Stars (The Butterfly Trilogy) (76 page)

     But when he said, "I love you, Philippa," it was the wrong thing to say. It was too soon; Paul Marquette still had her heart. She sat up and kissed him lightly on the lips. "Please don't say that. It's unlucky to be in love with me."

     As soon as she said it she realized it was true. She hadn't thought of it before now, but the three men she had loved in her life—Johnny, Rhys, Paul—were all dead.

     As if reading her thoughts, he touched her cheek and said with a smile, "Don't worry. Nothing's going to happen to me."

     In his cottage camouflaged by pine trees, Danny Mackay was at that moment testing the sharpness of his knife and thinking that the first thing he was going to do was take out Beverly's Aussie boy-toy. No one gave Danny Mackay the brush-off, especially no snotty kid. And this knife, which had
accomplished other missions for Danny, was going to do the job.

     Danny had never liked killing with guns; they were too impersonal, placed too much distance between him and his victim. And guns were too quick. Well, he conceded as he slipped the knife into the leather sheath tucked under his belt, he might make it quick with the blond jock. But with Beverly, he was going to take his sweet time.

     Checking the hour and seeing that it was time to get started, he inspected himself in the mirror once more to be sure the knife didn't show. Or the nylon cord. Or the gun. He wasn't going to kill with it; the gun had other uses. Danny had put on a tuxedo for the ball, but he wouldn't be wearing it for long; soon he would be changing into another outfit, one more suited to the occasion. And as for what Beverly was wearing to the ball tonight, she wouldn't have it on for long either. She was also going to be changing into another outfit: a pair of handcuffs and a homemade noose.

     He couldn't wait to see the look on her face when she realized who he was.

     Beverly had to try several times before she finally managed to slip the pearl drop earrings into her pierced ears. She was so worried about Otis Quinn that she couldn't keep her hands from shaking. Where
was
he? Quinn had arrived on the morning tram, and now it was evening. She had expected him to contact her by now. The waiting was turning her into a nervous wreck.

     Which was why she jumped when she heard a knock at her door. Quinn?

     But it was Simon: he had not yet changed into his white dinner jacket and black tie. He came into her living room and closed her door. "I received your message, Beverly," he said, a look of concern on his face. "You said you are not going to attend the ball tonight. Are you unwell? Shall I summon Dr. Isaacs?"

     "No," she said. "I just—have a headache." Beverly had had every intention of attending tonight's event, having decided some time ago that it was going to be her "coming out," her first time in public without the sunglasses. The decision had been based on the fact that it was three and a half years since anyone had seen Beverly Highland's face on television screens and in newspapers; surely, she told herself; people's memories were fading. And then
Butterfly Exposed
had come out, by Otis Quinn, and it was filled with
photographs of her, from the days when she had been a socialite philanthropist, raising money for various causes, specifically for Danny Mackay's presidential campaign fund. Now she could no longer take the chance. Someone in the ballroom was bound to recognize her.

     "I hate for you to miss the ball, Beverly," Simon said, coming so close to her that she took a step back.

     "I'll still be part of it, but up here, in private." She pointed to the large-screen TV built into one wall. It received transmissions from various ceiling-mounted cameras located throughout the Castle and the grounds, a system that enabled Beverly to observe what was going on around her resort without having to leave the safety and anonymity of her apartment.

     "It's not the same as being there," he said.

     "I don't mind," she said, turning away from him in case he could see the lie in her eyes. She turned the television on, and the screen was suddenly filled with a dazzling silver and white image: the ballroom, with its forty-foot Christmas tree, which had been flocked white and decorated with silver stars. The entire ballroom, in fact, was done in white: the drapes, the garlands, and the wreaths—a winter wonderland. A few guests had already arrived and were starting to help themselves from the massive buffet.

     "Please, Simon," she said. "You go down and be the wonderful host that you always are for our guests."

     "I had hoped for one dance with you, Beverly," he said.

     They regarded each other across the room. Simon and Beverly had never danced together.

     "It's what I want," she said softly. "Please."

     He came up and put a hand on her cheek. "Let me help you, Beverly. Let me come between you and whatever it is that's frightening you."

     She looked into his eyes and, for an instant, almost blurted it all out. But she held back, made herself be strong for just a moment longer, made herself hold on and keep the secrets inside. Until finally he said, "Very well, whatever you wish. I'll go and get ready for the ball now. If you change your mind..."

     After he left, she tried to settle down and watch the monitor. But she soon discovered that she was in the grip of a strange restlessness. The scent
of Simon's cologne lingered in the room; she could still feel his fingertips on her cheek.

     Oh God, what was she going to do? Stay here? A prisoner in her own home, caged like an animal, while waiting for Otis Quinn to expose her? All her life she had been a fighter, but now Beverly saw herself acting cowardly.

     She thought again of Simon. For as long as she could remember, she had been alone, shutting out men and love, relying solely upon herself with no shoulder to lean on. Simon said he wanted to share her burden, to be a shield against what was frightening her. Couldn't she now, at last, allow herself to draw upon someone else's strength? Wasn't it all right, finally, to let him in, let him help her?

     After tomorrow, I might not have a chance with Simon again. After tomorrow, the world might be a very different place.

     She went to her door and looked down the hall. Simon was already in his apartment, getting ready for the ball. Quietly closing the door behind her, her heart pounding, Beverly walked down to the end, where she paused and listened. She heard the shower going.

     She tried his door. It was unlocked.

     Beverly had been in Simon's apartment before; it was a curious reflection of another side to a man she both knew well and didn't know at all—Simon Jung, so neat and meticulous in his bearing, enjoyed a vaguely messy lifestyle books, magazines, and videotapes were lying about; a desk was covered with papers; a maroon silk tie was draped over the back of a chair.

