by M. K. Wren
She shrugged. “I just lost track of the time. Justine, you look marvelous. I told you that hot tub would work wonders.”
The tall, slender woman at Lasky’s left laughed, and she and Marian exchanged brushing kisses near their cheeks before Marian seated herself in the empty chair beside her.
“Justine Lasky,” Gould said with a mocking bow. “Byron’s better half and business partner. The power behind the throne.”
Justine’s smile faltered, but she said nothing beyond a polite recognition of Shelly and Conan, the cool edge sharpened by an upper-class British accent. She wore a dress of red linen, its full sleeves and square neckline decorated with white embroidery, and her black hair was swept back in shining curves held by a pair of gold combs of Mayan design. The effect was exotic, but she had the face for it: high cheekbones and heavy-lidded eyes that were not the black Conan expected, but a pale gray.
Conan thought Gould was saving Savanna for last to enhance the effect on the local yokels. Throughout the introductions, she lounged against the deck railing, the essence of summer in slacks and a loose, sheer blouse of clear yellow, her hair unconfined, caught in the wind. But when Gould concluded his introductions to the Laskys, he seemed to feel his obligations were fulfilled. He pulled a chair out from the table for Shelly.
Savanna put on a smile and crossed to the table. “Ms. Gage, it’s a relief to meet you again under more pleasant circumstances.”
Shelly popped up from the chair, seemed on the verge of a curtsy. “Me, too. I mean, relieved for the more pleasant circumstances. By the way, is there anything to the rumor that you might do a movie of Blitz?”
Savanna tensed, but kept her smile. “Not at this time.”
“That’s too bad. I heard Booth Kettering was—”
“Oh, Booth has so many projects going now.” Then she turned to Conan, extended her hand, and her smile turned ingenuously, subtly seductive. “I’m glad you came, Conan.” Her hand was warm and light in his, and he wondered why he seemed to be getting the full treatment, but couldn’t deny its efficacy. He read in her magnificent eyes, more violet than blue now, a lively curiosity, an ironic awareness of her effect on him, and an equivocal cast of melancholy. He said, “Thank you,” and could think of nothing else to add. It didn’t matter; he had lost her attention.
The wind hadn’t slackened with the twilight, and Shelly shivered, rubbing her bare arms. “I wasn’t planning on an evening at the beach when I left Portland this morning.”
At that, Gould turned solicitous. “You need a sweater or something. Go get one of yours, Savanna. Or maybe that red shawl thing.”
Savanna stared at him incredulously, and Shelly put in, “Oh, no, please don’t bother. I’m fine. Really.”
“Well, I’m not,” Marian said as she rose, breaking the taut silence. “I didn’t bring a fur coat. Thought it was summer. I’m going in.”
That set an exodus in motion, and once inside the living room, the guests gravitated toward the canapés and hors d’oeuvres arrayed around a mound of caviar on the narrow brass and glass table backed to the couch. While Gould played bartender, Savanna went to the stereo by the fireplace. The voice that filled the room a few minutes later was husky and capable of poignant breaks, but Conan knew the power in it, knew it could fill a theatre to the last row and could probably shatter glass. It was the voice of Savanna Barany, and the song was “I Never Asked for Forever.”
As she approached the table where Conan and Shelly were sampling elegant tidbits, she looked at him, recognizing his smile of appreciation with a brief smile of her own.
Shelly said, “Oh, I love that song. It went gold, didn’t it?”
Savanna nodded. “Yes, it did. My first—”
“Damn it, Savanna,” Gould cut in, “I’ve heard that stupid tape till I can lip-synch every word.”
She picked up a tiny cracker, loaded it with caviar, and coolly ignored her husband. “Conan, have some of this. It’s beluga.”
“Thanks, but where I come from, fish eggs are used for bait.”
She laughed. “What a waste.” And drifted toward the bar. “Any more of that champagne left, Ravin?”
He found a tulip glass behind the bar and, in filling it, emptied the bottle, made a show of dropping it in a wastebasket with a solid thump. “One down—but who’s counting?”
“Not you, darling. Not if you’re talking about fifths of Bruichladdich.” And with that barb, she walked around the settee to stand in front of the fireplace. “Justine, that dress is gorgeous. Where did you find it?”
