Any Given Moment (The Alexandra Chronicles Book 3) Page 10

  "Good boy, don't move, tell me where," she said. She followed his instructions and came back to the living room, holding one. She stood in front of him and said, "Pull down your pants, please."

  He looked at her a moment. And then, swallowing, eyes on her, undid his belt and unzipped his pants. "Do you want me to stand up?" he asked her, voice faint.

  She shook her head. "Just pull them down to your knees." He swallowed again and arched his back, sliding his trousers down to his knees, and sat back down again, meeting her eyes. "Pull down your underpants, Montgomery Grant Smith," she told him, meeting his eyes still.

  He arched again and pulled them down to his knees.

  Then she looked. He was huge. And purple. And aching. A divine pillar of swollen desire, the whole sagging a little to the side against his abdomen from the weight of it.

  She slid off her robe, let him look, pulled his knees apart, and kneeled in front of him. "Hold it," she instructed him, and as he held it, she was turned on completely. Before placing the condom on him—he was moist already, he was so excited—she kissed the side of his hand. She put it on and, with both hands, gently but firmly rolled the condom down over him. It was a tight fit and she felt sorry for him, murmuring, "You're huge, Montgomery, you need to find someone to make them especially for you."

  He said nothing, but swallowed. She climbed up and stood on her knees over his lap, felt down to find his hand, still holding himself, and eased herself down on him. The condom wasn't the only tight fit. She eased herself down slightly and then up, and then down, slowly, to take him in, and still, with how wet she was and with the lubrication, it was not easy. If he were only thick, it would be one thing, but he was so long that coming down on him felt dangerously like impaling herself.

  She was making sounds, she couldn't help it, and he made none; he was sitting rock still, his hands clamped to her hips but applying no pressure. She looked down at him; his eyes were closed, his mouth frozen in an agonized grin. "Montgomery," she said. His eyes opened. She pressed her breast into his face. He took the nipple into his mouth and sucked. Almost immediately he pulled down on her violently, startling her as well as hurting her, and she said, "Easy," but she realized what was happening and what was

  happening was that he was jamming her down on him because he was ejaculating already. And so she let herself go and started in on him for herself, and he was fortunately big enough so that she had time to have a luxurious orgasm around his melting erection, which actually made it even more marvelous, because she could move better around him. She shuddered, her back arching, and the phone rang. She groaned, collapsing on him, letting her head fall forward to rest on his shoulder. The phone rang and rang. Finally it went silent. In a few moments, the red message light started to flash.

  PART II

  16

  The Saturday morning meeting of Hillings & Hillings clients was to be held in the offices of an independent film distributor in Greenwich Village. Elizabeth arrived early, along with the caterers, who were setting up a large buffet brunch in the reception area of the offices. The caterers looked to her as their employer, which at first threw her. What did she know about catered affairs except that she usually had to have a glass of wine to even get in the door of one?

  "Montgomery Grant Smith, at your service, Professor Robin­son," he suddenly said, bowing, seeming to appear out of nowhere. He was dressed in preppy attire: khaki pants, a blue-striped shirt, blue blazer, and red-white-and-blue tie. He even had a little Amer­ican flag on his lapel. "I apologize for not returning your calls last night, but I was, er, socializing until very late."

  Elizabeth thought he seemed inordinately pleased with himself this morning. But then again, from what she knew of him, it could be that he was inordinately pleased with himself every morning.

  "Henry tells me that you are to be the grand pooh-bah of today's affair," Montgomery said, eyeing a tray of food as it went by. "And I am delighted to be your designated assistant."

  There was definitely something loose in his head, Elizabeth decided, but she simply smiled and nodded and thanked him for coming.

  "Kudos from the Upper East Side!” one of the caterers said to Montgomery on his way by.

  Montgomery beamed and looked at Elizabeth. "You begin to realize the awesome power of radio." He looked down the hall. “ Young sir, would you happen to have some cool water about?"

  "Sure, Big Mont!"

  "Big Mont?" Elizabeth said.

  "That's me," he grinned.

  "Hey, Big Mont!" the caterer yelled. "Catch!" The radio talk­-show host was tossed a small plastic bottle of Poland Spring water, which he caught with his right hand in an easy sidearm snag.

