There was a fire in their bedroom, and Anne felt it inside herself too; watching Webb, stripped down to his pants, standing in front of the fire watching her. Wanting. Oh God, how long since she had felt this kind of fierce, physical need? Liquid fire pulsing through her-longing to be touched and taken. Why didn't the operator hurry?
And then Violet-her voice coming through the crackling on the line, sharp with anxiety. "Anne? What on earth happened to you? When I saw your car was still here I started to get panicky! Where are you?" She tried to make her voice sound casual.
Hard, with Webb's eyes on her.
"I'm in Guildford. I-got a ride up here. And I'm calling to tell you there's really no need to worry. I just decided to stay over for the night, that's all." She let unjust irritation creep into her voice, sharpening it. "Honestly, Violet, I'm not an infant! This was just a spur-of-the-moment thing."
'Was it?" Violet sounded disbelieving. "Well, you might have called earlier! All I've been doing is answering the blasted telephone. Your friend Carol called. And Harris Phelps called three times. He wanted you to have dinner with him. So did some Frenchman. Yves somebody. Not Saint Laurent? Darling -this isn't like you at all! Are you positive there's nothing wrong? How will you get back to London?"
"The same way I got up here. I'll talk to you tomorrow, Violet. No ... I don't know exactly when. Why does it matter? I'm sorry you're being bothered by the telephone, but ..."
Webb lifted one eyebrow and applauded her silently. Oh damn Webb! He wasn't making it easier for her at all! Anne tried to concentrate on Violet's slightly offended voice; giving up finally when she said with a sigh of finality, "I will be back tomorrow.
And I'm fine. Very sleepy right now, though."
"Well, tell him good-night for me!" Violet said with an unusual note of waspishness in her voice.
And then she put down the telephone, and Webb came to her; blotting out the firelight-blotting out everything but the need in her and in him until it was met and answered when their bodies came together.
So this is how it is and this is all there is! Anne reminded herself afterwards, while they still lay tangled together in the after-mesh of lovemaking, tasting the taste of him on her lips. I want him, God how I want him, his body and what it can do for mine.
And he wants me-that part at least isn't pretense or acting. Accept that much and let it be. Never mind why!
"You're beautiful, Annie-love. Even more beautiful than remembered you." Webb's voice was lazy, husky; his eyes yellow-gold, reflecting the firelight. The lean hardness of his body pressed further into hers as he used one hand to brush damp strands of hair from Anne's face. Almost as if he had been able to read her mind, he murmured against her ear, "But what in hell am I going to do about you? I look at you, and all these crazy, old-fashioned thoughts come into my head. Like-I'd like to hang onto you, baby. Keep you around awhile .. ."
"Why?" His mouth had moved down to her breast; it was difficult to put her half-formed questions into words.
"Damned if I know!" He sounded almost angry, as if he didn't understand himself.
"Maybe just until I discover what it is about you that keeps me asking questions of myself. What am I doing here with you? What are you doing here with me? Ah, hell-what am I doing, wasting time talking?"
Words became lost and meaningless, with the only questions and answers given by their bodies. Anne felt herself turned inside out as he took her again and again, every way there was-mixing pain with pleasure and savagery with tenderness until the thin dividing lines vanished and she could only yield and yield and let him do whatever he wanted, which became what she wanted too-and this was what it meant to be taken out of herself, pure mindless fucking: wanting needing giving geting joining.
Driving back to London in the early afternoon, it hardly seemed possible that they were the same two people ... Webb kept the radio on, and he kept glancing in the rear-view mirror, bringing his attention back to the radio when they played the theme music from Bad Blood, listening to it with frowning concentration before he punched the button that got the news.
Was he angry because of that photographer, standing grinning at the foot of the stairs when they came down? She ought to be the one to worry, Anne thought resentfully, stealing a glance at Webb's frowning profile, his eyes hidden by sunglasses.
News traveled fast in small towns. All those adoring, sighing women-their attention on Webb Carnahan, curious, envying glances directed at her before they forgot her, pressing forward to touch him. Naked, sun-bronzed savage of the night before, possessing her with fierce concentration ... how could she blame these other females for wanting him too?
