No Nice Girl (6 page)

Startled, Anice stared at him.

“Why, Terry! Do I look like a murderer?” she gasped.

“What murderer does?” Terry argued reasonably. “Nope, I think cute little tricks like you, all done up in white muslin and blue ribbons and golden curls, should be labeled: ‘Danger! Dynamite! Do not touch!'”

Oddly enough, Anice took that as a compliment, and Terry wondered cynically why the hell a woman considered it a compliment if a man called her dangerous. He felt that Anice was potentially a very dangerous woman, but he meant it in no complimentary sense. He was puzzled to know why she was making such a play for him; unless, of course, the fact that she knew he was Phyllis' lover had aroused her possessive instincts. Anice was the sort of girl who'd be miserable if she saw a man completely absorbed in another woman; it would arouse her most acute hunting instincts. And that, undoubtedly, was the reason behind Anice's play. He grinned a little to himself. If that was the game she was playing—well, he could play it, too! The prospect for an interesting, not to say instructive evening, seemed to him to be extremely good.

When they reached the apartment, Anice gave him the key with a pretty little gesture of feminine docility. He unlocked the door, and she went ahead of him into the room, thrusting up windows, turning on the fan, complaining gaily of the stuffy air.

“Fix yourself a drink, Terry, while I get into something cool and have a shower,” she said gaily, and went into the bedroom and closed the door.

Terry stared for a moment at the closed door, his eyes startled.

“Now, do you suppose—” he asked himself thoughtfully, considered a moment and nodded. “Could be, could be,” he agreed with his secret thought.

He went into the tiny kitchenette, retaining his thoughtful mien as he mixed himself a drink. When he came back into the living room, he took up his position on the couch, his drink in his hand. As he swallowed it, he watched the closed door of the bedroom, behind
which he could hear soft footfalls and the little humming sound of Anice's low-voiced singing.

The door opened at last and Terry's eyes widened as he said to himself, “Uh-huh—just what I thought.” For Anice was seductive and alluring in wide trousered pajamas of chalk white, over which were scattered coin-sized dots of various shades of blue; the bodice was simply a snugly fitting halter that tied in a blue bow beneath the full, soft curves of her lovely breasts. There was a bit of bare midriff and there were no sleeves, and Anice's silken curls were tied back from her face with a blue ribbon.

She beamed innocently at Terry and said, “There now! I feel ever so much better. I can even bear to think about food.”

“It's worth a thought,” Terry agreed warily.

Prattling in her usual pretty, almost girlish style, she spread the cloth on the gateleg table and brought the roast chicken from the icebox. Then she mixed a green salad, very efficient and brisk, declining Terry's offer of assistance. But Terry didn't want to sit on the couch and watch her. The silky stuff in the pajamas clung to the ripe curves of her posterior as she moved before him; and as she bent to straighten the cloth, the little hollow between her breasts drew his eye. Yet when she looked at him, her eyes were so wide and innocent that Terry almost—
almost
—thought himself a cad and a bounder to be looking at all. To say nothing of what her little act was doing to his pulse and his bloodstream.

“Poor Cousin Phyllis,” said Anice when they were seated at the table. “Slaving away in that old office—or
do
you suppose she is?”

Terry put down the chicken drumstick he had attacked so happily and said sternly, “If you say ‘poor Cousin
Phyllis' just once more, or hint that she is anything but a queen among women, I shall give you the spanking of a lifetime. And the thought occurs to me that I have seldom seen anyone more fittingly attired for a spanking.”

Anice stared at him, wide-eyed and deeply hurt.

“Why, Terry,” she gasped, shocked beyond endurance. “How can you possibly hint that I'm not simply mad about Cousin Phyllis? Why, I'm devoted to her—I adore her. I owe her so much, I shall always be grateful to her.”

“Then, for the love of little green pussycats, stop throwing a barb into her every time you mention her name!” snapped Terry wrathfully.

“Why,
Terry
—”

“Look, kitten-face,” said Terry grimly, “you're cute. You're as cute as the dickens. But you've got the malicious mind of a juvenile delinquent who pulls wings off flies to see 'em squirm. You think you're putting it over—you're quite sure nobody sees below that baby-faced innocence of yours. You put on a damned good act. But I'd like you to get this straight—you're not fooling me worth a damn. I know you'd stick a knife into ‘Cousin Phyllis' at the drop of a hat—if you thought you could get away with it.”

Her big blue eyes were full of tears and her rose-red mouth was tremulous, and her round, babyish chin quivered a little.

“Oh—” she was cut to the heart “—how can you possibly say such awful things? They're not true! They're all lies. Why, I wouldn't do anything in the world to hurt Cousin Phyllis, not for a million dollars! Why—why, how would you think such a terrible thing?”

“Because, kiddo, I've been around a bit and I've run up against ‘nice girls' before—and I don't trust 'em
worth a damn! They're nice at the expense of other people, especially other women,” said Terry grimly. “You've moved in on Phyllis here, and you're doing everything you can to make her miserable, and you're tickled silly because you are succeeding. You twit her because she drinks a cocktail now and then, because she smokes cigarettes. You hold yourself above such things.”

“I also hold myself above taking lovers,” snapped Anice sharply, and was instantly aghast that her mask had slipped so far.

Terry grinned at her, though his eyes were cold.

“You hold yourself above taking a lover, my pretty, because so far no man has ever wanted you badly enough to make the effort to convince you,” he drawled infuriatingly. “No man is lured by a girl who is cold and calculating and completely in love with herself.”

Anice was scarlet with anger now and her blue eyes were blazing.

“Save it, pal, save it.” Terry held up his hand, stemming any possible outburst on her part. “We are not impressed, nor amused.”

