Dangerous Moonlight, ch 4

September 2, 1990

Before leaving the cabin, she checked her face. She was only eighteen, and she needed to look like she was in her mid-twenties, or even older. “Alice Bravo” might have a reputation among the travel-writing cognoscenti, but when you mixed with the rich and the famous you had to have an air of sophistication about yourself as well. And youth and sophistication didn’t really mix.

So Alice had explained to her.

Michele had never paid much attention to makeup – she’d never needed it. Her eyebrows were perfect arcs already, her nose was long and straight, her cheekbones high. As a mountain biker she had a natural tan, and no need for blusher. She’d worn a bit of lipstick and that had been enough.

“But not for this cruise,” her sister had pointed out, and then spent three hours teaching her how to do her face. For looking mature in daylight, and for looking all dolled up and ready to party in the evenings.

After applying a bit of eye shadow to bring out the intense blue of her eyes, a bit of lipstick, and a bit of blusher, Michele sallied forth once more.

The promenade deck that morning was well populated with strolling singles and couples, power-walkers, and even joggers.

Michele plucked out her sister’s voice-activated digital recorder from her pocket, turned it on, and began to describe what she was seeing.

“This cruise ship has several decks, each with a different name. Right now I’m walking on the promenade deck. The center line of the deck is taken up with various public access rooms, a lounge, a bar, a lounge and a bar, a couple of restaurants, an art gallery, a movie theater, and a stage theater – where the musical acts are going to perform tonight. And there are bathrooms, of course.

The actual promenade, is about twenty feet wide, made of some kind of wood….oak? Looks quite pretty actually. It runs all the way around the ship, so that joggers and people who want exercise can go around in circles as many times as they want. Alice – the ship is 3 football fields in length. I’ll leave it to you to figure out how many miles once around it is!

But the deck isn’t just for joggers. There are deck chairs everywhere, and they are already filled to capacity with sunbathers, and every once in a while, someone reading a book.

It’s ten a.m., and lots of people are out here getting their exercises. Some are in shorts and shirts like me, others are in swim suits. Oh, and we’re protected from falling overboard by a waist high railing. …I don’t see any of the actors….”

“Alice”, said Patrick.

Patrick Ardmore, her partner from last night, was suddenly at her side.

He also was dressed in mufti – plaid shorts and a white t-shirt.

“Good morning, Patrick,” said Michele, smiling. “Out for your morning constitutional?”

“That was my plan, but jeez, this ship is as long as a city block. My dogs…”

“Are killing you,” Michele finished for him.

“You got that right. You’d think they’d provide people with roller blades or something….”

“Well, I’ve promised myself I’m going to walk around the entire ship, so…”

“Sure – I’m going to grab that deck chair before someone else gets it. Care to have lunch with me today?”

“Sure. When and where?”

“How about noon straight up, in the Charing Cross Lounge?”

“I’ll be there.”

Patrick nodded and staked his claim to the deck chair, while Michele continued on her walk.

Patrick stared after her. She had a long, athletic stride. Too bad her shorts were so long, extending almost to her knee. He’d’ve liked to have seen a lot more skin…most girls these days wore their shorts right up to their buttcheeks, and she had a sweet ass…

Over lunch, Patrick said “I enjoyed last night. A memorable party to start the cruise.”

“Yes, it was fun.”

“They’re having a dance tonight in the main ballroom. I’d love to escort you to it.”

Michele smiled. Flattering…but if she were to meet Robert Wade there, she didn’t want to have an escort. On the other hand, even if she did meet Robert Wade, would she have the nerve to go up to him? Although she was 18, Michele had no fear of chatting with CEOs, politicians, or people of that ilk. After all, she’d helped her mother and sister entertain at parties that her father had given for the Airforce brass on occasion. But for some reason she was nervous meeting an actor….

“I don’t know how to dance,” she said. It was true – she didn’t. Not the type of dancing that required two people working together as a team, like the Charleston or a Tango or something of that nature.

“No problem. They’re holding classes in the Terpsichore Lounge.”

“That’s right,” agreed Michele, “I’d forgotten. All cruise long.”

“Classes every hour,” Patrick expanded. “So there’s one starting in a few minutes. I’ll be your partner.”

Michele smiled again. Nice as Patrick was, she didn’t want to be stuck with him all cruise long. Even if there was no Robert Wade….she wanted her privacy, her independence. She wanted to be able to go where she wanted when she wanted, and she was getting the impression that he wanted to be by her side every minute.

Alice had warned her about that. “Shipboard romances are very popular on cruises, Michele. The atmosphere is so heady…you’re in a world of your own for six days, seven days….”

She hadn’t expected the atmosphere to get to her….and it wasn’t going to, as far as Patrick was concerned. But Robert Wade the actor….

