Marne Davenport shut the book in her lap and looked up as if she were on the verge of saying something. Seeing her husband seemingly engrossed in the paperwork scattered on top of the bed, Marne apparently decided not to say whatever it was she had been going to. Instead, she laid the book to the table beside her chair and got up.
She crossed the room to the large window that looked out on the manicured lawns, geometric gardens, swimming pool and cabana. It was a beautiful house. It really was. Marne hoped Creagon and his sister would decide to keep it. There was plenty of room for four people to live comfortably on the premises without getting in each other's way. There would have been plenty of room for children, too. AND, Marne did want children. Now that Creagon was due to get half of the inheritance, money wouldn't be quite so tight; and, they could start their family without further waiting.
And, if the two families did decide to move in together, Marne would have the chance to get reacquainted with her brother…
Creagon had sensed his wife's movement, but he finished reading the document in his hand. It was paperwork from the office; although, he didn't know why he was bothering. He was half owner now of Davenport Electronic International, wasn't he? He really didn't have to worry too much about his own struggling little electronics firm, did he? Not any more. The concern over the finances of the small business operations which had compelled him to bring his stuffed briefcase along to the house of his ailing father was no longer present, was it! Creagon Davenport was now solvent. He now had no money worries. He was now his own man. He could either fold his own firm or merge it into the bigger Davenport Electronic Company. He was sure Melissa wouldn't object to the latter. Melissa had already told him she was going to be counting on him to run the business. It was funny, but Melissa hadn't even mentioned what part she expected John to play. But, then, there was plenty of time to get into that, wasn't there? William Davenport, after all, had only been buried a few hours.
And, wasn't it strange trying to image a world without William Davenport off somewhere lurking in the wings? Somehow, Creagon had actually expected the old man to go on forever. Creagon hadn't even thought of the possibility of his father's death. He had certainly never wished it on the old man, no matter how much of a bastard his father had been. Perhaps, though, the only reason Creagon hadn't wished for his father's death was because he hadn't expected it to do either him or Marne any damned good. Creagon had believed his father's threats of complete disinheritance. Creagon had quite accepted the idea that he would have to struggle his whole life to get the things he wanted; and, then, his father had said he wanted to see him.
So, what had changed his father's mind? Would anyone ever know? Maybe the elder Davenport had simply sat down one day and taken account of the mess he had made out of his family. God only knew; because it was obvious William Davenport had taken the secret to his grave with him. While he had asked to talk to both Melissa and Creagon in the end, he had gone way too fast to get that last final wish. He had only muttered something about being sorry to Melissa. Had he been delirious or cognizant of what he had been saying? Was he really sorry? If so, why did the bastard have to wait so fucking long to realize it?
Oh, Creagon wasn't so concerned about the way his own life had turned out. He was a man, after all. He had been able to break away, live without William Davenport towering over him ever minute of the way. What pissed Creagon off was what William Davenport had done to screw up Melissa.
Creagon realized he wasn't paying attention to the paperwork any longer. He gathered up the sheets, tapping them into a neat pile. He then turned his attention to Marne, knowing intuitively that something was on her mind. Creagon and Marne had been able to communicate without words since their first meeting at Melissa and John's wedding.
"Want to talk about it?" Creagon asked the back of his pretty wife.
Marne turned from the window, flashing her husband a wide smile. She was, indeed, a beautiful woman, made even more so by the sensuously clinging folds of the apricot-colored negligee that molded to her exquisite body. Her rose-tinted nipples were visible beneath the filmy material that fell over luscious breasts and down to her ankles.
"Is it all that obvious that I'm thinking about anything needing discussion?" Marne asked.
"Yes," Creagon answered, knowing Marne had known the answer without hearing it.
Creagon patted the edge of the bed, indicating the spot his wife could take if she wanted a willing ear.
"It really can wait until you finish your work," Marne said. "It's not anything so vital that I can't wait another few minutes."
"It's the business that can wait," Creagon said. "Certainly this business anyway. After all, I'm a millionaire, aren't I? A few thousand dollars worth of sales no longer seems quite as important as it did only a week ago."
