That meant that Jeanne had to be taking decent care of herself, to still look good enough to be photographed for magazines. Barocca hoped that Jeanne hadn't fallen into the tragic cycle of doing the modeling work, and then throwing all her money into booze or d**gs, as a number of other girls had done towards the end of their careers. Barocca would have to do her best job of salesmanship in getting Jeanne to see things her way, and eventually come to the Island. "Well, there's only one way to find out," Barocca thought to herself, as she punched Jeanne's number into the telephone. After several rings, a woman's voice answered the phone. "Hi, is this Jeanne?" asked Barocca. "Yes, this is Jeanne," she replied. "Who's this?" "Hey, this is a voice from your past," said Barocca. "Does the name 'Barocca' ring any bells to you?" Barocca was counting again on her unique voice striking a chord with Jeanne. There were a few seconds of awkward silence, and then a light seemed to flash. A few cocktails with friends, a meal, descent wine and then, finishing off with a Vodka Martini in a bar. That was when I noticed him when I lifted my glass to my lips and took a sip. His steely blue eyes caught my attention like they were about to pierce my flesh; pinning me to the wall.I looked away and joined in a laugh with one of my friends: I don’t know what I had laughed at because in that instant I had lost the thread of all the conversations going on around me. A cool breeze caressed my body, stiffening my nipples; yet there was no breeze coming from anywhere in the tightness and warmth of that corner of the bar that we inhabited.In that instant, my stomach had turned a somersault because I knew. I knew him, not actually knew him, but I knew what he was, how he would behave, how I would be taken if I let him anywhere near my body. My pussy was crying out, telling me to look at him and I wanted to turn my head and look but I was scared. No, not scared, of him, scared of.
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