“Look this way” and “Could you tell the viewers what you think of Miss Haven’s possible suicide?” They shrank back into the doorway, blinded by the lights and bewildered by the sudden commotion—and the shocking questions.
“Barbarians,” hissed Paris.
“Quelles sauvages!”
“We’re gonna make a run for it, miss.” Their two burly guards were joined by two more who placed themselves between them and the cameras. Grabbing their arms, they ran, followed by the horde of newsmen, down the alleyways and across the sidewalk into a waiting limousine. From behind its darkened windows Paris could still make out the curious faces and flashing cameras as the enormous Mercedes pulled smoothly away from the curb.
“I’m afraid they’ll follow us, miss,” said the guard apologetically, “and there’ll be more near the house. But there’s a high wall and it’s electronically protected. We’ll make sure no one intrudes on your privacy. Mr. McBain was most insistent about that.”
“Thank heavens for your Mr. McBain, Vennie,” said India shakily. “He was the only one who anticipated something like this—I certainly never thought about it. If we hadn’t had our escorts we would have been trapped.”
Venetia thought of Morgan McBain. His blond sun-bronzedface and last night’s dinner party seemed lost in some distant past. She stared out of the tinted windows at the familiar blur of burger stands, drive-ins, and cheap motels, and the surprising scatter of roadside oil wells that she always thought of as being like giant pecking grasshoppers. The evening that had started out so promisingly had turned into a nightmare with the telephone call. Lydia and Roger Lancaster had wanted to come with her, but somehow it hadn’t seemed right to bring such loved substitute parents to her real mother’s funeral. She was Jenny Haven’s daughter—and this would be the last time they would be together.
The limousine with its silent occupants took the hill at the top of La Cienega Boulevard easily, slid through the light on yellow, and turned west on Sunset past the billboards advertising the latest rock success, the newest movie, and the current stars of Las Vegas. India averted her eyes as they passed the leisured lawns of Beverly Hills, where Jenny had lived. Though they had never spent much time there, it was still a sort of home. She’d had birthday parties there as a kid, she’d come “home” on the yellow school bus clutching her paintings and Jenny had pinned them on her kitchen wall, she’d had kids over to swim. And then, too, there had been the long summer weeks spent out at the beach house at Malibu. She supposed the properties would both have to be sold now.
The guard on duty at the West Gate of Bel-Air waved them through and the big limousine purred its way up the hillside to the pillared, white-brick mansion that was part of Fitz McBain’s private world. A young man waited on the broad front steps. “Good afternoon,” he called. “My name is Bob Ronson. Mr. McBain wished me to welcome you to his home. I shall be here to look after things for you, so if there is anything you need, anything at all, you just let me know.”
Ronson was one of several young men in Fitz McBain’s employ, a combination of secretary, personal assistant, and majordomo, intent on working his way up through the strata of the multilayered McBain companies. The position was one McBain allotted only to the most promising and ambitious. He had no time for yes-men, and while he acknowledged that there were those who by choice and natural limitation would remain forever in the middle reaches of his complex operations, there was no place for mediocrity in his personal entourage.
The white house was peaceful and sunlit and Venetia thought it very European. Faded Isfahan rugs covered the polished boards in the hall, and a single priceless English landscape dreamed immortally on this Californian wall. A fine pair of carved
“Barbarians,” hissed Paris.
“Quelles sauvages!”
“We’re gonna make a run for it, miss.” Their two burly guards were joined by two more who placed themselves between them and the cameras. Grabbing their arms, they ran, followed by the horde of newsmen, down the alleyways and across the sidewalk into a waiting limousine. From behind its darkened windows Paris could still make out the curious faces and flashing cameras as the enormous Mercedes pulled smoothly away from the curb.
“I’m afraid they’ll follow us, miss,” said the guard apologetically, “and there’ll be more near the house. But there’s a high wall and it’s electronically protected. We’ll make sure no one intrudes on your privacy. Mr. McBain was most insistent about that.”
“Thank heavens for your Mr. McBain, Vennie,” said India shakily. “He was the only one who anticipated something like this—I certainly never thought about it. If we hadn’t had our escorts we would have been trapped.”
Venetia thought of Morgan McBain. His blond sun-bronzedface and last night’s dinner party seemed lost in some distant past. She stared out of the tinted windows at the familiar blur of burger stands, drive-ins, and cheap motels, and the surprising scatter of roadside oil wells that she always thought of as being like giant pecking grasshoppers. The evening that had started out so promisingly had turned into a nightmare with the telephone call. Lydia and Roger Lancaster had wanted to come with her, but somehow it hadn’t seemed right to bring such loved substitute parents to her real mother’s funeral. She was Jenny Haven’s daughter—and this would be the last time they would be together.
The limousine with its silent occupants took the hill at the top of La Cienega Boulevard easily, slid through the light on yellow, and turned west on Sunset past the billboards advertising the latest rock success, the newest movie, and the current stars of Las Vegas. India averted her eyes as they passed the leisured lawns of Beverly Hills, where Jenny had lived. Though they had never spent much time there, it was still a sort of home. She’d had birthday parties there as a kid, she’d come “home” on the yellow school bus clutching her paintings and Jenny had pinned them on her kitchen wall, she’d had kids over to swim. And then, too, there had been the long summer weeks spent out at the beach house at Malibu. She supposed the properties would both have to be sold now.
The guard on duty at the West Gate of Bel-Air waved them through and the big limousine purred its way up the hillside to the pillared, white-brick mansion that was part of Fitz McBain’s private world. A young man waited on the broad front steps. “Good afternoon,” he called. “My name is Bob Ronson. Mr. McBain wished me to welcome you to his home. I shall be here to look after things for you, so if there is anything you need, anything at all, you just let me know.”
Ronson was one of several young men in Fitz McBain’s employ, a combination of secretary, personal assistant, and majordomo, intent on working his way up through the strata of the multilayered McBain companies. The position was one McBain allotted only to the most promising and ambitious. He had no time for yes-men, and while he acknowledged that there were those who by choice and natural limitation would remain forever in the middle reaches of his complex operations, there was no place for mediocrity in his personal entourage.
The white house was peaceful and sunlit and Venetia thought it very European. Faded Isfahan rugs covered the polished boards in the hall, and a single priceless English landscape dreamed immortally on this Californian wall. A fine pair of carved
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