The Avenger. Matthew Blood

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СКАЧАТЬ the top of the stairway, and still without a backward glance or a spoken word Priscilla unlocked a door and crossed the threshold. Morgan Wayne followed her without hesitation.

       Chapter Three

      PRISCILLA ENDICOTT stopped in the center of the long room and stood there without turning her head. Wayne closed the door quietly and stood with his back against it, taking in vague details of the pleasant warmth of the room while his gaze was riveted on the tall, gingham-clad figure standing so utterly motionless before him.

      Priscilla’s hands hung limply by her sides. Somehow, there was hopelessness and uncertainty in her stance. She was waiting—and Morgan Wayne waited. He felt his pulse leaping uncontrollably, and was suddenly aware that he was holding his breath.

      It was Priscilla’s room, warm and alive with color and pattern. Chartreuse draperies hung low to the floor from a wide window at the far end. The room was thickly carpeted from wall to wall with a pattern of dull reds and yellows, and not cluttered with furniture.

      But it was cluttered with a man’s white shirt lying rumpled and conspicuous just inside an open door leading into the bedroom. Hake Derr’s shirt! A mute reminder to Wayne that he was alone here with another man’s woman.

      Past the rumpled shirt and through the open door, Wayne could see half an oversized Hollywood bed with the covers thrown back, one pillow and the sheet wrinkled. Past the bed was a low, glass-topped vanity almost bare on top. Cut-glass stoppered flagons and powder container on one side; a pair of silver-topped military brushes on the other.

      Another mute reminder of Hake Derr. And there was a third. From where he stood, the large oval mirror above the vanity reflected its glass-topped surface. There was a light sprinkling of powder over the center area and the mirror reflected the four letters of an obscene word evidently scrawled by a blunt fingertip in the powder; scrawled on the top of Priscilla Endicott’s dressing table by a man with the puerile mind of a nasty adolescent who has just learned a new word. You see it furtively scrawled sometimes on city sidewalks and on the white walls of a latrine.

      Morgan Wayne felt sudden and inexpressible pity for Priscilla.

      Priscilla still stood motionless with her back toward him. But the fingers of both hands began to tighten into fists by her side. They relaxed and tightened again. Then they were lifted savagely to both sides of her head, fingertips thrusting into the silken strands of her incredibly lovely hair and mussing it as Wayne’s fingers longed to muss it.

      She turned to him like that, and her face was pinched and bloodless, haunted with terror and with passion. Her breath came fast between tight lips and her breasts rose and fell rapidly.

      She stared at him for a long moment as though it were the first time she had seen his face.

      She said, “Are you going to take me?” and it was spoken as casually as though she had asked, “Would you like a drink?”

      Wayne moved toward her across the heavy carpet, his eyes searching her face. When they were close enough he saw the perspiration of excitement wetting her temples, the pulsing tremors in the rounded softness of her throat beneath the lifted chin; could feel the hot breath coming to him from slightly parted lips.

      Morgan Wayne put out his hands to grip her shoulders. He drew her toward him and she did not resist. He looked down into her eyes and knew that if he kissed her he was lost. Not yet. There was something more important than this woman, but it was difficult to remember what it was. Damned difficult. Almost impossible. Every cell in his body leaped in response to her, every fiber of his being strained to get closer.

      His teeth were set together so tightly that his jaws ached and he exerted every atom of will power he possessed to turn his head slightly from her and look down at the rumpled shirt on the floor. He didn’t realize the strength of his grip on her shoulders as he demanded hoarsely, “What about Hake Derr?”

      That name broke the spell. He felt the rigidity of Priscilla’s body go away under his fingers. She turned her head also and looked where he was looking. His hands fell away from her shoulders and she moved listlessly to pick up the shirt. Over her shoulder she said:

      “You were right downstairs. It is too late.” She moved into the bedroom, balling the shirt up in her two hands and then tossing it casually into a corner.

      Wayne followed her to the doorway. Every sense was alert now. Every moment was important. He had to recapture some of the essence of the moment before, yet not enough to be trapped by it. God knew, a man could be trapped by it easily enough. For one moment back there . . .

      She stopped in front of the low vanity. From across the room, Morgan Wayne heard the swift intake of her breath, saw the swift movement of her hand that wiped out the four letters on the powder-strewn glass.

      She turned to face him, leaning back with hips against the table edge, supporting herself with hands on both sides of her. She looked tired now, almost contemptuous.

      “Why don’t you get out, Morgan Wayne? Of course it’s too late . . . for you.”

      “You lie, Priscilla,” Wayne told her. “You lie most foully in your beautiful teeth. You asked me a question a while ago. You didn’t have to ask it. You already knew the answer. You knew it when you looked at me as you stood at the piano and I was at the bar. The only question is when. For us it has to be right.” His voice was insistent. Urgent and demanding. Speaking with a quiet logic and a certainty that again ripped away the barrier that had risen between them. “You know that, Priscilla.” Wayne began to move across the bedroom toward her.

      She didn’t respond. Not yet. She still looked tired, but the expression of contempt was beginning to be replaced by one of speculation. She lowered her lashes and ran the tip of her tongue around dry lips.

      “Who are you?”

      He halted two feet in front of her. “Morgan Wayne.”

      “But what are you?”

      Her lashes remained lowered but the words burst from her lips as though long pent up.

      “Ask Hake Derr.”

      “He doesn’t know. Only hints about you here and there. Rumors that you’re this and that. For God’s sake,” she pleaded wildly, and she lifted her lashes and showed actual wetness in the limpid green eyes, “go away from here. Stay away from Hake. I’ll follow you. I’ll come wherever you say. Whenever you send for me.”

      The wetness was tears. They streamed down her cheeks unashamedly. Wayne took one step forward and put his arm about her shaking shoulders. She twisted her face away from him. Her teeth were chattering and she crushed the knuckles of one hand against them.

      Wayne pulled the hand away roughly. He twisted her head so her mouth came up to meet his. It was a savage kiss. Her breasts were crushed against him and both arms clung desperately about his neck and a low moan escaped from her set teeth. Her head fell back away from him limply and her eyes were closed, her face peaceful now with a strange look of content.

      She said, “Yes, darling. Yes! But hurry. I have no shame left. No fear. Nothing. Hurry, my dear. Oh, God! Hurry.”

      A shudder traversed the length of her body. She opened her eyes to his gaze and there was a little-girl pleading in them. A surprised and almost virginal look of ecstasy.

      Wayne СКАЧАТЬ