"But it does, Anne. And you'd be doing me a tremendous favor too. Listen-it's the last scene-no dialogue, no lines to memorize. It's Webb's scene, and I want to take it from him. All you'd have to do is stand there by the window, looking stiff and frightened. That's what it says right here in the script. Can you imagine? I'm the star, and they give him the big dramatic scene at the end. I've been trying to persuade Harris to have it changed. Maybe this will convince him! Listen-the lighting will be dim; all the audience would see of you is a silhouette. We're just about the same height, and with one of my wigs on, no one would know the difference! All I'm trying to do is prove a point, and you can help me." Carol made a wide, dramatic gesture with her arms. "Where's your spirit of adventure, Anne? Can't you admit to yourself that it might even prove kind of exciting for you? Just think-you'll be playing me, the lead in a big Broadway play, for a few minutes-and that's all it would take. You'd be my stand-in. That overblown bitch Tanya would give her eyeteeth for the chance, only I don't want her to have it-we won't let her know. Please, sweetie? You're my friend-maybe the only real female friend I've ever had, because you've never been jealous. I remember you would always cover for me. Remember those times I'd sneak out the window and hitchhike into town?"
"That was different, Carol. What you're suggesting this time is-is absolutely crazy!
What would happen if the union found out? I mean, there must be an actor's union that this Tanya belongs to. And-and I don't think I'd like to have Webb Carnahan mad at me." Saying his name again made her shiver, not understanding why. Thank God Carol hadn't noticed.
Carol was still determined to get her own way, and she waved aside all of Anne's carefully rational objections. "Why can't you look at this like-like a kind of therapy, Anne? An adventure. Haven't you ever felt adventurous? I promise you, there'll be no complications afterward. Just read the script-and it's only for just this one time.
There's no one else I could trust . . ."
Carol was at her most persuasive. It was hard not to fall into the old habit of being the follower while Carol led. But it wasn't entirely because of Carol that Anne felt herself weakening. What would Webb Carnahan's reaction be when he found it wasn't Carol he was saying his lines to? An adventure-with no complications afterwards, Carol had promised. She had a fleeting image of Craig's face, if he could have known, and that decided it.
"Here-read this-you'll see there's nothing to it." Carol thrust the script at her. "And I'm going to call Harris right now, before you chicken out."
In spite of the sputtering, old-fashioned heater that was supposed to warm the dressing room, Anne felt as if she was freezing. Even the heavy robe that mufffed her goose-pimpled body didn't help.
She sat perched on an unsteady wooden stool in the doorway, with Harris Phelps's arm around her waist for support, waiting for her cue to go onstage. Although she was grateful for his presence, Anne hardly heard his soothing flow of words, because she was watching Webb Carnahan through gaps in the elaborate set. Noticing the movement of his lips, the dark, almost sardonic cast of his features, especially when he scowled, most of all the way he walked, making it seem like the angry pacing of a trapped forest creature. For this scene he had shed his jacket and wore only a thin silk shirt, open at the throat. He lifted his arm once to run his fingers through his shaggy dark hair, and she could almost see the fluid, rippling motion of the muscles in his back and shoulders. All grace and motion. And it was crazy of her to be thinking like this, especially at this particular time ...
Anne shivered slightly, but this time her tremor wasn't from the cold.
Harris Phelps must have noticed, because she felt his arm tighten around her waist.
"Cold, Anne? I suppose you're wondering how we let Carol talk us into this bit of madness. But then-I'm sure you know as well as I how easily Carol twists her friends around her finger. I wouldn't be surprised if she's sneaked into one of the seats at the back just to watch what happens."
Good, let him keep on talking about Carol. Anne supposed it must have been a surprise for Harris Phelps when he'd arrived in Carol's hotel room expecting love in the afternoon with Carol and it had been Carol's friend who had stood there in the darkened room with just a pink-shaded light behind her, wearing Carol's wig and Carol's pale green negligee.
That had been the test. "Because if Harris takes you for me close up, then there's no way a theater audience could tell the difference, Anne! Don't you see?"
