"Are you crazy?"
ingrid shook her head in disbelief.
"He's beautiful.
Think of the fun you could have, dressing him up as a woman."
Jacey stared at her in disbelief.
"That would be fun?"
"Oh, yes."
ingrid nodded.
"It's very sexy.
Have you never played that game?
Men love it.
You
know those very conventional men, in their suits and ties and their
polished shoes?
They love to be put into stockings and suspenders, and
lots of frilly things.
Makeup, too.
I had a guy in the States who got
a hard-on just talking about it, and really it was very difficult
getting the silk panties on him.
I had to scold him.
Make him
behave."
She grinned wickedly.
"A nice paddle across his bottom.
It works wonders.
I can whack very
hard.
Maybe I should have been a dominatrix instead of a doctor."
"I don't find men in drag very sexy at all," Jacey said.
"If I was expected to make love to a man in a dress, I'd probably start
laughing."
"What's wrong with laughing?"
Ingrid shrugged.
"Who says you have to be serious when you fuck?
And believe me, you
would fuck.
It's an amazing turn-on to see a guy in women's underwear,
doing whatever you tell him.
It's like having a slave.
They're so
anxious to please.
And your friend would look perfect; he's far too
pretty to be a man.
I'm sure he would like to play kinky games with
me."
They heard clapping, and moved over to the large window.
The two polo
teams were already on the field.
It was difficult to make out faces at
that distance, but Jacey thought she recognised Nicolas.
"Let's sit outside," she said.
They found themselves a table under the shade of an awning.
A waiter
appeared with a tray of drinks and bowed deferentially.
"With the compliments of Senor d'Osolo, refreshment for Dr.
Muldaire
and Dr.
Gustaffsen."
"Well," ingrid said, arranging her lanky frame comfortably.
"This is the life, don't you think?"
The polo ponies thundered past.
Ingrid glanced at them.
"Do you understand what this funny game is about?"
"Not really," Jacey admitted.
"They play so many chukkas, and score goals."
"Like football, but on a horse?"
Ingrid shrugged dismissively.
"Very exciting, I'm sure.
Let's talk about something more interesting.
Like your pretty friend.
Your pretty, rich friend."
There was a
sudden polite cheer and burst of clapping from the crowd.
"Maybe someone has scored a goal," ingrid guessed.
"Bravo.
Your friend is rich, isn't he?"
"I believe so," Jacey said.
"But I'm not sure I'd call Raoul my friend."
Not yet, anyway, she thought.
But he soon will be.
If Lohaquin has
supporters among the upper classes, and Raoul knows something about
him, I shall certainly have to cultivate his friendship.
Ingrid said: "The ponies have stopped galloping about.
I wonder why?
Do you think someone has been hurt?"
"It's the end of the first chukka, Senorita."
The waiter passing
behind them had overheard Ingrid's remark.
"The players will rest for three minutes, and then play again for
seven."
"So you don't have to run over and administer your skills as a doctor,"
Jacey murmured, after the waiter had gone.
"And while we're on the subject, what did that comment about surgical
nursing mean?"
"Doctors and nurses," Ingrid said.
Jacey looked blank, and Ingrid
prompted: "At La Primavera."
She stared at Jacey.
"Are you going to tell me you have never played those games?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," Jacey said.
But she suddenly
recalled something else that Carmen had said to her.
Something about
the young doctors at La Primavera enjoying themselves in an operating
theatre, but Peter being too 'decent' to be involved.
"Unless it's got something to do with an operating theatre?"
she
hinted.
"Of course."
Ingrid nodded.
"That special operating theatre with the viewing gallery."
A nasty suspicion was beginning to form in Jacey's mind.
"I didn't know that operating theatre had a viewing gallery," she
said.
Ingrid looked at Jacey curiously.
"Do you mean to say you've never watched the girls playing nurses with
those frustrated old men?
I have to admit, it isn't always
interesting; sometimes they just fuck.
But often they are asked to use
the rubber tubes and the dildoes, and the electric clamps.
And
sometimes the old men want to play at being doctor instead of being
nursed.
They can be most inventive.
And if you know the right people,
you can get an invitation to watch."
"I don't think I'd want to," Jacey said rather primly.
But she had a sudden clear picture of herself in the sparkling clean
operating theatre.
A picture of herself submitting to Peter Draven's
exploring hands.
With her trained memory, she distinctly recalled a
snippet of their conversation.
She had jokingly protested that it was
hardly the time or place for a medical examination and Peter had said
something about it being 'exactly right'.
Now that comment made sense!
The bastard, she thought.
She remembered
lying back on the operating table, thinking how bright the lights were,
and fantasising that a group of medical students were looking down at
her.
But that was my personal fantasy, she thought furiously.
I was in control of it.
The idea that she probably had been watched,
without her permission, made her angry.
She also remembered that Peter's technique had lacked control, in
contrast to his performance on later occasions.
Was that because he
found the idea of a hidden audience almost too stimulating?
Or should
she give him the benefit of the doubt?
Maybe he was embarrassed.
But
in that case, why agree to perform?
Who put him up to it?
And who was
watching?
Until that afternoon she would have suspected it was Raoul.
But she no
longer thought that likely.
Raoul's romanticism was clearly genuine,
if unusual.
She did not believe he would indulge in underhand,
voyeuristic tricks.
But Nicolas Schlemann would.
For the next hour, Jacey found it difficult to concentrate either on
the polo, or Ingrid's conversation.
The more she thought about it, the
more convinced she became that she had been used as a sexual puppet, to
amuse a hidden viewer.
When the game finished her anger had reached
boiling point.
She hardly noticed Senor d'Osolo when he came up behind
her.
Tapping her on the shoulder, he handed her a note.
"From Senor Schlemann, Dr.
Muldaire."
He smiled obsequiously.
/!
believe he wishes to give you an opportunity to congratulate him."
"His team won, did it?"
Ingrid asked.
"Of course," d'Osolo said.
"Do you think that pretty little friend of yours let him win?"
Ingrid
asked Jacey, after Senor d'Osolo had left them.
"Raoul wouldn't do that," Jacey said.
"Definitely not."
"Your sexy Nicolas does seem to get his own way around here," Ingrid
commented.
"Jacey, do you want me to wait for you?"
"Of course," Jacey said shortly.
She glanced at the note.
"Nicolas is in the members' bar.
I'll just tell him how marvelous he
is, and I'll be back."
"Now, now," Ingrid chided, grinning.
"That's no way to talk about your lord and master."
"Considering he didn't even bother to invite me to see him play," Jacey
said tartly, 'he's got a nerve to expect me to rush over and compliment
him."
The members' bar was noisy and crowded when she reached it.
Some of
the players, with their girlfriends and wives, were grouped round a
buffet table, good-naturedly discussing the game.
The conversation
stopped, rather disconcertingly, as Jacey pushed through the swing
doors.
The crowd parted to let her through.
"I'm looking for Nicolas," she said.
"Of course you are."
One of the polo players smiled condescendingly at
her, and she took an instant dislike to him.
He pointed to a door.
"Through there, Dr.
Muldaire."
Jacey found herself in a corridor, panelled in dark wood.
There was
another door directly in front of her.
She opened it into a changing
room, as darkly-panelled as the corridor, the walls crowded with framed
photographs of polo matches.
Nicolas was lounging against one of the polished wooden lockers.
His