  Looking doubly pleased now, Monty unscrewed the cap and asked, "So where's Madam Battle-Axe?" He scanned the room be­hind Elizabeth as though he might find Millicent Parks hiding in there.

  "Millicent will be along a little bit later," Elizabeth said. As she was leaving the apartment, Sasha, the Hillingses' daytime house­keeper, reported that Mrs. Parks had called to say she had to do something for Mr. Hillings this morning and would be delayed.

  "Is she staying at Henry's?" Montgomery asked, proceeding to drink thirstily from the bottle.

  "No, she's at the Plaza."

  He nodded, considering this, swallowed, and then lowered the bottle. "So what's the deal when Dorothy gets out?"

  "If the angioplasty goes well, she and Henry will go directly to the house in Water Mill."

  "And then am I going to be allowed to stay at the apartment, too?" Montgomery asked, smirking a little.

  "I have no idea," Elizabeth said, distracted by the jumble of papers in her hands. "Naw, I was only kidding. Besides, I've got a great setup at the Regency."

  "I'm so glad," Elizabeth said, and truly, she meant it. She finally got her papers in order and handed Monty the annotated list of who was expected at the meeting this morning, and they went over it, hoping that between them they'd be able recognize most of the authors. It was the least they could do after the Hillingses' clients had made the effort to come.

  "Hello, Mrs. Tomlinson," Elizabeth said, when the first eleva­tor of visitors arrived, "I'm Elizabeth Robinson and this is Mont­gomery Grant Smith—"

  “What's your Christian name?" Mrs. Tomlinson shouted with great fanfare.

  "Isn't this the lady who played Miss Habersham in Great Ex­pectations?" Montgomery whispered in Elizabeth's ear.

  Elizabeth poked him in the stomach.

  Becky Tomlinson had been on Bess Truman's protocol staff and had written an etiquette book in 1957, which had become a classic and was still in print. At just over ninety, Becky had become some­thing of a classic herself.

  "My name is Elizabeth," she said again in a loud voice, step­ping forward to offer Mrs. Tomlinson her hand, "and this is Mont­gomery."

  "Well you look marvelous, my dear, younger than springtime," the old woman said, shaking hands, "though I wouldn't have rec­ognized you in a thousand years. Wonderful what these doctors can do, although I did always think you were quite beautiful the way you were." She turned to her companion, a small, quiet woman dressed in navy blue and sensible shoes. "Look alive, Marta," Mrs. Tomlinson said, "I want you to meet Elizabeth Montgomery­—wonderful actress."

  "Oh, geez," Montgomery said, turning to stifle a laugh.

  "No, Mrs. Tomlinson, I'm sorry, I was mumbling," Elizabeth said quickly, bending near to the lady's ear. "My name is Elizabeth Robinson, I am a historian, a teacher, a friend of the Hillingses. And this is the radio host Montgomery Grant Smith. We're running the meeting this morning."

  "Oh," Mrs. Tomlinson said brightly, "well that's all right, then. I couldn't imagine why you wanted to look this way."

  This time Montgomery didn't hide his laughter.

  The elevator came up again and everyone seemed to be arriving within moments:

  First in line was Dick Stone, a hard-boiled detective novel writer who had not had a best-seller in years—but wh
ose style, he told Elizabeth and Montgomery, was about to swing back into vogue.

  ("It better swing soon," Montgomery said under his breath. "He needs a pacemaker in his brain." "Stop!" Elizabeth shot out of the side of her mouth in her best scolding-teacher voice.

  The appearance of Gerald Traubner, a newspaper columnist, was a complete surprise, since he had not responded to Millicent's letter. Even though he could not walk without two canes, he was still writing a good deal and Montgomery recognized him imme­diately. ("Well, well, well, if it isn't the last of the great Trotsky­ites," he muttered.)

  Patricia Kleczak, the New Jersey housewife turned romance/suspense writer, was the next to be greeted. Patty, as she asked to be called, was warm and friendly, and Elizabeth liked her immediately. She was in her late thirties, and, they could plainly see, nervous about being at this meeting.

  Alice Mae Hollison, a best-selling historical novelist from Charleston, whom Elizabeth knew fairly well, was behind Patty. Alice Mae, who was at least seventy-four, turned out to be one of Montgomery's biggest fans. "Kudos from South Carolina, Big Mont," she said when she was introduced.

