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CHAPTER ONE

He was coming at me, faster now, and with a greater fury than he had before. I could feel his small black eyes bulleting right for my breasts, and I knew that his knife-edged hand would in an instant be slashing across my softest vulnerability. Without thinking, I was down on the floor, and instead of my defenseless tit, his armor-like hand found itself shattering my equally lethal sole. But the speed of my movement had tipped the balance in my favor and Liu-Tsang backed off, holding his hand and grinning at me with favor.

"Very good,” he acknowledged, "they have taught you well.”

"Well enough to tackle Sheikh Abdullah and that pack of desert jackals of his?” I asked, grinning.

"You have other weapons at your command and other ways," Liu-Tsang countered. I noticed

his eyes were riveted on my bosom again. My robe, the familiar uniform of the karate master, had fallen open during our practice exchange, and the ivory orbs of my womanness were still moving from the sudden fall I had taken. Something was moving under Liu-Tsang's robe too, I noticed, and I couldn't help the wicked grin that was spreading across my face. The wiry Oriental was as skilled in the games of love as he was in the martial arts. My N.Y.M.P.H.O. bosses had chosen well the day they selected him to be my special instructor. But smart asses that they were, I wondered if they knew everything that we were practicing on our Wednesday afternoons!

"Ling-sh'ih" he said softly, and I knew exactly what he wanted. The Chinese had subtle words and phrases for every aspect of the sex act, every function of male and female. They used these words in order to fan the flames of desire in a more romantic way than we of the West do. They arouse ardor with poetry rather than obscenity. Liu-Tsang knew what he was arousing in me, all right.

I drew my legs back and rolled to the side. With Liu-Tsang never taking his eyes off my gyrating torso, I moved into the golden lotus position, waiting for a split second until he became the dragonfly honing in on me. There was no drag on this guy's fly, believe it! He drove into me as sharply and precisely as if he had been delivering one of those karate chops of his,

but the effect was completely different. I felt my blood surging indescribably as he drew in and out, in and out, in a maddening pattern that pulled the breath out of my throat. My mouth went dry while everything else was getting wet. His attack was unrelenting. I gasped for him to stop, I couldn't stand any more. But my helplessness seem to goad him on even more and I knew that any response I made would heighten his fury.

At last he spent himself in me, at the very moment when I knew I couldn't take another second of it. But for Liu-Tsang, this was only the beginning. Unlike most other men, he had trained his body to an entirely different scheme of lovemaking. After flinging himself into unbridled coition, Liu-Tsang's hormones went into reverse. He started by stroking me all over my still-quivering body, re-distilling the magic juices through every pore of my being. He indulged himself in the most elaborate kind of foreplay imaginable, only he did it afterwards instead of before. When most men are turning over to go to sleep, Liu-Tsang was girding me to carry him back through the savage ecstasy we had just experienced.

His sex drive was so strong it had to be relieved first, and furiously, before he could settle down to a full night of regularly scheduled sex! It wasn't until he had come the first time that he really got started! This thrilled me, because I must confess right off the bat that Cherry Delight is in no way one of your one-a-day girls. I like it, I like it a lot, and I like a lot of it!

Even so, Liu-Tsang had thrown me for a loop—the first time he ran his little game on me. Now that I knew what the system was, I could appreciate that I was in the hands—and everything else—of a master. I let him work his will of me, knowing that it would make him even wilder and woolier the second time around.

And the third. And the fourth.

And then...suddenly I remembered something. "Hey," I said, leaning up on one elbow, giving his hand a little push from where it lay across my breast, "I leave for Marrakesh in the morning and I'm not going to have anything left to use on Abdullah and his boys."

Liu-Tsang grinned. "You'll never run out, Cherry, and you know it. But I guess you should be getting some rest." He looked at the divers' watch on his wrist. “You've got about six hours 'til take off, girl.”

His member was erect again. I could feel it growing from where it had insinuated itself between my thighs. “Six hours," I repeated slowly. “If we work quickly...” My voice trailed off.

"I never work quickly," Liu-Tsang reminded me, cupping my pliant buttocks in his hands. "You can sleep on the plane."

"I can sleep on the plane," I echoed softly, right into his ear, licking the lobes and working my tongue inside.

He pushed my thighs apart and put himself completely inside.

"You're some woman, Cherry Delight," I heard him say, and his pounding filled my ears; it was the last thing I heard.

I fell asleep as soon as it was over, not even waking when he brushed my cheek with a kiss to say "good-bye."