"Webb-I thought Macho was the best movie ever! You were fabulous in it!" "I've seen every one of your movies at least four times. And I can't wait for Bad Blood!" They didn't care if he had a woman with him. It was almost as if they expected it. Wicked Webb, living up to his on-screen, off-screen image.
I don't care-I mustn't care, Anne told herself. It was me he came here to be with! Get used to it, Anne, if you want to keep up ... if you can. . . ? Could she?
A slow-moving lorry blocked their passage on a narrow stretch of road, and Webb swore under his breath, down-gearing, so that the Mercedes, like a sleek white cat, slowed its headlong pace, motor barely purring.
"Goddamn! And that ass-hole Johnnie Bardini is probably right on our tail, with a telephoto lens. Not to mention your followers, Annie." She couldn't see the shuttered, sideways look he gave her, torn between irrational anger at her and himself. Anne had been almost too quiet since he had bundled her into the car, getting out fast.
Now, at least, he had a reaction from her.
"My-what? I don't know what you're talking about, Webb!"
"Don't you?" Christ, maybe she didn't. Reardon's men were hand-picked, the best in the business, as he ought to know. Was she genuinely unaware that she was kept under surveillance? Webb thought grimly that Reardon wouldn't like to see those pictures of his daughter published, especially under Bardini's byline. Johnnie specialized in taking pictures of celebrities and near-celebrities caught off-guard. He seemed to be everywhere at exactly the wrong time. And it was well known that he used an extra-strong telephoto lens on his camera. "Johnnie the voyeur" -but he was popular with the gutter press and the sensation magazines. He'd gotten pictures of Webb and Claudia, sunning themselves in the nude in the garden of her seaside villa in Italy-using one set to help expedite her divorce from Pleydel. No doubt the other set would appear shortly in one or another of the magazines that used that kind of thing-and now he'd have more pictures. No more nudies, at least, but trust Johnnie to bribe his way upstairs to get shots of the room he and Annie had occupied. Crumpled sheets and all.
"Doing a story on me, Johnnie?" he had asked at the inn.
"Well, you know, I might, now you mention it! Depends on the money, of course!" But Johnnie had kept his distance, sounding wary, and Webb thought he knew why.
Johnnie wasn't quite certain yet just how far he could go with impunity, knowing what he did ... So how was it he'd turned up, as if on cue, standing at the foot of the stairs when he and Anne walked down?
"Webb-I want to know what you meant just now! You said .. :'
He gave an explosive, impatient sigh, seeing his chance to overtake the damned truck, feeling the car respond sweetly and swiftly as he stepped on the gas, swinging around and past 'with
the wheels skimming the grassy verge left before they straightened out.
Flung against him, Anne gasped out loud. Some other women might have screamed, or clutched at his arm. She only sat straighter-stiff against his arm now instead of yielding.
"That was taking a chance, wasn't it? Who are we running from?" "You're persistent, aren't you, Annie?" She ignored the deliberate mockery in his voice.
"So are you. Why won't you answer me?"
"You haven't noticed brown-coat before? Maybe they change shifts:' Maybe they did.
But the face of the man walking his dog on the opposite side of the street when he was using the phone booth to call Anne had seemed vaguely familiar at the time-brushed out of his mind when he saw Anne-to come sharply back into focus this afternoon when he saw the same face with a tankard of beer half concealing it, brown eyes dropping from his to stare abstractedly at the bar counter. And now a name leaped into his mind, matching the face. Donahue! But Donahue had retired to go private, almost the same time he had. A cover, obviously. "Who change shifts?
Webb .. :'
Anne felt cold first, and then angry when he explained, off-handedly. Webb thought she was being followed and watched. She remembered the young man with the mustache, Duncan making a joke of it. Her father? She didn't need to ask why, of course, remembering their last awkward conversation. For his own protection . . . Ah, Cod, how degrading! Did they send him reports? Whom she saw, whom she slept with-what difference did it make? Would she ever get away from being Richard Reardon's daughter? She had begun to feel free, and now she wasn't. Followed ...
watched ... Did they report directly to him or through other people in his department?
Well, I hope they get their kicks! You too, Daddy-dear!
