Peter Jensen
The blackmailed wife
CHAPTER ONE
The brilliant California morning sun streamed in through the large open window. A slight, cooling breeze was blowing outside, rustling the rose bush that sprouted up over the hill. Its leaves cast small, dancing shadows against the far wall of the room.
Ann Morrow turned on the bed, squinting and shielding her eyes from the brightness that played over her face. Her long, satiny blonde hair cascaded over the pillow, forming a soft cushion for her head that lay heavily back against it. A thin sheet shielded her body from the breeze that blew gently in from the open window.
She had the body of a lush young Venus which an invisible observer hovering over the bed, could have traced in detail through the clinging sheet. It barely hid the high-set, round, widely spaced breasts whose rose-tipped nipples clearly showed through the thin fabric. The sheet tapered down over a slender, girlish waist to round, luscious hips, a flat, smooth stomach and long full-swelling thighs; breath-taking curved calves tapered down to thin, well formed ankles. It was a body that would attract admiring attention from the most discriminating men – and envy from women.
The honey-blonde hair on the pillow framed a heart-shaped face that would cause any male to turn his head when she passed. Her hazel eyes were set slightly apart, she had a dainty, almost classical Greek nose, a full ripe mouth with the lower lip protruding slightly in an almost perpetual little-girl pout, a round dimpled chin, and a soft slightly tanned ivory complexion.
But her eyes were perceptibly puffed around the lids and tiny lines had begun to thread out from the outer corners reaching toward the temples. The thick, pancake makeup, to cover these tell-tale signs of premature wear, was smeared and had rubbed off on the pillow during the night. Her hazel eyes blinked painfully at the sunlight. She had a bad hangover.
A bell was ringing in the distance, reverberating down the hallway from the living room. It had awakened her, but in her heavy stupor, it seemed to be a great distance away and not part of reality at all. Suddenly she realized it was the doorbell and after several moments of waiting and hoping whoever it was would go away, she resignedly arose, threw on a robe carelessly, forgetting to tie the belt, and walked down the hallway to open the door.
"Express telegram for you, Mrs. Morrow," a smiling Western Union boy said, with a slight smirk at her condition.
His eyes blatantly traced the contour of her throat down to the cleavage between her full breasts under the thin negligee.
Ann drew her robe around her tighter, grabbed the envelope, and closed the door abruptly without a word or even tipping the boy. But the bell immediately began to ring again.
Oh, damn, she thought, I forgot to sign for it! She opened the door again and the boy arrogantly pushed his book at her. He held out his pencil and when Ann reached for it, flicked it slightly with his thumb so that it flipped down the front of her robe and lodged between her breasts.