Authors: Harold Robbins
I didn’t want to disappoint him and tell him that I owned a Jaguar and had some of those designer clothes, though not the most expensive ones, and I lived in a penthouse. A small one.
“You know what this one bottle’s worth?” He brought up a bottle from underneath the bar.
“Haven’t got a clue.”
“About six grand. A Scotch whiskey aged in sherry barrels for over fifty years. Designer liquor.”
“Must be nice.
“Check out this. Designer ice cubes.”
“Designer ice cubes?”
“Hand-cut, so they don’t melt as fast.”
He wasn’t kidding. I started laughing. “Do you ever envy them, the rich, I mean?”
“No,” he said, putting away glasses in the holder above the bar. “They’re too goddamn greedy. You know that old saying ‘money is the root of evil.’ Well, it’s true.”
I didn’t buy his philosophy. If I had a choice, I’d rather be rich than poor. “But money can buy you things.”
“I’m not saying you don’t need money. I just don’t care for the filthy rich. And there’re a lot of them around here. Money can’t buy you happiness.”
But it sure helped warding off the blues.
I liked his honesty, liked him, and especially liked his fine-toned body. I set aside the apple martini and told him to get me a glass of champagne. My sexual appetite was rising and needed to be lubricated. I didn’t get any satisfaction from Neal in the sex department, which was fine with me. I didn’t love Neal and we had no commitments with each other. We both saw other people.
I stared at the bartender over the rim of my glass. “What time do you finish tonight? Do you want to get together afterward?”
Okay, so I was a horny thirtysomething sexual predator and he was probably a college kid—who else would quote F. Scott Fitzgerald? But that didn’t put me into the category of female schoolteachers sleeping with their young students. I was more the older sister type, rather than a cradle robber.
“Sure. I’m only filling in for another bartender. A last-minute emergency. Someone else is taking over in a couple hours.”
“Well, I guess I’ll go mingle with the filthy rich for a while. My name is Maddy by the way.”
“Jeffrey.”
I wrote down my address and apartment number for him. He whistled when he saw the address.
“I’ll tell my doorman to let you in.”
I took the glass of champagne and left him staring at my address.
I spoke to Hiram briefly. He told me again how pleased he was with the auction and informed me he was going to be generous in his bonuses this year, which meant Eric was also going to get an even bigger check.
Not only do the rich get richer, but also people like Eric get more than their share of the droppings.
Neal was busy chatting up people around the room, probably trying to strum up more business for Rutgers. At one point I saw him talking to Hiram’s wife. They seemed pretty chummy with each other. Was Neal poking her? A sure bet. But it was none of my business. I had my own plans for tonight.
Chapter 9
I took a cab back to my apartment at a few minutes past midnight. The champagne had made me giddy. Even though it juiced up my sexual drive, it also made me sleepy if I drank too much.
I told my doorman that I was expecting someone named Jeffrey and to send him up when he arrived. One thing about Manhattan doormen—they never showed surprise. The ability to always respond with a blank look and nod was a prerequisite for the job.
My doorbell buzzed thirty minutes later.
“Your knight in shining armor has arrived,” he said, “and I bring gifts.” He held up a bottle.
“Great. More champagne.”
He came inside, nodding his head in approval as he walked around the living room. “Nice place. Great neighborhood, too.”
“I don’t have any complaints.”
“So you are part of the rich and famous people.”
“Not by a long shot.”
“What exactly do you do?”
“I’m the curator for the Piedmont Museum.”
“Ah, so you’re Madison Dupre. You never gave me your last name at the party. I overheard pieces of conversation about you. Made some big purchase at Rutgers for Piedmont. So you work for the rich and famous.”
I nodded my head. “Are you going to hold that against me?”
“No.”
“Okay, now that we’ve got that settled, you can open the champagne while I start the water.” Another glass wasn’t going to hurt me.
“Start the water?”
“I feel like soaking in the tub. Want to join me?”
I caught the look of surprise on his face.
“Okay. Sounds good to me.”
I came back dressed only in my bra and panties. I still had my heels on because there was something sexy about wearing high heels with underwear.