Some karate lesson, I thought when I finally awoke a few hours later. I was just in time for the limousine that was to take me to the gigantic new Pan Am terminal at John F. Kennedy International Airport. N.Y.M.P.H.O. doesn't treat its ladies with any lack of style, I must say that for my people.

I was already packed. I had learned I must always do that the day before I leave. I've learned enough about myself to know that I always seem to grab some States-side nookie right before I leave on long-distance assignment. I guess I must have some sort of unconscious feeling that I might never survive these dangerous missions they keep sending me on, and I want to cash my chips in while I still have some good old U.S. of Assing around firmly in my mind.

Or maybe I just love screwing!

Either way, my numero uno boss man baby, Mark Condon, was usually on hand several hours before departure time to take care of those formalities. But Mark was off somewhere

on a case of his own this time, which was why I had substituted and made it with my own personal Yellow Peril, Liu-Tsang, instead. I called Liu-Tsang that to tease him sometimes. It was a private joke between us. Actually he was pretty high up in the N.Y.M.P.H.O. echelons himself, both as an instructor and as a go-between. It was reputed that he could successfully handle as many women in one night as most women could men. This made him a pretty effective weapon for our bosses to have for keeping all us female agents in line. Liu-Tsang could punish a whole squad of ladies between dinner and breakfast and that's no small egg rolls.

Aside from that he was a very regular guy and I liked him a lot. At least he didn't leave any bruises, I reminded myself as I put on my final face before leaving the apartment. The intercom buzzed and I just had time to put my Arab-English dictionary into my Gucci hand bag before I raced out.

In the elevator, I did a mental inventory. The suitcase I was carrying matched my handbag perfectly, and I had chosen my traveling ensemble to complement them. The beige knit Bill Blass pants suit was perfect; it clung in all the right places, yet in such good taste that no one could possibly take me for anything but what I was pretending to be: a well-heeled lady executive looking for a few thrills on a Moroccan holiday. But the trim suit gave me all the maneuverability I would need, just in case things did get sticky. And my dark brown leather David Levine boots were even more customized than the 120 bucks they had cost would have covered; N.Y.M.P.H.O. operatives had placed into the stacked leather heels hid den stiletto blades that I could kick into action by nudging my toe against it. Levine would never have guessed that his chic shoe-making had been converted to a deadly weapon. My long red hair hung loosely about my shoulders, except for one curly lock; that was secured to the base of my neck with a gold Tiffany barrette that held still another blade. This was thinner and more flexible than the ones in my shoes. It was as handy for picking a lock as for slitting a neck or jabbing a skull.

Always it held the threat of my own death: if the going ever got too rough and there was no other way out, I could escape the torture my captors would surely have prepared for me, and everything else on earth, by slashing my own wrist.

I didn't like to think about that. I loved life and all of its joys too much to even want to give it up at this early date in my life. There were so many men I hadn't met! How could I die before tasting all the goodies that were available? It wouldn't be fair.

As the limousine sped towards the airport, I gave some consideration to the men I would most certainly meet on this mission. Mark had filled me in on Sheikh Abdullah at our last meeting. I almost didn't believe the whole thing. After all, a sheikh in this day and age! He sounded like something out of the 1,001 Nights. But Mark showed me a recent photograph, taken through a high-powered telescopic lens while the Sheikh was dining on the terrace of the fabulous La Maison Arabe, the restaurant that overlooks the square and is the most important meeting place for making contact in Marrakesh.

I forgot the 1,001 Nights and came back to the twentieth century, to the year 1928 to be exact, and the incredible Rudolph Valentino, whose grave women still weep over. That was what my sheikh looked like, suave and unbelievably sexy in the dashing robes of the desert. My mouth had watered. I couldn't wait to find out what was under all that fabric. "But Mark brought me quickly back to reality. "It's what's going on in his head that you have to find out about,” he reminded me sharply. “We have to know what his connection with organized crime in that part of the world is."

"Yes, chief," I replied meekly. "I'll remember."

But as soon as I was seated in the first-class compartment of the 747, I slipped out the photograph to study it again. After all, those Arabs would all look alike to me if I wasn't careful.

"A handsome man," a voice next to me said suddenly and I almost jumped out of my skin. "Is he your lover?”

I turned around to face this inquisitive neighbor shamefacedly. In my haste to study Abdullah again, I had forgotten the most elementary lesson for a secret operative: always know who's facing you, who's opposite you, who's behind you, AT ALL TIMES. It could save your mission, or even your life. And my new acquaintance's appearance was not reassuring.

