Morgan opened the picnic basket and handed her a non-alcoholic Bloody Mary. Then handed her a crisp celery stick, “Here. Use this to stir up the Tabasco sauce.”
“What else is in there?” She pondered aloud. “This tomato juice is great. Any crackers? Cheese?”
Morgan fished around inside the gourmet basket and did find a brick of cheddar and a host of butterfly shaped, rye saltines. The night was engrossing; every star twinkled down on them as the moon had moved deftly westward beyond the steel and concrete fortresses comprising the Chicago skyline. Eastward, a pale whiteness glowed ever so soft where the sun would all too soon rise and enlighten the souls of these two sand based picnickers.
“I’ll bet the Four Seasons could dry and clean your dress by morning,” suggested a caring Morgan. “I have a suite there for the night,” and he elaborated, “I stay there occasionally.”
Catherine stood, “Well, Jesus Murphy, Jim. The clock is tickin’,” she openly and warmly suggested, “I do need to get out of these wet things, let’s go.” And a childish race to the limo ensued... With basket and blanket in tow.
Morgan way over tipped their driver and the wet guests made their way into the Four Seasons lobby. Another large tip at the check-in counter gave them dripping rights up to his suite, on the 31st floor. Their clothes would be picked up within the hour and would be returned before an eight a.m. breakfast delivery.
Morgan took her hand in his on the express ride up, “A warm shower sounds really nice, to me. How about you, Catherine?”
“Yes. It does. -- Me first, okay?” And she glanced up at a smiling Jim Morgan with a lot more than simple romantic notions racing hectic throughout her writer’s mind.
Morgan’s mind was active; too, it was filled with all kinds of lusty anticipations. And a black thought ran through his own mental gauntlet of ethical stop signs. Was this too fast? Were his intentions noble? He felt a reciprocal need pulsating hot in the petite hand he held. And, was she still high on the wines of caustic inebriation?
“It’s ladies first in my book, Catherine,” and then he added, “Make sure you call out when you want your back washed,” and Jim’s face reddened noticeably in the dim elevator light.
Catherine’s blush followed naturally as their eyes locked and the moment of truth rushed closer into her passionate thoughts and carnal desires. She had never had a man wash her back and the concept of that act loomed sensuously across her inner-vision thrilling her romantic senses to a level near orgasm and she became aware of her own earthly need to commingle with this beautiful man that was bending down to place his sumptuous lips against her own. She closed her eyes and parted her lips for him to taste her very soul and, in mid passionate embrace, the elevator slowed and made its 31st floor stop.
Together, they entered the shower of Eden without inhibitions and any second-guessing of their premeditated intentions and were lost immediately into their innate wants, desires, and carnal need of each other. Their supple bodies, one soft and curvaceous, and one muscular and toned to an Athenian sculpture fit for a showing on Mt. Olympus.
An eye pleasure was gifted to them both, she taken aback with his masculine perfection and he with her tanned flesh proportionately displayed against the marbled walls of the hotel’s plush finery. The warm water cascaded down their embracing flesh and she felt him grow erect against her firm, silk-skinned thigh.
Morgan softly grasped her petite ass and, fondling her with gentleness, pulled her up firm against his stiffened penis. Their mouths locked and their teasing tongues encircled and played an erotic game of enticing one another to the point of experimental daring and that spoke of anything-goes and a no-holds-barred relationship that would be entrenched evermore into their mental scripts of uninhibited lovemaking.
Catherine stroked his penis, she squeezed down ever so soft and pleasurably on his full erection, and she wanted him in her and she felt her own pelvis throb with anticipation. Yet, she wanted to be taken comfortably in his bed and not within the confines of a wet slate shower and she mused, “Take me to bed Jim Morgan, make mad passionate love to me.”
They dried with tender towel dabs and moved furtively onto the white linen sheets of the hotel’s king-sized bed. And there, they frolicked naked, touching, kissing flesh, and they tasted of every erotic taboo. Then... With filtered starlight as their only illumination, Jim Morgan entered her, ever so pleasurably, into the depths of Catherine Harris’ sumptuous body and they both satisfied a mutual need to share, and love...
