Naked Came the Stranger - By Penelope Ashe Page 0,23

refused to discard his small prize, and Gillian led him to the garage and once again locked him in. Turnbull had not moved.

"I'll get rabies," he moaned.

"Rolf's had all the shots," she assured him. "And it's not all that terrible. William's been after me to throw out this bedspread for an awfully long time."

She found bandages in the bathroom medicine chest, returned and patched Turnbull up.

"You mustn't worry about Rolf," she said again. "He may seem a little testy, but he's certainly not insane. There, that should be better. Well, what did you have in mind next?"

Gillian was sitting cross-legged on the bed before him. The view was too much, even for a newly wounded man. He reached out for one of those magnificent legs, then the other, and he propped himself up on them. Her thighs, he noticed, were springy and firm, the haunches of a lioness. He embraced her in a clumsy bear hug, pushed her heavily down on the bed. He was through with the game playing. He grabbed at her moving thighs and kneaded her swift buttocks. He bit her neck, then her shoulders and pressed himself down on her. Her lips were open in a small smile. Her eyes were closed. The sweat of her body made him weak with desire. Her legs were parted in a wide welcoming arc. The moment had come. Turnbull mounted over the throbbing, waiting woman.

The doorbell rang.

"My God, what's that? What now?"

"Oh, drat," she said. "It must be the girls from the bridge club. I wasn't expecting them until nine."

"Bridge club?"

"I just joined last week," she said. "They meet Wednesday nights."

"Don't answer the door," he pleaded. "Tell them you weren't home."

"The lights are on," she said. "The car is in the driveway. My, wasn't it fortunate you didn't park your car in the driveway. We can be thankful for that."

The bell rang again and Turnbull rolled off.

"Mrs. Blake," he said, "if you knew you were going to have company, why this?"

"It might have worked out," she said. "You'll have to admit, Joshua, you did fumble a bit."

Another ring.

"Joshua, you really have to leave."

"How am I going to get out of here?"

Gillian quickly charted the escape route. Down the stairs, into the den, through the plate glass windows, onto the patio and out the driveway. She would entertain the ladies in the dining room while he made his escape. Even as she was explaining his retreat, Gillian straightened the bedclothes with quick precise movements. Then she climbed into a long, modest frock and, without once looking back at her aspirant lover, left the room.

Turnbull, eyes glazed, sat on the bed until the door clicked shut. Then, still in a weakened condition, he managed to pull himself together. He scrambled into his clothes and, carrying the bloodstained bedspread under his arm, managed to creep out the back way. Despite a narrow escape from a swimming pool waiting for him in the night, the rabbi managed to find the driveway, then the road, then his car. Seated painfully in the safety of his automobile, the rabbi began to consider the entire evening. Was it possible? Was it possible a woman could plan something like that? The invitation, the ferocious dog, the bridge club, even the moans – was it possible that this had been staged for his benefit? Yes, he decided, it was possible.

The following week, Gillian received two phone calls from the rabbi. She was noncommittal, evasive. The next four phone calls she was politely unavailable. The following week – and by this time he heard rumors that Gillian Blake had been seen at a drive-in hamburger stand with Mario Vella, a common gangster – Rabbi Turnbull began sending her presents. The gifts were returned, unopened, to his office beside the Temple.

The more she rejected him, the more he craved her. For just the chance to kiss her knees. He decided that even the dog, Rolf, was not too bad, quite probably a very effective watchdog.

And then he began to hate her.

Love and hate, mingled as they often are in the same current, coursed through his veins and pounded at his temples. Turnbull could not control the demons. And when Gillian began to hang up the phone at the first sound of his voice, he knew the demons would claim him.

He snapped at the members of the ladies' auxiliary. At Temple meetings he seemed distracted and morose, then engaged some of the most important donors in senseless argument. He arrived drunk