Justine Lasky was sitting with her husband on the settee. She held a martini in a graceful, manicured hand, while his glass seemed to contain nothing more than Perrier. Justine said, “Actually, I found this dress in Cancun three years ago.” She sent Lasky a rueful smile. “That was the last vacation we took.”
Savanna shook her head. “Byron, you’ve got to let go now and then. I mean, you’re going to work yourself to death.”
“Letting go isn’t always feasible,” Lasky responded with a stiff smile, a smile that faded as he looked over at Gould, who was pouring himself another Scotch. “Ravin, I’ve got to talk to you about that Bantam contract. You can’t keep putting me off.”
Gould came out from behind the bar, went to the couch where Shelly sat alone at the end nearest the settee, and sank into the cushions next to her, ignoring the length of couch left unoccupied. “Byron, you take care of the Bantam contract. That’s why I pay you your ten percent pound of flesh. I’ve got work to do. Tonight…well, all work and no play, you know.” And he rested his arm on the back of the couch behind Shelly, who responded with a doubtful glance as she shifted a few inches toward the end of the couch. Savanna watched her husband over the rim of her glass, her narrowed eyes failing to conceal a chill resentment.
Conan saw Marian Rosenthal, a small plate in hand, standing at the windows looking out toward the carmined horizon. He took his glass and joined her. “Is this your first trip to the Oregon coast?”
“Yes. Sure beats hell out of the California beaches, doesn’t it?”
“Don’t tell the Californians that. Besides, this is our dry week. Stick around a few days and the monsoons will hit.”
Marian laughed, a throaty laugh that was loud enough to be unpleasant, yet wasn’t. “Well, I guess I’ll miss that. Byron and Justine and I are going back to New York Monday.”
“You’re traveling with them?”
“Yes. Mixing business with pleasure. Known them for years, but we don’t seem to have time to see much of each other in New York. What are those lights out there on the horizon?”
“Fishing boats.”
“Well, if some of them brought this smoked salmon—” she popped a canapé into her mouth “—they have my eternal gratitude.”
“Actually, fishermen very seldom catch smoked salmon.”
She laughed again. “They don’t catch lobster tails where I come from, either. Jacob and I have a place at the beach on Long Island. He calls it the farm. Not that he ever raised anything on it except horses, but it was nice when the kids were glowing up.”
“How many kids do you have?” Conan asked politely.
After an odd hesitation, she said, “Well, there’s Deborah, who followed in her father’s footsteps into corporate law. David’s a stockbroker. They’re both married and have produced four grandchildren altogether, and yes, I have pictures in my purse, but no, I won’t bore you with them. You married?”
“No.”
“Never been married?”
Conan shrugged. “Once.”
“And it’s none of my business. “ Her brown eyes glinted over her swoop-framed glasses.
Conan answered that with a noncommittal smile as he tuned in on the conversation around the fireplace. Rather, the monologue. Gould was holding forth with “…pitch-black and raining like hell, and there I was in this alley, crouched in a doorway. I didn’t figure there was anybody anywhere near. Just me and the rats. Th
en this big black buck came staggering off the street. Stoned out of his mind and bigger than that damned logger. Me, I’m trying to pass for invisible, but there was a light over the door, and he saw me. Took one look and let out a roar. Primal bellow. Says, ‘You motherfucker, that’s my place!’” Gould paused for effect, but apparently Shelly, who had shifted farther toward the end of the couch, was the only member of his audience whose reaction concerned him. She made no comment, nor did the Laskys. Conan could see Justine’s face in profile as she faced Gould. Her fixed expression made it obvious that she had heard the story before.
Savanna still stood by the fireplace, watching without listening, while Gould went on, “Well, I figured I was dead meat. That bastard headed for me like a Mack truck. Then I saw something move. Looked like a pile of garbage up against the wall between me and this black buck, and all of a sudden a two-by-four shot out just in time to catch the black guy’s feet. Damn, he went down like a boulder, and this wizened little man came up out of the garbage and hollered, ‘A bolt of lightning! Praise the Lord, I saw it! A bolt of lightning done come out of heaven and struck this man down!’” Gould laughed, a little too hard, then concluded, “And that black bastard believed him. Took out of that alley praying for mercy.”