All things considered, Harris had been very decent about it all, even forgiving Anne's part in the masquerade, shruggingly letting himself be talked into going along with Carol's scheme. "But just for this one time, remember! And we can't let anyone else find out . . ."
"Oh yes-union rules!" Carol had made a face at that, but she'd been gleeful at getting her own way, and magnanimous once she had achieved it. "I wanted you two to meet, anyway. Harris, this is Anne Hyatt, and would you believe we used to be best chums in school? Before they threw me out, that is!"
Harris Phelps had been charming, but Anne had the uneasy feeling that he hadn't stopped studying her. Assessing her? Wondering about her, even if he'd been too much of a gentleman to ask questions? And how much had Carol told Harris after Anne had left?
If only she could switch her mood back to this afternoon's lightness, Anne thought now, wishing her eyes wouldn't keep following Webb.
This time Phelps followed the direction of her gaze and she felt, rather than saw, his frown. "Do you mind if I give you a bit of advice, Anne? Keep away from him. Most women find Webb fascinating, and he uses that fact to use them. He's got it down to a fine art. Loves them and leaves them when he's squeezed them dry. He's a damn good actor, of course, but he carries that role into real life. Somehow, I get the impression you're not used to that kind of man, dear ..."
Did it really show so obviously just how inexperienced she was? Anne stiffened, searching in her mind for an amused, easy rebuttal.
"I can't figure you out, Anne Hyatt," he continued. "You're like a chameleon, taking on colors that dont' really belong to you. With Carol's wig and makeup, you look so damn much like her that even I find it difficult to believe you're not Carol. And yet you're such a contrast to Carol! So pale and silver-blonde and-shy. I'm right, aren't I?
Why did you really agree to this little charade, Anne?"
"You already answered that yourself, Harris. Remember? When you said how persuasive Carol could be." Anne shrugged. "And it was an adventure for me, of course. My life up till now hasn't been half as interesting as Carol's must be!"
Harris Phelps sighed. Disappointment or exasperation? Anne wished he'd stop talking, stop trying to psych her out. She didn't want to think beyond going through with this and getting it over with. Then she'd make an appearance as herself at the party in Carol's suite after the play.
HARRIS PHELPS WAS INTRIGUED with Anne Hyatt. He was used to another kind of woman-women who were flamboyantly beautiful and bold and very willing, especially when they discovered how rich he was. He was also used to hiding his real emotions under the mild facade he chose to present to the outside world.
Harris had inherited money, and had turned his father's millions into a billion or more of his own. He looked like-and was-an epicure who could afford his tastes. Of middle height, he kept himself trim with exercise, massages, and steam baths, and had a medical checkup once a month. He played passable tennis and excellent golf. His hair was carefully styled, and his small mustache added what he thought of as a debonair and slightly rakish look to his face. Only the Phelps nose kept his features from being classified as regularly handsome. The long, proudly curved nose belied the thin and sensitive lips; it was the nose of a robber baron, a strong and unscrupulous man used to getting what he wanted, no matter what the means. But most people who met Harris Phelps and listened to his incessant, almost gossipy stream of chatter passed him off as just another playboy with inherited money-and forgot to be cautious, which worked to his advantage.
Harris called himself a dilettante of the new school; in a bygone age he would have been called a patron of the arts. At the moment he was interested in the performing arts-motion pictures and legitimate theater. A hobby-and why not? He could afford half a dozen hobbies if he wanted to, but he needed the challenge. He had other ambitions too, but he was smart enough and patient enough to know that this wasn't yet the time to move toward them ...
Anne was raptly watching the stage again. Gazing at her classically beautiful profile, Phelps caught himself wondering again what it was that really intrigued him so about this woman. She wasn't his type as far as mistresses went. He liked to be seen with long-stemmed, big-breasted women, especially those who were well-known in their Own right. Like Carol Cochran. He was Carol's official man-friend of the moment, but that didn't mean too much; both he and Carol understood that the arrangement was nothing permanent, leaving them both free to look elsewhere. He knew that what Carol really saw was his money-but that was only fair, because Carol herself was just another trophy to him.
