This Time We Love Page 9

  “Sight-seeing,” she said disgustedly. “Do I look like a tourist?” Mr. Rogers and I have been working night and day since we arrived here. This is one of the most chaotic productions I’ve ever been on. If I ever sign a contract to work on the same film with Marcia McEvoy again, I’ll — ”

  “So,” Max interrupted gently, “today you become a sight-seer. Climb in, young lady.”

  Still talking, she climbed. Max could not avoid appreciation of the tightness of her skirt over rounded hips. He pursed his lips, wondering again why Nadine Barney went so far to hide the attributes with which nature had blessed her. He started up the sports car and they whisked through the exit gate and turned right on the highway into town.

  “This afternoon, Miss Barney,” he told her, “you see the Colosseum and the Roman Forum, the Trevi Fountain and Saint Peter’s, the Pantheon and the Baths of Caracalla.”

  “Hmmm. What are the Baths of Caracalla?” Nadine said. “Sounds a trifle indecent.”

  “Public baths built by Marcus Aurelius,” Max said, his voice assuming the tone of the trained tourist guide. “Built by the Emperor in the second century. Four thousand bathers could be accommodated at one time.”

  Nadine Barney looked at him and laughed, a tinkling laugh out of place in her characteristically business-like front. “Good heavens, how do you know all that?”

  “I have known all that,” Max said definitely, “since I was six years old. My father used to recite such statistics as though they were favorite poems.”

  “You must have had quite a father.”

  “Yes,” Max said softly. Then: “And when darkness falls, we shall continue being tourists. We shall visit the tourist trap night clubs, eat at one of the overpriced restaurants. In short, we shall do the town, my overworked, overtense friend.”

  She began entering into the spirit of it. “And why all this? Art thou a noble knight coming to the rescue of the damsel in distress?”

  “We’re celebrating. A new job for Max Fielding. Office boy, chief bottle washer, and swearer-in-Italian for the Horatius at the Bridge company.”

  “Why, that’s right. This whole project is quite legitimate. We’re celebrating your new job!”

  Max looked over at her. He liked this new Nadine Barney. He caught her regarding him with evident approval for a change. Now that she had decided he wasn’t the playboy type she’d first thought, her viewpoint was considerably different. Max decided to keep his opinion on treadmills, the nine-to-five rut and such to himself. Nadine Barney intrigued him.

  In the Porsche they sped through the sight-seer’s Rome at a pace. At those ancient monuments where parking was available they got out and did it properly. Where parking was not, they left it for another day.

  At the Trevi Fountain, which Romans will claim is the most beautiful in the world, Nadine said, “Why, I’ve read about this. See all those coins in there? The legend is that anybody who throws a coin into the Trevi Fountain will one day return to Rome. Every tourist that has come to the city for the past several centuries has tossed in some money. They have to sweep it out once a week.”

  Max pretended he’d never heard the story before. He stared at the pool before the fountain and said, as though in awe, “Gosh. What would you guess was the largest single amount one person ever threw in?”

  Nadine frowned. “How would I know? I imagine there’s been more than one Texan toss in a silver dollar.”

  “A dollar!” Max said in scorn. “The pikers. Here.” He took out his checkbook, ostentatiously wrote a check for a hundred dollars, and tossed it into the pool.

  Nadine tinkled her laughter. “You fool!” she said.

  Max grinned and took her arm. “Come on,” he said. “It’s getting too dark to see sights. Let’s investigate the food and drink and the wild life.”

  They ate at the Hostaria dell’ Orso, that once fourteenth-century tavern in which Dante lived and presently the swankest restaurant in town. Later they danced a bit at La Cabala, the club directly above the restaurant. And later still had a drink or two at Il Pipistrello, the lively crowded cellar spot where the pianist stood while pounding the ivories. They had a drink at Victor’s and another at the Rendezvous Bar in the Excelsior Hotel.

  In spite of all this, they weren’t getting tight. It was an evening of exhilaration, and they seemed to burn away what alcohol they consumed.

