Microsoft Word - Rogers, Rosemary - The Crowd Pleasers (45 page)

Yves snapped his mind back to attention. He'd find out the details later. For the moment he must concentrate, if he was to force concentration from all these blank faces.

Why the fucking run-through? It wasn't really necessary any longer, with even little Annie turning out to be quite an actress.

On screen and off. Webb let his eyes flick over her where she sat across the room from him, noticing sardonically how she deliberately looked away, fastening her gaze on Yves.

Big seduction scene coming up-he supposed he ought to be relieved he wouldn't be wearing a knife this time. Anne was all contradiction. How much of her father was in her, hidden under the silver-cool front? His mind went back to the first time he'd seen her, skimming downhill with her arms outstretched. Little girl lost, looking to find herself. And since then he'd found it difficult to keep up with the changes in her.

He stretched his legs out in front of him, keeping the frown in his mind from showing on his face. Tension. Too many questions still unanswered, and time was running out. Reardon's Boys didn't play patty-cake, and he had to keep thinking of his sister and his nephews-he could only imagine what Vito must be going through. This was a job like any other, except that he had a personal stake in it. And Anne, for all the sweet chemistry between them, was Other Side. Use her. And he would, because he had to.

Harris and Rufus Randall weren't watching the filming that morning. They played back videotapes from the previous night, and Phelps's eyes were red-rimmed. He'd been up very late. First with Anne, and then with the machine-that was what Sal Espinoza called it, laughing.

"This Danny Verrano-he must have been an imaginative man. Apart from the fact that this machine has its uses, it also makes voyeurs of us all, eh?"

Espinoza had come back upstairs after leaving Claudia. Of them all, perhaps Espinoza was the most detached and relaxed. Everything was a game to him-a contest. Perhaps that was why he still risked his life racing cars all over the world.

Outwardly a playboy, he had money and connections and power. He traveled everywhere and had entree everywhere as an international sportsman. He was the perfect liaison man-the objective looker-on, in spite of his own stake In this particular venture.

No, no longer a venture or a carefully planned project, Harris corrected himself mentally. A long-term goal that had finally been reached. The rule of the elite.

Generations of money and power that would reach beyond national boundaries. He remembered talks with his father, long before he had quite been able to comprehend.

The responsibility of money, and the power it wielded. The challenge of manipulation.

And now all the waiting, the careful planning; going slow, one step at a time-all of the time and thinking he'd spent had finally paid off. Only a few weeks more. Carol would be down here by the weekend, and Jimmy Markham-traveling separately, of course.

Markham still had some freedom of movement, with the elections some time off. He was supposed to spend the weekend golfing at Cypress Point, accompanied by his closest friend and companion, Bob Parmenter. Parmenter, like Sal Espinoza, was an international sportsman. Head of a multimillion-dollar corporation, he raced yachts, played golf and tennis, and traveled all around the world to do these things. He was an excellent marksman, too, and practiced target shooting with the Shah of Iran and King Hussein of Jordan; was chairman of the board of directors of an international company that owned cattle ranches in Texas, Argentina, and Australia. Only a very few people knew that Parmenter had originally been financed by and still worked for the CIA. And the CIA, for their own reasons, were just as anxious to be shut of Reardon and his bunch.

Reardon-Anne. Harris frowned slightly, finger going up to brush at his mustache. The only piece of the puzzle he couldn't fit in. He knew that both Randall and Espinoza wondered how important she was to him. Well, let them wonder! He wasn't sure himself. She was complex, more depths than he'd thought at first. For all that he'd succeeded in making her his mistress, he hadn't yet been able to possess her or to understand her completely-perhaps because he was too used to women who came to his hand too easily, dazzled by his name and wealth and position. How would she react when she finally understood everything? He wanted her admiring, appreciating, finally impressed-giving without reservation. Not only physically, but mentally.

Last night she'd been cold and more than usually inhibited.

"Are we on camera?" she'd asked him, putting off all the lights in her room before she began to undress. He'd admired her resilience and the stubborn courage that had kept her sitting there with him, watching the monitor screen. He'd kissed her gently and left her. One day, after all the explanations had been made, she'd understand why he'd left her free, to find her own way back to him. She'd realize how much alike they were, and that Karim had been an example of her body's weakness under physical stimulation. Like her weakness.for Webb Carnahan, which meant nothing more than just that. When she finally realized that Carnahan had only been using her

...

