Microsoft Word - Rogers, Rosemary - The Crowd Pleasers

by kps

  "Webb, please .. ."

  "It's just that I like jazz better these days, baby. And a lot of things have changed since way back. Including you." He walked toward the bed, glad that she was on the other side of it. "You have changed, too." Her fingers plucked nervously at her skirt.

  "So I have." With a vicious motion, he pulled the covers off the bed. "And I don't know if I'm ready to listen to anything you have to say. The shock hasn't worn off yet."

  "Do you think he's telling the truth? He seemed too calm. After all, a shock like that

  ..."

  "But you forget he's an actor, yes? He has had the training."

  "All kinds of training. And if he knew she was going to be here, there's only one way he could have found out."

  "But we have time." Espinoza's voice was soothing. "We can find out whatever we want to know. And don't underestimate Anna-Maria. She is a well-trained weapon in herself, don't you agree?"

  The three men had been joined by Harris Phelps-showered and looking fresh. Now, watching the screen, he smoothed his mustache abstractedly.

  "I don't think we need to worry about Webb Carnahan. In fact, he might prove useful to us in the end. And he has useful connections."

  Webb and Anna-Maria faced each other across the bed-wary adversaries. "Don't send me away. Please let me stay, and-and talk to you. Listen to me, at least."

  "Listen, baby, I'm very tired. And still trying to absorb everything. Talking's the last thing on my mind right now."

  "Whatever you want. You don't have to talk. Let me."

  "Ah shit! Do you have anything on you? I might need it."

  "I don't know what you mean ..."

  "I think you do. Didn't you come prepared?"

  "Ah-now!"

  "You're not jealous?"

  "Why should I be? Anna-Maria has always belonged to .herself, just as I belong to myself. And there's no need for concern-she can give as good as she gets, that woman!"

  She had amyl nitrate-four capsules stashed away in her tiny mesh purse. Webb snapped one under her nose, and another for himself, hardly waiting to hear her gasping cry. The thin chiffon ripped under his hands, and they fell on the bed together, grappling with each other. More war games.

  Randall rubbed wearily at his eyes. "Christ, I can see this going on all morning. When did you say he was supposed to film that sequence with Sarah Vesper?"

  "The day after tomorrow." Pleydel's eyes were glued to the screen. "It ought to prove interesting."

  "He hasn't asked her if they're still married," Harris said thoughtfully.

  "I don't think he's had time to think about that yet."

  "Put out the fucking light."

  And now there was only sound.

  PART FOUR

  THE PLAYERS

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  MAKE-BELIEVE WAS HARD to believe in, seen from the other side. Wires trailing everywhere, too-bright lights. And cameras. Now that she wasn't in front of them, Anne noticed more. She was starting to learn the jobs of the men who swarmed everywhere. Director, assistant directors for setting up the scene, director of photography, camera operators-and all, in turn, had their own assistants. Lighting gaffers, sound men, electricians. Too many people crowded into one small space.

  Anne was watching Webb and Sarah Vesper. Their first scene together. And she was here to watch, and to learn. While they were setting up the scene, Anne tried not to think. Especially of the time when she had first watched Webb, feeling the force of his personality leap out and almost touch her as he had touched her later irrevocably.

  The continuity girl, Meg, brushed past, carrying her clip-board, looking harassed, calling, "Toni-wardrobe ..." What wardrobe? They're hardly wearing anything," came from Jean Benedict, pressed against the wall next to Anne.

  Well, forget it. She hadn't seen Webb at all yesterday, and hadn't missed him at all.

  Bastard! The word leaped into her mind as she watched him smiling down at Sarah Vesper, who contrived, somehow, to look incredibly young. They weren't using standins, and they spent a lot of time standing around while the set was being adjusted about them-in this case, one of the bigger bedrooms in the old part of the house. Not that they were wasting their time, exactly. They seemed to have plenty to say to each other; engaging in a low-voiced, animated conversation that ignored everyone else.

  Sarah was obviously relating some anecdote, her hands and her mouth expressive, and Webb was smiling down at her, watching her more than listening. All his charm turned on. And then when Yves called for a run-through, it was amazing how they both changed, faces and attitudes instantly transformed into those of the characters they were playing.

