Authors: Perfect
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Nor would he have recommended she put herself in the hands of a good photographer who, Zack was absolutely certain right now, could capture that all-American girl freshness of hers and turn it into a million-dollar magazine cover, even though she was well past the age for starting out as a model.
Instead of that, Zack honestly believed he would have ushered her straight out of his office and told her
to go home and marry her almost-fiancé, have his children, and live a life with meaning. Because, even at
his most calloused, most jaded moments, Zack would never have wanted to see anything that was as fine
and unspoiled as Julie Mathison become handled and used and corrupted, not by Hollywood or by him.
But what if she had insisted on staying in Hollywood anyway, despite his advice, would he have then taken her to bed later, if and when she seemed to be willing?
No.
Would he have wanted to?
No!
Would he have even wanted to keep her around, perhaps see her for lunch, evenings, or invite her to parties?
Christ, no!
Why not?
Zack already knew exactly why not, but he glanced over at her anyway as if to confirm what he felt: She was sitting with her feet curled beneath her on the sofa, the firelight gleaming on her shiny hair as she looked up at a beautiful landscape portrait hanging above the fireplace—her entire profile was as serene and as innocent as a choirgirl's at Christmas Mass.
And
that
was why he would never have wanted to be around her before he went to prison and why he didn't really want to be around her now.
Although he was only nine years older than she in actual years, he was centuries older than she in experience, and most of that experience had not been the sort she would admire or even approve of—and that was true even before he went to prison.
Beside her youthful idealism, Zack felt terribly old and jaded.
The fact that he found her incredibly sexy and desirable right now, even engulfed in that shapeless, bulky
sweater, and the fact that he had an erection at this very moment only made him feel like a dirty, old, disgusting letch.
On the other hand, she'd also made him laugh tonight, and he appreciated that, he decided as he tossed
down a swallow of brandy. Leaning forward, he propped his arms on his knees, smiling absently at the
empty glass as he rolled it in his hands. He wondered if he'd ever listen to another football game without
remembering her laughing protest at the idea of having a fullback, a halfback, a quarterback,
but not
a
"three-quarters" back. And would he ever hear a football player referred to as a "tight end" without smiling because Julie Mathison had felt, very seriously, that simple common sense required a
"loose end"
as well.
It suddenly occurred to him that she had not asked him a single question about his old life in the film business. He couldn't remember meeting a single woman, or a man, who hadn't gushingly—if
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dishonestly—proclaimed that Zack was their favorite movie star and then plied him with personal questions about himself and the other stars they particularly admired. Even some of the toughest, most
bloodthirsty cons in prison had been absurdly dazzled by his past and anxious to tell him which of his
movies they liked most. Normally, all that fawning inquisitiveness had annoyed and disgusted him. Now he was just a little irked that Julie Mathison seemed not to have ever heard of him. Maybe they didn't have a theater in that obscure little town she lived in, he decided. Maybe she'd never seen a movie in her entire, sheltered little life in Mayberry RFD.
Maybe … God, maybe … she only went to pristine movies rated G! His own movies had been either PG or R—for profanity, violence, or sexual content or all three. To his extreme annoyance, Zack suddenly felt vaguely ashamed of that, which was another good reason that he'd never have willingly chosen to he around a woman like her.
He was so lost in his thoughts that he jumped when she said with a hesitant smile, "You don't look like you're enjoying your evening very much."
"I was thinking about watching the news," he said vaguely.
Julie, who'd been uneasily aware of his frowning silence, leapt at the opportunity to occupy herself with
something other than wondering if he was truly innocent of murder … and if he was going to try to kiss
her again before the evening was over. "That's a good idea," she said, getting up and reaching for her dish
on the table. "Why don't you find the channel on the television set and I'll clear off the dishes?"
"And have you accuse me of welching on our deal?
No way.
I'll
clear the dishes."
Julie watched him gather up plates and flatware and head for the kitchen.
For the last hour, when she wasn't answering his questions, doubts about his guilt had continued to plague her. She remembered the furious way he'd spoken of the jury that sent him to prison. She remembered the terrible despair in his voice when he'd pleaded with her in the snow to kiss him in order
to mislead the truck driver
"Please! I didn't kill
anyone, I swear it!"
At that moment, he'd planted a treacherous seed of doubt in her mind about his guilt; now, seventeen hours later, that seed was taking root deep within her, nourished by her horror at the possibility that an innocent man had spent five long years in a penitentiary. Other things that were equally beyond her
control were combining to make her feel helplessly drawn to him, things like the memory of his hungry kiss, the shudder that had run through his body when she'd finally yielded, the restraint he'd shown when she did yield. In fact, he had treated her with restraint and even courtesy during most of the time they'd
been together.
For the dozenth time in the last hour, she decided a true murderer surely wouldn't bother to be gentle when he kissed a woman nor would he treat her with the kindness and humor that Zack had generally shown her.
Her mind argued that she was being a fool to decide a jury was wrong; but tonight, whenever she looked at him, every instinct she possessed shouted that he was innocent. And if he was, then she could hardly bear the thought of what he had been put through.
He walked back into the living room, turned on the television set, and sat down across from her, stretching his long legs out and crossing them at the ankles. "We'll watch whatever you'd like after the news," he said, his attention already on the television's giant-size screen.
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"Fine," Julie said, studying him surreptitiously across the width of the coffee table. There was indomitable
pride chiseled into his handsome face, determination in the jut of his chin, arrogance in his jaw, intelligence and hard-bitten strength etched into every feature of his face. Long ago, she'd read dozens of
articles about him written by gushing reporters as well as reputable movie critics. Often, they tried to define him in terms of other megastars who'd preceded him. One critic Julie particularly remembered
watching on television had tried to turn him into a human conglomerate by saying that Zachary Benedict
had the animal magnetism of a young Sean Connery, the talent of a Newman, the charisma of Costner, the raw machismo of a young Eastwood, the smooth sophistication of Warren Beatty, the versatility of Michael Douglas, and the rugged appeal of Harrison Ford.
