Beauties Slay the Beasts

By Bob Ellis

Alana Dorset was savagely raped. Zania, Fedilia and others, by chance, become her bonded friends. Each has a story to tell about the lengths men had gone to use them, harm them and even murder those women unable to defend against them.

Is it right that because of their undeniable beauty, they should become targets? The women all have the same question ... should those men pay?
The power of woman is, more often than not, underestimated by men. When they decide to fight back, men had better run for the hills.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Oct 31, 2014
• ISBN: 9781496991836

Bob Ellis

Bob Ellis is the author of over twenty books, fifty-five screenplays, two hundred poems, five hundred political speeches, a hundred songs and two thousand film reviews. His books include the bestselling Goodbye Babylon, So It Goes, The Capitalism Delusion and First Abolish the Customer. He co-wrote the classic films Newsfront, Fatty Finn, Man of Flowers and Goodbye Paradise, and wrote and directed Nostradamus Kid. He had a long and close involvement with politics, covering as a journalist twenty-five campaigns in Australia, the UK, and the US, and writing speeches for Kim Beazley, Bob Carr among others. Bob Ellis died in April 2016.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Alana Dorset had fought her way through the many difficulties of her life. Hell I’ve crept up to twenty-seven years old, she reflected. But she was also in no doubt of her incredible persisting beauty. Tall at five-eleven. Long blonde hair waving down to her shoulders. Natural, with a gloss that sparkled in the sun as she moved gracefully along.

Wow, she is beautiful, were no doubt the unsaid thoughts of all men who passed by catching a whiff of the tantalising aroma which drifted to them. She smiled as she imagined their mind visions. That is good. That is her practiced intention. Men must notice and long for her. When I am ready, they will reveal all I need to know from them.

Alana viewed reflections of men and women in shop windows as they turned to gaze after her when she had walked by. Some, particularly men, stood for long moments watching her. Why wouldn’t they? A face of captivating beauty to match all the other unbelievable features contained in just this one person.

Not bloody fair, would be the silent thoughts of women not so blessed. Bitch. Bet she doesn’t notice anyone else as she walks along. Fuuuck … to be like her. Saw her eyes. Big, beautiful … piercing blue. And that face. Unblemished soft skin. Lightly tanned. Perfect nose. Full lips … hardly any make-up. Shit, she doesn’t need any. Wonder what she thinks about? Bitch.

I’ll be late for the meeting, Alana contemplated. That’s good. Need to be at least twenty minutes late. They’re all men. Mustn’t change my style for men. Men caused me to be the way I am. I know how they think. Yes …as I walk into the boardroom I’ll be completely undressed. All they see is my slim naked body. They stare at my large breasts. Then they drop their eyes to my perfectly sculpted hips and on to the crotch area. My long slender legs receive just a fleeting glance. Once they glimpse the pubic covered mound the legs don’t get a second glance.

They all stand as I enter the room. They shift about to be certain that they each have a clear view of my whole self.

How beautifully dressed you are Alana. Love that blue costume. And those shoes. The heels are so high. Gosh you are already an amazingly tall woman. Please sit here. The president pulls out a chair next to where he sits at the end of the long table.

I’m so sorry I’m a little late gentlemen, Alana pleads forgiveness in her calculated way. I really must avoid walking. So many people stop me to talk. Much of it is useful though. She sits.

Alana, William Banian the president spoke, waving his head from side to side slowly and gently. I doubt if anyone here would mind even if you were an hour late. He looked around the table to see indulgent head-nods. Smiling faces.

Alana knows how they feel and think. She has heard conversations between some of them at times. Two dreamers were talking as she stood nearby, out of sight. She smiled as one said, Oh I’d love to be inside that Alana. She smiled again when the other answered with a chuckle, Shit man, forget it. I don’t reckon she knows what a cock is for.

Hmmm, better slip out before the hopeful nitwits see me, she thought. Quickly now.

An out-of-sight listener would have been entirely correct if he pictured, in each of those males’ minds, themselves climbing onto the beautiful naked Alana to assure her that they would forgive her for anything … anything.

Her special close friends and colleagues, six of them, pace through the same corridors of life with men. When they gather together, they compare notes. It is a necessary part of their pact. Men, each had found, have an agenda of their own. Most men these close friends know, ingratiate women to place them where they need them to be. When the moment of advantage shows, they spring. The friends vowed to correct the wrongs by men against women wherever and whenever it was possible. Their bonds are unbreakable. Love for men for them may come one day. Time will tell.

