Microsoft Word - Rogers, Rosemary - The Crowd Pleasers

by kps

She rediscovered that blackness had shades and textures and shapes, and her dreams were like a miniature movie screen in the darkened theater of her mind. She wanted to keep dreaming to keep away the nightmares. Sharply etched picture of Craig, silhouetted against the light, calling her Helen.

  Anne stirred uneasily, moaning, and the nurse, reentering hurriedly, checked the IV

  in her arm before she sat down again and picked up the newspaper. She shook her head. Bad luck-they shouldn't try to finish this picture. All those people dying or having accidents, including this pretty young woman who was her patient. Poor thing-imagine being trapped for hours in an underground cavern with the sea reaching up to take you ... she shook her head again, frowning slightly when she remembered the bullet wound she wasn't supposed to mention-not to anyone. Who could have wanted to shoot Anne Mallory? Had it been another accident? Ah well, perhaps her patient would feel like talking about it when she recovered consciousness. She'd had a close shave. Good thing the coast guard had gotten in there in time to fly her out.

  Anne moved again, uneasily. She felt as if she were encased in steel, or ice. Perhaps she'd drowned? That's what Craig had planned for her. She remembered the triumphant sound of his voice, remembered that she'd wanted to kill him-had tried.

  Ugly sound of gunshots corning back to echo in her mind. Terror and pain and the desperation of no hope at all, nothing left. She'd wanted to die, slipping into the black waters of oblivion and nonfeeling.

  Until the nightmare changed into a not entirely unpleasant dream. Webb's voice-even though she had heard the shots that killed him, and Craig had laughed, boasting a little. Webb was pulling her out of the bad part of the dream, whispering to her,

  "Annie? Jesus Christ, Annie-baby, Annie-love, you're not going to die on me, damn you! I'm not going to let you .. ."

  Oh God, she wanted that to be true, to be real. Please ...

  Anne woke up to the sound of her own voice saying "Please . . . please . . ." She was back in the room she remembered vaguely. Full of sunshine and flowers arranged in big bowls. Patio doors open onto what looked like a forest. Even piped-in music.

  Hospital. Nurse. Newspaper. She hadn't dreamed that, had she? Harris was dead, Ria was dead. Craig was dead-he must have left her then, to run away. She frowned, and the nurse bent over her, voice determinedly cheerful.

  "Well, good afternoon, Miss Mallory! Isn't it a beautiful day? Dr. Stein will be very pleased. He's been in and out all day, checking up on you."

  "I can't move my legs ..."

  "That's because you've got your ankle in a cast, dear. But it's only a crack in the bone, you'll be up and about in no time.

  And we'll take the IV out this evening, if you'll promise to eat." The nurse, a middle-aged, smiling woman, looked arch as she leaned over to take Anne's pulse and adjust her covers. "In

  fact, you're well enough to have a visitor this evening. Won't that be nice?"

  Anne felt her heart leap, and then fall back hopelessly. Not Webb. Never again. The unbearable agony of loss made her eyes sting with weak tears she couldn't stop, and the nurse began cluck-clucking.

  "Now, now! Didn't you just hear me say everything's fine? Why, in a week or two you'll be able to leave and go home. But you must make up your mind that you're going to be well. All your bruises are going away ..."

  "I-I'd like to see the newspapers, please."

  "Of all the strange things to ask for!" Nurse Dunn told the doctor later, shaking her head. "I didn't know what to do-the poor little thing, she looked so lost, you know?

  With the tears just streaming down her face. It didn't strike me until just that moment that Mr. Hyatt, the one who died in the helicopter, had been her husband."

  Anne had almost snatched at the newspapers the woman had handed her unwillingly. Skim-reading-not in that one, no mention of Webb at all. Merely a brief announcement towards the end that the cast and crew of Greed for Glory had been flown off the island. Hints of a "jinxed production." She was mentioned as lying critically ill in the Monterey Community Hospital, suffering from the effects of exposure and a broken leg. She grimaced, looking at her bandaged right arm, which had begun to throb abominably. And the effort she'd made had tired her out, so that when the nurse came hurrying back into the room to say the doctor was on his way and she mustn't overexert herself, Anne was forced to ask her to read aloud from the next day's paper.

  "It just says the same thing, almost. And a little bit about the backgrounds of the poor souls who were killed in that crash. Funeral arrangements-you can't be thinking ..."

  "Do they say anything about-about the other people who were taking part in the film?

  Are they all right?"

  She thought the nurse gave her a peculiar look and didn't care. She had to know. For sure. Kill or kindle the hope that had started to make her pulse race.

  When Richard Reardon came in to see her late that evening Anne was sitting propped up in bed. TIley looked at each other, and Anne could feel that her face was as stiff and devoid of emotion as his. Reardon. She couldn't think of him as "Father."

  Father-figure. Symbol of everything she didn't and would never understand.

  "Anne, how do you feel?" He sounded as gravely formal as she remembered. He didn't come near her, choosing to stand by the patio doors instead. He didn't look changed at all since the last time she'd seen him. God, had it really been almost two years ago? And there was still nothing between them except a mutual wariness.

