RANSVESTIA

"You didn't know about this?" Lawrence's voice was disbelieving.

"Of course not!" I said angrily.

"But you had these pictures taken," he picked up one of himself and Romy, both in skimpy little dresses, leaving for tennis matches at the Racquet Club.

"Francois Hebert took them for me," I said guardedly, and then the thought struck me. I'd spoken of nothing else but getting away to London as fast as I could, just as soon as the photos were on their way to the States, via Paris, along with my articles. The calculating glances directed at me by Francois were beginning to add up. With me in England and determined to "get lost" for at least three weeks, he must have seen the opportunity to indulge in a blackmail scheme. In the letter, clearly based upon what I'd said, he had Romy pegged as Brennan's girl friend, and he promised to stop publication of my article on Romy if Brennan met his terms.

"You had nothing to do with this," the brown eyes, outlined with eyeliner and enhanced by blue eyeshadow and thick mascara, regarded me in surprise. There was also an apology in the voice.

"No, I had nothing to do with this blackmail," I said grimly, looking directly into the face of the "woman." "My articles on Romy will go as printed along with," I waved my hand over the photographs, "which- ever of these my editor chooses to publish."

There was a rapid exchange between the two women across the desk from me. They spoke in German, and surprisingly, they seemed more relaxed after their conversation.

"We misjudged you," said Brennan Lawrence at last. "My apologies Al."

How do you accept the apologies of a man dressed as a woman, with his wife leaning on his shoulder, encouraging him? "The articles will be published," I said stiffly.

"Oh, I know that," said Brennan Lawrence, his red lips parting in a smile. "I'll have my father speak to Jeff Conlon about the photo- graphs. I don't want to embarrass my guests in public. I think they do

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