And this had been a good Monday. The good weather had followed them into the city. Even New York’s rancid air seemed cleaner. The market had closed up three points for a change, and at three o’clock she had called to tell him he could escort her to Boris Grostoff’s. That meant he had really made her inner circle. Boris had been her favorite director and his small intimate dinners numbered among the few parties Karla attended.
He saw his father enter and rose to greet him. The old man waited until their drinks arrived. Then he came right to the point.
“What does January Wayne look like?”
David was startled by the question. “January? Why . . . she’s beautiful.”
“Really?” His father seemed surprised. He sipped his Scotch thoughtfully. “Then why is Dee so frantic about her?”
“I don’t understand, sir.”
“She was in my office this morning to change her will. Her main concern seems to get this stepdaughter married. I figured the girl might be awkward-looking . . . or unattractive.”
David shook his head. “Actually she’s one of the most beautiful girls I’ve ever seen.”
His father reached into his pocket and took out a slim leather-bound notebook. “I jotted down some of the changes she wants in the will. It’s in the process of being drawn up.”
“Do they concern me?”
“Very much. You are no longer an executor of the estate.”
David felt the blood rush to his face. “She cut me out!”
“I’ve been bruised also. Our office is now sharing the executor powers along with Yale Becker of Becker, Neiman and Boyd. But the door is still open for you, my boy—there’s a provision that if before Dee’s death, David Milford is married to someone who has met with her approval, he will then become an executor and head the foundation.”
“Why, that bitch,” David said softly.
“Oh, there’s more,” his father answered. “Her stepdaughter, January Wayne, will inherit one million dollars when she marries, and ten million is to be put in trust for her, to be paid out on the occasion of her father’s death—or Dee’s, should she predecease him.”
“I can’t believe it,” David said.
“I can’t either,” his father said. “Of course, it’s not an irrevocable trust. Dee can always change it. Odd that Mike Wayne didn’t think about that. Well, I guess it’s obvious that the man’s sophistication does not extend to the drawing up of a will. I find his faith rather childlike, especially knowing Dee. But for the moment it will probably stand because it looks to me as if she’s really in love with this man. This amazing generosity toward the daughter is pretty good insurance on his staying with her. One thing for sure—Mike Wayne seems to be running this marriage. And here’s the odd part—he wants nothing for himself, just this unbelievable inheritance for his daughter. It made me think the girl was totally unmarriageable and that the money was the only way to buy her a husband.”
David frowned. “She’s shoved January at me right from the start. She wants the girl married and out of the way. I think for the first time in her life, Dee is really in love. Also, she likes to run things, likes to feel her power. And with Mike Wayne she has no power—just through his daughter.”
“And she figured by getting her married to you, that would please him?”
“No. I think she wants January married because she thinks of her as a rival for Mike’s affections.”
“David, what on God’s earth are you talking about?”
“I can’t put my finger on it,” David said slowly. “But that first night—several times I caught them looking at each other. January and her father. And there was an intimacy in their eyes . . . not like a father and daughter. I was January’s date, but I actually felt he was my competition. Dee must have felt it too.”
“But why would she cut you out as executor of her will?”
David smiled. “It’s obvious she wants me to be the one to remove her competition. The bait is there . . . in black and white.”
“Good Lord. Do you have a chance? I mean, has the girl taken a shine to you?”
“I don’t know. I’ve taken her out. But—”
“Well, would you like to bring her to the house for dinner?”
“No, let me do it my way.” He sighed. “Well, I guess men have given up more for ten million dollars.”
“What are you giving up?” his father asked.
“Karla.”
His father stared. “Good God! I was smitten with her when I was your age. Never missed one of her films. Twenty-five years ago I used to moon over her. But now . . . good Lord . . . she has to be your mother’s age.”
“Karla is only fifty-two.”
“Your mother won’t be fifty until February.”
“I don’t think of age when I’m with Karla. And it’s not as if I intend to marry her. Look, Dad . . . I know it has to end. I know one day I’ll wake up and suddenly I’ll be bored with eating steaks in her kitchen and rushing to movies that I hate. And on that day I’ll break all records with a fifty-yard dash to January Wayne.”
“And do you think she’ll be there waiting?”
David sighed. “I try to keep my hand in. I really do. But right now I can’t give up Karla. Not yet . . .”
“Do many people know about this Karla affair?”
“No. She never socializes, except on rare occasions, like tonight. I’m escorting her to a director’s house for dinner.”
“That’s exactly how you’ll be known if this affair continues. An escort . . . to an ex-movie queen.” His father leaned across the table. “Suppose keeping your hand in isn’t enough for January. While you’re busy with Karla, suppose January meets another man, a man who meets with Dee’s approval. Perhaps even a broker at another brokerage house. And would this woman—Karla—place her money in your hands and allow you to manage her funds?”
David shook his head. “She’s known to be the tightest woman in the world.”
His father nodded. “Then let’s say she wouldn’t exactly be an asset to you at the brokerage house.”
David nodded. “You’ve made your point. And I have the distinct feeling that if I don’t start really romancing little January, Cousin Dee’s next move will be to change brokerage houses, too.”
