Morgan stood and placed a hand on Catherine’s shoulder, “I’ll be right back, Catherine. Someone is asking for me at the entrance. I’m sorry.”
“Do you want me to go with you?”
“No. No. I’ll just be a minute.
“I’m ready for a decaf, but I’ll wait for you to return. Hurry back, handsome,” she cooed, with a flirtatious wickedness.
Morgan smiled at her beautiful face and patted her shoulder, “Be right back.”
Morgan saw Eunice standing at the flowing fountain as he neared the entrance. His hired bodyguard addressed him as he entered the foyer and interrupted his redirected walk toward her.
“Mister Morgan?” Oscar put his hand out for a shake of introduction, “I’m your private eye, Oscar Bradley.”
Morgan shook his hand and then looked at Eunice, “Does this have to do with the lady over there?”
“Yes, I’m afraid it does. She was...observing you at a distance, for quite an extended time. I challenged her actions and she says she knows you. Her name is Eunice North and she checks out.”
Yes, she is Eunice North. I’m very surprised to see her here. Did she say what she was doing?”
“She said she was waiting for an opportune moment to step in and say hello.”
“She’s a former employer of mine. I’d better go talk with her. Good work Oscar. Thanks.”
“Eunice. How nice to see you.” Morgan gave her a platonic hug and felt her stiffen in his embrace.
“Yes, nice to have been arrested by your bodyguard.”
Morgan looked back to where he left Oscar, but he had vanished, somewhere... “Sorry Eunice, a lot of strange things have been going on around me lately.”
“Oh, has the blonde’s husband been following you? Or is it her father? Is she old enough to be drinking?”
“Very funny, Eun. What brings you to Chicago?”
“Business, I came here to see you. I was just at your parent’s. Your mother said you were dining here...with a friend.”
“Yes. That’s true. Ah...” Morgan’s mind ran a quarter mile in 10.5 seconds, which is really fast at a drag strip, but awkward when one has a beautiful woman out for a candle lit dinner and his recent old lover shows up.
“Would you like to join us, Eunice? I’m sure Catherine won’t mind. She’s very outgoing.”
“I’m sure she is,” was the frustrated answer to that one.
“Yes, Jim, I would like to join you. I’m starving, and I do need to talk with you.”
“Okay Eun, let’s go. And do me a favor please...be nice to Catherine. I’ve just met her.”
“Oh, it’s Catherine is it? What a pleasant name, Jimbo,” with a heavy emphasis placed on the Jimbo, “I still have a lot of feelings for you, Jim. This may be awkward.”
Morgan breathed in her scent as he followed her toward his table. She smelled like a heated vat of melted vanilla beans being stirred with jasmine flower stems and he knew that it was one of her femme fatal props, one that he was sure she had paid mega-bucks for.
Her work suit announced, expensive, and he couldn’t help but admire the slim lines of her body as her model figure enhanced and ingratiated every seam. Eunice is one of those few women in the world that are way beyond high maintenance, she is snap-her-fingers -- and the world conforms to her presence.
Eunice took control and walked straight up to Catherine’s chair, “Hello Cathy,” she sugarcoated out, “I’m Eunice North, Jim’s former employer. I’m so glad he asked me to meet you.” And the two women shook each other’s hand with feminine warmth and an unfolding knowledge that business was at hand.
Morgan interjected, “Catherine’s a writer. She writes Romance.”
“Oh. How darling. I hope you’re making more money with it than Mister Morgan is?” And she laughed, in an inappropriate loudness, “I’ve published a few books myself, eleven altogether. Who’s your publisher, dear?”
Eunice was in rare form, looking at Morgan she added, “I hope you haven’t sent her to your publisher, James?” Without waiting for anyone to respond, “I must sit down, I’m simply famished, Jim,” and she moved to the chair across from Catherine and next to Morgan where she plopped herself down, very un-Eunice like.
Without Morgan yet settled into his chair, Eunice made a bold summons to a passing waiter.
Catherine looked at Jim and smiled while Eunice ordered a fruit salad and a black coffee. Her look said, “Hey, it’s okay. I’m having fun,” and she was.
