began to work them over with his mouth and fingers.

She had never felt them grow so large and hard. After a few moments, she thought they were going to burst with the agonizing pleasure. She began to moan and writhe. “Fuck me,” she said. “Fuck me!”

“Not yet,” he laughed. “We only beginning.” He jackknifed her legs back and sprinkled the coke over her clitoris, then put his head between her legs.

After a moment she was screaming as she never had screamed before. Each orgasm seemed to take her higher than she had ever been. She reached down for his phallus and finding it, pulled herself around so that she was able to take him into her mouth. Greedily she sucked at him. She wanted to swallow him alive, to choke herself to death on that giant beautiful tool.

Suddenly he held her away. She stared up at him, almost unable to breathe. He was on his knees between her legs, his phallus reaching out over her. He took the vial and sprinkled the powder until the glistening wet head looked as if it were coated with sugar. Then he held her legs wide apart as he eased into her slowly.

She felt her lungs congest. He felt so large. She was afraid for a moment she could not take him. Then he was all the way inside her and for a long moment was still. She felt the tingling reach up into her belly. Slowly he began to move, gently at first, with long smooth strokes, then picking up the tempo until he was slamming into her like a triphammer.

Somewhere in the distance she could hear herself screaming as orgasm after orgasm ripped her apart. She had never come like this before. Never. She, who had always thought that this kind of sexual excitement was only something that people talked or read about. A kind of game they played on themselves to hide their feelings. And if it were true, she felt that it was something beyond her capacity to feel. For her, sex was her triumph over the male; any satisfaction in it for her was purely accidental. But this was different. Now she was being used, she was being pleasured, she was giving, she was taking, she was being completed.

Finally she could take it no more. “Stop,” she cried. “Please, stop!”

His body came to a rest against her; he was still hard inside her. She looked up at him. In the dim red light the fine patina of sweat covering his face and chest glowed copper. His teeth shone white as he smiled. “You all right, white lady?”

She nodded her head slowly. “Did you come?”

“No,” he said. “That’s the on’y thing my pappy didn’t tell me. Use enough to make a lady happy an’ that’s just enough to keep you from makin’ it.”

She stared at him for a long moment, then, suddenly and unaccountably, she began to cry.

He watched her for a moment, then without speaking, got out of the bed and walked over to the sink. Bending over he swung the bidet out into the room and turned on the water. He straightened up and looked at her. “You have to let it run for a few minutes if you want to get hot water,” he explained.

He opened the small cabinet over the sink and took out a towel and a washcloth which he hung over the connecting pipes. With a finger he tested the water. “It’s all ready for you,” he said.

She looked at him without speaking.

“You did say you only had an hour, didn’t you?” he asked.

She nodded, sitting up. “I don’t know if I can walk.”

He smiled. “You’ll be okay, once you get movin’.”

She got out of bed. He was right. After the first step, the strength came back into her limbs. She squatted over the bidet and took the soap and washcloth from his outstretched hand. She washed herself quickly. The lukewarm water was refreshing. She picked up the towel and dried herself, then began to dress while he washed himself. “I’m sorry you didn’t make it,” she said.

“That’s okay,” he said. “I promised you a trip to the moon and I wanted you to have it.”

“I had it all right,” she said. “I’ll never forget it.”

He was hesitant. “Maybe we could do it again sometime?”

“Maybe,” she said. Dressed, she reached for her beach bag and took out some money. She ripped off a few large bills and held them out toward him. “I hope you don’t mind.”

He took the money. “I could use it. But you don’t have to.”

“I didn’t give you much else,” she said.

“You gave me a lot, lady,” he said. “You left all your friends to come with me. That’s something.”

Something in his tone of voice caught her. “Do you know me?”

He shook his head. “No.”

“Then why did you ask me?”

“I saw you on the beach,” he said. “After that man sent Jacques out to meet you.”

“You know Jacques?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said. “I spent last night with him.”

She was silent for a moment. “Is Jacques—”

He nodded. “He’d rather be a girl.”

“And you?”

“I like to fuck,” he said. “I don’t give a damn as long as there’s a hole to stick it in.”

“Do you know the man who spoke to Jacques?”

“I never saw him before. He had dark hair and spoke French with an Arabic accent. I heard him say that Jacques had to get something by tonight because you were leaving for California tomorrow and that Jacques shouldn’t worry because he had fixed it so that the San Marco wouldn’t be able to take you back to Cannes.”

Suddenly it all came together in her head. Youssef was the only one who knew that she was leaving tomorrow. He had come down from Paris to handle the flight arrangements for her on Baydr’s instructions.

A long time ago she had heard there had once been a connection between Youssef and Princess Mara. And Mara had pushed Jacques on to her. What she didn’t understand was what possible benefit Youssef could get from it. Unless—unless he meant to use it against her with Baydr.

