She knew it would be the most memorable lovemaking in her entire life. She only wanted to make him happy. She only wanted to . . .

Right now she only wanted to sleep, and she slept.

Returning to his apartment, after his final session with his surrogate, Chet Hunter felt like he was walking on air.

He wanted to call and report to Suzy, but he knew he was too tired to undertake such excitement and the possibility that she might want to come right over to be with him. In his condition, exhaustion underpinned by exhilaration, he wanted only to cap off his success by having a strong drink of whiskey alone.

But even before he could go into the pantry for his bottle, he realized that there was something else he must do first. There was one call he must make. The Reverend Josh Scrafield would be waiting impatiently for the results of the last session, waiting to hear if penetration had been achieved with Gayle. Scrafield would be dying to know if Hunter had fulfilled their agreement and if they were finally in business.

Hunter sat down by his living room telephone and quickly dialed Scrafield. A woman answered, and seconds later the minister was on the phone.

"It's you, Chet?" Scrafield asked edgily.

"It's me."

Hunter pressed closer to the mouthpiece of the telephone, and he said in a confidential voice, "I made it, Reverend. I just now made it."

"You put it to her?"

"Twice. Positively."

Scrafield seemed unable to believe the good news. "The play-for-pay girl, you stuck it in her?"

"I sure did."

Hunter heard Scrafield exhale into the phone. Scrafield said, "As a bona fide police reserve officer, you'll swear to what you're telling me?"

"I'll swear on a stack of Bibles. I've even got the tape."

"Good boy!"

"I haven't got it on paper yet," said Hunter, "because I'm whipped."

"She gave you a workout, did she?"

"And how. Anyway, I'll write it all up the first thing in the morning. I guess I should call Hoyt Lewis and Ferguson-"

"Never mind, I'll take care of them," Scrafield interrupted. "I'll call Ferguson first-and then I'll call the D.A. at home, even if I have to wake him. I'll let him know you did it, you have the proof, and we're in go position."

"That should do it for Hoyt Lewis, shouldn't it?"

"There'll be no stopping him from now on. You finish your part of it the minute you get up in the morning. Write down the whole story, every juicy detail, complete your journal on Freeberg and the Miller woman, and bring everything you have to Hoyt Lewis as soon as possible. Good work, Chet. Glad you got it up when it counted. We'll have that pimp Freeberg, and his little hooker, behind bars before you know it. Stupendous!"

Hanging up, Hunter knew he had suffered one twinge. When Scrafield had referred to Gayle as a hooker. The viciousness of it gave him a moment of discomfort. But what the hell, business was business.

He could hardly wait for morning, when he'd finish his story, tell Suzy what had happened, and then deliver the goods.

In a self-congratulatory mood, he lifted himself out of his armchair and started for his pantry to mix himself a strong, strong double Scotch and soda.

Brandon awakened first, trying to clear his head and recall what had happened last night, and then he was aware that he was not alone. There was Gayle, snuggled beside him and coming awake.

He drew her tightly against him. "At last-" he began. The telephone behind her began to ring loudly. "Let it go," he whispered.

She stretched to squint over his shoulder at the bedside clock. "I can't," she said regretfully. "It's eight thirty. Only Dr. Freeberg calls this early. I have to answer, Paul."

Reaching behind her, she found the receiver.

The caller was Dr. Freeberg. "Gayle," he said, "I have to speak to you . . ."

"Do you want me to come to the clinic?"

"No. I mean, right now. Are you free to talk?" He paused. "Are you alone?"

She glanced at Brandon, his expression a frown, and she said hesitantly, "Not-not quite, Dr. Freeberg. I'm with Paul-Paul Brandon."

"No problem. He's family. I have something I must tell you.

"You sound upset," said Gayle, sitting up, covering her breasts with the top of the blanket. "What is it?"

"I am upset, and with good reason," Dr. Freeberg went on. "Listen to me, and listen carefully. I've just been arrested. The police are outside waiting to-"

Gayle was astounded. "You-you what? Did you say arrested?"

"Yes, for pandering. It's something that was a possibility, and I should have told you about it, but I didn't because I was assured it would go no further. I didn't want to unduly alarm you or the others. But it happened just now, and I thought I'd better tell you before-"

"They're taking you to jail?"

"To be booked first."

Brandon was shaking Gayle's arm. "What's going on?" he demanded to know.

Gayle covered the mouthpiece of the phone. "Dr. Freeberg's been arrested for pandering," she told Brandon. She took her hand off the mouthpiece and spoke to Dr. Freeberg. "Who on earth is doing this?"

"District Attorney Hoyt Lewis. Let me explain. It all began some days ago. Lewis came to my office to tell me that my use of surrogates was really an act of pandering and against the law in California. He threatened to take me to court unless I gave up the use of surrogates. I contacted my lawyer, Roger Kile-you've met him-and after some research into California law, Kile assured me that Lewis had no case. Kile told me to proceed as I had been doing. I'm sorry . . . I should have warned you . . ."

Gayle stiffened. "Warned me? Warned me about what?"

"Gayle, you're going to be arrested, too."

"Me? For what?"

"Prostitution. Me for pandering, which is a felony charge, and you for prostitution, a misdemeanor, because you are working for me."

