by kps
Anne still remembered the way Carol had looked that day, sitting on her suitcases on the steps while she waited for her stepfather to pick her up. Her eyes squinted against the sun with determination; her smile was wide and flashing. They'd be leaving for Europe the next day. Carol had said. "Europe! Will you think of that? For a high-class call girl, my mom really did good, didn't she?" And then she'd laughed, seeing Anne's face. "Shit, baby! Haven't I taught you to call the facts of life by name?
And me, I'm going to do even better."
Since then, Carol had gone on to become rich and famous, just as she had promised. But Anne had never looked her up. Craig wouldn't have approved of Carol, with her marriages and her flamboyant antics that always made the front pages. And she had been too busy fighting for her self's survival.
But now, today-it didn't really matter at all what Craig might or might not approve of, did it?
They'd probably be rehearsing right now in the old theater in the middle of town. She could slip in through the side door and watch Carol. It would be fun to see her again-to watch a Broadway play in rehearsal.
Hands thrust into the pockets of her jacket, Anne started downhill again, and now she was almost running.
Chapter Two
THE SIDE DOOR 'to the theater had never been locked, for as far back as Anne could remember. She didn't think it even had a lock. As a child, she had often wandered into the theater through this very door, walking softly down musty, shadowed aisles, clambering up onto the stage to pretend she was a star, giving her best performance. With eyes half-closed, she had made the theater come alive-chandeliers blazing with light, the worn velvet of the heavy curtains taking on a bright new opulence.
She hadn't been down here for years-but now the wrought-iron doorknob turned rustily and the door opened as it had before, so many times, allowing her to slip quickly inside. Fortunately, there was some kind of a gun battle in progress on the stage-the staccato sound of shots drowning out the squeaking of ancient hinges as Anne pushed the door shut behind her. She stood there uncertainly for a few moments until her eyes adjusted to the dim interior.
Forcing herself into a sense of daring, Anne walked softly along the carpeted length of the theater and slid unobtrusively into a seat in the back row. No one seemed to have noticed-there were people in scattered, tiny groups, sitting ahead of her in the front rows.
The action onstage captured her attention almost immediately. It didn't take her long to realize that it was one man, playing an obvious gangster type, white suit and all, who was making the whole scene come alive. He was supposed to have just killed someone, she surmised, and was arguing with an older man and a woman as he thrust a gun back into his shoulder holster. He projected an angry, animal emotion that made only him real and the other two actors just background shadows.
Involuntarly, Anne found herself catching her breath, unable to take her eyes off him as the scene progressed. He moved like a jungle animal-she was reminded of a black panther, darkly beautiful to watch, but just as deadly and dangerous.
I'm being silly! Anne tried to tell herself. He's just an actor, like all the others. She suddenly remembered seeing him in a TV movie some time ago. He'd played a young medical student, hooked on drugs, and she'd been caught by his intensity, thinking that he was really good; but seeing him today, in person, he impressed her even more. Not just impressed her-that was too shallow a word! He fascinated her, forcing her to keep watching him, not wanting to miss any little gesture or motion, like the way he would occasionally rake his fingers through his shaggy dark hair, or let the comers of his mouth lift in a menacing-sarcastic smile.
Caught up, Anne forgot why she had come here in the first place. She hadn't even thought to glance around the darkened theater for Carol until the lights came back on abruptly, shaking her out of her trance.
"Webb's damn good when he wants to be, isn't he?" The man's voice came from behind her, and then, as Anne involuntarily turned to look, his voice changed. "Hey-who are you? Don't you know you're not supposed to be here during dress rehearsal?" He seemed to 100m over her, a big, burly man in a checkered wool jacket. "How in hell did you get in here any-how? I could have sworn I locked those blasted doors!"
Her first reaction was to turn and run. Oh, God! Now every-one must be watching her! Anne heard her own stumbling words as she stood up quickly.
"I-I'm sorry-I didn't realize-the side door is never locked, you see, and I just wandered in when I saw the poster ..."
