Rina looked up at her.
"Do you really think I'm beautiful?"
Margaret nodded. She ripped off her pajama bottoms and let them fall to the floor.
"All you have to do is look at me to see how beautiful you really are." She caught Rina's hand and pressed it to her breasts, then down across her stomach to her thighs. "Feel how flat I am, just like a man?"
Slowly she sank down onto the bed beside Rina, gently caressing her breasts, pressing her lips to the soft, cool cheeks.
"I feel so safe with you, so good," Rina whispered. "You're not like the other boys, I don't like them to touch me. I'm afraid of them.
But I'm not afraid of you."
With a cry of agony, Margaret rolled, her knees forcing Rina's legs apart.
"I love you, Rina!
Please don't die!"
She pressed her mouth against Rina's. For a moment, she felt the fire of her tongue and then she heard Rina's voice whispering huskily.
"Laddie, fuck me, fuck me!
I love you, Laddie!"
10.
RINA LOOKED DOWN AT HER WATCH. IT WAS HALF PAST two.
"I really must be going," she said.
"To hurry after such a lunch?" Jacques Deschamps spread his hands. "It is sacrilege.
You must have a liqueur before you go."
Rina smiled at the slim, graying avocat.
"But- I- "
"You have been in Paris for more than a year," Jacques interrupted, "and you still have not learned that one does not hurry after a meal.
Whatever it is, it will wait."
He hissed at a passing waiter, "Psst!"
The waiter stopped and bowed respectfully,
"Monsieur?"
Rina sank back into her chair. Jacques looked at her questioningly.
"Pernod. Over ice." He shuddered. "Over ice," he repeated to the waiter.
"You heard mademoiselle." The waiter looked at her quickly with that glance of appraisal that all Frenchmen seemed to share. "Over ice, monsieur," he said.
"The usual for you?" Jacques nodded and the waiter left.
He turned back to Rina. "And how does the painting go?" he asked.
"You are making progress?" Rina laughed.
"You know better than that.
I'm afraid I'll never be a painter."
"But you are having fun?"
She turned and looked out at the street.
The faint smell of May that came only to Paris was in the air.
The truck drivers were already in their shirt sleeves and the women had long since begun to abandon their drab gray and black winter coats.
"You do not answer," he said.
She turned back to him as the waiter came with their drinks.
"I'm having fun," she said, picking up her drink.
"You are not sure?" he persisted.
She smiled suddenly. "Of course I'm sure."
He lifted his glass.
"A votre sante."
"A votre sante," she echoed.
He put his glass down.
"And your friend?" he asked. "How is she?" "Peggy's fine," Rina said automatically. She looked at him steadily. "Peggy is very good to me. I don't know what I'd do without her."
"How do you know?" he said quickly. "You have never tried.
You could be many things. You are young, beautiful. You could marry, have children, you could even- "
"Be your mistress?" She smiled, interrupting.