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  As they sat in the alluring Italian light, Cleo yearned for his touch on her skin. Perhaps it was the champagne, she told herself, but she wanted to feel his arms around her and savor the taste of his mouth. She feared her desire was obvious but he seemed not to notice. Later, when she gave him a tour of the grounds and the house and showed him her bedroom, he merely asked where his was.

  After a leisurely dinner with neighbors — an English couple — Cleo and Gavin said good night and went to their own rooms. Cleo propped herself up in bed with an Agatha Christie and warned herself not to indulge in any hope of an affair.

  She was surprised when, an hour later, he knocked, then quietly opened her door. He stood there for a moment, not saying a word, and then he walked into the room and closed the door behind him. He was fully dressed in a suit and tie. She wore only a sheer nightgown. She nodded but didn’t speak either.

  He sat down next to her on the bed and slowly caressed her face and then her shoulders. At last, he reached for her nightgown. Almost without thinking, she flicked off the light and the room fell into darkness. He lifted the nightgown over her head, leaned over and turned the lamp on again. Like the first moment they’d met, he was fully dressed and she was on her back, naked, vulnerable, exposed.

  He moved his right forefinger around and around on her left breast, languidly making smaller and smaller circles, until he finally came to her nipple. He touched it and, electrified, she thought she was going to cry out.

  He stroked her right breast the same way, but with four fingers instead of one. She watched his hands, their fingers long and thick and strong, and was excited to see how the shade of his skin, lightly tanned from the Italian sun, and the brown hair on the back of his hand contrasted with her own pale, hairless body.

  He ran his hands up and down her legs. He grazed her side, her waist, her hips, the inside of her wrists and thighs with his fingers. When he finally cupped his hands around her breasts, she sighed with pleasure, all the more intense because she had waited so long.

  As he ran a finger along the very edge of her pubic hairs, she was conscious of making a soft mewling sound. Then he touched her vagina with just one finger, and then his entire palm, stroking her again and again, until her wetness slicked his hand. He was still outside, but she began moving up and down, following his rhythm.

  When he inserted his middle finger, she arched, wanting him deeper, but nothing she did could make him hurry. Slowly he inserted a second finger and spread her labia until he was able to add a third. He moved his hand up and down, rubbing her clitoris with his thumb, going faster and faster. His fingers maintained a furious pace until she suddenly cried out as the almost unbearable tension passed and waves of pleasure surged through her.

  He covered her mouth with his free hand to quiet her so the servants would not hear. Her body quivered for another moment and then she finally lay limp. But his fingers were insistent. They kept touching, exploring, insisting, bringing her to a new edge of sexual tension. She shook a second time, more violently than before, and still he kept on.

  When he stopped, she was limp and could barely keep her eyes open. All she was aware of as he walked to the door to leave was that they had not exchanged a single word and that he was still fully dressed in his suit and tie.

  The next night she did not wear her nightgown. She waited, trying to concentrate on Eric Ambler while she kept looking up toward the door, expecting to hear his knock and see that tall, lean figure cross her bedroom. He did not appear.

  He did not show up that night or any of the evenings after that. It was on the last night, when she was sure that he would not come, that he appeared again.

  She slipped out of the covers and lay on top of the bed and did not turn out the light this time. She could almost feel his eyes examine every curve of her body and their dark, almost black gaze caused her to feel shameless and desired and desirable and to yearn for his touch.

  Fully dressed, he lay down beside her, but he kept his hands at his side. Instead, he touched her with his mouth. His lips and tongue moved along her body the way his hands had done on the first night. He licked and teased the edges of her lips, the inside of her ears, and then he circled her breasts, moving closer and closer to the nipple. He covered every inch of her, from her ankles to her anus, until he reached her pubic thatch. She could feel the day’s growth of his beard against her skin as it scratched and excited her. He buried his head between her legs, his tongue circling her vagina, moving in and out. When she felt the flicker of his tongue on her clitoris, bringing her to climax, she gasped.

