by kps
"Sometimes men are so boring, don't you agree? All this talk of machines, machines
. . . who cares? Me, I think I would like to dance a little while before I go to bed." She gave Webb a significant, darkly challenging look as she said the last, but then she turned her most provocative smile on Espinoza. "I think you owe me a dance, after that drink you spilled all over the hem of my new dress. You will wait for me, caro,"
This, possessively, to Webb, who played her game by kissing her lightly again.
"I'll wait for you, cara" He added something in Italian that made her smile and flash Anne a triumphant look over her shoulder as she bore an apologetic-looking Sal Espinoza off as if he had been a prize of war. Two up for Claudia-baby! Sure enough of herself to leave Webb alone with Anne, who didn't want to be alone with him at all
...
His eyes looked her over, and she couldn't read anything behind them. He was like a stranger, and yet he wasn't. Her senses told her so.
Because her hand had started to shake she drained her glass and set it down too abruptly. He smiled at her, but his eyes weren't involved. "Want to dance, Annie?"
"No!" she said sharply, tired of playing games.
He shrugged agreeably. "All right."
Sizing her up. Anne Mallory. Reardon's little girl. Deliberately blanked-out space in his mind. Use her if he had to.
Just like Reardon used people. Instrument of his ultimate revenge? But it was hard to be objective about Anne, remembering what he did. Too much, maybe? But he could get over that, thinking about risks and rewards.
"Well, I'd better circulate, I suppose. Do make yourself at home, Webb."
Her voice sounded as brittle and as cold as the tinkle of ice cubes as the bartender mixed her a fresh drink-no eyes and no ears.
And suddenly, contrarily, Webb wanted to force some reaction from her. He put his hand on her arm, stopping her in mid-motion, sensing her desire to escape. "You're a lousy hostess, Annie. Aren't you supposed to make the latest arrival feel at home?"
He heard her sharply drawn-in breath, and it gave him a sadistic pleasure. "I thought maybe you'd show me to my room. Make me feel welcome. Just like old times."
While he was saying it, each word a calculated cruelty, he was watching the rise and fall of her partly exposed breasts under the thin blouse. And he had already noticed the light golden tan.
H he hadn't held her wrist she would have slapped him, forgetting her control that much. Tears of rage and humiliation stung her eyelids and she forced them back.
"What a bastard you are! And will you have your little tape recorder turned on so you and Carol will have another one to add to your collection?"
This time she had drawn blood, even though the look that came into his face made her wince instinctively. He said softly, between his teeth, "And what in hell did you mean by that crack?"
She forgot Dave, behind the bar, forgot the room filled with people. There were only her and Webb, battling it out, and she was fighting for her own survival.
"You ought to know-very well. Was it supposed to be a secret, the little contest you two have going? A form of tallying scalps, I suppose. I think the first time we met it was because of a bet between you ..." Her voice almost cracked, but she held it steady, looking contemptuously into his suddenly opaque eyes.
"Not the first time we met, baby. The first time we fucked." His voice was conversational, but he might as well have struck her a blow. "And I still want to know what you were talking about just now."
"Forget it, Webb. Just forget it, will you? And let me go-you're making a spectacle of me, and of yourself. I'm not Claudia, I'm not so easily taken in by a-a Judas kiss! So play your sick little games with her, with anyone else, because I .. ."
"I hope I am not intruding? Please excuse me." The look on Karim's face belied the overly polite tone of his voice. "But, Anne, my uncle wishes to bid you good-bye. He's leaving tomorrow, you know."
She had never thought she would be as glad to see Karim as she was now, with the rage she sensed in Webb striking at her like a live thing as he let go of her, his face smoothing out into his actor's mask.
"Sorry-have I been monopolizing our charming hostess? See you later, Annie." His words carried both a promise and a threat.
Chapter Twenty-seven
ANNE HAD WATCHED the patterns changing; small groups of people expanding into larger ones or contracting. And she had wanted nothing more than to go upstairs to bed, but she felt herself trapped.