But how to put this diplomatically to Ardmore? She didn’t have the experience in letting men down firmly but subtly that her sister probably had, after five years of mingling with the rich and the famous, (as well as the poor and unknown too, of course). And then how humiliating it would be if she was totally wrong about Patrick’s interest her, and he was only desirous of her as a dance partner and for no other reason. Was she just being a hopeful virgin?

“What’s so funny?” asked Patrick as a chuckle escaped her.

“Sorry, I was thinking of something else. Sure, let’s go dancing.”

Dangerous Moonlight ch 3

September 2, 1990

Four hours later, Michele opened her eyes and looked at the clock on the nightstand. Six thirty. In the morning. She wished she could roll over and go back to bed, but she had a lot of work to do. Nevertheless, it took her a couple more minutes before she could force herself to roll out of bed. She glanced at her cabin-mate – still dead to the world.

After grabbing a quick shower, Michele threw on black shorts and t-shirt and made her way to the aft dining room. (The liner had two dining rooms of course, one forward and one aft.)

A breakfast buffet lined the entire back of the room. Michele filled a plate with a couple of sausage, which she doused liberally with maple syrup, and scrambled eggs prepared with chopped onions and cheese mixed in. A cup of ice-cold orange juice topped off the deal.

The dining room was large and there was plenty of room to walk between tables. Michele glanced around as unobtrusively as possible, half hoping she’d see Robert Wade and half hoping she wouldn’t. He would undoubtedly be dining in his cabin, away from the hoi polloi.

And really, she told herself, what would you do even if you did see him? All she knew was that he was an actor, and cute. She’d have to do some research on his career so she could talk to him intelligently, if she ever did see him again. She took her tray to a table adjacent to a huge plate glass window that allowed her to look out over the blue ocean, and caught her breath. So beautiful.

And the food wasn’t too bad, either.

Back in her cabin, she fired up her laptop.

“Okay,” she told herself, wiggling her fingers in preparation. “Do it just the way the Red Queen told Alice. Start at the beginning, go on until the end, and then stop.”

So she started from the beginning, with her arrival at Pier 31 the day before the ship was to begin its maiden voyage. A Comstock representative had met her and escorted her to what he called the Green Room, where she’d met the rest of her fellow travel writer, and their role for the next evening’s festivities had been sketched out. She’d also received her information packet about the ship, which all the other guests would find laying on their pillows in their cabins, along with a couple of mints.

She then jumped to the next day, and wrote her sister of the party on the pier….and being someone who told her sister all, she mentioned her sudden attraction to Robert Wade.

The festivities had continued once the passengers had walked onto the ship. Their luggage had already been delivered to their cabins. They could go to their cabins if they wished, or visit one of the many conference rooms that had entertainment laid on. In one such room, 1920s silent movies were being shown to the accompaniment of a piano player. In another, there was dancing. In another, modern-day documentaries – how the ship had been constructed, a history of the Comstock line, and so on. Michele had spent her time walking along the decks, as had many of the other passengers, just walking arm-in-arm enjoying the moonlight and the glitter of the moon on the water.

Finished at last, Michele decided to add a note about her interrupted dream of the night before. She knew Alice would get a laugh from it.

That job complete, she powered off the computer and placed it in the cabin safe. Not that she expected her room-mate or anyone else to make off with it, but better safe than sorry.

Michele took a deep breath. Her first full day on the cruise ship, continuing her impersonation of a sophisticated travel writer. Time to start making the rounds of the ship.

Dangerous Moonlight ch 2

Dangerous Moonlight Ch 2: The Tango

September 1, 1990

The Comstock Line operated cruise ships of various sizes which sailed to various parts of the world, from one day “Cruises to nowhere” that embarked and debarked at the same port, to round the world cruises. In order to market their cruises, they did not maintain a staff of travel writers, but rather invited members of the Travel Writer’s Association to take a cruise once or twice a year – on the house of course (or rather, on the ship) – and write about them.

They were able to pick and choose the travel writers they wanted, of course, depending on what effect they were going for. In the case of the maiden voyage of the world’s largest cruise ship (to date), they were going for the wealthy and elite of the world – and they wanted travel writers who had contributed to such magazines as The Robb Report and Connoisseur.

The writers – and their photographers (for taking professional quality photographs is a skill that most travel writers don’t possess) – were given free passage, but they had to share cabins – and inner cabins, at that. Not that that was such a hardship, Michele Bravo thought as she relaxed on her bed.

It was late…her roommate was still out and about, partying, but she had felt the need for some peace and quiet. She was too excited to sleep, though, so she pulled out her laptop.

What to write, she thought....staring at the blank Word document.

