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arms flailing wildly in Beau’s direction.
    An expression of distaste flicked across Beau’s face. He had no desire to bloody his silk shirt or exquisitely tailored tuxedo. With a swift blow to the stomach he rendered the Northerner senseless. Contemptuously kicking the inert body with the toe of his shoe, he left Von and Shenton to crawl on the floor, scooping up the confetti of one hundred dollar bills, and with an arm around the girl’s waist, strolled negligently into a lavishly furnished bedroom.
    He stretched out on the bed, his arms locked behind his head, his shirt open to the waist, displaying a mass of tightly curling hair and gold chains.
    The girl took her time. She knew Beau’s mood and she knew that he was in no hurry. Tonight was going to be good for her as well as for him. With the provocativeness of a professional artist she began to undress, her honey-gold skin glowing satin-soft in the lamplight. Beau watched her with appreciative eyes. It was no wonder the clubs paid her a thousand dollars a week for a ten-minute-a-night spot.
    The bed was tented and canopied, mosquito netting looped loosely against the bedposts. Her breasts teased him through their restraining wisp of black lace. His sex throbbed and his eyes darkened. The three-times married, twenty-seven-year-old socialite he had dated in the afternoon had thought herself devastatingly experienced. If he had wanted, Beau could have told her she still had a lot to learn.
    Deep in the cypress swamps an owl hooted and there came the screech of a taloned rabbit. He glanced at his watch. It was five to midnight. Afterwards there would be a game of cards until dawn and then he would fly his Cessna to La Jolla and the stunning Californian who had graced the centre spread in last month’s Playboy .
    The girl twirled, discarding the wisp of lace. Beau eased himself up on one elbow, about to reach out for her and then stopped. A pain shot up his arm and into his chest and for one shattering moment he thought he was experiencing a heart attack. He gasped and the girl halted, her fingers hooked into the top of her panties.
    â€˜What is it, honey? What’s the matter?’
    Beau stared at her and through her. Augusta Lafayette. Why the hell was he thinking of Augusta Lafayette at a time like this? The pain receded, leaving a burning sensation, as if he had been scorched.
    The panties went the way of the bra and the girl swayed towards him, winding her fingers in his hair, pressing his face against her breasts. Brutally he pushed her away.
    Augusta Lafayette. Her face swam before him as if it were in the room. Strange how he had never noticed before how ethereally beautiful she was. Those eyes, velvet-soft, violet-dark. A man could lose himself in such eyes. Drown in them. He felt as if he were drowning now. He wanted to reach out and seize hold of her but all that was before him was a heavily perfumed body that held no allure.
    Augusta Lafayette’s body held allure in plenty. He remembered holding it at a nameless party, feeling the incredible smallness of her waist, the high pert breasts, the willingness as she had pressed close against him. His head swam. He was aware of the girl’s indignant exclamations and was uncaring of them. Why hadn’t he stayed with Augusta Lafayette at that party? The answer was swift. He had thought her a child and had treated her as such. He swung his legs off the bed, trying to think clearly. She was a child. Sixteenor seventeen-year-olds held no charms for him. He liked his women experienced. He left the deflowering of virgins to Von, who couldn’t get enough of them. As if from a vast distance, he heard a female voice rising higher and higher. He swore savagely. He wanted to think; he wanted to hold on to the vision before him.
    Her sun-gold hair was shining like a halo, spreading over her shoulders and down her back to the base of her spine. Hair like silk. Hair to lose himself in. Her lips