He turned, starting to sit up. Then she struck. With all her strength, she ripped the razor down his body. A strangled scream rose in his throat and he rolled frantically away from her, his hand pulling something from the table at the other side of the bed. Angrily she kept on slashing as he tried to turn. She saw the glint of something hard and metallic in his hand but kept on slashing and striking.
A roar exploded in her ears and blue fire seared her eyes at the same time that a sledgehammer blow seemed to strike her in the chest, almost throwing her backward, but still she pressed on, the razor rising and falling. At last he collapsed inertly on the sheets.
She stood there breathing heavily, then put her hand down to touch him. Her fingers seemed to sink into a morass of blood-sodden sheets. She pulled her hand back quickly, the razor falling from her fingers. The pain in her chest was growing more intense now. She pressed her hand against her breast and felt the warm blood seeping through her dress onto her fingers. For the first time, she realized she had been shot.
Slowly she turned and made her way back through the apartment, the pain growing more agonizing with every step. It seemed to take forever for her to reach the apartment door. Now the pain was rolling in waves through her body and she felt dizzy and wavering, as if consciousness were draining from her through the blood running down her fingers.
She reached for the door. Suddenly the light in the hallway outside flooded on and the door sprang open in her hands. He stood there in open-mouth shock, the light spilling from behind him across her face.
She stared at him in wide-eyed horror. “Oh, no, Maurice!” she screamed. “You’re dead! I just killed you!” Then she began falling as consciousness left her, never to return.
Book Two
Janette
Shiki stood in front of the easel studying the design critically. He heard the door close behind him and the girl’s footsteps approaching. “Take off all your clothes,” he said without turning around. “Let me know when you’re naked.”
A moment later he heard the low voice. “I’m naked.”
He penciled in a small adjustment to the drawing and turned around. “Merde,” he said, his jaw dropping.
Janette laughed at his consternation.
“Why didn’t you tell me who you were?” he asked.
“I thought if you were switching,” she smiled, “I would like to be the first.”
He reached for a robe on the chair next to him. “Put this on,” he said uncomfortably.
She didn’t take it. “Come on, Shiki. Wouldn’t you like to eat my pussy? You might even like it.”
“Cut it out,” he said, annoyed. “I’m working.”
“I won’t tell anyone,” she replied.
“I thought you were the model I sent for to try on a new design,” he said.
“You can try it on me.”
He shook his head. “It won’t work.”
“Why not?”
He looked at her critically. “You’re too much of a woman. Your tits are too big, your ass is too big and your mons veneris sticks out further than most men’s cock and balls. You’re just not the model type, that’s all.”
“What type am I?” she asked.
“You’re like your mother,” he said. “Big and strong. An earth type. Pure animal sex. You walk out on a runway and automatically every other woman in the place would hate you, which means no matter what you wore they wouldn’t buy it. You’re too much of what each of them would like to be.”
“That’s a backhanded compliment if ever I heard one,” she said, reaching for her jeans, which she had thrown over a chair, and getting into them. She slipped into a large man-tailored shirt and tied it around her waist.
“What are you doing down here?” he asked.
“I had an appointment with Johann,” she said. “But he was in a meeting so I thought I would drop in on you.”
“It’s always good to see you,” he said.
She smiled. “Even if I’m not the model type?”
He laughed. “Even so.”
“Maybe you ought to change your models,” she said. “There are more girls like me than there are like them.”
“Most girls like you can’t afford the kind of clothes we make,” he said.
“That could be what’s wrong with our business,” she said. “Too many haute couture designers fighting for too small a market.”
“We’re doing all right,” he said half defensively.
“I’m sure we are,” she said quickly. “I was just thinking out loud.”
The telephone on his desk rang. He picked it up, then looked at her. “Johann’s meeting is over. You can see them now.”
“Thank you.” She blew him a kiss and left the room.
He stared at the closed door for a moment, then locked it and went back to his desk. He sat down behind it, took a joint from the neat cigarette case and lit it. He leaned back in his chair and let the smoke drift thoughtfully from his nose.
Like mother, like daughter. Like mother, like mother, like mother. But even more, like daughter.
***
“Two years at the Université is enough,” she said. “I’m not going back.”
Johann’s face was expressionless. He looked at her across his desk. In a way he wasn’t surprised. She was nineteen now and there was very little of the child left in her. More and more each day, she reminded him of her mother. Tanya had been about the same age when they first met, the same reddish-brown hair, long and falling down her face, partly concealing her high cheekbones and dark eyes in the fashion of the day. “What would you prefer doing?” he asked carefully.
“I think it’s time I became involved in the business,” she said. “After all, in two more years I will be responsible for the whole thing. I think it’s about time I learned something about it, don’t you?”
She was like her mother. Johann nodded. “I agree with you. Now the question is, where would you like to begin?”
“Maurice says that more than sixty-five percent of our gross income comes from the United States,” she said. “Yet I’ve never been there.”