They were shooting outdoors, and today, although the sun still shone, the face of the sky was flecked with fluffy white clouds, and a cold wind blew in from the ocean, making everyone shiver. Even the cameramen wore heavy jackets.

But she didn't have the recourse of being mufffed up, Anne thought resentfully. It was just as if she were modeling again, wearing cool and frothy summer dresses in the chilly English spring. If she could just think that way-keep her mind blank . to everything else, forget that day in Surrey with Webb being so obliging-running towards him, laughing, with her hair blowing in the wind and her skirt flying out behind her. She'd seen those pictures since, and had torn them up, wishing soon afterwards that she hadn't. Pay attention!

Yves was being extra meticulous with the short early scenes.

She and Sarah stood huddled in the shelter of some twisted cypress trees while he got long shots of wagons-Spanish-Mexican carretas-moving slowly forward in silhouette against the sky. Glory coming home to California from the Southwest, escorted by her father's vaqueros and an American renegade. That's right-think Glory. She sipped her steaming coffee-and-cognac, willing the warmth of it to penetrate to her bones.

"Brr!" Sarah shuddered. "I hadn't realized how cold it could get here, even with the sun shining."

Sarah was being as nice as usual, and she must try to forget Sarah and Jean, turning together in bed. It didn't matter, it wasn't any of her business. Had Jean braved the biting wind to watch?

The scene was finally set up to Yves's satisfaction. A small stream, thickly shadowed by trees, where Glory was to escape to take a forbidden bath in privacy at noon, the hour of siesta.

"Do try to take a nap, dear. I'll leave you alone for a while." Sarah, bending over her, brushing a light kiss on her forehead.

The wagon bed was shielded by canvas-and it was strange, Anne thought, how easy it was, now that she was acting consciously, for her to slip into the role she was playing.

Pause, several beats. She must remember to count in her mind, as Yves had instructed her. And then, peering cautiously around her, she must push aside the canvas and clamber out-willfully determined to have her own way.

Remember the script! Don't think forward. Her mind kept sending messages to her body, and she must have done all right. As critical as he was being today, Yves let it go after only three takes. "Very good. And now .. ."

His mood must have improved since the morning, for he actually smiled.

And now, Anne thought furiously as she stood shivering in a thin silk chemise, standing waist-deep in icy water and having to pretend she was enjoying it, now I have to wait for him!

She was so cold that her whole body felt numb, rendering her incapable of caring that the wet silk against her body hid nothing. All she wanted was for this to be over.

JASON'S POINT OF VIEW. HE'S WATCHING GLORY SPLASHING IN THE

STREAM, ENJOYING HERSELF. CLOSE-UP-JASON'S FACE. HE'S FURIOUS ...

The script told her when to turn around, becoming aware of his intrusive presence.

The script told him to take hold of her shoulders and shake her violently. The rest seemed to happen and become real, just as it had that last hot afternoon in the courtyard.

If there'd been a knife handy, she'd have stabbed him, aiming better this time. She tried to pull away from him and fell, quite naturally. He yanked her up by her long, dripping hair. And then-and then when he kissed her the cold gave way to heat. Fire inside her, ignited by his touch, turning her will to ashes, gray powder falling away to keep only the flame alive. And it was the same for both of them; she knew, or rather sensed, that much, as he pushed her backwards on damp green earth, wet silk tearing under his hands.

They were alone, playing different roles, and there were no longer the cameras or all the other watching eyes. It didn't matter that he muttered, "Oh, Christ, Annie!" instead of the lines he was supposed to say. That could be dubbed in later, Yves thought, his grin almost a grimace. These two-there was something there between them. Let Harris draw his own conclusions. They weren't acting, they were reacting to each other now, oblivious of anything else.

"Please don't ..." She managed that much of a protest before his mouth cut it off ruthlessly and his body moved over hers.

They were through for the day. The beige four-wheel drive Chevies marked H.P.