She began to type… but nothing was coming. Well…that was no surprise…she wasn’t a writer. Her sister was. It was her sister who was supposed to be on this ship.

Maybe if she started by telling that story…she’d be able to get to the rest of it.

“My father,” she wrote, “was an officer in the US Airforce. My mom was a stay at home mom. Both he and my mom liked touring overseas, so he always put in for assignments in Japan, England and Germany. My mom started writing travel articles for the local camp newspapers, and her writing was so good that soon she was on tap to write all kinds of material.

My sister, five years older than I, followed in my mom’s footsteps as a travel writer. But she took it a step forward, by starting the first website devoted to travel and travel writing. Whereas my mother had concentrated on travel news for military men and their families, my sister – her name is Alice – targeted her site at civilian travel enthusiasts, with an emphasis on those interested in the high-end, luxurious travel accommodations and sites.

It was Alice who had been scheduled to travel on the Britannia, until two days before the ship was due to sail, she had broken her leg in a skiing accident. She immediately called me up.

“Michele,” she said, “You may be five years younger than I am, but we look just like twins. You know everyone says so. You can pull this off. Take my passport and driver’s license, and go and have some fun.”

“But I can’t write.”

“You don’t have to do any writing. Just pay attention to everything that goes on, and make copious notes. Email me everything, and I’ll do the writing. Oh, and photos. Take lots of photos.”

So, here I am. I have to admit, I felt a thrill of excitement…a rush of adrenalin…as I impersonated my sister…felt kind of like a secret agent…Modesty Blaise or Emma Peel…all the travel writers were treated to a cocktail party yesterday, where our role during the launch festivities was made clear to us. I didn’t want to have to do any of the interviews so I requested a photographer’s job for the night, and they said, sure, which made me happy! Patrick was the one who did the interviewing, and I learned a lot listening to him.

But now that the festivities are over and we’re actually sailing, it’s every man…and woman…for themselves. Theirselves….? Whatever.

Michele sighed. She opened up her email and quickly typed a message to her sister – “I’m here, I’m tired, I’m going to bed. Having a blast though. More tomorrow.” She sent the message, turned off her computer, stowed it away, and then went to bed.

“Would you care to dance?”

What? Where’d he come from?

But there he was…Robert Wade. The hunky Robert Wade without his shirt on.

“I’d love to,” she answered.

He stood up tall and straight and threw his head back. He extended an arm.

Hell, he wanted to tango? She didn’t know how to tango!

She put her hand in his, and he pulled her towards him. She spun around into his arms, her dress swirling around her legs.

He held her for a few seconds, gazing down at her, and his eyes gazed into hers. Her lips began to part, but just when she thought he was going to part his lips as well, he spun her away from him, unrolling her like a top on a string.

Then he was next to her once more, grasping both of her hands, pressing her body to his.

And they were dancing. That so dramatic and sexy dancing she’d seen in the movies.

He spun her away again, and she reached down with both hands to grasp her dress and twirl it around as she stalked around him, showing off her shapely thighs. They were shapely, she noted with satisfaction. Years of mountain biking had given her rock-hard thighs and calves.

Wade grabbed her in his arms again, bent his head close to hers, and fastened his lips over her mouth.

“Robert, Robert!”

Suddenly, they were surrounded by a dozen girls, all tugging him and pulling him away.

She reacted quickly, instinctively, twitching her dress higher above her thighs and high-kicking her rivals …not actually kicking them but kicking the air in front of their faces … and they disappeared back into the shadows, and then she was in Wade’s arms again and now she had no clothes on and he was guiding her backwards onto a bed….

“Oh, god, kill me now.”

Michelle sat bolt upright. Her room-mate, one of the entertainers on the ship, had stumbled into the room and then stumbled into the bathroom and was kneeling, inelegantly, beside the toilet bowel.

Michele plopped down on her bed and put her hands over her eyes, choking back a rueful laugh. Jesus! Her virginity saved by a drunken bitch! This time, she thought with a smile.

After that, with the sounds of retching coming from the bathroom, the mood had rather vanished. If she fell asleep again she knew she’d never take up where that dream left off. But Wade was on this boat, and if she’d dreamed of him maybe he’d dreamed of her…

Dangerous Moonlight Ch 1

Dangerous Moonlight Ch 1: A Night in the 1920s

September 1, 1990

Pier #1 at New York Harbor was alive with lights and paper streamers and the sounds of a party, a party for the maiden cruise of the new cruise liner Britannia.

On one side of the pier was the vast length of the Britannia, as long as three football fields and almost as high as one. Opposite the ship, on the pier, crowds of people milled about. Ladies in cloche hats and flapper dresses and men in tuxedos talked and laughed, danced to the music, and drank champagne – or other alcohol – from teacups.

