Particularly the lady friends."
He was careful. During his four-year tenancy at the hotel he had had only one female visitor, a divorcee in her thirties, and everything about her-looks, dress, and manners-was abundantly satisfactory even to the discriminating Mr. Simms. The only fault he could find with her was that she did not come often enough. For Moira Langtry was also discriminating. Given her own way, something that Dillon frequently refrained from giving her as a matter of policy, she wouldn't have come within a mile of the GrosvenorCarlton. After all, she had a very nice apartment of her own, a place with one bedroom, two baths and a wet bar. If he really wanted to see her-and she was beginning to doubt that he did-why couldn't he come out there?
"Well, why can't you?" she said, as he sat up in bed phoning to her. "It's no further for you than it is for me."
"But you're so much younger, dear. A youthful female like you can afford to humor a doddering old man."
"Flattery will get you nowhere, mister"-she was pleased. "I'm five years older, and I feel every minute of it."
Dillon grinned. Five years older? Hell, she was ten if she was a day. "The fact is, I'm a little under the weather," he explained. "No, no, it's nothing contagious. I happened to trip over a chair the other night in the dark, and it gave me a nasty whack in the stomach."
"Well… I guess I could come…"
"That's my girl. I'd hold my breath if I wasn't panting."
"Mmm? Let's hear you."
"Pant, pant," he said.
"You poor thing," she said. "Moira'll hurry just as fast as she can."
Apparently, she had been dressed to go out when he called, for she arrived in less than an hour. Or, perhaps, it only seemed that way. He had got up to unlock the door preparatory to her arrival, and returning to bed he had felt strangely tired and faint. So he had let his eyes drift shut, and when he opened them, a very little later seemingly, she was entering the room. Sweeping into it on her tiny, spike-heeled shoes; a billowing but compact bundle of woman with glossily black hair, and direct darkly-burning eyes.
She paused just inside the threshold for a moment, self-assured but suppliant. Posing like one of those arrogantly inviting mannequins. Then, she reached behind her, feeling for and finding the doorkey. And turning it with a soft click.
Roy forgot to wonder about her age.
She was old enough, was Moira Langtry.
She was young enough.
His silent approval spoke to her, and she gave a little twitch to her body, letting the ermine stole hang from one shoulder. Then, hips swaying delicately, she came slowly across the room; small chin outthrust; seemingly tugged forward by the bountiful imbalance within the small white blouse.
She stopped with her knees pressed against his bed, and looking upward he could see nothing but the tip of her nose above the contours of her breasts.
Raising a finger, he poked her in one then the other.
"You're hiding," he said. "Come out, come out, wherever you are."
She sank gracefully to her knees, let her dark eyes burn into his face.
"You stink," she said, tonelessly, the blouse shimmering with her words. "I hate you."
"The twins seem to be restless," he said. "Maybe we should put them to bed."
"You know what I'm going to do? I'm going to smother you."
He said, "Death, where is thy sting?" and then he was necessarily voiceless for a while. After an incredibly soft, sweet-smelling eternity, he was allowed to come up for air. And he spoke to her in a whisper.
"You smell good, Moira. Like a bitch in a hothouse."
"Darling. What a beautiful thing to say!"
"Maybe you don't smell good…"
"I do, too. You just said so."
"It could be your clothes."
"It's me! Want me to prove it to you?"
He did, and she did.
4
When he first settled in Los Angeles, Roy Dillon's interest in women was prudently confined by necessity. He was twenty-one, an oldish twenty-one. His urge toward the opposite sex was as strong as any man's; flourishing
He was careful. During his four-year tenancy at the hotel he had had only one female visitor, a divorcee in her thirties, and everything about her-looks, dress, and manners-was abundantly satisfactory even to the discriminating Mr. Simms. The only fault he could find with her was that she did not come often enough. For Moira Langtry was also discriminating. Given her own way, something that Dillon frequently refrained from giving her as a matter of policy, she wouldn't have come within a mile of the GrosvenorCarlton. After all, she had a very nice apartment of her own, a place with one bedroom, two baths and a wet bar. If he really wanted to see her-and she was beginning to doubt that he did-why couldn't he come out there?
"Well, why can't you?" she said, as he sat up in bed phoning to her. "It's no further for you than it is for me."
"But you're so much younger, dear. A youthful female like you can afford to humor a doddering old man."
"Flattery will get you nowhere, mister"-she was pleased. "I'm five years older, and I feel every minute of it."
Dillon grinned. Five years older? Hell, she was ten if she was a day. "The fact is, I'm a little under the weather," he explained. "No, no, it's nothing contagious. I happened to trip over a chair the other night in the dark, and it gave me a nasty whack in the stomach."
"Well… I guess I could come…"
"That's my girl. I'd hold my breath if I wasn't panting."
"Mmm? Let's hear you."
"Pant, pant," he said.
"You poor thing," she said. "Moira'll hurry just as fast as she can."
Apparently, she had been dressed to go out when he called, for she arrived in less than an hour. Or, perhaps, it only seemed that way. He had got up to unlock the door preparatory to her arrival, and returning to bed he had felt strangely tired and faint. So he had let his eyes drift shut, and when he opened them, a very little later seemingly, she was entering the room. Sweeping into it on her tiny, spike-heeled shoes; a billowing but compact bundle of woman with glossily black hair, and direct darkly-burning eyes.
She paused just inside the threshold for a moment, self-assured but suppliant. Posing like one of those arrogantly inviting mannequins. Then, she reached behind her, feeling for and finding the doorkey. And turning it with a soft click.
Roy forgot to wonder about her age.
She was old enough, was Moira Langtry.
She was young enough.
His silent approval spoke to her, and she gave a little twitch to her body, letting the ermine stole hang from one shoulder. Then, hips swaying delicately, she came slowly across the room; small chin outthrust; seemingly tugged forward by the bountiful imbalance within the small white blouse.
She stopped with her knees pressed against his bed, and looking upward he could see nothing but the tip of her nose above the contours of her breasts.
Raising a finger, he poked her in one then the other.
"You're hiding," he said. "Come out, come out, wherever you are."
She sank gracefully to her knees, let her dark eyes burn into his face.
"You stink," she said, tonelessly, the blouse shimmering with her words. "I hate you."
"The twins seem to be restless," he said. "Maybe we should put them to bed."
"You know what I'm going to do? I'm going to smother you."
He said, "Death, where is thy sting?" and then he was necessarily voiceless for a while. After an incredibly soft, sweet-smelling eternity, he was allowed to come up for air. And he spoke to her in a whisper.
"You smell good, Moira. Like a bitch in a hothouse."
"Darling. What a beautiful thing to say!"
"Maybe you don't smell good…"
"I do, too. You just said so."
"It could be your clothes."
"It's me! Want me to prove it to you?"
He did, and she did.
4
When he first settled in Los Angeles, Roy Dillon's interest in women was prudently confined by necessity. He was twenty-one, an oldish twenty-one. His urge toward the opposite sex was as strong as any man's; flourishing
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