Webb could sense her hardening, freezing up inside. And now he almost regretted his own impatient tongue. If she didn't know, what was the point in telling her? Except maybe a perverse desire to test the unfamiliar air of self-sufficiency he'd discovered in her?
THE FLAT WAS DESERTED when Anne let herself in, the memory of Webb's kiss still warming her lips. Their journey to London had been accomplished mostly in silence, with Webb driving like a well-coordinated maniac-obviously in a tearing hurry to get back. To Claudia, who would be wondering where he had disappeared to? But then Webb seldom bothered with explanations; he was selfish and arrogant and ...
hadn't he accused her of the same sin?
After his carelessly flung-out hints he'd clammed up, and so Anne had kept her thoughts to herself too. And then he'd kissed her, after letting her out of the car. Not offering to come in with her-leaving the motor still running. Just the kiss-hard and urgent, bruising her lips, before he released her almost as abruptly as he had taken her into his arms.
"I'll call you, Annie." He'd sounded distracted already. A promise-or Webb's casual way of saying good-bye?
Violet had left a careful list of telephone messages for her-placed with reproachful neatness on the desk by the phone. Why had everybody chosen last night of all nights to call? There was a scrawled message from Violet herself.
"Call me when you get back ..."
Suddenly tired, Annie shrugged out of her jacket and let herself sink into the comforting softness of the nearest chair. Her life had been well ordered and quite satisfying until now.
Webb, entering it like an angry wind, had blown its carefully planned pattern into shreds. Why? What did he want with her? Choosing not to think any further at the moment, Anne picked up the telephone.
It was not Violet who answered the phone when she was put through to her office by the operator, but Duncan Frazier himself, his slightly impatient voice sharpening into a mixture of exasperation and relief when he recognized who it was.
"Anne! Christ's sake-where have you been? Vi's not been any good to any of us the past couple of days-she's been worrying her head off about you! No, she's not in right now; I sent her out for a coffee break. We've all been working our asses off since you decided to desert. Damn, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it quite like that, but we've missed you. Why haven't you
returned my calls?" When Dune talked in short, staccato sentences it meant either that he was mad or worried about something. Closing her eyes, Anne could imagine how he'd be puffing at a half-lit pipe-shoving the papers on his desk around to look for his
tobacco pouch as his face grew redder and redder. "I haven't had time, Dune. I've ..
." A slightly withdrawn note in his voice now as he murmured,
"Hmm, yes. So we've been hearing. Lots of pictures in the papers, you know. But are you really happy with what you're doing, Anne? None of my business, of course, but you know I've grown fond of you. It's a fast life when you get as close to the top as you are."
More discreet manipulation? Anne sat up straight, drawing in a deep breath. "So is politics. I don't see much difference!"
He sounded genuinely confused. "What in hell does politics have to do with this?"
"I'm just drawing parallels, Dune. After all, my father's a kind of politician, isn't he?
Although he stays behind the scenes pulling strings. I don't enjoy feeling like a puppet. Or being followed, as if I were-were under suspicion or something!"
There was a pause, and then Duncan said slowly, "I don't think I know what you're talking about, Anne. But you sound rattled-and angry. And believe me, that makes me feel concerned. What makes you think you're being followed? By whom? This is serious, Anne, if you really believe that . . ."
"Dune, stop sounding like a psychiatrist! I'm neither neurotic nor stupid; you don't have to baby me along." She added recklessly, having come this far and not caring any longer, "You laughed it off the first time I talked about it, but I've worked for Majco long enough to learn a few things, you know. I just don't like the idea-or
"Be careful what you say on the telephone, Anne!" Dune's voice sounded angrier, sharper than she had ever heard it, cutting her off in midsentence. With an effort, he added more quietly: "Have you had time to read the newspapers recently? Read them. Particularly the left-wing rags. And I think we ought to have a long, serious talk.
It's one of the reasons I kept trying to get in touch with you. If you're positive someone is following you, I don't like the idea of your being at the flat by yourself.
You are by yourself?" He must have taken her stunned silence for consent, for he added quickly: "You don't mind if I send someone over? Craig, if I can get in touch with him. And listen-no more talk right now. Keep the doors locked, and hang tight.