  It was in what was planned to be their last stop that they ran into Bert Fix and Jeanette, who for once was with her less than faithful lover. It was a small place, a block off the Via Veneto and only by chance had Max and Nadine drifted into it for their nightcap. Bert was at the far end of the bar. Jeanette, looking somewhat unhappy, sat with her hands in her lap and her drink practically untouched on the bar before her.

  Max wasn’t particularly in the mood for Bert Fix, particularly after the fiasco with Giotto. He found room for himself and Nadine at the opposite end, contenting himself with a wave to the other two when Bert yelled, “Hi, pal. Hi, messenger of doom.”

  They ordered Stock brandy, Italy’s best, and resumed the conversation they’d been following. Something, somewhere during the evening, had ignited between them. A something far and beyond what Max usually found in his feminine companionship. Now they were exchanging backgrounds, exploring each other’s lives. Arguing over Max’s philosophy of hedonism and over hers of the meaningfulness of hard work in a field you enjoyed.

  They became only slowly aware of the conflict developing at the other end of the bar, but finally it was no longer to be ignored and they looked up. Bert Fix, obviously tight again, was in nasty verbal debate with what looked like an American tourist. It was getting to the point of combat by the minute. Jeanette sat, her shoulders hunched in misery, murmuring soothing offerings to an audience beyond the point where they would listen.

  Max said, “Oh, oh. I’d better go see if I can do anything.”

  “Do what?” Nadine clipped, in disgust. “It’s the same old thing. If Bert wasn’t such a wizard of a PR man he’d be blackballed by every production in Europe. He already can’t get a job at home.”

  Max got down from his stool and approached the argument. By the looks of the bartender, in moments he was going to call the police, which would probably mean that the aggressive little flack would wind up the night in a drunk tank, Italian style.

  “Hey, easy boys,” Max said gently. “It can’t be that important.”

  The stranger who was arguing with Bert turned in disgust. “This little louse has been insulting me for the past ten minutes. What’s wrong with being a tourist?”

  “I’ll tell you what’s wrong,” Bert injected nastily. “They’re all gawks, tha’s what. Gawking around town like a bunch of … of gawks. Bassers, that’s what they are.”

  “Oh, Bert, let’s go home,” Jeanette said woefully.

  “Better still,” the tourist said nastily, in his turn, “let’s take a little trip back into the alley.”

  “Look, boys, this is silly,” Max said placatingly.

  But Bert Fix wavered up from his stool. “I’ll just take a schmall amounta that,” he said loudly. “Back to the alley. Get up the ol’ dooks. I been itchin’ to hit a basser tourist all night.”

  The tourist had a friend about the same size and a trifle the less the worse for alcoholic wear than his companion. Bert Fix, the two tourists and Max filed out into the darkness of the alley, Max still trying to ease things off.

  The affair in the alley was predictable. A great to-do was made of the combatants getting out of their coats. Stripped, the little movie flack was so obviously inadequate compared to his opponent that Max put up another plea for an armistice. It was no go. The tourist, scenting easy victory and in a pitch of anger against the insults he had suffered, was now out for blood.

  Blood was quick in the coming. One blow and Bert was sitting on his bottom on the cobblestones of the alley, his nose bleeding. The other waited for him to get up.

  “That’s enough,” Max sai
d. “Let’s call it a fight and have a drink on it.”

  “Not until he apologizes,” the tourist said. “Apologize, you little rat.”

  But Bert Fix was nothing if not game. He struggled to his feet again. “I schlipped,” he mumbled. “Put up the ol’ dooks, you basser.”

  This time he coromed off the opposite wall, on his way down, and took a moment to sit erect and to shake his head for clarity. “Didn’t see that one. Too dark out here,” he complained.

  “You had enough?” his opponent snarled. He was obviously getting to the point where he enjoyed this one-way conflict.

  “Nossir, you basser,” Bert slurred, struggling to get to his feet again.

  Max said, “Look, fellas, why not just leave him to me? I’ll see he gets home.”

  The tourist’s companion was beginning to get into the spirit of the thing. “Why don’t you shut up?” he snapped. “It’s not your fight.”

  “Now look, friend …” Max began.