Alana was an analyst. She studied intensely, freshly emerged artwork of note, from all around the world. Considered to be the most reliable critic alive, despite her youth, she seemed to be blessed with a deep understanding of the intention of the artist. A leading expert on old masters too. Her talents were sought after by almost every museum in the world. Many, many of them were only able to hope for her services. She was just one person. She never once accepted an assignment until she had totally completed, to the greatest degree of satisfaction, that which was current. Her regular clients appreciated that reliability in her so much that they offered to increase her remuneration. She always respectfully declined the offers. There was no need. She had already become a very wealthy woman. She was sort after by the most famous of men. Handsome, rich and, ordinarily influential. Influential that is, until they strike Alana Dorset. Alana let men into her realm only at her whim. If she had a particular use for any male individual she pressed the buttons she needed to. She learned which, right across the spectrum … that one which men so often reveal, without knowing they had.

Alana perceived the artist she agreed to critique for the individual or company which engaged her, as other than an ordinary human. Any person can scratch a shape in the sand or even paint a passable image on canvas or even on pad paper. They had to leave some sort of spirit in the image though. If that was not present, for her, it reflected nothing.

Alana Dorset was not only seen as a natural beauty but also a stand-alone expert contracted to examine and pass judgement on various pieces sought by a multitude of organisations. The piece she was asked to study and critique need not be just oil on canvas, rising water-colour potential masterpieces, or creatively sculpted objects.

Among many of some hopeful’s pieces were simply arrangements of bits and pieces of recognised junk, perceived by the self-proclaimed artist as art. Alana refused to pass professional judgement on any such ‘artistic’ effort except to advise the so-called artist to seek other means than the time-wasting potential to create laughter.

But this has won a major prize Madam. Thirty thousand dollars. One growled. It won, over so many other entries. Thirty-thousand bloody dollars. The artist felt hugely disappointed and insulted.

I was not the judge in this … this so-called masterpiece, she will have said typically. "They were men … three of them. I do believe they are on their way down to the unemployment centre right now. I have to say this though, I’m glad you are a man. A woman would never dream up such rubbish. Ha, ha, ha, Rubbish … Get it?"

Over the previous few years Alana had travelled the world. Always first-class. The company which engaged her at any one time covered all her expenses … no questions asked. They all knew better than to test one of the best in the world. Alana’s record of success was unequalled. Almost one hundred percent. She had recently returned from Venice. A painting purported to be by Rembrandt, created in the sixteenth century. The Head Of Christ. This one had surfaced there and offered for sale. The problem for all concerned, was that it became the fourth so-called original in existence. Only those who held one or the other were convinced that theirs was the real original masterpiece. The discovery details and authentication of each were always effectively, one way or another, both ridiculed by some experts and confirmed as genuine by others.

It was said the true Rembrandt ‘Head of Christ’ had been missing for around seventy years. It was suspected as having been taken from a Jewish family by a German Nazis officer. Several Head of Christ paintings were created by many artists over the centuries. Rembrandt’s was widely considered as the most popular, therefore, it had become the most famous.

If not for prints of the work created and circulated during the early part of the ending of the second world war, clear memories of the original will have slipped further and further into the same darkness which conceal so many missing masterpieces.

Popular belief was that Oberst Rundstedt of the SS section of the German war machine was the officer who ordered the seizure of the work along with many hundreds, perhaps thousands, of other valuable pieces of Jewish treasures. Popular belief too, was that it was he who initiated the creation of the first prints to circulate. He had managed to escape to Brazil and in that country, relatively free to do as he wished … until he was tracked down and put to death by a group believed to be an organised team of Jewish seekers of revenge and justice. That of course was never proven. Western powers, allied against Germany during the war, did not care a hoot who was responsible. He had become a corpse, that was all that mattered.

The meeting reached its conclusion three hours after Alana’s arrival. A contract was to be drafted and if acceptable to her, drawn up and signed by her and the New York Old Masters Museum. Alana’s witness would be, as usual, Miriam Cortia her attorney. Alana was well known for never assuming that her judgment of legal documents was beyond the need of professional legal scrutiny.

Alana was to fly to Florence, Italy to examine the Rembrandt work once again. She was unhappy about her first viewing of the Head of Christ while it was located in Venice. She had viewed early photographs of the work and each seemed different to another. She was not allocated enough time to perform her personally demanded in-depth study of the work.

