Diamond cocked an irreverent and questioning eyebrow at her debonair host.
“Your perfume entered the room well before you,” explained Simon. “Were solitude your honest expectation, the thought of daubing pulse points with pheromones would never occur to you. What’s the fragrance, Midnight Marauder?”
Tremayne slid her sleek physique to the long couch and curled up in the corner as would a petulant school girl.
“No,” she replied with criminal pride, “Grand Theft.”
She was good. Very good. Simon Templar had known women of all calibers on both sides of justice, and the delicious damsel calling herself Diamond Tremayne ranked right alongside such assertive heroines and lawless ladies from his notorious past as Jill Trelawney and “Straight Audrey” Perowne. The Saint regarded her with iron sight before sitting down and leaning dangerously close. She slowly uncurled, stretching her long legs languidly as would an awakening cat.
“You’re name is not Diamond,” he said smoothly, “and unless this adventure has more coincidences than even I can accept, you are also not a Tremayne.”
“No? And would that be because one of your early friends — one of that dedicated band of reckless young men so brilliantly led — was named Dicky Tremayne, later husband of the notorious Audrey Perowne, alias Anusia Marova, who, along with her beloved, fled to South America oh so many years ago?”
Simon knew she was toying with him, demonstrating a detailed scholarship of his personal history thorough enough to rival even the encyclopaedic erudition of Daniel and Ian. He found her easy familiarity oddly endearing and peculiarly affectionate. She searched his eyes for reaction and found gleaming chips of sapphire tinted encouragement.
Pleased, she laughed aloud while tossing back her luxurious hair and raising her rib cage provocatively, which is not to say that provocation was her intention, but rather Simon Templar’s involuntary reaction.
“Coincidences are always coinciding,” she teased, “it is one of their peculiar attributes.”
The Saint patiently waited for her laughter to subside, which it did momentarily before beginning again. At length, her excursion into humor fulfilled, she admitted the falsity of her moniker.
“I chose the name ‘Tremayne’ especially for your benefit,” she confessed easily, inching slyly in his direction. “Because of the association with your past, I figured you’d spot it as an alias immediately, especially with ‘Diamond’ stuck on the front. And you must admit,” she continued moving closer, “dreaming up that Costello Treasure scenario was a stroke of genius, and I happen to be the strokeable genius of whom I am speaking.”
The previous sentence was spoken by lips no more than a sweet-scented breath away from those of Simon Templar. Her seductively libidinous inclinations thus succinctly telegraphed and aromatically augmented by the near intoxicating impact of her liberally applied attar, a moment of lithe silence suspended their interaction in soft, musk-laden limbo.
The Saint could feel the heat and pulse of her, and it is no detraction from his pre-ordained role as our story’s stalwart and uncompromising hero to affirm his response as decidedly and thoroughly human.
“Were I a younger man of easy virtue...” began Simon, but the pearls of his utterance remained unstrung.
“Were you a younger man of easy virtue,” completed Diamond Tremayne, her lips touching his as she spoke, “I would not be doing this.”
It will no more surprise readers of this saga than it did Simon Templar that she kissed him passionately, and with honest, vigorous enthusiasm. The Saint, forever the gentleman, returned the favor with equal ardor, commensurate ebullience, and consummate skill. Whether from years of experience, or simply by virtue of the situation’s electric spontaneity, it must be said that what he did, he did quite well.
A period of interaction devoid of dialog interrupted the adventure’s narrative until such time as her soft cheek rested on his shoulder and one black sheathed calf twined around his perfectly tailored trouser leg.
“I love poetry,” she intoned softly, wistfully.
The Saint could not resist such an obvious opportunity.
“There was a young lady from Exeter, and all the young boys wanted...”
She pushed him roughly off the couch and snapped a caustic jest regarding male sensitivity and chivalrous romanticism. They laughed at the absurdity of the moment.
Diamond Tremayne, from Simon’s vantage point on the carpet, appeared delightfully disheveled for a cat burgler. He took hold of her right foot and massaged the arch. She purred, squirming in her Danskins.
“Now, Ms Tremayne,” said Simon Templar as if interviewing her for a potential position in the secretarial pool, “tell me where you fit in this puzzle of evil predators, pickle packers, real estate attorneys, and drug crazed caterers.”
“Really, Saint, do you mean to tell me that the 20th Century’s Brightest Buccaneer hasn’t deciphered all the clues?”
“I’ve never claimed a degree in detection,” stated Simon as he increased pressure on the ball of her well-formed foot. She resisted his touch slightly by pulling her leg up, but he coaxed it back down. “It’s apparent that you know almost everything about me there is to know, have been tracking me since the moment I arrived in Seattle...”
“Before Seattle,” clarified Tremayne with a podiatristic wince, “I’ve been either right behind you or two weeks ahead of you for over six months. I was inventing the Costello Treasure story Alisdare told you long before the hydrofoil docked from Vancouver, and when you met Olav Lunde for lunch in Ballard...”
The Saint, impressed, increased his pressure on the reflexive sensitive pleasure-centers as he interrupted her explanation.
“And what do you know about Olav Lunde?”
“He’s a Krigsseiler — Norwegian Seaman War Veteran intimate with every detail of the USS Amber, aka the Polaris. In 1930, his father was employed by John Barrymore and Dolores Costello. That’s why you had lunch with him, Saint. You were after the real Costello Treasure the minute you came to town, which is exactly the reason I convinced Alisdare to pitch you on recovering it. I knew you would smell more than lobster fra diavola, and jump into the fray like a trouper.”
“My outlaw’s intuition told me I’d entered a play that was already in the third act,” admitted the Saint, “playing my part as close to someone’s imagined script as possible. Am I that predictable?”
Diamond smiled with as much compassion as good humor.
“Well, you’re the Saint. When I made my career choice, you became the object of my living masters thesis because you are the living master.”
“That sounds half-esoteric,” noted the Saint sarcastically, his strong fingers working the area between her toes.
She loosed a short laugh and quick gasp as he pressed a tender spot.
“Really, you are the original modern-day Robin Hood, the headache of cops and crooks alike.”
“You forgot to say ‘the devil with dames’.”
And with that, she was on him. It was a fluid pounce worthy of the finest female panther. In truth, he saw it coming and did not resist. She sat astride his chest, her knees atop his shoulders, her exquisite features and full red lips precariously close to his own.
“Considering they call you the Saint, you sure don’t act like one.”
“Perhaps I dropped my halo behind the couch,” suggested Simon. He could have tossed her off with no difficulty, but he rather enjoyed her playful one-upmanship. Besides, he wanted answers. An illusion of ascendency may be the position most conducive to truth-telling. As usual, his intuition was right on target.