  "A lady of obvious good taste and breeding," Montgomery told Elizabeth as Alice Mae moved inside.

  Elizabeth could only look at him. Was he for real?

  Clarky Birkstein, or the Dog Lady, as she was known to the millions of people who had bought her training books and videos, arrived with a little something called Pookiesnips peeking out of the top of her handbag.

  Warren Krebor, a sci-fi writer, arrived with Sidney Meltner, a mystery writer, both of whose ages were exceeded only by the number of paperback originals they had written over the years.

  Jordan (he who spilled tomato juice on Millicent's white carpet) and Louise Wells, the television writers, arrived with Georgiana Hamilton-Ayres. The Hillingses had launched the Wellses as nov­elists years earlier under their given names, Jorges and Luisa Man­tos. The Wellses, now in their late fifties, were hip to the nth degree, decked out in designer clothes and jewelry and arguing over the last time they had seen Georgiana. Louise said it was at a Reading is Fundamental fund-raiser at Dodger Stadium and Jordan said it was at Spago.

  After the Wellses went through—still arguing—Georgiana in­troduced herself to Elizabeth, shook her hand, and said how won­derful she thought it was that Elizabeth was doing this.

  “Well, we think it's quite wonderful that you're here," Eliza­beth confessed. "And this is Montgomery Grant Smith," she said, turning to him and instantly realizing that something strange was going on. He was staring at the actress with a very silly smile.

  "We've met," Georgiana said. "Hello, Monty." She didn't shake his hand, but looked past them and said, "Oh, is there food? Won­derful. If you'll excuse me, I'm starved," and quickly moved on.

  Watching her go, his face fell. "Are you all right?" Elizabeth asked gently. He was looking positively ill.

  "Why shouldn't I be?" he asked with a withering glare. "I'm going to get something to eat."

  Golly, no mood swings here, Elizabeth thought, turning back to the door.

  Lucy Boyle, a sixty-six-year-old playwright, arrived dressed in a white work shirt, white jeans, and big heavy boots. For a moment, Elizabeth had mistaken her for a man.

  Lucy looked Elizabeth over from head to toe and said, "Are you married?" When Elizabeth said no the playwright asked, "Why not?" Elizabeth said, "I'm probably too smart," and the playwright laughed a very hearty laugh (which made Elizabeth think, for some reason, of cowboys huddled around a campfire), and then Lucy slid her hand around Elizabeth's waist and gave her a squeeze before going on her way.

  Sissy Connors, a retired helpful hints lady, was the next person through the door. She gave Elizabeth an autographed special edi­tion of Sissy's 101 Best Hints for the Home, which the First Mercantile Bank of Cincinnati was giving to new customers.

  Claire Spender Holland, a "novelist of manners," made an im­pressive entrance, given that she was nearly seventy and living in Ireland (to avoid some sort of taxes in her native England, Elizabeth knew).

  Anthony Marcell followed Claire in. A wonderful writer and courtly gentleman (whom Elizabeth had met twice before in earlier years), Anthony had recently undergone his own crisis when an opportunistic young man had filed a rather tacky palimony suit against him, which, of course, had hit all the papers.

  John Gabriel Menez, the screenwriter of the 1956 hit movie Lost Land, looked very dapper in a white dinner jacket, black tie, and a jet black toupee that was only slightly askew. It became quickly apparent to Elizabeth that he was either crazy or was, as he said, actually dating Hedy Lamarr.

  When Montgomery returned with a plate of chocolate éclairs, all traces of his former good humor had vanished. "The only one missing from this bunch is Queen Victoria," he grumbled, picking up an éclair and biting into it.

  "You say one more word about these good people," Elizabeth said, "and I will mash that plate in your face."

  He paused long enough to say, "That's a death threat, if ever I heard one," and resumed eating.

  "What is the matter with you? Or should I say, what is going on between you and Georgiana Hamilton-Ayres?"

  His face brightened immediately and he put the half-eaten éclair back on the plate. "You can tell?"

  No, impossible, Elizabeth quickly thought to herself. Him? And her? Absolutely impossible! Impossible!

  "Elizabeth?" a voice behind her said.

