Forever (49 page)

Trap!

Stephanie clawed desperately at the hand
that was clamped over her mouth. She couldn't get enough air, and
the only sounds she could manage were muffled whines of terror. Too
late, she realised her foolhardiness. It had been madness to follow
the urchin here - utter madness!

'Hmmmmmuuuhhh!' she managed again, her
fingers yanking furiously at the large strong hand, but the grip
was too powerful and relentless and would not loosen. Even as she
struggled, she felt herself being pulled steadily backwards into
deeper darkness.

Her jaw felt numb from attempting to scream,
her eyes were as wide as saucers, and the shock of fear was greater
than any she had ever experienced.

Remembering the explosion at the Osborne
which had killed Pham, Stephanie's blood ran cold. So I was right!
she thought wildly.
That blast had been meant for me! I escaped
by a hair then, but I'm going to have to pay with my life
now!

Every instinct urged her to free herself and
flee.

But how? How?

Fight!
shrieked the Furies inside her
head
. Fight tooth and nail! Struggle! Maim or cripple your
abductor! Trick him! Resist! Go limp! Try anything - so long as it
gives you a few precious seconds. A tiny headstart is all you
need!

But before she could act upon any of these
strategies, she was pulled into another room, and the door slammed
shut with finality. Unexpectedly, a naked overhead light bulb went
on. After the darkness, she squinted against the sudden wash of raw
light. Her eyes darted suspiciously about and three rough,
white-washed walls glared brightly in her field of vision.

A utilitarian room, sparsely furnished.

Swiftly her mind inventoried the furnishings
as instruments of self-defence. What can I use as weapons? That
table over there? No; it looks too heavy. That rush-seated chair?
Perhaps. That three-legged stool? Even better.

Abruptly, the hand released her mouth and
she was suddenly shoved forward - not with enough force for her to
lose her balance or fall, but enough for her captor to be out of
reach of flailing and scratching talons.

Stephanie's heart began to pound even more
wildly. This is it! she thought. My chance for escape!

She whirled around to face the door.

And found the way blocked.

'Forget about it,' the man standing in front
of it advised. 'You're not going anywhere.'

'Pen!' rasped Aaron Kleinfelder, his
hoarseness the result of unused vocal cords, dehydration, and
physical debilitation. His bed was in a semi-upright position,
still attached to all his IVs and monitors, a breathing tube
clipped to his nostrils.

Sammy jumped to his feet. 'One pen coming
right up!'

'Here you go,' he said gently, placing the
pad on Aaron's lap.

He sat down, took the cap off the felt-tip
pen, and put the writing instrument in the man's shaky hand. Gently
he closed Aaron's feeble fingers around it. 'And don't worry about
neatness. I can decipher your chicken scratching later. All
right?'

Aaron gave a slight nod. Then slowly, weakly
he began to scrawl.

'You . . . you . . . you bastard! Stephanie
paced the wooden floor wildly, furiously. 'You sneaky, conniving,
untrusting bastard! I can't believe you've been following me!'

She raised both hands in the air and held
them there a moment before letting them drop to her sides in
disgust.

'You followed us all over Capri this
morning!' she accused, whirling on him.

Arms folded in front of his chest, Johnny
Stone was leaning casually against the heavy door, his face
expressionless, his eyes hooded. 'Guilty.' He inclined his
head.

'And now you've lured me here!' She drew a
reedy breath as a lot of things suddenly fell neatly into place.
'There was no accident down at the Marina Grande!' she exclaimed
with dawning realisation. 'That was just a ruse to get Eduardo out
of the way?'

'And you here.' Johnny inclined his head a
second time. 'Guilty again.'

'And you . . . you had the nerve, the . . .
the unmitigated gall ... to follow the yacht here all the way from
Marbella!'

'Not the most pleasant of voyages aboard a
small cabin cruiser, let me assure you. Hardly like the luxurious
seagoing
Chrysalis
.' His voice was heavy on the irony but
his face was still devoid of any expression. 'But to answer your
accusation: I once again plead guilty.'

'For Chrissakes!' she shouted. 'Will you
stop using that word!'

Johnny's eyelids flickered. 'What word? Oh.
You mean - "guilty"?'