Red jacketed waiters and black-and-white uniformed waitresses circulated among them all with trays full of Hor D’ouerves. Those individuals who did not wish to wait for a waiter could go to one of the many tables set up, each one providing a different type of hot or cold Hor D'ouerves. Servers were stationed behind each of these tables. At each end of the ship was a band playing ragtime and jazz classic (at just over a thousand feet's distance, the music from one band faded out long before it got to the other side).

The presence of a handful of police officers, clad in the standard 1920s uniform, did not detract from the festivities. They hovered on the edges of the crowd, hands behind their backs, looking stolid….but ready to spring into action at any moment should the need arise.

Three reporters, clad in serge suits and wearing fedoras with a sign labeled PRESS tucked into the brim, wended their way throughout the crowds – carrying a heavy wire-recording device over one shoulder and waving a microphone in the other hand, soliciting on-the-spot interviews with as many people as possible. Each reporter had his own photographer, wearing jodhpurs, a white shirt, and an oversize felt cap. The cameras they carried were the huge, box-like kind, with enormous flashbulbs. Only one of these individuals was a woman…Michele Bravo, and the jodhpurs and loose white shirt she wore only served to accentuate her tall, feminine frame.

Michelle was enjoying herself immensely. The Comstock Line was doing itself proud with the launch of its newest cruise liner. Many of the ship’s decks, not to mention its cabins, had been decorated in art deco fashion, and the Comstock people had decided to go all out and throw a pier-side launch party with the same theme. All of the 2,000 guests scheduled to sail from New York to Southampton had gotten into the spirit of the thing, wearing the appropriate 1920s costumes. Comstock itself had hired the reporters and photographers and gotten them rigged out appropriately as well (and dressed its security people in police uniforms). There was nothing on the pier to destroy the image of a lovely 1920s night.

Her attention was caught by a couple dancing the Charleston...she'd have to learn how to do that....

Michele’s reporter finished his interview with the actor Robert Wade and walked back to one of the Hor D'ouerves tables. Michele wasn't much of a movie goer and actually hadn't recognized him, but she thought he looked rather cute - he had the round face she liked and his bangs were brushed forward in a Roman kind of way. Plus he he filled out his tuxedo quite nicely.

"Smile," she said to him quickly, raising her camera. She had caught him by surprise, he had started to turn away. He looked back and she pressed the button. "Got it," she said, giving him a dazzling smile.

Wade blinking after her like an owl, as she joined Patrick - her reporter partner - at the hor d'ouerves table. He had tucked his microphone into his breast pocket and was helping himself to a cracker covered with caviar.

Michele slung the camera over her shoulder, reached into a back pocket and pulled out a silver flask. She unscrewed the cap and took a quick sip.

“What a good idea,” said Patrick. He twitched the flask out of her hands. “Give us a sip.”

“It’s water,” she warned him.

He stopped with the flask halfway to his lips, looking horrified, and then sniffed. Yes, it was water.

“My god,” he said, “What are you, a teetotaler?”

Michele just grinned.

Although the reporters could help themselves to any of the food on offer, they were expressly forbidden from indulging in alcohol. They

Patrick turned to the waiter behind the Hor D'ouerves table and asked disconsolately for a coffee.

Michele took another sip from the flask and returned it to her back pocket.

“I can’t wait to get on the ship,” Patrick murmured. “My dogs are killing me.”

“I think our bit is just about done,” replied Michele. They won’t want us monopolizing the A-list all night.”

“The A list…” Patrick mused. “Some of the wealthiest people in the country, some actors, top businessmen, a few minor politicians, some well-off retirees, debutantes and their mothers….”

“Plus the top crew, support people and entertainers in the cruise line industry,” Michele mused back at him. “Plus the best travel writers money can buy.”

Patrick showed all his teeth in a Cheshire cat grin. “That’s us, love.”

“And the best security service,” Michele murmured.

Patrick nodded. “Are those cops going to stay in costume for the whole cruise?”

“I think so. Special uniform for security guards. Why not? I’m sure all of the passengers also know that there’s going to be some plain clothes security on the ship as well. But I bet they like to see the boys in blue, too.”

“I wonder how many gigolos, swindlers, and confidence tricksters managed to get aboard this ship,” he murmured.

"Hopefully we'll know by the time we dock in Southampton," Michele replied.

She turned to look over the Hor D'ouerves table, then twitched her nose in disgust. Only caviar.

“I’m not into caviar. At all,” she said. “They must have some beef wellington, or better yet some chocolate truffles.”

Patrick grabbed up another cracker and heaped it high with caviar. He thrust it into his mouth and said, “Sure, let’s go foraging.”

Chapter 10

Chapter Ten: Endgame One

The false Mr. Largo, whose real name was Gus Keller, sat in the Polar Bar, consuming a hot fudge sundae which he held underneath his chin. The briefcase containing $50,000 was on the table in front of him.