Catherine took his steadfast entry with an awe of unabashed excitement. An excitement that sent her senses shooting off like a winged angel in flight across the Milky Way out and up into heaven itself. And she arched her hips up to meet his gentle strokes to insure that he penetrated into the depths of her very being.
He, sensitive to her small stature pumped with a delicate ease, ones that simulated teasing strokes until he felt her upward surges engulf his entire penis right up to the rim of his groin and he pushed down firm into her with an ecstasy screaming out wildly that orgasm was already near from his stroking so ambitiously into her love moistened, reflex-demanding labia that were now uncontrollably throbbing about his full diameter and the entire length of his well lubricated penis. And when he began to withdraw for a follow-up push, her entire sexual being screamed out with a muscle contraction that cuckolded them both – right up to almost orgasm. And as their bodies tightened euphoric, their souls danced a mellow tango that dipped with every pump. And on a mystic cue, an uncontrollable spasm directed him in and out by some anatomical mystery reserved for those who are pure of heart and who want and desire to share in the vast knowledge of a sublime and emotional oneness, and to exhibit unrestrained screams of a chemically induced esoteric passion.
Morgan screamed out, primeval in every sense of the word, a maddened shout outward to every hierarchal beauty and, to all carnal Gods, and every poetical Goddess in a prolific, “Jesus! F-u-c-k-i-n-g ...Murphy?”
And Cathy Screamed out – something, too, that was absolute but totally and sorely incoherent. It was surely a profound statement of pure and conclusive pleasure – that could only express the highest of all pleasures, one of love.
And they made love again, and yet once again, before room service waiter delivered them their eight a.m. breakfast…
Chapter Ten
Arnold Ames was amassing massive stacks of paperwork. He liked being in charge. But suddenly he found himself questioning the significance of all the paper-traffic stopping at his desk.
Emily, a pretty office clerk, walked in and dropped a four-inch file on his already cluttered desk, “Here’s the Harris file,” and she turned to leave.
“Wait a minute, Emily. Can you do me a favor, sweetie?”
“You can’t call me sweetie anymore, Arnold. You’re in charge now. What do you need?”
“Sorry, Miss Smith, can you run a copy of this Harris file and pouch it over to Senator Alberquist’s office?”
“No, Mister Ames. I need an authorization slip to copy anything marked top secret. And, you’re not on the list as an authorized signer, sorry.”
Philip Annerson, Ames’ superior, had called off for the remainder of the week. “Taking some comp-time...” He had announced to his boss. With an assurance that, “Ames can handle the Brazil thing.”
Ames picked up the fat Harris file, opened it, and began reading, speed-reading...
Emily returned, “Here’s the FBI report on the Catherine Harris tail.”
Ames opened the FBI file and began reading it.
Emily returned, “Here’s the latest Homeland Security report,” and she plopped down another 4-inch folder, “and this is from communications,” and another fat file slapped down on his desk.
“Thanks, Emily.”
Emily returned, with a hand-truck laden with three over-stuffed boxes, “Here’s all the Brazilian files, Mister Ames.”
“Thank you, Miss Smith.”
Emily paused, and the
n asked, “Hey, are we still on for that ‘Three Doors Down’ concert on Saturday?”
* * *
Eunice dressed and made multiple phone calls, including one unanswered one to Morgan all by 7:30. She needed coffee and decided on a full breakfast in the hotel’s restaurant.
Walking to the elevator she noticed a clear plastic laundry bag with a burgundy dress and a tan sports coat showing through the polyurethane. She went up the door and peeked at the laundry tag, James Morgan RM 3105, and she stood there, frozen in a want of disbelief. She looked up and down the hallway and considered taking their clothes to a trash bin, but then recalled the private detective. The word bastard formed on her lips but she contained herself and walked briskly away, then paused. She had lost her appetite. She thought about knocking on his door. And the thoughts of their engagement night three years earlier came flooding into her head. And this time she did say, out loud, “Bastard!” And then, with a sullen demeanor, returned to her elegant suite as she did have a lot of work to do.
