Seven ways to die

22

“Shall I call you Daisy?” Ward Hamilton clinked his crystal glass of Prosecco against Victoria’s, and squirmed in his arm chair with the delight of knowing that, beneath her filmy white crushed cotton slit skirt, she was almost certainly wearing nothing at all.

“Why, Mr. Gatsby,” she purred. “I do believe you’re treading closer to the informal every moment.” She smiled at him lasciviously, and finished her drink in a single sensuous sip-her eyes never leaving his as she swallowed. In the distant background, in what could indeed have been scene from an F. Scott Fitzgerald novel, archers also dressed in white dotted the country club’s impeccable green lawn.

“You must admit it, darling,” Victoria continued. “I bested you roundly this afternoon.”

“You did indeed,” Hamilton chuckled affably. “But I am not surprised. While I’ve been slaving away at the Public Library and in front of my screen, you can practice any time you like.”

“Not that you did too badly,” she allowed. “Four bull’s eyes aren’t exactly a shabby score.”

“I am becoming,” Hamilton said, “an increasingly good marksman. Un bon tireur, as General Idi Amin used to say. Though he was talking about his rate of impregnation.”

“Why is it everything has to come back to sex with you?”

“Because you are my lover,” Hamilton said. “In your physical presence, there is nothing else worth thinking about.” He took her hand, and brought it to his lips, savoring her delicate perfume.

“If only it could cure what ails you,” she said, her eyes misting for a moment until she covered by reaching for the bottle.

Hamilton brushed her hand aside, took the bottle, and poured for her.

The waitress in the French milkmaid’s pinafore approached the table, a look of sweet solicitation on her innocent face. “May I bring you another bottle, madame et monsieur?”

Hamilton shook his head. “I think we finish this one,” he said in a teasing tone, “take it and you with us to the back seat of our limousine for dessert.”

The waitress put her hand to her face to cover a blush.

Under the table Victoria’s white-stockinged foot found its way into Hamilton’s crotch and gave him a playful nudge. “Don’t worry,” she said to the young woman, “he’s just joking.”

“Not at all,” Hamilton insisted. “We would take you to places you’ve never imagined,” he purred to the waitress, who was slowly but surely backing away from the table, glancing around for the nearest exit.

Victoria put down her champagne glass and reached for her cell phone. She pushed a speed-dial and spoke into the mike: “Bring the car around, please. Mr. Hamilton is being naughty again and needs to be attended to.”

Hamilton loved the look she gave him. He knew he was in for a treat.?

“The privacy window is up,” the chauffeur whispered to Victoria as he held the door for her.

“Thank you, Patrick,” she said. “Care to join us?”

“No, thank you,” the driver answered, flicking a speck of pollen from his otherwise impeccable gray lapel. “Awfully jolly to invite me, though.”

Victoria gave him a look filled with erotic promise, then ducked inside the car, taking care to allow Patrick a glance of her braless decolletage.

Hamilton was waiting.

“Are you sure you’re up to it?” she said, reaching for his zipper and pulling aside her skirt.

“You’ll see,” he said. “Viagra goes down very well with champagne.”

“Then I will too,” she said, releasing him from his white linen trousers. “Pretend I’m wearing a white pinafore.”

“I’d rather pretend you’re wearing nothing at all,” he said, moaning as she took him into her mouth. He pulled her hair away from her neck, so he could focus on the heart-shaped tattoo at its base.