There was something amiss. She decided at that time that to confirm its status one way or another would be far below her level of responsible assessment. It would need much more vigorous and time consuming examination. And, true to her concept of value to her client, advised that another time, with improved methods that may develop and become available, would be wise. Just a year later, advanced methods of x-ray techniques had emerged.

The Old Masters Museum was very anxious that they make a bid for the work … if it is proven to be the original and not a fake. So many Rembrandts, Picassos, Leonardo Da Vincis, Durers … almost all the masters have one or more of their works copied. Most which are launched onto the market are brilliant reproductions of the original. Some, so much so that the ‘successful’ buyers refuse to be persuaded at first, that they have landed a fake.

Of the seven hundred and twenty-nine master works of art assessed by Alana, in almost every major country in the world, one hundred and forty-six were proven to be fake. Those fakes were re-examined by up to three other specialists and each was found to be as Alana had ruled. Alana was never really surprised to find that the proven perpetrator was male. She was also very pleased that only a very minute number were women.

There was another side to the deception. It had to be assumed, and rightly so in almost all cases – conspiracy. The copy artist needed at least another copy to copy from or actually copy, using the original. The known intricate detail of the original requires intimate knowledge. To produce a fake, equalling the splendour of an original would require, in the copyist, skills which may even surpass those once possessed by the master who created the piece in the first instance.

The original? The piece had to be in the possession of one human or another. How else could it be copied? Photographs? Yes, often so. But what of the intricate creation of the aged appearance. Indeed what of the convincing condition of oils used? Too many old and recently skilled connoisseurs are not easily fooled. They know through practiced procedure, the best means to recognise true from false.

Alana Dorset achieved and consolidated her expertise through total focus on the realities of existing history and proven fact. Not ever would she put her signature to a conclusion until she was satisfied, often beyond the accepted levels of fellow examiners, that no doubt whatsoever remained in her mind. After all, she had become that new person who stood strong against all who wished to better her in any situation important to her. First place … no less.

CHAPTER TWO

Alana Dorset’s life, since that tragedy she suffered at the hands of that man when she was just twenty-four years of age, had been refashioned. She stepped carefully through every direction which appeared before her. All new horizons were examined critically before any first step was even contemplated. Each had to reflect advantage that she was able to assess and examine for its worth and non-negotiable advantage. Alana was determined that the world had to work for her. Look left … Look right. Not just when crossing a busy street. Watch out for male humans. They think … they plan.

At twenty-one she had gained her Master of Fine Arts Degree, two years earlier than normal. She entered Harvard at age eighteen and dedicated her entire time to study. No romances, no partying with friends, no deviation of any sort. She needed to be ready to take up the important position which awaited her within her father’s company.

The company, National-International Fine Arts Inc. dominated the commercial sector of art. If a specific piece was sought by any person in the world and they required information regarding the piece, they would eventually be led to National-International Fine Arts Inc. They always managed to track the piece down or advise that it was not available. Its unavailability, if that was the case, was always explained.

Alana quickly demonstrated her incredible talents. Within just one year she had been catapulted to the leadership of all facets of the tracking systems used by the company. Each time a fresh name emerged within the hundreds of enquiries associated with searches for pieces, she added it to her personal research list. Her memory for names and their connection to the business of all aspects of art, was unequalled. Her personal tragic event compelled her to practice the art. Faces, voices … special features.

Her talent for assessing the detail which set one piece of art against another also astounded experts around her. Even many artists who brought their work to be appraised by the company became enthralled by Alana’s insights into the piece. Often, she saw and felt in it an emotion that even the artist could not. Despite the artist’s best intentions to reflect to the world, a particular feeling within the work, he or she was not always able to bathe within it. If the elements were present, Alana would feel it. Explain it.

It became a foregone conclusion that she would eventually assume full management of the entire company. Her father Jason was fifty years old and he was confident that by the time Alana was thirty she would be more than ready. He could be freed. He will watch from the side though. A man who stood no nonsense from anyone was Dorset. A large man, six feet four inches tall, with mostly unfriendly facial expressions. It was often mentioned that his best smiles were for Alana and special friends only. Most of the once blonde hair on top of his head had disappeared. To have thought, without having been told, that his daughter Alana was actually his, would have raised doubts in any contemplative mind.

Size fourteen shoes left no doubts in any observer’s mind that the huge hands he waved about matched those covered feet. Also, there were few doubts in the minds of those who knew him, that he would wreak havoc upon anyone proven to cross him in business or private affairs.