* * *
Joseffie adamantly refused to go to Chicago. His arguments were indeed valid, but it pissed-off Margolova nonetheless. She scowled, “If you’re so worried about being caught, then you shouldn’t kill so many people.”
Joseffie cringed at her brow beating, “You go!” He screamed, “Go, kill them all – see how far you get.”
“I would walk right up to them in broad daylight and slit their throats. The Americans would all run away and hide.”
“Then go do it. Me? They would arrest me and send me to Alcatraz. Is that what you want? To have me get tortured?”
Margolova was steaming. She saw her Lugar sitting on the counter next to the toaster. It was her answer to every conflict she ever had – eliminate the antagonist. She went for the weapon with a blind fury.
Joseffie ran, knocking down a chair and ramming his shoulder so hard into the kitchen doorway that he fell to the floor. With survival instincts rushing right through his soul he kept his forward momentum continuing on all four in a mad scramble for the hallway leading to his room and the retaliatory pistol that he knew was resting on his bed.
Margolova fired off four quick rounds in his vacated direction. The bullets blasted wall tiles and splintered the wooden doorframe where Joseffie made his life saving escape. She moved determinately after him pushing the kitchen table aside like it was made out of balsa wood and charged into the living room where she fired three more rounds down the hallway where Joseffie continued his maddened scoot, like a distempered dog about to be gassed, he sensed his end approaching.
Joseffie reached the bed and his Colt .38 Special while sucking in oxygen from his panic effort. But that was as far as he went. Four more rounds flew across the space between Margo’s Lugar and Joseffie’s back. The first slug entered the nape of his neck killing him where he knelt. The other three slapped into his back with a pip, pip, pip that was never heard because of the echoing blasts from the, now empty, 9mm Lugar.
Abdul came out of his bedroom, “Allah! What happened?”
Margo looked him in the eye, “I want you to fly to America, to Chicago. Can you do this?”
Abdul looked at Joseffie and then back at his mentor, “Yes, I’d do anything for you. When should I go?”
“Now.”
“Okay.” And he looked back on Joseffie humped lifeless on the filthy bedroom floor, “What happened, couldn’t he get it up?” Abdul liked his dark sexual humor and let out a snide grin.
Margo smiled at his bravado. Then she stuck the Lugar sharply into his gut, “Let’s see if you can get it up, Abdul?” As she forced him back into his room all the way up to his bed where he plopped down still smirking at her and her sexually twisted smile. “Show me,” and she began removing her clothes.
Chapter Eleven
After eating a hearty breakfast of eggs benedict, fresh squeezed orange juice, bacon and toast, Catherine tossed aside the plush terry cloth hotel bathrobe and crawled back into bed.
Morgan went over to her and patted her gently through the covers. “I’ll wake you at noon, beautiful.”
Morgan turned out the lights and pulled closed the blackout curtains in an effort to make her sleep more comfortable. He sat down at the desk and turned on the reading lamp. He checked his cell calls and began returning them, holding Eunice’s call until last.
His call to Oscar Bradley was call forwarded to his downtown business office. Oscar answered, “You have some tails on you Mr. Morgan. One is definitely FBI -- his car has government license plates on it. The other one is an Arab kid, about twenty, he quit watching you while you were on the beach and left. We haven’t seen him since. I have a man in the lobby right now. The FBI is still with you. Can you give me your itinerary for the next few hours?”
Morgan asked, “Does the FBI know about the Arab?”
“Yes. I saw the FBI agent go up to the cab and talk to the Arab. I think he’s made me, too...when I stopped North, he was watching us.”
“Well, I don’t mind the FBI following me. But the Arab is another story.”
Morgan gave Oscar Bradley a fair guess of his plans, “When I pick up my car, I’m going home to bed. But things may change. Do you want me to call you?” Adding, “...When I know what I’m doing?”