  “No. You look.” The other man pushed him on the chest. “Just keep your nose out of it. Unless you’re looking for trouble, just — ”

  Max sighed unhappily. He went into the boxer’s crouch. His left slid forward fluidly into the other’s stomach. As the man doubled, his eyes popping grotesquely, Max clipped him neatly along the ridge of the jaw.

  Bert’s opponent was on him from the rear, swinging wildly. Max reached down quickly between his own limbs and snagged one of the man’s legs and jerked strongly forward. He winced as he heard the other’s head connect with the cobblestones. He turned around and looked at the fallen two.

  “Give me a hand,” he growled at Bert. “We’ll sit them up against the wall. At least their clothes won’t get so dirty. No, on second thought, you leave them alone. I’ll do it.” He arranged the two unconscious men in a sitting position against the alley wall, and checked the one whose head had bounced against the ground. He didn’t seem to have more than a quickly rising bump.

  “Come on,” Max growled to Bert Fix. “Let’s get out of here before we wind up with an assault and battery charge.”

  Bert was elated. “Man, we sure fixed them two bassers, di’n’ we, pal? Wow, did we mow ’em down. Tourist bassers. I hate tourists.”

  At the door to the back of the bar stood Nadine. “Well,” she clipped.

  Bert said happily, “Hey, messenger of doom, ol’ pal, did you see Maxie an’ me get them two bassers?”

  “I saw it,” she said. She made room for them to pass, Bert going first. She looked at Max, one eyebrow raised. “Don’t you even bother to get mad in situations like that?”

  He said plaintively in return, “Mad at those poor guys? Why should I be? I’m sorry for them. Now their whole evening is fouled up and they’ll probably feel terrible all day tomorrow.”

  “You seem to be awfully good at that sort of thing.”

  “It’s not my fault,” he said in irritation. “I’ve simply had a lot of practice. I hate fighting.”

  They rejoined the miserable Jeanette, who had remained in the bar, her face in her hands. “Come on,” Max said. “I’ll drive you two home if only to be sure Bert doesn’t get into another hassle.”

  “Man, did me and Max plaster them bassers,” Bert chuckled to nobody in particular.

  They all managed to wedge into the small sports car and Max, following Jeanette’s directions, drove the two back to their apartment. When they had left, he turned to Nadine, who had gone strangely quiet, now that the evening was about over. “Your place?” he said.

  She gave him directions, saying nothing further on the way there. She had a small penthouse apartment on Via Piccardi in the Parioli section. Max pulled up before the building and turned to her. He said evenly, “May I come up?”

  Nadine Barney looked into his face and there was something akin to fear in her own. She said, her voice low, “I … I suppose so, Max.”

  She unlocked the door, entered, flicking on the lights of the largish living room which dominated the otherwise small apartment. She walked to the middle of the room, and then turned to him, her arms limp along her sides. There was a pleading something in her expression.

  A roll in the hay wasn’t that important to Max Fielding. It never had been. Since puberty he had never failed to have all the women he desired; the very fact that he seldom pursued seemingly intrigued the female of the species. Max took her by the shoulders and looked into her face. “Look,” he said. “Do you want me to stay? If you don’t, just say so. I’m not the type a girl has to rassle with for an hour or so before she can get rid of the guy.”

  Her eyes went down, and she flushed. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, I want you to stay.”

  He caught her up in his arms, his throat going thick. She weighed considerably less than he had expected her to. Evidently, Nadine Barney’s erect posture and her business-like attire gave her an appearance which reality belied. “The bedroom?” he growled into her golden hair.

  She took a deep breath. “Over there. To the right. I … I think perhaps I’ve changed my mind.”

  Max carried her, pushing open the door to the bedroom with a foot. The room itself was femininely appointed to an extent incongruous with the business-like front the girl assumed in public. He stretched her out on the bed, removed her glasses, and grinned down into her widely open eyes. “Now, let’s see what you have to offer beneath that strictly business clothing you wear.”

  A tremor went through her, and she quickly closed her eyes even as he removed her sensible, low-heeled shoes. Her body seemed to tense as he raised her skirt sufficiently to unsnap her garters, and he peeled the stockings from her perfectly shaped legs. She murmured something in a pleading voice as he began to release the zipper at the side of her skirt, but offered no resistance. When she lay nude before him, her eyes closed, Max stared down at the fineness of her body. She was small, smaller than Clara Lucciola for instance, but so cleverly put together as to be unreal. Max traced his hand over the slight rise of her belly, and down. She shivered.

