"Who are you?" she repeated.
"Ah, you mean in the philosophical sense. The real me. Nothing colorful to tell, I'm afraid. I'm Greek. My family grows olives and other things."
That Mellis! The Mellis food brands could be found in every corner grocery store and supermarket in America.
"Are you married?" Eve asked.
He grinned. "Are you always this direct?"
"No."
"I'm not married."
The answer gave her an unexpected feeling of pleasure. Just looking at him made Eve want to possess him, to be possessed. "Why did you miss dinner?"
"The truth?"
'Yes."
"It's very personal."
She waited.
"I was busy persuading a young lady not to commit suicide." He said it matter-of-factly, as though it were a common occurrence.
"I hope you succeeded."
"For now. I hope you're not the suicidal type."
"No. I hope you're not."
George Mellis laughed aloud. "I love you," he said. "I really love you." He took Eve's arm, and his touch made her shiver.
He stayed at Eve's side all evening, and he was totally attentive to her, oblivious to everyone else. He had long, delicate hands, and they were constantly doing things for Eve: bringing her a drink, lighting her cigarette, touching her discreetly. His nearness set her body afire, and she could not wait to be alone with him.
Just after midnight when the guests began to retire to their rooms, George Mellis asked, "Which is your bedroom?"
"At the end of the north hall."
He nodded, his long-lashed eyes boring into hers.
Eve undressed and bathed and put on a new sheer, black negligee that clung to her figure. At one a.m. there was a discreet tap on the door. She hurried to open it, and George Mellis stepped in.
He stood there, his eyes filled with admiration. "Matia mou, you make the Venus de Milo look like a hag."
"I have an advantage over her," Eve whispered. "I have two arms."
And she put both arms around George Mellis and drew him to her. His kiss made something explode inside her. His lips pressed hard against hers, and she felt his tongue exploring her mouth.
"Oh, my God!" Eve moaned.
He started to strip off his jacket, and she helped him. In a moment he was free of his trousers and French shorts, and he was naked before her. He had the most glorious physique Eve had ever seen. He was hard and erect.
"Quick," Eve said. "Make love to me." She moved onto the bed, her body on fire.
He commanded, 'Turn over. Give me your ass."
She looked up at him. "I—I don't—"
And he hit her on the mouth. She stared up at him in shock.
'Turnover."
"No."
He hit her again, harder, and the room began to swim in front of her.
"Please, no."
He hit her again, savagely. She felt his powerful hands turning her over, pulling her up on her knees.
"For God's sake," she gasped, "stop it! I'll scream."
He smashed his arm across the back of her neck, and Eve started to lose consciousness. Dimly, she felt him raise her hips higher into the air. He pulled her cheeks apart, and his body pressed against hers. There was a sudden, excruciating pain as he plunged deep inside her. She opened her mouth to scream, but she stopped in terror of what he might do to her.
She begged, "Oh, please, you're hurting me ..."
She tried to pull away from him, but he was holding her hips tightly, plunging into her again and again, tearing her apart with his enormous penis. The pain was unbearable.
"Oh, God, no!" she whispered. "Stop it! Please stop it!"
He kept moving in, deeper and faster, and the last thing Eve remembered was a wild groan that came from deep inside him and seemed to explode in her ears.
When she regained consciousness and opened her eyes, George Mellis was sitting in a chair, fully dressed, smoking a cigarette. He moved over to the bed and stroked her forehead. She cringed from his touch.
"How do you feel, darling?"
Eve tried to sit up, but the pain was too great. She felt as though she bad been ripped apart. "You goddamned animal..." Her voice was a ragged whisper.
He laughed. "I was gentle with you."
She looked at him in disbelief.
He smiled. "I can sometimes be very rough." He stroked her hair again. "But I love you, so I was kind. You'll get used to it, Hree-se'e-moo. I promise you."
If she had had a weapon at that moment, Eve would have killed him. "You're insane!"
She saw the gleam that came into his eyes, and she saw his hand clench into a fist, and in that instant she knew stark terror. He was insane.
