THEMalibu apartment was known for its natural spotlights. It had been built with ninety-two plate-glass windows, strategically located for eastern, western, and overhead exposure so that no matter where you were, the sun placed you center stage. Alex stood in front of a wall of glass, beautifully backlit, running his thumb over the edge of an oval inlaid maple box. “You got this in Lyons, I think,” he said to Cassie. She was sitting in a love seat the color of a blush, and when he sank to the floor in front of her, grasping her hand, she couldn’t help but gasp. It was like having the character spring off the movie screen, suddenly flesh and blood.
It was an odd feeling, seeing a stranger a few feet in front of you and knowing that you had shared his bowl of cereal, warmed your feet against his calves, traded him your whispers in a soft, mussed bed.
Cassie wished she could throw herself into the charade, but she could not. Alex was the actor, not her, and she was painfully aware of the shifting zone that moved with her, blue and magnetic, forcing a distance between them even when they touched. Alex sighed. “You’re not going to start acting like I’m larger than life, are you?” he said. “You never did before.”
Cassie gave him a half-smile. She had been quiet on purpose, figuring the less she said, the less of a fool she’d make of herself. “This takes a little getting used to,” she said. She glanced at the white alenc¸on curtains, the pickled-wood coffee table, the pink marble sink of the wet bar.
Alex leaned close to brush a kiss against her forehead, and she couldn’t help it, she stiffened. Since Alex had claimed her at the station, he hadn’t hesitated to touch her. It was ridiculous, really, to feel as skittish as she would on a blind date, since Alex had said they’d been married for three whole years. Still, she couldn’t seem to see herself in the day-to-day routine of a marriage. Instead her mind kept flashing through images she knew she’d been fed by the media: Alex Rivers at a black-tie benefit forAIDSresearch, Alex Rivers accepting a Golden Globe award, Alex Rivers juggling coconuts during a break on the set ofRobinson Crusoe.
Suddenly he stood up, bathed in sunlight, and Cassie lost track of her thoughts. She did not remember Alex, she did not feel comfortable around him, but she was fascinated by him. The silver shine of his eyes, the proud line of his jaw, the muscles corded in his neck, all called to her. She studied him as she would Michelangelo’s David: fluid, beautiful, but far too steeped in his own perfection to be singled out for her.
“It’s a good thing we came here,” Alex said. “If you’re overwhelmed by the apartment, I can’t imagine what you’d think of the house.”
On the way to the Malibu Colony, Alex had tried to jar Cassie’s memory with descriptions of their three homes: the house in Bel-Air, the apartment in Malibu, and the ranch just outside of Aspen, Colorado.
He said that they spent most of their time at the house, but that Cassie had always preferred the apartment because when they were married she’d redecorated it.
“What’s it like?” she had pressed, eager for some detail that would shake free her past.
Alex had just shrugged. “It’s little,” he said.
But when the Range Rover pulled up to the towering whitewashed building, Cassie had stared at the rounded edges, the princess’s turrets, the tiers and tiers. The last thing it was waslittle. “It looks like a castle,”
she had breathed, and Alex had thrown his arms around her. “That’s what you said the first time you saw it,” he’d said.
“Cassie?” She jumped now at the sound of her name. She hadn’t even heard the telephone ring, but Alex was holding the receiver, mouthpiece covered. “Herb says he won’t sleep until he sees that you’re all right.”
He took a step closer to her and laid his palm against her cheek, his eyes darkening. “Well, I don’t give a damn,” he said. “You’ve got to rest.”
He lifted the telephone to his ear. “No, Herb,” he said. “Five minutes is too long. No—”
Cassie stood up and put her hand on his arm. It was the first time she had actually reached out to touch Alex, instead of him touching her. He turned to her, the telephone forgotten, his eyes locked onto her own. “It’s okay,” she said quietly. “Tell him to come over. I’ll be fine.
I don’t want to rest.”
He murmured something into the telephone and she watched the way his lips formed the words. She waited for him to hang up, but he didn’t. He cupped his hand over the receiver again and moved closer, until they were separated by the space of a breath.
Cassie did not close her eyes as Alex kissed her. Her hand fell away from his arm to hang at her side, and she tasted faint traces of coffee and vanilla. When he pulled away, she was still leaning toward him, her eyes wide and waiting for the flood of memories she was certain would come.
But before that could happen, Alex gestured helplessly at the phone.
“I have to talk to him. I leftMacbethmid-scene, you know, to get you.
Poor Herb has to clean up the mess I made.” He ran his hand over her hair. “Why don’t you poke around a little? I promise, no more than five minutes.”
As Alex turned away and started rattling questions into the telephone, Cassie moved downstairs to the middle level of the apartment. She wondered if she should change her clothes before Herb arrived. She wondered who Herb was.
She started toward the master bedroom, where Alex had showed her, earlier, a closet full of silks and rainbow cottons that belonged to her.
She reached the arched hallway Alex had pulled her through before.
This time, she stopped to look at the pictures that hung against the stark white walls. There was one of Alex on the beach outside the apartment, buried up to his chest in sand. Of Cassie herself, grinning, her arm thrown casually around the shoulders of a skeleton. There was a picture of a dog she did not recognize, and one of Alex on a rearing horse. Finally came a photo of Cassie in bed, white sheets pulled just up to her breasts, a lazy smile across her flushed face.
She thought of the pressure of Alex’s kiss. She tried to imagine his hands tracing their way down her spine.
She looked at the picture again, and she wondered if Alex had taken it.
HERB SILVER WAS FIVE FEET TALL, BALD, WITH A HANDLEBAR mustache and pointed ears that made Cassie think of a Munchkin. He met Alex at the door of the apartment and shoved a greasy brown paper bag into his arms. “So, I figure it’s lunch and what’s agoylike you going to have in his kitchen?” His eyes darted behind Alex’s substantial height, searching for Cassie, pushing Alex aside as he began to rummage in the bag. “There’s pastrami on rye with sauerkraut for you, and three knishes and for God’s sake, don’t eat all theforshpeisby yourself this time. Ah!” He held out his arms to Cassie. “You were trying to give me my third heart attack?”