His father raised his glass. “Well, hop to it, son. Hop to it.”
Nine
THE DANCE FLOOR at Le Club was crowded. David held January close and inched her around the floor. He had taken her to Le Mistral for dinner. Several times he had held her hand and had been agreeably surprised at her response. Dee and Mike would be leaving for Palm Beach in less than a week, and he was determined to have January report the wonderful turn their relationship had taken. And once Dee was gone, it would be harder for her to keep track of just how many glowing evenings they had together. But at least she’d know he was in there pitching.
Of course a great deal depended on January’s reactions. He had to make her really fall in love with him. She was no Kim Voren. To Kim he represented not only a great stud, but security and a place in society. January didn’t need any of that. No, he had to come on strong with her . . . in bed. Once you hooked them in the feathers, the rest was easy. He could leave Kim alone for ten days and she’d still jump when he called.
All he needed was time. He had told Karla that Dee was forcing him to take January around occasionally. Karla understood. He had a bad moment when he hinted that he might have to go to Palm Beach over the Thanksgiving holidays. And Karla had said, “Yes, Dee invited me too.”
For a moment he had panicked. He could never manage that. In Karla’s presence he acted like one possessed. Dee and January would spot it immediately. “Would you come?” he had tried to make his voice sound as enthusiastic as usual.
“No. Thanksgiving is not my holiday. Even though I became a citizen, I never quite got used to it. It is such an American holiday—like the Fourth of July.”
But lately he had noticed a slight restlessness in
her attitude. When she spoke of Europe, which she did quite frequently now, he felt a sick feeling of foreboding. Yet deep down he knew his only salvation would be if she suddenly disappeared off the face of the earth. Because he now realized that this affair was never going to burn itself out . . . on his part. Sometimes he even had fantasies of her death. If she was irrevocably gone—only then could he settle down to the business of living his own life.
And even now as he held this beautiful girl in his arms on the crowded dance floor, he was thinking of Karla. It was wrong . . . sick. He’d always had complete control before. No woman had ever dominated him. Even in his wildest affairs he might have been carried away for a few weeks . . . that was part of the fun and excitement of a new romance, but eventually he always got the upper hand and the woman began to want him more than he wanted her, and he, in turn, cooled off. But it hadn’t happened with Karla. And he knew it never would.
But he had to become all-important to January. He had to make this girl want him, and need him, and wait for him. He wanted a little more time. He looked at her and smiled. She was really beautiful, even more beautiful than Kim. If he made his move tonight . . . would that be rushing her? Rushing her! It was November. He had known her almost two months. Kim had gone to bed with him the first night. And Karla the next afternoon. He had planned it for tonight. He had even bought the albums she liked.
Suddenly he felt slightly nervous. He hadn’t gone after a girl in ages. They had always come after him! Suddenly he didn’t quite know how to put it. Maybe he was out of practice. Or maybe it was because January was a cut above the girls around town. She didn’t grope for him under the table or say, “Let’s go home and make love.”
He snapped to attention. She had asked him something.
“I hear it’s always sold out, but if you have any problems, Keith Winters—he’s a friend of Linda’s—well, he knows a boy in Hair who could get us house seats.”
Hair! Christ, he had promised to take her to see that show when she first came to New York. He smiled. “I’ll get a pair for next week. Our office has a good ticket broker. Don’t worry.”
He had to score with her . . . tonight. It had to be all set by the time they went to Palm Beach. His father said Dee’s new will had been all signed and witnessed. It was now official. Of course if he married January everything would probably be changed . . . or even if they got engaged. He was possessed with a sudden feeling of urgency. He took her arm and led her off the floor. “It’s impossible to talk here,” he said. “Somehow we never get to talk. We’re always with people.”
He helped her to her seat. Then she said, “We could always go to Louise’s.”
He laughed. “No. Carmen the bartender and I are both football nuts. We’d wind up discussing next Sunday’s game. Look, why not come back to my apartment? I have all the albums you said you like. Plenty of Sinatra and Ella. We can have champagne and really talk.”
To his amazement, she agreed without any pressure. He signed the check and led her outside. Several people he knew stared at her and signaled their approval to him. Well, why not. She was goddamned beautiful! Tall and streamlined and young and—young! He had to stop thinking of Karla. Otherwise he just might not be all that great tonight. After all, he probably had to follow some pretty tough competition. She must have had plenty of fancy European lovers when she was at that Swiss college. Hell, she probably knew plenty before she went there. Any girl who grew up around Mike Wayne had to be a swinger. Look how fast she got a pad of her own. And that artsy crowd she ran with at the magazine . . . people like that reminded him of a plate of worms—eventually everyone got around to doing it with everyone else.
Well, he’d get her hooked tonight. Then perhaps he could manage it so they saw each other maybe two or three nights a week. And maybe by spring become unofficially engaged. But he had to hold her off as long as he could . . . why did he have to hold her off! Karla didn’t really give a damn about his future. January was his future! All right. But first things first. He’d make good tonight. And he’d still have Karla. All he had to do was keep his head.
