"Jeffrey Lord - Blade 18 - Warlords of Gaikon" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lord Jeffery)

up at him, smiling. Then her smile broadened as Blade rested one hand lightly on the curly, dark brown
triangle exposed between her legs. With the other hand he began undoing his own trousers. If he didn't
get them off now, he knew he would find it hard to get them off at all.
A moment later Blade was naked and standing up—and erect. "Suzanne's" eyes focused on his
jutting maleness. His hand returned to the place between her legs, found the hair already damp, and
probed deeply into a warm, wet cleft. She smiled. So did he.
"Petunia Bupp," he said softly, almost caressingly. He had ferreted out her real name before he had
invited her up here for the evening. "Petunia Bupp. What an awful name for such a lovely girl. How—"
He felt her stiffen under his hands. Her eyes were still on him, but the passion had gone out of them in
a split-second. Her mouth snapped shut so hard he heard her teeth click, and her lips tightened into a thin
line. Her nostrils wrinkled as she took in a long breath.
Then the breath came out in a rush of words. "How—how the bloody hell did you find out my real
name? It wasn't any of your damned business, you snoopy bastard! Why did you go looking for it? Why,
damn you?"
She rolled off the sofa and snatched at her panties and slacks. Blade reached out for her, but she
slapped his hand away. She stood up, balancing precariously on one leg while she tried to get the other
into her slacks, glaring at Blade.
Her face was flushed—but not with passion—and her voice was almost shaking with shame and fury
as she spoke. "You stupid, rotten—! You didn't think I might've changed my name for some good reason
did you? Well, it is an awful name. I hated it. I still hate it. Nobody's called me "Petunia" in three years. I
thought I'd never hear it again. Now you looked it up like some damned spy, and you've spoiled
everything!"
Blade found his voice. "Suzanne, I'm sorry. You—"
"Oh, never mind your being sorry!" she snapped. "You opened your big, fat mouth and that was it.
I'm leaving. I can't stay here and make love to you, not after this. Not for a million pounds! I—oh, what's
the use!" She sounded on the edge of tears. Blade stepped forward, arms outstretched to hold her, pull
her against his chest, comfort and calm her.
Petunia lashed out with both hands. It was a hard blow but a clumsy one. Blade was an expert at
several kinds of unarmed combat and normally it would have troubled him no more than a mosquito bite.
But he was off balance and surprised. He sprawled backwards onto the sofa. Petunia snatched up her
blouse and vest with one hand and her purse with the other and dashed for the door. As Blade struggled
to his feet she vanished out into the hall, still bare to the waist. The door slammed behind her with a crash
that made the glasses on the bar rattle and the cocktail forks jump off the coffee table onto the rug.
Blade swore. Not a placid man at the best of times, he was now filled with anger and frustration. He
was tempted to launch a kick at the coffee table, but just in time he remembered that it was solid teak,
four inches thick, with a marble top. The last time he had kicked it, he had spent the next week with three
toes on his right foot in splints and bandages.
The memory cleared his head and made him laugh just as loudly as he had cursed. Poor Petunia.
Poor, sensitive Petunia! He had had no way of knowing that she would fly into such a rage at the mention
of her real name. Particularly in the middle of another sort of passion. But perhaps he should have
guessed it and kept his mouth shut about the results of his little bit of research.
Yes, he should have. He had been a spy, in fact, and it was very much in his blood to go on being
one whenever the chance arose. But like the American CIA, he had played spy in the wrong place at the
wrong time.
Fortunately, he knew Petunia's address. He could and would send her a note of apology and perhaps
some flowers and a bottle of her favorite sherry. That might get things back on the track again. But if
not—well, the world was full of more women who would be good company than Blade would ever have
a chance to meet if he lived to be a thousand years old.
Which, considering his profession, was bloody unlikely.
He crossed the room to the bar, opened it, and pulled out a bottle of Glenlivet and a glass. He had