Conan glanced at Marian, saw her call up a bemused smile. He asked, “Does that have any basis in fact?”
“Probably. With Ravin’s tales, it doesn’t really matter.”
“You’ve known him a long time.”
“Since his second book. Harkness did his first one, too, but nobody in the publicity department even knew his name till Hot Snow. I was arranging author’s tours then. Ravin and I got on fine. I’m motherly enough not to be a threat to him. He still likes to have me with him on his tours.”
“Isn’t it unusual for a publicity director to nurse authors through tours?”
“Very unusual. But these days, whatever Ravin wants, he gets.”
Conan sensed an edge of bitterness in that. He asked, “Are you setting up tours for Stud now?”
“No, not now. Stud’s been out six months at least. Tours aren’t worth a damn this late in the game.”
“Odyssey, then? When will it be published?”
“I don’t know. He hasn’t even finished it yet. Not the spring list, for sure. Maybe next fall. Of course, there’s no guarantee we’ll get it. Ravin never signs a contract for a book until he has a finished manuscript. I’m just assuming we’ll do Odyssey on the basis of past history. He’s been loyal to Harkness since his first book, and Harkness has been loyal—and very generous—to him since his second hit the bestseller lists.”
Gould had launched into another tale, and his glass was again empty. Savanna’s glass was empty, too, but she didn’t seem to notice, looking on like a stranger, while her husband shifted even closer to Shelly. Justine Lasky glanced at her watch, leaned toward her husband to speak into his ear, and he nodded, but made no move to rise.
Conan asked, “Marian, how long have the Laskys been Gould’s agents?”
“Well, Byron’s been his agent since Hot Snow. That was—what?—sixteen years ago. Byron and Justine didn’t get married until about four years later. Second marriage for her. Her first husband was a professor at Columbia. Got hit by a cab just outside their apartment. Anyway, when she and Byron got married, she was a senior editor at Champlain Communications Group. But they fired her. They were idiots to let her go—she was the best they had—but they’d just been conglomerated, and the new management wanted fresh blood. She started working with Byron then, and now they have one of the top agencies in New York.”
Gould rose, still regaling, and went to the bar to refill his glass, not bothering to add ice. “That damned broad locked herself in, and I had to break down the door. Nearly broke my arm….”
“What does Casa Dement mean?” Conan asked.
Marian looked up at him quizzically. “You haven’t read Stud?”
He restrained himself to a simple “No.”
She nodded. “Danny Dement was the protagonist.”
“Danny Dement?” Conan was beyond restraining a laugh at that.
“I know, but Ravin’s a brand-name author. He could call his hero Peter Pinafore and still have a bestseller.” Then she added with unmasked cynicism, “They’re all the same character, anyway. Men with more guts than sense, incredibly good luck, and cast-iron constitutions. And their gorgeous females seem to find them irresistible.”
Conan watched Gould as he returned to the couch, glanced indifferently at his wife, then put on his glittering smile for Shelly while he rested one arm on her shoulder and she reached the limits of the couch. Savanna was still as stone; she didn’t even seem to be breathing.
Conan observed, “They say writers write about the people they see in the mirror.”
Marian considered that. “Ravin likes to play games. But he’ll play one game too many someday. I don’t know why Savanna’s put up with him so long. I mean, she’s not the Blitz bimbo with the heart of—”
The chime of the doorbell distracted her. Conan automatically looked at his watch: 9:05.
“Who the hell is that?” Gould muttered. He made his way a little unsteadily to the door, while Shelly took the opportunity to escape the couch and move around behind the settee. When Gould opened the door, he loosed a bark of a laugh and said, “I’ll be damned!”
Then a feminine voice, the words becoming intelligible only as the woman entered the foyer: “…on my way to L.A., but I thought I’d just take a little detour. Couldn’t call. You’re not listed.”
Gould had his arm around the woman’s waist as they stepped down into the living room, and he said sardonically, “Look who’s here!”
Conan heard Marian’s gasp, her whispered “I can’t believe it.”