He was fat and swarthy, wearing the conical red fez on his head that is a mark of some rank and distinction in the Muslim world. He could be part of the very gang I was supposed to uncover and if possible, root out. He could be someone close to Abdullah, or at least familiar enough with him to catch me in a lie.

But if I didn't claim that the fact that I was peering at so intently was my lover's, what possible excuse would there be for my action?

"He—he's a friend of a friend of mine," I stammered, “I'm hoping to meet him in Marrakesh.”

He smiled suggestively. “One hopes for everything in Marrakesh," he said, "that is why one may travel from the ends of the earth to reach the Pink Pearl of the South."

I knew that was the romantic name the Moroccans had for the ancient imperial capitol. It was because the entire place was built from the stone of the nearby foothills of the great Atlas Mountains, a stone of a distinctive rose color that gave Marrakesh its unique hue. Even the fabulous palaces of the kings, elaborate settings for their wildest and most sensuous goings-on, had the same pink exterior, and even though the insides, the harems and bedrooms and ballrooms might be marble and cedar and gold.

"I can't wait to see it," I exclaimed, hoping to get his mind off the photo and the reason for my having it.

"Wait until Marrakesh sees you,” he murmured in appreciation. “We know well how to please beautiful women, and you must surely be one of the loveliest flowers who will grace our famous gardens."

“Thank you," I blushed. I had to be very cool with this character. The mission I was on was of greatest importance to our country and the rest of the Free World as well. Oil was flowing in from certain ports in the Middle East and North Africa and into the hands of the Mafia when it got to our shores. While the gas squeeze was getting tighter and tighter for Joe Citizen at his local pumps, an enormous black market was developing with huge stockpiles being held in reserve. Not only could the mob reap vast amounts of money from this bonanza, but they could also force a strange-hold on the whole economy. Then they could call all the shots and dictate their terms for a total take-over. And it could all be happening while the diplomats were politely dickering at their conference tables.

"Perhaps mademoiselle will do me the honor of dining with me at that very same restaurant," my new friend suggested. "I will love showing you Marrakesh, and Marrakesh you."

"You're very kind," I parried, “but what restaurant do you refer to?”

"Why, La Maison Arabe, of course, the place in your photograph,” he answered. “All Marrakesh congregates there. It is very gay."

Sounds like a fag bar, I thought, but I knew he was right. I would have to go there eventually, so why not take him up on it? At least he would be able to read the menu.

"That's most kind of you," I answered, "I would love to see Marrakesh with someone who obviously knows it and loves it so well."

"Splendid," he said. "We will make that for dinner tomorrow night. That will give you time to freshen up after this long trip."

He was right. It took at least a day to shake the jet lag no matter how experienced a traveler you were. "I'm staying at the Mamounia, of course," I told him, waiting for a reaction.

"Of course," he echoed, "there is no place else that compares with it anywhere, we like to think."

"I'm sure you're right," I agreed, "I've heard so much about it."

Then as dinner was being served, he described to me the beauties of the hotel that N.Y.M.P.H.O. had chosen for me, and how it had been converted from a pleasure palace of the king to the most luxurious hotel on the continent, stopping place of the famous and wealthy from all over the world. Winston Churchill had spent every winter there, and designers from Paris, royalty from Europe, and even the maharajahs of India marveled at the magnificence of the rooms and the gardens. He described the gossiping jet-setters who languished around its jewel-like pool every afternoon, sunning themselves and passing idle hours in the garden setting, while white-gloved servants tended to their every want.

I could almost taste it. It was enough to make me forget I wasn't one of those lucky pampered pleasure-seekers. I was going to Marrakesh on business, deadly serious business that could affect millions of lives. Especially my own.

"It sounds like a dream," I declared over my dinner wine.

My companion leaned closer. "For you," he whispered, "I will make it more than a dream."

Yeah, I thought, catching his breath too close to my own, maybe more like a nightmare.

After dinner had been cleared by the stewardesses, the movie was announced. But I couldn't care less about the latest James Bond rip-off. All I wanted was the sleep I had promised myself I would cop on the plane. I reclined my seat back as far as it would go, and gave my friend a drowsy "Good night.” As I leaned back, I could see his eyes traveling with me. from where the beige pants were bunched in my crotch, right up to where my unbuttoned blouse began to tell my upper story. Let him look, I thought happily, it'll make him all the easier to deal with tomorrow.

That's the last thing I remembered until the pilot's voice came over the p.a. announcing we were about to land in Casablanca.