Marne moved from the window, gliding toward the bed like some fashion model in one of those TV commercials who miraculously transforms into a sleek jungle cat right before your eyes.
Creagon watched his wife with the same awe and wonder that had always accompanied his viewing of her. He felt the familiar responsive jerks of his cock at his groin. Only one other woman (girl?) had ever affected him quite that way. And that other woman (girl) had been dead now for some fifteen years.
Marne's titian hair was thick and luxurious, tumbling down in swirling waves of brownish-red hues. The red highlights caught in the light from the chandelier, moving as Marne moved. The hair framed a face that was, surprisingly enough, completely free of freckles. The skin was clear of any blemish except for the small dark mole at Marne's upper left cheekbone. The darkness of that mole made Marne's skin appear almost the color of fine porcelain in contrast.
Marne sat on the edge of the bed. She leaned toward her husband, giving him an affectionate kiss on his lips. She then pulled back and gave Creagon another smile.
Marne was an attractive woman. And, what's more, unlike Melissa who had been conditioned not to recognize her own beauty, Marne was fully aware of her own good looks. And, she was proud of the way men looked at her. She was proud of the way Creagon looked at her now.
It was strange, but of all the men Marne had come in contact with in her life (and her beauty had drawn men like flies to molasses), Creagon Davenport had been the only one who had gotten Marne's interest and then held it. Passions which had usually peaked after bedding with a man one or two times had shown no signs of being anywhere near peaking after almost three years of marriage to Creagon Davenport.
Marne's friends had all been frankly surprised when Marne had tied the knot with Creagon Davenport. Oh, not because Creagon wasn't one of the best-looking studs around, because he was. And not because Creagon wasn't able to show a girl a good time in bed; because few, if any, women had ever complained of Creagon's performance. But Marne had been proposed to by some very wealthy men and had refused them all. Everyone had assumed she was just waiting for someone even richer. And, Creagon Davenport certainly hadn't fit that bill at the time Marne had met him. William Davenport, Creagon's father, would have been a more likely choice for Marne; especially since, it had been no secret that William Davenport had said publicly, on more than one occasion, that he "no longer had a son".
Well, Marne had never been one of those people who thought money was everything. Oh, it certainly helped grease the wheels; but, Marne had never had any intentions of wasting away as some rich old fart's plaything. She wanted more than an occasional fuck from a husband who was so far gone that he couldn't get his cock up except on holidays.
So, Creagon hadn't been wealthy when she had married him. So, Creagon had shown no prospects whatsoever of ever getting his daddy's millions. At the time, Marne had figured her brother was going to come into a nice piece of that financial pie by having married Melissa; so, Marne knew there was little chance of her being left destitute in her old age, even if she had married some derelict off the streets.
And, Creagon had been anything but a bum. He'd had a drive to succeed that had probably been spawned by the fact that his old man had thrown him out on his ear. Creagon had managed to support Marne quite well over the last three years.
And, Marne had to smile whenever she thought of how all her old friends would by now have read the papers, seeing that Creagon was now one of William Davenport's chief heirs. Oh, there would be chatter. More than one catty tongue would be sure to whisper that Marne had known something about this all along. Those gossips would be greatly relieved to think that their original suspicions of Marne had been quite true: that she was just too attractive not to have married into great wealth. Well, weren't they all jackasses! The money was a bonus. Money or no money, Marne had all she wanted in a man – all she had ever hoped for in a man – right here in this bed.
"Why is it that I still get a hard cock every time I'm in the same room with you?" Creagon asked.
And, Marne rewarded him with a delighted laugh that brought out the dimples in both of her cheeks. Marne wondered if Creagon could have possibly known the tangent Marne's mind had just taken. He did have the ability to intuitively sense her brain waves. Marne had noticed that from the beginning of their relationship. At first, it had somehow made her nervous. It was always a jarring sensation to realize that some of your thoughts weren't as private as you'd imagined them to be. But, Marne had since realized that it was a two-way street she and Creagon were on. If Creagon was able to sometimes read Marne's moods, she could also, on occasion, read his.
