This had left her in the hands of her mother and grandmother, who protected her as though she were the crown jewels of England. Struggling to attain an average grade in school, Theresa had been more interested in boys, rock music, and partying. This conflict of interest had all come to a head the afternoon her mother caught her necking in the back alley with a neighbor boy. A furious argument had followed, as her mother called her a tramp and savagely beat her with a leather belt. That evening, still bruised and inwardly hurting, Theresa had made the decision to leave home.
The employment opportunities in the French Guiana town of Kourou were well known to her. Developed from a sleepy jungle town by a European consortium, Kourou was becoming a center of space age technology. It was common knowledge that all who came to this coastal city would have no problem starting a new life. So, with a minimum of personal belongings at her side, and the contents of her piggy bank in her purse, Theresa had sneaked out of her house and begun the long, arduous voyage to Kourou.
Once she had entered French Guiana she hadn’t been the least bit disappointed. Especially on the fateful morning the employment agency had sent her to the home of Colonel Jean Moreau. From the first time her eyes had linked with those of the handsome foreigner, she had known she’d get the job. She had also been aware of the strange tingle of desire that coursed through her body, for her employer was just as handsome as the legendary Paul Newman, her favorite actor.
Her one big worry had been that the Frenchman wouldn’t find her attractive enough. She had done her best to catch his eye whenever possible, making certain that she always wore her tightest shorts and skimpiest halter-tops whenever he was around the house. This display had soon had its desired effect.
She would never forget that memorable evening the two had become lovers. When her boss had then invited her on this fishing trip, she had been certain that she had him completely hooked.
Just thinking about the young girl who shared the boat with him brought a grin to Moreau’s handsome face. There could be no denying that she was an exotic little thing. Her long black hair capped a pretty face, which was dominated by a pair of dark, doleful eyes. Her body was just flowering into womanhood.
How sensitive was her compact bosom, the pointed, erect nipples beckoning with the sweetness of the finest of brandies. And how could he deny her soft, velvety skin, firm thighs, and luscious, tight love channel?
The previous night he had ridden her like a young stallion in heat. Inflamed by the brandy, he had entered her right there on the open deck. Somehow, they had later made it below deck to the bedroom.
For hours on end, he had filled her with his all.
Respondent to his every demand, Theresa had proven as supple as a gymnast. Never had a woman felt so good beneath him.
Only when he was certain that her desire had been adequately quenched had he let himself go. Fulfilled beyond his wildest expectations, he had begun drifting off into blessed sleep, when he felt her tiny, warm hands massage his crotch, vainly attempting to coax new stiffness back into him. Moreau knew that there was a time not long ago when he would have responded to this occasion without question. Yet the call of his fifty-three-year old body had soon led him to a deep, dreamless slumber.
He had awakened less than an hour before feeling rested and refreshed. Taking care not to awaken his young lover, who slept soundly beside him, Moreau had slipped from the narrow cot and hastily washed himself. After donning his shorts, he had made a pot of strong, black coffee, poured himself a mug, and made his way topside.
Above, the night stars still glowed in a crystal-clear sky, yet his practiced gaze observed the first glimmer of dawn painting the eastern horizon. As he prepared the boat to get underway, he was conscious that the new day had long ago risen over the capitals of Europe. How distant the bustling streets of Paris and the lush woods of his native Normandy seemed to him at that moment!
The hot, gusting trade winds soon filled the newly unfurled sails and Moreau pondered the fact that, with the conclusion of the summer, he would have dedicated seven years of his life to this godforsaken wilderness. Of course, there were the yearly trips home to spend the holidays, but even though his body was transported over the seas, part of his mind always remained here. He imagined this had to do with the great responsibilities of his present job. This had been especially true in the earlier years, when his total effort had been needed to accomplish a task of unbelievable proportions.
The Consortium had chosen one of the most remote corners of the entire planet for the Ariadne facility. From the very beginning, the challenge of developing the project had been placed squarely on his shoulders. From the moment the first Consortium jet had landed at Kourou’s primitive airport, Moreau had known he’d have his work cut out for him.
First there had been the task of clearing the actual site itself. Faced with a logistical nightmare, Moreau had somehow managed the impossible. Happy to have finally gained employment, the native population had pitched in to hack away at the thick jungle of coconut palms and mangrove. The swamps had been drained, and the malaria problem somewhat alleviated.
Supplies and equipment had begun flowing more freely when the airport’s runway had been lengthened and repaved and the port facility completed.
Ever mindful of the huge expenses that they were incurring, the Consortium had greeted his superhuman efforts with one new demand after the other.
Never known as a quitter, Moreau had persevered.
This effort had all come to fruition two and a half years before, when the first Ariadne missile had left its launch-pad. Only two months over schedule, the launch had successfully placed a Consortium-owned communications satellite into a perfect earth orbit.
Over the next year they had managed to put at least one additional satellite into orbit each and every month.
Moreau knew that if all were still well at the facility, they’d be launching yet another missile that very morning. Their rocket would be carrying the first in a series of Japanese communications satellites into orbit. The completion of such a project could very well signal the attainment of their financial break-even point. Though their past projects had been exclusively European in nature, the addition of the Asian market would open their coffers to a totally new source of badly needed revenue. All too soon, Ariadne would be not only self-sufficient, but a major profit center as well. This was the day that Jean Moreau was praying to see, for the moment Ariadne became a commercial success, his life’s greatest goal would be achieved.
His sailboat shuddered beneath him as the hull bit into yet another swell. Angling the tiller to take advantage of the rising offshore breeze, Moreau approximated his position. Devil’s Island had long since disappeared in his wake. In the heavens, the morning star was the only planet visible, as the sun prepared to break the whitening horizon. In the illumination of this first light of dawn, he could just make out a distant formation of dense storm clouds to the southwest, in the direction that he was headed.
Not alarmed by them in the least, Moreau was most aware that these clouds perpetually hugged the coastline during this, the rainy season. They would dump their steamy torrents sometime around noon, hopefully long after the Ariadne was high in the heavens.
He guessed that if the winds remained favorable, they’d be sailing into Kourou in another two hours’ time. That should give him plenty of time to drop Theresa off at home and then get over to the base.
Of course, this entire fishing excursion wouldn’t have been possible without the invaluable aid of Jacques LeMond. His thirty-three-year-old administrative assistant was turning into quite a leader in his own right. Personally trained by Moreau for two years, Jacques was definitely coming of age. Now he was even capable of handling a launch of his own.