Microsoft Word - Rogers, Rosemary - The Crowd Pleasers

by kps

  Thank God Craig wasn't here to look disapproving and disgusted. Why was it that whenever she had too much to drink she always felt sick instead of happy or sexy like everyone else? Defiantly, Anne finished her latest martini, frowning down into the empty glass while she wondered if she should ask for another.

  The glass was taken away from her. She looked up to protest, her head moving in slow motion, and was almost sober again with the shock of meeting Webb's eyes.

  When had he come up behind her? Why couldn't she react normally and tell him to go to hell, that she was only waiting here for Harris to finish rescuing Carol ... ?

  "You look like you've had enough, Annie. Why didn't you stick to something safe like ginger ale?"

  He had no right to sound so sarcastic. Nor to pull her off her safe perch on the bar stool as if he owned her, so that she fen against him. He shouldn't be here at all-she had just blotted him out of her mind. Angrily, she struggled against the pressure of his arm, thwarted by her own treacherous senses as much as by his strength. "What do you think you're doing, anyhow? You can't just .. ." She finished on a note of desperation: "You haven't even asked me if I want to go with you, damn you!"

  Abruptly, he swung her around so she was facing him, his hands rough on her arms, his voice hard and full of tamped-down fury that she didn't understand. There was a long scratch down the side of his face that she didn't remember How.

  "All right, damn you, Annie! Why do you think I'm here? I'm not used to asking, but I will, if that's what you must have. Come back with me to my room. I want to make love to you again. I want more time with you, Annie, so I can try to figure you out, and maybe try to understand at the same time what the hen kind of hex you've put on me

  .. ."

  His voice, softening, roughening, made Anne suddenly oblivious of who might be watching them. Her whole body started to shake when he held her against him and kissed her.

  "You can't pretend it isn't there for you too, Annie-love ..." She made one last-ditch attempt to save herself from complete capitulation.

  "Why me? There's Carol-and Tanya ..."

  "Shut up, Annie. There's you. And are you coming with me or not?"

  He wouldn't ask her again. She knew that, and she went with him, her fingers laced with his; feeling herself taken over and not even caring any longer. The half-hearted protests she Continued to make were the merest token, a salve for her pride.

  "Harris-I promised him I'd wait ..."

  She caught a glimpse of sheened gold as Webb slanted dangerously lazy eyes at her. "You supposed to be Harris Phelps's date tonight?"

  "No-but I-I really should thank Carol, too, I can't just walk off without ..." Why couldn't she finish her sentences? She stammered like an awkward teen-ager and hated herself for showing her weakness so obviously.

  She felt Webb's fingers tighten over hers for an instant and wondered wildly whether he would leave her now-standing there in the middle of the still-crowded room. But instead, surprising her, he gave a short laugh. "You're a well-brought-up kid, aren't you, Annie? So okay-let's go say good-night to Caro and good old Harris."

  Lengthening his stride, he pulled her through the room of staring faces, and Anne became miserably aware of half-finished conversations and speculative whispers that followed them.

  At the far end of the room, the three of them stood together -Carol, all spitting fury; the sandy-haired Ted Grady looking sullen as he rubbed nervously at the side of his unshaven jaw; and Harris, the calmest one, talking urgently in a low voice to them both.

  Carol looked up first, those slanted emerald eyes widening and then growing narrow.

  "Webb Carnahan, you-you-what in hell are you doing here?"

  "Better watch your language, Care-baby. You don't want to give your old man the wrong impression, do you? And you invited me, love-don't you remember?"

  Suddenly, Anne felt caught again in an unpleasant game these two were playing with each other, and she didn't want to be here. Only Webb wouldn't release her fingers.

  Ted Grady had given up rubbing at his jaw and was staring nastily at Webb, his pale blue eyes swiveling from him to Carol and back again.

  "Damn it, Webb!" Harris said petulantly. "It's a damned late hour to make an appearance at a party, isn't it? You might have-"

  But Carol didn't give him a chance to finish. "What are you doing here with Anne?

  Where's that Tanya creature?"