She blundered out into the aisle, and suddenly felt a strong hand close over her arm.
"You're not going to let Mike scare you off, are you?" said a man's voice. "He shouts a lot, but he doesn't bite. It's okay, Mike, this little gal is a friend of mine."
Stopped short in her headlong flight, Anne looked up unwillingly, and amber-gold eyes raked over her, making her want to pull away from his possessive grip.
"Hi, baby. Thought you'd never get here." His voice was warm, just as if he had been expecting her after all. The man he'd called Mike seemed to melt somewhere away into the background, grumbling sourly in an undertone.
Webb Carnahan. Anne remembered his name, and she felt that she might never forget his face as he smiled down at her; the smile seeming to lighten his otherwise somber face, etching lines at the corners of his eyes.
"Well, now. Seems like I caught myself a wide-eyed country gal." His voice, deliberately soft and drawling, rasped across her nerve ends. "What's your name, country gal?"
He might have rescued her, but he was making fun of her now.
"Anne. And I'm not .. ."
He would be, of course, the kind of man who ignored what he didn't choose to hear.
"Annie, huh? It suits you. Annie Oakley!" He had not let go of her arm, in spite of her efforts to tug it away. And now, as Anne felt her face flush with embarrassment, she heard him laugh softly.
"My name is Anne Hyatt, and please-let me go! He-that man was right, and I shouldn't have come in here at all. It was good of you to rescue me, but I .. ."
She wished she had the presence of mind not to stutter and stumble over her words.
But everyone was watching them now, and she felt isolated in the spotlight of their curious looks.
His eyes squinted down into hers, making her feel mesmerized in spite of herself.
"Who said anything about rescuing?" He laughed softly, just as if he felt the sudden racing of her pulse under the hard, determined grip of his fingers. "I'm capturing you, little scared
Orphan Annie! You were a bad girl, sneaking in through that side door to watch us, just like Mike said. And you're like the fresh air outside. Just what I need. Come sit with me and watch the next scene, huh?" His smile curved wickedly, and the curiously helpless feeling that had come over her ever since he put his hand on her persisted-making his hand on her arm stronger than her will.
Front row center, and if he could ignore the curious glances and the whispers, then so could she.
He was the type of man who had always made her feel uneasy. Far too sure of himself and his easy power over women. Now she was painfully aware of him, feeling the casual brush of his arm against hers, not able to see beyond his eyes, which close up were almost gold, with strange dark flecks in them. Eyes that coolly assessed her even while his mouth still wore that slightly mocking smile.
"Hey, settle down. No one's going to bother you now. And it's warm in here, so why don't you take off that silly scarf? Here-hold still . . ."
With a casual air of ownership he leaned toward her, long fingers untying the knot and slipping the scarf from her head; tossing it across her lap before he lifted a thick strand of her hair. "Comsilk hair-you ought to be a shampoo girl. You live here, Annie?"
Studying her through narrowed eyes, Webb Carnahan caught the mixed emotions of her face. How old was she? Seventeen? Eighteen? Hard to tell, with her scrubbed, un-made-up face; the only color in her cheeks was put there by cold and embarrassment. Funny that less than an hour
ago, he had been standing in the snow outside the same side door she'd crept in by-arguing with Tanya. And when Tanya had flounced back inside, slamming the door shut behind her, he'd looked back up the hill and seen a girl running down it, silver-blonde hair flying. She had the grace and slimness of a skier, even when she held her arms out unself-consciously to keep her balance. Symbol of openness and freedom. Girl-child out for a run in the first snow. With a feeling of regret, he'd returned to the musty, warm interior of the theater, Mike's grumbling, and Tanya's sullen glances. Annie. He'd recognized her at once from the silver swing of her hair, the dark blue of her jacket that almost matched her eyes. He noticed the slight swell of her breasts and the clean purity of her profile, and it amused him to pretend he'd invited her to watch their rehearsal. It had also been in his mind to teach Tanya a lesson. If there was one thing he couldn't take, it was a woman who acted possessive and started to make demands, just because he'd bedded her once or twice. Tanya was what the French would call un type, and he'd met her type all over the world-a sexy, well-endowed woman, only too aware of her attractiveness and sexuality. But now he found himself unwillingly intrigued by this girl-woman at his side. "Country gal," he'd teased her-but was she, in spite of her air of nervous naivete and an outfit she'd obviously worn more for warmth than with an eye for fashion? Funny to find her here, in a town of old people. He'd joined the other members of the cast in grumbling when Harris Phelps, who was producing Bad Blood, had picked this town of all towns for their tryouts. Thoughts flashed across the surface of his mind while he
watched her face, the way she bit her lip, pulling her hair back from his exploring fingers with an unconsciously graceful toss of her head.
