Shortly before Pierre LaSalle returned to her tent, Marte Price had found her asbestos-lined film box had been opened. She’d put a hair between the lid and sides before closing it, and now the hair wasn’t there. While she was no military strategist, she believed that in matters of sex and blackmail, a good defense was the best offense. In this instance, her offense took the form of insisting that Pierre wear a condom.
“You’re the only one, chérie” he said.
“And I’m Marilyn Monroe.”
“No, truly,” he told her. “You are the only one.”
“Not counting your wife, you mean.”
“Of course. But this is the grande affaire, no?”
“It’s good sex,” she said. “If that’s what you mean.”
“Surely it’s more than that.”
“If you say so.”
“You are a hard woman.”
“You’re the one that’s hard. I still have some illusions.”
“About what?’
“Oh, I don’t know — about honesty among friends, loyalty.”
“I hope you are not talking about me!” He sounded offended.
“No,” she lied. “Just in general.”
He slid his hand between her thighs. “I love the smell of you….”
She said nothing for a moment, then suddenly mellowing from her public persona of tough, hard-bitten war correspondent, having shown she could mix it with the boys, she was now the vulnerable, soft lover Pierre wanted her to be. She gently stroked him, and as he grew hard, she touched a freckle near the base of his penis, all but hidden by his pubic hair. “You always had that?”
“Yes,” he said. “A little birthmark, I guess.”
“It’s cute,” she said, stroking him. “Pierre?”
“Oui?”
“Do you love your wife?”
He shrugged. “You know how it is. We’ve been married—”
“You don’t love her?”
“No, not really. She’s more of a — how do you say, friend, confidante.”
“Then she wouldn’t mind you making love to me.”
He gently pushed her down on the army cot. “I think she would mind,” he said with studied understatement. He laughed. “She would mind it very much, chérie.”
She moaned softly as he entered her.
After, when they had parted, Marte went to the media pool office and told the officer in charge that if they were ever asked to send a pix of General Freeman “in action,” she hesitated, “with the wounded,” she would appreciate them telling her.
“May I ask why, miss?”
“Yes,” she said bluntly. “It’s my fucking picture and anyone who tries to send it is stealing it. And rest assured I’ll have the general on my side.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She put a hundred-dollar bill on the table. “So you won’t forget.”
“Yes, ma’am.”