  Webb grinned, but the smile didn't reach his eyes. He said softly, "I was wondering why she turned up in my room, Caro, but now I know. It was thoughtful of you to send her along to look for me, but after a few words she trotted off to bed like a good girl.

  Disappointed?"

  He was deliberately baiting Carol, who seemed to realize it belatedly.

  She sucked in a long, vindictive breath that sounded more like a hiss. "Why should I be disappointed? Tanya's always been able to take care of herself-and she does have long nails, doesn't she? You'll have to cover up that scratch for the performance tomorrow, won't you, Webb darling?"

  "Hey, what the hell is this? What're you two talking about? And, mister, I'd like to know just how well you know my wife!"

  "Mister-you'd better stay out of matters that don't concern you. Why don't you tell him that, Caro? Unless you're planning on a big reconciliation, that is."

  "Ted-you keep out of this!"

  Harris Phelps sighed. Webb was spoiling for a fight, and so was Grady. And Anne looked white and scared and helpless. He felt sorry for her and coldly furious at Webb. Damn him-why Anne?

  "You the guy all the gossip columns keep linking with my wife?" Grady said aggressively, thrusting his jaw out. "What the hell is going on between you two, huh?

  That's what I came here to find out. And let me tell you, you damn Yankee, back in Texas we've got ways of dealing with bastards who mess around with other guy's wives!"

  "Stop it!" Carol gritted, stamping her foot with rage and exasperation. She glared at Webb. "I might have known you'd do something like this! Deliberately come here to create a scene ..."

  "But he came here to find me, and we only meant to tell you thank you for a-a really nice evening." Anne heard her own voice, sounding amazingly calm and clear. Now they were all looking at her, even Webb, with varying degrees of astonishment. She gave his hand a tug. "Webb, darling, hadn't we better be going? And Mr. Grady, I'm really surprised at your Ianguage, considering that you call yourself a Southern gentleman."

  She stared unflinchingly at Grady until his eyes dropped and he mumbled some kind of reluctant, shamefaced apology under his breath. She was able, more boldly now, to smile at both Carol and Harris, who was watching her through worried gray eyes.

  "Thanks, Carol. I'll talk to you tomorrow, shall I? And Harris, thank you, for being so kind. Webb will take me home, now that he's here at last."

  Anne didn't remember what Webb said to them after that, if he said anything, She was so angry that it was all she could do to stop her whole body from shaking. This was one time when all the years of practicing rigid self-control really paid off. She would wait until they were outside the door of Carol's suite, and then she would –she would- she'd let him see very quickly that he couldn't use her again. That she was wise to him and all his tricks. Actor!

  There were spots of color in her cheeks that even the dim lighting in the hotel hallway couldn't hide, and her dark blue eyes looked almost black with rage as she snatched her hand away from his. Watching her, Webb Carnahan had to admit that he had given her more than enough reason for her anger. Little Annie had surprising depths to her character, and she had done a magnificent job of handling that scene back there when he and Caro had gone at each other's throats. It wasn't often that he found himself at a loss in dealing with a woman, and not for a damned long time had one so intrigued him. She was a quicksilver contradiction, not falling into any pattern he could recognize, and he felt a quick sense of regret that he would lose her before he had really found her.

&n
bsp; They were standing out there in the hallway looking at each other warily, almost like strangers. Webb found himself wanting to touch her, to pull her closely against him, but his reason told him not to try. So he regarded her somberly, hands thrust into the pockets of his faded denim jacket, waiting for her to make the first move this time.

  She made a short, angry motion of her head that tossed the shining silver silk of her hair back over her shoulders, one hand going up to smooth it. So she was nervous too. He noted it with a kind of pleasure, wondering why he continued to hold back.

  "Would you mind calling me a taxi, please?" Her voice sounded distant and almost disembodied. "I think I would like to go back home now."

  He made an angry, shrugging motion of his shoulders. "Sure. But they don't have phones in the hallways up here, so I'll have to make the call from my room."

  "I think I'd rather go downstairs, thank you. You don't have to come with me-I can find my way perfectly well." She started to walk past him, and he let his self-control drop, grabbing her by the arms. The door behind them opened just then, freezing them both, and letting out light and noise and the smell of cigarette smoke.

