The Loo Sanction by Trevanian Read Free Book Online

for starts. I haven’t eaten since morning.”
    â€œYou’re broke?”
    â€œStoney.”
    â€œThe only thing open this time of night would be one of the more fashionable restaurants.” He glanced involuntarily at her clothes.
    â€œDon’t worry. I shan’t embarrass you. I’ll just clean up and change before we go.”
    â€œYou have your clothes here?”
    She nodded her head toward two suitcases standing against the wall. “My rent came due this morning, you see. And the landlady never cared for the stink of turps in the halls anyway.” She began scrubbing the paint from her hands with a cloth dipped in turpentine.
    â€œYou intended to sleep here?”
    â€œJust for the night. The old geezer wouldn’t mind. Other painters have done it from time to time. I used the last of my money to send an SOS telegram to relatives in Ireland. They’ll be sending something down in the morning, I suspect. You can turn your back if the female nude disturbs you—not that I’ll be all that nude.”
    â€œNo, no. Go ahead. I’ve passed some of my happiest moments in the presence of the nude figure.”
    She wriggled out of her close-fitting jeans and kicked them up into her hands. “Of course, as a nude, I wouldn’t have been much to Rubens’s taste. I’m quite the opposite of ample, as you can see. In fact, I’m damned near two-dimensional.”
    â€œThey’re two of my favorite dimensions.”
    She was just pulling her jumper over her head, and she stopped in mid-motion, looking out through the head opening. “You’ve a glib and shallow way of talking. I suppose the girls find that dishy.”
    â€œBut you do not.”
    â€œNo, not especially. But I don’t hold it against you, for I suppose it’s just a habit. Will this do, do you think?” She drew up from the open suitcase a long green paisley gown that set off the cupric tones of her hair.
    â€œThat will do perfectly.”
    She tossed it on over her head, then patted down her short, fine hair. “I’m ready.”
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â 
    He gave her her choice of restaurants, and she selected an expensive French one near Regent’s Park on the basis that she had never had the money to go there and it was fun to be both beggar and chooser. Nothing about the meal was right. The butter in the scampi meunière tasted of char, the salade niçoise was more acid than bracing, and the only wine available at temperature was a Pouilly-Fuissé, that atonic white that occupies so large a sector of British taste. But Jonathan enjoyed the evening immensely. She was a charmer, this one, and the quality of the food did not matter, save as another subject for laughter. The lilt and color of her accent was contagious, and he had to prevent himself from slipping into an imitation of it.
    She ate with healthy appetite, both her portions and his, while he watched her with pleasure. Her face intrigued him. The mouth was too wide. The jawline was too square. The nose undistinguished. The amber hair so fine that it seemed constantly stirred by unfelt breezes. It was a boyish face with the mischievous flexibility of a street gamine. Her most arresting feature was her eyes, bottle green and too large for the face, and thick lashes like sable brushes. Their special quality came from the rapid eddies of expression of which they were capable. Laughter could squeeze them from below; another moment they would flatten to a look of vulnerable surprise; then instantly they were narrow with incredulity; then intense and shining with intelligence; but at rest, they were nothing special. In fact, no single element of her face was remarkable, but the total he found fascinating.
    â€œDo you find me pretty?” she asked, glancing up and finding his eyes on her.
    â€œNot pretty.”
    â€œI know what you mean. But it’s a good old face. I enjoy doing