She had watched Webb disappear with Claudia soon after she said her polite good-byes to Karim's uncle. And had been rescued from Karim by Yves, who had had too much wine to drink. From Yves, by Sal Espinoza again. She felt like a balloon being tossed from one hand to another. Even her head felt expanded and light-especially after the hash pipe had been passed around a few times, filling the small screening room with its sicklysweet odor.
"You're not used to it? It's good stuff-pure. The best. But do not overdo it the first time. Here, let me show you." Sal Espinoza was nothing like the playboy he was painted to be, Anne thought fuzzily. He was a nice man, very thoughtful; and she was being neglected by Harris, who was fussing around with cans of film while he and Yves Pleydel engaged in a low-voiced discussion.
They were here to watch the first rushes. Sarah Vesper and Anne were the only two women present. The men were all Harris's closest associates, except for the emir, who had retired early, and Karim.
Pleydel said, "I think we have it now," and the lights dimmed. Anne was faced with her own larger-than-life image on the screen. She watched herself with a sense of detachment, as if she were watching a stranger.
"You are very good. I hope that when it is my turn, I will be able to give a credible performance." Espinoza's shoulder brushed against Anne's as he leaned forward to take two glasses of wine from a tray.
"I really don't think I'd better. This is much later than I'm used to staying up."
"But the show is only just beginning. Watch .. ."
She had wondered why everyone stayed, watching the screen expectantly. And then she didn't have to wonder any longer. The screen filled with color and light. No sound. But sound wasn't necessary, with everything being said by bodies. People making love. All colors and combinations.
Anne hardly noticed that Harris had come to sit beside her, taking her hand as he leaned over to tell Espinoza, "This is for your benefit, Sal. And Anne's. She hasn't seen my private collection before."
Anne felt him take her hand, but for a time she was incapable of either motion or coherent thought.
Espinoza held the small silver-engraved pipe to her lips, chuckling softly. "Ah! I always wondered about Madame la Comtesse. So that's it!"
She felt frozen in her chair, although the heat had started to spread from her face to the rest of her body as the toke made what she was watching seem suddenly more vivid. She had begun to realize that this was not mere acted pornography but the real thing, involving real, recognizable people.
Anne could not help gasping when she suddenly recognized Venetia Tressider. One of those talked-about orgies that Venetia so enjoyed. Venetia naked, with her legs spread open. A girl going down on her before three men joined in.
"You're not shocked, are you, love?" Harris said from the darkness. His fingers moved caressingly up her arm, playing with her breast.
"What, you have not watched this kind of peepshow before? I am afraid you must think us all very decadent. But it is-interesting, no?"
Anne didn't know what she might have said. She had meant to say something, but the words got lost in her throat.
Venetia again. Venetia with-Webb, this time. Her country house-Anne recognized the indoor swimming pool, all the mirrors. Oh God, she didn't want to watch. Webb's body, dark gold in the firelight. Watching him fucking Venetia, she could almost feel him in her. Feel of his flesh under her clutching fingers. Musky whisper of his voice between kisses.
"Bardini was responsible for that on
e," Harris was saying across her to Espinoza. "Do yon recognize his special touch? He's an expert at using the zoom lens at exactly the right time."
Was this part of Carol's collection, lent for the occasion? Did they exchange film as well as tapes?
"He's quite a stud," Espinoza drawled. "I wonder how I would measure up? Of course, she's quite a woman, too. I shall have to make her acquaintance!"
Harris's fingers gently pushed aside the silky' material of Anne's blouse, finding her nipple. On the screen, Claudia was giving an off-screen performance, and Yves grunted caustically, "Huh! That was her screen test. She has a natural talent for sex, that bitch!"
"It's hard to tell where the silk leaves off and your skin begins, Anne."
She tried to empty her head of everything but the sound of Harris's voice. She was in bed, and he was undressing her. There was a light on, and it kept getting in her eyes until she closed them.
"Anne-Anne, what do you need that I'm not giving you?" Craig's words from long ago.
