“Thank you.”
At that moment the door from the hallway opened and Leslie entered the room. I was right in her line of vision, and I quickly ducked down. I found myself looking straight under the table at which Mavis and Hanson were Seated. It was quite an interesting view.
Mavis was evidently up to her old tricks. Her hand had brushed aside the folds of Hanson’s robe, and it circled him firmly. Their arms were crisscrossed. His hand was trapped somewhere under the silk of her negligee. I couldn’t see it, but I could see the rise and fall of the folds of material where it must be. Neither hand ceased its activity as Leslie pulled a chair over to the table and sat down.
She was still wearing the brief shorts and halter she’d had on when I’d seen her back in the supply room earlier. Her vibrant red hair descending over the creamy white mounds of her breasts rising from the halter made her seem very sensual. Also, I couldn’t help admiring her long, lithe legs under the table.
Leslie poured herself a cup of coffee and then neatly spread a napkin over her lap. The conversation, inconsequential now, was continuing, and she joined in it. Shifting position, she started to cross her legs, and the napkin fell to the floor under the table. Leslie bent to pick it up.
I heard her gasp and realized she must have taken in the hanky-panky that was going on between her husband and sister. A second later she straightened in her chair and the contempt flashing from her green eyes confirmed it. “You haven’t changed, Mavis!” she said scathingly. “You’re still a sneak and a tramp, aren’t you? And as for you, Hanson—” She bit her lip, evidently too filled with fury to continue speaking. Then she jumped up from her chair and strode from the room, slamming the door behind her.
“My, isn’t Leslie touchy this morning?” Mavis observed calmly.
“She’ll, get over it.”
“Yes. I suppose she will. But then maybe not. Leslie has always been such a prude.”
Under the table, neither hand had missed a stroke. Nor did they as the conversation took a new turn.
“Leslie doesn’t realize how lucky she is to have you as a husband,” Mavis said. “I married such a milksop myself. And she doesn’t appreciate being married to a man who wields real power.”
“I suppose that’s true.” Hanson puffed up a bit.
“Tell me something, Hanson. I’ll promise to keep it confidential. Who is the man behind S.M.U.T.?”
Hanson didn’t answer. He merely smiled knowingly.
“Is it you? ”
“If it was, I couldn’t admit it. Not even to you, Mavis. It’s a very carefully guarded secret, as you know.”
“But why should it be such a secret?”
“It’s necessary,” Hanson said authoritatively. “You’ll just have to accept that.”
“It is you, isn’t it?”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not.”
“You’re playing with me!” Mavis objected.
“Isn’t that the mutual truth?” Hanson murmured.
“It must be!” she insisted. “I just can’t see you taking orders from any of the others.”
She had a point there, I thought to myself. But it wasn’t a point I had any opportunity to dwell upon because just then a figure appeared in the bathroom door behind me. I turned fast, still holding the gun I’d taken from Cronin. But the figure was neither armed itself nor alarmed at my weapon.
It was Leslie. She held up a finger to her lips and indicated that I should join her in the bedroom through which she’d entered. I did as she wanted and closed the bathroom door noiselessly behind us.
“You must be Steve Victor,” she said when we were alone.
“Check.” I kept pointing the gun at her.
“I saw you from under the table before,” she told me.
“I don’t understand. Why didn’t you alert the others?”
“Because I was damn mad. You saw what they were doing. My husband and my sister-—right under my nose. If that’s how they take advantage of me, why should I care what happens to them and their old S.M.U.T.?”
“I see your point.”
“I just can’t understand Hanson,” she continued. I’m prettier than Mavis. Aren’t I?” She preened herself and turned slowly to give me an opportunity to Judge.
“Yeah!”
“I’m younger.”
“True.”
“I have a better figure.” She ran her hands down her sides, over her ample hips, and along her satiny thighs.
“Without a doubt!”
“I’ll show him!” she said bitterly. “I’ll show the both of them!”
“Sure you will.”
“And you’ll help me!”
“I will?”
“You will.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning this.” She sidled over to me, brushed the gun aside as if it was no more than an annoying object barring her way, and wrapped her arms around me.
“Gee, I’d love to oblige,” I told her, “but my schedule’s a little overcrowded at the moment. Like, the first thing on it is getting out of here alive. So I’m afraid I just don t have the time to cooperate.”
“Don’t you want to find out about S.M.U.T.?” she wheedled. “I can tell you lots of things you want to know.”
“Can you tell me who the head man is? You couldn’t tell Mavis last night.”
“Maybe I couldn’t. Or maybe I just wouldn’t. I know a lot more than she thinks I do. You’d better take advantage of the opportunity, Mr. Victor.” Leslie pushed at the shorts covering her hips, and they slid down to the floor. She stepped out of them daintily. “Now we re evenly matched,” she pointed out, her smouldering green eyes wandering upwards over my naked legs to the space between the shirt-tails. “First make love to me,” she said in a husky voice. “Then I’ll tell you anything you want to now.”
There are times when sewing one’s country as a secret agent can be a real pleasure. This was one of them. Leslie leaned her head back to be kissed. I kissed her.
“That gun feels so cold against my back,” she murmured when the kiss was over. “Can’t you put it down for a little while? ”
“No.” I reached one finger around the trigger to loose the clasp of her sunsuit halter.
“No?” The halter fell away, and her breasts trembled nakedly like white doves with pink noses.
“No. Sorry.” I palmed one of them. It felt like the softest satin with a hardening button in the center.
“Why not?” Her lips explored my ear with the whispered question.
“Tradition,” I murmured back, stroking the hot flesh of her thigh. “It’s part of the spy mystique. A well-trained agent never relinquishes his gun in a seduction situation.”
“Never?” Her fingers were under my shirt, trailing up my spine.
“Never. Statistically it’s been proven that such neglect invariably precipitates a crisis.” My free hand was burning now with the touch of her throbbing womanhood.
“Who says so?” she panted.
“All my predecessors from Mr. Moto on up through James Bond,” I panted back. “It’s a formula. Hero puts down weapon to make love to beautiful girl. Seduction time lapse. Heavy breathing while they relate erotically. And then, while he’s still filled with gratitude for the experience, beautiful girl picks up the gun, points it at him, and regretfully tells him why she has to kill him.”
“But I don’t want to kill you.” Leslie’s nails were digging into my back, and her hips were describing little writhing circles on the bed. “I just want you to use both hands.”
“Sorry. I have to use one for the gun.” I kissed her again, a long, deep kiss.
“Oh, all right,” she murmured. “I don’t care. Just don’t stop. That’s it! Oh, yes! There! There! There!” Her red hair was a rippling flame on the white pillow as she tossed her head from side to side. Then she scrambled over me, one of her breasts grazing my lips as she lowered herself.