“Well … And it’s our secret.”
“Absolutely.”
She thought about it for a moment, then pulled off her sweater. She pulled down her jeans. At this point, in her bra and panties, she paused. “Maybe … just this much? Okay?”
Hupp shrugged. “You show more than that in your bikini.”
“Well …” She unhooked her bra and dropped it. Then her panties. Stark naked, she picked up a cue and asked, “Are we gonna play pool?”
They played pool. Jenna—thirteen years old, about to be fourteen—was only a little embarrassed, and that only at first. She was proud of her youthful, developing body and quickly discovered that she enjoyed showing it.
Her breasts were small and round. They were white against her tan lines from the summer. “God, they’ve gotta grow,” she said. She lifted them in her hands. “I wouldn’t want to live my whole life with little tits like this.”
She noticed after a while that the two boys moved around the table to watch her shoot. When she leaned over the table, her breasts, small though they were, hung down a little. When she had to stretch over the table, the boys would move behind her. That posture showed off her upturned butt and some of the pink fleshy parts of her pussy. She made a point of playfully spreading her legs when she stretched over the table.
She laughed. “Hey, you really wanta see?” She hopped up on the table, sat on the rail, and spread wide. She used her fingers to push aside her outer lips. Now they saw all they had dreamed of seeing, and more: her shiny pink inner lips, a tiny clit, and the shadowed furrow that opened into her deeper parts. She sat and grinned at them for a long moment, then hopped down. “Show’s over.”
They both had seen more than they knew what to do with, all they could do was stare.
NINETEEN
I
MARCH, 1994
Alexandra was led out of the prison, wearing civilian clothes: that is, a stylish black pantsuit. She was wearing a little makeup, too. But she was also wearing handcuffs attached to a belly chain, and shackles on her ankles. She was apathetic about the restraints. They were nothing more than she had expected when she was told she would be going down to New York to testify before a grand jury.
Seated in a prison van, she was driven the hour or so it took to reach Manhattan and the federal courthouse. Conducted through the courthouse, she was unchained and locked in a detention cell until they were ready to hear her testimony. The detention cell was a tiny chain-link cage with nothing in it but a shelf on which the prisoner could sit. About this, too, she was apathetic. What difference did it make?
An elderly man with a bald, liver-spotted head came to the cell and asked if she would like a cup of coffee. She said she would, and he returned in a few minutes with a paper cup of hot coffee. He unlocked the padlock that secured the cell, opened the door and handed her the coffee, then locked the padlock again.
“You don’t remember me, do you?” he asked. “I remember you as Miss Fairchild—actually as Miss Krylov.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Well … I’ve never been a famous person. But you were very kind to me once, when they tried to deport me. You went to bat for me and others and made the point with the newspapers that not all Russians were Communists and almost none were spies.”
She nodded. “I remember.”
“I’m very sorry to see you in the circumstances you’re in.”
“I’m sorry, too,” she said.
They wanted her testimony on the question of whether or not her former husband, David Shea, maintained overseas accounts.
“If he did, I didn’t know it,” she said under oath.
“I remind you, Mrs. Shea, that there is a very severe penalty for perjury.”
Alexandra shrugged. “To get out of prison I would swear to any script you wrote for me.”
“You are not in prison for tax evasion or securities manipulation. You are in for trying to kill your husband.”
“I lost my head.”
“Is it going to be your testimony that you knew nothing of overseas accounts your husband maintained?”
“That is my testimony. He and I had a close marital relationship, with mutual respect; but he did not confide in me anything much about his business. He is a banker with Harcourt Barnham.”
“Why did you try to kill him?”
“Because I found out he was seeing another woman.”
“Mrs. Shea … do you have an overseas account?”
“Sir. I am an inmate in a state prison, serving a long term. How could I have an overseas account?”
“Your ex-husband is not paying you for your silence?”
“I would testify to anything anyone asked if it would get me out of prison. No one could pay me enough for the years I am spending in confinement.”
Dave was not there, or anywhere near. Neither was Cole. But when she was taken out of the courtroom and the handcuffs were being locked on her again, Alexandra saw Emily standing unrecognized in the small assemblage that watched. Both of them were careful to show no sign of recognition. As a matron squatted before her and locked the shackles on her ankles, Alexandra risked a small, subtle smile.
II
“Goddamnit,” Cole said. “They’re closing in.”
Dave shook his head. “They can’t find anything because they don’t know what they’re looking for.”
“From all I can find out, Alexandra told them nothing. She perjured herself. If they can prove she lied under oath, she’ll get a sentence on top of the one she’s serving and will probably spend the rest of her life in one prison or another.”
“Won’t happen,” said Dave. “How could they prove she knew anything? Her name’s on nothing. Nor is mine, for that matter.”
“Do you feel sorry for her?”
“Yes, and I want to ask you something. Do you want to work on it, or should I get another lawyer to work on a plea for commutation of sentence?”
“Dave …”
“Okay, I’ll get somebody. Somebody with political influence. But when Emily goes to see her, I want her to tell Alexandra I’m working on it.”
