Private Screening by Richard North Patterson Page A

was in his early thirties, she thought, and the slimness and clean angles of his face suggested exercise. His ridged nose and ice-blue eyes were those of a model in a cigarette ad, but their effect was more arresting. Part of it, she realized, was the stillness of someone in perfect control of his own thoughts.
    â€œIt’s been so nice to meet you, Miss Tarrant.”
    Nat had steered the woman back. “Thank you,” Stacy replied.
    As the woman paused, Stacy sensed that her face was being checked for lines. “You’re in such an odd business, after all. Aren’t there a lot of drugs?”
    Stacy smiled cheerfully. “ And sex.”
    The woman looked startled; Stacy felt Jamie’s elbow nudge her own. “But it’s normal sex,” she added. “Mostly.”
    â€œOh—I see.”
    Stacy’s smile widened. “It’s been nice to meet you, too.”
    As the woman retreated, staring, Jamie murmured, “I really never wanted to be president.” He did not sound amused.
    Wondering if she should try to eat an hors d’oeuvre, Stacy glanced back at the room.
    The women, she reflected, pretty well matched the men. Some had the tailored clothes and confident air that went with having jobs. Others were so perfectly coiffed and dressed that they spent too much time at it to work. Stacy reflected that these last ruffled both the middle-class girl and feminist in her; she thought it bad taste and unliberated to dress like an ornament from Vogue . But the small brunette with the blond-haired man merely puzzled her.
    She had a thin, pretty face, slim figure, and a quick, high-strung smile. Like the blond man, she dressed simply and well, but they were quite different in manner. Listening to the red-haired politician—that was how Stacy had pegged him—she flashed all the nervous party animation her companion would not. She leaned slightly away from him. He did not look at her.
    What set him apart was his manner of watching.
    Flickering across the party and back to the politician, his gaze seemed meant not to ingratiate but to dissect. She wondered what he was doing here; if he had ever been anyone’s fan, it was probably so long ago that he couldn’t remember. Then it struck her that he might be some relative of Alexis’s.
    â€œWhat on earth did you say to Nancy Pickering?”
    Alexis had come to her side, whispering avidly. “I just put her on a little,” Stacy confided. “She was about to check my arm for puncture marks.”
    Alexis laughed. “Don’t I know that one. I think Colby half-believed I went to Hollywood to become Sam Goldwyn’s mistress.” Patting Stacy’s wrist, she moved into the crush again, high-spirited and alert. For an instant, Stacy saw Parnell’s eyes following her from a circle of older friends, as though she were some exotic bird who might take off into flight, or else be trampled by the crowd.
    â€œStacy.” Jamie was breaking away from a florid, friendly man. “Have you met George Carroll?”
    He managed to make this sound as stimulating as a trip to Marrakesh. The thought made Stacy smile again. “Hello,” she said, and the party went on around her.
    Its rhythm seemed to quicken; Stacy sensed Jamie’s aides ensuring that everyone saw the candidate before he had to leave. Faces passed so rapidly that her smile felt like a reflex.
    A woman in a silk dress put a pen and album in her hand. “I promised my son I’d ask you to sign this.”
    â€œWhat’s his name?”
    â€œCharles.”
    â€œFor Charles,” she wrote, then asked, “How old is he?”
    â€œEighteen.”
    â€œPlease vote,” she finished writing. “Love, Stacy.”
    Smiles all around; more faces and hands to grasp.
    â€œI never realized that Senator Kilcannon was so handsome.”
    Stacy put a finger to her lips. “Don’t let him hear