"Дон Пендлтон. Chicago Wipe-Out ("Палач" #8) " - читать интересную книгу автора

also no time for any human being to be prancing about the shores of Lake
Michigan in a bedroom combat suit. And she was about to cave in completely -
swaying like a reed in the wind fighting to get her breathing and her
emotions under control, all the while turning a deeper shade of blue. Bolan
silently stowed the Weatherby and debated the question of what to do about
the girl. Finally he gave her a reluctant okay with his eyes and she tumbled
into the car with a shivery moan of thanks - it was not entirely certain
whether she was thanking Bolan or a higher power.
He slid in beside her, snared his topcoat from the rear deck and draped
it over her. Silently she bundled herself in it and drew the long, sculpted
legs into the seat to cover them also, then went into a chattering case of
the shakes.
The girl was still shivering when the Ferrari cleared the scene and
took up a casual southward cruise along Lake Shore Drive. Bolan was in no
great hurry now. He produced a quart thermos and poured his passenger a slug
of steaming coffee. She accepted it with a grateful sweep of the eyes and
quickly began to settle down.
When the coffee was nearly consumed Bolan lit a cigarette and handed it
to her along with his first words. "You're looking better," he growled.
"Thanks," she said in an unsteady voice. "Feeling better."
A police car with beacon flashing tore past on a northward track,
weaving through the traffic on a hot call to Bolan guessed where - and
followed closely by a second and then a third. His guest was huddled in the
topcoat and working hard at the cigarette, exhaling with audible tremors,
but she had also noted the passage of the police. She wriggled about on the
seat and murmured, "Thanks for getting me away from there."
He grunted and tried the heater, found it mildly warm, and told her,
"Out of the frying pan and into the fire."
"What?"
"That's you. You picked a hard taxi, lady."
She raked him with sky blue eyes and made a stab at a smile. "I know,"
she said. "You're Mack Bolan, aren't you?"
"Stretch your feet to the heater," he commanded gruffly.
She did so, carefully arranging the coat to capture the warmth. Then
her gaze became fixed on Bolan's profile and he felt it quietly absorbing
him. Presently she announced, "I'm a Foxy Lady."
Bolan gave her his full attention for a moment, inspecting her with a
sober gaze. He pegged her age in the low twenties. The eyes were luminous
and intelligent; under different conditions she would be a girl who laughed
easily. Maybe she would be capable of warmth and sincerity. She returned his
stare, and nothing more - no invitation, no challenge, no bid for sympathy -
simply a frank return of interest.
Bolan showed her half a smile and told her, "Yeah, you're pretty foxy."
She said, "No, I mean..."
"I know what you mean," he assured her. Bolan had not been that much
out of things. The Foxy Ladies had become an international trademark of
female sensuality, standard-bearers of Foxy Magazine and the widely popular
Lair keyclubs. The technically nude young beauties were the symbols of a
farflung male-oriented business empire - and to become a Foxy Lady was an
almost certain threshold to bigger and better things for aspiring models and