Right now, for instance, Marne knew that Creagon was still vaguely wondering what to do with his own small company now that he was thrust into dual-ownership of a bigger one. Creagon was a proud man – proud of the fact that he had survived on his own two feet, had gotten where he was in spite of William Davenport instead of because of William Davenport. Taking what he had long worked for and subjugating it to the colossal giant that was William Davenport's Davenport Electronic International was going to take some good deal of thinking.
"You'll make the right decision about the company," Marne told him, as if Creagon had been aware that she had been reading his thoughts all along.
"Yea, I guess so," Creagon replied, hardly surprised that his wife had known where he was at. He had ceased being surprised by Marne's exceptional insight as far as Creagon was concerned. "But, I called you over here to discuss your problem not mine."
"When are you going to realize that there is no such thing as a 'your problem', or a 'my problem', but only our problem."
"Okay," Creagon said, giving his wife a smile that made his blue eyes twinkle, "which of 'our' jointly-owned problems is now giving you trouble?"
"Oh, it's not really trouble," Marne said with a sigh. She scooted up on the bed beside her husband, shifting to a sitting position that was more 'against' him than beside him.
Creagon, in turn, leaned over his wife and dropped his business papers on the bedside stand. Whatever decision he made about his firm, he wasn't going to make it right now. When Marne was so close, it was hard to think about much of anything except the swollen cock at his crotch.
"Come on, let's hear it," Creagon encouraged.
"I was just thinking about John."
"Your brother John?"
"He's changed, you know?"
"Changed? How?"
"Don't play like you don't see it," Marne said, turning her face to her husband, giving him a perturbed little smirk. "I realize you haven't seen all that much of John between his marriage and now; but, I think he's changed enough so that even a casual acquaintance could see it, let alone a member of the family."
"So, he's changed," Creagon said, moving his fingers through his wife's red-brown hair, secretly marveling at the way the silky strands sensuously poured through his fingers. "Everybody changes, thank God! It prevents boredom. And, besides, as far as I'm concerned, your brother's change has been one hundred percent for the better. He's the proof of the pudding that the Army can still 'Make a man.' If I remember correctly – and don't get me wrong for a moment, since I always did like your brother – he was just a bit of a milksop when my dear sister married him."
"Yea, he was, wasn't he?" Marne said, certainly ready to agree. Marne had always been a bit worried about her brother in those early days. She had been so worried once that she had even tried to seduce him herself. And, hadn't poor John been horrified by that encounter? Marne smiled, wondering if John even remembered, or if he had filed that memory away in some convenient little cubbyhole of his subconscious.
"And, you agree he is certainly more of a man now than he used to be?" Creagon asked, already suspecting what his wife was getting at.
"I would agree, you would agree," Marne said. "I think even John would agree. Now if one, or all three of us, could only somehow convince Melissa, we'll have everything all tied up and secured with a neat little bow."
"John's said something to you about his marriage?"
"Only that they're having their problems. He hasn't gone into any specific detail, and I've been a bit loathe to pry. After all, is it really any of my business?"
"I suspect your brother has simply become a bit too much of a man to suit my sister," Creagon said, seeing first the look of confusion that came over Marne's face, second seeing a thin grin of amusement forming as Marne came to suspect that her husband was trying to pull her leg.
"Come on, Creagon, be serious."
"Oh, I am being serious," Creagon replied.
"Too much of a man?" Marne asked, stopping the playful movements of her hand around Creagon's hardening left nipple. "How in the hell can any man be too much of a man for any woman?"
"Your brother hasn't been the only one to change," Creagon said. "My sister has done her share of changing, too, over the years. And her change has been anything but for the better, I assure you."
"Changed?" Marne asked curiously. Marne hadn't seen Melissa all that much over the years; but, Marne could certainly see no change having occurred.
"Oh, she hasn't changed since you've known her," Creagon said, automatically sensing the direction Marne's mind had taken. "It happened a good many years before you or your brother came into the lives of we Davenports."