“This is it,” he thought. “My first assignment in the field, and I blow it. I let her get away.”

But what had happened, he thought. Why had she given up fifty thousand dollars? It couldn’t possibly be true that her grandmother had really died! People like Taran Tula didn’t have grandmothers!

No…she was a cold-blooded professional…and he’d tried to get into her pants and she must have known he was trying to get into her pants. She’d decided to stiff him.

Gus smiled a little. She had stiffened him, a bit. But she hadn’t stiffed him – she’d left the $50,000. Why? Well, obviously the real Largo’s employers in this matter would have gone after her to get their money back… but nobody knew who she really was…she could have disappeared with ease, and kept the money. Yet she hadn’t taken it.

Gus stared into the depths of the empty sundae glass. Well, there was nothing for it. Time to go up to his room and in that privacy, call his bosses and give them the bad news. At least he could give them back the money, and he had that spoon with her thumbprint on it. That ought to be worth something.

Suddenly, he felt a buzzing above his heart. It was his cellphone.

He flipped it open and saw that it was his boss, Garth Ransom. Jeez, just what he needed.

“This is Keller,” he said.

“Keller, get out of there now,” said Ransom without preamble.

“Uh….what?”

“You’re in deadly danger. Get out of that hotel now!”

“Jesus,” said Keller. “Mr. Ramsom…what are you talking about? She’s gone.”

There was a silence. Then it was Ransom’s turn to say “What?”

“It’s Taran Tula,” said Gus. “She gave me the slip. I got a call first thing this morning from the desk. She checked out, and left the briefcase behind. $50,000 and the homing device in the case.”

“I see… Well, I’ll be damned.”

“What’s going on, sir?” Keller asked plaintively.

“We’ve been working on Largo non-stop, trying to get more stuff out of him. He finally came clear this morning. We told him you had successfully met Taran Tula and that we’d have her in chains next to him in no time. We were speaking metaphorically of course. Then he laughs and tells us that he knows the bitch, and that she’s probably already gutted you.

Keller felt cold, and it had nothing to do with the ice cream he’d just consumed.

“Does she make a habit of that?” he asked. “Gutting people?”

“That’s her rep,” said Ransom. “We’ve never been able to find the bodies, but all that means is she’s very good at disposing of them.”

“Jesus,” said Keller. He stared at the briefcase. He’d opened it up, seen the money and the note. Could she have poisoned the note? Was he even now dying of tarantula venom. Jesus, he told himself, don’t be stupid.

“So explain this to me again, Keller,” Ransom said heavily. “What do you mean, she left the money?”

“She left the case, and all the money. I didn’t count it, but I’m sure it’s all there. She also left a note. “So sorry. Grandmother died. Have to withdraw from project.”

“You are kidding me.”

“No sir.”

Ransom chuckled. “You must have made a hit with her, Keller. That’s all I can think of. You should be dead by now.”

“Yes, sir. Well, what do I do now?”

“Bring that case back here. And the money. We’ll debrief you then.”

“Yes, sir.”

Keller replaced his phone in his pocket and went and got another hot fudge sundae.

Why hadn’t she killed him, he wondered. Could he really have made that much of an impression on her? Had she decided to spare his life?

Keller was a man, and all men believed themselves to be physically stronger than any woman on earth, but she could have stabbed or poisoned him at anytime she wanted, because he’d been totally unsuspecting. He’d been at her mercy, but she hadn’t killed him.

An hour or so later, Keller returned to his hotel room. He was feeling slightly sick – probably form eating so many hot fudge sundaes, he told himself. He tossed the briefcase on the bed.

On the nightstand was the spoon in its clear plastic bag. The spoon with her fingerprint on it.

He went over to it, picked it up, and put it into his breast pocket along with his cellphone.

He’d return the case, and the money. And he’d tell them everything that had happened. Except about that spoon. He’d take care of that spoon, and that thumbprint, personally.

Chapter 9

Chapter Nine: Fight or Flight

Michele Bravo retrieved the briefcase from her bathtub, and tossed it onto her bed with a sigh. She undressed, not before taking out the betting slips and giving them a thorough glance. She was up by $3,000, not counting the $1,000 stake from the briefcase she had used. She placed her betting slips beside the case, then went into the bathroom and ran a nice hot bath.

While she waited for the bathtub to fill up, she stood in front of the full-length mirror, performing isometric exercises. She pressed her hands together to strengthen her biceps and triceps, and placed both hands on a wall and tried to press through it, to strengthen her legs.

She slipped slowly into the bathtub, enjoying the feeling of the hot water flowing over her. The bathtubs provided by the Thunder Sky Hotel were luxurious, long and canted nicely at the back to allow the sybarite to relax and soak for as long as they wanted.