“That’s true,” he said.
“He’s planning to go there next month and has offered to take me with him and show me around.”
Johann didn’t let surprise show in his face. It was the first time he had learned that she had even been talking to Maurice. “That’s kind of him,” he said cautiously. “How do you expect that to help you? After all, he’s not involved in any of our companies. His own is quite separate.”
“That’s true,” she said. “But he does know everybody.”
He was silent for a moment. “I don’t object to it,” he said. “And you certainly don’t need my permission to go on a trip. But don’t you think it might be a better idea to come into the office for a few months first and get some grounding? Then when you go you’ll be better equipped to relate.”
“I’d like to go,” she said. “I think I would go out of my mind sitting in the office. It reminds me too much of being in a classroom back at the Université.”
“Sooner or later, you’re going to have to do your homework,” he said. “Running a business isn’t all fun and games.”
“I know that,” she said. “But isn’t that what you do? I would like to become more involved with the creative and marketing side of it. Here in France we still do things in the same old-fashioned way. America is way ahead of us in many ways. I have a feeling we can learn many things from them.”
“I would still like it if you could spend some time in the office before you go,” he said.
“Maurice isn’t planning to leave before the end of next month,” she said. “That gives me six weeks. Is that enough for you?”
“It’s better than nothing,” he said. “I just hope it’s enough for you.”
“I’m a quick study. I’ll make it enough,” she said seriously. She got to her feet. “What time would you like me to come in tomorrow?”
“Nine o’clock,”
he said. “I think the best place for you to start is with the controller.”
“I’ll be here.” She smiled. “Thank you, Johann.”
He came out from behind the desk. In a curious sort of way he felt good about her wanting to come into the company. Something had been missing ever since Tanya’s death. Now, perhaps, it would be whole again. “How is your sister?” he asked.
She looked at him. “Fine. Growing. I haven’t seen much of her since I came down from school. Her nanny hovers over her like a blanket.”
“It might be a good idea if you could spend some time with her,” he suggested. “So that at least she feels she has a family.”
“I’m afraid I haven’t much of a mother instinct,” she said. “To me, she seems like every other child.”
“Too bad,” he said.
“Yes,” she said. “The poor can offer their children for adoption when they’re not equipped to bring them up, no matter what the reason may be. But what do the rich do?”
He was silent for a moment. “What we’re doing, I suppose. Hire nannies and hope they provide a love substitute.”
“Maurice said something about maybe we could work out an agreement and he would move back into the house. That would provide a more normal family life for her. After all, legally he is still her father.”
“And yours too,” he said.
“That’s right,” she said. “But in two more years, I’ll be legally of age, and free of him. Lauren still has a long way to go.”
He was silent.
“If something should happen to us—you and me—who would get her?” she asked.
“Maurice, I imagine,” he said. “There’s no one else.”
“Merde,” she cried. She thought for a moment. “I wonder what he has on his mind. Why do you think he’s being so nice to us all of a sudden?”
“I’m sure I don’t known,” he answered.
“I don’t trust him,” she said. “But then I never did.”
“In time we’ll find out,” he said. “Until then, be careful. Just don’t sign any papers, that’s all.”
She laughed. “Don’t worry. I know that much.” She started toward the door, then stopped and turned back to him. “Johann, you’re a nice man, why is it you never married?”
He looked at her without answering.
Suddenly she understood. “Mother. You were in love with her, weren’t you?”
He still didn’t answer.
“She’s dead now,” she said. “That’s over. Find yourself a good woman and marry her. Then you could give Lauren the kind of home she needs.”
He smiled suddenly. “I might surprise you.”
Impulsively she went to him and kissed his cheek. “It would be a lovely surprise,” she said, then went out the door with a wave of her hand. “Tomorrow morning. Nine o’clock sharp.”
He went back to his desk and sat down heavily. After a moment he reached for the telephone and dialed a number. A woman’s voice answered. He spoke in German. “Heidi? Eight o’clock all right for dinner? I’ll pick you up.”
***
“He’s too conservative,” Jacques said, placing the chilled glass of kir on the cocktail table in front of her. He sat down beside her, taking a small vial from his pocket. She sipped her drink, watching him as he skillfully spilled some of the white powder from the vial on the glass tabletop, then separated it carefully into four thin lines. Expertly he rolled a hundred-franc note into a straw, then sniffed one line of cocaine into each nostril. He held the bill toward her. “It’s good coke,” he said. “A friend of mine just brought it in from the States.”
Quickly she did the two lines and handed the bill back to him. She felt her pulse quicken as the coke exploded in her head. “It is good.”
“It’s not the crap they sell here in Paris,” he said, picking up his drink. “Cheers.”
“Cheers.” They sipped at their drink.
“When your mother was there it was different,” he said. “She had ideas, there was a feeling of excitement. We were doing things. Now all that is gone. All Johann wants to do is keep steady, just hold on to what we have. Expansion costs money and he won’t take any chances.”
