“Did I startle you?” Charlie Scirocco said with a chuckle, his voice as slick as axle grease.
Irene, with her arms still poised, gripped his forearms before he had a chance to slide his hands over her body. She took a quick glance around for Jack. Thank God he hadn’t arrived. Not yet, anyway.
“Just a little,” Irene confessed, regaining control of her voice. “I was expecting someone else.”
“I heard. You know the Casino has a policy regarding the staff dating the guests.”
“We’re not dating.” Irene was adamant.
“The policy also extends to fucking the guests.” Scirocco tightened his grip on her waist.
Irene seized a breath. “But it’s okay to do the boss?”
“Of course.” Scirocco was kneading the flesh just above Irene’s hip. “It’s how a pretty girl gets ahead in my organization. You know that.”
“Yes,” Irene caved and dropped her hands from his arms.
“Good,” Scirocco eased his grip on her, stroking lower. “Now, I was wondering if you might join in the festivities tomorrow. As a contestant.”
“A contestant? What kind of contestant?” Irene’s eyes were huge.
It was Scirocco’s turn to be surprised. “You haven’t read the noticeboard in the lobby?”
“Sorry Mr. Scirocco. I don’t tend to hang around the lobby. One of the guests might try to pick me up. There are rules.”
That brought a blade-thin smile to Scirocco’s lips. “Touché,” he said. “It’s a wet tee-shirt contest, tomorrow, before the final game.”
Irene was stupefied. “Oh that’s classy. You think that up all by yourself, did you?”
“Everyone else thinks it’s a great idea,” he defended himself. “I’ve talked one of the Colombian players into joining in and two of the American girls. Several dealers from the gaming floor will participate. Even one of your girls signed up.”
“One of my flight-attendants?”
“No.” Scirocco smiled. “Your co-pilot, Bev. She’ll be up on the stage getting dunked and I think it would be nice if you joined her. Round things out, as it were.”
Irene felt the pressure build and fought to keep a lid on her emotions. “Are you nuts? I’m fifty-two years old, Scirocco. My days of wet tee-shirts are long over.”
“Not at all.” And Scirocco hooked a finger into the yoke of her dress. Irene stood rock-still as he pulled the fabric forward and took a long and rather pointed look down. “Not at all,” he repeated.
Irene felt she was on public display and sure enough, when she looked past Scirocco, she met the open stares of the other party-goers. They were watching intently as Scirocco gazed down the front of her dress, sizing up the weight and thrust of her breasts. Her feet rooted, she could do nothing but turn radiant rose-red in front of everyone.
When he finally let her go, after humiliating her in front of two-hundred guests and co-workers, Irene turned quickly to leave. “You’ve seen the goods, Scirocco,” she kept her voice low, “so don’t hold up the festivities tomorrow. Start without me.”
He laughed at her.
Irene slunk way across the terrace, wishing she could hold her head high in defiance. But she felt beaten and demoralized. And she hadn’t even had her dinner. Irene was highly embarrassed by her public encounter with Scirocco and as she approached the stone steps down, she felt she was walking in a spotlight, the knowing looks from the guests like knives in her back. By tomorrow the rumors would be flying.
Retreating along the garden path, she hurried around a curve and in the low-level lighting, ran straight into Jack.
Irene clutched a hand to her throat. “Oh Jesus. You scared me,” she expelled in a breathless rush.
Jack was looking over her shoulder; a puzzled expression about his eyes. “The party over? Already? What happened?”
“Nothing happened,” Irene said a little too severely causing Jack’s eyebrows to lift.
“Well why are you leaving? No one show up? The food no good?”
Irene shot him a look. “Is there any vodka left in that bottle you have stashed in your room?”
Jack was hard focused on her eyes, looking for answers. “Well sure. Half-full.”
“Okay. Here’s what you’re going to do: You go to the party and make up two gigantic pork sandwiches. Bring them back here. I’ll be waiting. Take me to your room and after you’ve fucked me silly, we’ll sit naked on the balcony, drink liquor and eat. And once you’ve got your wind, you can take me back to bed for more. Got it?”
“Yes ma’am. And thank you ma’am. Will that be mustard or apple sauce on your sandwich?”
“Shut up!”
He took her up to his room and screwed her on the floor; her cocktail dress scrunched up about her ass and her pants still dangling from an ankle. It was down and dirty, primeval punishment: Somehow he knew, deep down he knew, it was just what she needed.
After he was finished, he stripped her and dragged her, naked and trembling, out onto the balcony. The night breezes cooled their sweaty bodies and they ate pork layered between slices of good Italian bread with fresh endive and creamy mayonnaise and washed it down with icy Rolling Rock. Their appetites satiated, they looked up into an inky sky, freckled with the constellations, and sipped their drinks; vodka spritzer for her, scotch for him.
