he left the room, neither Carol nor Webb noticed that he had gone.
"Webb .. ." Carol was suddenly a child needing comfort; she put her hand out, her ringed fingers clutching at his. "I really was scared, you know! It didn't seem real at first ... no one believed me when I said how insanely jealous he was! He wanted to lock me up and keep me to himself. And then, when he burst into my room waving that gun in my face, I suddenly thought, 'He's going to kill me; the bastard really means it. I'm going to die.' Oh damn! Why can't I stop thinking about it?"
It wasn't theatrics now; she had been genuinely terrified and was still shaking, in spite of the tranquilizers.
"You're going to stop thinking about it, though. You've always had guts, Caro. And you'll always fight back, even when you're cornered. You fought him off, didn't you?"
"You're damn right I did!" Carol tossed back her mane of hair, her voice suddenly strengthening. "And I always will fight back, too."
Folds of her negligee fell back, revealing full white breasts. Familiar. Safe ground.
They knew each other so well, Caro and he. Almost as well as if they'd been married for years. There was no need for questions or answers between them, only need itself and an assuagement of thought for the moment.
Much later, with Carol sleeping off the belated effects of the pills she had taken, Webb went back to his own room to finish packing. He felt suddenly tired. Drained is more like it, he reflected caustically as he began to jam clothes into a suitcase, deliberately closing his thoughts to traces of Anne, scattered all over the room the maid hadn't cleaned yet-long blonde hair on the pillow, still-damp towels on the bathroom floor. Forget her! Anne Reardon Hyatt was a complication he didn't need in his life. It was a damn good thing her old man had turned up when he did. Everything was back in perspective again, and all he had to worry about now was waiting for the Broadway opening of Bad Blood-and his "engagement" to Carol.
"Just in case the incident with Grady leaks out," Harris had said. "You understand, I'm sure. You and Carol-the public wil I love it. And it'll explain Grady's jealous rage.
Naturally"-Harris had paused delicately, fingers brushing his mustache -"Anne mustn't be involved in any way. I'm sure I don't need to explain why .. ."
Reardon. What had brought Reardon home to Deepwood? Harris Phelps mulled over the question. In some ways it was too bad Reardon had turned up-and that Webb Carnahan should have been the one to meet Anne first. Anne was out of his class; she was the kind of woman who didn't indulge in affairs and one-night stands. Harris wondered if she'd go back to her husband now. A rather sarcastic smile curled one corner of his mouth. Hyatt had been a fool to let her go, he mused, and he'd be more of a fool if he didn't take her back. Pity or not, there was the inescapable fact that she was Dick Reardon's daughter, and perhaps the man's only weak spot.
Anne knew better herself. Her father, a shadowy figure who passed briefly in and out of her life at long intervals, had no weaknesses that could make her see him as human. There were times, she remembered, when she had wondered if he was indeed her father. How could such a cold, passionless man have actually made love to her mother and begotten a child? Perhaps he had sent a surrogate in his place.
Perhaps (and this was one of her favorite fantasies) she had been adopted.
"Father," she had been taught to call him dutifully; but she could not recall one occasion when he had shown any real emotion towards her, nor touched her, nor even smiled at her. He was a face she remembered more from rare photographs than from life, a voice she heard most often over the telephone, unreadable eyes that always seemed to be weighing or judging her in some way, so that when they met she was invariably tongue-tied and stuttered her replies to his polite inquiries.
Before she could bring herself to knock at
"Webb .. ." Carol was suddenly a child needing comfort; she put her hand out, her ringed fingers clutching at his. "I really was scared, you know! It didn't seem real at first ... no one believed me when I said how insanely jealous he was! He wanted to lock me up and keep me to himself. And then, when he burst into my room waving that gun in my face, I suddenly thought, 'He's going to kill me; the bastard really means it. I'm going to die.' Oh damn! Why can't I stop thinking about it?"
It wasn't theatrics now; she had been genuinely terrified and was still shaking, in spite of the tranquilizers.
"You're going to stop thinking about it, though. You've always had guts, Caro. And you'll always fight back, even when you're cornered. You fought him off, didn't you?"
"You're damn right I did!" Carol tossed back her mane of hair, her voice suddenly strengthening. "And I always will fight back, too."
Folds of her negligee fell back, revealing full white breasts. Familiar. Safe ground.
They knew each other so well, Caro and he. Almost as well as if they'd been married for years. There was no need for questions or answers between them, only need itself and an assuagement of thought for the moment.
Much later, with Carol sleeping off the belated effects of the pills she had taken, Webb went back to his own room to finish packing. He felt suddenly tired. Drained is more like it, he reflected caustically as he began to jam clothes into a suitcase, deliberately closing his thoughts to traces of Anne, scattered all over the room the maid hadn't cleaned yet-long blonde hair on the pillow, still-damp towels on the bathroom floor. Forget her! Anne Reardon Hyatt was a complication he didn't need in his life. It was a damn good thing her old man had turned up when he did. Everything was back in perspective again, and all he had to worry about now was waiting for the Broadway opening of Bad Blood-and his "engagement" to Carol.
"Just in case the incident with Grady leaks out," Harris had said. "You understand, I'm sure. You and Carol-the public wil I love it. And it'll explain Grady's jealous rage.
Naturally"-Harris had paused delicately, fingers brushing his mustache -"Anne mustn't be involved in any way. I'm sure I don't need to explain why .. ."
Reardon. What had brought Reardon home to Deepwood? Harris Phelps mulled over the question. In some ways it was too bad Reardon had turned up-and that Webb Carnahan should have been the one to meet Anne first. Anne was out of his class; she was the kind of woman who didn't indulge in affairs and one-night stands. Harris wondered if she'd go back to her husband now. A rather sarcastic smile curled one corner of his mouth. Hyatt had been a fool to let her go, he mused, and he'd be more of a fool if he didn't take her back. Pity or not, there was the inescapable fact that she was Dick Reardon's daughter, and perhaps the man's only weak spot.
Anne knew better herself. Her father, a shadowy figure who passed briefly in and out of her life at long intervals, had no weaknesses that could make her see him as human. There were times, she remembered, when she had wondered if he was indeed her father. How could such a cold, passionless man have actually made love to her mother and begotten a child? Perhaps he had sent a surrogate in his place.
Perhaps (and this was one of her favorite fantasies) she had been adopted.
"Father," she had been taught to call him dutifully; but she could not recall one occasion when he had shown any real emotion towards her, nor touched her, nor even smiled at her. He was a face she remembered more from rare photographs than from life, a voice she heard most often over the telephone, unreadable eyes that always seemed to be weighing or judging her in some way, so that when they met she was invariably tongue-tied and stuttered her replies to his polite inquiries.
Before she could bring herself to knock at
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