Her nostrils flared as she drew a deep
breath. Then, hugging herself with her arms, she cupped her elbows
in her hands and looked away. 'You know damn well I do!'

He laughed shortly. 'Come on, now! My
professions of guilt could hardly be impinging upon your
conscience!'

She spun at him, eyes blazing like lasers.
'And what's that supposed to mean?'

'What do you think it is supposed to mean?'
He eyed her with the easy insolence of one who has the most
intimate knowledge of his antagonist and feels no compunction using
it as a weapon. 'Considering the fact that you're obviously without
conscience -'

'Without . . . without what!' she sputtered,
staring at him in open-mouthed incredulity. How dare he! she
thought. Oh, how dare he! What nerve! Accusing me of having no
conscience! Has he forgotten what happened to Grandfather? Has he
forgotten the explosion at the Osborne? Good Lord - Johnny can't
honestly believe I'd be safe traipsing around as Stephanie Merlin
after that close call, can he?

'What's the matter?' he taunted. 'Cat got
your tongue?'

'The hell it has!' she objected, ardent in
her fury. 'You've got some nerve -'

'No, Stephanie,' he corrected her quietly.
'I'm not the one with nerve. I suggest you listen to me, and listen
well. Because, you see, you are the one with nerve -'

'Me!'/' she cried violently, quivering from
head to toe with potent, indignant affront. 'How dare you?'

'I'll tell you how I dare.' He was still
leaning against the door in a deceptively casual pose, his body
impassive and relaxed, but his voice was cold. 'I dare because I
didn't fake my own death and let my friends and acquaintances mourn
and bury me. I dare because I wasn't hiding out in Connecticut
while someone who cared deeply about me cried and drank himself
into stupours.'

Prickles of heat stung her cheeks, and in
her forehead, a vein pulsated uncontrollably. 'Do you think I had
any choice?' Her voice trembled. 'Do you think I did it for the fun
of it? For the mere thrill?'

He stared at her. 'To tell you the truth,'
he said softly, 'I really don't know what to think any more.'

'Then think what you will!' she snapped
angrily. 'Jump to your own conclusions! That's what you've done
already, isn't it?'

'No,' he said quietly, 'as a matter of fact,
it isn't. But I do know one thing, Stephanie. You've got a hell of
a lot of explaining to do.'

'Like hell I have!' She raked him with
scathing eyes, sweeping him from head to toe and back up again. 'I
don't owe you anything. And besides.' She tossed her head. 'I've
had about all of this I can take. Step aside.'

When he didn't move, she started to push
past him, but he gripped her arm and pulled her towards him.

'Not so fast,' he said softly into her
surprised, upturned face. 'Like I was saying, you owe me some
explanations.'

'And like I was saying,' she spat, eyes
flashing, 'I don't have to explain anything to you! You're not my
keeper!'

'Perhaps not,' he admitted, his gaze
unblinking. 'But I was your lover.'

'At least you've got something right! "Was"
is the operative verb!' Her face shone with ugly triumph. 'Now,
will. . . you . . . let. . . me . . . go?'

He held on to her a moment longer, and then
he released her and stepped aside. 'Very well,' he said
disgustedly. 'Have it your way. Go.'

'Why, I thank you kindly, sir!' she said
sarcastically before pushing open the door.

'One piece of advice before you leave.' His
voice followed her out into the other room. 'If you're not in the
States over the next few days, I suggest you have a friend
videotape your rival TV shows.'

She froze in her tracks, her back still
turned, and when she spoke her voice was hushed. 'And why's that,
might I ask?'

With a deceptively slow, catlike grace, he
turned around and leaned against the doorframe. 'Because,' he
improvised softly to her unmoving back, 'I don't think you'd want
to miss out on the big hullaballoo.'

'Hullaballoo?' Her voice trembled. 'What
hullaballoo?'

'Why the one over the tabloid story of the
year! Of the decade!'

Her spine stiffened, but she still did not
turn around.

'Hard Copy
. . .' He began to reel
off some of the names.
'Current Affair
. . . even
Entertainment Tonight
. None of them will be able to resist
pulling out all the stops when it comes to a modern day Lazarus,
will they?'

She did not speak, but her torso jerked
painfully with each mention of a rival show, as if the spoken names
alone were slings and arrows with but one purpose, to mortally
wound.

