Smoke and Mirrors (23 page)

"Lovely you could come," murmured the actress, her eyes considering and dismissing Erin in a single glance. "Why don't you
come and tell me all about your job, Mr.------ Oh, I just can't
remember all those names; you don't mind if I call you Nick, do you? "

She drew him away. Erin turned for consolation to the caviar, but it wasn't long before Nick returned, perspiring visibly.

"That was a very succinct lecture," Erin remarked, viewing his distress with mean satisfaction.

"I was rescued by the president of GM or the managing director of Amalgamated Chemicals or some such notable. " Nick mopped his bow. "Geez. She had just invited me to come look at her dollhouses."

"Is that what she calls them?"

Nick grinned. "I don't know what she calls them, but I've already had a good look."

Before long they were joined by Jeff, looking superb in a tuxedo that fit much better than Nick's rented white tie and tails. He carried a glass of champagne in either hand. Presenting one to Erin, he remarked in a low voice whose sarcasm contrasted with his fixed, pleasant smile, "Might as well drink up. Unfortunately this seems to be a very successful affair; we won't get out of here for at least another hour."

"Aren't you having
fun?"
Nick inquired.

"I endure. Anyhow, we look damned effective together, don't you think? Not only because we're young and beautiful, but as a token of Rosemary's campaign. A black, a woman, and your good old standard Anglo-Saxon male Protestant."

"Too bad I'm not gay," Nick said cheerfully.

"Too bad
I'm
not. It's so economical to double up on your token representation."

Nick refused to take offense. "You're in a cruddy mood, even for you. Has anything gone wrong?"

"Quite the reverse." Jeff drained his glass. Erin realized he had had a little too much to drink; it didn't show in his voice or his manner, only in a careful consciousness of incapacity. "Quite a successful affair."

"Don't run off," Nick said. "You're such a delightful companion this evening."

"Up yours too, pal." Jeff glanced at Erin. "Sorry, Erin. This sort of thing"—his gesture took in the ostentatious house, the rich food, the overdressed, overfed people—"gets my l'il ole liberal hackles up. "

"A
la lanterne,"
Erin suggested, smiling up into his face.

"A bas les aristos,"
Jeff agreed. "I'd better get back to work. Hang in there. "

He walked off, steps steady, shoulders straight. "Maybe we should circulate more," Erin suggested.

"Not much we can do," Nick said. "Unless you want to let a rich industrialist pinch your bottom and offer you wealth undreamed of, which you will of course contribute to the Cause." From the way some of these aging females are drooling at you, you're more likely to collect than I am," Erin retorted. "Not to mention a few of the ... Oh. Oh, Lord!"

"What's the matter?"

"When did he get here?"

Who?" But it didn't take Nick long to locate the source of Erin's perturbation. He was several inches taller than the people around him, and he was staring straight at Erin. His narrow lips twisted when he realized she had seen him, and he raised his glass in a mock salute.

"Laurence," Nick muttered.

"He's coming over here." Erin clutched Nick's arm. "Don't leave me."

"Fear not, timid beauty, I will defend you to the death. Against what, if you don't mind my asking?"

"He must have gotten the sweater."

"So? Don't let him put you on the defensive; he's the one in the wrong, not you."

Laurence took his time approaching them, stopping to address smiles and greetings to various people. A casual observer might not have known Erin was his goal until he stood before her.

"What a nice little frock. A sweater wouldn't have been appropriate anyway, would it?"

The bland insolence in his voice brought a rush of anger that destroyed the last vestige of Erin's nervousness. "I don't take bribes," she said bluntly.

The columnist's eyes narrowed. "I should have known you'd misunderstand. You're a novice at this game and I fear your friends aren't much more experienced than you."

This was obviously directed at Nick, who resented it as fiercely as Laurence had known he would; his face darkened, but before he could retort, Laurence went on smoothly, "Contrary to what you may have heard about me, I have a generous heart. I like giving presents to deserving inferiors. If I had been trying to bribe you, dear girl, I'd have sent diamonds, not knitwear. Keep that in mind; I won't charge you for the advice. And do try not to lose your sense of proportion. Ask yourself the essential question before you leap to conclusions. Have you anything I'd be willing to pay for?"

He started to turn away, but Erin was too angry to let him have the last word. "And you might ask yourself, Mr. Laurence, whether you have anything that could possibly interest any normal decent person. I wouldn't grab a rope you threw me if I were going down for the third time. "

The color rushed to Laurence's face, and then drained away, leaving him as white as his stiff shirtfront. He turned on his heel and walked away.

Impulsively Erin started to follow. Nick wrapped a long arm around her waist and held her back.

"Let me go," she snarled. "I wasn't finished. That cowardly
bastard hasn't even got the guts to stand and take it. I'm going to
tell him—"

"Please don't," Nick said in an oddly muffled voice. "I couldn't stand it. Will you marry me?"

"What?" She stared at him and realized he was shaking all over with laughter he could barely contain.

"That was the most beautiful thing I've ever seen in my life," Nick stuttered. "And to think the first time I met you you were too prim and proper to take off your jacket. . . . You don't have to marry me if you don't want to, just let me adore you from afar."

"I'll add your application to the others," Erin said. It was a rare and unexpected pleasure to have Nick cool her temper instead of inflame it.

"Forget him," Nick said, sobering. "He isn't worth your trouble. Where's Rosemary got to, do you suppose?"

"I haven't seen her for quite a while. There's Joe, looking like a thundercloud."

"More like a tornado," Nick said. "I hope nothing has gone wrong. I'd better talk to him. "

Joe stood alone; his dour expression would have frightened off anyone bent on casual conversation. The evening had taken its toll on him and his attire. His high forehead glistened with perspiration and a stain on his shirtfront had been dimmed, but not obliterated, by hasty first aid. The offending splash appeared to have had a tomato base.

