Duel of Assassins (27 page)

She hesitated, but only a moment. “We’re neighbors. I’m just
below you. L’Auberge de la Calanque.”

“Sounds so sexy, the way you say it.”

Yes, she’d meant it to. She wondered at herself, at the
no-brakes speed with which she was allowing this to proceed. Did her boldness
have something to do with Taras’ not calling her? Or with the fact that this
sleek, plausible fellow across the little table posed no emotional risk, and
most definitely didn’t fall into the category of potential mate? Whatever did
or didn’t happen between them, Charlotte knew, Jack Sanderson was a man who, in
her old collegiate lingo, liked his space and would be moving on. But here and
now he was looking awfully like dessert.

He reached over to shoo a noisy bottle fly, exposing a
puckered ridge of scar across his right biceps.

“What’s that?” She pointed. “Have you been knife-fighting in
your spare time?”

“Nothing romantic. A .22 long rifle bullet did it. Fired by
my cousin Donny when I was ten. He was demonstrating proper firearm safety
features. Sorry to disappoint you. You thought maybe I was a hired assassin?”

“A girl keeps hoping.” She laughed, and thought,
Mister,
you don’t know how glad I am you’re not an assassin. I’ve already had one.

It was extraordinary that it had been Charlotte Walsh’s
column on Potsdam, which Marcus had read in Lugano back in April, that had
first alerted him to the possibility of his current assignment. For Marcus had
been aware for some time, from GRU contacts in America, that Ms. Walsh and
Taras Arensky were “great and good friends.” Marcus had, therefore, made a
point of checking out the newswoman on several occasions when she had appeared
on CNN’s European feed.

His assessment of her had been favorable. Though by no means
a classic beauty, she was definitely striking—dark-haired and stylish, with
good cheekbones and brown eyes that flashed with intelligence and humor—and
hinted strongly at sensuality. In fact, Marcus had been amused to see how
closely she approximated one of his favorite types. Amused, because it seemed
that again, as in the case of Eva Sorokina, he and Taras seemed to share a
taste in females—an older woman this time, but equally appetizing.

And Charlotte Walsh was destined to play an even more
crucial role in their lives than had poor Eva—if all went according to Marcus’
plan.

After ascertaining Charlotte’s whereabouts from her foreign
editor, Marcus had cleaned out one of his safety accounts and assumed his final
documented identity, an American mail-order sales representative, Jack
Sanderson. He had flown to Marseille, rented a car, driven to Le Lavandou,
verified again that she was still in residence at the three-star l’Auberge de
la Calanque,   then checked into the more modest hotel immediately above. In
fact, his window overlooked the Auberge’s brick-arched Moorish entranceway.

Still, he’d nearly missed her the following morning. She
must have exited on the opposite side, through a private garden of cypresses
and pollarded plane trees. He’d been damn lucky to catch a glimpse of her on
the pathway below, just as she turned onto a private staircase leading down to
the marina and the beach.

He’d followed quickly, but loitered discreetly behind,
frankly enjoying the rear view as she strode along, her bell of dark hair
swinging metronomically. She was all in white—oversize T-shirt, jogging shorts
and shoes. But the shorts were snug with side slits, showcasing long, shapely
legs. Presently she ducked into a boulangerie, came out dispatching a croissant
and licking her fingers. She was considerably taller than he’d imagined,
perhaps only an inch or so shorter than he. Marcus found that provocative.

As she emerged onto the bright blue bayfront, she harnessed
into her little totebag like a backpack and set off on a beachside jog. Marcus
admired her retreating figure a moment, then sat down on the low cement wall
dividing the sidewalk from the sand, unfolding the newspaper he’d gotten at his
hotel, a
Var Matin
.

Fifteen minutes later he picked up the peripheral swing of
her hair, turned to watch her coming back to him, slowing to a walk, hands on
hips, her chest rising and falling under the sweat-soaked T-shirt. Fifty meters
away she veered off to stake her spot on the rapidly filling beach. Once
settled, she stripped down to a black bikini—an extremely daring one, Marcus
thought, for a woman nearly out of her thirties, as he assumed Charlotte to be.
Would she eventually drop her top as well? He thought not, but was happily
prepared to be proven wrong.