  When he was finished, he kissed her for the first time fully on the mouth. His lips, wet from the juices of her body, pressed on her furiously, and she felt herself getting dizzy, sinking into ecstatic oblivion. Then, still dressed and once again wordless, he let himself out of her room and disappeared, silent as a fantasy, into the night.

  4

  Gavin drove Bobbi’s red Ferrari convertible as he and Cleo made the trip from Positano to Lars Mendl’s clinic in Seengen, Switzerland. He maneuvered the dangerous mountain curves deftly and passed other automobiles on the straightaway with skill. Cleo, sitting next to him, thought he handled the car much as he handled himself, with the confident hand of a man in control of a potent inner power.

  As they drove north, Cleo couldn’t imagine that any woman had ever been so oddly seduced before. His sexual technique was extraordinary but his emotional opacity left her puzzled and uneasy.

  She could not take her eyes from him and wondered what his chest looked like underneath his sport shirt. Underneath his trousers, were his legs slim and elegant, or were they thick and muscular?

  Then she stared at his crotch, trying to detect the outline of his penis. Smaller than usual? Was it long? Thin? She closed her eyes and tried to imagine him naked. She stared and she wondered.

  After she dropped him off at the clinic, she would drive back to the villa herself and in a week he would return to Positano. She wondered what their future would be like — or if they would even have a future — as they climbed higher into the Alps toward Dr. Mendl’s clinic.

  Lars Mendl was dark haired and bear-like in physique with massive shoulders, a barrel chest and a slender lower body. At fifty-three, he looked thirty-five and appeared, Gavin thought, like someone with reserves of energy to spare.

  Dr. Mendl introduced himself and brought Gavin up to date on the research on cellular therapy currently being conducted in Germany, Russia and Rumania.

  “Each of us comes to the work with a different approach,” Mendl said, taking Gavin around the clinic, introducing him to the other doctors on the staff and showing him the immaculately clean area where the sheep were bred and raised. “But it’s all related.”

  Gavin spent the following week with Lars Mendl observing his techniques and talking medicine. In the beginning, his host had been cordial because of Bobbi Eames, but he had grown to like Gavin and was impressed by his intelligence and probing questions.

  “You possess fingerspitzengefuhl, a sensitivity in your fingertips, an intuition for the body, for the patient, for the disease,” Mendl said. “This cannot be taught and very few will ever develop it but, now that you’ve been here almost a week, tell me how you feel about our therapy. With your fingertips—”

  “I’m intrigued,” said Gavin. “I see what you do but I don’t entirely understand why you obtain such successful results—”

  “What exactly disturbs you?” asked Dr. Mendl who heard both the said and the unsaid as Gavin spoke.

  “There’s no data, no reproducible outcomes—”

  Dr. Mendl nodded and motioned for Gavin to continue.

  “You claim cell specificity, that the sheep’s liver cells will go to the human patient’s liver, but you don’t know that and you can’t prove it,” Gavin said. “A radioactive trace on the sheep cells would permit you to X-ray them later in the human. It would not be difficult—”

  “How much do you think
such a project would cost?” Mendl asked.

  Gavin shrugged. “You already have facilities for raising the sheep,” he said. “You have your lab and your patients. You would need some additional equipment—”

  “If such a study produces the results we all expect, people could no longer question our work,” Mendl said. “Would you undertake the research?”

  Gavin shook his head. “I’m obligated to Johns Hopkins—”

  “Everett Storrick says you have no respect for authority—”

  “Everett Storrick has too much respect for authority,” said Gavin, realizing that Everett Storrick had tried to undermine him with Lars Mendl.

  “You’re right about him,” Lars said. “Excessive respect for authority by doctors like Everett Storrick is holding back medical advances—”

  Gavin nodded.

  “You’d better watch out for him,” said Lars. “He’s out to get you and, if you’re not careful, one day he will—”

  Lars could see Gavin wasn’t worried.

