The Pirate by Harold Robbins Page B

said.
    “Thank you, Mr. Al Fay. I’m truly flattered.”
    “I’m sure I’m not alone,” Baydr said, and decided to come right to the point. After all, the man was American and he didn’t have to beat around the bush. “That is why I decided to ask if you would be interested in doing a film based on the life of the Prophet. Have you ever thought about it?”
    The director pulled at his drink. “Honestly, Mr. Al Fay, I never have.”
    “Any particular reason, Mr. Vincent?”
    Vincent shook his head. “It just never occurred to me. Maybe it’s because we Americans know very little about Muhammad.”
    “But there are more than four hundred million people who do,” Baydr said.
    Vincent nodded. “I know that now. Mr. Ziad very carefully explained that to me. He also gave me several biographies of the Prophet and I must admit that I was fascinated with the idea.”
    “Do you think there is a film there?”
    “I do, a very good film.”
    “One that could be successful in the Western world? One that could help them understand that we have a civilization founded on morality much like their own?”
    “Successful? I don’t know. There will be problems in exhibition,” the director answered. “In terms of understanding, I would say, yes. Conditional, of course, on the film being shown.”
    Baydr nodded. “I understand that. But suppose that were possible. What is the first step we would have to take to get the film made?”
    “All films begin with a script.”
    “You’ve written the scripts for your other films. Would you consider writing this one?”
    “I would if I knew enough, but I’m afraid I lack knowledge.”
    “If you could obtain the help you need, would you then consider it?”
    “If I were sure that when I was finished with the script a picture would be made.”
    “And if I guarantee that the picture will be made?”
    Vincent looked at Baydr and took a deep breath. If he said yes and the picture were abandoned, he would be finished in the industry. The Jews would see to that. But if it were made, and it was good, they would even play it in their theaters. They didn’t care what the film was if it brought money into the box office. “I’m expensive,” he said. “I don’t come cheap.”
    “I already know that, Mr. Vincent. Would a fee of one million dollars plus a share of the profits of the picture be too little?”
    ***
    The music that came through the loudspeakers was slow and romantic and the floor was crowded as Jacques took the glass of champagne from her hand, put it down and led her onto the floor. He smiled down at her. “I have waited a long time for the right music so that I could ask you to dance.”
    Jordana felt the champagne buzzing in her head. She smiled back at him. “How nice.”
    He pulled her close to him. “You Americans. Is that all you can say? ‘How nice.’”
    She looked up into his face. “American? I’m not American. Can’t you tell from my dress?”
    “Don’t talk,” he said. “Just dance.” He moved her head against his shoulder and with his other hand in the small of her back pressed her hips tightly against him. He moved very slowly in time with the music, allowing her to feel his growing erection.
    After a moment, he looked down at her. Her eyes were closed. He let the hand that held her drop to his side, then moving toward the railing where no one could see what they were doing, he began to rub her hand against his rocklike shaft. “I have buttons on my trousers,” he whispered. “Not zips. Open them.”
    She stared up at him, her eyes wide. “You’re crazy!” she whispered. “There are people watching!”
    “No one can see!” he whispered fiercely. “We have our backs to them. I have already masturbated twice since your dance. This time I must have you touch me!”
    Still looking into his eyes, her fingers found the buttons and opened them. He wore no undershorts and his phallus leaped out into her hand. He pressed her head against his