He hadn't brought the subject up again, and now here she was, at the door of Carol's apartment, with Craig waiting solicitously until Carol opened the door. And she was inside, safely, with her mind stilI numb.
"Did I break up a cosy little afternoon assignation, darling?"
With difficulty, Anne forced herself to meet Carol's mocking emerald gaze. Why was she here? She was in no mood for the usual light rapier-crossing with Carol. She needed to be alone, to think ... but could she take that just yet?
Carol's voice sharpened with something like concern. "Anne! Is something wrong?
You look like hell, sweetie. Sickening for a cold? Brr!" She shivered. "How I hate this lousy climate! Why do people choose to live here?"
In Dublin, Webb Carnahan was thinking almost the same thing. Socked in. Some goddamn freak weather, bringing with it a fog blanket that closed the airport to all traffic. Who knew when it would clear up? Shrugs, eyes rolled up expressively: "Might as well have a drink while we're waiting, what do you say?" Except for a few impatient Americans like himself, no one else seemed to give a damn.
It didn't help his mood to find out, after he'd waited ten minutes to get to a phone booth, that Anne wasn't back yet. Partying it up with good old buddy Craig? He swore under his breath as he slammed down the phone, changing his mind about waiting it out at the airport.
Little Annie had the right to do whatever the hell she pleased, and so did he. Webb's eyes, narrowed with frustration and a kind of anger he could neither understand nor explain to himself, came to rest on a porcelain oval face framed by black hair.
Typically Irish; why hadn't he noticed that before? Dark-blue eyes laughed into his; the shiny red mouth smiled teasingly. She didn't pretend surprise, which was in her favor.
"Hello, Webb Carnahan!" Venetia Tressider said. "I was hoping we might run into each other here. It looks as if we're both stranded for the night, doesn't it?"
Two young women who had been whispering to each other, giggling nervously as they watched him, now stared openly and enviously as Webb took Venetia's arm, tucking it possessively under his own. They weren't to know that for a moment his fingers had gripped hard enough to make Venetia wince.
"Hi," he said pleasantly. "Are you going to give me a chance to find out what happy coincidence brought you here?" Regaining some of her aplomb, Venetia let her breasts brush against his arm. "Darling," she murmured, pouting slightly, "it wasn't coincidence! I followed you! After all, the newspapers did give a lot of publicity to the fact that you were going to be here. And I'm used to going after what I want. You haven't been to a single one of my parties yet-and I give the most exciting parties in town, or hadn't you heard? Hasn't Anne told you?" Grimly, not letting his face show any reaction at all, Webb kept walking, forcing her to keep up with his long strides.
"Why don't you tell me instead?"
She sounded slightly breathless. "Oohl Must we walk so fast? Where are we going?
Listen, I have a car. And a lovely warm room at a hotel not too far from here. I always try to think ahead, you see. Lovely fog! I simply adore fog and peat fires. What do you like, Webb Carnahan?"
Slanting a look down at her glowing, upturned mouth, he let his questions rest. For the moment. Time enough after they got away from the querulous, jostling mob in here. But in the meantime, he held Venetia's supple, yielding body close, slipping one arm about her waist under her fur-lined leather jacket, giving her a lazy smile. "I think I like beautiful women who aren't afraid to go after what they want."
He caught the triumphant catlike curve of her lips, and let her draw her own conclusions as they walked on, fencing lightly with words that were meant to add spicy titillation to the encounter between them that would surely follow. Webb had met women like Venetia before; the scenario always followed the same pattern, leading to the same final scene-the firelight inside the room, the fog pressing against the windows outside, the hasty undressing with a certain amount of aggression on her side as if to show she meant to stay in charge. An unspoken challenge: "Are you really as good as your reputation? Show me, baby!"
But something had suddenly brought the old jungle instinct, so long dormant, to life; tiny alarm signals screamed along his quickened nerves. Something was wrong, although Venetia Tressider, on the surface, was running true to type. It was all too pat, her following him to Ireland (Where had she hidden herself earlier today? Why hadn't she brought herself to his attention earlier?) and her turning up at the airport just when, by coincidence, all flights out had been canceled. What if they hadn't been?
