Greenhouse Summer by Norman Spinrad Page A

persistent enough,” he said dryly, “I suppose in the end I could be persuaded. . . .”
    “Are we talking about beds or boats here?”
    Esterhazy shrugged, shoulders only, the smile fixed, the boudoir eyes inviting. “As I’ve already told you, my
boat
is unavailable,” he said, then paused dramatically. “
However
 . . .” he added, and let it dangle invitingly.
    Monique was not amused. But she
was
confused. What was going on here? Was this character trying to use sexual repartee to up an already ridiculously overpriced 1,900,000 wu to two million? Or was he serious about
La Reine de la Seine
being unavailable at any price and sincerely interested only in getting her panties off? But if so, why in the world would he not snap up an offer that would double his enterprise’s gross?
    Then the only possible answer dawned on her.
    The guy’s employment record had been as a glorified maître d’. There was no evidence that he had ever really managed the business end of those whorehouses and casinos. Why assume that
La Reine de la Seine
was anything different?
    “Are you . . . seriously considering my offer?” Esterhazy purred.
    “Are you seriously considering mine . . . ?” Monique purred back.
    Of course you are, she thought. Who wouldn’t be? But you just don’t have the authority to take it.
    “
La Reine
is not for rent to outside parties,” Esterhazy said with a great and entirely unconvincing show of aristocratic snottiness. “Not for royal weddings, not for papal coronations, not for the Second Coming of Jesus or Elvis, and not even for you, ma chérie.”
    Right, thought Monique, and just maybe you have the authority to change the color of the toilet paper.
    But of course he couldn’t admit it.
    Nor would it be wise to force the issue.
    Much better to give him a graceful way out.
    “I
think
I can get the client to swallow two million wu, Eric, so let’s leave it on the table overnight,” she said, and then held up her hand to silence his reply, giving him her own version of the boudoir stare. “Let’s not decide until we’ve . . . slept on it.”
    Prince Esterhazy gave her the full force of his bedroom charisma right back. “Well now,” he oozed, “there’s an offer that a gentleman can hardly refuse. It would be hard to deny that this conversation might go better over a champagne breakfast.”
    Monique was tempted. It wouldn’t be the first time she had allowed herself a tactical fuck, and this one would no doubt be entirely enjoyable. For while Eric Esterhazy did not exactly have her idea of a great personality, he certainly was one beautiful male animal, and given his own obvious high opinion of himself as a seducer and the nature of his profession, it would be quite a surprise if he turned out to be less than a master cocksman.
    Monique sighed inwardly, for no, it would be a highly counterproductive tactic. The whole point of letting him “sleep on it” was to let him have a private chat with whoever made the money decisions, who would surely accept the two million, and allow him the face-savingpretense that he had simply changed his mind. Which would not be possible if she stayed the night.
    “Let’s make it lunch instead,” she said.
    Eric smiled. “You intend to keep me up that late?” he said.
    Monique found herself wondering if she could. Or if
he
could. But this was not the time to find out.
    “Perchance in your dreams this night, sweet prince,” she said dryly, rising. “Business before . . .
pleasure
,” she said cockteasingly. “New York girls never do it the other way around.”
     

    After his tantalizing and frustrating tête-à-tête with the sweet-and-sour Monique Calhoun, Eric Esterhazy was in no mood for an alternative romantic rendezvous and had an urgent desire to kick her insanely generous offer upstairs, so he called his mother and met her for a quick drink at an anonymous little café on his way to the boat.
    “
Two million
, Mom!” he