"Please don't!" she said sharply. And then, in a lower voice, "Stop making fun of me. I should have known better than to come in here without permission. Only ..."
"Only?" He repeated the word, his eyes looking intently into hers.
"I saw the poster while I was walking down into town," she said as coldly as she could, wishing he would take his eyes from hers. "And the side door to the theater has never been locked, as long as I can remember. So I-it was a spur-of-the-moment thing. I thought Carol would be here and I wanted to see her again, that's all. I suppose I should have called-"
"Carol?" She had all his attention now, only she didn't quite like the way his eyes narrowed at her this time, reassessing her. Or the sarcastic note that crept into his voice.
"Yes, Carol!" Anne repeated boldly, daring him to talk down to her again. "I went to school with Carol, for a year. We were friends, even if we haven't kept in touch." Why was she explaining all this to him, under the intense scrutiny of his yellow-gold eyes?
She'd meant to put him in his place and make her discreet escape now that everyone else was watching the stage again. And yet, when Webb Carnahan suddenly picked up her hand, deliberately pulling off her glove in spite of her futile tugging, lacing his fingers with hers, she knew she couldn't have moved for all the warning signals going off in her mind. She was suddenly more aware of this man's presence beside her than she had ever been of anyone or anything before in her life.
"So you're an old school-chum of Caro's, are you? Well, well! From little Annie Oakley to grand duchess, proper New England accent and all! Sorry Care's not giving her all this afternoon. That's Tanya, her understudy, up there. Care's our queen bee, you know. She's probably sleeping or having her hair done right now, but she'll be here for the opening performance this evening. Maybe you should come back then, if you really want to talk about old times." His voice drawled at her-she couldn't be sure if he gave it a caustic tinge because he was speaking of Cam, or if he was just doing it to tease her. Why did he have to hold her hand? Anne felt confused-almost drugged by the strange pull of emotion inside her. Practical, rational self warring with another self she hadn't known existed until just now. Why had she taken off all her rings? A gesture of defiance; wanting to remove all symbols of ownership. But what did Webb Carnahan want with her? What kind of game was he playing?
"I really do have to go now," Anne said quickly, knowing she was just saying words, any words that would get her away from him and the warmth of his fingers through hers. "It was stupid of me to come here as I did without calling first. And since Carol's not here ..."
"Forget Caro. You can call her later. Stay awhile, Annie, long enough to get warm.
Your fingers are cold, and I bet your nose is, too." He touched it gently with his free hand and she almost flinched, resenting his familiarity and yet unable to fight the unaccustomed urging inside herself to stay, with him holding her hand. Startled at the turn of her thoughts, she wondered how it would feel to be kissed by him.
A word floated into her thoughts. Chemistry. Something she'd read about and scoffed at. Chemistry. Was that why she felt as if he'd invaded her and taken possession of her with the touch of his fingers? Chemistry. Was that why she responded to the coaxing timbre of his voice when he said, "stay awhile, Annie ..."?
He was a stranger, and a' man who was obviously used to getting his own way. She sensed danger in him, as well as a super-charged tension between them. It was there, an instinctive, primitive feeling that she couldn't trust him and, most of all, couldn't trust herself with him.
"Don't you have to go on again?" She tried to make her voice sound even. Sanity, that was what was needed!
