Read Online Villiers Touch by Brian Garfield - Free Book Online

answered. The voice sounded younger than he had expected, but it was hard to tell. She seemed drugged with sleep. He glanced involuntarily at his watch.
    â€œMiss McCloud? This is Russell Hastings, Securities and Exchange Commission.”
    â€œOh yes—of course. What time is it?”
    â€œTen till two. I realize I’m a little early—we did say two-fifteen. If it’s not convenient, I can—”
    â€œNo. Give me five minutes, and come on up—it’s ten-oh-eight. Turn right when you get out of the elevator.”
    He went into the coffee shop and had a cup of coffee at the counter, finished it, and went to the elevator. It was self-service. On the tenth floor he found 1008 in an Edwardian rotunda at the end of the corridor. He recalled some literary acquaintance once telling him this old hotel had been one of Stanford White’s less memorable architectural monuments. Before the war it had been the home of several Algonquin Roundtable celebrities. It appeared to have been well kept up—not luxurious, but far from dingy: a select small hotel which would not cater to conventioneers.
    Her telephone voice had changed her image in his mind; he wasn’t quite sure what to expect when he knocked. Nevertheless, he had a shock when she opened the door.
    She was stunning.
    She gave him a radiant smile. “Mr. Hastings.”
    â€œMiss McCloud?” He felt he ought to have a hat, if only so that he could doff it. He walked in past her. The room surprised him, as well. It was large, informally divided by sectional settees and comfortable chairs, punctuated by walnut end tables, stern classic lamps, and a big fireplace that dominated one end of the room. The suite was done in shades of beige, brown, and pale green. A curved bar was built into one corner. The far end of the room opened through glass doors onto a narrow terrace rimmed by potted shrubs, big enough for two lawn chairs and a white iron table.
    Hastings brought his attention around to Carol McCloud. She had shut the door and walked into the room ahead of him. Her hair was soft rich brown, full and loose to the shoulders. She had dark, dramatic eyes. She wore blouse, skirt, and sandals; there was no indication she had hurried to get dressed. Her splendidly turned legs would provoke fascinated stares on any sidewalk corner; she had a long waist, high classic breasts, good warm skin tones, and a striking face that was curiously strong and delicate at once. No pose, no artifice—beauty, but not beauty’s arrogance. She had a good fresh pride in her loveliness that was neither vain nor imperfected by false humility.
    She laughed. “Well, sit down.”
    â€œI expected you to have white hair and a cane. I feel like a fool.”
    Her laugh was low, husky, smoky; she settled on the divan opposite him, full of supple grace. The appraisal she had given him was not the usual casual sizing-up an attractive woman would give a masculine stranger; it was more direct, aware, intense—and slightly provocative, because it was carried on a glance of slightly sardonic private amusement. With gentle irony she said, “I must say your approach is new. What can I do for you that hasn’t already been done?”
    She was smiling; but her words took him aback. Before he could answer she was up, briskly moving toward the bar in the corner. “I imagine you’d like a drink.”
    â€œKind of early in the day,” he said.
    She stopped; she seemed puzzled for the first time; she said, “Coffee, then?”
    â€œJust had some, downstairs.”
    Her head was tipped quizzically to the side; she touched a finger to the point of her jaw. “Then you’d better tell me what you do have in mind.”
    â€œMy secretary must have mentioned on the phone—I’m making a sort of survey of buyers of NCI stock.”
    â€œYou mean you’re really doing that?”
    Baffled, he was beginning to get angry.