  Two people, a man and a woman, came out, letting the door close behind them.

  Tactfully, they kept walking past Anne and Webb, the man clearing his throat before he said, "Goodnight, Mrs. Hyatt."

  "Good-night." Anne felt her voice clog in a throat tight with unshed tears of rage and humiliation. And a sense of loss. Why did she have to feel that? Why didn't she pull away from Webb and ask Mr. and Mrs. Nordstrom if they'd mind giving her a ride back home?

  "Mrs. Hyatt?" Now his voice was ugly with sarcasm. "Where are your rings, Mrs.

  Hyatt, ma'am? Or did you get bored and come looking for some fun and games?"

  His grip hurt her, and she started to struggle against it. "You haven't any right to presume to judge me! And anyway I'm-I'm separated from my husband. We're getting a divorce."

  "Yeah? And who's the lucky guy? The lucky other guy; I guess I should say." He laughed, a short, unpleasant sound. "You know, for a while you really had me fooled, Mrs. Hyatt. Little innocent Annie. But I should have guessed from the fact that you and Caro are such friends, shouldn't I?"

  "I don't have to answer that! It's nothing to do with you. WiII you let go of me?"

  She struggled impotently against him while his hands slid down to her wrists, imprisoning them painfully behind her back. They were playing a scene of their own now, both of them lost to control.

  "The hell I will! And I don't think you want me to, do you, baby? You didn't try too hard to fight me off before, did you? And I never did care for spending a night alone."

  "Don't, Webb-s-don't!" But it was no use. Anne felt her own weakness as his mouth came down to capture hers-hard, punishing, hurting. She felt her teeth cut her lip and tasted the bitter-salty taste of blood before her mouth opened blindly under his. Like a spark igniting a forest fire, the flame burst out of hounds and took hold of them both.

  "Damn you for a witch, Anne-damn you!" She thought she heard him whisper that against her bruised mouth before he lifted her in his arms to carry her off like some ravishing pirate. She was dizzy and dazed, hearing only vaguely the bang of the door as he kicked it shut behind them, locking her in with him.

  The bed was a shambles, covers rumpled and trailing on the floor. Tanya? But she mustn't think that-didn't want to think about it as he dropped her down on it. Just like a ship, it seemed to rock under her.

  "No-please, not yet, not like this ..." Anne didn't know if she said the words aloud or only thought them. Had he made love to Tanya before they had their fight? She didn't really care-and that was the most shocking thing of all. The lights in the room went off, and the blackness pressed like stifling black velvet against her eyes.

  The feel of his hands came out of the darkness before her eyes grew used to it, and she felt the length of his body as he lowered it beside hers on the bed.

  He was tender with her now, as he hadn't been earlier, and strangely, Anne thought she could understand why. Here, together in the dark, they could begin as if they were strangers again-not having to watch and gauge expressions, merely feeling, touching, tracing, with fingers at first, and then with lips.

  She didn't know and didn't care what happened to her clothes as he took off each garment one by one. She undressed him, fingers fumbling until he became impatient and helped her. And then he held back-teasing her, tormenting her until she cried out to him, torn between anger and frustration-hardly understanding her own needs until he made her aware of them. And even more aware of the feel and the different textures of his body-roughness and smoothness, hardness pulsing in her hand, and finally motion inside her.

  Just long enough to make her experience the familiar -unfamiliar eruption that came from inside again; then, while she was still gasping with reaction, he set his mouth against her like a seal, a brand of white-hot fire that took her beyond anything she had ever experienced before-his hard hands holding her thighs apart while she went from one peak to another, losing all capability of thinking, knowing only feeling, wanting, until he filled her again and she tasted herself against his roughly demanding mouth. When the world stopped spinning she fell asleep, like dropping off from a precipice into an endless dark canyon.

  Chapter Seven

  THIS MORNING WAS DIFFERENT from any other morning she had ever known.

  Was it only yesterday that she had awakened feeling all cramped from sitting curled up in a chair all night?

