Big Three-Thriller Bundle Box Collection (56 page)

GUN PLAY

THE AUDIENCE BROKE into screams. Many rose from their seats. The club filled with gasps. Spurs’ hand was nearly on the pistol before she realized it didn’t smoke. Reeves didn’t slump in his chair. He sat, still in his deadpan stare.

Spurs stopped. She gaped at the man, then at Reeves. Now she realized the crowd’s staring eyes. The room was quiet.

The Spaniard tossed the handgun to Spurs and she caught it clumsily. Now he pointed his finger at her, looking serious, determined, dangerous, and slammed his heels on the floor three more times.
Pop, pop, pop
. Then his stern face brightened into a wide smile.

The room erupted in laughter.

Spurs knew her cheeks flushed deep red, already burning from the passion of the two dancers, now intensified by the embarrassment. She flipped the gun back to the young man and quickly found her seat as the two dancers went to the middle of the floor, dancing around each other gaily like courting pigeons.

Reeves raised his eyebrows, then lifted his voice above the still roaring, now applauding audience.

“Having fun?”

Spurs blinked slowly and curled the corner of her mouth. “You knew, didn’t you?”

Reeves shrugged, smiling, then turned to the dancers. The crowd clapped with the rhythm of the guitars and Reeves clapped along. Everyone seemed into the beat.

The young woman now floundered around the man’s extended leg. He watched her arrogantly as she slipped to the floor, her arms reaching pleadingly. He turned away and walked boldly toward the curtain on the left. She collapsed to the floor as if crying. As soon as her eyes left him, he turned, came back to her quickly, then gracefully, nearly effortlessly, lifted her from the floor and swung her around him, both of them now showing big smiles. They twirled, their outside arms reaching. Faces beaming.

The guitars stopped with the loudest of strums.

The dancers hustled from the floor behind the curtain on the left.

The crowd exploded. They stood, clapping wildly. The two dancers whipped out from behind the curtain, now out of character, grinning meekly.

Reeves stood, beating his palms then nodded at Spurs seeming to want her to stand. The audience not only watched the dancers on the floor but most were alternating glances from them to her.

She smiled then, also. She stood up and clapped.

“Bravo!” Reeves said, then turned to the dancers. “Bravo!”

The crowd joined in with their praises. Their applause built even louder.

The flamenco dancers bowed now with broad smiles. Their outstretched arms offered Spurs and Reeves to the crowd and the applause became deafening.

“Bravo,” Spurs said, “Bravo!” as the waiter presented them with two more tall glasses of red wine.

A BIG LETDOWN

SPURS LOOKED ABOUT the room and nodded with a faint smile. What else could she do but go along with the gag in which she had been the target.

When she turned back to Reeves, she found he was already seated. He shoved the fresh glass of wine toward her and she sat down.

“Funny,” she said, her voice elevated so that Reeves could hear her easily over the crowd. She gave him a lopsided grin. “Very, very funny. But just you remember, paybacks are hell—superior officer or not.”e

He smiled and raised his glass briefly as if toasting her.

After only a couple of sips of the second glass of wine, Spurs felt a fire smoldering from within. In the whirlwind of the evening, she couldn’t tell if it was a physical burning or if it might have been psychological. As she leaned toward Reeves to ask him how many times before had he brought women to this place to humiliate them, she knocked over her wine glass. The white tablecloth grew crimson from the red
Barcelona
.

Now, embarrassing herself with her own clumsiness, she said, “Let’s get out of her.”

Reeves stood up without a word and threw down a small stack of
pesetas
for the waiter.

When they left
El Club Del Flamenco
in the cab, Spurs thought they would be heading back to the ship. Reeves had just told the cabbie,
Parador de Barcelona
. Spurs thought it might be Spanish for the shipyards of Barcelona.

It had been a tiring but exciting evening. She tried to deny to herself that she hadn’t been turned on by the flamenco dancers, especially by the sensuous beauty that nearly kissed her. Her attraction to Commander Reeves, or Nick as he had asked for her to call him, was hard to deny also. He was like what she pictured her father might have been when he was younger. She wondered if the Admiral hadn’t looked—even acted like Reeves did now, thirty years ago. If she couldn’t get her father’s approval, should she try to get Reeves’?

The taxi driver glanced over his shoulder at her as he drove.

He spoke in broken English. “
Señorita
, be careful. The murderer is out
anoché
.
Es muy mal
—very bad.”

She frowned at him curiously, then at Reeves. He nodded.

