In the next few days Annabel sensed a strange, excited tension in the air. It began with a new influx of visitors, indicating that the pre-festival parties had begun.
“Tyrone Power is here, with his pretty French bride!” The word spread like wildfire as the newlyweds entered the lobby of the Grand Hotel and were mobbed by guests clamoring for autographs, and reporters who’d sneaked in with flashbulbs popping. The American actor, with his jet-black hair and fiery gaze, smiled shyly and obligingly.
Annabel, passing through the lobby, paused to watch in fascination. Journalists were shouting questions about Tyrone’s new film, Jesse James, in which he portrayed the legendary outlaw as a hero.
The society photographers kept snapping many pictures of his bride, a French actress, smiling at his side. Tyrone had married her recently in Rome against the strenuous objections of his studio boss, Darryl Zanuck, who wanted the “heartthrob” actor to remain a bachelor so as not to upset the fantasies of female fans that translated to box office success.
Annabel saw the same English lady who’d interviewed Jack, now smirking as she said in a stage whisper to her photographer, “My dear, don’t you know? Zanuck tried to bribe the bride with a multi-movie deal if only she’d stay away from Tyrone—but she turned it down and got married anyway! French women are so romantic; no American actress would do that! So the bride is now being blackballed in Hollywood. They say she’ll never work there again.”
It made Annabel wonder just how far Sonny was willing to go to hold on to Téa.
Annabel hurried off to the grand ballroom, where flunkies from Olympia Studios stood guard, allowing no one to enter who wasn’t on their “list.” She entered.
Téa was sitting in a chair with a makeup bib tucked under her chin. A slim, middle-aged Frenchwoman in a pink smock was putting the finishing touches on the star’s lovely face.
At the same time, a fastidious-looking local hairdresser, a tall man with blond hair and carefully manicured fingernails, was hovering around her possessively.
“I really wish you’d let me give you a color rinse,” he wheedled in a French accent.
“You ought to listen to him,” Alan said testily to Téa. “He does all the best people on the Riviera, and even the richest women wait months to get booked into his salon in Cannes.”
Téa spotted Annabel and cried out triumphantly, “There is my expert! You must all listen to her. Come, Annabel, I need you!”
An American photographer was waiting beside his camera to take the publicity stills. He eyed Annabel skeptically. “This is your lighting person?” he said to Alan.
“Téa’s secretary,” Alan said significantly. The makeup woman and the hairdresser all stopped what they were doing to stare at her in disbelief.
“She needs her hair lightened,” the hairdresser insisted with a venomous look.
Annabel, mortified to be at the center of a power struggle, was rescued by a fellow in workman’s clothes who said, “Are you the lighting lady? Here’s the equipment you asked for. Please check it out and see if it’s all here.”
It gave her some real business to focus on, and this restored her confidence. “Yes, please put them there,” she said firmly. “Téa, your hair looks fine. Sit here.” She pulled out a chair.
She heard the hairdresser say in French to the makeup girl, “That little bitch is going to ruin this shoot.”
Annabel turned on him and said sharply, “Tais-toi!”
The man jumped as if he’d been bitten. Alan, amused, said, “What did you just say?”
“I told him to shut up,” Annabel retorted. “I want him out of here.”
Téa fixed her violet gaze on the hairdresser and said, “Do as she says.”
The man glared at Alan, who just threw up his hands. So the hairdresser turned on his heel and stalked off. The makeup woman, seeing where the power was today, murmured in French to Annabel, “Just as well! He goes up and down the coast eavesdropping on all the clientele, because he’s spying for the fascists, you know!” She looked utterly serious.
“How is my makeup?” Téa whispered gratefully to Annabel.
She assessed it and said, “Fine, but the matte red lipstick is too strong, even for black-and-white photos. A sheer pinky rose would be less harsh and reflect the light better.”
The makeup lady scurried to her table and returned with a cloth to wipe off the old lipstick and a new pot of color to replace it.
Annabel arranged some lights and then climbed a ladder and put a few above. Téa sat looking out the window, as immobile as a marble statue, while Alan paced around the room. Jack stopped by to lend moral support. The photographer grunted over his camera. All these men were as impatient as caged lions, but Annabel ignored them until at last she turned the lights just so and got the effect she wanted.
“Ready!” she announced.
Téa immediately snapped into her best poses, assuming that luminous yet tragic quality that she seemed to summon as if she’d gone off into a trance. She was a professional; she knew her “good” side, knew how to tilt her chin at a certain angle, raise her eyes so that they became like pools suggesting hidden depths, while she let her mouth drop slightly open in an expression of both purity and desire.
And as for her hair—it looked like a soft golden cloud with an otherworldly glow. The photographer had been peering into his camera with a frown of concentration, but then he said excitedly, “Hey, that’ll work!” and, inspired, he snapped away, saying, “Beautiful, beautiful. Look this way, please. Excellent!”
Alan had stopped circling the room and now stood at the ladder below Annabel, even holding out his hand to help her down when the shoot ended. But she didn’t like the way he said, “Well! Our little American secretary has hidden talents.”
