Read Online Mistral's Daughter by Judith Krantz - Free Book Online

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"Ouf!" of surprise but he stood rocklike, too strong to lose his feet
in the mob.   Maggy lay in his arms like a
child on a swing, no fear, no alarm in her eyes, still under the spell of the
moment in spite of her instinctive spring to safety.
    She curled her arms around
Mistral's neck and let her head fall on his shoulder. Automatically he tightened
his arms and held her to him as she compressed herself into a compact oval,
bending her knees sharply so that her legs and feet protected the backs of her
thighs and her bare, silver-splotched bottom.
    Finally, Mistral moved.   There was a door to the street not more than
a hundred feet away and he pushed strongly toward it through the swarm,
clutching Maggy as if she were someone he had rescued from the sea.
    As he reached the street,
Maggy spoke. "Where are we going?"
    "Not far."
    "I hope it's an
unpretentious place."
    "Oh, it is."
    Mistral crossed the street,
turned a corner and walked into a large building with an ornate, sham-Moroccan
façade.   Inside there was a counter
behind which a woman stood waiting for customers.
    "Good evening,
Monsieur.   For one or two?"   She showed no surprise at the sight of a man
carrying a multicolored, naked woman.
    "One, please.   Do we have to wait?"
    "No, you're in luck
tonight.   I have something ready — just follow ine, Monsieur, 'Dame."
    The woman led the way down a
hallway lined with doors at regular intervals.   She opened one of the doors, ushered him in and shut the door behind
them.
    In the middle of the bare
room stood a huge tub filled to the brim with hot water.   On a chair by the tub lay a towel, a cake of
soap and a washcloth.   Still holding
Maggy, with a rapid movement Mistral bent down and tested the temperature with
one finger.   Satisfied, without letting
her feet touch the floor, he plunged her into the water, getting his arms wet
above the elbows.
    "Assassin!" Maggy sputtered.
    "It's not that I don't
admire your costume but it was coming off all over my shirt," he said,
vigorously lathering the washcloth.   "Give me that."
    "Certainly not. It's
man's work."   He took off his damp
jacket, rolled up his wet sleeves and knelt on the floor by the tub.   Maggy tried to stand up in the water but she
couldn't get the right leverage in the deep tub.   She floundered, heaving herself halfway out
only to slip back again. Mistral ignored her struggles and briskly applied the
washcloth to whatever part of her body presented itself.   Within seconds the water turned a murky gray.
    Maggy started to laugh
helplessly.   She let herself lie back in
the water and watch uncomplainingly while he scrubbed her shoulders and her
legs.   Only when he approached her
breasts did she pounce, with an overhand blow from her two hands, her fingers
firmly interlaced, right to the back of his neck.   His hat fell into the water and he let go of
the washcloth just long enough for her to grab it.   She slung a hatful of soapy water directly
into his eyes and, while he swore vilely, half blinded, into the towel, drying
them as best he could, she finished scrubbing off the last of the watercolor
from her body, laughing harder than ever at the sight of him kneeling on the
floor, dripping onto his shirt, his eyes red and smarting.
    At last Maggy dropped the
washcloth on the wooden floor and sat in the opaque water that rose to her
shoulders, her arms folded on the rim of the tub, her chin on her hands.   Her damp hair clungto her shoulders,
her eyes wet with tears of mirth, but her lips were curved in an old tomboy
grin, and she'd clapped Mistral's sopping hat on the back of her head.
    "Nice work," she
congratulated him.   "But what have
you planned for the rest of the evening?"
    Mistral sat back on his
heels.   What indeed?
    "I'm getting cold and
I'm getting hungry," Maggy menaced.   "And when I'm cold and hungry I get mean.   D'y' want to risk it?"   There was challenge in her voice, in her
eyes, in the cock of her head —