"I'll think about it, if you stop pushing me, Venetia." He was getting tired of all the publicity their "romance" was getting-the questioning from reporters whenever they were seen together, which was too damned often. In fact, he had almost begun to regret dumping Claudia del Antonini, who was at least an Italian peasant at heart-direct, earthy, and naturally passionate. Venetia was kinky-always looking for new variations, different twists, her own brand of thrills. Like the time he walked into her bedroom to find her making it with another girl, as blonde as Venetia was dark, in slow motion, under a red-shaded light.
"Aren't we beautiful, darling?" she had whispered, smiling. "This is Jill, and she'd like you to go down on her-afterwards." Her lips had been wet and shiny ... from Jill. Her eyes held their usual teasing, sensual challenge. Venetia enjoyed brutal lovemaking; she was good at exciting and provoking the male animal until it erupted in the savagery she seemed to crave.
Webb couldn't say, looking back now, that Venetia had ever bored him. She had simply begun to disgust him with her demands-her "surprises" and little tricks. Like the time she'd arranged for Johnnie Bardini to photograph them making love by her indoor pool-twin fireplaces and mirrors everywhere to reflect every flickering movement. And Johnnie standing in the dark at the top of the stairs, taking it all in.
He'd slapped her when she showed him the pictures, sending her falling backwards against her bed. And she came up crying, clinging to his thighs.
"But, darling, I thought you'd enjoy looking at them as much as I do! I wouldn't show them to anyone else, you know I wouldn't!"
"I hope the bastard had a hard-on that hurt! And if he tries publishing those . . ." The next time he ran into Johnnie, the usually cocky little photographer looked strangely subdued.
"Listen, Carnahan, I swear I was only doing the little gal a favor! 'Just for kicks,' she told me. 'Souvenirs just for the two of us.' And I give you my word those pictures aren't going to get published anywhere-not if I get offered a million for each print. In fact, when she told me you'd gotten so mad, I even burned the negatives. Honest! No hard feelings, huh?" But it was the last, muttered sentence before Johnnie turned away that really gave Webb something to think about. "Uh, give my regards to Vito when you get back to the States, will you?"
So the word had been passed around that he was an adopted member of the Family.
For his protection, or was he being set up? At that point, Webb hadn't been too sure of anything. His meeting with Nino seemed absurdly melodramatic in retrospect, like something dreamed up by a writer of sensational novels. Until little things kept reminding him, like the feeling he'd developed just before he left London that he was being followed-and he'd shrugged it off. So what? Maybe the word had been spread around a little too far, "and although he didn't like that idea, there was nothing he could do about it.
Hell, he didn't even know what he was supposed to look for -or if there was anything to find! So what if Harris Phelps's rich friends wanted to dabble in moviemaking?
He'd changed his mind since then. Had it changed for him, was more like it.
Webb's fingers tightened over the wheel as a shock wave of rage jolted through him.
Careful, he warned himself grimly.
Stay cool, and play it by ear. Cooler than he'd been just two days ago, when he'd found out who else was interested in Harris Phelps's latest venture.
The flashing red light that warned him he was approaching the Carmel HilI Gate to the Seventeen-Mile Drive brought Webb back to the present. Hell, he'd done enough thinking for now, and there were some things he didn't even want to think about yet-not now, when he was tired and his mind was tired, and Dave would expect him to be in a partying mood. Dave had left word at the gate. He gave his name and the uniformed gatekeeper grinned, saying, "Hi, Mr. Carnahan, good to see you again!"
Obviously the man remembered him from the times he'd played at playing golf for one of the annual charity tournaments. Pebble Beach was one of the toughest courses there was, and he hadn't exactly done well. Only two more miles to go now, and he'd best keep his mind in the present. Firmly.
"WEBBI HEY, MAN, it's good to see you!" Dave Black, genial host. He carried his TV
role into real life-hating to be alone except when he did his meditation bit twice a day.
The house hanging over the ocean was ablaze with lights, noisy with voices and loud rock music.
"Jesus, that's some machine! You gotta tell me how long it takes to ship one out here. Hear you did some racing in Italy? And how was good old London town?