'Oh,' he continued, 'did I forget to mention
the print media? Mm?'

Her voice was faint. 'The . . . the print
media? What do they have to do with this?'

'Let's see . . .' he went on inexorably, . .
. who is there?' He made a production of pausing and pretending to
think while rubbing his chin. 'Well, for starters I guess there's
always that good old standby - the
Enquirer
:

'The . . .
National Enquirer
?' she
squeaked in alarm.

'The only
Enquirer
I know of. Just
think, Stephanie! For once, they won't even have to defend
themselves against a lawsuit.' He smiled smugly.

She was fuming in choked silence. She would
kill him! Yes! She would kill him as slowly and painfully as
humanly possible! Drawing and quartering was much too merciful. But
a nice, very slow, very leisurely death . . .

Stephanie caught her breath and her
calculating eyes darkened and rounded and then narrowed almost at
once. 'You wouldn't!' she breathed.

'Ah, but that's a chance you cannot afford
to take, now is it?' Johnny's white teeth gleamed. 'Of course, if
you don't believe me, go ahead. Call my bluff.'

Her face turned crimson, and her clenched
fists trembled at her sides. 'Of all -' she began furiously, then
stopped to compose herself by taking several deep lungfuls of air.
When she spoke again, her voice was soft and wobbly but carefully
measured. 'Of all people, Johnny, I never, ever dreamed you would
resort to something as ... as cheap and ... as ... as low down and
nasty as blackmail! Not you!'

He pretended to look troubled and rubbed his
chin again and frowned down at the floor and then turned on his
bright smile for her. 'Come on, Stephanie. Surely blackmail's too
strong a word? Why don't you think of it as, ah, a form of
preventative persuasion?'

She stared at him. His smile was dazzling,
but she could see no mercy in those hard, unrelenting eyes. Nor,
she knew, could she expect any.

'All right, Johnny,' she agreed softly.
'Perhaps it's just as well we had a talk.'

Milan, Italy

Teatro alla Scala, the shrine of Italian
opera, reigns in a class unto itself. Not only is it Milan's most
sacred and enduring institution, but 'La Scala', as it is fondly
called, is to opera what Dom Perignon is to champagne or Mount
Everest to mountains. Each year, from December 7 through until
July, millions of music lovers the world over pass through its
grand portals to partake of an unmatched audiovisual feast, and
they rarely, if ever, leave disappointed. For, unlike the other
great opera houses of the world, including New York's Metropolitan
Opera and London's Covent Garden, La Scala is not a place where new
talent is allowed to surface, or where an understudy steps in for
an ill diva and shows such promise and talent that, overnight, a
star is born. Quite the contrary: La Scala is the opera house for
musical geniuses who have
arrived
, true stars at the peaks
of their talent and performance careers.

Of course, it has not always been this way;
no legendary monument is created without its growing pains. In
thel700s, La Scala served as both opera house and gambling casino,
and it was the games of chance, rather than the musical
productions, which lured patrons to its doors. And in the
nineteenth century, during the so-called Golden Age of Opera,
productions at La Scala were so sloppy, and the audiences so rowdy,
that its productions elevated opera-bashing to a high art. Indeed,
things got so bad that even Milan's most famous son, Giuseppe
Verdi, boycotted his home-town opera house for forty years.

But then came 1898, when a young conductor
named Arturo Toscanini arrived on the scene and became La Scala's
musical director. He not only saved the opera house from oblivion,
but when he left, in 1929, he left behind a legend, and the rest,
as they say, is history.

Perfection may be a high art anywhere else,
but here at La Scala it is commonplace by demand.

So, when the discordant sound of the
orchestra tuning stops, the house lights dim, and voices, save for
an occasional cough, fade to silence, and the maroon curtain rises,
this audience does not so much
attend
the performance as it
worships
at the high altar of some very elite, and highly
esoteric, vocal religion.

On this particular balmy early summer
evening, the curtain coming down on Act One of
Madama
Butterfly
was followed by rousing applause. The lights came up
gradually in the globe lamps, mounted at intervals around the
horseshoe in clusters of five, and as the applause died, the
audience began to buzz like a very lively beehive. Everywhere,
people were starting to get up from their red velvet seats and
stretch their legs during the intermission.