Chapter 1
Barry saw her tender, pouting
breasts jabbing at the front of the blouse. He ran his tongue over his lips,
casually dusting the arid surfaces. The others had been easily convinced that
she and her husband would make welcomed additions to the club. Now it was up to
him and Valarie to make them want to swing.
"You're holding the club wrong, Mrs. Stillman." Barry
reached around the woman, pressing his groin against her firm, round buttocks.
"Golf is a delicate game," he said, giving his hips a
slight thrust forward.
Barry's hands dwarfed hers. He pressed her fingers
against the grip, all the while breathing into her ear and whispering about the
importance of the Vardon grip.
"Now," he said, his lips touching her small earlobe, "that
should feel comfortable. Command the club. Let it be an extension of your arms.
Squeeze the handle. Let your fingers massage it until you
know it as well as..." He let the words die. Smiling, he stepped away.
"Swing, Mrs. Stillman. Swing free."
The young woman pushed the club back and swung it hard.
The blade cut the ball, sending it skittering off to the right, nearly hitting
one of the other golfers also using the driving range.
"I'm sorry," she muttered, pushing the club toward Barry.
"I'm just so nervous."
Barry took her by the arm and guided her to one of the
chaise lounge chairs a few yards back of the driving range line.
"Let me get you a drink. You know how important your
golfing is to your husband's career. Very important people golf. And they often
like to make foursomes of their wives. You really should try harder."
Gwenneth Stillman swallowed hard. She pried the cap from
her head and shook her hair, letting the strands whip out into the breeze.
"I think I've had it for today, Barry."
She leaned back, eyes searching the cloudless sky, hands
resting on her flat stomach. She wondered why she was trying so hard in the
first place. She hated golf. Hated the country club. Hated the phony
atmosphere. But she was trapped and she knew it. Everyone was trapped, she
thought, in their own way.
She was closing her eyes, letting the sun beat down on
her pale skin when she felt the presence.
"Here's that drink. Mrs. Stillman."
She sat up startled. Barry stood over her, his broad,
ruggedly lined face broken into a smile. "Collins, Mrs. Stillman. You like
them, don't you?"
She nodded and accepted the glass, curling her small
fingers around the circular container. Barry pulled a chair up and cradled a
drink in his hand.
"Mind if I sit here with you, Mrs. Stillman?"
Gwenneth shook her head. "Don't you have any more
lessons?"
"You still have twenty of my precious minutes you're
paying for. Might as well use the time to relax."
He looked at her cautiously. She was looking downrange,
eyes sparkling as the sun dipped low, bringing the warm evening breeze to play.
He saw the fine chiseled line of her jaw, the delicate neck, sloping shoulders
hidden under a cardigan pullover. Her pouty breasts reared upward, nipples
jutting arrogantly toward the sky as she lay back, her smooth, fashionable legs
crossed, the mini cutting at her fleshy thighs. Barry sucked at the drink,
letting the silence dominate, trying to read signals from her. He sensed
nothing peculiar about her. No blustering desire for his body. Other women came
on like tuning forks in his presence. They looked at him with watery eyes. They
rubbed their breasts against his arm, pushed their buttocks back to feel his
groin, touched him at every opportunity.
This one was different. She tensed. Not just the first
time, but every time. He liked that. It was challenging. She would soon melt
like butter on a warm day. And he would be the sun.
"Husband out of town again?"
Gwenneth set the glass down on the chair's plastic arm. "Yes,
but you knew that anyway, didn't you?"
"Oh, yes. He mentioned something about it yesterday. Good
golfer, your husband. Going to be shooting in the seventies pretty soon. You'll
have to step up your lessons or become a golf widow."
Gwenneth laughed and spoke almost to herself. "Sometimes
I feel like a lawyer's widow."
Barry moved into the wedge. "Yeah, but it's kind of
boring having him flying all over chasing those corporation problems. Where's
he at this time? London? Atlanta?"
"Would you believe Rapid City, South Dakota?"
Barry laughed warmly. Down the range the golfers were
beginning to finish up. A few diehards beat divots into the ground. Barry glanced
at his watch. He was due for another lesson, the last of the day, in ten
minutes.
"Why don't you come down later tonight for a putting
lesson, Mrs. Stillman?" The question came fast, unexpected. Gwenneth sat up,
staring at the athletic man next to her.
"I mean, I know you're probably bored sitting in that big
executive house all by yourself. My wife is out of town, too. Golf tournament.
I'll be doing some paperwork late. Probably even hit a round tonight." He
stopped to sip at his drink, his eyes measuring hers, wondering if he was
moving in too quickly. "I play golf in the moonlight. It's different. Full moon
tonight. Should be like playing a lighted course. Come down if you want. Don't
bother calling. I'll be here until about nine."
He stood, drained the glass and smiled.