The savage rape almost killed Alana. As it was, she was left for dead. At least the police investigators and forensic experts determined that to be so. She had been strangled savagely but fortunately the rapist, the would-be murderer, wrongly judged her to be dead. The intention that she was meant to die was evident by her condition when she was examined. Alana reflected later, how lucky she had been that the madman must have been frantically impatient to leave the scene.

She was discovered in bushes along the open highway not a great distance from her home. A male driver was overcome with the urgent need to treat his bladder to the relief it sought. He left his wife in the car and rushed into nearby bushes. His initial startled reaction was clearly heard by his wife when he spied the almost completely naked body he almost urinated upon. He felt for her pulse. Alive? Dead? She was alive. Just, he figured. His need to pee had become unimportant.

Holy fuck! he yelled to his wife. There’s a woman here. She is naked. Think she’s been raped. Quick ring the police. Ambulance. Quick ring for an ambulance.

Alana knew nothing. She woke in hospital the evening of the next day, dazed, disorientated and wracked in pain. Indiscernible images were moving about. Sounds seemed to amplify then shrink to silence. Yes, she had been brutally raped. She was not able to talk. Her breathing was ragged and needed the assistance of the breathing apparatus which was fitted down her throat. Intravenous lines sprouted from both arms. The throat area had been severely damaged. It was not possible for the police to gain any information.

The Bruises and lacerations to her arms, legs, inner thighs, breasts … almost all parts of the body. She had been raped. Yes, the attack was savage. It was obvious that she fought back with all that she had.

A day or two, maybe three, the attending doctor figured as he spoke with the detectives. She may be able to speak then. But of course, first, we will have to be certain. X-rays will be examined as soon as possible. Brain damage is a real possibility. Induced coma may yet be advised. We will keep a very close watch for that need.

The detective in charge, Inspector Duncan Fitz, hoped for the best. He had become angry as he gazed down upon the battered woman. He knew it was unprofessional of him to display such emotion. Doctor she simply has to survive this. We must find the animal responsible. When we get him, so help me … His look revealed the rest of his feelings.

He rationalised that it was more than possible she had been dumped at the site. The medical examiner’s report was clear. She was likely to have been dragged along the ground to where she was left. The lacerations on her back and significantly, one side extending along the left underarm suggested as much. The perpetrator of course will have used a vehicle of some sort.

Alana had seen the attacker’s face. No doubt, when he realised that she may be able to identify him later, he decided that she must die.

Dammit, she saw my face. It was brief but she saw it. It’s a bit dark though. His mind flared. Jesus, that car light. How the hell did she manage to pull the blindfold off? Fuck. Should have been more fuckin’ careful. Dammit, dammit, what the hell was I thinking? Now I’m a fuckin’ murderer.

Mike Burnett had always treated previous rapes he committed as consensual sex which escalated to heights desired, he insisted, by both he and the victim. In almost every case he convinced the woman, by swearing on his mother’s life, he thought she really wanted it. Others not so swayed, were warned that their families will not be safe. He had managed to escape prosecution on three occasions through lack of evidence. A victim in one case which promised to go all the way to a conviction, finally decided not to give evidence.

She had actually agreed to accompany him to his friend’s home to a birthday celebration. On their arrival, there were no other people present. One thing led to another and he eventually opened the door, led her to a bedroom and raped her. The birthday thing was simply a ruse.

He convinced her that she would be faced with the impossible task of seeming to be an innocent participant. He had information that she had been intimate with four other men, two of them married. He named them all. She reported the rape to the police anyway but eventually refused to cooperate after two weeks. He became known to the police yes, but he remained free. Evidence was non-existent when the woman closed her mouth.

Burnett had noticed Alana for the first time three months before, when he delivered parcels to her office. He became fixated with the idea of having sex with her. It began as a simple wish and grew in intensity to become a raging obsession. He had even cunningly manipulated the company’s delivery commitments to her so that it would be he who made those deliveries.

He was miffed though that she hardly spoke to him except to politely say ‘good morning, good afternoon or simply thank you’. Her preoccupation with her task at-hand during those times was quite irksome to him. Snobbish bitch. She needs fucking, he often growled in his mind. Bitch. Probably sees me as just a no-account van driver. Fuck, did she even notice me? Really?

But Jesus, that body. Jeez, those bloody tits. A face that most women would die for. Is she a fucking real human? At times in his bed at night he would get so carried off with thoughts of her he would hand-masturbate. Often too, when he was having sex with one of his regular sexual partners, he would imagine them to be Alana. Yes, Burnett had become totally obsessed.

