He did not speak, but he saw from his vision’s corner, that she had turned to frankly study him. Perhaps she liked the look of him. Most women did. Suddenly she laughed, a great laugh, appealing, not too loud, not ugly, and not irritatingly coy. Lashes, gold, laugh — all genuine?
He turned, too, and gazed at her full on.
Oh, yes.
Her teeth were white, and her eyes the shade of green found in Han jade. She smelled faintly, warmly, of some smoky flower, perhaps not of the earth. Was that the catch — she was an X-Files alien?
“Thank you for laughing at me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, I liked it.”
“Why?”
“It means I’ve amused you. And I didn’t even have to tell a joke.”
She smiled now, and raising her glass — of some green cocktail less convincing that her Han-green eyes — she said “I laughed because you’re so handsome.”
“Oh, I see.”
“Do you?”
“Well … maybe. Shall I do it at you?”
“If you want.”
The few other customers were far off along the room, but now a waiter was floating down the bar counter, and the girl signaled, and he floated right over.
He knew now she would buy him a big drink, and she did, and when it had been served on its little white paper coaster, she said to him, “Will you tell me your name?”
“Sure. It’s Wolfgang. But you’ll believe I prefer to be called Wolf.”
“So we don’t gang up on you,” she said.
“Yeah, that’s it. And I guess they call you Red,” he added, guessing that he doubted that.
“Rose,” she answered.
She leaned a fraction toward him, and the white fruits of her breasts moved gently in the red velvet, just enough that he understood she had on no brassiere, and probably no underclothes at all, apart from the stockings with the garter.
“Rose,” he repeated. He let her hear it, that he was aroused. From the warm fragrance of her, the darkening of her eyes, he was suddenly recklessly banking on the fact that she was, as well. You had to take a chance sometimes. But you had to be careful, too. There had been that girl in Queens who looked like five million dollars, and turned out to have a habit, and a worse habit — which was a knife.
“Are you hungry?” said Rose.
“I’m always hungry.” He paused. “Not always for food.”
“Me neither,” said Rose.
Wolf glanced at those other customers. No one was looking at Rose, or himself, they were all lost, as most persons were, in their own involving lives. Just as well, perhaps, for she had put her slim white hand now on his crotch. It was the mildest, almost, you could say, the most tactful caress. But he came up like a rock against her.
“You’re interested,” she said.
“My. You can tell.”
“I’m so glad. Because you’re perfect, Wolf.”
“That’s nice.”
“I hope so.”
“What,” he said, as she removed her cruel, tender little hand, “did you have in mind?”
“Well, you see, it’s not really for me.” She watched him, watched his face change down, cool an iota. “No, this isn’t some trick, Wolf. It’s just, you see, I promised to take my grandmother something.”
“Your grandmother.”
Rose laughed, differently now. This was exuberant, even coarse, and yet, she could get away with it entirely. Muscles rippled lightly under red velvet dress and white velvet skin. Despite all his years of experience, he wanted badly to pull her close, and open his mouth, let out his tongue against, her ear, her throat, to taste the heat of her under her succulent sheath, and men he would like—
“It sounds unattractive, I know. But it isn’t. She isn’t. Grandmothers aren’t always elderly any more. I’m nineteen, and my grandmother — Ryder, that’s her name — is just, well, in her early forties.”
“That doesn’t sound like it’s legal.”
Rose shrugged.
“Or quite truthful,” he amended, sternly.
Rose picked up a little ruby purse, and slid out of it a small photograph. She held this out. When Wolf took it from her, he saw it showed a most beautiful, lion-maned woman, in a skin-tight leotard. Not young, but nevertheless voluptuous, limber, strong, and highly enticing.
“This is Grandma?” he said.
“That is she. And honestly, Wolf, the picture hasn’t been retouched.”
“You’d swear that on your mother’s life?”
“Can’t. No mother, now. I’d swear it on mine.”
Wolf emptied his glass. The girl raised her hand and the waiter stirred. Wolf said, “Maybe not. I don’t want you to waste your money.”
“I haven’t. Look, we’ll take a cab over there. Go up, and see. I know, when you meet Ryder, you’ll want to go in … if you take what I mean.”
“And if not?”
“No hard feelings. Make some excuse to her — wrong floor, wrong apartment. If you come straight back down, well, I’d wait around a while, and let’s say two hundred dollars for your wasted time. How’s that?”
“You guessed. Aw shucks.”
Rose leaned forward again. For a blissful moment, as she adjusted one crimson pump, he caught, in the scoop of neckline, the peek-a-boo flicker of an icing-sugar-pink nipple. The colors didn’t clash at all. And then her soft lips were on his, and her narrow tongue darted in and out — and was gone.
“I did so want to give her something lovely for her birthday,” said Rose. “And you are, Wolf, lovely as lovely is.”
The elevator had gold inside, not solid this time, but not bad: gold-plated.
When he alighted, and rang the gold-plated bell, her intercom came on.
“Is that you, honey?”
Ryder’s voice was low and sweet — and dangerous.
Wolf said, “I guess not.”
“Oh,” said Granny’s intercom. “Then what?”
“Rose — sent me up.”
“Rose did? Do I know a Rose?”
“She says she’s your granddaughter.”
“Oh, that Rose. Okay.”
The jet-black shining door opened wide, and showed him an enormous reception area, with black and white marble underfoot and on the walls, golded mirrors, a skylight set with milky glass shot by red jewels that threw down rosy blood-drops all over everything. There were no other furnishings, and just two engraved glass doors, opening somewhere else, presently closed. You couldn’t see through the engraving, not properly. But inside it looked fairly impressive.
He had been let straight in and he hadn’t yet seen Granny, in case he had to back off nicely if he didn’t care for her. But then, anyway, the elevator was a private one and this was the penthouse suite, so it would be kind of unlikely he had taken the wrong route, or made any mistake at all.
Just then the glass doors were pushed decisively open.
And there stood — Granny.
“What a wonderful voice you have,” said Granny. “Trained, yes?”
“I was an actor.”
“Not anymore? No more acting?”
“Not on a stage.”
She grinned. She had perfect teem, the teeth the best sort of predator would have. Which was about right. She definitely did exude the aura of a lioness. Even a lion. Almost as tall as Wolf, in her high-heeled slippers, and with a mane of gleaming platinum-to-silver hair, she wore otherwise a completely transparent robe, tied tight to her tightly muscular waist by a thin rope of Carrier gold. She was muscular all over, the way a dancer is, and maybe she was a dancer. On the muscles had been smoothed a satin padding of flesh, and over that a lightly tanned skin like honey. Her breasts were heavy, but edible. The urge to weigh them in the hands was overwhelming. And she had done just what they did in books, gilded her nipples. Under her round and muscular belly, which gave a little ripple even as his eyes irresistibly went there, a sort of little wave to him, her bush was of the same metallic effect as her mane.