His eyes went up and down my body. “You know, I like you without your dress on.” His lazy gaze over my body made me tremble with excitement.
We were practically strangers and here I was almost naked in front of this guy. I didn’t care. My body was horny for some sexual satisfaction. I wanted to play with him a little, but I wasn’t sure how much longer I could wait.
“You might like this even more.”
Unashamedly, I slipped out of my panties and bra. I stood there totally naked in front of him, with heels on.
He stared, still as a statue, at my body.
“This is getting better and better. You’re giving me a hard-on, you know.”
A tremor went down my body. “I’ll give you more than that. Bring the champagne and glasses.”
I turned and walked to the tub. I shook off my heels and stepped into the perfumed bubble bath. The water was soft and warm. I let the bubbles soak up my body.
Jeff had stripped out of his clothes on the way to the bedroom. I almost laughed when I saw him in the doorway. He had the champagne in one hand and two glasses in the other and his penis was sticking straight up.
“What are you waiting for?”
He stood in the doorway for a minute. “Just admiring the view.”
“You can admire it in here.”
The bathtub was big enough for three people. He slipped down in the warm water, then poured the champagne. He also poured some in the tub.
“Ah, almost like the rich and famous,” he said. He leaned back and closed his eyes.
“You have a thing about rich people, don’t you?”
“I find them fascinating to watch.”
I thought the same thing about him right now.
He was younger than anyone I’d ever dated, much younger. I stared at his smooth toned body as I sipped my drink. He had no body hair. Male movie stars who went through painful body waxing would be damn envious of it.
An innocence about him was stimulating. Now I understood why the Huntzbergers wanted someone like Chastity—the exotic thrill of making love to a younger person. Unlike teenagers, who lacked the maturity in mind and body to be sexually interesting, young people in their twenties were fully developed yet treated the body as an exploration of passion and sexual mystery.
I poured the rest of my drink in the tub and did the same with his.
I spread my legs apart slowly and moved his fingers over my swollen button. My clitoris was already throbbing.
“Massage it,” I said, as I leaned back and closed my eyes. I was ready to come any second.
“Feel good?” He started rubbing it slowly.
“Yes,” I moaned. “Do it harder. It’s coming.”
I gave in to the orgasm as it coursed through my body, writhing in the warm water with sexual ecstasy.
Sweat broke out on my face. I opened my eyes. “Wow, that felt so good.” My body felt like gelatin.
“Yeah, me, too. I jerked off just watching you.” He smiled.
We both didn’t say anything for a couple of minutes.
“I’m not finished yet. Just pretend that I’m your older sister,” I said. “I can do things to you that you’ve never had done before.”
“Go ahead and rock my world, Sister.”
“Follow me.”
I got out of the tub and dried off lightly before I went to the bed.
His body reminded me of a marble statue, like Michelangelo’s
David
. Pubic hair was left off statues because it wasn’t sexy.
I put his slender penis in my mouth. Still flaccid, it fit nicely in my mouth. I didn’t enjoy giving Neal head. I had to fake everything with him.
This Adonis I sucked with pleasure. He was starting to grow in my mouth and I sucked his brains out. He whimpered like a puppy. Before the night was over, I had come three times and he had come twice.
I lay in bed and watched him dress. “That was the best sex I’ve ever had.” I smiled at him.
“Good. Then it was worth five hundred.”
“What?”
“Five hundred. That’s what I get for doing older women.”
I gaped at him. “You motherfucker.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Sisterfucker?”
Chapter 10
The following morning an interview was scheduled for me to talk about the Semiramis on a popular morning TV talky-news show:
Mornin’ with Cassie and Dane
had a gossipy, latest-Hollywood-celebrity-sex-triangle format. The fact that Hiram was on the board of directors of the network made it a shoo-in for our publicity people to arrange my appearance.
Cassie Martin was a talking head, a “news” person with collagen lips so puffed a wit had dubbed her the Goodyear Blimp Girl. A natural blonde, she was vulnerable to being the subject of blonde jokes. When I saw her, I started to hum in my mind the country western song sung by Toby Keith where he asks, “Do blondes really have more fun or are they easier to spot in the dark?”