Marne waited patiently for her husband to go on. After a good minute, though, she wasn't sure he was going to. Creagon's eyes had that faraway look, as if he had left Marne in mind if not in body.
"You'd probably never believe that my sister was once as different from what she is now as night is from day, would you?" Creagon asked finally, his voice seeming to come from far, far away.
"How different?" Marne asked during another long pause that seemed to give indication that there was going to be no further interruptions from her husband.
"Oh… just different," Creagon said, noncommittally, seemingly coming back from wherever it had been that had momentarily claimed him.
But, Marne wasn't willing to leave it at that.
"You'd rather not talk about it, right?" Marne asked, figuring that was the best way to get things out if Creagon had any inclination whatsoever to carry the conversation further.
"Yea, maybe I'd better not talk about it," Creagon replied, a little sadly.
And Marne wasn't going to press the point further. She had learned long ago that you didn't get anything out of a man – especially out of Creagon – by prying it out. When Creagon was ready to let it come, it would flow out easily enough.
"I guess it's a bit painful, because I've always kind of blamed myself for what happened to my sister. Oh, not what happened," Creagon added quickly to correct a possibly misplaced emphasis, "but for what happened afterwards."
Marne waited. She hadn't really made heads or tails out of any of this yet; and, for one of the few times, she didn't really have any inkling.
There was another lengthy pause.
"When you and John were kids, did you ever… like… well… fool around with each other?"
Marne remembered that it had only been but a few minutes earlier that she had been remembering her rather inept attempt to seduce John.
"Funny you should mention that," Marne said with an accompanying laugh, "because, while at the window awhile ago, I was thinking of the time I tried to save John from a fate I thought was worse than death. My plan, of course, was to get him into bed with me."
"Really?" Creagon asked, his attention obviously caught.
Marne could tell that Creagon was anxious for her to go on, and, there really wasn't all that much more to tell.
"Well, you know how he was when you met him," Marne said. "I thought maybe he'd turn queer if he didn't get a little pussy. You know, he was damned good looking even then, in a funny, uncoordinated sort of way. And, I figured he needed a little taste of cunt before the boys got to him. And, since I had been told by more than one kid on the block that I had the best pussy in miles…"
Creagon couldn't help laughing. He'd known Marne was no virgin when he'd married her. He hadn't cared any more than she had cared that he had fucked a few hundred women before he had gotten around to plowing his blood-engorged cock up her hair-fringed pussy.
"And?" Creagon asked, wondering just what the outcome of this amusing little anecdote was going to be.
"And, my brother was duly horrified, to say the very least," Marne said, giving an accompanying giggle. It all sounded so ludicrous. "But I was determined. I mean, in those days, the worst thing that could happen to a girl was having it get around that her brother was a fairy."
"And John fucked you?"
"Actually he persuaded me he had already started fucking Emily Peterson. I don't think I would have believed him, even then; but, he seemed to have a pretty thorough knowledge of just where Emily's birthmark was and what it looked like."
"And that was as close as the two of you ever came?"
"That's it. We really weren't all that close, you know? I was always out having one hell of a good time; he was always off somewhere with a book."
"Melissa and I were very close – once," he said.
And Marne didn't know why she found that revelation so surprising. Most likely she did because she couldn't imagine anyone being close and not seeing each other but two or three times during a fifteen-year span – especially in a modern age of planes. And if they hadn't visited with each other in person, there had always been the telephone. Marne couldn't think of a time that she had heard Creagon and Melissa on the phone, talking together.
"Melissa used to be so gay and full of life," Creagon said, his voice again holding tinges of sadness. "My father sapped all of that out of her, leaving her a beautiful facade with nothing much inside."
Little clicks began going off inside of Marne's mind as she felt pieces of the jigsaw suddenly beginning to fall into place.
"You and Melissa?" Marne asked, wondering if it were possible. Frankly, Marne sometimes found it impossible to picture Melissa in John's bed. Now naked and with Creagon?
