Night of the Warheads

by Nick Carter

  Slowly, sensually, she leaned far back, her upper torso disappearing beneath hips that arched upward toward the ceiling. Her thighs corded tautly, and suddenly she was upright again, moving like a cat.

  The halter was gone, and her large, coned breasts jutted their darkly coraled nipples toward the light.

  This time there was real applause and gasps of approval from the crowd.

  Her free hand did things to her hair and suddenly it became uncoiled. It billowed down her back, over her shoulders, and caressed her dancing breasts without obscuring them.

  As the song reached a crescendo, her eyes narrowed to slits. The words of the song from her throat became little more than orgasmic groans.

  Suddenly, with only a wriggle of her hips, the skirt fell away to puddle on the floor at her feet.

  Completely naked, she hit the last note and the spotlight blinked out.

  Applause rolled to the stage, and the light came back on. Incredibly, in those few seconds, she had somehow managed to get the skirt and halter back in place.

  She took two quick bows and was gone.

  "Merci, merci, monsieurs et mesdames," said the whiskey-voiced woman over the speakers. "The next show will be in one hour… the Daughters of Aphrodite!"

  Carter lifted his glass above his head and waved it until the brunette waitress noticed him. While he waited for the drink, he jotted a message in his notebook, ripped out the page, and wrapped it in a twenty-franc note.

  "Would you give this to Señorita Juaneda, por favor!"

  "Si, señor."

  Carter watched her amble away, her hips imitating a metronome.

  Five minutes later he placed a cigarette between his lips and a lighter flared in front of its tip. A slim brown hand moved the lighter to the cigarette. Carter inhaled and plumed the smoke from his nostrils as he turned toward her.

  The hair now hung in sleek lines framing her face. She wore a baggy turtleneck minidress that came just below her hips and black mesh stockings on her legs.

  She looked very Parisian, and, if Carter hadn't known better, he would have taken her for just another teenager in the bar.

  "Señor Carstocus?"

  "I adored your act… especially the ending."

  "Thank you. You wish to buy me a drink?"

  "A great many drinks. Please sit down."

  She sat and lit her own cigarette. It was barely going before the brunette waitress set a glass of wine beside her hand.

  "You are Greek?"

  "No, American, but I have been living in Paris."

  "Your Spanish is very good."

  "Thank you."

  "How long have you been in Andorra?" she asked, her face sporting a wide smile that revealed perfect white teeth.

  "Just a week," he replied, ignoring the beautiful bones of her face, the sleek hair, and the fleshy perfection of her body that even the baggy dress failed to hide.

  Instead he concentrated on those dark, almond eyes. They were intense, penetrating, and very communicative.

  "On holiday?"

  "No, I'm looking for a building site. I may decide to move here."

  It was almost imperceptible, but Carter noticed the tenseness leave her shoulders now that the contact had been firmly established.

  They chatted inanely until the headline show was announced, and Carter suggested they taste the delights of a few of the other late-night spots.

  "You're sure you don't want to see the Daughters of Aphrodite in action?" she asked with a sly smile.

  Carter shrugged and returned her smile. "I think you are much more interesting."

  Just as they were going through the beaded curtain, he saw the brunette who had waited on him mount the stage. And then he saw her clone from the other room get up beside her.

  My God, he thought, they were clones: twins.

  "You mean they really…?"

  "Yes," Louisa said, nodding. "Isn't it amazing what people will pay to watch?"

  * * *

  She was good.

  They hit four spots, had a drink in each one, and at no time was business ever mentioned. Indeed, the conversation never got above the level of inane chatter, mainly directed toward feeling each other out concerning where they would eventually spend the night together.

  In each place, they got more cozy. Little touches and looks got more intimate. When they left the last club, they walked arm in arm to the Mercedes.

  Carter opened the passenger side door. He was about to hand Louisa in, when she turned into his arms.

  "Kiss me!"