There had been a time when he had lived, and survived, on instinct alone; trusting in the same tingling, nerve-end radar he felt right now. Tense inside, his muscles well trained enough not to show any signs of it, Webb let his eyes move quickly and casually over the crowd that still hemmed them in. No familiar faces-but he hadn't really expected to see any. A few stares; but he was used to that; had learned to tune out the curious stares of the public. Nothing out of the ordinary on the surface. And yet he could not get rid of the notion that Venetia had come to Ireland for more than just a fuck. And the crazy, unexplainable feeling that all this was somehow tied up with events in London-with Anne. All the questions her evasions and his pride hadn't let him ask her.
Craig Hyatt, for instance. What the hell was Craig doing back in her life, acting as her protector? Protecting her from what? More to it than just the fact that she was Richard Reardon's daughter and he was Reardon's right-hand man. Why hadn't he come on the scene earlier if that was it? And then there was-or had been-Violet. Poor Violet, poor butterfly, who had been Anne's best friend and had also worked for Duncan Frazier. Too many things, all happening at once. The big press leak, and Violet's murder. Anne's being followed" being questioned by British Intelligence. And the gallant, ubiquitous Craig coming to her defense. Advising her.
"About what, Annie? Or against whom?" He'd tried to get something out of her, but she'd turned his questions away almost hysterically.
"He's only helping me, Webb! Please-I don't want to talk about it anymore!"
Funny how whenever he met Anne, things began to happen. And trust Caro to point that out in her sweet, unsubtle way.
Over the years he'd learned how to shut Caro up. But then, even Caro had been acting differently lately. After the flaming rows they'd had during the shooting of Bad Blood, ending with her screaming that she'd never make another film with him, that he was a dirty, low-down son of a bitch, and she would never speak to him again, nor pose for any damned publicity stills with him either ... she usually took a lot of persuasion to climb down from her high horse once she'd climbed on it; but she'd surprised him for a change by being friendly. Even to the surprising point of not throwing one of her usual jealous tantrums when he and Anne had started up again.
More goddamn puzzle pieces!
"Here we are at last, darling! Thank God-that crawling mass of people was starting to give me claustrophobia!"
Webb felt Venetia's exaggerated shudder against his body, and felt his nerves tauten, even while he grinnned at her mockingly.
"Was that why I didn't see you earlier today, while we were shooting all those pictures?"
She gave him a wide-eyedlook through black-fringed eyes.
"But I don't like competition, love. That's why I waited to catch you alone!" She was looking down the fog-shrouded street, frowning as if she'd lost her bearings, shivering slightly.
There was a long string of taxis, yellow headlights and dark shapes, and a general scramble as other disappointed travelers began to pour out of the air terminal, whistling and waving for attention.
"Looks like a rugby scrimmage, doesn't it? I had to park my car some streets down.
Do you mind walking?" Now? Too many people around yet. Too many lights. And he was following his instincts again, improvising.
"Listen, love, if I remember right, there's a pub across the street. And I could use a drink-maybe some real Irish coffee for a change. It'll make that long walk you promised me seem shorter."
Without giving her time to protest, he started her off across the street, dodging taxicabs and the buses chartered by harried airline officials.
"But-but I thought we'd have a nightcap in my room!"
"Why waste time on a nightcap when we get there? In any case, I have to make a telephone call."
"You could have made that from my room, too!" Venetia almost snapped the words out.
"It's private, baby."
"Oh!" He heard her sucked-in breath. "You really are the bastard they say you are, aren't you?"
They had gained the opposite sidewalk by some miracle, and Webb, dropping the banter from his manner, swung her around suddenly, backing her shoulders up against the wall of the pub they'd headed for.
Not much light here-a streetlamp some yards down the street on one side, and on the other a faint glow of light from the stained-glass fanlight of the front door. There was a slight vibration through the brick wall that told of a noisy group inside, and occasionally the door swung open as someone went in or out. But no one glanced at them as Webb moved his body against hers, holding her immobile while his fingers moved caressingly up the column of her arched throat, feeling the sudden turmoil of her pulsing arteries before he cupped her face.
