Charade (16 page)

"No. To tone them down." Everyone within earshot laughed. "As much as we'd like to monopolize them, Bill, we can't," Nancy said. "Our other guests would never forgive us. Cat? Alex?" She moved between them and linked her arms with theirs. "First, I want to introduce you to our new mayor and her husband." She guided them around the room; introductions were made. Alex was pleased by the number of people who claimed to be fans. Cat had an even greater number of admirers. Everyone had something good to say about Cat's Kids. She never took full credit but shared it with her crew. "From Bill Webster on down, everyone at WWSA is committed to the success of the project," she said. One of the guests mentioned a story that had appeared in the Sunday edition of the San Antonio Light. It was about the little girl who'd recently been adopted and then had undergone a kidney transplant. "Yes, Chantal's story is inspiring," Cat remarked to the woman who'd called attention to it. Then she looked at Webster and, in an undertone, said, "Wonder how Truitt likes the taste of crow?" For several days the entertainment reporter had pursued the O'Connor story, but to no avail. After the station's public relations department issued a statement, there were no further comments from WWSA. At the advice of their attorney, the O'Connors refused to be interviewed. Then, after counseling made them see how skillfully their adopted little girl had concealed her emotional corruption, the distressed couple had decided to keep her after all. Both the state agency and Cat's Kids had narrowly escaped disaster. Cat hoped this most recent newspaper story would dispel any lingering doubts as to the validity of the program. She said, "What's happened in Chantal's life is nothing short of a miracle. Unfortunately, there are many other children with special problems who deserve their own miracles. "They're drifting through the foster care system. Be assured that many foster parents are loving, caring people. But these special children desperately need permanent homes." Dinner was a seven-course affair that lasted more than two hours.

Alex would have been bored stiff if not for Cat, who, at the urging of the other guests, related stories about some of the children featured on Cat's Kids. Her audience was spellbound by her moving accounts. Some evoked laughter, others tears. Cat's animated delivery was as stirring as the nature of the stories she told. Her voice conveyed her passionate dedication to the program she'd undertaken. By the time the white chocolate mousse was served, she had everyone at the table fired up and chatting excitedly about a celebrity fundraiser.

As Alex held her chair for her when dinner was over, he leaned down and whispered, "It's in the bag." After the other guests had left, the Websters prevailed upon him and Cat to stay for a last cup of coffee to toast the evening's success. "Let's go into Bill's study where we can get comfortable," Nancy suggested, leading the way. A maid carried in a silver service, but Nancy poured. "Would you care for a brandy, Alex?" "Just coffee, please." "I noticed that you skipped wine at dinner," Bill observed as he reached for the cup of brandy-laced coffee that Nancy had poured for him. "Are you a teetotaler?" "Yes." Feeling no obligation to explain his abstinence to Webster, Alex left it at that. However, his failure to expound created another chasm of silence. Again, Cat bridged it. "Is this a family picture album?" She reached for the large leather-bound book on the coffee table. She settled herself on the floor, tucking her legs beneath her. "Mind if I look through it?" "Of course not," Nancy replied. "We could bore you for hours with pictures of the children." "How many do you have?" Alex asked. "Six." "Six!" He raised his cup of coffee in a silent salute. "No one would ever guess by looking at their mother." "Thank you." "She keeps herself in perfect shape," Webster said, smiling proudly.

"Are your children still at home?" While Nancy gave Alex a rundown of where their various offspring were and what they were doing, Cat continued to turn the pages of the album. Every now and then Alex glanced over her shoulder at the photographs. From what he could tell, the Webster children were much like their parents. They had ail-American good looks and seemed to be overachievers, as they were frequently photographed holding a trophy or ribbon. "So actually," Nancy summarized, "only the youngest still lives with us, although he's rarely at home. He's editor of his high school newspaper and that--" "My God!" Cat's startled exclamation cut Nancy off. In an instant, all eyes were focused on her.