She asked the driver, “Murderer?”

“
Si, Señorita
, he killed nine Mediterranean women. This evening, here in Barcelona, a woman I know, Maria Sevilla, makes ten. But no be scared much, he kills mostly whores. Still, be careful,
por favor
.”

She asked Reeves, “You’ve heard about this?”

“Maria was my informant.” Reeves eyes went blank and his face grim. “Interpol won’t put out the MO to the public. They’re afraid it’ll jeopardize their investigation. But we have reliable information it was a knife. That seems to be the weapon of choice around here.” He stared out the side window.

Spurs thought about Captain Chardoff’s knife. She reached across the back seat of the taxi to Reeves and placed a consoling hand on his. He gazed at her. She turned away.

“Have a boyfriend?” Reeves asked.

Spurs looked to see him still staring. She smiled and turned away again, pretending to study the ancient back streets of Barcelona.

“I was engaged up until a couple of months ago,” she said. “There’s no one now, nor am I looking.”

She glanced at him coyly without intending to. Realizing it, she dropped her eyes. Her head began spinning, like she’d had too much to drink. Maybe she had. It had been months since she’d drunk more than a few sips of alcohol. Still, she wouldn’t have thought that less than a glass and a half of wine would make her intoxicated.

He moved closer and put his right arm around her. “You’re a beautiful woman,” he said. “I can’t help but feel attracted to you.” He drew his face nearer.

She looked up into his brown, paternal eyes.

His left hand came up and gently caressed her cheek, then he kissed her teasingly, pulling away after only a brief touch.

She brought her lips to his.

His large but gentle hand moved from her face to her throat. She could feel its light grasp most of the way around her neck. He caressed her softly while kissing her face passionately, then took his hand away and nibbled down to her collarbone. Now the roving hand unbuttoned her blouse and quickly groped in and seized her right breast.

Spurs tried to push him away, her hand shoving against his shoulder, but he was too strong.

“No,” she pleaded softly.

Reeves didn’t pay attention.

“Please, Nick. No!”

He continued.

She put the heel of her right hand under his nose and gave it a solid shove.

This time he reeled back.

They passed the street she’d been on earlier when she had the thick Spanish coffee. They were going the wrong way to go to the ship.

“Where’s he taking us?”

Reeves frowned at her.

“I’m sorry, I thought . . . ,” he began, then turned toward the cabbie.

Spurs looked at the attractive Naval officer. She was rejecting him. Tonight he’d been a friend. He’d cheered her up. They’d had an exciting time. She felt safe and secure with him in the middle of a chaotic world. She had failed with Doug. She had failed with her father. She shouldn’t fail again.

“
Amigo, por favor . . . ,
” he said to the cabbie.

He was going to ask the driver to take them back to the ship. Tonight was her chance to prove to herself that she was worthy of someone’s affection. But to make love with Reeves—to have sex—would be far too much too soon. Maybe they could drive around some more—talk.

“No,” she said and leaned to him. She didn’t know what had come over her. The dizziness increased.

They gazed at one another momentarily. She smiled.

He wrapped his arms around her, kissing her feverishly.

* * *

As they pulled up to the
Parador de Barcelona
, an ancient castle turned into a spacious hotel by the Spanish government, the cabbie repeated his warning. “Remember,
señorita
, the murderer,” he said. “Be careful.”

They checked into the hotel and were in their room so quickly that there had been little time to think. Her head was still spinning from the wine. Was she doing the right thing—no, she thought at first. But then, how could this be wrong? He was an attractive man. He was sure of himself, intelligent. He was wise and realized how to deal with her from the start. Testing her at first, then discovering she could handle her assignment, he had trusted her, opened up to her, and done away with the chauvinist act he put on when she first boarded the ship.

Now, forgiving that he got a little carried away in the cab, to her, he seemed kind, gentle, caring and considerate. His passion for her seemed to overflow, and it had been so long since she’d been on the receiving end of such ardor. Even with her fiancée, Doug, what seemed at first a mutual fervor of love seemed to wane during the months following their engagement. Then, tonight, she finally found out why. He was gay. How could he have been gay when they first met? The first time they made love? The times they shared the weekends together, locked in passion, only finding a few spare moments to break apart to eat and sleep. Was it something she’d done? Had she driven him to homosexuality?

After they’d entered the hotel room, Spurs went directly to the restroom and vomited. When she staggered out, she was about to tell Reeves of her dizziness. Tell, him that they were moving much too fast, anyway. Apologize to him—it was the wine. Wine had never affected her like this before, but that’s what it had to have been. Perhaps, he’d understand and not be too disappointed.