When she returned to the villa with Jack and Téa, they opened a bottle of champagne to celebrate. Téa kissed Annabel on each cheek, then collapsed into a chair and murmured, “Thank God—no bleach for me!”
* * *
Shortly after that session, Téa quietly vanished. Jack explained that she had accepted the yacht party invitation and gone sailing off on Herr Volney’s yacht to meet his friends in Monte Carlo. “Sonny and Alan told her to go,” he said. “But I don’t think they realized how long she’d have to stay there.”
Annabel nodded, saying sympathetically, “I guess she has to be nice to them. Does she have family stuck back there in Germany?”
Jack said briefly, “Sure. Her father and a brother. They depend on her financially. But personally, I think she’s just glad to get away from Sonny and his seven-year contract.” His gloomy tone indicated that he felt abandoned, too.
It was obvious that Jack and Sonny were engaged in a tug-of-war over Téa, both wanting her absolute allegiance and expecting her to denounce the other man. No wonder she’d gone off to Monaco, even if she had to use the devil’s own yacht to get there.
Jack sighed. “Well, Sonny says Téa’s been very helpful with Herr Hardass; so we’re going ahead with the pre-festival screening of Love Isn’t Easy. If we succeed in Cannes, then even the Nazis might allow the German distribution.”
Annabel was secretly glad to have these afternoons completely alone with Jack. He was now concentrating on the script he wanted to write and direct for his next project.
Unlike Scott, who was only interested in Annabel’s life in the United States, Jack had become intensely curious about her French lineage. So she dutifully answered his questions about her father, Oncle JP, even Delphine. Then they plotted their location scouting.
“We’ll start with a tour of the old town of Nice, because it’s got cobbled streets and ancient churches,” she told him, ticking off her list. “Then the old seaport in Cannes with the colorful fishing boats; and we should swing by the high corniche road where Napoleon marched back to Paris from his first exile. The view is breathtaking.”
“Sounds good,” he said, leaning his head closer to hers to peer at the map. Annabel once again felt something magnetic pass between them.
Her feelings for him just seemed to intensify. Each day when she arrived and found him seated in a poolside chair waiting for her with an inviting smile, she had to fight off the urge to sit in his lap just to feel his fine, hard leg muscles beneath her. Simply thinking about it made her body ache with longing. At such times she would duck her head and wait for the feeling to subside so he wouldn’t see the exquisite agony of her desire.
* * *
One afternoon, exhausted from their sightseeing, they returned to the villa and sat in the chairs by the pool, drinking iced tea with sweet lemons from the coastal town of Menton.
Jack said thoughtfully, “We’ve got good locations, but we still haven’t found the right hometown village for my heroine! These coastal towns and fishing ports have all become too touristy.” He took a gulp of tea and then said, “Tell me about the Maginot Line.”
She glanced up in surprise. “How do you know about that?”
“Well, it’s not exactly a secret, is it?” he said. “The French are proud of it, n’est-ce pas?”
“It’s a series of forts scattered at key places along the border,” she said soberly. “But it wasn’t built until after the Great War, so you can’t use it in your film. It was built because of the Great War.”
“I could use it at the end of the film. To show why it was built—to stop men like Hitler, right? Is there one of those forts around here?”
She hesitated. “Yes. Up in the mountains above Menton and Roquebrune. It’s on one of the highest spots in the Riviera. It’s so high up they say you feel like an angel in the clouds. But Jack, the fort isn’t a tourist area, especially these days!”
“I know,” he said enthusiastically. “That’s what makes it so intriguing. Are there any unique, old-fashioned little villages near that fort, in those mountains, like, on the border? A place that time forgot?”
She told him she’d heard of a charming town called Sainte-Agnès, poised on the highest peak. Jack leaned forward. “What’d you say this place is called? What’s a Sahnt Ann-yez?”
“No, no, it’s Sainte A-g-n-è-s,” Annabel explained, writing it down.
“Oh, Saint Agg-ness. Why didn’t you say so?”
“I did. The French do not pronounce the g in Agnès as the English do.” Then she warned, “Some roads there are so narrow you can barely get a car through; they were probably donkey trails! And there are no safety rails. Raphael, our concierge, says if you fall off a cliff, you tumble into a gorge that seems to have no bottom.”
“Sounds perfect! I want to see the town and the fort,” Jack said, suddenly fired up with so much enthusiasm that Annabel felt slightly alarmed. Hollywood people were so mercurial, their moods so sudden and extreme.
“Well, you can’t go up to Sainte-Agnès too early in the day, because it takes longer for the sun to come up over the mountain. And you can’t go this late in the afternoon; we’ll never make it down the mountain before dark—and in the dark, you will fall into a gorge for sure.”
As if to prove her point about the time, the antique clock in the villa began chiming the hour. Annabel rose to go. “We must plan ahead for this one,” she advised. “Midday is best.”
