The Lonely Lady by Harold Robbins

orchestra came out on the terrace. They moved off to one side, talking among themselves. After a few moments the boy singer walked over to the railing and stood looking out over the water.
    “That last number was very beautiful,” JeriLee said to him. “You sounded just like Nat King Cole.”
    “Thank you.”
    She had the vague feeling that he did not like her compliment. “I bet everybody says that. You must get sick of hearing it.”
    He turned to look at her. His eyes were appraising. “That’s what folks want to hear,” he said in a soft accent.
    She felt the faint antagonism. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I meant it as a compliment.”
    He seemed to relax. “We have to give the people what they want.”
    “There’s nothing wrong in that.”
    “I guess not,” he admitted.
    “I’m JeriLee Randall,” she said. “I work here.”
    “I’m John Smith. I work here too.” Then he laughed.
    She laughed with him. “John Smith. Is that really your name?”
    His eyes brightened. “No. But my pappy always warned me. Never tell white folk your real name.”
    “What is your name?”
    “Fred Lafayette.”
    “Fred, I’m pleased to meet you,” she said, holding out her hand.
    He shook her hand, then looked into her face. “JeriLee, I’m pleased to meet you.”
    “And I really do like your singing,” she said.
    “Thank you.” He was smiling now. The orchestra was filing back into the room. “I got to go now. See you later.”
    “He even looks like Nat King Cole,” Lisa whispered as he went inside.
    “Yes,” JeriLee replied thoughtfully. She felt the warm excitement and her hand still tingled from his touch. She wondered if it would be like that with every boy she met or whether there had to be some special attraction. She turned to her friend. “Lisa, will you answer an honest question?”
    “Sure,” Lisa answered.
    “Are you a virgin?”
    “JeriLee! What kind of a question is that?”
    “Are you?”
    “Of course,” she said indignantly.
    “Then you wouldn’t know.”
    “What?”
    “What it’s like?”
    “No,” Lisa said shortly.
    “Don’t you ever wonder?”
    “Sometimes.”
    “Did you ever ask anybody about it?”
    “No,” Lisa answered. “Who is there to ask?”
    “I know what you mean.”
    “I guess it’s something every girl has to find out for herself,” Lisa said.
    JeriLee thought her friend had, in her own way, just about summed it up.

Chapter 8
    The sun beat down, spreading its warmth through her body. She dozed, her face resting on her arms, her eyes closed against the light. She knew the voice the moment he spoke even though she had heard it only once and that almost a month ago.
    “Hi, JeriLee. I’m back and I still want to buy you a Coke.”
    She looked at the feet first. They had now been bronzed by the sun. “Where have you been?” she asked.
    “In California, visiting my mother,” he said. “They’re divorced.” He paused. “Are you still worried about the rules?”
    She shook her head. As the season went on, the rules about fraternization between employees and members had been relaxed. She learned from Lisa that it was the same every year. She rose to her feet. He was taller than she remembered.
    He took her arm casually as they walked toward the cabana bar. It seemed that an electric current ran through his hand, creating a tingling where he touched her. She felt a slight weakness in her legs and a knotting in her stomach. She wondered why it was stronger with him than with anyone else.
    He gestured at one of the small tables under an umbrella. “Sit there,” he said. “It’s cooler than at the bar. I’ll bring the drinks.”
    “I’ll have a cherry Coke,” she said.
    He returned in a moment with the Coke for her and a can of beer for himself. He sat down opposite her and smiled. “Cheers,” he said and took a large swallow from the can.
    She sipped at the Coke through the straw. He was older than she had thought. He had to be over