Recognizing this with his own animal instinct, the other man let his teeth show.
"Good. I thought you would. And now let's get down to business, shall we? I was hoping that after seeing the slides you might become as curious as we are. Maybe we can-help each other out, huh?"
"And if I tell you I'm not interested? That I don't give a damn about Ria or what she was or what she's become?"
They'd had the answer to that, too, the final, deadly piece of persuasion.
He'd wondered at the time why Peter hadn't been more insistent, hadn't threatened.
Instead he'd only shrugged.
"Ah well ... I" Tinge of regret creeping into his voice. "Thought you might want to do us a favor in return for doing you one. But in case you change your mind, I'll give you a call in a couple of days, shall I?"
Now, remembering, Webb could understand why Peter had been so sure of himself.
Vito had given him the reason, and along with it, all the more reason to hate Richard Reardon. Cold, analytical, calculating bastard! Finding everybody's weakest points and using them. Reardon, the chess master who sacrificed pawns too easily ...
"You understand why I cannot tell anyone? Only you know and I know-and my mother, whom Lucia is supposed to be visiting, along with our sons."
Vito was still a young man, dark-haired and handsome, in his middle thirties. That day he had looked much older as deep lines of worry etched his face.
"You know what precautions I take? As a matter of course, although the old days are past. She had gone shopping with the boys. They needed summer clothes. That was only yesterday." Vito's voice sounded jerky, and Webb could see a muscle jumping in the side of his jaw. "And then-I had this telephone call. To say that they were safe-spending a nice vacation in a sunny climate with old friends of yours." Vito added carefully, "The man who made the call said also that he hoped you considered these old friends still your friends."
They needed Webb's cooperation-and Vito's, as well. They had ensured that they would have it. And that meant that Reardon thought something big was up. But if that was so, why in hell hadn't Reardon sent in one of his own, a man he could trust, instead of an ex-operative who had plenty of reason to hate his guts?
Christ! Too many questions he couldn't answer yet. Some-where there had to be a solution, but right now his mind was as tired as his body, and he needed to have his mind clear-to start thinking forwards instead of back.
Robbie Savage stirred and moaned, then snuggled closer to him. Under them, the bed undulated gently. Webb closed his eyes, deliberately blanking out all thought.
Riding an ocean swell on a gigantic air mattress. Only the sound of breathing and the ceaseless sigh of the Pacific Ocean on the other side of heavy-glassed windows
THE OCEAN was a glassy greenish-gray when Anne looked out. From her room on the third floor of the house-"the Captain's floor," it had been called ever since she could remember-the ocean looked so close she could almost fall out into it. If she opened the windows and stepped out onto the narrow widow's walk, she would hear better the crashing roar of the waves against black rocks and yellow-white sand, the sighing rumble as the tide rushed into the honeycomb of caverns that slept under the island. Prehistoric rocks-monolithic phallic symbols encrusted with gray and green-stood out black against the lightening sky that always presaged dawn. A dying fog like wisps of transparent smoke still clung to the edges of land and sea, merging them into one.
She shouldn't be awake-she would be tired later on today; but the Dream had roused her, and watching the ocean from a safe distance was infinitely better than feeling herself drown in it. The Dream, like so many other submerged memories she still carried with her, must be exorcised by being dredged up to the surface-examined and rationalized and explained. Dr. Haldane had begun to do that, probing carefully and gently back through her life. But she hadn't had the Dream for ages. Not until London-and Webb...
Frowning with the faint beginnings of a headache, Anne pushed strands of hair off her forehead, massaging her temples absently. Analyze it-you can do it yourself, Anne. You've read enough books on the subject, haven't you? Webb-the feeling of drowning, losing control, when he touched her. He made her not care about anything but the reality of his body and the heat of passion in hers. And if she had stayed with him, where would he have taken her? To what depths after the heights had all been scaled? Better this way-to see Webb again as an actor instead of a lover. Reduce everything to its proper perspective.
There was a faint sound behind her and she whirled, the thin silk of her nightgown silhouetting her against the tall glass windows.