Michele smiled as she looked at her nipples bobbing above the water, her flat stomach underneath it. All she needed was some bubble bath, some romantic music, and a man in a dressing gown to complete the picture.

But she had some serious thinking to do.

She had put her quandary out of her mind while playing roulette, but it had sat there, percolating, and now that she was thinking about it directly, her ideas were beginning to come to the forefront.

She was going to give up the Taran Tula persona.

It didn’t matter if the false Mr. Largo were a legitimate criminal go-between (or facilitator, as the technical term was) who had just usurped the real Largo’s mantle, or a police officer of some kind. There was something “hinky” about the situation, to use a term made famous in Tommy Lee Jones’ The Fugitive, and the only safe thing to do was disappear. She must assume that Taran Tula had been “burned,” and she was going to disappear.

It was annoying, obviously. She’d enjoyed the persona. She’d enjoyed the things her persona had gotten to do. But, needs must when the devil vomits into your teacup, as the Blackadder had commented on one memorable occasion.

It wasn’t as if she didn’t have other personas. She had two others she could walk into, as well as her “real persona,” that of Michele Bravo.

“Michele Bravo, author,” she murmured. Best-selling author of erotic short-story anthologies.

Had the time come to retire completely? Give up all her personas, give up the job of protecting truth, justice and the American way (in her own inimitable fashion), and become simply Michele Bravo?

She leaned forward and ran some more hot water into the bath.

That perhaps was over-reacting.

But Taran Tula must go.

Michele rose from the tub and dried herself, feeling fresh and clean after absorbing all that cigarette smoke from the casino. She walked into her room and pulled her fat-suit back on, then took the stairs back down to the casino. She didn’t go anywhere near the bay where the roulette table was, but rather a cashier in the opposite wing of the building, so no one could catch sight of her accidently. She cashed in the slips, requesting hundred dollar bills. Once more in her room, she counted out a thousand dollars, and tossed them loose into the briefcase, which she snapped shut.

She was walking away from fifty thousand dollars. Well, hell, she was walking away from a hundred thousand dollars.

“Can’t be helped,” she told herself. “You know it’s the only thing to do.”

She chuckled…if she was really as cold-blooded as the persona she had cultivated, she’d arrange for Amanda Wright (the identity under which she’d both rented a car and registered at this hotel), to have a car accident…one that would incinerate the car and the body within. She could put several packets of one dollar bills into a briefcase and let that burn to a crisp, and in that way be able to keep those fifty thousand dollars.

But that would necessitate having a body to be found in that car as well, and arranging to have such a body was not her style.

“If I was writing a book starring Taran Tula, that’s what she’d do,” Michele murmured, “but since this is real life, and I’m not psychotic, we’re just going to disappear.”

It was 4 am. Pretty early for someone to be checking out of the hotel. But if the false Mr. Largo…or anyone else…were watching her, they would probably think she was in her room for the night. So it was the best time to leave.

She plucked a piece of paper from the nightstand, and using her right hand (she was naturally left handed) she wrote a note. “So sorry. Grandmother died. Have to withdraw from project.”

She wiped her fingerprints from the handle of the briefcase. Then she moved around the hotel room, wiping down everything. She hadn’t touched everything – she’d hardly touched anything – but she always made it a habit to be better safe than sorry.

She pulled on leather driving gloves, then picked up briefcase and her suitcase and went down to the lobby one last time.

“You have a Mr. Largo staying here, don’t you?” she said.

The night clerk punched a few things into his computer. “Yes, ma’am. I can’t give you his room number though. That’s against our policy.”

“No problem at all. I have an emergency at home and need to check out early. Could I impose on you to give this suitcase to him tomorrow? Well, later on today, actually!”

The clerk nodded. “Sure, I’ll put it in the safe down here and leave a note for the day staff to let him know its here.”

“Very good, thank you.”

The clerk printed out her bill, and she paid it in cash – some of her winnings from roulette.

She drove the car to the Minneapolis International Airport, an hour’s drive away. The sun was just rising in the sky when she pulled into the rental car parking lot. She paid that bill, also with cash, and then walked into one of the terminals, carrying her suitcase. She made her way into one of the bathrooms, went into the handicapped stall, and took off her fatsuit, folding it and putting it away in her suitcase,, replacing it with a maroon T-shirt with University of Minnesota emblazoned upon it in gold letters, and maroon shorts. She plucked the blonde wig off her head, and took out the dark brown contacts, and blinked out at the world again with her own natural baby blues.

