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She had to remove the ice cube to speak. “Isn’t it obvious? Miss Hunter wouldn’t listen to reason.”
Pitt looked at her, half uncertainly, half speculatively. Why elect me, he thought. Why fight over a man she’d never met? And the jackpot question- what was her game? Pitt didn’t kid himself; no movie studio would ever star him in a remake of Don Juan. He’d had his share of women, but never before the usual preliminaries, the artful little lies, the step-by-step manuevers. He decided not to delve into her reasons but to let the mystery heighten the intrigue.
“Shall we walk along the beach?” he asked.
“I was hoping you’d suggest that.” She smiled, and immediately had him in her power. And she knew it. She shrewdly watched his eyes wander to her breasts, then down her body to her legs.
Her breasts were surprisingly small and taut in contrast with the accented curves that abounded the rest of her figure. In the moonlight and the flaming glow from the torches staked around the hotel terrace, he could see where the deeply tanned flesh, speckled by blood, plunged invitingly beneath the dress. Lower and beyond, her waist gently tapered to a firm, flat stomach which then exploded into a brace of pneumatic hips that fought to escape the tight seams of their green prison. She looked Indian, but the flaming red hair that fell to the small of her back did not attest to it.
“If you keep staring at me, I’ll be forced to charge you admission.”
Pitt made an effort to look shyly embarrassed but didn’t pull it off. “I thought art galleries were free.”
She squeezed his arm. “Not if you wish to purchase something.”
“I like to browse. I rarely buy.”
“So you’re a man of principles.”
“I have a few, but they don’t apply to women.” Her perfume was getting to him, a fragrance that somehow seemed familiar.
She stopped, clinging to him for support, and removed her shoes, wriggling her toes in the cool sand of Waikiki Beach. They strolled on in silence for a few minutes, she tightened her grip on his arm and pulled herself close as they walked.
Her eyes glinted in the dim light and she said in a low voice, “My name is Summer.”
Pitt said nothing as he enclosed her in his arms and lightly kissed her on her swollen lips. And suddenly the warning bells were clanging in his mind, but the warning came too late; the pain burst on him first His mouth dropped open and a gasp that started deep down in his throat erupted into the quiet air as Summer thrust her knee into his groin.
What caused the cells in his brain to order such a lightning reaction he would never know: through the haze of the shock he barely saw his fist lash out in a blurring reflex action and catch Summer solidly on the right side of her jaw. She swayed drunkenly for an instant and then crumpled silently onto the sand.
The hidden, unsuspected resources, ready to be called upon in a moment of desperation, kept Pitt from sliding into an unconscious void. The agony in his lower body forced him to suck in air in great wheezing gasps. He slowly sunk to his knees beside the inert form of the girl, clutching his groin and swaying in pain.
Pitt clenched his teeth together until his jaws ached, damming back any outcry from the agony. He dug his knees into the soft sand and swayed back and forth. Discovered hunched over an unconscious girl holding his hands tightly between his legs could result in embarrassing questions. Fortunately, except for a circle of beachboys and hotel guests who were seated around a small fire about two hundred feet away, the beach was vacant.
Four minutes passed; four minutes during which the grinding torment finally faded to a dull, throbbing ache. It was then he noticed something gleaming in Summer’s hand, something glasslike reflected by the flames of the flickering tiki torches. He crawled over to the girl, crouched over her quiet form, and gently pulled a hypodermic syringe from between her loosely clasped fingers.
Pitt was at a loss. In the faint light Summer looked no more than twenty-five, gentle and sweet. Holding the syringe, he wondered what it held as he dropped the liquid-filled glass tube carefully into his breast pocket
He leaned over, awkwardly heaved the girl over his shoulder, and rose shakily to his feet. It had suddenly occurred to him that she probably had a couple of friends lurking about in the shadows; he wasn’t about to wait for the posse to block the pass. His hotel was a good three blocks away, so he balanced his load, steadied himself, and began limping stiffly across the sand.
His one hope of getting pas
t the roving crowds of tourists who wandered the sidewalks at night was to skirt through the heavy foliage of the gardens. He certainly didn’t want to meet cruising policemen or a do-gooder vacationer who might conjure up the notion of playing Herbert Hero and rescuing little Eva from the villainous Simon LaPitt.
Along the sidewalks it would have been an easy walk of five minutes, but it took Pitt twenty by way of the backyard jungle. He paused in the shadows, catching his breath and waited for a group of drunken party goers to stagger out of view. He savored the delicate fragrance that whispered about Summer’s body. This time he recognized it as plumeria, not an uncommon scent in the Hawaiian Islands, but it was the first time Pitt had sensed its presence on a woman.
His hotel was just across the street now, the lights behind the lobby door beckoning with womblike safety. At the first lull in traffic, Pitt covered the distance on the run, his face strained from the ache in his groin and his lungs tortured from the physical effort of carrying a deadweight over a four-hundred-yard obstacle course in the dark. He threaded his way quickly around the parked cars at the curb, edged up to the doorway of the building, and cast a wary eye in the lobby.
His luck deserted him momentarily. A cleaning woman was vacuuming the carpet outside the elevators, a huge dark-skinned behemoth of a Hawaiian woman with an I’ll-scream-for-a-cop-look. He moved around the corner and trotted down the ramp leading to the underground garage. Except for a sprinkling of cars stationed throughout the dim, concrete interior, the garage was empty. He found an open elevator, entered, and pushed the panel button and then leaned against the heavy teak railing that ran along the closet-like walls.
Pitt was a damp mass of sweat now; the exertion and the humidity of the night had combined to push him within a hairline of total exhaustion. As he stood there, stooped under Summer’s weight, he managed to catch his breath. The elevator hummed monotonously and cooperated by not opening on any other floor than the one Pitt had selected.
The panel light blinked 10. Pitt’s luck stuck by him -the hall was clear in both directions. Groping clumsily in his pants pocket for several frustrating seconds, he finally managed to extract a key and shove it into the lock of a carved rosewood door marked 1010.
A plushly decorated suite was a luxury Pitt could hardly afford on his salary, but he justified its existence under the excuse that it was his first vacation in three years.
He entered the bedroom and dumped Summer unceremoniously on the bed. Another time, staring down at a woman who was so delicate and smooth, he would have felt desire. Not tonight. Mentally, emotionally, and physically, Pitt had had it. The day began and ended as one grueling endurance run. Pitt left Summer blissfully unconscious and entered the bathroom where he undressed and took a shower.
Nothing made sense. Why would a perfect stranger want to kill him? His only beneficiary was his little white-haired mother, and unless she’d given up charity teas and hooked rugs, and had taken up with the Mafia, she’d have no motive. Besides, he grinned to himself at the sheer fantasy of it all, what proof did he have that the hypodermic syringe held poison?