  “I’d be cautious,” said Lars, remembering when he himself had been young and fearless. Then he offered Gavin a job. “I’ll pay you a salary and you’ll receive full credit for any research findings. Now what do you think?”

  “What I think is that I’ll have to think about it—”

  5

  Cleo Talbot was lying in a hammock on the terrace of the villa in Positano. The afternoon light shifted as it fell through the leaves and branches of the nearby shade trees. As she shut the novel she’d been reading and wondered when Gavin would arrive, she heard his voice.

  “Hello,” he said. Then he raised his finger to his lips, cautioning her not to speak. “Shhhh—”

  He crossed the terrace and stood next to her. He raised his hand to the top button of his shirt and watched as her eyes followed his movements while he unbuttoned it. Then, one by one, he unbuttoned the rest until he reached his waist. He unbuttoned the cuffs, pulled the shirt aside, then back over his shoulders, and let it fall to the ground behind him. He moved at one-quarter speed, as if he were functioning in slow motion.

  Cleo moved forward, and reached out to touch his chest. With her hand pressed against him, he unbuckled his belt and pulled it out from the loops and let it fall to the ground. He slowly unbuttoned the top button of his trousers and she saw he was not wearing underwear.

  Even more slowly than he undid his shirt, he unzipped his fly. The trousers were loose-fitting and, when he was finished, he did not have to move to cause them to fall.

  She got out of the hammock and stepped toward him. She kissed his chest and gradually moved downward but he stopped her when she reached his waist. He took her by the shoulders and pressed her all the way down to the ground. Then he climbed on top of her and reached under her clothing.

  She was wearing a navy-blue dress with a full skirt and buttons down the front. Underneath, there were stockings and garters but he did not remove a single article, not even her panties. With his left hand he pulled aside their crotch and with his right hand he guided himself inside. Slowly he moved all the way in, never taking his eyes away from hers.

  With his penis far inside her vagina, he moved up and down slowly. Up until he was almost outside, then carefully lowering himself way down. Again and again several times, then suddenly changing speed. Pounding her quickly with his hammer. Thrusting himself farther into her. Deeper than she expected. Surprising her by going faster and faster and, as soon as she wanted the moment never to be over, he stopped and waited until her low moan lured him again.

  Moving in circles. Slowly. Then a little faster. Watching small beads of perspiration form on her neck and scooping them up gently with the tip of his tongue. Staring into her eyes and the desire that lay behind them. Slamming his rock inside, hard flesh digging into her body until a soft slow scream came from her lips. She was climaxing for the first time but he didn’t let up and tormented her with more pleasure than she thought she could bear. Finally another climax — and another and another. And still another.

  She thought they were through but he aroused her one more time, pushing her to new and unexpected heights. Her shaking surprised them both and her purring happiness was the reward he had been seeking. Finally he allowed her to sink deeper into quiet calm and her head found safety in the curve of his arm. His voluptuous performance had not included an orgasm of his own. He doubted that she knew.

  “Hello yourself,” she said. “I like the way you express yourself.”

  Gavin smiled a sexy, slow, dominant smile.

  “Then I’ll have to do it again, won’t I?”

  They spent the next few days, driving along the twisting corniches that overlooked the blue Mediterranean and wandering through small, rustic villages. They feasted on briny-fresh seafood, succulent tomatoes, black olives and tangy sheep’s cheese with rough bread accompanied by the coarse, delicious local wines. He was loving but not romantic and possessed almost frightening self-confidence. She wondered what it would be like to be married to him. Exciting, she thought. But also dangerous? One day, lunching at an open-air seaside restaurant, Gavin began to talk about Lars Mendl and the job offer.

  “I’m not going to turn him down,” he said. “I can’t—”

  “You make his work sound so exciting and he’s done wonders for Bobbi,” said Cleo. “What will you tell Dr. Storrick?”