Listen, we've got to play some tennis together while you're here. I'm counting on you to get me a visitor's pass when you start filming Greed for Glory . . . What the hell is this 'closed set' bit? By the way"-voice dropping-"Robbie Savage is here tonight, and she's dying to meet you. Says she had you in mind for her Jason character right from the beginning, and couldn't be more thrilled. Maybe I'll get you two together for one of my shows, huh?"
"Sure, if she's passable." Stretching cramped muscles, Webb forced himself to grin.
Thank God that Dave at least was always predictable. Old-home week-the party and the girls and the pot, and for the rest of the night he wouldn't have to think-just make the right motions at the right time.
"How's Meg?" Dave would expect the question, since they'd all been friends at one time. Webb saw his friend grimace slightly.
"Ah shit, you know Meg! She's having a ball screwing around. She's here with her latest stud, checking everything out-and regretting it, I hope, the bitch! I'd better warn you, though, she still has the hots for you. She was telling me the other day that you just need the right woman to help you settle down. And then she's been seeing Dr.
Brightman, which makes her a triple bitch in my book. He wrote last year's non-fiction best-seller, Relaxation and Meditation, and I had him on my show a couple of times, which probably helped sell a few million extra copies for him. No doubt she's having fun telling him what a bastard I was to her! He's here, too. He was telling me Harris Phelps has invited him up to Danny Verrano's old place on Big Sur, where you'll be shooting most of your movie." For a moment Dave's grin turned sour. "Christ, I can't believe all the mystery! What's the deal? Just another publicity gimmick?" And then, brightening slightly: "Hey, speaking of publicity-you going to turn me on to the straight scoop on all that stuff you had going on in England? Who's this Venetia Tressider chick? And what's Anne Mallory like?"
They climbed the steps leading up from the underground garage Dave called his parking lot into a room filled with warmth and sound and people; and all of Dave's questions would keep until tomorrow.
Except the one about Anne, because Roberta Savage repeated it later, turning in the waterbed with her arms clinging. "
Anne Mallory-I've seen her pictures, of course, and I know she's a famous model-but is she the right one to play Glory? I mean, can she act?"
It was a question he'd asked himself, too. How much of Anne had been acting and how much real? All the Annies he had known, and had even come close to loving.
Annie Oakley, the mystery waif, Anne Reardon Hyatt, Anne Mallory, who had been sophisticated enough to fool him-which one of them was real? Anyone of them? Or had she just been a chemical reaction, a lust-produced image on the radar screen of his loins? Annie laughing in the snow. Annie in the firelight, not laughing at all, her face solemn and almost frightened. Cold hands, warm mouth ... a mind as coldly calculating as her father's?
Robbie moved against him questioningly and Webb muttered, "Ah, who cares?"
Consigning both Anne and her father to hell before he brought his mouth down over Robbie's- harshly and brutally-wanting to keep her from talking and himself from thinking.
She moaned softly and excitedly, spreading her thighs to receive him as he rolled on top of her.
"Mm-God, yes! Ohh ... Jason!"
He fucked her into silence and oblivion, burying both her senses and his under feeling and sensation. Burying questions and regret and frustration and anger in a hot, convulsively grasping cunt. One more like all the others he'd fucked. Wipe-out.
Forgetfulness for the moment.
But afterwards, when Robbie had finally fallen asleep, Webb found himself too wide awake. Damn Dave's waterbeds, anyhow! And he could tell that the woman would expect him to make love again in the morning.
Ah, shit! Waiting until her breathing was even, Webb eased himself cautiously onto his back, cursing every movement of the bed. He hoped to hell she wouldn't wake up-and that she wasn't the kind of woman who had nightmares, remembering fleetingly, with an ugly frown in the darkness, Anne's favorite nightmare ... and from there to his own.
Ria. There'd been nights, after they'd told him what had happened, that he'd waken up shaking with hatred and with nausea-escaping from mind-pictures of how she might have died, and how long it might have taken for her to die. And then he'd forced all his memories of Ria far back into the recesses of his mind until she'd become a dream-image, like a faded picture.