PRODUCTIONS, INC. were taking them all back to the warmth and comfort of buildings again, with hot food for the belly and liquor to dull the edges of thought.

Anne rode in one with Yves and Sarah, a blanket wrapped around her. Webb had snatched it from someone and draped it about her shoulders-just as he had done so many months ago in the musty old theater in Deepwood. He had started to say something to her but she had turned away, sickened at what had happened, sickened by him and most of all by herself and what she had let happen-right there, for the cameras. She was as bad as he was-she should see Dr. Brightman again, ask him to exorcise the eyeless demon of desire inside her. Oh God, how could she have let it happen? Her mind refused to say "again." It was something she would have to take out and examine later, when she was alone.

"What a good actor you are! Both of you, I should say." Ria's voice was as silky as the dress she was wearing.

"I can return the compliment, so cut it out, will you, baby?"

He wasn't in the mood for coping with Ria's belated fit of jealousy; not now, when he had to do some thinking and soulsearching of his own.

She had come to watch, had ridden back with him, every bounce of the pickup pressing her body closer to his. Now she sat in a chair with her feet curled up under her, watching him through slightly malicious eyes as he stripped, getting ready to take a shower.

Shit, he didn't owe Ria any explanations, not any longer; what he had to explain to himself was himself and his half-crazy reaction to Anne-soaking wet and shivering with nothing between her and him but that ridiculous excuse for an undergarment she had been wearing. And he'd responded like the animal he was supposed to be, forgetting caution and everything else but the feel of her body and the taste of her lips. Crazy! Damn right-he had to be insane!

"Do you want me to scrub your back, darling?"

He wondered if the hidden TV camera was taking all this in, and remembered that he needed Ria-not in the old way, that was dead; but differently now.

"Sure," he said, his shrug making it sound indifferent. "That would be great. And I could use a massage afterwards."

The lines had been drawn. Play the game now. He was an actor, wasn't he? And Ria was a very desirable woman. Like so many others he'd taken and used before, making love to them without love. Never bothering to lie to them, because it wasn't worth the effort. One-night stands, two-or three-month affairs. There had been no difference, because he'd always known there would be an ending.

He walked into the bathroom, turned on the shower, knowing without looking that Ria had followed him, her dress falling away from her body. Ria. Reality negating all the years he'd tried to will her back from the dead.

She didn't mind getting her hair wet. Her every move was calculatedly "natural" as she turned her wet face up to his, laughing.

"Shall I do your back now-or did you have anything else in mind?"

"She really gets carried away, our little one, doesn't she?" Yves Pleydel pitched his voice low enough to be heard only by Harris-his look in the other man's direction was sly. "You should have been there today, it was really interesting. The contrast-all hate on the surface, and she seemed to mean it at first. Until he put his hands on her ... I wonder what the good Dr. Brightman will make of it? She seemed in a hurry to go to him."

Harris wasn't rising to the bait, although his face looked set and strained. He shrugged indifferently, intently watching the day's rushes. "Anne's very high-strung, and Brightman seems to be able to get her calmed down. And that's what he's here for-to help smooth out frazzled nerves."

In the concealed closet, the videotape was running, automatically recording whatever was happening in Webb Carnahan's room. Whatever happened between Anne and Hal Brightman, Harris would be informed of. Tactfully, Harris had made sure of that, by offering to store Brightman's taped ses-sions with his "patients" in their vault for safekeeping.

Although his eyes appeared to be fixed on the brightly lit screen, Harris Phelps wasn't really concentrating. His mind was rapidly sorting through various solutions to the problems he and Rufe Randall had been discussing earlier. Anne he could and would take care of when the time was right. And before then, she'd be shown how deluded she had been. Her ambivalent love-hate relationship with Webb Carnahan would tum into pure hate. Perhaps Brightman could help ...

That left Carnahan-and Karim, who talked too much and had proved himself unreliable. There was already bad blood between the two. Thoughtfully, Harris had begun to stroke at his mustache. A tiny smile touched his lips, hidden in the dark room. The script-almost abstractedly he watched the sudden eruption of violent passion between the two on the screen, angry rebellion ending in surrender. Yes, the script itself would provide the perfect solution, although timing was important, especially with Markham and Carol expected at any time.