Chapter twenty-two

"Did you know you were a dead ringer for their daughter Carla?" Fully aware of Alex's heavy stare, Cat concentrated on driving and kept her eyes on the road. "There was some resemblance," she acknowledged. "That's a prince of an understatement." "She had brown eyes, not blue." "But she had curly red hair, and the shape of her face was the same." Tilting his head, he analyzed her profile. "Her bone structure wasn't as pronounced. Not as angular. But the likeness was remarkable." Her eyes riveted on the road, she kept a white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel. "You know I'm right," he persisted. "When you saw her picture, you looked ready to faint. Your cheeks turned red." "You're very observant." "That's what I do. I observe people and write down what I observe."

"Well, I don't like being observed!" "That's too bad, because you're a fascinating observation. So's Webster." "Bill? Why?" "Well, for one thing, he disliked me on sight. Not that I give a damn, but it's peculiar." "Why peculiar? Does everyone you meet automatically like you?" "Don't pretend you didn't notice, because you did. To cover for him, you jumped in with that joke about helping me with research. Then he nearly had apoplexy when you picked up that photo album. He didn't want you to see that picture of his late daughter." Cat called upon her acting skills to keep her face impassive. She hadn't been watching Bill as Alex had, so she couldn't accurately say what his reaction had been to her interest in the album. However, it hadn't escaped her notice that he'd been virtually silent following the episode, leaving it to Nancy to handle the situation. Nancy had quietly acknowledged the striking resemblance between their daughter and Cat, saying, "Bill and I noticed it when you first joined the cast of Passages. We even teased Carla about it, accusing her of having a double life she hadn't told us about. Remember, dear?" He had given a gruff, muttered, affirmative reply. Following that, she and Alex had declined a refill on coffee and insisted that they should call it a night. Cat had profusely thanked the Websters for hosting the party. Nancy felt confident that with the assistance and endorsement of those who'd attended, she could arrange a fund-raiser to top all fundraisers. "I enjoyed myself," Alex had said to his hosts. "Thank you for including me." At the door, Nancy had hugged them in turn. She'd kept up her composure. Bill, on the other hand, had appeared shaken and . . . what? Guilty? And why had he been so cool to Alex? "Did you know about Carla before tonight?" Alex asked now. "I knew they'd lost their eldest child. She was killed in an auto accident returning to the university in Austin." "Webster told you that?" She nodded. "Even before I moved here. Apparently they haven't

fully recovered. But who could? Your daughter comes home for the weekend. You do her laundry, listen to her going on about the boy she's seeing, about the professor she hates. You tell her goodbye, instruct her to drive carefully, give her a hug. The next time you see her, you're identifying her body in the morgue." Cat shuddered and added softly, "I can't imagine anything worse than having to bury your child." Alex was respectfully silent for a moment, then threw her a curve ball. "Does Webster have the hots for you?" "No!" "Yeah. Right." "He doesn't," she insisted. "That would be really sick, considering my resemblance to his daughter." "Maybe that's what first interested him. His attraction was innocent enough when you met. Over time, it's evolved into something else." "It hasn't." Alex maintained his skeptical silence. Finally, she qualified her answer. "Or if it has, he's never given me any indication of it." "I doubt he'd chase you around the office or try to cop a feel while no one's looking. He's too proud for that." "He's never made a pass, sneakily or overtly." "But you two share more than a routine employer-employee relationship." "I consider him a friend," Cat said cautiously. "But nothing romantic has ever even been suggested. From all appearances, he and Nancy have a perfect relationship." "No relationship is perfect." She gave him an arch look. "Speaking from experience?" "Unfortunately yes. Too many." "So I gathered." "But back to you and Bill Webster--" "There is no me and Bill Webster," she argued. "He's given me a wonderful opportunity. I like and respect him. That's it." "I don't think so, Cat." She was about to protest, but he said, "I'm not calling you a liar. It's him. Something about him bugs me." "He's a handsome man in a stately, distinguished way. He's ex