As she made her way down to the glassy bay, he further
amused himself by wondering if she was going for a quick dip or a real swim.
Marcus chose the latter and won his bet. She went breaststroking straight out
until she had to pull up to avoid a little sloop exiting the marina on a port
tack. She floated out there beside the breakwater several minutes before
heading back. As she came dripping out of the sea with coltish strides, her
dark wet hair sleeked back, Marcus felt the double barbs of desire and
jealousy. He wanted this woman, wanted her to give herself to him exactly as
she had to his rival.

But he decided against making any moves while she was on the
beach. That would be too obvious. So he’d stayed put, stalking at a distance,
though ready to intervene quickly if any local stud should plant himself beside
her towel or exchange more than a
bonjour
. Marcus was prepared for a
long vigil when, an hour later, Charlotte had packed up her things, covered up
and headed across the boulevard to the little book-and-card shop—an ideal
location for them to meet, as things had turned out.

All along Marcus had felt reasonably confident of his
chances with the attractive woman journalist. But he hadn’t been prepared for
the directness of her response. It was there in her eyes, her voice and body
language. Suddenly it was as if his quarry were stalking him. And when, after
only the briefest of exchanges, Charlotte had offered to escort him to another
bookstore, he had the distinct feeling he had just been picked up.

Inwardly it had given him a chuckle. It wasn’t, after all,
an inopportune turn of events. In fact, his plan would work even better this
way. Let the elegant lady reel him in at her own pace. All Marcus had to do was
wait for his cues and brush up his rusty American accent. Certainly, after the
first ten or fifteen minutes, he had little doubt that they were going to wind
up in bed.

It turned out to be hers.

*

Charlie lay back against her headboard, sipping champagne.
The door and curtains to the terrace were open, letting in an evening breeze
and framing the solitary jewel of Venus suspended in a blue-velvet rectangle.
But if she stretched her neck just a little, she could see the string-of-pearl
lights of Port de Bormes-les Mimosas across the dark bay. But in order to see
the tricolor dazzle of the Lavandou marina directly below her terrace, she
would have to stir herself from her bed, and she was far too contented to do
that.

Besides, she’d also have to shift the muscularly defined
right arm that was draped across her left thigh, and she liked it just where it
was, thank you. She didn’t want to waken Jack from deep sleep—that blissful
state from which she herself had only just emerged, and to which she intended
very shortly to return. But for now she was enjoying surveying his subdued
nakedness—this exciting beast she had lured back to her pastel cave—and
listening to his slow, sibillant breathing, like a faint echo of the whispering
Mediterranean beyond the terrace.

Their mating dance had proceeded with a languorous
inevitability. After the wine, they’d spent another hour or so on the beach,
reading and chatting. Then they’d browsed their way back to the same
brasserie
,
where they’d had an early and light supper of
salade niçoise
, pâté and
cheese, watching through the shadowed palms as the beach thinned out and the
afternoon tour boats returned from the Iles d’Hyères.

Afterward, since their hotels lay in the same easterly
direction, they were able to prolong the delicious charade, setting out
together, still not touching, yet both knowing their destination was shared.
They’d stopped twice along the way, once to watch some teenagers playing
boule
under the plane trees across from the main beach, and again for Charlotte to
buy a cold magnum of Veuve Cliquot, without so much as a word as to its
purpose.

The first tactile intimacy had come at the foot of the
escalier
privé
to the Auberge. Charlotte, a step ahead, had paused. Obviously this
was not the way to the Hotel California; the sign said in simple French “for
the usage of the Calanque” guests only. She’d half-turned, offering Jack her
hand. As he’d taken it, their eyes had raked briefly, with unmistakable import.
She’d squeezed his hand a moment, then let it go, preceding him up the first
few steps, the champagne bottle dangling from her other hand, her clenching and
unclenching hips ascending at the level of his gaze.

He followed her on through the graveled garden of the
Auberge, then up a curving wrought-iron staircase past hanging bougainvillaea,
into the cool lobby where she gathered her key, down a softly illumined
corridor and finally into her room.

They’d popped the cork and toasted wordlessly on the
terrace, sipping, watching the lights come on all over the waterfront, hearing
a drunken argument down in the marina, the isolated spiel of a dockside
carnival barker, intermittent motorized flatulence from the street below.

Until the tension became unbearable.

Still he had sat there, as his rugged silhouette darkened
and grew more defined against the sunset. Could this devastating guy, Charlotte
wondered, be timid, pathologically shy? She resolved to make the first move.

Her voice carried a soft urgency in the evening air. “I’m
going to take a shower, Jack. Wash all the sand off.” Pause. “You’re welcome to
join me.”