Eunice told the waiter, loud enough for the lobby staff to hear, to bring her the check for the whole party. He assured her that it would be taken care of, as she wished, and then left to place her salad order with the salad chef. “I’ll at least treat. I can write it off as a business expense.” She then addressed Catherine, “Do you mind if we talk business a few minutes, Cathy?”
“No, not at all... Oh, did you want me to leave?”
“Oh no. No. It won’t take long, Cathy. I have a job offer for Mister Morgan, but he doesn’t like working,” and she looked at Jim and qualified her statement, “Right Jimbo?”
Morgan summoned the waiter, “I’d like to see the wine list again.” The servant nodded to the wine taster and a leather bound list of the world’s finest wines was in Morgan’s hands within seconds. Without opening the cover, he requested, “I’d like a bottle of Mouton Rothschild, 1957.”
The server blushed, “I believe we have that year, sir. However, I will not be able to assist you – I have not tasted the Rothschild to attest on its conformity.”
Morgan nodded and the connoisseur exited stage left. The table was instantly refreshed and the old wine bucket removed. Four penguins made themselves highly visible. The cost of dinner with a 20 percent gratuity had escalated beyond simple belief.
Catherine noticed the atmospheric change in their surroundings. Morgan winked at her as she had picked up on his exuberant wine order. Eunice was blabbering on about ESP books and never caught a clue. A bottle of Mouton Rothschild 1957 upped their evening’s bill by a sassy 1,500.00 American.
The wine was poured and Eunice pushed away her half-eaten plate of exotic fruits. Her black coffee was refilled, as she had openly declined her try at the Historic vine. Jim and Catherine clinked glasses and sipped the golden gift -- of Bacchus himself. It was a rare pleasure, in so many more ways than one.
Eunice smiled at Morgan and began, with a calm seriousness, “I’d like you to come back and work for the Institute, Jim.”
“No, Eunice. I’m setting up a consulting company here. I’m happy ... And I don’t have Russian spies trying to shoot me.”
Catherine’s eyes became a lot wider and she began listening with a whole new vigor, Russian spies? ...Shooting?
“Oh Jim, that was a million to one freak occurrence,” she lied, “I have a fun project that you’ll really enjoy.”
“Yeah, probably to the south pole looking for invisible daisies?”
Catherine coughed away an open laugh and composed herself with a deep sip of her Rothschild after hearing Morgan’s reply, “Excuse me,” she offered, “I had a tickle in my throat.”
Eunice sipped her coffee, then pleaded, “Come on Jim, if I know you, you have every bookie in Chicago looking for you for back payments.”
“I’ve quit gambling,” and he poured himself a fresh glass of wine.
Catherine wanted to pull out her pen and tablet and take notes. But she resisted the overwhelming temptation, and then -- feeling a little giddy, jumped into the conversation, “You aren’t a gambler are you, James?” Her dimples came out, as she looked Morgan square in the eyes with a knowing smile.
Morgan looked back at Eunice, “What’s your big project this time, Eunice?”
“Escort three of my people down to Brazil and bring me back a few rare orchids. Two weeks – tops. All expenses paid, first class. Your old salary...plus ten percent.” Eunice called the waiter.
“More coffee please, regular, and get them another bottle of th
at wine, too.”
Eunice smiled at Catherine, then asked, “You wouldn’t miss him for two weeks, would you?”
Catherine looked at Morgan while saying, “Oh, I’m not so sure about that one, Eunice,” and gave him a sultry grin that was somewhat backed by her second glass of the Rothschild.
Eunice saw this as an explicit show of wantonness, and although she didn’t like what she was seeing, she decided to use it as a lever – a lever to seduce Morgan down to Brazil, “I’ll tell you what, Jim. Take Catherine here with you. All expenses paid. My treat,” and the second bottle of Mouton Rothschild 1957 arrived, breathing hearty at Morgan’s side.
Morgan refilled Catherine’s lead crystal goblet. As he was doing so, their eyes met for an ever so brief instant and as they did, a magical spark of sexual lust enveloped them both in a psychological collision with the whole expanding universe. And they knew... They both knew that this night was not going to end young.
Chapter Nine
Morgan reached for a Camel and before he could place it between his lips a waiter was there extending his chrome lighter with a half-inch exposed flame, offered subserviently, at the ready to fire up his personal – idiocy.
