Two Hot to Handle by Ed Lacy

Author:Ed Lacy [Lacy, Ed]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-4405-3919-0
Publisher: Adams Media
Published: 2012-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

The Coin of Adventure

CHAPTER 1

It was the first time a well-stacked bathing suit ever made me uneasy. Not even a bikini, but an old-fashioned, long job … although every curve of the sultry babe filling the suit was strictly up-to-date.

Viareggio is part of one of the world’s longest beaches, 26 sandy miles fronting the blue Mediterranean. It was the middle of a sunny afternoon, the sand crowded with vacationists up from Rome, plus a few English tourists.

The girl looked about 23. She and her kid brother seemed to be working for a stocky blind man who ran a stand selling fried cakes. The little boy, in ragged shorts, walked beside the girl, carrying a tray of food as they went from bather to bather. The gal’s skin, naturally swarthy, was a deep golden brown from the sun, the eyes dark and flashing, lovely jet black hair hanging to compact hips.

I don’t know why she reminded me of Valerie — who is blonde, her pale baby-face more cute than beautiful. Could be they had the same strong legs and trim hips in common, a sexy aura, a … I was afraid to think of Valerie.

It was stupid: about now Valerie would be in Paris on her see-a-100-European-cities-in-30-days tour. Instead of resting my dusty on this ‘Riviera della Versilia,’ as the Italian tourist ads call it, I could put my plane down in Paris within two hours, take over with Valerie where we’d left off — in an Athens hotel room.

Valerie was the best between the sheets, we had something great going … but she frightened me. Valerie stood for the marriage routine.

My boss’ wife is Italian and her folks have a small farm inland from the Lido di Camoicre, so every time we were in Northern Italy I’d land at Pisa and he’d spend the day with his in-laws. I had been in Viareggio a dozen times before, even knew a few telephone numbers. But somehow — and I sure never believed it could happen to me — Valerie had ruined love-for-pay gals for me. At least for now.

Taking a long swim, I returned to the beach restless as before. I walked around, drying off, my knee in good shape, wondering why the Romans traveled hundreds of miles north to swim when they had a fine beach outside Rome. Or was this a status bit? And why the hell did I care?

My being restless didn’t make sense. I had the ideal job air-chauffeuring the European manager of Pan-Texas Oil. We could be eating supper in Rotterdam, have breakfast in Oran, Cairo, Oslo, or Tel Aviv, the following morning. Willard Moore wasn’t a demanding executive, the pay was fine, and until I’d met Valerie in Nice it had seemed a dandy job — or as perfect as any ‘job’ can be.

When the gal in the dark old bathing suit started hustling her cakes my way, I picked up my towel and headed toward the Hotel Marchony. It was early — Moore was to phone by 6 P.

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