"I'm sorry, Anne! I thought I heard a sound in here, but I didn't knock in case you were asleep. What's the matter, love? Did anything disturb you?"
There was sharp concern in Harris's voice as he came towards her. He was already dressed-in a pair of casual slacks and a yellow shirt open at the neck. Catching her look, he glanced down at himself and raised his shoulders apologetically. "I'm an inveterate early riser, I'm afraid! And there's a lot that has to be done before the horde starts arriving. But you-what is it, Anne? I've been noticing the held-back look of you lately, and your tenseness. Can't you sleep?" Coming up to her, he stroked her cold arms, his eyes, fog-gray, studying her face intently.
She managed a wavering smile and what she hoped was lightness in her voice. "I just woke up early, that's all. And I couldn't go back to sleep, so I decided to watch the dawn."
"Yes, it's beautiful, isn't it? Pale and unawake yet. Sometimes I think of you that way, Anne. You should have been born a medieval lady-protected and waited upon and cherished."
"Waiting in my tower room for my lord and master? No, thank you. I think I much prefer being a woman in this day and age!"
"Are you really as independent as you sound?" Harris said it teasingly, but his fingers tightened for just an instant about her shoulders and then he gave a disapproving click of his tongue. "You're very tense, sweetheart. Hold still, let me massage the back of your neck for you." As his strong fingers massaged her neck and shoulders she could feel the tension flow away. After a while she let him lead her back to her bed and strip off her nightgown, tossing it to the floor.
And this time she honestly tried to let go-to let Harris do whatever he wanted, willing herself to feel, to fly. As before, it didn't work.
Later, brushing her hair and braiding it against the wind, Anne stared ruefully at her reflection. So she did have a problem. Ice maiden. And Harris had been very patient, very understanding; not saying anything except, with a short sigh, "You should really learn to relax, Anne. Especially when we start shooting. I don't like the idea of your falling into the tranquilizer habit, like too many actresses I know. Have you thought about using the meditation technique Hal Brightman has made so popular? He's a great guy to meet-very warm and friendly. I think you'll like him."
She went downstairs in blue jeans, a blue and orange madras shirt, and a windbreaker. Breakfast smelled good in the dining room, but she decided to skip it today. The coffee and rolls Harris had ordered brought up to her room had revived her, and she wanted to explore-see how things were coming.
There were men, carpenters and painters by the look of them, wandering everywhere carrying the paraphernalia of their trade. Some of the more garish and strikingly modern examples of Danny Verrano's taste had already disappeared; and the house, especially the older section of it, was beginning to look authentically period, even to the massive Spanish furniture and oil paintings of Spanish dons in black velvet and steel.
"You don't mind, Anne? It'll just be this way while we're making the movie .. ."
"Harris, I love it! Everything looks-just as it should be."
She especially loved the huge central courtyard. Even when she was a child this had been one of her favorite places, where she had come to read in the sunshine or dream that she was back in the past-a Moorish princess in old Granada.
This courtyard might have come straight out of the Alhambra.
Very Moorish with its fountains and blue tiles, galleries looking down on three sides, and a high wall on the fourth. Even a miniature bathing pool. Anne saw how many of the courtyard scenes they needed could be shot right here. Harris had explained how the workmen could transform it with paint and plywood from grand to shabby overnight. There was even a massive wooden gate set into the wall already. Yes, Harris had been right from the beginning. The house was perfect, and so was its location.
Anne looked out, hesitating when she saw all the activity that was going on.
Scaffoldings had been built against the walls, and some men were slapping on paint, while in the center three more worked on nailing together a very authentic-looking whipping post.
No use her going out there today. Turning back into the house, Anne wondered which scenes they'd shoot first. She'd learned enough about filmmaking from listening to Harris talk to know they wouldn't do anything in sequence. And that reminded her that she should be studying the script.
"We'll stick as close as possible to the book, Anne. Just remember when you're reading that this is all visual. We'll be shooting very small segments at a time, so you won't have much to memorize. And there'll be cue cards, of course, if you need them.
Don't worry about anything."