III
The raid on OMM became notorious. The Wall Street Journal covered the subject:
Control of Otis Mining and Manufacturing has passed to anonymous purchasers of its stock, several European conglomerates with ownership no one seems able to discover. Rumors abound. Among the possible owners is Lawrence Doubler, who denies knowing anything about it.
Whoever now owns the controlling interest in OMM has not made any radical changes in its business policies.
William Foster, CEO, insists he has had no instructions from his new shareholders to change anything. He will only say that the company is now much more soundly funded and that he is grateful to his new investors.
The SEC and the Justice Department remain determined to discover who did what to whom. Old owners of the stock are deeply concerned about loss of control.
Ben Haye proved to be a source of more insider information. He liked the three million Dave had paid him, and he wanted more.
He invited Dave and Janelle to dinner at his Greenwich home—where they had to come in confidence because knowledge of a relationship between them could prove disastrous to both. Dave rented a. BMW, which would be inconspicuous in that town and drove to the Haye home on North Street.
It was apparent why Ben had to make money and had scorned the two million he had been given as a bonus by Kidder, Peabody. The home was by no means the most luxurious in Greenwich, but it was something beyond the dreams of a boy from West Virginia, or a boy from Wyckoff. The glassmaker’s heiress was in love with antiques and had furnished the place with a collection of expensive antiques, all but a few items purchased right there in Greenwich.
“This house was built in 1912,” she explained. “It didn’t seem right to fill it with modern stuff.”
“Oh, no. No. That wouldn’t have been appropriate at all,” said Janelle, the daughter of an el
ementary school teacher who still practiced prostitution.
Dave was amused and said, “Janelle does know a little about antiques.”
Janelle smiled at him. She knew nothing about antiques.
Deborah Haye was a heavyset woman. She tried to be stylish. She was dressed that evening in a low-cut red dress that showed her oversized breasts down almost to the nipples, and it was obvious that she and her husband were proud of them.
Ben made a point of separating himself and Dave from the two women. “I can’t talk about things in front of Debbie,” he said quietly. “You’ll understand. She doesn’t know I got three million from you, and she has no idea what I did with it.”
“Let me guess,” said Dave. “Bahamas.”
“Well …”
“Fine. But get it to Europe. Think of Zurich or Vienna or Luxembourg.”
“Okay. But I know of another deal that can be worked. This won’t be for control of a corporation, just for one hell of a nice profit. We don’t need to bring in your multibillion friend. We can just invest our own money.”
“The deal is? Quickly, before the women come back.”
Ben glanced at the two women. Debbie was explaining to Janelle where she had bought, and why, an antique table that sat across the room.
“Michigan & Minnesota Corporation has come to Kidder for help in financing the development of a find of high-quality ilmenite. Do you know what that is?”
“No.”
“Titanium ore. Ilmenite is a common mineral, but this is exceptionally high in titanium quantity and exceptionally free of contaminants. They want to mine it and build a plant to refine titanium. They’re going to get the money. You can buy a share of Mich and Minn for 18%, today’s quote. When they get the backing and announce what they’ve got and what they’re going to do, that’s going to double, at least. I’m going to put part of my three million into it, out of my offshore account. You can do the same. But we can’t be greedy, and we’ve got to be careful. Big trades in the stock will be suspicious. And it will be too plain that the information could have come from Kidder, Peabody.”
“It could have come from anybody at Mich and Minn,” said Dave. “And no doubt from others.”
Ben nodded. “But big moves on the stock in the next couple of weeks are going to look suspicious. The SEC will be on it for sure. This has got to be our deal, handled very discreetly.”
“Don’t make a big buy all at once,” said Dave. “Buy five hundred shares tomorrow and five hundred a couple of days afterward; then a hundred or two next week, and so on until the announcement is issued. Then we sell, a little at a time. We’re not going to make millions, but you can’t always do that. Suppose you get two thousand shares and the price doubles. Well, you make thirty-six thousand dollars.”
“I’ve got another idea,” said Ben. “You’ve got—what?—multiple accounts in Europe. Suppose I transfer part of my three million to your accounts. You can trade better than I can. You’re much more remote from K-P and the information. And you’ve got other contacts, who can invest discreetly for themselves and us.”
“Deal,” said Dave. “We’ll work it out.”
IV
A few days later Dave came home to find Janelle wearing the shortest mini he had ever seen on her. She was wearing stockings and a garter belt. When she sat without keeping her legs crossed she showed her crotch. But not a bare crotch. She was wearing panties. As he stared he saw something that surprised him—her bikini panties were slit, and when she spread her legs even a little, the panties separated, and everything was exposed.
“I went shopping this afternoon,” she said as she handed him his martini. “Out of curiosity mostly, I went to see one of the Coopers’ Cheeks stores. They have some interesting stuff. This dress. Crotchless panties. I bought three pairs. Bras with holes for the nipples to show through. I have one on. I’ll show you in a little while. And, you wouldn’t believe—” She reached down and opened a shopping bag. “Look.”