  Max said, his voice thick, “How old are you, girl?”

  “Twenty-nine. I’m twenty-nine.” She didn’t open her eyes.

  Max had lowered himself to the side of the bed, even as he stroked her. He said, gently, “Virgin?”

  She shook her head.

  Max said softly, “Almost though, eh?”

  “I … I was married … once.” She kept her eyes tight, as his fingers caressed her. She took another deep breath, then: “When I was sixteen. It only lasted three weeks.”

  Her body was relaxing under the stroking. Probably unconsciously she shifted position slightly so that he could adventure still further afield. Max said gently, “No men, no love life, since then?”

  Her breath was coming faster now. She shook her head, then, eyes still tight, gasped as he bent and touched his lips to her body. He realized that the girl had probably allowed herself to become at least semi-frigid over the years, had sublimated her natural sexual instincts into dedication to her work. He was going to have to take his time, plenty of time to arouse her to the point where she would be capable of culmination.

  Max had gone too far now to back away, but even as he caressed her, manipulating her woman’s body so that it would yearn to open to him, he wished in a way that he hadn’t made the preliminary steps that led to this. She was taking it much too seriously. He had assumed that a woman of her years, working on her own in as sophisticated an industry as movie making, would have a similar attitude to sex as he himself had, or say that Clara Lucciola maintained. A roll in the hay was a roll in the hay, and a pleasure to everyone concerned, and nothing more than that.

  After a time he came to his feet and disrobed himself. She lay there, an arm thrown over her eyes now, her perfect, though small, body awaiting his entry. By now he was ready for her and even as he lowered himself into position, it came to his mind how different this was from the evening before and the devilish, teasing, tantalizing Italian actress.

  She
spread her arms and legs to him and he entered her in love, and began moving slowly, as he knew he must if he was to bring her to the gratification she needed after so many years of refusing her body’s needs.

  Afterward he sought out his pipe and tobacco pouch and, relaxing in the bed, a pillow under him, tamped Burley into the briar. She had gotten under the covers, and now she had them tightly up under her chin, even as she stared wonderingly at him.

  As he lit up, he said through the smoke, “Okay for you … gal?”

  She nodded jerkily. “Yes … oh, yes.”

  “For the first time?”

  She nodded again, her eyes wide as a little girl’s. “Yes … I didn’t know it … it could be like this.”

  He smiled at her, taking the barb off his teasing words. “You shouldn’t have taken so long to get around to your next man.”

  Nadine flushed and suddenly Max realized that this had already gone too far. The girl was going to identify with him if he didn’t look out. Think of him as the only man who could bring her to orgasm. He’d have a woman with a permanent relationship in mind, which was exactly what Max Fielding did not have in mind.

  He got up and stretched and reached for his clothing. He dressed quickly, she watching him, her eyes troubled now. By the time he was fully dressed, the pipe was out and he struck it against the heel of his hand and poured the residue of tobacco into an ashtray.

  “Well!” He bent over to give her a quick peck of a kiss on her forehead. “Tomorrow’s a working day. I’d better be running along.”

  She blinked at him, her face so youthfully unsophisticated that Max couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to the brisk, crisp Nadine Barney. She said, hesitantly, “But — but when will I see you again … darling?”

  Max yawned deliberately. “Tomorrow, I guess, eh? At the studio.”

  “Oh. Oh, yes. Of course.”

  Chapter Seven

  MAX TOOK to the new job in a manner that surprised him, if nobody else. The fact of the matter was that his easygoing, softspoken personality stood out in the temperamental environment of the movie world like a walrus in a goldfish bowl. It wasn’t just the actors, bit players and extras; the whole process of making a film seemed to take place on the edge of hysteria. A highly keyed production illustrator in the art department was as apt to blow his top as was the notoriously temperamental Marcy McEvoy; a set dresser was as prone to throwing up his hands and quitting on the spot as was one of the most driven assistant directors.