But he was waiting naked in the bed, the sheet up to his middle.

Reeves smiled at her and she came to him. She gave him a half smile and sat on the edge of the bed.

“I’m sorry . . . ,” she began.

He sat up before she could finish and pressed his lips to hers.

He kneaded her breasts then moved his hands down her body to her butt and gripped firmly.

Again the dizziness took over but this time, she seemed to lose complete control of her senses, unable to push him away, unable to say anything to stop him. Surely he would stop. Her breath, after all, she thought—she’d just thrown up. He would—should understand.

He released her lips and forced her underneath him, then began pulling off her clothes. The room spun. She was sure she’d be unconscious soon. Her thoughts were deadening, arms unable to move. Now, she felt in a daze and wasn’t sure, but she thought she was completely nude. His lips were exploring her body from her forehead down to her nose, mouth, neck and breasts. He began suckling on her left nipple. She could feel his penis chafing against her as he writhed. But it wasn’t hard. There was no erection. She had no doubt, though, that his feverish passion would soon give it life. Maybe he’d had too much to drink, also, although he didn’t seem impaired otherwise. Maybe he’d find it useless and give up.

She watched his thick, dark brown hair as his tongue flicked around her chest playfully. Still, movement of her arms was drudgery, nearly impossible. Finally, she brought them up, trying to grab his hair, his ears, anything to get a hold of to pull him back, but her energy ran dry and her arms collapsed on his back.

What’s wrong with me?
she wondered. Had she been drugged? Was it the last glass of wine? What would have happened if she’d drunk it all and not spilled most of it? No, surely it was only the alcohol she was feeling. She was just not used to it, that’s all. But, less than two drinks?

He licked at each breast, pulling them together so that he could mouth both nipples at the same time.

He moved lower, licking, kissing slowly down her stomach, below her navel and lower.

God
, how was she going to get him off of her?

He came back up and pressed his lips to hers, again. On her thigh, she could feel that he still didn’t have an erection. Finally, she found the strength to move her right hand down to his middle. She brushed against his testicles and he flinched at first. Her hand was placed in an awkward place, almost as if she’d intended to caress his manhood—but that was the furthest from her mind.

He pulled his head back, pausing only briefly to smile amorously as if considering her tender, sexual gesture then pressed his lips back to hers.

The thought of it made her feel sick again. She wished she could throw up once more, this time puke into his mouth as his kissing became even harder, more passionate to the point of frenzy.

Still, she could feel only a limp organ between his legs and thankfully so. At the same time, however, she was becoming more aware by the second of something about to explode in Reeves, but it had nothing to do with anything
below
his waist.

The pressure from his mouth became pain. He jerked up. Both of his hands were suddenly around her throat. He squeezed. She gasped for air but his grip was too tight. She couldn’t understand what he was trying to do. Surely, he was only
temporarily
getting carried away—upset about his informant being killed. He would let up soon.

But he didn’t. She mustered the extra strength to bring her left hand up and tried to pull his hands away, her other hand still on his flaccid organ and testicles. He was too strong, she much too weak.

The situation was becoming critical. Soon, she would black out—die.
God, no!
She must find the strength, dig deep for the power to stop him. But, he was so strong, and her weak state made her feel like a rag doll in the jaws of a Rottweiler.

He was going nuts. Crazy.

The pain. Stars as her vision blurred, then darkened.

He was a bully—a schoolyard toughie, holding her down and spitting in her face.
No! Never again!

At long last, her right hand energized and she squeezed the package it encased and then wrenched harder than she thought was possible in her condition.

His eyes bugged. He stared down at her for a second as she kept the pressure. Finally, he grimaced and let go of her neck. His eyes rolled back like a dying calf in a hailstorm and he fell away from her and off the bed.

Spurs’ strength was coming back quickly, along with a nearly overwhelming headache. She sat up and began gathering her clothes and dressing as quickly as possible as Reeves got up painstakingly. He sat on the edge of the bed with his back to her, holding his head in his hands.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I hope I didn’t hurt you.”

He glanced over his shoulder as Spurs gaped back rubbing her throat.

“Since my wife died, fifteen years ago—I haven’t been able to. . . .”

And what am I supposed to do?
she thought,
Say; oh, that’s all right. I understand. You’re pissed that you can’t get it up, so you try to strangle me. Perfectly normal. Choke me some more, please!