But Anne Hyatt-Anne Reardon Hyatt, Harris corrected him-self-was something different. He'd seen her first as Richard Reardon's daughter-and he was one of the few men who knew what Richard Reardon stood for and the extent of the man's awesome power. But he'd begun to see her as a woman, see through to her deeply hidden potential, during the past hour that he'd been acting as chaperone and mentor.
So she was divorcing her husband and breaking loose from the confines of a rigidly protected life. He couldn't blame her. But was she really as virginal and untouchable as she seemed? No gossip about her in Washington circles; Harris recalled hearing from Melissa Meredith that Craig Hyatt's wife was a mouse of a woman! Of course, one learned to discount half of what Melissa said; she was a dyed-in-the-wool bitch.
But he'd been . surprised all the same. Anne Hyatt was no mouse of a woman, for all that she dressed conservatively and could look like a teen-ager when she didn't wear makeup. She had a lovely face, and an excellent, if slightly too-slender, body, and she gave the impression of having depth to her character. Hidden depth.
Or did she? She didn't seem to be able to take her eyes off Webb Carnahan, and not for the first time Harris wondered irritably why women always watched Webb.
Something about him. Machismo? Carol had used that word to describe Webb once.
"You wouldn't understand, Harris my pet, but that bastard has it. Damn him, it's in the way he holds his body, the way he walks, like a big cat-the way his nostrils flare when he looks at a woman he wants. Oh, I'm wise to him now, but can't you see what he does to almost every other woman that crosses his path?" Webb drew women to him like flies, but not this one, surely not! Anne wasn't Webb's kind of woman, she was ... Harris's mind hesitated over the old-fashioned phrase and repeated it. She was a lady. That was it. Definitely not the type to be exposed to Webb's crude line of bullshit, nor the kind of woman, surely, who would allow herself to become a one-night stand. Besides, Webb liked his women sexy and wild, like he was.
The scene was coming to a climax. Soon. the curtain would come down and there would be the usual frenzied activity that accompanied each change of set. And then it would be Anne's turn, and then it would be over. She was afraid, suddenly admitting her fear to herself. Harris had stopped talking, and she hadn't even noticed, until he helped her off the stool in the doorway, pulling the door to the dressing room shut, closing her in with him. His voice was calm and soothing as if he understood her sudden panic.
"It's almost time, Anne. And we don't want anyone to see you up close, when they start shifting props. I'm going to pour you some cognac, and I want you to try to relax until they knock at the door to warn you that it's time. Don't worry-Carol usually sits in the doorway muffled up just like you are, and then she has a drink and stalks out there at the very last moment to take her place by the window. And that's just what you will do. This is a very short scene, and it'll seem even shorter to you once you're out there onstage. No one will ever know the difference."
"He'll know."
Harris, pouring cognac into two snifters, tried to hide his frown of annoyance. "Of course he'll know! But that's the whole point, isn't it? To playa trick on Webb. I guess part of the reason I agreed is that she's entitled to her revenge .. ." He shrugged.
Anne took the glass he handed her, although her fingers felt nerveless. "Revenge?"
"Of course you wouldn't follow the gossip columns, or those trashy movie mags. But Webb and Carol were what would be referred to as a 'hot item' at one time. They were even engaged for a short while. I suppose Carnahan saw the chance to further his career; Carol was a big star even then, and he was just beginning, with that TV
series. It didn't last, of course. Soon after that, Carol married her third husband, Ted Grady. We both know that Carol's no angel, but Webb really gave her a rotten deal.
Since then, in spite of my advice, they've had an on-and-off affair. I understand he's taken up with Carol's understudy these past few days .. ."
Suddenly, Anne didn't want to hear any more. To stop herself from thinking, she held the snifter to her nose, sniffing up the heady fumes before she sipped the cognac very slowly.
Harris Phelps watched her appraisingly. "You know, you're the first woman I've seen who knows how to drink good cognac. You've got breeding, Anne. Good bone structure, too."
She began to giggle from reaction, holding the glass away from her so she wouldn't spill liquor all over herself. The heavy' woolen robe fell open, and under the negligee Harris caught a glimpse of her breasts.
"Good bone structure!" Anne hoped she didn't sound hysterical. She didn't dare look at Harris's face, poor man, and he was only trying to be nice to her! Her voice shook.