He’d turned his champagne flute, nodded slowly. “I’ll be
there. Go ahead.”

She’d gone, peeling off her sticky things, turning the
needling spray as hot as she could bear, luxuriating in the steamy barrage, all
the while aware of her heart pounding. Several times she turned to peer through
the steam and the curtain’s translucence for a dark man-shape by the open
bathroom door.
Get in here, you bastard
, she thought.
And right now!

Suddenly the curtain was yanked aside and he was beside her,
growing quickly and delightfully hard against her. She shuddered as she felt
his lips nuzzling the back of her neck, his tongue lapping droplets of water.
Then he turned her gently around, his eyes taking her in, his palms cradling
her breasts as they finally pressed full-length together and kissed deeply.
After so much anticipation, Charlie nearly passed out. And then she did slip,
her foot skidding on the porcelain so that he had to catch her, then steady
them both. They found themselves suddenly eyeball to eyeball and nose to nose,
both giggling as water streamed between.

“What a way to die!” he said.

“I promise to do better next time. Kiss me, Jack, and I’ll
show you.”

He leaned in, then broke out laughing.

“What’s so damn funny?”

“I was just thinking this beats the hell out of reading

Harold Robbins.”

*

Now sipping her champagne, Charlotte recollected the
implosive coupling that had followed that first kiss. They had climaxed
together under the roaring shower, and again she had nearly lost her balance.
Thinking about it now dizzied her with desire. Well, why not? That’s what he
was here for, wasn’t it? She reached under his prone form, found and fondled
his limpness until it responded of its own accord, even before his breathing
quickened and his blue eyes opened with sly comprehension.

“Shh,” she said, “you just keep sleeping. Don’t mind me. I
just wanted something to hold on to.”

But he had rolled over, availing himself totally. So she
slid deftly over and onto him, kneeling astride with a certain air of
ownership. She began slowly, posting atop the saddle of his hips like the blue
ribbon equestrienne she had been in her youth. But gradually she increased the
gait, putting them both through their paces till they had reached a full
hell-for-leather gallop.

*

The first time with Charlotte, Marcus had felt little beyond
vast glandular relief. But the second time he’d been flooded with contrary
emotions, both sweet vengeance and bitter betrayal. Taras, of course, was the
object of both of these.

 Odd, that this second coupling with his friend’s sweetheart
should somehow signify the breaking of the final bond of friendship.

Odd, considering he’d raped and strangled Taras’ first fiancée.
Of course that had been in another country, many years ago. And—ultimate
irony—it had been the making, not the unmaking, of their friendship.

But only moments before—as Marcus had stared up at Charlotte
hovering astride him, sheened in perspiration, eyes shut in communion with
private lusts, launching herself again and again in pelvic shifts too wrenching
for him actually to enjoy—he’d had an icy vision of that distant night with
Eva.

How she had writhed beneath him like a terrified rabbit, as
though she could shed her skin or flee her own pinioned body. But he was far
too powerful. Marcus had seen that awful reali-zation filled her gray eyes. It
was almost the same moment he had realized that he had unleashed something
within himself that he could no longer stop. It wasn’t just the White Dynamite,
though certainly he was drunk out of his mind. But there was another, stronger
intoxication—a sense of sudden bestial power over this helpless she-creature,
and the need to give that dominance primal expression.

Bringing his right knee up to pin her left arm, he had freed
his hand to clamp her mouth and stifle her screams. Surely then Eva had
glimpsed her fate, that he dare not let her live? She would have denounced him,
he’d have been arrested, probably to spend years in a Russian prison. But
Marcus had never killed a girl. Could he do it? He let his mind flood with a
violent, seductive vision. He saw their eyes locking in the final, obscene
intimacy of victim and predator, as both his hands crushed her tender neck.

Alas, the reality of her dying had been something less than
the vision. To stop her screaming, he had already been forced to crush her
windpipe. The horror in her eyes was already fading as he released his grip to
tear at her sweater, frantic to have her naked and to penetrate her before she
escaped him. Finally, frustrated by her layered clothing, he reached under her
dress, yanked and ripped her underpants down. Then, in his panic, he had
ejaculated almost at once.

Eva chose that moment to come back for a fleeting instant,
as he was still in his final spasms. Her gray eyes, now horribly bloodshot,
focused on him in puzzled anguish.
You’ve killed me,
her eyes seemed to
say.
But why?