He stretched long legs in front of him, taking his attention from her long enough to glance up at the stage before he looked back at her. "In about five minutes. You going to stay until we get through?"
"No! I have to get back home-I didn't tell anyone where I was going and they'll be worried. I-I'll call Carol when I get back. Is she staying at the hotel?"
"We all are. There's only one hotel in town, isn't there?" His voice was uninflected-she wondered in spite of herself what he was thinking.
Her name was Hyatt. Anne Hyatt-Webb was amused at the way she placed that slight emphasis on her first name, as if to show him she resented his calling her Annie. And she lived with her parents, probably-"they'll be worried ..." No rings. He found her reticence oddly intriguing. And even more intriguing was the fact that she had gone to school with Carol. Private school, which meant there had to be money in the background. Old, conservative money, probably. So what? He couldn't see Anne and Carol as buddies, somehow. More surprisingly, he couldn't place Anne. She didn't fit into any of the categories the other women he'd known had fallen into so easily.
Webb found himself curious, wanting to question her; but there was the damned rehearsal to be got through, and she was like a shy seabird poised for flight. He wasn't used to doing all the running or pursuing-only once in his life before, and that was something he didn't care to remember, not even now.
"You coming back to watch the show tonight, Annie?" He didn't understand why he persisted, keeping her fingers trapped in his.
"I-yes, I think so. Please-I do have to go now. And they're looking for you .. ,"
He didn't know, when he-deliberately brushed her cold lips with his, whether he meant the gesture for Tanya, standing glowering down at them from the stage, or whether it was a promise he was making to himself. "Okay, baby. Run back to your rabbit warren. But I'll see you tonight, huh?"
Afterwards, Anne couldn't remember exactly how she had made her way outside again. She welcomed the cold bite of the fresh breeze on her face as she knotted the scarf about her hair again. Ridiculous! She'd made a fool of herself, and she certainly wasn't going to see Webb Carnahan again. The hand he'd held still tingled as she thrust it deep into the pocket of her parka. He was so arrogant, so sure of himself!
Precisely the kind of man she ought to avoid.
Chapter Three
CAROL'S VOICE SOUNDED SLEEPY at first, then slightly wary, finally, once she realized who was calling her, surprised and glad.
"Anne! But, sweetie, you don't have to apologize for calling me-I'd have been mad if you hadn't! I should have remembered that this dinky little t
own is where you used to live and called you up first. But the last I heard, you'd gotten married, and I'd pictured you with a brood of little ones hanging on your skirts by now! What on earth are you doing here? Isn't your husband one of those smart Washington lawyers who's heading for a State Department post? I saw his picture in Time, and I did think about writing or calling you then, but you know how I am-full of good intentions but too little time ... tell me all about yourself!"
"Well," Anne started cautiously, "there's really not that much to tell, you know ..."
Carol was still Carol, fonder of talking than of listening. Just as if Anne hadn't spoken she broke in, "Better still, baby, why don't you come on over and visit me? If you can stand the mess this room has gotten into, that is-but then, you know what an untidy bitch I always was, don't you? Listen, I don't have anything to do until the show opens tonight. I had this lousy headache, and Harris let me cry off from rehearsals.
He's a pet, by the way, and you must meet him! But I feel just fine now, and I'm dying to see you-you will come, won't you, Anne?"
Carol, the queen, summoning her subjects ... but it was impossible to resist the coaxing note in her voice, and Anne had to admit to herself that there was another reason for her calling Carol. Webb Carnahan. His golden eyes seemed to see right through her and her quickly thrown-up defenses, the brush of his lips, so casually bestowed on hers, sending sparks like electric shocks on her nerve endings.
"Country gal," his voice a deliberate caricature of a Southern drawl. And then-"Annie, huh? Annie Oakley ..." teasing her. How was it that he of alI the men she had met made her feel as if her bones had turned to water?
Carol was unchanged, except that she was even more beautiful, more flamboyant.
She played the Star to the hilt, and Anne could not help being impressed. Whatever Carol did seemed to be larger than life.