"What we do now," I informed Michelle, as the elevator door opened and we stepped inside, "is to get down to Puerto Rico. Fast."
There wasn't much else I could do. Again I returned the Chinese girl to her own particular compartment in my mind. Again.
It was getting to be a pretty big compartment.
I wished to God she'd stay inside it.
Six
Mr. Thomas C. Dobbs, of Dobbs Plumbing Supplies, Inc., Grand Rapids, Michigan, and his French-Canadian born wife, Marie, emerged from the. main terminal at San Juan airport; they were laden down with cameras, snorkel gear, all the other equipment necessary for their Caribbean vacation, including a floppy straw hat with Puerto Rico woven across it which Mr. Dobbs had purchased in the terminal immediately upon arrival. They were going to have, as Mr. Dobbs put it to anybody who would listen, a "roaring time." They were going to "paint this little old island red." They were going to "turn little old San Juan inside out, and that includes those casinos."
They were, as anybody could tell, a pair of typical, moderately obnoxious, American tourists.
"Cab! Cab!" bellowed Mr. Dobbs, waving his arms madly.
Mrs. Dobbs was quieter. She looked a little tired. But she was obviously enjoying the sun and warmth.
"Ummm," she remarked to her husband, turning her attractive face upward. "Isn't that sun beautiful? And you can smell so many flowers. Oh, Nick…"
I grabbed her arm, as if to usher her into the cab which had pulled up in front of us.
"Tom," I muttered, without moving my lips. "Not Nick. Tom."
"Tom," she repeated dutifully. "Isn't it beautiful, though? I just want to put on my bathing suit and lie on a beach somewhere in the sun and listen to the ocean." Then she grimaced. "Except, I suppose you have other things to do, and you need me to go with you."
"Hell yes, sweetie," I bellowed. "That's exactly what we're gonna do. Flop ourselves down on that beach and get one hell of a tan. We're paying enough for it."
The porter finished loading our bags into the trunk of the cab. I under-tipped him outrageously, making up for it with a brutally hearty slap on the back and a shouted "Don't spend it all in one place, pal!" and jumped into the cab beside Michelle, slamming the door hard enough to make the cab's body rattle. The driver looked at me with irritation.
"San Geronimo Hotel, buddy. That's where were going. Only the best for Thomas C. Dobbs and his little wife," I said. Then, sharply, a shade suspiciously: "That is the best, isn't it? Sometimes these travel agents…"
"Sí, Señor," the driver said tonelessly, "that is the best. You will like it there."
I was certain that if I'd directed him to a public toilet he'd have said that was the best too.
"Okay, buddy. You get us there fast and there's a good tip in it for you," I said expansively.
"Si," the driver replied. "I get you there fast."
I settled back against the seat cushions, extracting from my jacket pocket a cigar only a little less obnoxious than those favored by Hawk. I could see the driver gag slightly as I lit it.
I was overdoing it, of course. Putting on too much of an act. Making sure I'd be remembered.
And that was the point. A good agent wasn't supposed to overdo it and put on too much of an act and be remembered. Which made me either a very bad agent, or a very smart good agent, who wouldn't be thought of as an agent at all.
"Tom," said Michelle, in a low voice, "did you really mean what you said about going to the beach?"
"1 sure did, sweetie," I said, in moderate tones. "First, we hit the old beach. Then we get dressed, have us a few of those Peeny Colazza's, or whatever they are, then we sink our teeth into the biggest damn steak this island can find, then we hit those casinos and clean a few of them out. How's that sound for the first day and night, hunh?"
"Really?" said Michelle, in the same low voice. "But I thought you…"
"You thought your old hubby didn't know how to have a good time. Thought he couldn't think about anything but plumbing supplies. Well, hang on to your hat, sweetie. Beach and booze, dinner and dice, here we come!"
And there we went, to Michelle's delighted surprise. For one thing, that's what Mr. Thomas C. Dobbs and wife would have done. And for another thing, it would have been suicide to approach my serious business in San Juan before late night anyway. Lying on a white sand beach, with the sun hot on my body, the crashing of Caribbean surf soothing in my ears, was a pretty good way to pass the waiting time.
"Tom."
I rolled over on my side and glanced at Michelle. And decided this wasn't just pretty good, it was — well, name your superlative. Any or all could apply, with Michelle's lush breasts more than filling out the tiny, almost sheer bikini bra she wore, the silken skin of her belly tapering to a bikini bottom which was little more than two little triangles and a piece of string, the long, shapely legs stirring voluptuously against the sand.
"Tom," she purred, eyes closed, face upturned to the sun, "put some suntan oil on me, please."
"With pleasure."
I spread the warm oil over her neck, down her sleek shoulders, across her belly, and down her thighs. Her flesh stirred gently under my hands. Her skin grew warmer, softer. She rolled over onto her belly, and I spread the oil over shoulders again, unhooked her bra, and spread it over her back, my hands sliding down along her sides, brushing her breasts. She sighed, with a sound closer to a moan than a sigh. When I finished, we lay side by side, our bodies touching. We both had our eyes closed, and the aura of sex between us was thick, hot, and growing. The blazing sun seemed to be pulling us together like magnet and iron, inexorably.
"Tom," she whispered finally, "I can't stand it anymore. Let's go back to our room."
Her voice was soft but urgent. I felt the same urgency. Without a word I hooked her bra again, pulled her to her feet and led her back to the hotel. When we got into the room she pulled slightly away from me.
"Slowly, Nick," she said, her voice low, husky, her dark eyes burning into mine. "This time I want it slowly. Make it last forever."
My hand reached out toward her. She caught it and held it cupped against her fullest curve.
"Make it be forever, darling. I want all of you, now, everything."
Under my hand, her sun-hot flesh stiffened. I could feel the blood pulse. The pulse quickened. I pulled her to me and my open mouth covered hers, my tongue exploring, hard and demanding. She writhed erotically, but slowly, as if to an unheard drumbeat whose tempo was increasing at an unbearably controlled rate.
"Can water put out that fire?" I whispered harshly.
"Only increase the flames, darling," she said, immediately realizing what I had in mind.
With one rapid movement I slipped her bra from her, then her bikini bottom. A sensual smile curled her lips. Her hand pushed off my trunks, and her eyes riveted on me in pride and admiration.
I felt my own instincts take over completely as I picked her up and carried her into the bathroom. An instant later we were standing under the scalding water of the shower, our sopping, steaming bodies clasped to each other and feeding furiously on each other. It was still slow, but with the blood-heat tempo of pure sensual ecstasy, increasing to the unbearable, the absolute and utter possession of male by female and female by male.
When it finally happened, we both screamed, wordless as the pure instincts we had briefly become.
"Satisfactory?" she murmured, when we had both recovered a little.
"Absolutely," I said, still trying to focus my eyes and catch my breath.
The rest of the evening was complete and satisfactory, too — or would have been if Yd really been Thomas C. Dobbs. We drank Pina Coladas on an open terrace, manned by an army of scurrying waiters, while the Caribbean sunset put on a Technicolor spectacular as if on demand. When we went inside to eat, the army of waiters became a regiment, the menu was three feet long, and the whole place reeked of money being spent like water. Whatever money could buy was available and being bought, in quantity.