Naked Came the Stranger - By Penelope Ashe Page 0,39

the closet door, went back to the copy of Vogue she had been reading before the interruption.

The Saks shipping department manager managed to produce a receipt bearing Helene's unmistakable signature within a half minute of hearing the complaint. Marvin's shock at the enormity of his wife's falsehood was exceeded only by his humiliation which, in turn, was exceeded only by his gratitude that the encounter had taken place in the manager's small and sparsely populated office. Publicly, at least, his image was still intact. But even that was only a matter of time. Twelve days, a month, maybe six months – the time would surely come when the men would arrive to reclaim the Cadillac, the furniture, the appliances, the home… the reputation.

He thought briefly, standing outside the shipping manager's office, of the offer he had received last year to handle Mario Vella's books – a most generous offer he had seriously considered until thumbing through the books one night. Now Vella was dead, murdered they said, and it was just as well he hadn't got involved. Another offer from the government tax man who tried to interest him in a bogus refund scheme. The endless opportunities to collect exorbitant fees from clients anxious to falsify their returns.

His integrity was perhaps exceeded by his fear, but there was a third factor that held Marvin back. And that was the instinctive understanding that it would be Helene – not little Barry or little Jacquie (or little Marvin, for that matter) – who would gain from any additional income. The coin was a bad one – heads, Helene wins; tails, Marvin loses. Nobody had ever called Marvin a born loser. But then, nobody ever had to.

"Marv," the voice said. "Marv Goodman."

He turned to look into the most exquisite green eyes he had ever seen.

"Come on now," the voice continued, "I know you're Marv Goodman."

He stared at the eyes, at the wide, slightly thin lips, at the small white teeth and the swift tongue that curled over them.

"Gillian," the voice said. "Gillian Blake."

Marvin was entranced at the way the tongue seemed to slip in and out with each syllable. It was moist and agile.

"I'm hurt," she was saying. "I really am. It was just last week at the King's Neck Property Owners Association meeting. Remember? I sat right next to you. You kept telling me if they increased the dues any more they'd have to form a credit association."

"Of course," Marvin said, recovering. "How've you been, Mrs. Blake? And how's… um… your husband?"

"His name is Bill, and he's the same as ever," she said.

"But I had to ask you why you're standing here looking so serious. I saw you in there a few minutes ago and I was certainly impressed. I had no idea you were so … forceful. You were certainly giving them all kinds of trouble."

"Oh, that." A forced laugh. "You can't watch these bookkeepers closely enough."

He hadn't thought of himself as forceful in at least ten years, and it pleased him enormously that someone did. But why not? He was a young thirty-six. Tennis and skiing kept him in good shape. Tennis and skiing, he thought, also make an excellent substitute for sex, if one needed substitutes. He only weighed five pounds more than when he had won the Intrafraternity Tennis Championship at Cornell fifteen years earlier. He had always thought of himself as being ruggedly handsome, and his marriage had, if anything, increased the hardness of his looks without appearing to age him. And now, in the presence of Gillian, he felt strong and young. More than that, he sensed the woman's interest in him.

Gillian's interest had, in fact, been aroused – but for not quite the same reasons. What Marvin would describe as rugged good looks, Gillian would dismiss as malevolence, even sadism. Gillian had first noticed Marvin Goodman the very day they had moved to King's Neck. He was in the Security National bank as she and Bill were establishing their accounts. He could not be missed. He was arguing heatedly with a junior executive about what seemed to be an overdrawn checking account. Then, too, he could not be missed the night of the party. On that occasion he was involved in a dispute with his wife over the fact that not one of the other wives polled required $75 a week for food shopping. (His wife, Gillian recalled, handled the incident with perfect calm, a woman who well knew the use of sex as a