  They might have been strangers-and were.

  "Hello. I'm fine. Hasn't the doctor told you? He says that if I behave myself and follow orders, I should be ... out in a few weeks." Out, not home. She had no home. No safe, familiar place to go back to, feeling the roots of old memories hold her fast.

  She couldn't keep a certain amount of hostility out of her voice. What did he want of her? Why had he bothered to come? Fleetingly, Anne wondered if he had really ordered her killed. She'd been told so many things ...

  "I'm returning to Washington tonight." His back was to the light, and she couldn't see his face any longer. "I thought I'd look in on you before I left."

  His voice remained politely detached, as it always had been on the few occasions when he'd had reason to speak to her.

  Anne felt a wave of irrational anger wash through her, staining her pale cheeks. She moved impatiently against her pillows. Why should she let him escape her before he'd answered some of the questions that hammered away in her mind, giving her a constant headache? He knew, of course, that she would have betrayed him and everything he stood for, but she didn't think it made any difference to him. She'd been a gullible, easily manipulated tool-and he'd managed in spite of her to "protect himself," as he'd promised her so long ago.

  She had to swallow before she could force herself to ask him. "Before you go, there are-some things I'd like to know, please. All I've seen is the newspapers."

  He nodded gravely. "Of course. That is part of the reason why I decided to come by this evening. It's better that you should hear the truth from me than from-any others."

  Almost imperceptible hesitation there. Had he meant-Webb? Not yet, Anne, she warned herself. Come to that later. She wondered whether this cold stranger actually knew who his wife's lover had been-or that he'd murdered the mother and married the daughter. Or if he knew, whether it mattered to him.

  He surprised her then by sitting down in the straight-backed hospital chair that was placed some distance from her bed.

  At least he didn't try to prevaricate or stall her with evasions.

  He told her everything she needed to know, answering her stammered questions calmly and quietly-without hesitation. Suddenly, all the little pieces in the ugly puzzle fell neatly into

  place. And she could ask the one question she had kept until the last. The one most important to her.

  Chapter Fifty

  MADRID AIRPORT BAKED under the hot Spanish sun. All Anne had brought with her was one suitcase, small enough for carry-on
baggage. It was heavy, and she was nervous. Damn Webb! All she'd had from him, all these weeks, was a postcard in his almost unreadable scrawl that said something innocuous like "Wish you were here."

  Why had he even bothered?

  Three weeks-and she'd spent them wavering between moods of irrational anger and despair, especially when she'd read that he was making another movie in Spain because the final shooting of Greed for Glory had been postponed for some months.

  She'd gritted her teeth when she'd learned that Carol, of all people, was his co-star again. Did he want her? Didn't he? Perhaps he'd changed his mind, perhaps ...

  There had been times when she felt she might go mad, cooped up in the hospital with her private nurse for company. Hating the two black eyes (soon turning purple) her concussion had left her with. Hating being forced to hobble around and have her daily physical therapy while the other patients tried not to stare. They'd all read the newspapers-she was an object of curiosity, if not pity.

  And then there had been the well-intentioned visitors to cope with. Sarah Vesper, beautifully dressed as always, her perfume the same. She was on her way to a well-deserved vacation in Greece. "You must come and visit, Anne. It's exactly what you need. Taki always lets me use his villa. It's magnificent!"

  Jean Benedict came, too, but separately. All the nurses in the wing made excuses to pop in, just to get a look at her.

  Everyone but Webb-and by the time his card arrived, Anne might well have torn it up in a fit of jealous frustration if Sal Espinoza hadn't turned up, smiling his friendly-tiger smile, all strong white teeth and tanned skin.

  Anne had looked at him mistrustfully, hardly able to feign politeness, even when he'd kissed her hand. "I had to come and see you before I left. You're looking verywell."

  "No thanks to you," Anne wanted to retort nastily, but she managed to say politely,

  "Good luck with your next race." And then, hastily: "How is Yves? Is he very disappointed about the film?"

  "Ah, he plans to reschedule shooting as soon as he can get everyone together again.

  And when you are well enough to come back to us." He shook his head. "It was terrible, what happened, was it not? You must put it out of your head-I'm sure the doctors have told you so. Life goes on for those of us lucky enough to survive, eh?"

  "I suppose so." She wished he'd go. Too many memories, most of them unpleasant.

  And then he came out with it. "I mustn't tire you, I suppose. But I had promised Webb I'd look in on you-he was like an absolute madman that night, you know! I was afraid those men from the navy might shoot him. And there was another man there who called himself an old friend, a man who grinned constantly. Webb did not seem to like him at all, especially when this man-Peter, yes, that was his name, I believe-told him he would have to leave with the rest of us. In the end, they went off together. HMm!"

  He looked thoughtful for a moment and than shrugged. "Ah well-have you heard from him?"

  "A postcard," she'd said tightly, to cover the illogical fluttering of her heart.