  "Now you both get wet. Very thoroughly. I want to see the water running down your faces."

  A hose accomplished that, and there was general laughter. Sarah grimaced and wrinkled her nose. Webb grumbled, "JesusI That was coldl"

  "You are supposed to be very cold-and very wet, both of you!" Yves reminded them pointedly.

  "I'm shivering already." Sarah looked slim and supple under her clinging blouse and riding skirt. Her fine-boned face looked beautiful in spite of the carefully arranged strands of hair straggling about her face and shoulders.

  This one scene, four or five minutes of screen time, took almost two hours of work before Pleydel was satisfied, in spite of the fact that there were very few extra takes.

  A rape-love scene, one of the many. Anne's mind carefully blanked out the thought of those that she would be expected to participate in.

  Webb and Sarah seemed intent on each other. Only acting? Why should she care?

  The sudden contortion of Sarah's face seemed all too real, neck muscles straining as her head was flung back.

  Sarah Vesper had a beautiful body-slim and firm-muscled-and she didn't seem to mind all the people watching. It was Webb's body that was too achingly familiar.

  Making love for the cameras-did he get turned on that way? Anne found her mind going back again to Webb's love scenes with Carol in Bad Blood. The play of light and shadow on sweat-glistening flesh as they came together, moved apart, and then together once more, with the wild music rising to a crescendo ...

  Here in this room there were the sounds of lovemaking, whether faked or not. Even down to the creaking of the bed springs.

  Jean Benedict clutched at Anne's arm, her breath catching in her throat; expelled audibly when Yves called, "Cut!" And then Jean said softly, "Christ!" Her voice sounded almost shaken.

  "It was quite a performance, wasn't it?" Anne hoped her voice sounded calm.

  Jean had bitten down on her lower lip until it had turned a dark crimson, and her eyes seemed unusually bright. She shook her mane of hair back over her shoulders, saying speculatively, "I wonder if that was all acting? She likes having her breasts kissed-the nipples of women with small breasts are usually much more sensitive. Did you notice how she . . ." Suddenly shrugging as if to shake off a spell, Jean dug her hands into the pockets of her levis. "He seemed to know what he was doing, too.

  Webb Carnahan. Some men are almost like women that way-they seem to sense what turns each particular woman on most, and they're usually the worst sons of bitches. The calculators." Her eyes narrowed for an instant. "I haven't met him yet-officially. I never did go for those too-goddamn-macho roles he plays. But I think I'd like to, now."

  Anne said carefully, "I'm sure you'll get the chance. I understand that Webb spreads himself around." Bitchy, she thought, and didn't care, wanting only to get out in the fresh air somewhere-away from the stifling, crowded set. To clear her lungs and her mind. She started to edge her way out, avoiding the wires that lay everywhere.

  Jean Benedict had turned back, saying in an almost too-casual voice, "I guess I'll go talk to Sarah. We're getting together later to practice our hatha yoga."

  In spite of all her resolutions, Anne could not help turning her head to look back, just as she reached the door.

  The three were standing together. Webb, wi
th a towel knotted carelessly about his waist, using another to dry off his face and hair. Sarah in a loosely belted terrycloth robe, smiling as she talked to Jean-turning to say something to Webb. He grinned down at the black-haired woman, dropping one arm around her shoulders to give her a squeeze. Would Jean feel the tug of that certain chemistry, too?

  "He does not believe in wasting too much time, does he? Although I doubt he'll get far with Benedict-unless he catches her in a certain mood. I understand that after a performance she will screw anyone. Otherwise she likes women best. Tell me, is that the secret of your coldness? Do you like her? You two seem to have hit it off."

  Anne forced herself to meet Karim's malicious black eyes. He was deliberately blocking the doorway, or she would have walked past him.

  "I like her, yes. But not in the way you're implying." She looked at him coldly. "May I get through, please? I have an appointment with Dr. Brightman."

  "Ah yes, the good doctor, who helps women to relax-c-does he also teach them to become true women? I have missed you while I was being forced to dance attendance on my venerable uncle. So you'll allow me to escort you."