"If you can't make it, fake it." That had been Violet.
Kaleidoscope of colors and pictures in her mind. Coldness and heat on her body. Not ecstasy, but, at last, release.
Three men, Espinoza, Pleydel and Rufus Randall, had remained in the screening room after the others had left. Randall, grimacing distastefully, had turned on the exhaust fan to dispel the sweet-acrid odor of the hash; but now the room was filled with his cigar smoke.
Against one wall of the room, what had appeared to be a locked closet door had been slid away, disclosing an elaborate arrangement of screens, pushbuttons and tuner knobs. One of Danny Verrano's interesting "amusements," part of the reason why he had asked so much for this house and the land it stood on. Harris Phelps had been his guest on a few occasions, and Harris hadn't quibbled at Danny's price.
Espinoza, lounging back in his chair with his legs stretched before him, drawled lazily, "A most fascinating and useful little toy, eh? I must confess that this is more than I had hoped for. And you say that there are hookups in every room?" He raised an eyebrow. "That must have cost a great deal of money, besides ingenuity. The cameras are not easily noticeable then, I presume."
Pleydel, busy fiddling with dials, shrugged. "Not at all. Some of them are concealed behind speaker grills, some in elaborate light fixtures, vases-you know? They are all positioned to give maximum coverage. Especially"-he winked-"of the bed. And not all the rooms are so equipped. Some of the chalets, the rooms in the outlying buildings where the technicians and the extras are sleeping, were not worth the effort. Also our friend Phelps installed cutoff switches in the rooms that some of us will be occupying, so that if you desire, you'll have your privacy."
"Don't like the idea of a seeing eye myself," Randall growled, puffing on his cigar.
"But some people seem to find it a turn-on. Taki Petrakis wants a videotape of his farewell performance with Vesper before he leaves."
"She does not know?"
"She does not. Nor does Anne Mallory. Just the few of us who might have to take turns to monitor this thing." Randall jerked his head towards the machinery. "I'm still learning-that's why I'm up so late tonight.' Normally, I'm an early riser."
"Here," Pleydel said. A picture suddenly appeared on one of the monitor screens, and Espinoza leaned forward with interest.
"He gets around, doesn't he?"
Webb Carnahan and Claudia were engaged in a flaming row, and wrinkling his nose expressively, Yves turned the volume up slightly. Sitting naked in the middle of her rumpled bed, Claudia hurled a stream of vituperative Italian at Webb, who continued calmly to get dressed. It was obvious that, having fucked her, he was getting ready to go back to his own room and that she didn't like the idea.
"There are numbered buttons for each room. Of course you might have to adjust the focusing slightly, but otherwise it is just a matter of pushing a button-so!"
Fade out and fade in.
The senator slept with his head pillowed on the shoulder of a young man. One of the extras who would play a Mexican officer.
Randall grunted. "That's interesting." He glanced at Espinoza, adding without expression, "We're keeping videotapes, of course. Phelps has had an underground strongroom built, leading off that garage. And that's where we'll store the more explosive tapes-the ones that might be useful later."
"Also, once we start shooting the sex scenes, some of those as well-those that would otherwise have to end up on the cutting-room floor."
Espinoza chuckled. "I am beginning to understand better. And Markham? Is he going to be told?" There was a slight hesitation as the other men glanced at each other. At last Randall gave a shrug of his bearlike shoulders, stubbing out one cigar before he began to light another. He frowned thoughtfully.
"We're not sure yet. Depends. And Phelps doesn't think Carol Cochran ought to be told, because sometimes she talks too much."
"It's probably better not ..."
Most of the other rooms Yves tried, casually, were dark. "Ah well, it's very late." He shrugged. And then, grinning, "But one more. You'll notice I have given our friend Harris time!"
There was a diffused light in Anne Mallory's room, and she slept on her back, naked, with one arm thrown over her eyes. Her body glistened as if it had been oiled, and her nipples were still erect. She was alone.