Later, giggling like teenagers, he took her to his bed. The lovemaking was slower now. He was thoughtful, moving seamlessly from position to position, discovering what fired her desires. It was fun. And in the end, like watching a deep quiet snowfall, so very satisfying.
The following morning, they awoke to a fresh sea breeze bellowing the curtain sheers. They showered together, dressed and went down for breakfast. Irene had the fruit cup with cottage cheese while Jack made no bones about enjoying, as he called it, a proper breakfast: Two eggs, three sausages and a couple of slices of buttered wheat toast with guava jam. The coffee was rich espresso and served with scalded milk.
After Jack had signed the chit, they strolled the gardens together, identifying tropical flowers and watching the banana quits flit about the branches of the benjamina trees. Irene kept wishing the world would just quietly go away and leave them undisturbed, wrapped in the warmth of a new child-like romance. But despite herself, she began to fuss. She had an afternoon flight. The Bikini-Bus was going to Cartagena, a city she had never visited and an airport she had never flown to. She wanted to review flight instructions and sort out the charts. And she wanted to check in with Toby to see how the pre-flight preparations were coming along.
So in the end, she reluctantly excused herself and Jack, a pillar of understanding, had kissed her on the nose and released her hand. Back at Hobbit House she slipped into her room and couldn’t help but note that the bed she had made up for Pamela hadn’t been slept in. She exchanged her cocktail dress for comfortable jeans, put more coffee on to perk, pulled out her paperwork and started jotting down waypoints that would take her east of the Blue Mountains of Jamaica
She was just pouring coffee when she heard Pamela’s delightful laughter and the water pipe hammering as the shower spurted to life. She didn’t peek, but imagined the two women, naked in each other’s arms, whirling under the spray. Irene shrugged. She wasn’t Pamela’s den mother and wasn’t in a position to be critical. Hadn’t she herself succumbed to the magic of an early morning skinny dip in the ocean followed by a delicious turn under the cool downfall from the outdoor shower.
The water stopped and Irene knew the girls would be stretched out on the loungers, soaking up the warmth of the sun and working the tangles from their hair. She finished her mug of coffee and eyeing the paperwork, she thought it might be prudent if she left her chart-work for later. She could stroll down to the airstrip now, have a chat with Toby, and let Pamela and Ditz enjoy their morning in privacy. That settled, she quickly tidied up and slipped soundlessly out the door.
Irene crept around the back of Hobbit House and took the side path through the jungley undergrowth. It wasn’t much more than a goat track but faster than taking the main path up to the resort and backtracking. And this time of day, with the sun still low, it was a pleasant walk accompanied by the sounds of tropical birds and the sea-wind moving the palm fronds above her head.
Snap, buzz!
Irene skidded to a stop on the damp earth and listened hard, her senses straining. She heard it again: Snap, buzz! The intrusion was close by.
It was the sound of a camera. Irene was almost certain of it, but who would be way out here snapping photographs. She moved forward more cautiously, determined to find the source of the disturbance. Up ahead she saw the clearing and the Bikini-Bus revealed herself; bright snatches of pink showing between the leafy trees. A couple of steps closer and she could see Toby, leaning against a tire, ankles crossed, hands back, elbows locked. He was talking to someone. Another man.
Irene’s stomach jolted. Even with the man’s back toward her, she recognized the humped spine and the way in which his crooked neck appeared to sprout from the top of his chest, not from between his shoulders. And the man’s girth.
It can’t be, Irene thought, her mind muddled with the realization. The man turned and there could be no doubt. Hanz Skorjas, the psycho who had threatened to kill her, lifted his chin and ran his eyes along the lines of the Bikini-Bus and abruptly: Snap, buzz!
Irene looked to her left and immediately crouched. Jack Namath appeared close enough to touch. But his face was pressed to a camera and he hadn’t spotted her. It was a big camera, not the miniature she had seen him use on Cayman. This was a full-sized piece of precision Japanese engineering that sported a long telephoto lens and took both of Jack’s hands to control.
Irene sank lower until her bottom touched the earth. She curled up, her arms clasp around her knees and waited. But her mind was rushing! What was Hanz doing here? Had he followed her to the island? If so, why? And he was talking with Toby; what about? And why was Jack Namath, who stood not ten-feet away, interested in documenting their conversation with an expensive digital camera?
Irene couldn’t begin to come up with the answers, but one thing was sure: It seemed wise to keep her head down and wait things out.