The projector was stopped. The lights went on just as I finished closing my trousers. The first thing I looked for was Carmella’s derriére, but she too had already managed to rearrange her clothing and it was covered. The opportunity had passed me by.
“I got up for a cigarette," Carmella was explaining to her husband, “and I tripped over Mr. Victor in the dark.”
“Of course, my dear.” Friedriksenn had to know she was lying, but his voice didn’t show it. In the lit room, his clothing was as impeccable as ever, and I guessed that he must have rearranged it before turning on the lights. Beside him, Anna Del Vecchio was curled up on the floor as innocently as a Campfire Girl toasting marshmallows. The smile on her face gave not a hint of the service she had been performing for her host.
Maria Trendasia was equally composed. Her hands were folded primly in her lap, her chair a sedate six inches away from the chair in which Luigi Tortorizzi was sitting. He had a sullen look on his face, like a child whose half eaten candy has been taken away from him, but he was making an effort to control it.
“The picture would have ended in a moment, anyway,” Friedriksenn was saying. “Tell me, Mr. Victor, as a professional, what did you think of it?”
“An excellent example of its genre,” I pontificated.
“Yes, isn’t it?” Friedriksenn beamed at me. “I knew that you would appreciate it. Well, shall we go inside for cocktails? I think we’ll all be more comfortable there.” He led the way into the parlor of the chalet.
Once we were there, the rest of the evening passed ordinarily enough. Polite small talk, excellent brandy, and a generally warm atmosphere of upper-class hospitality. Seeing me to the door at the close of the evening, Friedriksenn seemed quite genuine in urging me to come again. I told him I d be delighted to, and he promised he‘d have Maria ring me up to set a time.
And then I once again found myself in the back of the Rolls Royce with Anna Del Vecchio. The glass partition between us and the chauffeur was rolled up. As I settled myself, Anna reached forward and drew the curtain over the glass. I must have raised a questioning eyebrow, for when she spoke it was as if she was answering something I'd asked. “Yes, I found the film most arousing, Mr. Victor,” she said.
“So did I," I admitted honestly.
“And I am a lady who values her privacy," she added, as if explaining the drawn curtain.
“I understand.” I took her hand in mine.
She glanced down at our clasped fingers. Then she stared straight ahead a moment as if calculating something. The road moved swiftly and silently under the wheels of the Rolls. Outside the night was crisp and cold. But the rear of the car was pleasantly warm, and Anna had discarded her furs. The moon was playing hide-and-seek with the clouds, and her bare shoulders gleamed and vanished and gleamed again in the moonlight. Finally, she seemed to have come to a decision, and she turned to me.
“I must be able to trust your discretion, Mr. Victor,” she said.
“Of course you can,” I assured her.
“You understand that the driver is in the employ of Herr Friedriksenn and that if he should detect anything untoward he would report it.”
“I understand.”
“And you have perceived, I’m sure, that Herr Friedriksenn is—-ahh—quite attached to me.”
“Yes.”
“Then let me tell you also that he is an extremely jealous man. He is having me watched at the inn; I know that. At the villa he is beside me constantly. And even here in the car, I am sure the driver has been instructed to keep me under surveillance. And yet,” she repeated, “I did find the film most devilishly arousing.” Her free hand fluttered over one of her breasts as if to testify to what she was feeling. “Dare we-—?” Her deep, black eyes were hot with the answer to the question.
“We dare.” I agreed with the message in her eyes. Slowly, her hand reached behind her. There was the soft sound of a zipper in the hushed interior of the Rolls. A moment later the black velvet gown fell away from her breasts, and their blood-red tips quivered invitingly. She cupped them in her hands and looked down at them. “I do have a lovely bosom. Don't you think so, Mr. Victor?”
“Call me Steve.” My hands reached out greedily by way of confirming her self-judgment.
“Yes. Steve. Be careful, Steve. We must be very quiet and very cautious.” She raised her hips and her hands pushed the gown off altogether. The black velvet lay in a small pile at her feet. She was wearing black lace panties and a garter belt to hold up her stockings. Her legs were beautiful, long and slender and well-shaped, like a ballet dancer’s.
I took her in my arms, and her hand slid under the waistband of my trousers. A moment later she unzipped my pants, and her long hair cascaded over my lap. Her tongue was a madly teasing flame, her mouth greedy and thrilling. I stood it as long as I could and then ripped the lace panties from her body and started to fling myself over her.
“No!” she protested. “I don’t dare. I can’t take the risk of becoming pregnant. Fredriksenn would kill me!”
“Haven’t you ever heard of birth control pills?” I was irked at being stopped so abruptly.
“Of course. I used to take them. But he took them away from me. He thinks that without them I’m more likely to be faithful. And he’s right.”
“But what about with him?”
“He takes care of that.”
“That’s pretty old-fashioned,” I observed.
“He's an old-fashioned man.”
“But you’re not an old-fashioned girl, hey?”
“No. I am not," Anna murmured. Her head swept down and the O of her lips encircled me firmly once again. After a moment, she paused. “Stretch out on the seat,” she murmured. When I did as she asked, she scrambled over me and resumed what she’d been doing. The way she’d arranged things, the area of her body framed by the garter belt quivered invitingly just over my lips.
It was obvious that she didn’t want to dine alone. I took the hint and was immediately rewarded by a tremor which seized her whole body and found its passionate outlet in the eagerness of her mouth enveloping me. My mouth was equally occupied, but with it all my brain was still racing to take advantage of the situation.
In this position, her rhythmic responses kept presenting her derriere to my view. The only trouble was that the flaps of the garter belt kept obscuring the very area where the scar which would identify Gina Moretti might have been. As we approached the peak of our passion, I attempted to wrinkle my nose by way of pushing those flaps aside. But it was no use. My brain was carried along by the explosion of my lust before I could accomplish my objective.
I made one last attempt just after it was over. I grabbed for the garter-flap with a free hand. I miscalculated.
“Whoo-oo!” Anna jumped. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Sorry. Just being affectionate,” I murmured.
“Childish, you mean,” she said indignantly. “I don’t like that kind of familiarity. Don’t get fresh!”
“My apologies," I said, wondering why the hell, under the circumstances, I should be feeling as abashed as a subway masher. Morals, someone once said. are a matter of geography. And sometimes, I added to myself at this moment, a matter of feminine whim.
While this was passing through my mind, the opportunity was vanishing. Anna Del Vecchio was scrambling back into her clothing. By the time the limousine pulled up in front of the inn, her attire and poise were as impeccable as ever.
I bid her good night in the lobby and went up to bed. Two chances to look for the scar of Gina Moretti, and I’d goofed them both. That was my miffed thought to myself as I drifted off to sleep.
A third chance came the next day. I slept late, and it was almost noon when I went down to the dining room of the inn for some brunch. It was deserted except for a girl in ski-pants and jacket who was seated at the far end. I recognized Maria Trendasia.