"Maybe I'll see you later, Gwenneth," he said, turning on
his heel and heading toward the plump, middle-aged man impatiently waiting to
be turned into Arnold Palmer.
Gwenneth sank back into the chair, her eyes following the
thickly muscled man. She saw his wide back rippling as the Jantzen shirt clung
to his body. He moved cat-like, feet and knees lubricated. She enjoyed watching
him hit the ball. He was fluid, professional. And something more. He was
masculine. That bothered her. She sensed him more often than she would like to
admit. When he was behind her, especially. She could feel an urgency within
herself nagging.
Doug had fired her emotions at first. But he was so busy
these days. They had been married almost three years and she had seen him for
only half that time. He was always going places. Flying here and there,
negotiating, counseling, appealing. And when he was at home he buried himself
either to the study with briefs or at the driving range with Barry.
Now it seemed the only place she could be near him was on
the golf course. But even that wasn't satisfactory. He had no patience with
her. When she duffed a shot he wouldn't say anything. His mouth would draw into
a thin line and his jaw would form a knot. She could feel the antagonism. He
had suggested Barry to her.
"Take lessons. Learn the game. We can have a helluva good
time out on the links, baby."
But she wasn't athletic. She hated P.E. in school. Hated
sweating. Hated being pressed. And she was bored. Much younger than most of the
women, she wasn't interested in bridge or gossip. She wasn't interested in
anything she could put her finger on. Everything fell into the same bland
category.
Maybe she would drop by Barry's later, she thought,
rising and covering her woods with the leather covers. Maybe she would. Not to
learn golf, but to relax with a man close by. If he tried anything, she could
handle him. She felt sure she could. But she didn't think he would. Barry liked
his job too much to risk offending one of Golden Hills' members.
Doug Stillman rummaged through his suitcase for the
bottle of Scotch. He poured himself a stiff drink and eased down onto the bed,
shoes off, shirt unbuttoned at the throat, belt loosened. It had been a
murderous day negotiating with the wildcatters. But management had made some
gains. He was glad. The way he had it figured the trip would be complete within
two, maybe three days, and he could get back to California where he belonged.
Sometimes he wished he wasn't so goddamned brilliant
about handling labor disputes. But it was in his blood, as it had been in his
father's. Maybe there was some genetic imprinting, he thought. Most of his
family had been lawyers. His grandfather's name was well known in the early
history of the country. His father, who died three years ago, had been one of
the top men in his field. Doug had followed the same route, not because it was
expected, but because it was inherited. He had never struggled with his life's
decision like many of his friends. He had gone straight to corporate law where
he knew his skills as a management consultant would be invaluable.
His father had read the signs for him. "Bad times ahead,
son. The working class is in revolt. A smart man will learn how to turn their
revolt into personal success."
God, Doug thought, how many strikes had he helped heal?
Too many to count. He had a long list of requests for his services, and his law
firm was more than pleased to let him pick and choose as he deemed best for the
firm and his pocketbook.
But it was tiring. Goddamned tiring. He had no home life.
He knew that. He told Gwenneth not to expect one. Not for a few years. Not
until he built himself an impressive list of victories and could start his own
firm. He wanted his own name first. Not third.
Then Gwenneth could have children. Then they could settle
down to some sort of domestic routine. But until then, he played the cards his
way, and she went along for the ride. It was their bargain, his bet.
The knock was soft. At first he thought it was next door.
It grew slightly louder. He answered it, cinching up his belt but doing nothing
about his shoeless feet or loosened tie.
"Hello, Doug."
"Valarie? Well, come in."
He pulled the door open and watched the svelte form of Barry's
wife swish past. She was dressed in casual slacks and ruffled open-throated
blouse that revealed her deep cleavage. Her feet were bare, toes hooked into
the silver of leather that held the sandals in place.
"Hope you don't mind me crashing in like this," she said,
smiling and glancing about the room. "But I'm in town for a small ladies
tournament. Amateur thing. Barry mentioned that you were coming here too, so I
thought I'd look you up."
Unconsciously, Doug fumbled at his tie, shoving the knot
into place. He searched for his shoes, found them and slipped them on.
"God's sakes, don't dress, Doug. I'm just visiting."
He turned a light pink. "Believe me, I had no idea you
were here. Barry should have mentioned it."
He had his shoes on when he realized she was still
standing. "Sit down, Valarie." He pulled a chair from the corner. "Care for a
drink? Sorry, all I have here is Scotch, but I can ring room service if you
want something else."
"Scotch is fine."
"Water?"
"Just over ice."
Doug splashed a generous amount into the water glass and
handed it to her. He was regaining his cool when he sat on the bed, a smile
pasted on his face.
"You know, it's really odd how friendly a friendly face
is when you're off in some remote place."