In a strange way, I realized that Cassie got her job for reasons other than being a pretty face. The world was full of pretty faces, but Cassie had charisma, at least for people who thrive on celebrity gossip. However, Cassie pushed the envelope when she ventured into news commentary about world events. I felt much more confidence about news of the world listening to Paula Zahn and Katie Couric. Frankly, Cassie reminded me of a life-size blow-up doll, a sex object lonely men take to bed for unconditional love.
Her morning news-talk partner, Dane Evers, was also for display purposes only. His role was to purse his lips and appear grave and concerned when Cassie revealed the intimate details of celebrities. He was also blond but definitely the bottle variety.
Buff, with skintight short-sleeve shirts exposing thousands of dollars’ worth of personal trainer—created physique, he wore horned-rim glasses to look intelligent and frequently commented on the T & A of women in order to appear masculine and cool. But underneath the thin veneer of macho man was a sensitive countenance and soulful eyes that no heterosexual male since Adam has possessed. The only way I could imagine being in bed with Dane Evers was if I were breast-feeding him.
As soon as I sat down in front of the cameras, Cassie asked, “So tell us, Madison, about the fascinating history of murder and madness surrounding the museum piece you just bought for fifty-five million dollars.”
She gave me a toothy smile of perfect caps, bright enough to give me a sunburn.
It didn’t surprise me that the main interest would be in a tabloid element. I had a problem with history of murder and madness because I wasn’t sure how much it was a product of the imagination of Sir Henri Lipton, the London art dealer who had arranged the auction of the piece. But I returned her smile—much less dazzling—and gave it my best.
“Well, the mask has been possessed by some famous people in history, all of whom it seemed to bring bad luck to. Semiramis was a Babylonian queen who became a heroine of legendary proportions—”
“She wasn’t real?”
That from the show intellectual, Dane. But actually, it was a good question.
“As you know, some legends are about real people and some fall more under myth. Semiramis was a real person, but like many historical greats, stories came down over the millenniums that may be exaggerated or even invented. Semiramis was a Babylonian queen, believed to be the mother of Nebuchadnezzar who built the Hanging Gardens of Babylon. She murdered her own husband, and arranged for the murder of a stepson who had a better claim to the throne than her own son.”
The smile on Cassie’s face was slowly turning into a frown.
I went on. “Her death mask was given to her son, who subsequently went mad. It’s said that he ran through the Hanging Gardens, screaming that the ghost of his mother was chasing him.”
“My God! What a horrible thing!” Cassie said, scrunching her face and shoulders in horror.
Actually, I wondered about the story. It was awfully similar to King Herod being chased around the palace by the ghost of his wife Mariamne after he put her to death.
“After Alexander the Great conquered his way to the Himalayas, he turned around and came back to Babylon, the most magnificent city in the world. He moved into Nebuchadnezzar’s palace and was given the Mask of Semiramis. He died shortly thereafter, quickly and mysteriously, at the age of thirty-three.
“Afterward, of course, the mask eventually passed down to Hārūn al-Rashīd, the Caliph of Baghdad whose royal court was the basis for the story
of Arabian Nights
,
the Thousand and One Nights
.”
Cassie clapped her hands. “Aladdin! I loved the movie.” The brilliant smile glowed.
“Yes, well, as you know, it’s the story of the caliph discovering that his wife has been sleeping with harem guards. He has her head chopped off and thereafter marries a different young woman every night. In the morning, the new bride has her head chopped off.”
Cassie had a ghastly look on her face.
“What a waste of beauty,” Dane, the intellectual, said.
I forced a smile.
What a waste of a brain!
“Anyway, even the most recent owner, a man in Beirut, was murdered.”
“Now, Madison, isn’t there a controversy about how museums and rich people are grabbing up the national heritage of poorer countries?”
I was impressed. Dane’s question was actually newsworthy.
“We think of it as preserving endangered antiquities so they can be enjoyed by the entire world. I’m sure you know that in many third-world countries antiquities are—”
Cassie clapped her hands again. “Sinbad!” she blurted out.