  As their lips met she slid his hands around her waist and then pushed them down to the supple arcs of her buttocks. At the same time, she moved against him. Once there, she started grinding.

  At last, with sweat trickling down Carter's back, she broke the embrace and moved her lips to his ear.

  "That should assure them that all you've done tonight is make another conquest."

  "Yeah, I would think so," he rasped, closing the door behind her and moving to the driver's side.

  They were through Andorra-la-Vella and making the turn up toward the villa before she relaxed and spoke.

  "They've made you."

  They were supposed to," he replied, skillfully maneuvering the little car on the upward curves without braking. "The question is, which side. How much do you know?"

  "Everything I had to, prior to your leaving Paris."

  Her demeanor had changed completely now. She was still sexy, but without the come-hither coquettishness. The sexiness now just came naturally with her, and the rest was all business.

  Carter briefed her about Marseille, about Marc LeClerc, and explained in detail what he had meant about the two sides.

  That's a twist. Then the ones who have been watching you could be on Armanda de Nerro's side, or LeClerc's."

  "If LeClerc is more than just a banker. I don't think so."

  "Then there's someone — a rival leader in the ETA — who wants to get rid of de Nerro and take over."

  Carter nodded. "And I think whoever it is wants to take the whole scam over, missiles and all."

  "What about the try on this moderate, Julio Mendez, in Pakolo?"

  "My guess is that de Nerro was behind that as well. She wants all her opposition in the movement, moderate and radical, out of the way. What have you found out about her since you've been here?"

  "Not much," Louisa replied with a slight shake of her head. "She's very social, worked her way into what society there is here. She has a suite in Andorra's deluxe hotel. The Park, with her mother. She rarely goes out in public, usually only attends very private parties given by the very wealthy."

  "Have you made the party or parties that have been watching me?"

  "A few of them, but I couldn't tell you if they were hers or not. Also, I haven't been keeping tabs on her too closely. I was only set up here to help you and back you up if you needed it."

  "That's okay. I've got a list of every building under construction and every excavation being made in the country. Can you get the list to Madrid for me and check out everyone connected?"

  Louisa nodded. "I'll go to Barcelona in the morning for new costumes. It's routine, once a week. I'll get it to Madrid from there."

  "Good. Have them put a rush on it! Here we are."

  Carter stopped at the villa's steps, cut the lights and motor, and moved around to open the door for her.

  "Get loving," she whispered as they moved to the steps.

  He did, squeezing her with one arm while he fumbled for the right key with the hand of the other.

  "Have you checked the house for bugs?" she asked.

  "Only the upstairs. It's clean."

  "Which bedroom are you using?"

  "Master suite, second door on the right, head of the stairs."

  "I'll go on up," she said, then raised her voice as the door swung inward. "What a beautiful villa! I so adore wealth and the good life, señor. Don't be long!"

  Carter watched her bouncy b
ottom go up the stairs until it was out of sight. Then he went through the house, checking door locks and killing lights.

  In the den he grabbed a bottle of calvados and two glasses.

  "I thought you might like a glass of bran…"

  Louisa stood, bathed in light, directly in front of the three bay windows that faced down the mountain to the road and Andorra-la-Vella beyond.

  Slowly, sensuously, she was pulling the baggy dress up her body.

  Carter rocked to a halt and finally settled on his heels.

  "If they're watching, which I'm sure they are," she said, "we had better keep your reputation — and my cover — intact."

  "Yeah," Carter gulped. "Good idea."

  He watched, fascinated, as the dress rose an inch at a time.

  As the hem climbed. Carter's interest and fascination soared with it. He had already seen her nude once that night, but now there was an added erotic stimulus: they were alone, together, in a bedroom.

  She was turned just so, the main thrust of the strip being directed to the unseen viewer outside the window. But there was enough front — and more than enough profile — so that Carter also got the full effect of the show.

