March Violets by Philip Kerr Page A

it.’
    â€˜Did you mention it to your husband?’
    â€˜No,’ she said. ‘Actually, I forgot about it. And even if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have told him. Hermann is not the sort of person who could have just left it alone to sort itself out. Most rich men are like that, I think. Distrustful, and suspicious.’
    â€˜I’d say he must trust you a great deal to let you keep your own apartment.’
    She laughed scornfully. ‘God, what a joke. If you knew what I have to put up with. But then you probably know all about us, you being a private investigator.’ She didn’t let me answer. ‘I’ve had to sack several of my maids because they were being bribed by him to spy on me. He’s really a very jealous man.’
    â€˜Under similar circumstances I’d probably act the same way,’ I told her. ‘Most men would be jealous of a woman like you.’ She looked me in the eye, and then at the rest of me. It was the sort of provocative look that only whores and phenomenally rich and beautiful film stars can get away with. It was meant to get me to climb aboard her bones like a creeper on to a trellis. A look that made me want to gore a hole in the rug. ‘Frankly, you probably like to make a man jealous. You strike me as the kind of woman who holds out her hand to signal a left and then makes a right, just to keep him guessing. Are you ready to tell me why you asked me here tonight?’
    â€˜I’ve sent the maid home,’ she said, ‘so stop thrashing words and kiss me, you big idiot.’ Normally I’m not too good at taking orders, but on this occasion I didn’t quarrel. It’s not every day that a film star tells you to kiss her. She gave me the soft, luscious inside of her lips, and I let myself equal their competence, just to be polite. After a minute I felt her body stir, and when she pulled her mouth away from my lamprey-like kiss her voice was hot and breathless.
    â€˜My, that was a real slow-burner.’
    â€˜I practise on my forearm.’ She smiled and raised her mouth up to mine, kissing me like she intended to lose control of herself and so that I would stop holding something back from her. She was breathing through her nose, as if she needed more oxygen, gradually getting serious about it, and me keeping pace with her, until she said:
    â€˜I want you to fuck me, Bernie.’ I heard each word in my fly. We stood up in silence, and taking me by the hand she led me to the bedroom.
    â€˜I’ve got to go to the bathroom first,’ I said. She was pulling the pyjama-jacket over her head, her breasts wobbling: these were real film star’s chicks and for a moment I couldn’t take my eyes off them. Each brown nipple was like a British Tommy’s helmet.
    â€˜Don’t be too long, Bernie,’ she said, dropping first her sash, and then the trousers, so that she stood there in just her knickers.
    But in the bathroom I took a long, honest look in the mirror, which was one whole wall, and asked myself why a living goddess like the one turning down the white satin sheets needed me of all people to help justify an expensive laundry account. It wasn’t my choirboy’s face, or my sunny disposition. With my broken nose and my car-bumper of a jaw, I was handsome only by the standards of a fairground boxing-booth. I didn’t imagine for a minute that my blond hair and blue eyes made me fashionable. She wanted something else besides a brush, and I had a shrewd idea what it was. The trouble was I had an erection that, temporarily at least, was very firmly in command.
    Back in the bedroom, she was still standing there, waiting for me to come and help myself. Impatient of her, I snatched her knickers down, pulling her onto the bed, where I prised her sleek, tanned thighs apart like an excited scholar opening a priceless book. For quite a while I pored over the text, turning the pages with my fingers and