This is another example of Harry Whittington's "mid-century erotica" from the time when he was churning out work for hire. The setup made me hopeful that it would be a pretty good crime novel, with sex. It wasn't as good as I'd hoped, however.
The setup, depicted on the cover, has a sleep-deprived Nick Phillips driving a seemingly deserted road because he was looking for a shortcut. He spots a scantily dressed woman wandering along and stops to see if he can be of help. She's battered and bruised and pretty much out of it. He does manage to get her to her house, which looks as if a fight has taken place. Sex ensues. The best sex ever, for either of them. She's married, of course, and her husband has disappeared. There's $250,000 that he's stolen and that can maybe be recovered. The woman is clearly not being truthful about what's been going on.
Not a bad setup, but the novel bogs down in endless talking. It was clearly written by Harry Whittington, but it lacks his usual narrative drive. There's lots of that good old sex philosophy: "A woman has to truly belong. She's got to be a slave to a man when they're together like that. She's got to be his slave. He's got to make her want to be his slave." To which the reply is, "I'll buy that."
If Whittington had eliminated all the sex and stuck with a straightforward crime novel, we'd have had a better book. Not that this one's terrible, but it's not up to Whittington's usual standards.