  "Some men don't care to Write. But you really should visit Spain as soon as you are well enough to get about. You need some sunshine and warmth. A vacation, yes?"

  A vacation-s-maybe. In spite of the heat, Anne felt her hands become cold and clammy with sweat. She'd waited until the very last moment to send him a cable.

  Perhaps he hadn't been able to tear himself away. Perhaps he hadn't wanted to. Had she ever really understood Webb, in spite of all that had been between them? Would she ever learn?

  She didn't see him. She'd carried her case, which seemed to grow heavier by the minute, past customs, out into blinding sunshine. And now what, Anne? she asked herself. She saw him suddenly, standing in front of her-looking sun-browned and disreputable in his faded levis and carelessly unbuttoned shirt.

  Anne felt as if she had lost her voice. She knew suddenly that she had been crazy to have come here chasing after him. The case she had been carrying dropped unheeded between them, and he kicked it aside with a muttered expletive before he pulled her enormous sunglasses off her nose-and took her into his arms.

  He hadn't bothered to shave, and his whisker stubble scratched her face atrociously when he kissed her.

  "I'll have you know that embracing in public places is frowned upon in Spain," Webb told her roughly as he hefted her suitcase, still keeping hold of her hand. "And I had to double park. Come along, before we both get arrested."

  Anne felt so lightheaded with happiness that she giggled. "But they'd forgive us, wouldn't they? Because we're two crazy Americans."

  "You're damn right, we're both crazy. And damn your eyes, Annie, for keeping me waiting this long! I only got your cable a few hours ago and took off in the middle of filming." He grinned down at her suddenly, sun wrinkles crinkling at the comers of his sun-gold eyes. "Last I heard Parelli was tearing his hair out and yelling that I was suspended."

  "Oh-good!" she said happily, and he laughed outright. She couldn't remember having seen him really laugh before.

  They both laughed a lot in the month that followed. And made love. With urgency, and without. With time stretching ahead. And when Webb had to go to work, Anne lay in the sun, not thinking of time at all while her body turned golden and the hollows in her face filled out.

  Webb had rented a small pink-washed, sun-splashed house that overlooked the beach, not far from where they were shooting the movie he was in. There was a housekeeper to go to town for supplies and to cook enormous, fantastically spiced meals, and Anne didn't really care if she went to town or saw anyone else at all.

  Once, when the woman obligingly brought up an American news magazine, Anne learned without surprise that James Markham had won the presidential election.

  There was a picture-Markham grinning triumphantly, hands clasped over his head.

  He was flanked by his smiling family, and there were a few nondescript faces in the background-none that the public would readily recognize. But one of them was Richard Reardon.

  Anne put the magazine aside and rolled over onto her back, closing her eyes against the sun. Suddenly she was remembering the hospital room-the sunlight fading outside. And just before he'd left he'd turned on a light that took the shadows away from the comers of the room. As if he wanted her to see him clearly for the first time and the last time maybe-exactly as he was. He'd turned to go then, and she'd asked him one more question.

  He'd hesitated at the door.

  "Why?" she'd asked him compulsively. "Perhaps I don't have a right to ask you, but I'd still like to know. You've told me about everyone else-their motives, their ambitions. But you -what about you?"

  "What about me?" He sounded as if he were rediscovering something for himself as he answered her quietly. "I guess I'm a patriot, Anne. And I suppose that word in itself is something your generation would call 'corny.' But I happen to love this country and all it stands for-more than I am capable of loving or caring for anything else. There's no room in my life for divided loyalties. It's as simple as that, Anne."

  That simple. The answer to the puzzle that was Richard Reardon.

  Anne found herself frowning-and then she sat up quickly, when ice-cold drops of liquid spattered over her. Webb stood grinning down at her, deliberately holding a bottle of champagne tilted.

  "Webb, no! You can't waste our last bottle of Dam Perignon!"

  He squinted his eyes at her wickedly. "Who said it's going to be wasted?" And then, dropping down beside her onto the warm turquoise tiles, he dropped a letter onto her bare stomach. "I thought we should celebrate the last day of filming-and a letter from my sister Lucia. She sends her love, and thinks I ought to marry you if I intend keeping you around. We're an old-fashioned Irish-Italian Catholic family, you know.

  So"-While she held her breath he leaned down and licked champagne from her navel. "Dammit, Annie my love, I guess I'm going to have to marry you and keep you pregnant every year. And I'm not asking you, I'm telling you, hear?"

  "
If you'd listen," she whispered, "you'd hear me say yes." And then she turned her mouth up to his and there was no need to say anything else.

  Table of Contents

  PART ONE The Stand-In

  PART FOUR The Players

  PART ONE

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  PART TWO

  Chapter Nine

  ChapterTen

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  PART THREE

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  PART FOUR

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  PART FIVE

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter forty-two

  Chapter Forty-three

  Chapter Forty-four

  Chapter Forty-five

  Chapter Forty-six

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Chapter Forty-eight

  PART SIX

  Chapter Forty-nine

  Chapter Fifty