Now, after spending almost two days with the man himself in very close quarters, Julie decided that none
of the articles she'd read had actually described him nor had any movie camera ever really done him justice, and she vaguely understood why: In real life, there was an aloof strength, a powerful charisma about him that had nothing whatsoever to do with his tall, broad-shouldered physique or that famous mocking smile of his. There was something else … a feeling Julie got whenever she looked at him that, discounting his imprisonment, Zachary Benedict had already done and seen everything there was to do and see and that all those experiences were permanently locked away behind an unbreachable wall of
polite urbanity, lazy charm, and piercing golden eyes. Beyond any woman's reach.
And therein lay his real appeal, Julie realized: the challenge. Despite everything he'd done to her in the last two days, Zachary Benedict made her—and probably every other woman who'd known him or seen
his movies—want to get past that barricade. To discover what was underneath, to soften it, to find the
boy he must have been, to make the man he had become shout with laughter and grow tender with love.
Julie gave herself a stern mental shake. None of that mattered! All that mattered was whether he was guilty of murder or innocent. She stole another look at his profile and felt her heart turn over.
He was innocent. She knew it. She could feel it. And the thought of all that male beauty and intelligence being caged up for five long years made her throat constrict. A vision of a prison cellblock flashed through her mind … the sound of cell doors clanging shut, of prison guards shouting, of men working in laundries and prison yards, deprived of all their freedom and privacy. All their dignity.
The newscaster's voice snapped her wandering attention to the television set:
"We'll have news on
the
state and local scene, including information on the
blizzard heading our way, tonight, after we
switch to the network and Tom Brokaw for news of
special import."
Julie stood up, suddenly too nervous to sit there doing nothing. "I'm going to get a glass of water," she said, already heading for the kitchen, but Tom Brokaw's voice stopped her in her tracks:
"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Two days ago, Zachary Benedict, who was once regarded as one of Hollywood's greatest leading men and a gifted director, escaped from the State Penitentiary at Amarillo, where he was serving a forty-five-year prison term for the Machiavellian slaying of his wife,
actress Rachel Evans, in 1988."
Julie swung around in time to see a picture of Zack wearing a prison uniform with numbers across his chest filling up the screen, and she walked into the living room as if mesmerized by the ugliness of what she saw and heard and felt while Brokaw continued,
"Benedict is believed to be traveling with this
woman…
"
A gasp escaped Julie as her own picture, which was taken last year with her third-grade class, flashed on the screen. She'd been wearing a shirtwaist dress with a demure bow at the collar.
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"Authorities in Texas report that the woman, Julie Mathison, twenty-six, was last seen in Amarillo two days ago where a man fitting Benedict's description was observed getting into a blue Chevrolet Blazer with her. At first, authorities believed that Ms.
Mathison had been taken as a hostage against her will…"
"At first?" Julie burst out, looking at Zack who was slowly standing up. "What does he mean
at first?"
The answer to that was immediate and horrifying as Brokaw said,
"The hostage theory was exploded
late this afternoon when Pete Golash, a truck driver,
reported that he saw a couple matching
Benedict's and Mathison's descriptions at a
Colorado rest stop near dawn this morning…"
Pete Golash's cheerful face filled the screen next, only it was on videotape and what he was saying made
Julie feel sick with fury and shame:
"The pair of
them were havin' a snowball fight like a couple of
kids. Then the woman—Julie Mathison—I'm sure as
hell, I mean heck, the woman was her!
Anyway, she tripped and fell, and Benedict landed
on top of her and the next thing I knew they
was neckin'. Kissin'. If she's a hostage, she sure
wasn't actin' like one."
"Oh my God!" Julie said, wrapping her arms around her stomach, swallowing the bile rising in her throat.
In a few moments, ugly reality had invaded the falsely cozy atmosphere of the mountain cabin, and she
rounded on the man who had taken her there, seeing him as he'd been on television and what he truly was: a convict wearing a prison uniform with numbers across his chest. Before she could recover, another more tormenting scene lit up the screen and Brokaw said,
"Our reporter Phil Morrow is in
Keaton, Texas, where Mathison has been living and
teaching third grade in the local elementary
school. He was able to get a brief interview with her
parents, Reverend and Mrs. James
Mathison—"
A scream of denial escaped Julie's lips as her father's solemn, dignified face looked out at her, his voice emphatic, trusting, trying to convince the world of her innocence.
"If Julie is with Benedict, then she's
with him against her will. That truck driver who says
differently is either mistaken about who he
saw or what he saw happening,"
he finished with a stern, disapproving look at the reporters who started shouting questions at him.
"That is all I have
to say."
With shame streaking through her in sick waves, Julie snapped her face from the screen and stared at Zachary Benedict through a blur of hot tears as he walked swiftly toward her. "You bastard!" she choked, backing away as he neared her.
"Julie," Zack said, reaching for her shoulders in a helpless attempt to comfort her.
"Don't touch me!" she cried, trying to fling his hands away, writhing and shoving against his chest while a torrent of sobs erupted from her. "My father is a minister!" she wept. "He's a respected man and you've
made his daughter into a public slut! I'm a teacher!"
she cried hysterically, "I teach little children! Do you think they'll let me teach children now that I'm a national scandal who wallows in the snow with escaped
murderers?"
The realization that she was probably right slashed through Zack like a jagged razor, and he tightened his