Anice stared at him for a long moment, her blue eyes narrowed, controlling her fury with a strength that aroused Terry's impersonal admiration.

“So you think I'm lacking in sex appeal?” she asked silkily at last, her pretty mouth curling a little as though away from the ugliness of the word.

“To me, you are,” Terry admitted brutally. “You just don't—er—arouse the beast within me.”

“Maybe that's because ‘the beast within you' has been so thoroughly satisfied by Cousin Phyllis,” she suggested gently.

Terry's hands clenched, but he only said mildly, “Could be—could be.”

She sprang up and said, as though the conversation—the whole subject—had been blocked out, as though it had never happened: “You sit over there while I get the dishes out of the way.”

“Oh, I insist on drying them,” said Terry cheerfully, and to her fury his interest in the previous subject seemed also to have been wiped out. “I always pay for my dinner—one way or another.”

She laughed and agreed and made a very pretty picture, domestic as anything, getting the dishes cleared away and the kitchenette put to rights. When they were back in the living room, she curled up suggestively on one end of the couch. Terry was certain that she had deliberately chosen a pose that tightened the silk along her hip and caused her breasts to thrust themselves provocatively forward, as though struggling to remove themselves from their blue and white bondage.

Terry was well aware of the game she was playing—it was time someone changed the rules. She was prattling along, apparently completely unconscious of her position, until Terry leaned deliberately forward and touched his lips to the gently swelling roll at the top of the halter's low line.

Anice started, and stared at him, and a wave of color crept over her face.

“Why—why, Terry!” she gasped and put both hands above her breasts protectingly.

But Terry was not to be put off. His arms went about her, drawing her close to him. He was sharply, stingingly conscious of the fact that beneath the thin silk of the pajamas there was nothing at all except Anice herself—the melting curves, the exquisite contours, all the fresh, warm, appealing loveliness of her.

For a moment she resisted him; then she went limp in his arms and nestled there, settling herself for his
comfort as well as her own, and her mouth gave him back his kisses. She was so yielding that Terry forgot himself, forgot to be amused and contemptuous and merely investigating. The sheer primitive appeal of her overwhelmed him and his arms grew more possessive—until suddenly she jerked herself from his arms and stood away from him and gasped, “No! No—how—how dare you!”

“You started this. I just wanted to see how far you'd take this game. Now I know—you're nothing but a tease!” he told her, and his voice stung like a whiplash.

“That's—that's not so. I—I'm a decent respectable girl. A
nice
girl. You—you have no right.” Tears swept over her and her voice was choked with sobs.

From the doorway a voice said mildly, “Well, well, I do hope I'm not intruding. But after all, I do live here.”

Terry stiffened and for a moment he did not turn. So that was it. Anice had lost her head; she would have yielded to him. But she had heard the sound of Phyllis' key in the lock and so she had staged a scene.

Anice gasped and flung herself at Phyllis, and Terry saw, dazed, that the bow that had held the halter together beneath her breasts was loosened.

“Oh, Cousin Phyllis—oh, I'm so glad you're here. This—this beast tried to rape me!” cried Anice hysterically.

Phyllis looked at Terry with a sort of dry amusement.

“Why, Terry, you rogue!” she said gently. “Did you?”

“Absolutely not! She wasn't objecting five minutes ago—in fact she's been trying to seduce
me
all night!”

“Oh, Cousin Phyllis, he's been saying the most
awful
things,” moaned Anice, flinging her arms about Phyllis and trying to burrow her face into Phyllis' neck, like a frightened child clinging to its parent.

Phyllis pushed her away, not ungently, and requested, “Please, Anice—it's much too warm and I'm much too tired for melodramatics.”

Terry was hunting for his hat, his face grim and set. Phyllis' eyes twinkled a little, and there was a tiny smile on her red mouth when Terry, hat in hand, turned to her.

“Wipe that damned smile off your face, you unnatural creature,” he exploded furiously. “I knew you didn't give a damn for me, but you might at least have pretended to be a little bit jealous—not so damned amused. I was being unfaithful to you—for the love of Pete, can't you get that through your head?”

“Of course, Terry, I quite understand,” Phyllis tried to soothe him. But she could not quite keep the twinkle from her eyes.

“You're the most exasperating creature I ever saw. Exasperating? Hell, that's an understatement if I ever heard one. I can understand now why unrequited love leads people to do terrible things.”

“Terry, darling, please! Take it easy—don't you see why I'm not jealous? Because I know that you could never be seriously interested in a little bit of fluff like Anice.”

“Oh, he couldn't, eh? And who are you calling ‘a bit of fluff'—you—you whore?” blazed Anice, so angry that she had forgotten all her careful self-training.

Phyllis and Terry turned to her, wide-eyed. She was so furious that her face was mottled and angry red, and her eyes were blazing with spite and anger.

“Why, Anice!” protested Phyllis softly. “What a dreadful word for a nice girl to use! You'd better run along and wash your mouth with soap and water!”

“You go to hell—both of you, damn you!” said Anice thickly, and ran out of the room.

Terry stared at the closed door and then grinned tentatively at Phyllis, not quite sure what her reaction was going to be now that the two of them were alone.

“Er, it must be midnight—all masks off,” he suggested mildly.

“And thank heavens—and you—for that,” said Phyllis wearily. “Now that there is no longer any pretense that we are friends, it's unthinkable that she should go on staying here. She can find a room in a girls' club, or—or the Martha Washington.”

Terry said hesitantly, “I'm really sorry, Phyllis.”

Phyllis looked at him, puzzled. “About making a pass, or not completing it?” she asked, amused.

Terry colored. “Well, a little of both, I guess. I just wanted you to know that—that—”

“It had nothing to do with your feeling for me?” Phyllis completed for him. “I know that, Terry. I'm not quite a fool.”