  It was more a statement than a question and she didn't want a public scene. Anne surprised him by saying coolly, "Why, thank you!" and let him take her arm possessively to lead her out.

  He said smoothly, "And what did you think of that passionate little excerpt we just witnessed? Do you think, my little blonde cherie, that you could ever give such a performance as Sarah did? I'm sure you have read the script, and your scenes are so much more fiery. Would you like me to help you rehearse?"

  She stopped, trying to pull her arm free. "Really, Karim! If you can't find anything else to talk about but .. ."

  He pounced on her tiny pause, lips curling mockingly under his black mustache.

  "Sex-are you frightened of the word, even? Why do you shrink from desire? I am a sensual man, and I am not ashamed to admit it. I desire you, and I think we both know that in the end I will have you. So why do you continue to play these childish games with me? Are you afraid of me?"

  "Karim, stop it!"

  His eyes glittered at her, and without warning he dropped her arm, only to pull her roughly against him, cupping her buttocks with his hands as he almost lifted her off her feet. Anne had no choice but to clutch at his shoulders or fall backwards, as he took her off balance. He ground her pelvis against his thigh, so that she could feel the hardness of him.

  "When will you stop fighting me, and that which is inside yourself?" He began to kiss her fiercely, seeming to take a perverse pleasure in her squirming movements as she tried to escape.

  Anne could have wept with rage and humiliation. He was making a public display of her-it would seem to anyone who passed them that she was responding wantonly to his embrace.

  "Excuse me." Webb Carnahan's voice was as icily cutting as the bite of frost. He had almost to brush past them as he walked down the narrow corridor with Yves Pleydel.

  Anne wanted to die in the instant when she met his eyes-their metallic-gold sheen seemed to look right through her.

  He nodded curtly at Karim who, with a false laugh of apology, let her slip down the length of his body.

  Pleydel shook his head playfully. "That scene must have been better than even I thought! But you two love birds should find a more private corner-they will soon be bringing the equipment through here."

  He hurried then, to keep up with Webb, who hadn't paused at all-walking with his long, effortless stride, not deigning to turn his head again. But he'd been angry. There had been fury mixed with contempt in the ridging of the muscles along his jaw, the hardening of his mouth. Anne had sensed, in that split-second when they'd looked at each other, the rage in him, sensed it with the answering shiver that ran down her nerves. But why had he been so angry?

  Karim was laughing softly, satisfaction tinging his voice. "Have I embarrassed you?

  You need to blush more often, blushes are becoming to a woman. And I think we have managed to make your ex-lover angry-do you think he is jealous?"

  Webb was startled by the force of the rage that had swept through him when he'd seen her. Them. Anne and Karim. The bitch I Rubbing herself up against him, both of them lost to everything but each other. And what did Harris Phelps think about that?

  Maybe, like Ria, Annie had been nothing more than a plastic image-a paper doll cut out of his own imagination.

  "It's the weather out here," Pleydel was saying pontifically, lacing his fingers together.

  "It is so uncertain, and we have all those outdoor scenes to do. So I am afraid everyone will have to work harder, and memorize more lines. If it's a fine day, we'll shoot outside. If not"-he shrugged-"we work on the interior scenes. I am sorry to be so demanding, but .. ."

  "Sure. I can understand the problems." Webb kept his voice Bat and expressionless.

  Through the window he could see the treetops bending against a sharp, fresh wind blowing in from the ocean. A door slammed somewhere, suddenly, he saw Anne and Karim again, holding hands as they ran against the wind. Going to find a more private spot for their lovemaking? Shit-why should he care? He had enough problems of his own to take care of. Including Ria.

  Upstairs in the screening room, Harris Phelps was at the monitor screen when Pleydel walked in, looking pleased with himself.

  "Well, it all went off very well! Wait until you see the dailies. And I have explained to everyone why they will be extra busy. They all seemed very understanding."