Eunice frowned, “When are you going to give up those stinky things, Jimbo?”
“Oh, maybe on my way down to Brazil. That is, if Catherine agrees to take you up on your offer.”
Jim and Eunice both looked at Catherine for an answer.
Catherine had her wine glass up to her lips when they focused in on her. She was buzzed, as was Morgan, and she wasn’t quite ready to fly off below the equator with this, suave Adonis, without getting to know him a whole hell of a lot better. She set her glass down and reached Morgan’s arm, and with an on-the-tipsy-side laugh, told Morgan, “Well Jim, I’ll just have to sleep with you on that one...I mean – sleep on that one with you. Ah, I mean – think this over while sleeping.”
And then she looked over at Eunice and saw an angry maternal figure with a set of demonstrative eyes glaring in on her, and she asked, “Can I bring my Teddy Bear?” And she giggled with a, I’ve had a little too much wine tonight giggle, and added, “Oh Boy!” While showing a beautiful, just being me, smile.
Eunice looked back at Morgan; “So James, shall I put you back on my payroll?”
Morgan, having had a glass or two more of the Rothschild than Catherine, was enjoying the way the room was pleasantly spinning and for a minute he felt the sensation that he was afloat on his father’s sailboat. And he recalled an old sailing cliché, about one being three sheets to the wind while drinking massive quantities of rum. The old adages made him smile with a broad grin as he answered pompously to his former lover, “My love, I will go to Brazil with Catherine sleeping with me on it.”
Catherine laughed. Morgan joined her laughter. They reached out and touched each other’s arm. And they were close to being considered as – making a scene.
Eunice stood, perplexed, and asked for the check. She had never seen Jim Morgan get so drunk so quickly as he obviously was. She looked at the bill and signed it off to her room without questioning the horrendous amount it had cost her for a fruit salad and a couple cups of black coffee.
Shaking her head with a show of dismay, she promised, “I’ll talk with you in the morning, Jimbo.” Then, looking at the plastered Catherine, she forced herself to say, “It was a pleasure, Catherine. I hope we meet again, soon.”
Catherine, literally dizzy, tried to be dignified, “And that goes for me, too,” and she looked to Morgan, and said, “I like your friend.” And her upper body wavered as she added, “Let’s go to that beach and go swimming naked.” And then she swung her head around toward Eunice. But, Eunice had already left. She turned back to Morgan and with an inebriated, dead serious look, asked, “Where did she go?”
* * *
She, Eunice, went to her room and threw off her seven hundred dollar business outfit. The nightgown Mureatha packed for her was a black lace piece from Victoria Secret’s fun collection. She turned off the lights and went to the window facing out on the city. Naked, not bothering with the skimpy sleepwear, she drew the curtains, climbed in the bed, reached the phone, and called Senator Alberquist.
“Hello John. I’ve talked to Morgan. He’s being a total ass. He has himself a little blonde alcoholic friend that could keep him off the orchid hunt. I‘ve invited her to go along as his guest.”
“What do we know about her, Eunice?”
“She’s a writer, dresses okay... Exhumes sex, and I’ve pegged her as a party alcoholic, her name is Catherine Harris.”
The Senator was forming a mental picture from Eunice’s rundown on Catherine. The image forming in his head was a haunting face, his own daughter Sophie; “I’ll see what I can get on her for you, Eunice.”
“By the way, John. Morgan stiffed me for a forty-two hundred dollar dinner. Can you pick that up for me?”
The Senator was smiling openly, “What in the hell were they dining on, the Texas Longhorn’s mascot?”
“No. The bimbo did have lobster. But Jimbo pulled a fast one on me when I said I’d treat and ordered a Rothschild.”
The honorable laugh was as hearty and sincere as any Senator could muster, “Oh Eunice, send me a bill for it, but please head it as an alcoholism research study. I might be asked to account for that steep of a dinner expense.”
“Thanks John.” Eunice pulled a pillow between her legs, and opened up with her personal feelings to her Senatorial mentor, “I thought I’d bring Morgan back into my personal life, John. I really loved the big galoot. Too bad I’m not a petite blonde with big boobs. Oh well...”