She showed him a pair of black leather wrist cuffs lined with fleece and linked together by about a foot of shiny steel chain. They fastened with buckles, and the hasps of the buckles were looped at the ends, so that very small padlocks could prevent the person wearing the cuffs from taking them off.
“And finally—”
She showed him a wide leather collar, also lined with fleece and equipped with a buckle and a little padlock.
Dave frowned and smiled at the same time. “What are we going to do with those?” he asked.
“Well … you can put them on me. I may hate the cuffs and ask you to take them right off. But I think the collar is sort of nice. Sexy. Why don’t you put it on me right now? The cuffs later.”
Gingerly he put the collar around her throat. The leather was soft, and he could see it wouldn’t hurt her. He buckled it, not too tightly, and locked the padlock.
“Ha … your love slave, baby.”
“I can’t think of you as a slave, love or otherwise.”
She went to a mirror and looked at herself. She tugged on the collar, moving it around so the buckle and lock were at her throat.
“Tell me it doesn’t turn you on. Not that you need to be turned on.”
He had known it would turn him on, and it did. It forced him to remember how he used to tie Amy with clothesline rope. That had turned him on. He had never hurt her, but he had made her sit evenings after the kids had gone to bed, with her wrists and ankles bound. She had tearfully called it demeaning and humiliating. Janelle lifted her chin and posed with the collar around her neck. She was pleased with it, even proud of it.
She took off the dress while they microwaved the frozen pizzas from the fridge and opened the wine. She was wearing the bra she had described, with her nipples sticking out through holes. He fingered her nipples until they became erect.
When they had eaten she told him he could put the cuffs on her. He did.
“Well … ?”
She stared at them for a moment, raised her hands and stretched the chain, then grinned. “They’re okay. I don’t think I’d want to wear them very long or very often, but … they turn you on, don’t they?”
“I won’t deny it.”
She twisted her shoulders. “Kind of imaginative lovemaking, huh? I’m a sight.”
The bra with her nipples sticking out was black. The crotchless panties were black, as were her garter belt, her sheer stockings, and her black stiletto-heeled shoes. She walked around the room, turning and showing herself off to him.
“It’s better than just naked, isn’t it?”
Dave grinned and nodded.
Suddenly she smiled wickedly and asked, “What would turn you on even more?”
“Well … I wonder if a naughty girl like you shouldn’t have a little spanking.”
“You’ve … got … to … be … kidding.”
“Don’t knock it if you haven’t tried it.”
She arched her shoulders. “Maybe just one or two experimental whacks,” she murmured.
“Over my knees,” he said.
He was sitting at the center of the couch, and Janelle stretched out, with her hips on his lap. Her tiny panties did not cover her butt. He lifted his hand and gave her a sharp smack on her right cheek.
“OW!”
He did it again, on her other cheek.
“OW! Heyl Not so fuckin’ hard!”
“Okay. Six more, three on each half of your beautiful ass. Not so hard. Okay?”
She drew a deep breath and nodded.
He spanked her. She grunted with each slap, but she did not yell or try to roll off him.
Dave pressed a finger through the gap in her panties and ran it over her parts. “You’re wet,” he muttered. “You bitch. You like it. I’m going to spank you till you beg me to stop. A little harder again. I bet you come.”
“OW! OW!” But she did not ask him to stop. Her cheeks turned a glowing pink.
Finally—“Okay! OW! Oh, Jesus, stop! I’m coming! I’
m coming! I’m coming!” She moaned and she pressed her face into the seat of the couch.
When she relaxed, he turned her over and lifted her. Then he kissed her. Tears wet her eyes and cheeks, and her face was flushed. She tried to reach behind and feel her hot backside, but the cuffs and the foot of chain wouldn’t let her.
“Get your pants down,” she whispered. “The girl you’ve just abused is going to give you the greatest head you’ve ever had. Get ready for it. It’s going to take a while.”
She teased him with her tongue. When she knew he was on the verge of coming, she would draw back and reach for a glass of Scotch and take a swallow. After a minute or so, she would go back to work on him, licking gently, raising him little by little. Then: another break. Then more licking. And so on, until he all but exploded in a powerful orgasm, shooting into her mouth. She did not swallow but allowed his ejaculate to seep out of her mouth, run down over her chin, and drip on her breasts.
Janelle grinned as Dave tried to regain his senses.
TWENTY
I
APRIL, 1994
In the ensuing two weeks, Reinhard Brüning and Friederich Burger invested in shares of Michigan and Minnesota Corporation. So did Bob Leeman.
Bob sat over dinner with Dave and Janelle in an obscure little Italian restaurant on the Upper East Side. They still did not want to be seen together.
Janelle was wearing a microdress she had bought at Cheeks. Dave was wearing a cashmere tweed jacket—subdued gray and maroon check. It was a jacket he never let the officers of Harcourt Barnham see. Leeman noticed Janelle’s dress and Dave’s jacket and complimented them, but he himself was wearing a nondescript suit as usual, because he cared nothing about clothes.
Or about food and wine. He ordered a salad and Perrier water, while Dave and Janelle lingered over the menu and finally chose veal with pasta primavera on the side, with a bottle of fine Chianti.
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