  The dress was halfway off now, revealing lushly flared hips, insolently arched buttocks. Her belly was sleek, faintly rounded, punctuated saucily by the dimple of her navel. On up over the slim column of her waist the dress went. It was a tiny waist that accentuated the spectacular curve of her hips.

  Then Carter felt a vein begin to throb in his temple as the fleshy spheres of her breasts came into view. As heavy as they were, they sat high on her chest. They were ripely rounded, and in this light Carter could see that the areolas were almost brown.

  Casually, Louisa dropped the dress and deftly slithered out of the black panties Carter had barely noticed.

  Then, completely nude, she shook her hair loose over her shoulders the way television models do to demonstrate their newly shampooed manes.

  Carter almost dropped the bottle and glasses.

  "There, that should do it."

  "Yeah," he replied hoarsely, "it sure as hell should."

  Pertly she waltzed to the bed, threw back the covers, and slid between them. When she was covered to her chin, she looked up at him questioningly.

  "Well?"

  "I'm not sure."

  "I mean," she chuckled, "you can turn out the light now and come to bed. I'm sure they've seen enough to convince them that I'm just another of your dalliances."

  "Yeah," he replied dryly, hitting the wall switch and plunging the room into darkness, "I'm sure they have."

  Awkwardly he managed to divest himself of his clothing, then he slid into the bed beside her.

  "Did you bring the brandy?"

  "What?… Oh, sure."

  He poured two glasses and found her groping hand with one of them in the darkness.

  He did not know what he had expected, but it turned out to still be business.

  "I'll take the list to Barcelona tomorrow," she said matter-of-factly. "What else can I be working on for you until we get the feedback?"

  Her scent was assaulting his nostrils, and her warmth had already invaded the bed. It was a hard task, but he finally managed to formulate and voice an answer.

  "Do you have any contacts in town who would know when de Nerro will be attending the next society bash?"

  "Two, maybe three. Her maid has the apartment across from mine. We sometimes have tea together. I've also gotten to know Jock Loran. He comes to the club. He's usually her escort to the parties. Also, we have our hair done at the same place. De Nerro is a regular. It's a good chance that her hairdresser would know if she's having a hairdo for a special occasion."

  "Perfect. Also, the chances are pretty good that the missiles have already entered the country. But wherever they are to be housed is probably under construction. That means the architect, Adam Greenspan, and the engineer, Lorenzo Montegra, will already be here getting things set up. The two of them will have to be housed under guard somewhere."

  "It could be anywhere."

  "Yeah, it could," Carter replied. "But the domestic underground — waiters, drivers, bartenders, etc. — get wind of things like that."

  "I'll see what I can do." There was a pause. Carter heard her sip the brandy and then set the glass on the floor beside the bed. "If de Nerro knows you are the one LeClerc sent, she might try for you first."

  "She hasn't in the week I've been here, but you're right… she might."

  "What will you do?"

  "Get them before they get me."

  "I see." Another pause. "Anything else?"

  "That's it."

  "All right. Good night."

  "Good night?"

  "You said that was it."

  "Yeah," Carter replied, downing the remains in the brandy glass. "Yeah, I did, didn't I?"

  He heard her turn on her side, and almost at once her breathing was even.

  He thought of the recent night in the Marseille hotel room with Lily, and sighed.

  Odd, he thought, this overpowering attraction I have for sexless one-night stands…

  Ten

  He started out life as Alan Smith from Pittsburgh. But now he was Alain Smythe of London, haute coutourier to any woman who could pay his price.

  It was his party, a housewarming to celebrate his newfound freedom from English taxes. He had taken a large, medieval stone castle and completely renovated it. The exterior was made up of sprawling, crenelated walls, turrets, round, soaring towers, and even a workable drawbridge over a wide, deep moat.

  The interior was exactly the opposite, with decor that would grace a Parisian townhouse. He had all the modem accouterments, including Olympic-size bathtubs and a kitchen that sported a microwave oven alongside an old-style open pit that would accommodate an entire boar for roasting.