“But we’ve been making money, haven’t we?” she asked.
“Of course,” he said. “But we should be making a lot more. Compared to some of the other companies we’ve been standing still.” He looked at her. “Are you really serious about coming to work here?”
She nodded.
He smiled. “Then maybe there’s a chance for us yet. With you around Johann might be more venturesome.”
She looked at him. “I didn’t come up here to talk business.”
He pulled at the knot that tied her shirt closed. It fell open revealing the nipples already distended with excitement. “Jesus!” he said, leaning forward to take one in his mouth.
She turned his face up to her. “Shiki said my breasts were too big.”
“What the hell does he know?” he asked, burying his face between them, pressing them against his cheek with either hand. “They’re beautiful.”
“I asked him to eat my pussy,” she said. “But he wouldn’t.”
“You don’t have to ask me. Just get out of those damn jeans.”
She rose to her feet in front of him. She pulled the snap and then the zipper and pushed the jeans down over her hips. “He said my ass was too big too,” she said, turning away from him and bending slightly forward so that her buttocks were practically thrust into his face.
He was silent.
“Slap my ass,” she said.
He hit her playfully.
“Harder,” she said. “Like you mean it.”
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said.
“You won’t hurt me,” she said. “Do what I tell you. Hit me hard.”
His open hand cracked across her buttock. He could see the white handprint on it. He hesitated.
“More,” she said fiercely. “Don’t stop.”
His hand began to rise and fall rapidly. He could see the white handprints turning red on her buttocks and suddenly he realized that she was grinding her hips and moaning, masturbating herself at the same time. Excitement began to rise in him and suddenly he was angry. The bitch was just using him to get off. Now he really began to hit her.
“I’m coming,” she cried. “I can’t stop coming!”
Angrily he spun her around to face him. There was a strange inner look on her face. She didn’t even seem to see him. Without thinking, he slapped her face. “What about me, you bitch?”
She stared at him, suddenly silent, then her eyes fell before his gaze. She sank to her knees before him, her fingers quickly opening his trousers. She thrust her hand into his trousers, freeing him, and then further underneath him until a finger found his anus. “I want you to come in my mouth,” she said, covering him with her lips.
A moment later he felt his testes explode and the semen bursting forth. The orgasm wracked his body and began to subside, but still she didn’t stop. With one hand she held him still rigid and kept drawing on his glans until he could no longer bear the agony, his penis feeling like nothing but raw nerve ends. He sank his hand in her hair and pulled her away from him.
Her cheeks and chin were covered with semen that had escaped her mouth. For a long moment he stared at her until he caught his breath. “You’re crazy,” he said.
Her eyes suddenly turned cold. “I’m not like my mother,” she said angrily. “Don’t ever say that to me again.”
She started to get to her feet. His hands on her shoulders kept her down. “I didn’t mean that kind of crazy,” he said quickly. “I meant crazy great.”
He felt the tension leave her. “You fucked with my mother, didn’t you?”
He nodded.
“Was she good?”
He looked at her. “Yes. But not like you. You’re fantastic.”
“She wasn’t really crazy,” she said. “She had a nervous breakdown.
/> She was working too hard and there were too many things on her mind.”
“I know that,” he said.
She rose to her feet. “Christ, I’m soaking wet. I must have come a thousand times.” She wiped herself with her fingers then raised them to her mouth and sucked them. Again she pressed her fingers into herself. This time she held them out to him. “Taste me.”
Slowly he licked her fingers.
“Good?” she asked.
“Like honey.”
“As good as my mother?”
“Better,” he said.
She laughed aloud and pulled his face toward her. “Then eat me,” she said.
***
Johann parked the car in front of her apartment house. He sat there a moment with the motor running, then reached across to open the door for her.
“It’s early yet. Why don’t you come in for a nightcap?” she asked.
He smiled to himself as he always did when she spoke German. The faint American accent gave the language a strange musical sound, a softness it did not ordinarily have. He answered in English. “Thank you,” as he switched off the motor.
The light scent of her perfume and the warmth of her body seemed to permeate him as they stood in the tiny elevator barely large enough for the two of them as it took them up to her apartment on the third floor. He felt a slight sense of relief when it finally stopped and he could hold the door to let her out. He followed her to her apartment and waited while she opened the door with her key, then followed her inside.
It was a small apartment, what the French called a “studio,” which consisted of a fair-sized room with a bed that doubled as a couch during the day, a kitchen in a double-doored closet, and a separate bathroom. A lamp was glowing in the far corner of the room, and that, more than anything else, showed that she was basically American. No Frenchman or other European would leave a light on while he was not at home.
She gestured toward an armchair. “I have whiskey, gin, vodka and cognac.”
“Cognac, please.” He watched while she opened the small kitchen doors and took down the bottle and two glasses from the closet over the sink. She poured the golden liquor into the glasses, then came back to him. He took one from her hand. “Thank you,” he said.
Goodbye, Janette Page 11