She said quickly, "I didn't mean it. It's just that I—I've never experienced anything like that before. Please, I'd like to go to sleep now. Please."
George Mellis stared at her for a long moment, and then relaxed. He rose and walked over to the dressing table where Eve had put her jewelry. There was a platinum bracelet and an expensive diamond necklace lying there. He scooped up the necklace, examined it and slipped it into his pocket. "I'll keep this as a little souvenir."
She was afraid to open her mouth to protest.
"Good night, darling." And he walked back to the bed, leaned over and gently kissed Eve's lips.
She waited until he had gone, and then crawled out of bed, her body burning v/ith pain. Every step was an agony. It was not until she had locked the bedroom door that she felt safe again. She was not sure she would be able to make it to the bathroom, and she fell back onto the bed, waiting for the pain to recede. She couldn't believe the enormity of the rage she felt. He had sodomized her—horribly and brutally. She wondered what he had done to that other girl who had wanted to commit suicide.
When Eve finally dragged herself into the bathroom and looked in the mirror, she was aghast. Her face was bruised and discolored where he had hit her, and one eye was almost swollen shut. She ran a hot bath and crawled into it like a wounded animal, letting the soothing water wash away the pain. Eve lay there for a long time, and, finally, when the water was starting to cool, she got out of the tub and took a few tentative steps. The pain had lessened, but it was still agonizing. She lay awake for the rest of the night, terrified that he might return.
When Eve arose at dawn, she saw that the sheets were stained with her blood. She was going to make him pay for that. She walked into the bathroom, moving carefully, and ran another hot bath. Her face was even more swollen and the bruises were livid. She dipped a washcloth into cold water and applied it to her cheek and eye. Then she lay in the tub, thinking about George Mellis. There was something puzzling about his behavior that had nothing to do with his sadism. And she suddenly realized what it was. The necklace. Why had he taken it?
Two hours later, Eve went downstairs to join the other guests for breakfast, even though she had no appetite. She badly needed to talk to Nita Ludwig.
"My God! What happened to your face?" Nita asked.
Eve smiled ruefully. "The silliest thing. I got up in the middle of the night to go to the loo, and I didn't bother turning on the light. I walked right into one of your fancy doors."
"Would you like to have a doctor look at that?"
"It's nothing," Eve assured her. "It's just a little bruise." Eve looked around. "Where's George Mellis?"
"He's out playing tennis. He's one of the top-seeded players. He said to tell you he'd see you at lunch. I think he really likes you, darling."
"Tell me about him," Eve said casually. "What's his background?"
"George? He comes from a long line of wealthy Greeks. He's the oldest son, and he's filthy rich. He works at a New York brokerage firm, Hanson and Hanson."
"He's not in the family business?"
"No. He probably hates olives. Anyway, with the Mellis fortune, he doesn't have to work. I suppose he does it just to occupy his days." She grinned and said, "His nights are full enough."
/>
"Are they?"
"Darling, George Mellis is the most eligible bachelor around. The girls can't wait to pull their little panties down for him. They all see themselves as the future Mrs. Mellis. Frankly, if my husband weren't so damned jealous, Fd go for George myself. Isn't he a gorgeous hunk of animal?"
"Gorgeous," Eve said.
George Mellis walked onto the terrace where Eve was seated alone, and in spite of herself, she felt a stab of fear.
He walked up to her and said, "Good morning, Eve. Are you all right?" His face was filled with genuine concern. He touched her bruised cheek gently. "My darling, you are so beautiful." He pulled up a chair and straddled it, sitting across from her, and gestured toward the sparkling sea. "Have you ever seen any-thing so lovely?"
It was as though the previous night had never happened. She listened to George Mellis as he went on talking, and she felt once again the powerful magnetism of the man. Even after the nightmare she had experienced, she could still feel that. It was incredible. He looks like a Greek god. He belongs in a museum. He belongs in an insane asylum.
"I have to return to New York tonight," George Mellis was saying. "Where can I call you?"
