"George R. R. Martin - Portraits of His Children" - читать интересную книгу автора (Martin George R R)

want me to pull down a curtain every time my characters go to bed, is that it? Coming to terms with
sexuality, that's what Black Roses is all about. Of course it had to be written explicitly. If you weren't
such a damned prude you'd realize that."

"I'm not a prude!" Helen screamed at him. "Don't you dare call me one, either." She picked up one of the
breakfast plates and threw it at him. Cantling ducked; the plate shattered on the wall behind him. "Just
because I don't like your goddamned filthy book doesn't make me a prude."

"The novel has nothing to do with it," Cantling said. He folded his arms against his chest but kept his
voice calm. "You're a prude because of the things you do in bed. Or should I say the things you won't
do?" He smiled.

Helen's face was red; beet red, Cantling thought, and rejected it, too old, too trite. "Oh, yes, but she'll do
them, won't she?" Her voice was pure acid. "Cissy, your cute little Cissy. She'll get a sexy little tattoo on
her ass if you ask her to, right? She'll do it outdoors, she'll do it in all kinds of strange places, with people
all around. She'll wear kinky underwear, she thinks it's fun. She's always ready and she doesn't have any
stretch marks and she has eighteen-year-old tits, and she'll always have eighteen-year-old tits, won't
she? How the hell do I compete with that, huh? How? HOW?"

Richard Cantling's own anger was a cold, controlled, sarcastic thing. He stood up in the face of her fury
and smiled sweetly. "Read the book," he said. "Take notes."

He woke suddenly, in darkness, to the light touch of skin against his foot.

Cissy was perched on top of the footboard, a red satin sheet wrapped around her, a long slim leg
exploring under his blankets. She was playing footsie with him, and smiling mischievously. "Hi, Daddy,"
she said.

Cantling had been afraid of this. It had been in his mind all evening. Sleep had not come easily. He pulled
his foot away and struggled to a sitting position.

Cissy pouted. "Don't you want to play?" she asked.

"I," he said, "don't believe this. This can't be real."
"It can still be fun," she said.

"What the hell is Michelle doing to me? How can this be happening?"

She shrugged. The sheet slipped a little; one perfect pink-tipped eighteen-year-old breast peeked out.

"You still have eighteen-year-old tits," Cantling said numbly. "You'll always have eighteen-year-old tits."

Cissy laughed. "Sure. You can borrow them, if you like, Daddy. I'll bet you can think of something
interesting to do with them."

"Stop calling me Daddy," Cantling said.

"Oh, but you are my Daddy," Cissy said in her little-girl voice.

"Stop that!" Cantling said.