tremely successful. He's vested with a lot of power. He emanates an air of authority." "Wait a minute," he said testily. "Are you implying that I'm jealous of him?" "You tell me." "You've got it backward, sweetheart. He was jealous of me tonight because I was your date." "Bull!" "Okay, fine. It's bull. But I'm telling you, Webster's got something to hide." They had reached a Mexican standoff. Cat wouldn't admit what she was thinking--that Bill's behavior this evening had been curious and disturbing. She needed time to make sense of it. Alex, however, wouldn't leave it alone. "Why do you suppose he acted so weird when you saw that picture of Carla?" "Because if the similarity between us was the reason he first noticed me, he was embarrassed. That sentimental trait doesn't fit the image of a tough CEO, an image he's carefully cultivated and stringently maintained." "Maybe." She struck the steering wheel with her fist. "Are you always right? Don't you ever say something like, 'I never looked at it from that angle. I might be wrong'?" "Not this time," he said stubbornly. "There's something about Webster that doesn't ring true. I feel it in my gut. The picture's too perfect. His life is like an illustration of a contemporary fairy tale. I keep looking for the camouflaged troll." "You've slipped into your cop mode, you know." "Probably. Instinct. It's a hard habit to break. I look at everybody with a certain degree of suspicion." "Why?" "Because people are just naturally suspicious. Everyone has something to hide." "You mean like a secret?" Her mischievous whisper didn't make a dent in his solemn expression. "Exactly like a secret. We all have something we'd rather keep under lock and key."

"Not me. My life's an open book. I've been poked and probed and X-rayed inside and out. They literally pried open my chest and looked around inside. If I had anything to hide, it would have been discovered long before now." He shook his head. "You've got a secret, Cat," he insisted. "Maybe it's such a deep, dark secret that it's buried in your subconscious. Even you don't know what it is. You don't want to reveal it to yourself because then you'd have to deal with it. We--meaning all of us--bury the ugly aspects of ourselves because we can't bear to face them." "Gee, I'm so glad I asked you to come with me tonight. You're a barrel of laughs." "I tried joking with you earlier," he reminded her. "You didn't seem to appreciate my sense of humor." She threw him a reproving frown. "I think you're taking your Cop Psychology course far too seriously." "Maybe. But fiction writers are psychologists too, you know. Hour after hour, day after day, I plot the lives of people. I study their behavior patterns and try to figure out what makes them tick. Think about this," he said, turning toward her. "You hit your thumb with a hammer. What do you do next?" "Chances are I'll yowl, scream something profane, and hop around holding tight to my thumb." "Exactly. That's cause and effect. Given that stimulus, we all behave basically the same way. On the other hand, events occur in our lives that are unique to us. They may be accidental or coincidental, but our responses to them are also programmed. "And each of us is programmed differently depending on our sex, I.Q., economic background, birth order, and so on. Each of us has reasons for reacting and behaving the way we do. That's motivation. As an author, I have to know what motivates a particular character to respond to a particular situation in a particular way." "You study human nature." "In all its forms." "And it's human nature to bury our secrets?" "Like a dog does a bone. Except we rarely want to dig them up and gnaw on them."

"What's your secret, Sigmund?" "Can't tell. It's a secret." She stopped at an intersection and turned to look at him. "I think you probably have more than one." He didn't take the bait. Instead, he held her gaze with his. "Are we going to sleep together tonight?" She regarded him thoughtfully until the traffic light changed and the driver behind them tooted his horn. "I don't believe so," she said as she stepped on the accelerator. "Why not?" "Because you've talked so much about studying me, I'm self-conscious. Would I be the first television personality you've taken to bed? The first heart transplantee? The first redhead who wears a size seven narrow shoe? Do you want to sleep with me so you can store the experience in your mental encyclopedia on human nature?" He didn't jump in with a denial, and it bothered her that he didn't. She wanted him to adamantly repudiate the charge. She glanced across at him. He was watching her, saying nothing, revealing nothing. His stony silence reinforced her decision. "Sorry, Alex. I don't want to see myself in the bedroom-conquest scene of your next book." He turned from her and stared out through the windshield. His jaw was flexing angrily, and she feared it was because she'd hit the nail squarely on the head. At least he had the decency not to lie about his motives. Nevertheless, she was terribly disappointed. "You make me sound like a real shit," he said. "I think more than likely you are." He whipped his head around, and when he saw that she was smiling, he chuckled softly. "Well, you're right. But even shits are given the benefit of the doubt sometimes." "Okay. Coffee at my house?" "Yeah. I'll take a cab home from there." "Coffee. Nothing else." "I'm not an animal, you know. I can curb my urges when I must." He was joking, but then he turned serious again. "I really enjoy talking to you, Cat." "Is this a new tack?"