An unfamiliar feeling of fear came over her. Youssef had never really liked her but that didn’t seem to be enough of an explanation for something like this. She just didn’t know. All she did know what that she had better get back to the villa tonight.

But that was a problem. There were no taxis in St. Tropez after midnight. And she had given Guy, her chauffeur, the night off so she could not call him.

She looked at Gerard. “Do you have a car?”

“No.”

“Damn!” A worried look crossed her face.

“I have a bike,” he said. “I’ll take you back if you’ll ride behind me.”

“You’re lovely,” she said, smiling suddenly. She threw her arms around him in a sudden burst of relief and kissed his cheek. “It should be great fun.”

He put her arms down, suddenly embarrassed. “Don’t be too sure, lady. Just see if you think so after I get you there.”

CHAPTER 3

It was about two hours after they had taken off from Paris. The cabin attendants were busy preparing to serve lunch. Jordana looked back at Youssef. “I think I’d like to get some sleep now.”

Youssef unfastened his seatbelt and rose to his feet. “I’ll have them prepare your seats right away.” He glanced at Diana, Jordana’s secretary. She was dozing in the window seat next to his, her unfinished drink resting on the tray in front of her.

He made his way to the chief steward, who was standing near the galley. “Madame Al Fay would like to rest.”

“But we are about to serve déjeuner,” the steward protested.

“She is not hungry.”

“Oui, monsieur,” the steward said quickly. He left the galley and went back through the curtains that separated first class from economy.

Youssef turned and looked at Jordana. Her eyes were completely hidden by the large dark glasses but there wasn’t a line on her face to indicate that she had not slept the night before. She was looking at the Air France magazine on her lap, and sipping from a glass of white wine.

He suppressed a yawn. He was exhausted. He had been awake since four that morning when Jacques had called him from St. Tropez to tell him that she had disappeared.

The San Marco was still in the port and there was no trace of her anywhere in the village. Jacques had been to every restaurant and discotheque that was still open. Youssef had put down the telephone still fuming.

There was nothing he could do but wait until he went to the villa in the morning to take her to the airport. He could not get back to sleep. All the money he had given Jacques, all the plans he had made, were for naught. Even telling the mechanic at the Citroën garage to take the SM away from Jacques that morning had given him no satisfaction.

Jordana had been at breakfast when he arrived at the villa about nine o’clock. She said nothing about the evening, nor did she mention anything about how she had returned home. Casually, he had found out from one of the security guards at the villa that she had arrived by taxi from Cannes at about five that morning.

In the limousine on the way to the airport he had explained the arrangements for the flight. They had the last four seats in the first-class section. Two were for her. He and her secretary would occupy the seats directly behind. He had also reserved the first three seats in the economy section so that when she wanted to rest she could lie down there. Special handling had also been arranged for her luggage. It would be placed in the cabin so that she would not have to wait for it in Los Angeles. There would be a special U.S. Customs agent waiting for them on arrival so that they could transfer quickly to the helicopter which would take them to Rancho del Sol. ETA for AF 003 was 4 P.M. Los Angeles time: dinner at Rancho del Sol was set for 8 P.M. If everything went according to schedule, she would have ample time to dress.

The steward came back to him. “It is ready for madame.”

“Thank you,” Youssef said. He walked back to the seat. “It’s okay,” he told her.

She nodded and rose to her feet. She opened her purse and took out a small vial and shook two pills into her hand. She swallowed them quickly with a sip of wine. “That’s to make sure that I sleep.”

“Of course.”

“Please see that I’m awakened at least an hour and a half before we land.”

“I’ll take care of that,” he answered. “Have a good rest.”

She stared at him for a moment. “Thank you.”

He watched her disappear through the curtains and sank back into his seat. Beside him, Diana stirred but did not open her eyes. He looked at his watch and glanced out the window. There were still eleven hours left. This time he did not suppress his yawn. He closed his eyes, hoping that he could get some rest.

Air France had done a good job. Temporary curtains, like those used for the second flight crew or these extra-long nonstop flights, had been rigged around her seats. The window blinds were drawn and it was dark as she stretched out and pulled the blanket over her.

She lay quietly waiting for the sleeping pills to take effect. She began to feel the aching protest of her body as the exhaustion seeped through her. She could still feel the pounding of the motorcycle against the road as they raced through the early dawn toward Cannes. She had made Gerard drop her at the railroad station in the center of the town. There were always taxis there.

She had offered him more money but he had refused. “You’ve given me enough,” he said.

“Thank you,” she said.

He put the bike into gear. “Look me up when you come back to St. Tro.”

“I will. And thank you again.”

He took the crash helmet he had loaned her and strapped it onto the backseat. “Goodbye.”

“Goodbye.” He gunned the engine and took off. She watched him turn the corner toward the sea, then walked over to the first taxi on line and got in.