He said softly, "I guess they were right, sweetheart. Whoever 'they' were. So why don't you save us both time we could be spending in a better way and tell me all about it? Like how you knew just where to find me, and who sent you, and why? You see, I'm also a suspicious bastard-maybe they forgot to mention that."
"I don't know ..."
The pressure of his fingers tightened, digging into the soft skin of her face, and Venetia gave a frightened whimper. A few moments ago she'd been very sure of herself, and now ...
With an effort, she whispered, "Have you gone crazy? I told you ..."
"Well, why don't you tell me everything now and get it over with? Some kinds of surprises I really dig, baby, and some I don't. You didn't have to come all the way over here to get screwed, now did you? Last time we met, you already had a stud."
She tried to move her head and gasped with pain, which goaded her into retorting viciously, "And now he's screwing your little lay! Right now, probably. She wasn't home when you called her, was she? Karim's used to getting what he wants, too, and they're probably rehearsing some of the better scenes from your new picture. I simply thought we might console each other, that's all! Or do you always fall in love with your leading ladies?"
His face gave nothing away; his mind seemed to have become coldly detached.
"You'll have to explain all that later, Venetia. For now, let's stick to the point, huh?
Like tonight particularly, and what else you had in mind besides that peat fire."
"Let go! I could scream, and there are people around ..."
"Sure." Surprising her, he did, moving back so abruptly that she almost fell. "I guess I'll just go have my drink and get back to the terminal. Maybe I'll see you around later."
"No-wait!" She clutched at his arm, stopping him in mid-stride. "Webb, you really are a bastard! But I can't let you leave me alone. I-I'm frightened! I have been ever since Violet Somers was ... Oh God! I know I'm being watched, and I thought that if you were with me and they thought that we'd arranged to meet here-well, what's wrong with that?" In the face of his implacable silence her words spilled out, low and almost hysterical. "I did want to make it with you. You knew that, didn't you? And I knew you were going to be here ... I can't be alone tonight . . . if you were with me and they thought ... well, it would seem natural, wouldn't it? For both of us."
"Go on."
She shivered, moving closer to him. "Oh God! I wasn't supposed to tell you anything, unless you-turned me down, or had something else planned. Nino Gennaro. Big Nino. Does that name mean anything to you?"
It gave him a jolt. Big Nino. Zio Nino. Presents when he came to visit-his father scowling, his mother all smiles. "It's your uncle. You be respectful now, he's a powerful man!" Nino always wore expensive suits. His automobile was long and dark and sleek, like the men who always lounged beside it. Smell of cologne and hair oil and his deep voice, cautioning pedantically in the accent that Webb's mother had never quite lost herself: "You stay off a the streets, you hear? You should be thinking of a profession, getting an education. You become a smart lawyer, maybe, eh? And keep going to church."
But his education had been reform school and street fighting, and after that, his parole officer-a woman. Reaching him in a different way from the other girls and women of his experience. He remembered that she'd always worn perfume, and pretty, feminine clothes, disdaining to dress down for the kids she had to work with.
Marianne. Even her name had sounded exotic and different, like she was. She ignored his swaggering rudeness and his sullen silences. "I can't help you if you don't want to be helped, of course. But it does seem like a waste, doesn't it? You have a very impressive scowl-and an even nicer smile, when you let it show. Have you thought of enrolling in acting school? Though, of course, that might be tough-you'd have to learn to talk differently, for one thing."
He'd begun by resenting her for telling him that and ended by listening to all the different accents around him, starting to absorb them. Not long after that, they'd pulled down the building where he'd lived, forcing them to move, and somewhere along the line he'd developed ambition. Maybe just a stubborn determination to show them all, particularly Marianne.
Jesus Christ! That had been a long time ago, and he'd almost forgotten! Traveling on the subway as far as it would take him, watching people and listening to them talk.
Hitch-hiking further later on-starving sometimes. But learning. Coming back home one time to find his mother crying, holding a newspaper in her hands. Zio Nino had been arrested on Some made-up charge-it had to be made up, he was a good man!