He acknowledged their presence with a deeper scowl and a muttered word that might have been a greeting. "What's up?" Nick asked. "If we're not collecting, we may as well go home."

The attempt at wit was not well received. "We're collecting. No thanks to you two; every time I see you, you're stuck together like Siamese twins. Why aren't you mingling?"

"Rosemary is the star," Nick said. "We are only faint spots of light in the firmament, undetectable except by a high-powered telescope."

Rosemary!" Joe gritted his teeth. "I knew she was in a weird mood, but she's so damned bullheaded, nobody can stop her when she. . . . Look at her. Just look at her making an ass of herself!"

Rosemary's petite size and the fact that she was always surrounded by people made her hard to locate. Following Joe's gesture, Erin recognized . . . the fan. Opened to its full size, it covered the lower half of Rosemary's face. Her eyes were fixed on the man who leaned toward her, talking and smiling so emphatically his jowls quivered. The light reflected dazzlingly from the silver streaks in Rosemary's hair and the hairless dome of her admirer's head.

"Look at her," Joe repeated. "Smirking and flirting and coming on to that lascivious old—"

"Lascivious!" Nick laughed. "A four-syllable word, no less. Who is he?"

The name Joe mentioned meant nothing to Erin, but it impressed Nick. "One of the
Fortune
Five Hundred," he murmured. "What's the problem, Joe? That's what she's here for, isn't it—to charm the cash out of those bulging pockets?"

"She's hamming it up. Making fun of him."

"He's too dumb and too horny to catch on," Nick said, his smile broadening as he watched One of the
Fortune
Five Hundred trying to look over the fan and down the front of Rosemary's dress.

"That's what I'm afraid of," said Joe, and departed without further comment.

He detached Rosemary from her admirer with brusque efficiency; leaving the hopeful one gaping. Rosemary didn't appreciate his interference. Her smile never wavered, but the purportedly playful tap of her fan on Joe's cheek produced a wince clearly visible to the fascinated observers across the room. They exchanged glances.

"Warm in here, isn't it?" Nick said.

"That looked like jealousy," Erin exclaimed. "Pure, naked jealousy. Do you think Joe—"

"Please don't say it," Nick begged. "I can't stand it."

"Why shouldn't he be in love with her? Isn't she entitled to some personal happiness? She needs someone who cares for her as a woman, not a political robot—

"The last thing she needs is a campaign manager who's so besotted he can't think straight."

"Politics and love don't mix?"

"Well, I wouldn't necessarily insist on that. . . . How about a little more champagne?"

"I've had enough. I'm saying stupid things." Erin dabbed delicately at her upper lip with the handkerchief Kay had insisted
on giving her.

"A breath of fresh air, perhaps?" Nick suggested. "You won't need your scarf; the terrace is heated."

"The terrace is what?"

"Electric coils under the flagstones. I read about it in some magazine."

They threaded their way through the crowd, which seemed to have increased. The celebrities, including Rosemary, were surrounded; a flourish of the fan betrayed her presence and suggested Joe's lecture hadn't had much effect. Erin caught a glimpse of Jeff in deep discussion with a tall slender female swathed in emerald-green taffeta—the Style editor of the
Post,
according to Nick.

Electric coils notwithstanding, the terrace was cooler than the drawing room, and the fresh breeze felt good on Erin's feverish cheeks. People were seated at the tables scattered along the expanse of flagstones. A woman who had been pointed out to Erin as the wife of an influential Democratic senator looked deep into the eyes of a man who was not the influential senator; at another table a group of men had their heads together in a discussion whose intensity appeared to be financial rather than romantic. It was a good place for a private conversation. The musicians were making such a din that Nick had to yell in order to be heard.

"Let's get out of this!"

A glare of blue-white light drew them along a winding path that ended in another flagstoned terrace fronting the swimming pool. It was enormous, heart-shaped, and of course heated. Erin was not surprised at any of these features; what did surprise her was the extremely artificial and pricey scent that permeated the air. Juliet must have dumped a couple of gallons of Musky Lust into the water.

Farther along the terrace a rumba band, ruffled from wrists to waists, performed while laughing couples made rough stabs at the intricate steps. There were murals along the sides and bottom of
the pool; dolphins, mermaids, Father Neptune complete with beard and trident, and other interesting accoutrements. Erin gasped. "That man—there—he hasn't got on any—"

"Neither does she," said Nick, indicating the second of the two intertwined bodies. Slowly, hieratically, the writhing forms sank toward the bottom of the pool.

"They'll drown!"

"No such luck," Nick said. "How about a refreshing dip?"

"No such luck."

"My dear young woman, I was not proposing anything improper. I'm sure those engaging little cabanas are fully equipped with bathing attire in every possible size and shape."

Erin supposed the structures in question were cabanas. What they looked like was a row of ancient Roman houses, with terra-cotta facades and red-tiled roofs. She stared at them incredulously.

"She had them copied from the ruins of Ostia," Nick said. "But I understand the murals on the inside walls are from Pompeii. You know the ones I mean."

"Oh, those murals. I've heard about them." In fact she had seen a set of purportedly bootlegged postcards. Italian guides made a big deal of showing the paintings of Pompeii's whorehouse only to men, but it was said that a bribe—even a modest bribe—would remove their moral principles.

"Heard about them? If you haven't seen them—"

"No." Erin resisted his attempt to draw her toward the restored ruins. "God, this is disgusting. It's not that I object to orgies per se, but a political fundraiser. . . . And for Rosemary!"

"It's not that I object to orgies or to any means of raising dough; I just hate tacky orgies," Nick said laughing. "Let's take a turn in the garden. 'Where every prospect pleases, And only man is vile.' '