January sat beside him in the cab as it sped up Park Avenue. She knew he was going to try to make love to her. And she was going to let him. She was curious about the whole thing now. She was positive that once he held her in his arms something marvelous would happen. They’d ignite . . . and maybe she’d really fall in love. She felt a certain attraction toward him, and Linda had sworn that once he made love to her, everything would be different. Linda had been stunned to learn she was a virgin. And from the attitude of all the other girls on the magazine, she was beginning to feel that virginity was nothing to be proud of. It was almost like no one had asked you to dance. She had taken her own private poll: there was not one virgin at Gloss. Except the thirty-one-year-old male theater critic; he had a German accent and always had an eighteen-year old girl on his arm, but Linda had said the word was out that he was a “self-satisfaction man.”
Linda was sleeping with the art director now. Keith hadn’t called in a week and, as she put it, she had to have a body next to her.
The cab stopped at Seventy-third Street. When they reached his apartment, David seemed nervous as he fitted the keys in all the safety locks on his door. Finally he led her inside and switched on the lights. She took off her coat and looked around. The living room was nice enough—phony fireplace, lots of hi-fi speakers. The bedroom door was open . . . Oh sweet Lord! A round bed and red walls! She wanted to laugh. The jock’s idea of a bordello.
He turned on the hi-fi, and the velvet voice of Nat King Cole floated through the room. Then he went to the bar and held up a bottle of Dom Perignon triumphantly. “When I heard you say you liked this, I bought a bottle the very next day. It’s been waiting for you ever since.” He began working with the cork. “I didn’t really expect you tonight, so it isn’t cold—we’ll have to have it on the rocks.” He walked over with the glass. “Well, what do you think of the apartment? No, don’t answer. I know. The living room is Macy’s version of Park Avenue and the bedroom is the socially correct young man’s fantasy room.” He stopped as he realized that Karla had never been to his apartment, and that the greatest fantasies of his life had been realized in Karla’s bare bedroom in her prim narrow maple bed. He pushed her from his thoughts and managed a smile. “You know, when I grew up I had the typical boy’s bedroom, decorated by my mother. Pennants on the wall, bunk beds until I was twelve, though God knows I was an only child and the only time the other bunk bed was occupied was when a cousin slept over.”
He led her over to the couch and they sat down. Now Nat King Cole was singing “Darling, Je Vous Aime Beaucoup” softly and beguilingly. She stared at the champagne. Dom Perignon was for special occasions . . . She took a long swallow. Well, this was a damn big occasion, wasn’t it? She was going to get laid!
She took another gulp from the large old-fashioned glass he had poured the champagne in. He was drinking from a smaller glass. She felt a stab of disappointment. She hadn’t expected him to be so obvious . . . to try to get her drunk. No, she mustn’t think like that. She wanted to fan the glimmer of attraction David held for her, not dissolve it. But Mike would never handle a woman in such an obvious way. Oh God! This was no time to think of him. She’d ruin the whole thing. She could just see his frown—” January, I wanted you to like the man but not this . . .” She wanted to run. Franco had been more attractive than David, yet when he had touched her she had panicked. Oh, Lord. What was she doing here? She could still leave . . . But then what? Remain a virgin all her life? Tell Linda she had walked out on David and Nat King Cole and Dom Perignon and a round bed and red walls? She swallowed the rest of the champagne. David jumped up to refill her glass. This was crazy. Was she going to bed with David just because Linda thought it was the thing to do? Or to show Mike that she was a match for Karla. Why was she doing this? Certainly not because she was in love with him. But what did she know about love? What was her basis of compariso
n? Linda said the kind of love she was looking for only happened between Ingrid Bergman and Bogie on the late show. Today that kind of love didn’t exist. Even her father had said he had never loved—he loved sex. That’s what it was all about. And she was his daughter. She took the glass David offered her and sipped it slowly. David was handsome. And once it got started . . . she would enjoy it . . . and love him . . . and . . . She smiled and held out her empty glass again. Well, he wanted her to get tight, didn’t he? He seemed elated as he refilled her glass. But he still seemed slightly nervous. He had finished his glass and now he was getting a larger glass and was pouring champagne . . . to the top.
The bottle was empty when Nat finished singing and Dionne Warwick began purring the Bacharach-David songs. January leaned her head back against the couch and shut her eyes. She felt David kissing her neck. Dionne was singing “Say a Little Prayer for Me.” Yes, Dionne. Say it for me . . . for January . . . I’m that girl you met with my father in 1965. I was only fifteen then and you told my father I was lovely. Tell me, Dionne—were you in love the first time you did it? You had to be to sing like this . . .
David was leaning over her now. He had finished with her neck. Now he was nibbling at her ear. Oh God . . . his tongue was in her ear. Was she supposed to like that! It just felt cold and wet. Then he started on her mouth, his tongue forcing her lips apart. She began to panic when she realized she didn’t like the sensation. His tongue tasted rough. His hands were groping her breasts, fumbling for the buttons on her blouse. She hoped he didn’t break them . . . it was her new Valentino shirt. But how do you tell a man you’ll open your own blouse—you’re supposed to be so carried away with passion that you’re not supposed to even be noticing what he’s doing.