Until two days ago ... then the picture had changed, coming back too sharply into focus with the black-and-white image of her face, blown up larger than life by a telephoto lens. Ria-unbelievably but unmistakably Ria. Smiling, but not the old shy smile he remembered. Confident and sexually flaunting. Smiling for the man whose face bent over hers, whispering something to her. Sideshow during a Mayday parade.
The shock had sent him all the way from white-hot rage to frozen immobility.
"Sorry, old buddy. But we didn't know ourselves until a few months ago . . ." Peter's voice had suddenly seemed to come from a long distance away. Peter the Wolf, they had nicknamed him, because of the way he grinned, and because he was just as dangerous and just as predatory. And still one of "Reardon's boys."
They had picked him up soon after he'd gone through customs at JFK. Very unobtrusively. Peter himself fronting the act.
"Webb, by gosh! Been hoping your flight wasn't delayed or anything like that. Got your baggage okay? Barry here will take care of it. I've got the limo waiting right outside for you."
Very clever, very smooth. But all the men Reardon hand-picked to work for him had to be just that, as well as totally unscrupulous. He knew the rules, and the way they played their game, which was rough. And he'd gone along with them without protest, even while he was seething inside-noticing how the three men formed a kind of protective phalanx, one on either side and one behind him.
"What the fuck's with the welcome committee?" Trying to keep his voice cool, his rage tamped down.
"Hey, buddy, surely you're glad to see an old friend again? We were partners once, remember?" And then shrugging in the face of Webb's stony silence, the man had said, "Oh well ... it's nothing to worry about, really. We're not after you, if that's what you're thinking. In fact, we could use your help in a certain little matter .. ."
"Like making me an offer I can't refuse?" Webb said evenly.
Wolf-Grin chuckled. "Glad to see you haven't lost your sense of humor since you've made the big time, feller! And we're not taking you for a ride either!" He laughed again. "Nope. This won't really take too long. And to show you that fair's fair, I think we've got some information that might interest you in trade."
The information was about Ria. And when he saw the first pictures, Webb had almost gone for Peter with his bare hands. Clever fakes-something they'd rigged up to get him off guard. And then that one, very clear shot.
"It's possible, of course, that she was one of their agents from the beginning. Or that she wasn't. There's always the survival instinct to be reckoned with, isn't there?
That's Petrov with her, by the way. One of Castro's closest friends and advisers. An extremely hard man to get close to. And we know, because we've tried."
Webb found himself wondering why he didn't seem able to say anything, while Peter's dispassionate voice went on telling him things he didn't really want to know.
"She's Sal Espinoza's mistress now. You ever race against him? He's one of the money men behind this movie you're going to be doing. And rumor has it he's been offered a part-and might take it, for kicks. South American." Another picture flicked onto the screen. "Good-looking bastard, isn't he? International playboy type-plenty of money, winning smile, no visible means of support. And his latest lady-he calls her his fiancee, by the way-has ash-blonde hair and brown eyes. She's supposed to be from Nicaragua, daughter of rich parents who sent her to school in Switzerland-but nobody can find any records. This one's a very recent picture-taken when they were skiing in Gstaad . . ."
Another blown-up picture. Blonde this time, but again, unmistakably Ria.
"Not many people knew her, did they? Or would remember her. How old was she when you met her? Seventeen, eighteen?"
Eighteen. And so damned naive and innocent, no matter what they said. A raped virgin. He could remember her sobbing wildly against his shoulder.
"I cannot! I'm not the way I should be, the way I want to be for you. Those men came out of the hills with their fierce beards and their dirty clothes and their guns. And they-they .. ."
He hadn't let her go on. Hadn't wanted her to. Christ, but she had been beautiful! So young and so soft and hurt and helpless. With a kind of purity that set her apart from all the others. Old-fashioned girl, with all the old-fashioned words applying to her.
Like "lady." And she had been educated, too, speaking five languages. Her parents had been rich plantation owners before the revolution. Or so she'd told him.
Everything he knew about Ria was what she had told him ...
"Sorry we had to spring this on you without warning, old buddy. But you understand
..."
"Sure, I understand." By then Webb had managed to regain some control over himself. He looked back at Peter, his tawny-gold eyes narrowed and filled with the rage he had been able to keep out of his voice.