  ”The truth,” said Gavin. ”He’ll be pleased I’m leaving—”

  Cleo nodded. She had seen the undercurrents in his relationship with Storrick and knew Gavin was right. “How will you start?“

  “By doing whatever Lars Mendl tells me to do.“

  6

  Lars Mendl arranged for Gavin to work with a team of researchers at a small private hospital outside Munich that specialized in new treatments involving an enzyme that recognized and consumed diseased body proteins. Gavin spent his free hours studying the latest enzymatic therapies and by the time he left, he had as complete a grasp of these developing areas as anyone in Europe or America.

  He visited the Caucasus Mountain area of the Soviet Union along the Black Sea, home of the world’s most long-lived people. He saw them hike up steep hillsides without becoming short-winded. He watched them eat sour yogurt, drink potent vodkas and smoke cigarette after cigarette without apparent harm. To delve into their secrets, he studied their blood chemistry and cardio-vascular function.

  Gavin visited Zwischenraum, a psychiatric hospital in Munich, to study the effects of psycho-active drugs. Amphetamine sulfate, or benzedrine, was a common stimulant used during World War II and soldiers on both sides had been issued tablets to fight physical and mental fatigue. Amphetamines stimulated the central nervous system and produced positive side-effects. They increased self-confidence and alertness in patients and prolonged their ability to perform complex, intellectually demanding tasks with intense concentration.

  Using carefully monitored dosages, Gavin began to treat patients who sometimes showed a twelve-point jump in standard I.Q. testing, and occasionally as much as twenty-two points.

  “You can make people smarter?” asked Cleo during one of their occasional phone calls.

  “I didn’t believe it myself at first,” he said. “But the I.Q. test results are consistent—”

  Gradually Gavin acquired the skills, the tools, the techniques and knowledge of the varying combination of drugs that would enable him to put a highly original theory of medicine into practice.

  He could give his patients whatever they needed: Greater intellectual ability. More energy. Increased creative power. Rejuvenated sexual prowess. The ability to perform at the peak of their talents for long periods of time.

  Gavin’s work intrigued Lars Mendl but Gavin’s own interest into research on cell specificity was set aside as he delved further and further into the therapeutic promise of his own research.

  7

  Cleo had known Gail Westerly and her older sister, Suzanne, since they’d all attended Harborcliffe College tog
ether. Gail and Suzanne had been brought up by their socially-ambitious mother to marry well. When Suzanne married the glamorous governor of California, James Santana, Gail, not to be outdone, married Count Jose-Alvarez de Córdoba, thus becoming a Countess.

  Suzanne, more intelligent than Gail, moved to California to take over her role as the state’s First Lady. Gail, the more beautiful of the two sisters and Cleo’s exact age, moved to Madrid. For a time the two college classmates lost touch.

  When Cleo ran into Gail one morning in Milan, they stopped for coffee and talked about how much their lives had changed in the years since they’d last seen each other. Cleo had been widowed and Gail’s marriage annulled. Gail, always slender, had put on weight. She was lumpy and pudgy and looked unhappy.

  “I’m exhausted,” she told Gail. “I rented a dreary apartment here in Milan. I have no idea why. I don’t know anyone—”

  Gail shrugged and, with a fluttering gesture of indecision, let her sentence trail off.

  “Why don’t you come to Positano with me?” asked Cleo. “I’m staying in Bobbi’s villa and I’d love some company—”

  Gail brightened. “Really?” she said. “I’d love to. I have no plans for the next two weeks—”

  “Then?”

  “I’m going to Turkey,” said Gail. “Nicky Kiskalesi has invited me on a cruise—”

  “On Lydia?”

  Gail nodded. “I’ll look like hell in a bikini,” she said. “Nicky’s not going to give me a second glance—”

  Cleo knew about Nicholas Kiskalesi’s sumptuous yacht, Lydia, and about his reputation — noted womanizer and presumably the richest man in the world. He was rumored to be involved again with Adriana Partos, the concert pianist, but Cleo wondered if the gossip columns were right and whether Nicky Kiskalesi could have been the real reason behind Gail’s annulment.