Alex crossed his fingers over his chest. “And hope to die,” he said.
“She went to the movies.”
“That’s the big secret?”
John smiled at him. “She went toyourmovies. Some festival in Westwood.”
Alex started to laugh. She could have watched anything he’d made—from the rushes to the uncut versions to the screen copies themselves—in the privacy of her own home. But then again, maybe that’s why she didn’t want him to know. Maybe the real show was seeing other people’s reactions to Alex on camera.
“You have a copy of today’s paper, John?” Alex reached for theTimesas John handed it through the partition in the Plexiglas. He skimmed through the entertainment section until he reached the movie listings.
Desperado, Antony and Cleopatra, and of course,The Story of His Life. He smiled. If Cassie wanted to see him at work, he could make it that much easier.
He asked John to turn off the radio and he closed his eyes, tuning out the world and in to his senses. Before the film rolled, he always found a quiet corner where he could slip into character. It was a matter of breathing; of concentrating so hard on the pattern and then altering it just slightly to match the way his character would.
Where breathing started, life followed. Antony drank in the air, as if taking in the entire world with one single breath. When he opened his eyes he saw a world of green and gold that had been spread at his feet. He murmured the names of the exits on the highway in a precise British accent. He did not deign to look at John; he would not do so with his servants. He rolled down his window and let the wind gust over his face, blowing his hair back and scalding his eyes. He touched the smooth leather seats and thought of the curves of his queen.
At the apartment, when Alex made no move to get out of the car, John shrugged and ran up the walk to collect Mrs. Rivers. He was used to this sort of thing from his employer. It wasn’t his nature to talk, but sometimes he’d pick up Mr. Rivers and drop off a completely different man.
Cassie was laughing as she stepped into the car. “Move,” she said.
“You’re hogging the back seat.” Alex was sitting in the center, and he stared at her but made no effort to shift to one side or the other. Assuming this was some game, she flopped down beside him, landing half on his thigh.
She felt his hand on the back of her neck, gentle and tense at the same time, as if even a caress could serve to remind her how easily he could overpower her. She narrowed her eyes and turned to him. “What in God’s name did they do to you at that hospital?”
His fingers tightened almost to the point of pain, and she cried out softly before she could stop herself. He was looking directly at her but she had the sense he was seeing someone else. Panicked, she clawed at Alex’s wrist. “Cut it out,” she whispered, and before she could ask him again what was the matter, his body pinned her to the seat and his mouth seared over hers in a kiss that was not like Alex at all.
He’s acting.
She dug her nails into his arms and bit down on his lip until she had enough force to push him away. “Stop it,” she ordered. “Just stop it now.”
For a moment he froze, his eyes paling to the gray of Arctic ice and then slowly draining of life until all that sat across from Cassie was a shell. And then something shuddered its way up his body, moving like a blush, bringing color to his skin and settling as a spark in his eyes.
He was Alex again, and he shrugged. “You didn’t have to bite me,” he said. “I just figured you’d like a firsthand performance, too.”
Still cautious, Cassie curled up at the far side of the back seat. “Who told you where I went?” she accused, her eyes sliding to John in the front.
Alex reached for her hand and laced his fingers with hers. “I know everything about you,” he said, smiling.
She was beginning to think that he did. He was back to being the Alex she’d grown accustomed to in the past few days, funny and gentle and comfortable as a worn armchair. Cassie wondered if this was just another character he’d played along the line, one he kept himself wrapped in most of the time.
She shook her head to clear it. What was she thinking? She had seen Alex with his guard down—when he talked about his parents, when he tried to teach her karate on the shallows of the beach, when he reached for her in his sleep and whispered her name. It was impossible to act all the time; it was ridiculous to think that what she saw was not real. She squeezed his hand. “Sorry,” she said. “I don’t usually bite.”
He turned slightly, patting his side, and she willingly slid closer to him. “But what made you pickAntony, for God’s sake?”
Alex smiled. “You used to love Antony when we were first married,”
he said.
Cassie opened her mouth to object, but changed her mind. Alex was right. He did know everything about her, and at the present moment she still knew next to nothing, and the only choice she had was to believe him.
They drove for fifteen minutes in silence, and then Cassie felt Alex kiss the top of her head. “You’re probably just nervous about meeting the staff all over again,” he said.
Cassie stared out the window. She knew she was passing trees and roads and flowering bushes, but the car was moving so quickly that the world was just puddled in colors; she could pick nothing out individually. “Yes,” she said. “That must be it.”
THE HOUSE STOOD AT THE END OF A MILE-LONG DRIVEWAY UP A winding hill in Bel-Air, a white mansion with wrought-iron grillwork and a slate roof. The front porch supported a second-story veranda where floor-length lace curtains blew through open French doors. Roses climbed up a trellis on the left side of the house; heliotrope wound its way up the right. In the distance Cassie could see formal gardens and two smaller houses, little white replicas of the main house. It looked for all the world like a Louisiana plantation.
“My God,” she whispered, hearing the gravel crunch beneath her sneaker as she stepped out of the car. “I can’t possibly live here.”
