Read The Gemini Contenders for Free Online Page B

Suiza is a far better car than the Alfa-Romeo. The British Rolls is no comparison.”
    “You don’t have to prove it to
me
, darling. My God, I refuse to look at the speedometer! And I’ll be an absolute mess!”
    “Good. If your husband’s in Bellagio, he won’t recognize you. I’ll introduce you as a terribly sweet cousin from Verona.”
    The girl laughed. “If my husband’s in Bellagio, he’ll have a terribly sweet cousin to introduce to
us.”
    They both laughed. The curve came to an end, the road straightened, and the girl slid over next to the driver. She slipped her hand under the arm of his tan suede jacket, enlarged by the heavy wool of the white turtleneck sweater beneath; briefly she placed her face against his shoulder.
    “It was sweet of you to call. I really had to get away.”
    “I knew that. It was in your eyes last night. You were bored to death.”
    “Well, God, weren’t
you?
Such a dreary dinner party! Talk, talk, talk! War this, war that. Rome yes, Rome no, Benito always. I’m positively sick of it! Gstaad closed! St. Moritz filled with Jews throwing money at everyone! Monte Carlo an absolute fiasco! The casinos are closing, you know. Everybody says so. It’s all such a
bore!”
    The driver let his right hand drop from the steering wheel and reached for the fold of the girl’s overcoat. He separated the fur and caressed her inner thigh as expertly as he fingered the ivory steering wheel. She moaned pleasantly and craned her neck, putting her lips to his ear, her tongue darting.
    “You continue that, we’ll end up in the water. I suspect it’s damned cold.”
    “You started it, my lovely Vittorio.”
    “I’ll stop it,” he said smiling, returning his hand to the wheel. “I won’t be able to buy another car like this for a long time. Today everything is the tank. Far less profit in the tank.”
    “Please! No war talk.”
    “You’ll get none from me,” said Fontini-Cristi, laughing again. “Unless you want to negotiate a purchase for Rome. I’ll sell you anything from conveyor belts to motorcycles to uniforms, if you like.”
    “You don’t make uniforms.”
    “We own a company that does.”
    “I forgot. Fontini-Cristi owns everything north of Parma and west of Padua. At least, that’s what my husband says. Quite enviously, of course.”
    “Your husband, the sleepy count, is a dreadful businessman.”
    “He doesn’t mean to be.”
    Vittorio Fontini-Cristi smiled as he braked the long white automobile for a descending curve in the road toward the lakeshore. Halfway down, on the promontory that was Bellagio, stood the elegant Villa Lario, named for the ancient poet of Como. It was a resort lodge known for its extraordinary beauty, as well as its marked exclusivity.
    When the elite moved north, they played at Villa Lario. Money and family were their methods of entry. The
commessi
were diffident, soft-spoken, aware of their clientele’severy proclivity, and most alert as to the scheduling of reservations. It was uncommon for a husband or a wife, a lover or a mistress, to receive a quiet, cautioning phone call suggesting another date for arrival. Or rapid departure.
    The Hispano-Suiza swerved into the parking lot of blue brick; two uniformed attendants raced from the heated booth to both sides of the automobile, opening the doors and bowing.
    The attendant at Vittorio’s side spoke. “Welcome to Villa Lario,
signore.”
    It was never nice-to-see-you-again-
signore
.
    Never.
    “Thank you. We have no luggage. We’re here only for the day. See to the oil and petrol. Is the mechanic around?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Have him check the alignment. There’s too much play.”
    “Of course,
signore.”
    Fontini-Cristi got out of the car. He was a tall man, over six feet in height. His straight, dark-brown hair fell over his forehead; his features were sharp—as aquiline as his father’s—and his eyes, still squinting in the bright sunlight, were at once passive and alert. He