Neither, apparently, could Justine, who rose, heavy-lidded eyes riveted on the new arrival. Her husband also rose, reaching for Justine’s hand in silence.
Fashionably, almost unpleasantly thin, the woman projected a taut, muscular energy. Her cruelly elegant, high-heeled shoes gave her at least a six-inch advantage over Gould, and she wore them with ease, as if they were entirely comfortable. She pushed back the cornsilk hair that curled under just short of brushing her shoulders, looked around the room, and seemed to find what she was searching for when her gaze met Savanna Barany’s. Savanna’s fair skin reddened, and she held her glass in a grip that should have broken the delicate stem.
For a split second the woman’s face, which had at first glance struck Conan with its attractiveness, turned tense and ugly. It was an arresting face: narrow, with slanted shadows under high cheekbones, amber eyes set deep under pale brows, a mouth that was top large, yet mobile and expressive. While Gould helped her out of her tan raincoat and took the beige leather handbag with its oversize gold buckle, she shaped a smile and explained, “I had to talk to Billy Majian about a book he’s taken an option on, and I just thought I’d pop up here and see you. I never realized it’d take so long to get here. Thank God Baysea has that helicopter shuttle.” Under the coat, she wore an impeccable beige linen dress, and around her shoulders she had draped a brown and ochre paisley scarf that startled Conan, because among the gifts he had brought home from England for various friends and relatives was a silk scarf intended for his aunt Dolly that was virtually identical to the one that now graced this woman’s shoulders.
Gould waved an arm vaguely. “I think you know everybody. Oh—this is Shelly Gage, news anchor at KEEN-TV in Portland. Dana Semenov, editor-in-chief at Nystrom, Incorporated. And this is…uh, Conan. He runs a bookshop. A very dangerous bookshop.”
Dana Semenov smiled pleasantly at Shelly and seemed to dismiss her, but for Conan she had an assessing look, and he wondered how she catalogued him. Definitely she was in the habit of cataloguing people, and perhaps especially men; it would be a survival tactic in the business world. And judging from the money invested in her clothes and hair, and the tan that had not been acquired working in
an office in Manhattan, she was quite successful in that world.
“A dangerous bookshop?” she asked. “That I must see.” Before Conan could respond, Gould cut in. “Wait’ll you hear how this man runs an autographing. But first let me get you a drink.” He started for the bar, nearly going down when he misjudged the location of one of the stools. “Shit. Let’s see, it’s white wine. Nothing stronger ever touches the lady’s lips. And lips that touch wine will always—”
Savanna’s glass shattered on the hearth. She strode toward the door to the deck, passing only a couple of feet from Conan, and he could see that she was trembling.
“Hey!” Gould shouted. “Where the hell are you going?” She thrust the door open. “Three in one day is too damned many, Ravin!” And she ran across the deck and lawn toward the beach stairs.
“Savanna! You bitch, come back here!”
She probably heard him—she had left the door open, and his bellow was loud enough to be heard for blocks—but she didn’t pause. A moment later she disappeared down the stairway.
Gould seemed to become aware of the six people staring at him. He put on a cynical smile. “One thing that woman hates, it’s being upstaged. Well, now…I got a nice little Oregon wine for you, Dana. Rex Hills Chardonnay. Where’s that damn corkscrew? Ha! Corkscrew. And screw you, Savanna, baby. Hey, anybody want another drink?”
The Laskys and Marian Rosenthal watched this display in silence, while Dana Semenov seemed oddly withdrawn, as if she had no part in it. A good poker face, Conan thought, another attribute that no doubt served her well in the business world. Shelly, he noted, seemed simply and transparently appalled.
Justine was the first to recover. She said in her quiet British accent, “Byron, darling, I’d like to go back to the Surf House. I’m tired.”
He took her arm and started toward the door. “So am I. Marian?”
“I’m ready. Well, Conan, it was a pleasure. I’ll try to stop by your bookshop before we leave.”
He nodded absently while Shelly picked up her purse from the coffee table, smiled uneasily at Gould as she, too, headed for the door. “I’d better get back to Portland, Ravin. I’ve got to tape an interview at seven in the morning.”