But that was the least of her worries, although she couldn't say so to Harris. Perhaps talking to Dr. Brightman would help, after all. Another guru. And his book had been very intriguing- an easy way to relaxation and from there to meditation.
She saw the thick guest book that Harris, meticulous as ever, had installed on the magnificent carved sideboard. The telephone beside it struck a jarring note. She had started to flip idly through the book when the phone began to ring. There were extensions all over the house, and all those servants as well. Should she? Silly to hesitate when she was standing right here! Another insistent ring and she picked it up automatically, almost saying, "Majco Oil," and that trigger reflex was what made her pause to hear a woman's voice, a slightly accented, contralto saying, 'Who is this?"
Anne hated people who started off telephone conversations that way. And the woman sounded arrogant, as if she were talking to a servant. She had opened her mouth to retort, "Whom did you want to speak to?" when she heard the receiver being lifted from somewhere else in the house.
Harris's voice, sounding slightly impatient. "Hello?" "Harris? This is Anna-Maria. Who was it who picked up the telephone just now?"
Her cheeks burning, feeling absurdly guilty like a child caught eavesdropping, Anne replaced the phone before she could catch Harris's reply.
Oh damn! That was stupid of her, too. She should have said something-explained.
Too late now. Still feeling guilty, she walked quickly out of the room, threading her way through other rooms until she was safely outside, looking up at a sunlit sky, freckled with small fleecy clouds to the west.
No doubt the fog would come back later in the evening. The weather here was always surprising, never the same. Like the ocean ... as she should remember.
Funny how she could remember so many things from before. The happy things, the good things. But not much of after. But then, Dr. Haldane had explained that, and it was pointless going back.
Harris's chauffeur, who looked more like a bodyguard, was lounging outside, smoking a cigarette. Perhaps she should ask him to bring one of the cars around and drive herself into Carmel, spend the day wandering around the shops, looking for the familiar ones.
He stamped the cigarette out under his heel, looking at her through black in curious eyes.Maybe he was Harris's bodyguard-she should ask. She wondered if he wore a gun in a shoulder holster under his leather jacket, and realized that she didn't even know his name.
Who was Anna-Maria? One of Harris's ex-girl friends?
Angry at her own curiosity, Anne nodded at the man and started to walk briskly, as if she knew exactly where she was going.
It was really none of her business. Harris had a lot of friends, most of whom she hadn't met.
"If you're going down to the beach, Miss Mallory, you'd best be careful. Those cliffs fall away real sudden." She turned her head over her shoulder, inexplicably annoyed that this stranger should be warning her.
"Thanks, I know that. I used to live here as a child."
Almost true. Childhood summers. Happy times until the very last summer. And so much for asking for a car. Now she was committed to her walk. Digging her hands into the pockets of her windbreaker, Anne followed the faintly defined path that led to the beach, knowing that when she was out of sight of the house she would swerve off it to the north, following another path she remembered, with twisted oaks leaning their branches over it. Sherwood Forest to the child she'd been. Funny how the real thing, when she made a point of seeing it in England, hadn't seemed half so magical!
And then she heard the helicopter, and stood there shading her eyes until she had located it-hearing its peculiar whirring sound grow louder as the clumsy-looking thing came closer and lower, to disappear at last behind the treetops.
The first contingent of guests! Well, that would give her walk some direction. Feeling the wind whip color into her face, Anne took consciously long strides as she headed towards the small landing field.
She was halfway there when the chauffeur caught up with her. He walked alongside and muttered a human "Well, here we go! That'll be the first lot, and they'll have a bunch of baggage with them that needs carting back to the house."
She decided that he didn't look like a bodyguard at all, not really. Just a middle-aged Mexican or Italian with muscles under his jacket. No doubt from helping to carry Harris's guests' luggage.
As IT TURNED OUT, Harris had golf carts to take the guests and their baggage back to the house. Anne rode in one beside Yves Pleydel, who laughed. "American efficiency! Everything made very convenient, eh?" He was looking tanned and fit, and had kissed her soundly when he first saw her. "And you-you are looking very beautiful, just as I remembered you, cherie" His quick eyes took her in, appraising her in that open way of his. "Although you could use some extra weight, you know.