  "Good." Phelps seemed distraught. Did he know how furiously Karim was pursuing his little protegee? A pity, Yves thought, as he sank into a chair, that a man as intelligent and farsighted as Harris Phelps should have a weakness. Or did he? After all, he had cleverly arranged to get the girl involved, and she was one of their most useful pawns.

  He heard Phelps give a chuckle. "Look at this. Do you think we ought to give Petrakis a copy of the Videotape?"

  In Jean Benedict's room Sarah Vesper and Jean sat together on the bed. They smiled at each other. Sarah reached out her hand, touching Jean's wild, wind-tangled hair.

  "You'll be all right. You have such a beautiful voice, so pure . . . and you lose yourself when you sing, don't you? Acting is just like that. You have to forget yourself and feel only what you are supposed to be."

  "Is that what you do? Do you find it easy?" As boldly as a man, Jean unbuttoned Sarah's blouse-her small breasts with their large, pointed nipples sprang into view.

  Sarah smiled again, and Jean, bending her head, put her mouth to one breast. Sarah bit her lip, and her body seemed to arch backwards from the waist.

  "Was he good to them, too?" Jean demanded after a moment. "Could you lose yourself with him too?" "Yes," Sarah whispered. "Is that what you wanted to find out?"

  Jean laughed, throwing her head back suddenly. "That, too. But mostly about you.

  You have a beautiful body, you know. I like beautiful bodies." She bent forward again.

  "Mm ... so do I. And anything that gives pleasure."

  "We think the same way." Jean's voice sounded muffled, and this time Sarah's hand moved under the other woman's loose sweater as they fell together on the bed.

  "So that's the way it is?"

  Harris said abstractedly, "It's an open secret. Sarah's always been bisexual. Taki knows it. And Jean-I'm not sure. Sometimes."

  "We have an interesting mixture of people here. I wonder how they will all react to each other after they've been shut in here together for a few weeks?"

  Without answering, Harris shrugged. He made a random check of some of the other rooms, pretending to be absorbed, until Pleydel left. And then he punched the button he wanted. Harold Brightman's cabin. And that was where he found Anne.

  He had promised to help her learn to relax, just as Sarah Vesper seemed able to do with hardly any effort at all.

  Earlier in the day, she had tried to think of excuses to give him. Now, after Karim, and after Webb, Hal Brightman's comfortable, undemand
ing presence seemed exactly what she needed.

  "I ordered sandwiches, in case you haven't eaten, and because I'm starving myself!"

  He set her at ease almost immediately, pouring out chilled wine to go with the roast beef and cheese. "How did the filming go? Did you get in to watch? They told me it was a closed set, so I stayed in here making notes." He gave her a sudden, direct look. "How do you feel?"

  "Oh, I don't know!" Her laugh sounded nervous. "Sarah and Webb were both fantastic, and the way they handled it only seemed to point up my own inadequacy!

  I'm only a model, not an actress!"

  "But you can be anything you want to be. And you must keep on believing that."

  He did remind her of Dr. Haldane. Not pushing, just understanding. And receptive.

  Now he added, grinning, "I'm no Svengali, and I can't exactly see you as a Trilby, but I do mean that."

  "Maybe!" And then, in a burst of candor, "Or perhaps it's just that-I'm an escapist!

  When things get unpleasant or too tough to face, I want to run away."

  "So do most of us! Escaping always seems the easiest way out. But sooner or later, there's nowhere left to escape to, and that's when we have to turn and face whatever we're running from. What are you running from, Anne."

  She sighed. "I

  don't know. Everything? Memories-this place haunts all my dreams, but then that's natural, isn't it? I remember from when I was a child. And then there's me-and you know, I really feel I oughtn't to be taking advantage of you this way!"

  "But you're not. I'm here to make myself useful. Company doctor and all that!" His deliberate parody of an English accent made her laugh, at last.

  "All right, company doctor, you have a willing subject. I need to learn to act-and that's only the beginning."

  His voice was gentle. "Do you mind if I try hypnosis?"

  Harris Phelps watched, forefinger rubbing at his neat mustache, as Brightman put her under. He was too well disciplined to gnaw at his fingernail, but he got up to lock the door as he continued to watch the screen. How far back would he take her? Could he?