  Smythe had been slumming at the Cabaret Amour one evening with his companion and secretary, Charles, and had caught Louisa's act.

  "Brava, my dear, truly decadent. I'm having a little soiree to announce myself to the rest of the expatriate community and christen the renovation of my new abode. I would be charmed if you would attend and… perhaps perform."

  "I would be glad to, señor," Louisa had coyly replied. "May I bring a friend?"

  "Male or female?"

  "Male."

  "Most assuredly. Sunday next."

  It was cocktails at eight, dinner at ten. Carter and Louisa had arrived at eight-thirty. They were the first ones there.

  Now it was nine, and the great room of Alain Smythe's home-cum-castle was teeming with the beautiful people. Carter had already spotted two of his former conquests and nimbly countered their propositions for a rematch.

  At nine-fifteen, Armanda de Nerro made her appearance on the arm of a young, blond-haired Greek god. Carter guessed this was the Jock Loran that Louisa had mentioned as being her usual escort to these functions.

  Armanda was everything her pictures portrayed, and more. She was pure class, tall, with the kind of legs that go all the way up.

  She wore a skintight piece of velvet for a dress that dipped clear to her navel in front. The absence of a bra let everyone in the room, who cared, know that she was very real under the velvet. The hair, if possible, was even blacker than Louisa's, with brief flashes of red shining in just the right light. It fell to the gentle slopes of her derriere in the back and across her shoulders in the front to drape suggestively across the slope of her breasts.

  Carter met her eyes the second she walked into the room and thought that, just before she turned away, there was the briefest flash of recognition.

  Good enough, he thought. You know me, I know you. Now let's see how good the first move is and who makes it.

  Alain Smythe met Armanda the moment she hit the room. He kissed her hand and said something charming — and probably obscene — to her young escort.

  De Nerro, in the true tradition of beautiful people, threw her head back in a lusty la
ugh. Her teeth were perfect and her throat was shapely. To Carter it looked as kissable as the rest of her.

  Carter's attention shifted to Jock Loran. He was handsome, almost pretty, in the classic Italian and Spanish way. He moved like a bullfighter, but beneath the tuxedo jacket he had the physique and, Carter suspected, the well-trained, well-honed muscles of a heavyweight boxer.

  His face, as well as his body, did not say "playboy." The nose had been broken a couple of times but had been well set. The forehead was low between blond hair, meticulously cut. and bushy golden brows.

  But it was the eyes that told Carter that Jock Loran was as much or more bodyguard for Armanda de Nerro than he was escort.

  They were like clear blue ice. Carter knew the look in those eyes. He saw the same look every morning in his own when he shaved.

  They were the eyes of a killer.

  As confirmation to his conclusion was the slight bulge beneath the man's jacket. Carter guessed a Beretta or Luger like his own Wilhelmina.

  "I'm sure you've noticed… she's here." It was Louisa at his elbow.

  "It's hard to miss her," Carter replied.

  "I know. God, she is beautiful."

  "Not any more than you," Carter replied, his teeth gleaming in a smile. "Just richer. Wealth somehow transmits itself to its owners, making them seem more beautiful."

  "My God, he's a philosopher too."

  "Only on Sunday evenings. Can you get Loran away from Armanda and Smythe?"

  "Shouldn't be too hard," Louisa replied. "He's a man."

  The way she said it made Carter think she didn't care too much for the male population. Maybe, he thought, that was why they had already slept together and there had been no hanky-panky.

  Louisa was a cat going across the room, and an eel moving her arm through Loran's and her body against his.

  A few words were exchanged, Loran looked at his boss, and Carter saw a barely perceptible nod of de Nerro's beautiful head.

  He freshened his drink, waited as long as he dared before someone else busted up their tête-à-tête, and crossed the room.

  Carter had engratiated himself with Smythe immediately upon their arrival by assuming as shallow a character as his host.