She then exited the terminal and went into the parking garage, where she caught a bus that took her to downtown Minneapolis. She’d parked her own car at a long-term car lot there. (Even though she’d never expected Mr. Largo to turn out to be a ringer, she believed in covering her tracks. Not only to cover her tracks but also because it amused her to be labyrinthine.)

So this is it, she thought as she drove out of the parking garage in her four-door, silver, ten year-old Toyota Camry. No more Taran Tula.

No hundred thousand dollars.

That was a lot of money to give up.

Perhaps she should do something about that…

Chapter 8

Chapter Eight: Erotica By Bravo #2

Taran Tula spun the trackball and placed her final bets on the table. Win or lose, she was calling it quits for the night. After several hours of playing conservatively and winning, she was going out in a blaze of glory. $20 bets on all the 5s, covered with a variety of side bets.

As she waited in anticipation for the ball to spin, she felt two hands come to rest on her shoulders. “You look like you’re doing well,” came the voice of Mr. Largo.

“I’ll know in a minute,” said Taran, gazing at the electronic croupier as he said, “No more bets,” and then spun the wheel. Complete silence from everyone around the machine, as the ball spun round and round, slowed down, aimed for the 15…. Taran’s heart rose in her throat, she could feel the exultation welling up within her….then die as the ball plopped into the red 34 right beside the 5.

Talk about coitis interruptus, thought Taran. This was nothing in it. She’d been all ready for that orgasmic pleasure…she’d been about to have it…and then…just like that….nothing. Game over.

On the betting table, the 34 was right next to the 35, and she’d covered each of her bets with side bets, that enabled her to recoup her original bet…but that was nothing compared to what would have happened if the ball had dropped into the 5, or hell, into any of the 5s.

Taran pressed the button to cash out. She stood up, waiting impatiently for the slip to appear.

“What’s your hurry?” asked Mr. Largo, amused.

“I’ve got to get out of eyesight of this machine before the next spin,” Taran said in her Italian accent. “If I see it and it hits one of the 5s this time, as it’s very likely to do, I’ll scream.”

Mr. Largo said, “I’ll make it easy for you not to look back,” and put his arm around her shoulders as he walked with her out of the gaming area into the hallways that led to the restaurants. There was only one open at this hour, an ice cream parlor called the Polar Bar. Taran still had several betting slips tucked into her bra (where she placed each one after she’d printed it out). But there would be time to redeem them after she had a refreshing ice cream sundae.

“We shouldn’t be seen together,” said Taran, as she extended her tongue to welcome the spoon with its dollop of ice cream.

“Why not?” said Mr. Largo. “A casino is like Rome, all roads lead to it.”

Taran smiled.

“I didn’t realize you were going to be staying the night here…and as long as you are…why should you bother with getting a room when I’ve already got one?”

Taran spooned another dollop of ice cream into her mouth.

“It’s a tempting offer…. I am rather tired.”

“Well, then.”

Tara put her spoon down, extended her forefinger and ran it round the interior of the sundae glass, scooping up the remaining ice cream and fudge. She lifted this to her mouth and pursed her mouth around it.

Mr. Largo licked his lips.

“Shall we go?” he said, a little hoarsely.

“Let’s go.”

They took the elevator up to the top floor of the hotel, and walked side by side down the hallway to Mr. Largo’s room. He swiped his keycard, and they walked into the room.

Largo had left the nightlight above the bed on, but the rest of the room was in darkness. As he reached out a hand to turn on the light, Taran Tula grasped his wrist. “No,” she said softly. “We have light enough.”

“Okay,” he said.

He moved further into the room, and she followed him. He turned around, and she came into his arms. He was six feet tall, she was only a couple of inches shorter than he was. Their lips met at just the right angle. He placed his hands on her waist, and she placed her hands on his waist, and they stood there for some minutes, kissing deeply. Taran stood so close to him that she could feel the bulge in his slacks growing bigger. This was one of the moment’s Taran liked best, that moment when a flaccid cock turned into a steel bar, thanks to her ministrations.

“I think it’s time we took it to the bed, don’t you,” she murmured.

She was wearing a one piece wrap around dress, not the kind of dress he liked, it was too easy to just pull from her collar and the whole dress would come apart. He would have preferred to have to undress her more, have her gradually experience the feeling of freedom as he removed her shirtwaist, then her bra, and finally her panties.

Meantime, she had reached down and unzipped his slacks. He stepped out of them and took off his shirt, and then they were on the bed together. She lay back against the pillows, inviting him to come to her…the low-wattage bulb above her head outlined her body like a black and white movie…

He climbed on top of her, inserted his cock into her waiting wetness, pressed his chest against her breasts, thrusting his tongue into her mouth.

She locked her ankles around his waist –she was flex-i-ble – and grasped his buttocks, pressing him closer into her.

He started thrusting his cock into her, as deeply as he could, as slowly as he could.