"Did you never wonder why I left home, why my father disowned me?" Creagon asked, knowing full well that his wife had indeed wondered but had kept from asking only out of respect for her husband's personal privacy. But, had Marne never really suspected the reason – the real reason for the break? Or, had Creagon gone around with his guilt for so many years that he thought it stood out on him like a blinking neon sign?
"I knew you'd probably eventually tell me," Marne said. "But never once did I even think to guess that it was because of anything you and your sister might have done."
"We began by playing around harmlessly like kids will," Creagon said, warming up to the subject now that he'd started. "This house is a mighty big place, as you can well see. Melissa and I had tutors but few kids our own age to play with. Mother was dead. Father was always away on business. We two children had to make up our own ways to amuse ourselves."
Creagon paused, carefully looking at his wife, trying to read how she was taking this. He thought he knew her well enough by now to suspect Marne wasn't about to come on with any ridiculous condemnations of incest. Marne was very much like Creagon, very easily able to cast aside any and all taboos that might stand between her and a good time. Wasn't she? Hell, yes! Hadn't Marne already admitted that the only thing that had kept her from fucking with her brother had been the fact that he was too painfully shy, and she was too busy fucking up a storm elsewhere to really press the matter?
"Do you find any of this particularly shocking?" Creagon asked. In spite of his thinking he knew the answer, he wanted his wife's verbal assurance. Because, Creagon had long since convinced himself that what he and Melissa had done had really not been all that shocking… sinful… or degenerate at all.
"The only thing I find shocking is that I somehow never suspected Melissa of such sexual daring."
"But you did expect it of me?"
"Come now, Creagon," Marne said, tapping her finger playfully against her husband's chin. "You know what I mean. You remind me of me – and you always have. Melissa has always reminded me of John – or, rather of how John used to be. I can see you doing most anything, just as I could see me doing the same. But Melissa? I've always found her a bit on the sedate side, for as long as I've known her."
"Father never let her forget what we'd done," Creagon said.
"He found out, then?"
"Oh, yes. Quite an awakening he had, too," Creagon said with a laugh that held very little humor. "He came back unexpectedly from a business trip one night, came up to give us a good-night kiss (if you can believe that), and found me with my cock pinning Melissa's cunt to her bed."
"Jesus, he must have crapped!" Marne said, well imagining how the super-staid William Davenport must have reacted.
"That, I would say, is the understatement of this year and next."
"So you ran away."
"And Melissa was packed off to a series of convent schools that were designed to sap the juices right of her and riddle her with guilt."
"No wonder your old man was so busy telling Melissa he was sorry," Marne said, finding it more than a little ridiculous that William Davenport had waited until he was on his deathbed to attempt mending the schism.
Granted, any man, especially one brought up within the puritanical ethics of William Davenport's generation, was apt to look on what had happened as a little more than harmless child's play; but, still, the man had obviously stretched his righteous indignation to the limits.
"So, he repents at last, and dies somehow thinking all the harm he's caused has somehow been miraculously erased," Creagon said, giving another of his sardonic laughs. "He was a bastard – a stupid bastard at that – up until the very end of his life."
"And, no wonder Melissa is so upset about John's transformation," Marne said, suddenly getting the whole point Creagon had been trying to make by his little confession. "She probably doesn't enjoy sex much at all after years of doing penance for a couple harmless fucks with you, does she?"
"And if it weren't so tragic, it would almost be funny, wouldn't it? My poor sister married to a Dr. Jekyll who turns out to be Mr. Hyde."
"Somehow, I think that simile leaves a lot to be desired," Marne said, smiling.
"Anyway, enough of my sister and her marital problems with your brother, huh? It's always a bit depressing to find that there are people out there in the big wide world who don't manage quite as beautifully as you and I."
"Is that a roundabout way of telling me you've still got that hard cock you once mentioned?" Marne asked, batting her thick eyelashes coquettishly.
"Would this be a little less subtle way of telling you the same thing?" Creagon asked, taking his wife's hand and moving it down to cover the bulge Creagon's blood-engorged cock was making in the bedclothes.