Valarie crossed her legs and smiled. She was a large
woman. Five-ten, a hundred and thirty pounds. But she carried it all well.
Exceptionally well. Her cheekbones were high, eyes almond-shaped. From the
first day he had seen her, Doug had noticed the sensual beauty of the woman.
Often he had spoken with her, but nothing more.
In the rectangular coffin of the room, he felt an instant
affinity for her. She was no longer Mrs. Valerie Benton. Just Valarie. Old
friend Valarie.
"You look like you had a busy day, Doug. I suppose you
wouldn't be interested in dinner?"
"Dinner? Sure. I had a rough day, but you've brightened
it."
Valarie lowered her eyes. "Well, we could have diner
here. I mean, if you don't feel like going out. I'm really not dressed. And I
had a full day myself. Thirty-six holes." She looked up, laughter in her chestnut-colored
eyes.
"How'd you shoot? Well, I hope?" Doug interrupted her
dinner invitation to mull the consequences. She was one helluva good-looking
woman. Different from Gwenneth. Gwenneth was fragile. But Valarie. She was
bold, confident, sensuous in a completely different way. He wondered whether he
should trust himself alone.
"I'm four over. Not bad. Not good. The next two days will
be the critical ones. But then I never come on strong at first. I lay back and
see how the competition is. Then I try to make my move."
"Sounds strategic."
"It is."
She held the glass to her lips, eyes peering over the rim
at him. She saw the hesitation on his face, the cords along his neck
stiffening.
"Well," she said finally. "What about dinner?"
Doug smiled and reached for the house phone.
They are well. The waiter brought a small table that
accommodated the chairs and a candle which he lighted with a sly smile playing
at the corners of his wizened mouth. Doug noticed it.
"He probably thinks I'm going to seduce you after all of
this," Doug confided after the small man had disappeared.
"You mean you're not even going to try?" Valarie asked,
leaning back, her chin lifted so the candle flame flickered shadows across her
face.
"And ruin a good friendship?" Doug said halfheartedly.
His head buzzed from the wine and Scotch. "No, I'm not much for affairs, Valarie.
They get too complicated. Too much sneaking around. More effort expended in
lying than in enjoying."
She lifted her glass. "Touch‚. An honest man in the
crowd."
Doug rocked back, hoisting his glass. "Don't say that so
harshly. You make me sound like a high moral handicapper."
His smile faded. She was looking at him, holding his
gaze, her face soft, eyes warm. He tried not to move as she stood and moved to
the small light switch. He watched her fingers reach out and flick it off. The
room was swallowed in darkness except for the wan light cast by the candle. His
throat was dry.
"Then you wouldn't be tempted by all of this?" she asked,
voice lilting as she padded back to the chair.
"I suppose I'd be a fool to say no. But temptation and
sin-if you think in those terms-are two different things."
He lifted the wine glass, decided not to indulge his
buzzing senses any more, and returned the glass untouched.
Valarie's voice was husky. She reached across the bread
basket and touched his hand. "You know, Doug. I've watched you now for a mouth.
I really didn't come here by accident. I knew you were coming here. And I
entered the tournament on purpose. I wanted to be alone with you." She pressed
his hand tightly, forcing her voice to crack slightly. "I want you, Doug. Don't
ask me to justify. It's something I can't explain. No woman can explain it when
she wants a man. I'm not necessarily talking about an affair. Nothing sticky.
Nothing complicated. Just one night. Tonight. Is that so odd?"
Doug Stillman had battled angry mobs of laborers. He had
fought in courtrooms against politically antagonistic judges. He had ramrodded
legislation for initially unpopular politicians. Not once in those times had he
had doubts about his ability to win, to overcome the fears and apprehensions.
This particular moment left him boneless. He was jelly.
His tongue was a foreign slug sitting placidly behind his front teeth.
"Look, Valarie," he managed. But she was up, stalking
around the table, pressing her large, warm breasts against his back, rubbing
her palms down over his chest.
"Don't question it, Doug. Take me. Take me and forget me.
I won't turn into a complication. And don't mutter anything about Barry. This
is between the two of us. If you don't want me, just say so. I'll leave
quietly."
She crouched behind his chair, putting her mouth to his
ear. He felt the sharp point of her tongue add the exclamation point to the
suggestion. His groin stiffened.
Her fingers pulled at his tie, loosening the knot,
slipping the noose up over his head. He sat dumbly, his tongue bloated, hands
frozen on his knees as she deftly loosened the buttons of his shirt and slipped
her cool hands against his hot flesh.
Her hungry mouth gnawed on his ear, tongue dancing
playfully into the auricle. His body was instantly numb, lifeless. He tried to
move, but he couldn't. She moved around the chair and picked his left hand up,
pressing it against her breast.
"Feel me," she hissed, tilting her head and kissing him
passionately.