John was sympathetic with Eunice’s candid confidence; “You’ve known him for a long time, haven’t you?”
“Yes. Going on six years now. He changed dramatically since he returned from Russia...since Madagascar.”
The Senator recalled the last time he had talked to his daughter Sophie, “I’m in love, dad. But the guy’s in love with his boss.” And the Senator knew she had been talking about Jim Morgan.
“There are a lot of nice young Lawyers around here, Eunice. I’d be more than happy to introduce you to them.”
“Ah... Morgan just has a way... Oh well, John. I’ll let you get some sleep. I should be back in Washington tomorrow.” And she hung up the receiver. She fluffed up the pillow under her head and gave the one between her thighs a physically pleasant squeeze. She fell asleep with a tear running down her cheek.
The Senator finished his milk and set the glass on its familiar coaster. His last waking thoughts were of his daughter and that, as she called him, rascal Morgan. He made a mental note to get the low-down on Catherine Harris, and then he fell into a deep, soothing sleep.
* * *
Morgan called the limo driver to pick them up, “How close can you get us to the beach?” He had asked, with a rare slur engulfing his words. He then ordered coffee to their table, and a picnic basket, to go, with virgin Bloody Marys instead of a customary wine.
It was midnight when the stretch’s door opened onto a private sandy beach in the North Chicago upper class suburbs. The moon was still full and their driver produced a small blanket from what seemed to be, mid air. Leaving their shoes in the car they walked to within ten feet of the fresh Lake Michigan water and spread out the bright orange coverlet.
Roger the driver carried down their basket and announced, “Wake me when you’re ready to roll,” and disappeared back into the limo.
Catherine went to the water and waded in, ankle deep, “Jesus Murphy, it’s freezing.”
“About sixty-two degrees, give or take five degrees,” he said, as he took her by the hand and they strolled in the moonlit surf. Morgan had rolled up his pant legs but they were still getting wet, as was the hem of Catherine’s burgundy dress.
“I want to thank you for being so gracious during our interruption by Eunice.”
“Oh, it was fun.” Then Catherine’s voice went up a few octaves, “Is she
serious about this Brazil thing?”
“Oh yeah. She meant it. No doubt about it.”
“I’ve never been to Brazil. I almost screamed out a yes, I’d go. But I’ve only met you yesterday,” and she looked at him in the moonlight and she saw his face and she wanted to see more of him and wondered what it would be like to wake up next to him and make him open up those sensuous blue eyes and have him smile on her, and take her in his arms and feel his passions enwrap her...
“I really had a lot to drink this evening, Jim. I’m basically a tea and coffee connoisseur. I want to apologize...”
Morgan took her full in his arms and kissed her gentle on her lips and – she responded so naturally that she knew it was meant to be and a shiver ran down through her body and it had nothing to do with Lake Michigan’s chilly water.
Morgan sensed the mutual response to his impassioned kiss and he let his hand embrace the small of her back, exposed by the cut of her designer dress. And the feel of her flesh and the soft drum of her heart beat moved him to slide his other hand down the silky fabric covering her taught belly and made a determined pass down and across her pelvic mound, and she, in mid-kiss, hummed out an encouraging, “Hmmm.”
She slipped her hand under his shirt and roamed his developing six-pack and... He, and she, lost their offshore balance and, holding one onto the other, they splashed, unceremoniously, into the two-foot depth of the nippy shore waters.
The sobering experience sent them on a run to their blanket with goose flesh enveloping them both and this time, it had nothing to do, at all, with romance. As they cuddled they explored each other with a warming playfulness and teasing touches to wet clothes and, underlying taboos.
Catherine ran her fingers down the outside of his arm stopping at his wrist and felt his watch. She was enjoying herself so tremendously that she had lost track of her sense of time. She sat bolt upright, pulling Morgan’s wrist and Rolex right up to her eyes and surveyed the dial in the moonlight. “Oh my God, it’s three in the morning.” She looked around at the beach setting, the moon, and the handsome man lying next to her, then -- with an obvious sense of pleasure for the here and now, said, “It looks like I may miss a lecture, or two, come morning.”
Orchids to Die For (Jim Morgan Adventure Series) Page 5
