She had two black moles – beauty marks – on her face: one on her cheek and one on the side of her chin. She wore only a little makeup and she didn't even need that. Her eyelashes were unusually long, and her generously fun lips seemed always to be wet, to have a sheen to them. Her smoky, startlingly blue eyes had a hot provocative look to them. That look was always getting her in trouble because men misread her intentions.
This attractive redhead, this girl who reminded men of Raquel Welch, was Kim Stewart! She sat staring at her husband, Hank Stewart, engineer, husband, a scion to a Pebble Beach fortune. He was cut off from that because he eloped with Kim. Kim had worked as a waitress in a local restaurant, The Butcher Shop, when she had met Hank. He had swept her off her feet, rushing her beyond her belief. Within two weeks of meeting, they were married and Kim was walking about a quarter of an inch off the ground when their world came crashing down.
First it had been his family. They didn't approve. They were proud and powerful people. They were lofty and the family tree went back to New England and the Mayflower. She was coldly ignored, and Hank was told in formal and frosty terms that he was being cut off from any funds. This, in itself, wasn't too much of a blow. Hank had money of his own and a profession: engineering. He opened a small office in Monterey, and they rented a one-bedroom cottage in Carmel near the beach. They were happy with chilly night walks on the beach and hurrying home to a bright fire and hot toddies. They would sit by the fire, listening to the waves crashing on the beach and feeling the warm glow of the fire. Hank reassured Kim that in time, his parents would come around. "They'll see what kind of a person you really are."
Although she didn't say so, Kim was determined to show them by example what kind of a person she was. They would see that they were wrong, that she was an asset to their family even if her parents were poor and she had to work for a living. They would see Hank happy, and they would realize they were wrong. Kim vowed to lead a life that would be beyond reproach.
And that vow led to and helped sharpen their real problem. Despite her looks, Kim was not sensual. In fact, she was exactly the opposite. She felt her body was too well-endowed, that it was too shapely and provocative and as a result, she went to great lengths to hide it. And, the more she tried to hide it the more she called attention to it. Even her walk got her into trouble because it was a liquid thing that made the bottoms of her buttocks twitch in a way that made men grit their teeth. Kim was aware of her walk and when she tried to slow it down, repress it, keep it subdued, she only succeeded in making it slow and slinky. It was the same walk used by a stripper who stalks across the stage and removes the last tantalizing shred of clothing and stands magnificently naked except for a trivial G-string, sheer black stockings, and high heels. Kim walked with that breath-taking expectation of something lewd happening.
Hank compounded the problem. Although from a proper WASP (White, Anglo Saxon, Protestant) family, he was more Latin in bed than anything. In fact, when he had too much to drink, he was positively brutal and lewd in bed.
Kim wasn't sensual or didn't think she was. She had been raised in a strictly religious home and sex was always something dirty and sinful to her. On top of her natural reticence, there was her determination to show his family that she was worthy. She kept imagining the day when they would finally invite Hank and her to their house. When that day came, Kim was going to be able to look Hank's mother in the eye, and Mrs. Stewart was going to see that Kim was a decent girl, not some cheap slot. His mother was going to see it in her face because Kim was determined to live that way.
She knew Hank was frustrated, but she felt he would understand. She felt that deep down he didn't want her to behave in a lewd way. Not really! If she behaved in that way he would eventually lose respect for her. No, Kim was firm and stuck to her guns.
The situation worsened with the coming of the South American job. It was a big job and an important one and Hank felt he was lucky to have landed it. The rain forests of the upper Amazon basin was no place for a bride. It was a wilderness, and none of the men were taking their wives. Besides, there would be no time for women, only time for carving a camp out of the jungle and building a bridge.
At first, Hank wasn't going to take the job. Then he began to feel that time apart might help their marriage. He had never dreamed that his wife would be such a cold fish in bed. Everything about her led one to believe the opposite. Kim would let him have sex with her while she lay underneath him, stiff and unresponsive eager to have it over.
Now, tonight, while Nichole was in the Pebble Beach home of Web Hardman and uttering Kim Stewart's name, she was having a farewell drink with Hank. He would be leaving early in the morning and she wouldn't see him again for six months. Half a year! Hank was being polite and grim and, to Kim's concern, he was drinking too much.
So far, their parting had been tender. They left the Matador late, saying good bye to domino playing friends at the bar. Hank shook hands with the bartender and told him to keep an eye on Kim. He was polite and careful, the way he always got when drunk. Kim knew – and dreaded – what the next step would be.
Hank drove home along Scenic Avenue, above the beach of white sand that seemed almost to glow in the moonlight. Long white breakers came out of the night and broke on the shore. Far out at sea, mysterious off-shore lights winked and moved steadily along. Hank didn't have much to say on the drive home. Nor did he say anything when they went to the bedroom and Kim fled into the bathroom, closing the door and changing into her negligee. Hank slumped down on the bottom of the bed, staring at the floor, his lower lips thrust petulantly out. She, Kim, carried the modesty thing just a little too far to suit him. She wouldn't wear a brassiere because she thought the undergarment made her breasts stick out too much. As a result, her taut little nipples poked against her sweaters and blouses and drove men nuts.
He clenched his fists as he thought of her getting up in the Matador and slinking to the ladies room with every stud in the place drooling and looking at him with that "You-sure-are-getting-yours" kind of envious look. And watching her come back to the table with that wild hair and cool look and her hips twitching and her breasts cargo-shifting, rubbing together, under the sweater. It's a wonder she wasn't raped.
A drunken leer came across his face, and he gunned at the closed bathroom door. Rape! She was carrying it just a bit far, changing in there. After all, it wasn't against the law for a husband and wife to be naked together. He snorted, realizing how long it had been and knowing that she was shortly to come through the bathroom door clad in an ultra-respectable nightie – probably something made out of flannel and real itsy-poo.
He was right. Seeing things distorted through a prism of too much Scotch, he lurched to his feet as she came into the room. To him it seemed she was playing the little girl with an ugly nightie up to her Adam's apple, wearing a gown with ribbons and bows on it and only her bare toes peeking out from underneath.
Essentially, he was right. The negligee was demure and she did have a polite smile on her face, hoping he would respond in kind. She yawned in front of him as he stood swaying before her, breathing heavily through his nose. "We'd better get to bed. We've got to be up early, so you can catch that plane," she said, trying to calm him.
"Nuts. Bull! The hell with the plane," he growled as he lurched toward her. His big hands seized her by the shoulders.