  Her body stiffened. She did not have to look to know who it was, and all at once the bits and pieces of a hundred memories hit her. Even after all this time, Elizabeth felt scared and weak. Heart pounding, she turned around.

  "David," she heard herself say. "How wonderful of you to come. We hadn't expected you."

  David Aussenhoff, the dashing Hollywood wunderkind who had once swooned over her, stood too close to be easily dismissed. Of course Elizabeth had never heard of him when she had first fallen in love with him, because she never read the newspapers in whose gossip columns David's name was often mentioned. No, all she had known was that a six-foot, dark haired, extremely handsome and charming—though rather uneducated—man had decided to win her.

  When David realized that she was not going to touch him—not even for a handshake—he turned to Montgomery. "I'm David Aus­senhoff," he said.

  "Montgomery Grant Smith," Monty said vaguely, looking from Elizabeth to David and then back to Elizabeth as he wiped his hand quickly on his napkin and transferred the plate and napkin to his left hand in order to shake David's hand.

  "David's a movie producer who wrote a novel that the Hill­ingses represented," Elizabeth explained.

  "You look as wonderful as ever," David said to her.

  "Who are you again?" Montgomery asked, looking from Da­vid's face to the list he had pulled out of his blazer pocket.

  "Oh, Georgiana's here," David said, spotting the actress in the next room.

  Montgomery looked surprised. "You know her?"

  "Sure," David said. "We did a movie together."

  Elizabeth winced. Of course David knew her. He had probably slept with her, too, like he had slept with every other attractive woman he could get his hands on.

  David looked at her. "We'll talk later, okay?"

  Numb and shaking inside, Elizabeth nodded. He smiled and murmured, "Good," before moving inside. They heard him say, "Georgiana!" before she said, "David! What a surprise!"

  "Now who the hell is he?" Montgomery said, frowning.

  "My ex-fiancé," Elizabeth said without thinking.

  Montgomery looked at her. "Him?"

  She nodded.

  "And you?"

  Elizabeth flinched. Even Monty could see how unlikely it was that someone like her could have held on to David.

  "Oh Professor," he said, shaking his head, "you can do better than that. Much better."

  She looked at him, taken aback. He thought she was too good for David? Buffoon or not, she realized Montgomery Grant Smith might be
her best crutch to get through this day. David was here. Good God.

  "We should start, don't you think?" Montgomery said, looking at his watch. "I've got to go into the studio this afternoon to get my show straightened out for the week."

  "Sure," Elizabeth said, trying to pull herself together. "Let's get started. Just let me visit the ladies' room first, all right?"

  "Good idea," Montgomery said, "I'll stop at the men's room." They walked down the back hall together. "If it makes you feel any better," he said, stopping in front of the ladies' room, "I've got kind of a secret relationship, too." She looked at him. "I'm in love," he told her. "And I think you know with who."

  "With whom," Elizabeth said, going into the ladies' room.

  She closed the door behind her, went into the nearest stall, and was quickly, quietly sick. David was here. She couldn't believe it.

  17

  Elizabeth explained to the assembled group of Hillings & Hill­ings clients that Millicent Parks would be along soon, and that she hoped they would bear with her as she tried to bring them up to date on the matters concerning the merger of Hillings & Hillings with International Communications Artists.

  "The facts are these," she began, leaving her notes on the lec­tern and starting to pace, just as she did in her classroom. "Hillings & Hillings entered into a merger agreement with ICA under the auspices of Ben Rothstein, who had been, at that time, chairman of ICA for twenty-seven years. The agreement was to provide a smooth transition of representation for the Hillings & Hillings clients over a period of approximately two years, during which time the Hillingses were to school some of ICA's agents in the finer points of literary representation."

  She cleared her throat, more out of sympathy than anything else. It was dusty in the screening room and almost all of the older people were coughing slightly and dabbing at runny noses.

  "What was meant as a plan that would allow the Hillingses to gradually retire," Elizabeth continued, "was completely abandoned when ICA ousted Ben Rothstein and replaced him with Creighton Berns. Soon after, ICA took possession of the Hillings & Hillings offices, literally padlocking them and denying access to all employ­ees—employees who were subsequently fired. ICA then proceeded to contact Hillings & Hillings clients directly, claiming that the Hillingses had decided to retire immediately and that ICA would henceforth be representing them.