     She walked toward the bathroom, where steam was pouring through the half-open door. She could hear Simon in the shower, his feet squeaking on the tiles, a bar of soap falling with a thud. She looked in. A vague form was visible through the plastic curtain.

     The bathrooms in the Castle were antique and oversized; the showers huge, with built-in marble benches and several shower heads arranged at different heights. The shower in Simon's bathroom could be converted into a steamroom or a large sunken bathtub with pulsating jets.

     As Beverly slowly removed her clothes, keeping her eye on the figure behind the curtain, she inhaled the pungent scent of Irish Spring.

     When she was completely undressed, she stepped to the other end of the shower and pushed the curtain aside. Simon had his back to her, soaping his chest and arms, his face held up to the spray. She eyed his firm rear end, the shapely legs. He had a swimmer's shoulders, and yet, she realized as she started to step in, she had never seen Simon in the pool.

     He turned suddenly, startled.

     "Beverly!" he said. And she moved smoothly into his arms, meeting his lips as if she had done it hundreds of times. Warm soap ran over her breasts and down her belly as she pressed up against him. He was instantly hard.

     She felt his hands moving on her back, slippery from the soap, and then down to grasp her buttocks. She took his erection and guided it between her thighs, squeezing her legs tight together.

     His tongue explored her mouth, and then he drew away and kissed her breasts, his tongue making her nipples grow firm. Reaching for a bottle of amber-colored shampoo, he squeezed the golden stuff all over her, working it into her skin with his hands, massaging her breasts, her lower back, and then up between her legs, his fingers gently probing, slipping inside.

     As the warm water cascaded over them, soap making skin glide smoothly over skin, Simon turned on the other jets so that more hot water pulsated out at different angles, hard and vigorous. Beverly went slowly to her knees and took him into her mouth. He closed his eyes and moaned.

     Suddenly he reached down for her, lifted her up and laid her back onto the marble bench, opening her legs wide and sliding into her, clasping her hard against him as he rocked her with deep, steady thrusts. She bit his lip and sucked his tongue as hot, perfumed water splashed over them, making their perspiring bodies ride smoothly together. Beverly drew her knees higher and curled her legs around his waist, bringing him deeper inside her. With an arm around her, clutching her tightly to him, his mouth working hers, Simon reached down and stroked her in time with his thrusts. When she started to come, she dug her fingers into his back, calling out his name, and she felt him empty into her at the same, staggering moment.

     Carole, in her bungalow, tried not to think of her precious Sanford as she slipped into her Russian sable coat. She was desperately wishing that he could be with her tonight, that it was her sex-dynamo husband, the man
who knew how to wrap a pearl necklace, whom she could look forward to being in bed with tonight. Instead, she was going to have to go through with her seduction of Larry Wolfe.

     If she wanted the Marion Star role. Which she did. Because it would bolster her sagging career and make her Sanford's "beautiful movie star" for a while longer.

     Coincidentally, Larry Wolfe, in the next bungalow, while adding a splash of Paul Stuart cologne to his admittedly chiseled jaw, was thinking of the same thing. Except that he was going to be making love to Carole Page for a different reason. Another notch on his gun handle, as it were. Of course, he didn't delude himself into thinking that it was him she was after, but it didn't matter. The result was the same. And this again was proof of the power that producers had in Hollywood. No one fucked the writer for a part in a picture, but the producer, now that was a different story. Carole Page was going to be just the beginning of a whole new bedroom career for Larry. And to top that off, like chocolate sprinkles on the whipped cream, he was meeting with Mr. Yamato tomorrow to seal their movie deal by handing over the proposal that good old reliable little Andrea had been working up for the past five days.

     As he took a final look at himself in the mirror, realizing that he was going to knock every female dead tonight, Larry decided he was going to be magnanimous and give Andrea one dance. Just to let her know what she was missing.

     At that same moment, in the bedroom on the other side of Larry's living room, Andrea was getting into her pin-striped suit with miniskirt, also thinking about tonight's ball. But for different reasons. She was looking forward to that special moment, during the ball, when she was going to give Larry his "present" and say, "Merry Christmas, Jerk."

     In the Castle, Judith Isaacs zipped up the conservative black cocktail dress that had served her well at many medical conferences. She was nervously anticipating the coming evening with Mr. Smith and experiencing also sadness and regret: she would dance with him and be swept away, and tomorrow he would leave Star's. A bottle of Cristal champagne had arrived at her apartment a little while ago, along with a white orchid corsage—from
Mr. Smith. She now affixed the corsage to her dress, but she left the bottle unopened. Since Zoey had gone down the mountain, Judith was now the only health-care employee at the resort. She would need to stay sober, she considered herself to be on call.

     And when she heard a knock at her door, she knew it was Smith—he had insisted on calling for her and escorting her to the ball, very gentlemanly, very old-fashioned, and very wonderful—and her anxiety heightened. Please don't let me fall in love tonight, she thought.

     But as she was about to answer his knock, she called out, "Just a minute," went back to the bedroom, hurriedly untwined her long braid, brushed her hair out thick and wavy and long, and then went back to the door.

     She said, "Hello," and he, seeing her hair, said, "Well now..."

     In the third-floor tower apartment where cherubs wore lampshades on their curly heads and chintz was threatening to take over the world, Bunny Kowalski, all alone now with her agent— the fairy-godmother team having left a couple of hours ago—regarded herself, her astonishingly stunning self, in a full-length mirror and said, "When? When?"