There was a soft sound at the door.
He turned his head slightly, wondering what it could be.
Suddenly, the door burst open and Darcy was there in the room.
He felt her roll away from him as he sat up; then her voice from the foot of the bed:
"Get out of here, you damned idiot!"
Darcy stared at her stupidly. He weaved slightly, his eyes bewildered.
His hand came out of his pocket and a shower of bills fell to the floor.
"See, I brought a thousand dollars with me," he said drunkenly.
She got out of the bed. She stormed toward him regally, unaware of her nudity.
She raised a hand, pointing to the door.
"Get out, I said!"
Darcy just stood there staring at her.
"My God," he mumbled huskily. "I want you."
Max finally found his voice. "You heard Miss Pluvier," he said.
"Get out."
For the first time, Darcy became aware of him.
His face began to flush with anger.
"You," he said thickly. "You! All the time I was begging, pleading, it was you. You were laughing at me all the time!"
A knife appeared in his hand suddenly.
He thrust quickly and Max rolled off the bed to the floor as the knife stabbed the satin sheets.
Max snatched a pillow from the bed and held it in front of him as he backed toward the chair from which his gun hung.
Darcy's eyes were glazed with rage.
"You were laughing all the time," he mumbled. "Every time you did it you were laughing at me."
"You better get out of here before you get hurt," Max said.
Darcy shook his head. "And have you laugh at me some more? Oh, no. This time I'm going to do the laughing."
He lunged with the knife again.
This time it caught in the pillow and he fell against Max, who was shoved against the wall.
The gun went off, and a look of surprise came over Darcy's face as he slumped to his knees, then sprawled out on the floor.
The naked woman stared at Max. Quickly she knelt beside Darcy. She reached for his pulse, then dropped his hand.
"You didn't have to kill him, you fool!" she said angrily.
Max looked at her.
Her breasts heaved excitedly and there was a fine moisture in the valley between them.
He had never seen her look so beautiful.
"What was I supposed to do?" he asked.
"He was comin' at me with a knife!"
"You could have knocked him out!" she snapped.
"What was I supposed to hit him with?" he snapped back, feeling the anger rise in him. "My cannon?"
She stood very still for a moment, staring at him. Then she turned and walked to the door. She looked out into the hallway.
The house was quiet.
The shot had been muffled by the pillow.
Slowly she closed the door and came back toward him.
He stood there watching the blurred, sensual look come back into her face.
She sank to her knees before him, and he felt her lips press against his thighs.
"Do not be angry with Anne-Louise, my stalwart, wild stallion," she whispered. "Make love to me."
He reached down to lift her to the bed.
But she held his arms.
"No," she said, pulling him down to the floor beside her. "Here."
They made love for the last time on the floor, lying next to a dead man.
In the morning, Anne-Louise Pluvier calmly turned him over to the police.
10.