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Authors: Donald Hamilton
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said, “we had a hard time getting you to sleep last night, but you certainly made up for it this morning. How do you feel?”
“Who had a hard time doing what?” I asked. She looked pretty but somewhat too fashionable and proper. I reached out and grabbed the leg of her shorts, threw her off balance, set her down hard on the bed, and caught her as she bounced. I kissed her vigorously to the detriment of her neatly applied lipstick. “I feel fine,” I said.
“Relax, Buster,” she said, pushing at me. “Your breakfast is getting cold.” Her voice sounded a little odd, and her efforts to escape did not carry conviction. We wrestled briefly, I kissed her again, and from there we proceeded to more adult occupations. “I should have known better than to marry a genius,” she breathed at last. “Six months of the year he doesn’t know I exist, and the rest of the time it isn’t safe to go near him.” She rubbed her chin. “Darling, if I might make a suggestion, it would be nice if you shaved before you let passion get the better of you.”
I grinned. She sat up and pulled up her socks, put her feet back into her loafers, and got up to retrieve the other discarded portions of her attire. She went to the dresser for a fresh shirt to replace the one that had got rumpled, and disappeared into the bathroom. I got up and brought the tray back to the bed and began to eat. Presently she returned, looking serene and untouched and radiant. She poured herself some coffee and sat on the edge of the bed to drink it.
“I think I’m going to do this room over,” she said abruptly.
I looked around judiciously. It was a black-and-white room, very, very severe and modern and not my idea of a lady’s boudoir, but what the hell? When I was in here my mind was generally not on interior decoration; the rest of the time I had my own room.
“Go ahead,” I said.
“I think… Darling, how’s your stomach?”
I glanced at her. “My stomach’s swell. Why do you ask?”
“I shouldn’t have let you have those drinks last night. Are you sure you’re feeling all right?”
I said, “I’m fine, Princess. You’ve been asking me if I’m all right for the past five months.”
“I know,” she said. “I guess. I just feel… kind of responsible for you. Greg?”
“Yes?”
“Please be careful.”
“What are you driving at?”
She said, “I’m driving at that I love you and don’t want anything to happen to you. That’s what I’m driving at.”
We were not in the habit of throwing the word “love” around very much, perhaps because it gets such a thorough workout from other people.
I cleared my throat and said, “I’m healthy as a pup, Natalie. Stop worrying about me. I’ve got it made. Honest.”
She shook her head quickly. “That isn’t what I mean—”
The sound of the doorbell interrupted her. We’ve got a refined one that plays four musical notes, but it still won’t open the door and tell the man we don’t want any. Natalie drained her cup and set it on the tray.
“I’ll see who it is. Finish your breakfast.”
The chimes played their little ding-dong tune again as she went out of the room. I heard her cross the living room, open the door, and speak to someone outside. Whoever it was came in, the front door closed, and I heard her say, “Just sit down somewhere. I’ll tell him.”
Then she came down the hall and into the room. “It’s Van Horn, darling. He wants to see you.”
“What about?”
“He didn’t say. Better wash your face. You’re still kind of lipsticky.”
She tossed my dressing gown at me, as I got out of the bed and found my slippers. When I came into the living room, Van Horn was sitting on one of our less comfortable chairs, looking a little like a man waiting to sell the lady of the house a new vacuum cleaner. There was a long, paper-wrapped package across his knees.
I said, “Hi, Van. What can I do for you? What have you got there?”
He said, “I want you
“Who had a hard time doing what?” I asked. She looked pretty but somewhat too fashionable and proper. I reached out and grabbed the leg of her shorts, threw her off balance, set her down hard on the bed, and caught her as she bounced. I kissed her vigorously to the detriment of her neatly applied lipstick. “I feel fine,” I said.
“Relax, Buster,” she said, pushing at me. “Your breakfast is getting cold.” Her voice sounded a little odd, and her efforts to escape did not carry conviction. We wrestled briefly, I kissed her again, and from there we proceeded to more adult occupations. “I should have known better than to marry a genius,” she breathed at last. “Six months of the year he doesn’t know I exist, and the rest of the time it isn’t safe to go near him.” She rubbed her chin. “Darling, if I might make a suggestion, it would be nice if you shaved before you let passion get the better of you.”
I grinned. She sat up and pulled up her socks, put her feet back into her loafers, and got up to retrieve the other discarded portions of her attire. She went to the dresser for a fresh shirt to replace the one that had got rumpled, and disappeared into the bathroom. I got up and brought the tray back to the bed and began to eat. Presently she returned, looking serene and untouched and radiant. She poured herself some coffee and sat on the edge of the bed to drink it.
“I think I’m going to do this room over,” she said abruptly.
I looked around judiciously. It was a black-and-white room, very, very severe and modern and not my idea of a lady’s boudoir, but what the hell? When I was in here my mind was generally not on interior decoration; the rest of the time I had my own room.
“Go ahead,” I said.
“I think… Darling, how’s your stomach?”
I glanced at her. “My stomach’s swell. Why do you ask?”
“I shouldn’t have let you have those drinks last night. Are you sure you’re feeling all right?”
I said, “I’m fine, Princess. You’ve been asking me if I’m all right for the past five months.”
“I know,” she said. “I guess. I just feel… kind of responsible for you. Greg?”
“Yes?”
“Please be careful.”
“What are you driving at?”
She said, “I’m driving at that I love you and don’t want anything to happen to you. That’s what I’m driving at.”
We were not in the habit of throwing the word “love” around very much, perhaps because it gets such a thorough workout from other people.
I cleared my throat and said, “I’m healthy as a pup, Natalie. Stop worrying about me. I’ve got it made. Honest.”
She shook her head quickly. “That isn’t what I mean—”
The sound of the doorbell interrupted her. We’ve got a refined one that plays four musical notes, but it still won’t open the door and tell the man we don’t want any. Natalie drained her cup and set it on the tray.
“I’ll see who it is. Finish your breakfast.”
The chimes played their little ding-dong tune again as she went out of the room. I heard her cross the living room, open the door, and speak to someone outside. Whoever it was came in, the front door closed, and I heard her say, “Just sit down somewhere. I’ll tell him.”
Then she came down the hall and into the room. “It’s Van Horn, darling. He wants to see you.”
“What about?”
“He didn’t say. Better wash your face. You’re still kind of lipsticky.”
She tossed my dressing gown at me, as I got out of the bed and found my slippers. When I came into the living room, Van Horn was sitting on one of our less comfortable chairs, looking a little like a man waiting to sell the lady of the house a new vacuum cleaner. There was a long, paper-wrapped package across his knees.
I said, “Hi, Van. What can I do for you? What have you got there?”
He said, “I want you
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