The Loves of Harry Dancer Read Online Free PDF Page A

says. “Gel. And take off your jacket, kick off your shoes. Make yourself at home. How about some music?”
    “Whatever you like.”
    She puts on a cassette. Ella Fitzgerald singing Cole Porter. Dancer looks at her in astonishment.
    “How did you know? That’s my favorite.”
    “Mine too.”
    “You’re too young for Fitzgerald and Porter.”
    She smiles.
    Out in the parking lot, in the black Mercedes, Shelby Yama and Briscoe listen to the conversation on their receiver.
    “I think it’s going well,” Yama says. “Don’t you?”
    “So far,” Briscoe says.
    “I have some wild TV cassettes,” Sally Abaddon tells Dancer. “Would you like to watch? Put you in the mood.”
    “No,” he says. “Thanks. I don’t need them. I’m in the mood.”
    “I thought you were,” she says. Unbuttoning his shirt.
    “Hey,” he says, “let me do the work.”
    “Whatever turns you on,” she says. Rubbing knuckles lightly on his cheek.
    He unzips her. Slowly.
    “Oh!” he says. “My!”
    “You like the merchandise?”
    “I love the merchandise!”
    Puts his drink aside. Bows his head. Touches his lips to her breasts.
    “Manna,” he says.
    “Don’t be afraid to hurt me,” she says. “I won’t break.”
    “Why would I want to hurt you?”
    He stands shakily. Undresses. She wriggles out of her opened robe. Falls back on the gently heaving bed. Splays her long hair over two pillows. Inspects him.
    “Look what’s happening to you,” she says.
    “Sorry about that.”
    She smiles lazily. “Never apologize for that. You’re sure you want to do the work?”
    “I’m sure.”
    “Do I get my turn later?”
    “If you like. We’ll see.”
    He finds what he seeks in her body. Grief is banished. Memories fade. Her flesh narcotizes him. One erect nipple becomes a universe. He wants to dwell in her.
    “What perfume are you using?” he asks.
    “Something special. Do you like it?”
    “It’s different. Exciting.”
    “Smell here,” she says. Moving his head down with her palms. “There. I doused myself. Good?”
    “Oh yes,” he says. Not sure. A troubling scent.
    He is a tender lover. Wanting to give her joy. She moves gently with content.
    “Sweet,” she says. “So sweet. I love you.”
    “Is that in the script?” Briscoe demands in the parking lot.
    “Well…no,” case officer Yama admits. “Not exactly. But she has permission to improvise. She’s an old hand at this. She knows what she’s doing.”
    Briscoe doesn’t reply.
    “Roll over,” Harry Dancer says. “Let me kiss your beautiful back.”
    He straddles her. Softly massages neck, shoulders.
    “Magic hands,” she murmurs. Eyes closed.
    He bends down to drift lips along her spine, ribs.
    “You’re too much,” she says.
    He has learned from Sylvia. Sylvia—his dead wife. He knows the places. The touches. He kisses. Kisses. And caresses.
    “Oh…” she breathes. “Where have you been all my life?”
    “Your two hundred and forty-six years?” he asks. Thinking her reactions are faked. Whore’s talk.
    “That’s right. I’ve been waiting for you.”
    “I don’t like this,” Briscoe says. Listening in the black Mercedes. “She’s deviating too far from the scenario.”
    “Give her time,” Shelby Yama says. “She’s just going along with him.”
    “I don’t like it,” Briscoe repeats. “I believe she’s losing control.”
    “I think now would be a good time,” Harry Dancer says. “Don’t you?”
    “Oh yes,” she says. Rolling over to face him. “Please.”
    Her arms are strong about his back. Muscled thighs clasp him. Close, they stare into each other’s eyes.
    Technique deserts him. He is free and soaring. Outside his rational self. Finding the oblivion he needs.
    She holds his face in her palms. Making no effort to kiss his lips. Her body becomes inflamed. Scent stronger. She moves in anguished thrusts. Eyes closed.
    He is dimly conscious of her heat. Searing fire. Looking down, he sees her flesh harden.