“Oh, yeah,” she murmured, with each slow insertion. “Slow and easy…”

He allowed her to set the pace with her hands, as the pressure of her hands on his buttocks told him how fast she wanted him to go. But his own pleasure was starting to build…he could feel it starting t happen..he began thrusting faster and deeper, faster, faster, and then suddenly he was there…he pressed himself deeply into her as the pleasure pumped through him, sending waves of pleasure through his thighs….

“Ahhhh….god,” he murmured…as the feeling subsided…

She smiled up at him, as he remained inside her, and they continued to kiss. He was young, he was strong, after a few minutes he began to thrust himself into her again….

“Oh, baby, she murmured, “Let me have it…”

So he did.

Easter Pause

So sorry to have missed so many days of posting - unexpected family matters cropped up.

And now it's Easter, so more family matters.

Will get back on track Monday.

Thanks for your patience.

Mystery of Mr Largo ch 6

Chapter Six: Cat or Mouse?

The cliché of someone getting arrested is when a heavy hand falls on a single shoulder, with the curt words, “Police.” Michelle Bravo had never been caught by the police…or any other law enforcement agency, or any non-law enforcement agency, come to that, but she knew the cliché. One hand on a shoulder – police. A hand on each shoulder? Lover. Or a lover-wannabe, in this case, she corrected.

Michele looked straight ahead. “Mr. Largo,” she said.

He kept his hands on his shoulders. A pleasant feeling, Michele thought, and a more self-confident act than she had expected from him.

“You look like you’re doing well,” he said.

“I’m having fun,” said Michele. “That’s about all that can be said.” Truth to tell, she was up by about a thousand dollars after three hours work. But it didn’t do to boast.

Largo was not deceived. He’d been watching her print out her slips on a regular basis for the last hour.

“It’s so noisy in here,” said Largo. “Not to mention smoky. Care to go to the bar for a drink?”

Michele punched the button to print out her winnings, but said, “There is no bar here. Unless you mean the ice cream bar? I happen to know that that stays open 24 hours.”

“Ice cream it is then,” said Largo.

A few minutes later they were seated in the Polar Bar – as Michele had pointed out, a 24-hour café that served desserts. Michele was working her way through a double hot fudge sundae, while Largo drank coffee. Largo liked watching her eat the ice cream, dipping her spoon into the treat, then conveying it to her mouth and savoring it with pleasure.

“We shouldn’t be seen together,” said Michele softly, as she savored another morsel. She was leaning forward so as not to drip ice cream onto her shirt.

“It can’t do any harm,” said Largo, equally softly. He had to lean close to hear her. It was very intime, he thought. “I would think that it’s after the job that we shouldn’t meet.”

Michele gave him a brief smile.

“Have you been playing blackjack?” she asked.

“No…I’m not really much of a gambler. But I guessed you’d be at the roulette. You’re very good.”

“Patience and money management, that’s all it is,” commented Michele. “Make a plan, play the plan, and you’ll walk out a winner.”

“Only to lose it the next time you come.”

Michele smiled again. She…or rather Taran Tula, this particular identity who was the only one who went into casinos…never lost. She didn’t understand how people could lose at video roulette, but most did. It was very sad.

“I was wondering,” said Largo…”I’ve heard so much about the way you work…it’d be an education.”

Michele stabbed her spoon into the remnants of her ice cream sundae and said, quietly but very very firmly. “No. I work alone. And so do you – that’s your reputation, Mr. Largo.”

“Yes, I know…it’s just….”

“Just what?”

“Well, I just find you so damn sexy,” he blurted out.

“Everybody does,” said Michele quietly. “At least, everyone who likes dangerous women. Which you do, apparently.”

“Are you dangerous?” said Largo in a whisper.

Michele chuckled. “You have no idea, Mr. Largo. You have no idea.” She retrieved her spoon and finished off the last of her ice cream sundae. Then she said, “I’m going to get an early start tomorrow morning. You will not hear from me again, until I call to tell you my portion of the job is complete.”

She stood up, and Largo did also, quickly. “As you wish,” he said quietly.

“I’d prefer to go up to my room alone, Mr. Largo,” she said with a smile.

Largo held up both his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Okay. I…. I’m sorry….”

Michele spun on her heel and walked out of the café without looking back.

The false Mr. Largo sighed. He really had wanted to go up with her… but duty called. He took a large plastic bag out of his pocket, put his hand into it, picked up the spoon, and turned the bag inside out over it. He had noticed that she hadn’t touched her sundae glass at all – so there’d be no fingerprints on that. But there would be a decent left thumb print on the spoon, with any luck.

The false Mr. Largo looked at the spoon, grimaced at what it portended, then tucked the bag into his pocket, and went up to his room.