"I don't believe it!" said Gayle. "What about the others of us, the other women and Paul?"

"No, just you and I are being charged. Obviously, if they win the case against you, they can charge everyone else later."

"But why me?" Gayle wanted to know.

"I tried to find out. The best I could learn at this point is that the prosecution's chief witness was one of your patients."

"One of my patients? That's impossible. You know both of them as well as I do. Adam Demski's from out of town. He's a stranger here. Besides, he wouldn't hurt a fly. And Chet-Chet Hunter. He wouldn't claim I was a prostitute, not in a million years. Dr. Freeberg, I saved him. I put him together again."

Dr. Freeberg's voice was implacable. "One of them fingered you, and me as well, and is going to be a witness against us in court."

Gayle shook her head. "It still makes no sense. What-what's going to happen to us?"

"There are arrest warrants out for each of us, but they're charging us with different offenses. We'll both be taken to the city jail to be booked . . . You know, fingerprints, mug shots . . ."

"Oh, no."

"And bail for each of us will be set. I've already notified Roger Kile, and he's rushing up from Los Angeles to have a bail bondsman take care of our bail. So we'll be released immediately."

"For how long?"

"What follows will be different for each of us. I'm to have a preliminary hearing in ten days, where a judge will decide if there is a likelihood that a crime has been committed. If he decides there is, I'll be bound over to the Superior Court, arraigned again, and then go on trial in about sixty days."

"What about me?" Gayle asked in a quavering voice.

"Your misdemeanor arraignment is simpler. You'll go before a judge with Roger Kile accompanying you, and he'll enter a plea of not guilty on your behalf. Then you may or may not be put on trial, too."

"Is all this going to be in the newspapers and on television?"

"I'm afraid so, Gayle. But don't be frightened. Roger will be defending us."

"Don't worry? I'm damned worried, Dr. Freeberg. I'm scared as hell. When are the police going to arrest me?"

"In about ten minutes. I have to hang up now."

Gayle slammed down the telephone receiver and turned to Brandon. "Paul, the police are going to be here any minute." Then, as Brandon grabbed hold of her, trying to soothe her, her eyes filled. "Dammit to hell, there goes everything. It'll be made public. Can you see someone arrested for prostitution getting a scholarship to UCLA? Everything ruined . . ."

"Not everything, Gayle. There's still the two of us."

"Yes, but one of us'll be in jail!"

And she burst into tears.

Chapter X.

The first thing on Chet Hunter's mind, when he awakened in the morning, was to get in touch with Suzy Edwards and break the fantastic news to her.

Still in his pajamas, he telephoned Suzy at the Freeberg Clinic.

"Suzy, I've got to see you today," he said excitedly. "When can you get here?"

"Why, you know, soon's work is done. I can be there a little after six."

"No, before. I must see you before."

"You make it sound like something important," said Suzy, bewilderment in her voice. "What is it?"

"Not on the phone," replied Hunter. "There's something I want to show you. And yes, it is important."

"Well, I suppose I could drop by at my lunch break-"

"Your lunch break? That would be great. You can grab a sandwich here while we talk."

"About what?" Suzy persisted. "Can't you even give me a hint?"

"You'll see. I'll be waiting for you at twelve fifteen."

The minute he hung up, Hunter thought of another call he must make. He lifted the receiver once more, and he dialed city hall. When he had it, he asked the switchboard operator to put him through to District Attorney Hoyt Lewis's office.

The district attorney was out on business, Hunter learned. "But," Lewis's secretary went on, "I know he was expecting to hear from you. Also, he said he'd be meeting with you."

"That's why I'm calling," said Hunter. "Give him this message. Tell him it's about the Reverend Scrafield's talk with him last night. Tell him I'm getting it all down on paper, and I'll make some copies and messenger one to him before noon. I'll come by to see him between two and three, if it's okay. Will you tell him that?"

"I certainly will, Mr. Hunter." The secretary giggled. "I gather you made out yesterday."

"Hey there, how do you know . . . ?"

She giggled again. "You forgot. I'm Mr. Lewis's private secretary. I typed out his criminal complaints two hours ago."

"So that's it." Hunter grinned to himself. "Yes, my dear lady, I made out yesterday."

After hanging up again, Hunter's good cheer persisted. He had almost two hours to get ready for this momentous day. He would shower, shave, dress, eat a full breakfast, and then have more than enough time to complete his journal for Hoyt Lewis.

He moved through all the acts of the morning briskly and on schedule. In fact, ahead of schedule, because he wanted to wind up his journal with care-to impress Suzy, when she read it, then the district attorney, and finally the Chronicle's managing editor, Otto Ferguson.

At his electric portable typewriter, Hunter tried to recall, as vividly as possible, and in fairly accurate detail, what had occurred yesterday evening in his final session with Gayle. While he had the dialogue on tape, only his mind could reconstruct the background and color.

She had been sitting on her couch, stark naked, waiting for him to finish undressing.

She had inquired how he felt.

He had said, "Like I can make it."

She had admitted, "You did last time. We had penetration."

Hunter began to type it all out. The part about his fear of prematurity, he decided to skip. Such details weren't necessary. Hell, he wasn't trying to be James Joyce or Henry Miller, either. He decided to concentrate on what was relevant, and still true.