"I just moved," Eve said quickly. "I don't have a telephone yet. Let me call you."
"All right, my darling." He grinned. "You really enjoyed last night, didn't you?"
Eve could not believe her ears.
"I have many things to teach you, Eve," he whispered.
And I have something to teach you, Mr. Mellis, Eve promised herself.
The moment she returned home, Eve telephoned Dorothy Hollister. In New York, where an insatiable segment of the media covered the comings and goings of the so-called beautiful people, Dorothy was the fountainhead of information. She had been married to a socialite, and when he divorced her for his twenty-one-year-old secretary, Dorothy Hollister was forced to go to work. She took a job that suited her talents well: She became a gossip columnist. Because she knew everyone in the mi-lieu she was writing about, and because they believed she could be trusted, few people kept any secrets from her.
If anyone could tell Eve about George Mellis, it would be Dorothy Hollister. Eve invited her to lunch at La Pyramide.
Hollister was a heavyset woman with a fleshy face, dyed red hair, a loud, raucous voice and a braying laugh. She was loaded down with jewelry—all fake.
When they had ordered, Eve said casually, "I was in the Bahamas last week. It was lovely there."
"I know you were," Dorothy Hollister said. "I have Nita Ludwig's guest list. Was it a fun party?"
Eve shrugged. "I saw a lot of old friends. I met an interesting man named"—she paused, her brow wrinkled in thought— "George somebody. Miller, I think. A Greek."
Dorothy Hollister laughed, a loud, booming laugh that could be heard across the room. "Mellis, dear. George Mellis."
"That's right. Mellis. Do you know him?"
"I've seen him. I thought I was going to turn into a pillar of salt. My God, he's fantastic looking."
"What's his background, Dorothy?"
Dorothy Hollister looked around, then leaned forward confidentially. "No one knows this, but you'll keep it to yourself, won't you? George is the black sheep of the family. His family is in the wholesale food business, and they're too rich for words, my dear. George was supposed to take over the business, but he got in so many scrapes over there with girls and boys and goats, for all I know, that his father and his brothers finally got fed up and shipped him out of the country."
Eve was absorbing every word.
"They cut the poor boy off without a drachma, so he had to go to work to support himself."
So that explained the necklace!
"Of course, he doesn't have to worry. One of these days George will marry rich." She looked over at Eve and asked, "Are you interested, sweetie?"
"Not really."
Eve was more than interested. George Mellis might be the key she had been looking for. The key to her fortune.
Early the next morning, she telephoned him at the brokerage firm where he worked. He recognized her voice immediately.
"I've been going mad waiting for your call, Eve. We'll have dinner tonight and—"
"No. Lunch, tomorrow."
He hesitated, surprised. "All right. I was supposed to have lunch with a customer, but I'll put him off."
Eve did not believe it was a him. "Come to my apartment," Eve said. She gave him the address. "I'll see you at twelve-thirty."
"I'll be there." She could hear the smug satisfaction in his voice.
George Mellis was due for a surprise.
He arrived thirty minutes late, and Eve realized it was a pattern with him. It was not a deliberate rudeness, it was an indifference, the knowledge that people would always wait for him His pleasures would be there for him whenever he bothered to reach out and take them. With his incredible looks and charm, the world belonged to him. Except for one thing: He was poor. That was his vulnerable point.
George looked around the little apartment, expertly appraising the value of its contents. "Very pleasant."
He moved toward Eve, his arms outstretched. "I've thought about you every minute."
She evaded his embrace. "Wait. I have something to tell you, George."
His black eyes bored into hers. "We'll talk later."
"We'll talk now." She spoke slowly and distinctly. "If you ever touch me like that again, I'm going to kill you."
He looked at her, his lips curved in a half smile. "What kind of joke is that?"
"It's not a joke. I mean it. I have a business proposition for you."
There was a puzzled expression on his face. "You called me here to discuss business?"
"Yes. I don't know how much you make conning silly old ladies into buying stocks and bonds, but I'm sure it's not enough."