"Quite lovely," Espinoza mused, his eyes narrowing. "And I see Harris used some of that special ointment I brought with me. It's quite effective with a woman who has difficulty achieving a climax."
"Really? What's in it?" Pleydel sounded interested. Randall merely grunted.
"Many things. Including yohimbine-it's an extract from a plant that grows in certain African countries. When used with a very small amount of cocaine, it can-well, the effects are quite pleasurable. But the most important thing is to remove the inhibitions first. American women! They are full of these hangups, as you call them!"
Randall stretched, yawning hugely. "Well, I think I've seen enough for one night. I'm about ready to tum in myself."
Espinoza looked at his watch, a smile coming to his face. "Why don't you wait a few minutes longer? You might catch something very interesting."
Christ! After four already! Swearing under his breath, Webb Carnahan heard the door lock behind him. The cloying odor of Claudia and sex seemed to cling to him, and without bothering to turn on the light switch, he began to strip, leaving his clothes wherever he dropped them on the way to the bathroom.
He had been allotted one of the guest chalets-closer to the house than most, and conveniently close to the one Claudia occupied. He had left her, still cursing at him to relish the bite of fresh air on his face, penetrating his body. It had at least driven away the feeling of staleness, the traces of tension and tiredness that had been with him all evening. Fucking Claudia had been like making war. C'est la guerre! What he needed now was a shower and the comfort of sleep. Blanking out thought until much, much later.
The shower was as hot as he could stand it, ending with a very short burst of cold.
The towels were large, and there were plenty of them. Harris Phelps didn't do anything by halves. All the comforts of home, including soft piped-in music that he'd turned on almost automatically.
Or had he? Suddenly he couldn't remember. When he stepped back into the bedroom, his body still damp from the stearn, his mind fitted a name to the music.
"Concerto de Aranjuez"-soft guitars. The kind of mood music he didn't need. He stopped still, all his senses suddenly alert. Something -a breath of perfume, a whisper of movement in the dark-warned him before the light carne on, and he saw her sitting curled up in the chair beside the bed, eyes wide and questioning.
Ria. Wraith out of the blackness of the past. Dream or nightmare? Caught unprepared, he felt frozen, until her voice, soft and hesitant, carne across the distance that separated them.
"Webb? I'm sorry it had to be this way ... but I wanted-I wanted our first meeting to be private, after so long . . ."
&nbs
p; His mind clicked back into focus, and now he was able to look at her objectively. Her hair was different-blonder. And she hadn't worn makeup before. But the eyes were the same, and the slight trembling of her mouth. Christ, all the mental preparation hadn't quite made him ready for seeing her again. Sound surprised, the monitor in his brain warned him, even while she stood up, green and brown dress clinging.
"Webb"-voice rising slightly-"please-you will listen to me first? If I can find the words to explain what happened-how it happened ..."
His voice came back, sounding flat. "Hello, Ria. And after all these years, why bother to explain?"
He stayed where he was, noticing how she licked her lips nervously. But if he had had any doubts, her words warned him to be cautious: "I did not know what to expect, but-you knew?"
"Excuse me." He picked up one of the towels he had discarded and knotted it around his waist, still watching her. And then he said politely, "Knew what? How did you expect me to react to something like this? Maybe I'm dreaming it all up. My long-lost wife-missing, presumed dead-turning up to surprise me. To explain-isn't that what you just said? So what the fuck am I supposed to say?"
"I don't know. Anything-how can I expect you to understand? They-the people, your friends who sent me back to Cuba-expected me to die. It was a matter of survival, you see, and I discovered that I wanted to survive. Don't blame me too much. If I could have let you know, I would have, but there was no way. And then, after a while, I was afraid to try. I didn't know if I would ever be allowed to leave, and I didn't know if you-what you .. ."
"Turn the goddamn music off, will you?" "Largo." Lone guitar hesitating in the silence, joined by violins. Great background music for whatever kind of scene she'd planned.
They'd played it on the cheap record player that was all he'd been able to afford then.
Ria's music. Supposed to soften him up for now.
