Hour Game (Sean King & Michelle Maxwell 2)

“On the outside yes. I’ll let you be the judge of the interior.”

When they knocked on the front door, it was opened almost immediately by a large, well-muscled middle-aged man dressed in a yellow cardigan sweater, white shirt, muted tie and black slacks. He introduced himself as Mason. Mrs. Battle was finishing up a few things and would meet them on the rear terrace shortly, he informed them.

As Mason led them through the house, Michelle looked around at an interior that was breathtaking. That the things she was seeing were costly there was no doubt. Yet what was also present was a sense of understatement that for some reason surprised her.

“The interior is beautiful, Sean,” she whispered.

“I wasn’t talking about that interior,” he mumbled back. “I meant the ones who are breathing.”

They arrived on the rear terrace to find a table laid out with both hot and cold tea and some finger foods and snacks. Mason poured the beverages of their choice and then left, closing the French doors quietly behind him. The temperature was in the seventies with a warming sun and the air a little muggy from the recent rains.

Michelle sipped her iced tea. “So is Mason a kind of butler?”

“Yes, been with them forever. He’s actually more than a butler to them.”

“A confidant, then? Perhaps good for our purposes.”

“Probably too loyal for that option,” King answered. “But then again you never really know where loyalties lie until you ask, preferably with something to give in return.”

They heard a splash of water, and both went to the iron railing that partially enclosed the terrace and looked out over the exquisite rear grounds.

The sprawling outdoor entertainment area visible here included a stone pool house, a spa that could easily accommodate a dozen adults, a roofed-in dining area and a massive oval-shaped pool outlined in brick and flagstone.

“I always wondered how the really rich lived,” said Michelle.

“They live just like you and me except a whole lot better.”

Emerging from the clear blue and obviously heated waters of the pool was a young woman in a very revealing string bikini. She had long blond hair, was about five-seven, and her curves and bosom were solidly in the range of eye-catching. There were defined muscles in her legs, arms and shoulders and a belly ring in the navel of her flat stomach. As she bent over to pick up a towel, they could also see a large tattoo on the back of one of her partially exposed butt cheeks.

“What’s that tattooed on her butt?” asked Michelle.

“Her name,” answered King. “Savannah.” King watched the young woman towel off. “It’s amazing what they can write on skin, and in cursive too.”

“You can see that from here?” Michelle asked with raised eyebrows.

“No, I’ve seen it before.” He quickly amended this answer. “At a pool party I attended.”

“Uh-huh. Her name on her butt, what, so the guys don’t forget?”

“I’m trying very hard not to think of the reason.”

Savannah looked up, saw them and waved. She wrapped a short see-through robe around her, slipped on some flip-flops and headed up the brick steps toward them.

When she reached them, she gave King a hug that seemed designed to drill her large bosom right into his chest. Up close her facial features were not quite as flawless as her body; her nose, chin and jaw were a bit too sharply outlined and irregular, but that was nit-picking, Michelle decided. Savannah Battle was a very beautiful woman.

Savannah looked King up and down admiringly. “I swear, Sean King, you just get better-looking every time I see you. Now, how’s that fair? We women just keep getting older.” This came out in a southern drawl that Michelle thought was highly affected.

“Well, you certainly don’t have to worry about that,” said Michelle, extending her hand. “I’m Michelle Maxwell.”

“Oh, aren’t you sweet,” said Savannah in a tone that wasn’t sweet at all.

“Congratulations on your graduation,” said King. “William and Mary, right?”

“Daddy always wanted me to go to college, and I did, though I can’t say I loved it.” She sat down and slowly dried off her shapely legs in what Michelle interpreted as a seductive gesture aimed at King. Then she dug into the tiny sandwiches.

“What’d you major in?” asked Michelle, thinking that the young woman must have gotten her degree in either cheerleading or throwing parties or perhaps both.

“Chemical engineering,” was her surprising if mumbled reply. Apparently, no one had taught the girl not to talk with her mouth full. “Daddy made his fortune as an engineer, and I guess I took after him.”