Not as though I’m ugly, he complained inwardly, when he thought of Alana’s apparent stand-offishness. I’m six feet one or two for crisake. Not bloody old. Thirty’s not old. Handsome too … according to his women-friends, and his mother. So I have a bit missing off my left ear … So what? My blonde hair covers it most times. No-one says anything about it. His sex-drive, according to them … not his mother, was a power to be felt. Well endowed down below. He was often referred to as the male equivalent to a woman nymphomaniac. During a threesome one night he indulged with each woman three times. When one of the women decided to hurry home to her husband, he took the other twice more. Well, at least that is what he told his mates.

************

He looked down at the ‘corpse’. I had to kill her. Oh Jesus, I had to kill her. Thank Christ I used a condom. He examined his face, arms, hands. No cuts. No blood. She was wearing gloves, and didn’t scratch me. She is dead. But hey, an alibi. Must invent an alibi. Just to be sure. I must never become a suspect. Already on the fuckin’ books.

Jason Dorset her father, is a ruthless business identity, Burnett reflected. He was known to ruin large companies for daring to unfairly destabilise any of his own enterprises. More than once a high ranking member of the targeted company was found dead. Each in suspicious circumstances. At least one was found to have been sliced open from throat to belly button. No Dorset company member was ever accused of any of the killings. Dorset himself of course was visiting a major client in Australia when that stomach was opened.

He will cut my cock off and shove it in my mouth. He will stand and watch me die … slowly. I’ve seen him often. Behaves like Jesus Christ. Jesus bloody Christ? I reckon I know better.

Saw him punch two idiots to the ground once outside his building. I was delivering parcels. Big bastards. Stupid pricks. One had picked his pocket. A woman sitting on a street bench attracted his attention. All she did was yell, Hey, and pointed to the two baddies walking away.

That bloody Dorset didn’t need a picture. He strode after the two grabbed them with one hand on each and beat the fuck out of them both. He Recovered his wallet took out a fifty and gave it to the woman and walked off. Big tall bastard is Dorset. Not handsome. How he had a good looking daughter’s beyond me.

Burnett’s thoughts continued to race on. It was running through the dark hours when he snatched Alana as she went to her car. There was no-one else at all in that private company car park. Hell, it is a floor below the one for customer use. Na shit, when I grabbed her she was alone. It was 11.30pm. She often worked into the late hours. Christ, at times she stayed in her office until others arrived for work next day. So many bloody nights I waited.

The woollen cover over her head from behind, then the knife to her throat, the warning to behave or her head will be sliced off. There was no doubt, even though she wore thin driving gloves, when she was made to feel the blade. He told her to, in a whispered voice. He had checked week after week beforehand and there were no CCTV ‘spy’ cameras anywhere. No bloody cameras. Unbelievable.

Hell, she was no stupid bitch. She was the super woman of the company. She was beautiful. She was the sexiest woman he had ever seen. To do what he intended, was way beyond anything he believed he could attempt. Some compelling force within him drove him past the point of reason. He had become a sex-crazed animal.

Must never get caught. No, no, no. Think clear. All I want to do is remove all her clothes. See that beautiful naked body. Enter her time after time. Have to use a condom. Yeah, have to use a condom or two. When it’s over I’ll tie her up and leave her.

Fuck, that was then … now she’s dead … why do some things just go all to hell?

CHAPTER THREE

He was a nice person. Tall and handsome too. He may be impressed with my good looks enough to want to find out more about me, she told herself naively. Could do worse than have him as a friend.

Zania Mendoza’s mind drifted back to the night when she first met Mike Burnett. Much had happened since.

Zania worked as a cleaner for Express Delivery Group thanks to Mike. The same company that employed him. It would be temporary until she was able to fathom her life. He went to pains to support her. Well, she was a very attractive woman.

Mike Burnett was smitten by attractive women. He hoped to persuade her one day to indulge in sex with him. In good time. In good time. He was patient. Hell’s teeth, he had plenty to fuck in the meantime.

The employment manager, Gwyneth Tower, took great pity on her when Zania took a chance and explained that she was an illegal immigrant and wanted to support her sister and mother back in Mexico. Her father Roberto was no longer around so things were very tough for them. She knew that tears and sniffing would be helpful to her. Tears were not far away these days. The tragic news of her father was strong in her mind. She and Gwyneth were alone.