Oscar laughed. “Yes. It does help.”
The second call went to Senator Alberquist’s home. When the message prompt activated, Morgan hung up without leaving a message.
He then called Eunice’s room via the hotel’s switchboard, “Hello Eunice, I’m returning your call from this morning.”
“Thanks, Jim. Have you had time to consider my offer?”
“I think there’s more going on with this trip than you’re telling me, Eun. I have the FBI and some Arabs following me, according to my bodyguard. Which, by the way, is costing me a small fortune. What’s really going on, Eunice?”
“Speaking of a small fortune how was that wine last night? Do you have a hangover this morning? And how’s your friend? She was quite lovely, did you get her home safe?”
“Yeah, yeah. So why is the FBI and the Arabs following me? I think you know, and I want some answers.”
“Okay. Here’s what I know. First of all, I know nothing about the FBI following you and that’s the truth. On the Arabs...I can only guess that it has something to do with...probably, Margolova. But I don’t know this, I’m just guessing.” Eunice paused, and Morgan was silent. “Are you there, Jim?”
“Yeah, I’m listening. Go on.” Morgan was mulling over her words, she sounded like she was telling the truth.
“The CIA is monitoring our trip, they want the orchids – if they exist, to be in our hands and not in some other enemy’s pocket, which makes perfect sense to me. But they aren’t sending any agents along, at least that I know about. John... Senator Alberquist suggested I get you to take my psychic girls down to Brazil.”
Morgan’s instincts were right-on about the Senator, “I tried calling John myself. I figured he was in cahoots with you. He hasn’t returned my calls. Why did he suggest me, Eun?”
“Well, he likes you. We both know that. I guess your name just came up. I don’t know.” Eunice was frustrated, she felt like she was blowing the chance to get him to hire on. And then she recalled the mind readers saying that one of the tickets was for James Morgan.
Morgan was more than apprehensive about going to Sao Paulo, but he found himself saying, “Okay, Eun. I’ll take them down for you. Only if Catherine agrees to tag along,” and added, “at your expense.”
Eunice was surprised and thought, why? But quickly said, “Great!” With an obvious enthusiasm, “I’ll expect you at the Institute tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Yes, then you leave on Saturday at nine in the morning, Eastern Standard Time. I want you to meet with the girls, and there are some maps you’ll need to study. Some work to do, if you will?”
“What’s your latest on Margolova, Eunice?”
“Nothing. Th
e last I’ve heard... She’s holed up in Iran. John said she would be crazy to come after you, especially here...in America.”
“Yeah. Well, go downstairs and tell my Arab tail how tough Homeland Security is. Maybe he’ll stop following me, eh, Eun?”
Eunice didn’t like his flippancy, “I didn’t know, Jim.” She bit her lip to keep from antagonizing him. And she wasn’t about to tell him that he was being used as so much bait to get Margolova out in the open, where she would unceremoniously be terminated.
Eunice, with a genuine emotion, added, “I’m sorry that things turned out so badly, Jim,” and an extreme silence ensued between them.
Morgan’s thoughts, jiggled sporadically around in his head, he still had feelings for Eunice. And on the Margolova issue, he was still in a mindset that she had set him up to be killed in Madagascar. He also believed, that those thoughts were extremely irrational. “Okay Eun, apology accepted.”
Then, in a sense of fair play, he asked, “Will you pick up my expenses for the bodyguard?”
In her mind she screamed, Jesus Christ! And into the phone line she mused, “Okay. But, I want the bill to come from him...your bodyguard, not from you. Fair enough?”
“I haven’t talked with Catherine yet. But she said she’d like to go. She didn’t think you were serious.”
“Yes, I was serious. Hire her on as your private secretary, just be at the Institute by six tomorrow. I’ll have a dinner set up for you, to meet with the girls... I think you’ll like them.”
“Okay Eun. By the way, how much does a private secretary make these days?”
Orchids to Die For (Jim Morgan Adventure Series) Page 6