His face went dark with anger. "Are you crazy? My family—"
"Your family is rich—you're not. My family is rich—I'm not. We're both in the same leaky rowboat, darling. I know a way we can turn it into a yacht." She stood there, watching his curiosity get the better of his anger.
"You'd better tell me what you're talking about."
"It's quite simple. I've been disinherited from a very large fortune. My sister Alexandra hasn't."
"What does that have to do with me?"
"If you married Alexandra, that fortune would be yours— ours."
"Sorry. I could never stand the idea of being tied down to anyone."
"As it happens," Eve assured him, "that's no problem. My sister has always been accident-prone."
Berkley and Mathews Advertising Agency was the diadem in Madison Avenue's roster of agencies. Its annual billings exceeded the combined billings of its two nearest competitors, chiefly because its major account was Kruger-Brent, Ltd., and its dozens of worldwide subsidiaries. More than seventy-five account executives, copywriters, creative directors, photographers, engravers, artists and media experts were employed on the Kruger-Brent account alone. It came as no surprise, therefore, that when Kate Blackwell telephoned Aaron Berkley to ask him if he could find a position in his agency for Alexandra, a place was found for her instantly. If Kate Blackwell had desired it, they would probably have made Alexandra president of the agency.
"I believe my granddaughter is interested in being a copywriter," Kate informed Aaron Berkley.
Berkley assured Kate that there just happened to be a copywriter vacancy, and that Alexandra could start any time she wished.
She went to work the following Monday.
* * *
Few Madison Avenue advertising agencies are actually located on Madison Avenue, but Berkley and Mathews was an exception. The agency owned a large, modern building at the corner of Madison and Fifty-seventh Street. The agency occupied eight floors of the building and leased the other floors. In order to save a salary, Aaron Berkley and his partner, Norman Mathews, decided Alexandra Blackwell would replace a young copywriter hired six months ea
rlier. The word spread rapidly. When the staff learned the young woman who was fired was being replaced by the granddaughter of the agency's biggest client, there was general indignation. Without even having met Alexandra, the consensus was that she was a spoiled bitch who had probably been sent there to spy on them.
When Alexandra reported for work, she was escorted to the huge, modern office of Aaron Berkley, where both Berkley and Mathews waited to greet her. The two partners looked nothing alike. Berkley was tall and thin, with a full head of white hair, and Mathews was short, tubby and completely bald. They had two things in common: They were brilliant advertising men who had created some of the most famous slogans of the past decade; and they were absolute tyrants. They treated their employees like chattels, and the only reason the employees stood for such treatment was that anyone who had worked for Berkley and Mathews could work at any advertising agency in the world. It was the training ground.
Also present in the office when Alexandra arrived was Lucas Pinkerton, a vice-president of the firm, a smiling man with an obsequious manner and cold eyes. Pinkerton was younger than the senior partners, but what he lacked in age, he made up for in vindictiveness toward the men and women who worked under him.
Aaron Berkley ushered Alexandra to a comfortable armchair. "What can I get you, Miss Blackwell? Would you like some coffee, tea?"
"Nothing, thank you."
"So. You're going to work with us here as a copywriter."
"I really appreciate your giving me this opportunity, Mr. Berkley. I know I have a great deal to learn, but I'll work very hard."
"No need for that," Norman Mathews said quickly. He caught himself. "I mean—you can't rush a learning experience like this. You take all the time you want."
"I'm sure you'll be very happy here," Aaron Berkley added. "You'll be working with the best people in the business."
One hour later, Alexandra was thinking, They may be the best, but they're certainly not the friendliest. Lucas Pinkerton had taken Alexandra around to introduce her to the staff, and the reception everywhere had been icy. They acknowledged her presence and then quickly found other things to do. Alexandra sensed their resentment, but she had no idea what had caused it. Pinkerton led her into a smoke-filled conference room. Against one wall was a cabinet filled with Clios and Art Directors' awards. Seated around a table were a woman and two men, all of them chain-smoking. The woman was short and dumpy, with rust-colored hair. The men were in their middle thirties, pale and harassed-looking.
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