Gwyneth Tower was no stranger to disadvantage and hardship herself. She was widowed twice and left with very little to survive on each time. Both husbands were alcoholics. They were both dead and buried. Her first died of alcoholic poisoning … the second was killed by a bus as he crossed a busy street while seriously intoxicated. She had worked as a cleaner herself for the company. Hard and dedicated work caused her to climb the ladder. She was quick though to advise Zania not to reveal to anyone, her migrant status. Not even to Mike Burnett who had asked her to consider Zania as a possible employee.

Zania explained that she and Burnett had met a week ago in a nightclub and had been out together to take in the occasional movie. Gwyneth confirmed Burnett’s approach to her hoping for a position within her work team. She made a mental note to warn Zania of the reputation attached to Mike Burnett. His innocence or guilt, as far as she was concerned was not something for her to dwell on. However, she viewed Zania as perhaps a vulnerable young woman. Very much a beauty who may fall under the spell of a man as handsome as Mike Burnett.

There was an underlying feeling she had, that there was a sadness attached to Zania’s being. Sensing these signals helped her to decide that she ought to help the woman as best she could.

It was necessary she told Zania, to venture into the world available to disadvantaged people … if they know how to find it. To by-pass normal employment regulations for instance. She knew ‘someone’ who was able to produce some documents to help them both. Zania, she said, would be handed the documents personally by that person and she, Gwyneth, would have no knowledge of it. The cost would be equivalent to one month’s earnings. An advance to Zania of the amount will be noted in the company’s records and repayments, equivalent to ten percent per week, will also be made and recorded. No interest will be charged. Zania had moved forward a little more in her quest to settle and eventually bring her mother and sister to the USA.

Her mother and sister were living in dire circumstances. Pressure from the drug gang became constant. They, thanks to what Zania herself had done, were forced to move from place to place. She sent letters to a safe address in Chihuahua. Her sister Amolatina replied to the address where Zania now lived in New York. She addressed the mail to ‘Valery Webber’ in case she, as Zania Mendoza, was traced. Zania knew that she had to do more. She desperately needed a lot of money. There was only one person who was likely to help.

In the hope that she would gain the support she hoped for from Burnett she considered she may overlook Gwyneth’s advice and tell him the whole story. She knew it had to be hard hitting and graphic. She needed at least ten thousand dollars. If he did not have the money he may know somewhere it could be raised. She hoped that he would not be frozen into inaction because of the Mexican drug world reputation. All over the world it was regarded as the most active and seemingly untouchable criminal organisation in existence. Murders were committed widely and randomly. It mattered not if the victims were their own people, police, or troublesome politicians.

She would describe how she unwittingly carried packets of heroin into the USA for Cayo Chavez the notorious Mexican drug lord. How at first she was duped into believing that she was being sent on modelling try-out assignments. How she felt helpless and not able to avoid carrying the last packet of heroin into the USA to a Chavez link in San Diego. Also how she crossed into the USA through a virtual ‘crack in the fence’. Her unbelievable but temporary pain of disappointment too that the heroin she carried turned out to be ordinary white flour mixed with some other substance. She would explain how she hoped to exchange the heroin for the money needed to create a new life. Guilt, she would admit for planning so, did not enter her thoughts. How she would succeed with her plan was beyond her limited knowledge of that area of the trade. Desperation was a prime mover and she knew she simply had to overcome huge odds.

She knew very well too that no heroin meant completely different scenes had to be fathomed. Somehow though, she managed to feel and understand the measure of relief that bathed her. No heroin meant there was no longer any need to be involved with drugs.

Zania dug down into her mind. Should she really take the chance? Go against the good advice of a seasoned woman? Is Mike Burnett likely to take some sort of advantage after absorbing the depth of her problems?

All her major problems began with men. She was a beautiful woman who attracted handsome men. Yes, she was well aware of how they were affected. She dated many. One of them managed to convince her that she was model material and ought to allow him to introduce her to individuals who could send her far. He was Brad Cameron, an American and one of his enjoyable pastimes, he told her, was to keep a lookout for women like her. She succumbed and the trail, after many deliberately confusing manoeuvres eventually led her to Cayo Chavez.

His palatial home with a surprising, but imposing security entrance a mile from the mansion, was impressive to her. She noticed the many well dressed men who seemed to be simply standing around. Two here, three there. Inside there were even more.

Chavez was quick to compliment her on her attractiveness. He was also quick to get down to business. His aim, he told her