  Watery sunlight insinuated itself into the room through drawn curtains, falling across the bed; and the room was filled with the hunger-provoking odors of coffee and freshly fried bacon.

  Anne's eyelids felt heavy-she had a sense of disorientation at first, as she opened her eyes, and then wrinkled them shut against the light.

  "It's morning, love. Close to afternoon. Here-swallow these." Memory rushed back when she saw Webb's yellow-gold eyes watching her. Obediently, Anne swallowed the pills he handed her, washing them down with a drink he handed her.

  "Only B-12 and E, Annie-love. No need to look so apprehensive." His voice sounded noncommittal and detached, like the look he bent on her. Trying, belatedly, not to think, the champagne-and-orange-juice drink tasted good. A mimosa-wasn't that what the combination was called? Anything to take her mind off the present. But he wasn't about to let her off easily.

  "You'd better eat some breakfast too. Since you were so sound asleep I went ahead and ordered what suits me." There were eggs under a silver cover, and fresh-baked buttered muffins. The eggs were soft-scrambled and faintly flavored with dill. Sitting up in the bed as she took the plate Webb thrust at her, Anne realized suddenly that she was ravenously hungry. And if she could concentrate on eating, that would serve to postpone thinking and remembering how she had got here, and what had taken place before she'd fallen asleep-or passed out. There would be a time for regrets and for self-searching-God, what would Mrs. Preakness be thinking? Would she have sent a search-party out, or would they know already?-not now. Not yet. It was much better not to think. Take another mouthful of these really delicious eggs-bite into a crusty, buttered muffin that Webb handed to her without a word. Don't wonder what he was thinking!

  He had pulled on a pair of faded, pale-blue levis, and he ate much faster than she did, pouring coffee for her after he had finished. And still she couldn't read any expression at all on his face-not even in his eyes when they rested almost imper-sonally on her naked breasts. How could you know someone so closely in a physical sense, Anne wondered, and yet not know them at all? Last night he had been half-satyr, half-man, and today he seemed nothing more than an indifferent, polite stranger, urging more food on her when her appetite suddenly waned.

  "Have some more, Annie. You look like you could use feeding up."

  She flushed, pushing the plate back as she shook her head, suddenly miserably aware that she wasn't nearly as well endowed as Carol, or even Tanya. Was th
at what he meant?

  Webb wished she didn't look so vulnerable and so young, with the color coming up to stain her cheekbones-pale-red wine in a goblet of translucent alabaster. She made him feel like an executioner, and he wasn't used to the feeling. And yet, damn her innocent blue eyes, she'd been playing games all along. A better actress than anyone would have thought, to look at her. And she could even blush ... His eyes narrowed at her, and he didn't know why he felt angry. What the hell, she was fantastic in bed; there were no inhibitions under that little-girl exterior. But she was Richard Reardon's daughter. He mustn't forget that. Suddenly, angrily, he found himself wanting to strip away all the pretenses she'd surrounded herself with from the first, just as his senses urged him to strip away the sheets that were modestly draped across her slim thighs.

  Reardon's daughter. Kept under wraps by her father's choice of a husband. So far as he knew, no one had ever realized that Reardon had a daughter, a vulnerable spot in his armor. Reardon the King-Maker, as one daring Washington columnist had dubbed him. But then, very few people dared mention Reardon, who was strictly a behind-the-scenes figure, head of a shadowy organization so secret that it didn't even have initials. The only reason Webb knew was because he had once been a part of it, one of "Reardon's boys," until he'd grown wise and much more cynical. One of the few to get out from under and survive, and that only because of Ria, who hadn't survived. Ria, who shouldn't have been involved at all.

  Why now, of all times, did he have to remember Ria, after all the years he'd spent carefully trying to forget her, wiping her memory from his mind by using every other woman he met as just another cardboard image to hold up between himself and the clean, innocent reality that had been Ria before he'd screwed everything up and Ria had died to prove it? Even now, his mind slewed away from that thought. Reardon had been responsible. Cold-blooded, computer-minded bastard, living in a rarified atmosphere where people became pins on a map, to be moved around or discarded at will.