“Fine, you pick the date, and put it on the schedule!” He clapped his hands and said, “Great!” Then he rose beside her. “You’re great, too,” he murmured, leaning closer.
Annabel felt that same delicate tension between them, and she waited for him to withdraw from the intimate moment, as usual—but this time he did not. He paused, as if to make sure that she wanted him, too. She tilted her head upward, feeling her heart beating faster. Her lips parted softly with that unbearable hunger for him; suddenly all she wanted was to press her body against his and devour him.
He pulled her closer, put his arms around her, and sought her mouth with his. The first kiss was gentle and friendly; then harder, again and again, each time making her catch her breath, each kiss longer and hungrier, taking their time, until ending in a long, languid, lingering one before they finally broke free and sighed for air.
“You are lovely,” he said softly. “So very lovely.”
Her lips were still wet from his kisses, and she felt that she was also wet where her culottes were. In this dazzling August heat she even felt as if she might actually swoon, which she had never believed possible outside of romantic movies.
Jack was still holding her hand, but now he let it go as they heard a car pulling up on the gravel driveway. A moment later the studio’s French driver came up the walk, carrying a suit of evening clothes from the tailor, which he deposited for Jack in the villa, then departed discreetly. He was a middle-aged man with a quiet step and his uniform hat pulled low over his eyes.
But the spell had been broken just by his fleeting presence. Jack said thoughtfully, “There’s going to be a party tonight. A masked ball. They say it’s the Grand Hotel’s first big pre-festival event. But Téa warned me she won’t be back from Monaco in time for this party. Anyway, I’ve got to show up at this damned thing, but I can’t ask another actress without setting the gossip columnists into a frenzy and upsetting Téa.” He gave her his most winning smile. “So, Annabel dear, I would be honored if you’d be my guest.”
She felt a wild surge of joy at the realization that her only real rival for Jack’s attentions wouldn’t be here tonight. She didn’t even mind that she herself wasn’t important enough for either the gossips or Téa to take seriously.
“Oh, but how could I?” she said softly. “I’ve nothing to wear.”
“Téa’s got plenty of stuff inside, and you’re the same height and size,” he said appraisingly. “Come by tonight and we’ll outfit you like a princess, mask and all.”
“All right,” she murmured, for it was simply inconceivable to say no to Jack.
But then she remembered. “Oh, Jack! I think Scott asked me to go with him.”
“Tell him I asked you first, and you didn’t realize it was the same gig,” he suggested with a wink.
* * *
The next day Annabel had a guilty morning, working with Scott. She didn’t want to hurt his feelings, but she simply could not give up this opportunity to be with Jack all night long in such a glamorous setting.
“Scott,” she said finally, “I’m so sorry, but when I agreed to go to the charity ball with you, I didn’t realize that it was the same event as Rick Bladey’s party.”
The playboy heir was hosting this gala because he was the biggest donor to the children’s charity, so he’d paid for the party itself as well, in order to show off his stature at the Grand Hotel to all the other rich people who’d flocked to the Riviera in the hopes of meeting so many glittering movie stars in one place.
So Annabel thought her excuse was entirely plausible. “I’d already accepted another man’s invitation, um, first, you see,” she said bravely to Scott, for this was the truly dishonest part of her speech. “I’m afraid I can’t—”
Scott said directly, “Who are you going with, instead of me?”
“Jack Cabot,” she said, hoping that she wasn’t blushing.
“Ahhh.”
She waited to see if he was upset, insulted, angry. But Scott’s fine, sensitive face revealed nothing, except for a passing glint in his eye that flashed like lightning and was gone. Then he broke out in a grin.
“I told you before,” he said in a paternal tone, “and it bears repeating, you are a terrible liar. You have a tell, and I am not going to say what it is, because I intend to rely on it. So truly, I advise you never to lie to me again, and don’t lie to others unless absolutely necessary.”
Annabel felt insulted to be tagged as naive.
“And don’t pout,” Scott said. “You ought to be glad I’m taking it so well. At my age, all I have left is my dignity. I’ll be forty-three next month.”
Well, you are a married man, after all, she thought.
“Just save me a tango,” he said jokingly. “And if you see me surrounded by a bevy of thirsty starlets who expect all men to buy them drinks, come rescue me.”
She realized that part of her job was exactly that: to keep this man from “falling off the wagon.” So she said playfully, “I will definitely be keeping an eye on you.”
“No, you won’t,” he said ruefully. “Not when you’re dancing with Jack Cabot! You know why he got his first big break? The secretaries in the studio. They were called in to view his screen test, and they all said, ‘Oh, he’s so divine—he’s like Cary Grant and Clark Gable and John Barrymore and John Gilbert all rolled up in one!’”
Now she felt slighted at being referred to as a girl from the secretarial pool. She wasn’t sure what she wanted from life, but she certainly didn’t want to be a secretary forever.
“How come Jack’s not going with Téa?” Scott asked suddenly.
“She’s in Monte Carlo with that Nazi who owns the big yacht,” she said. “You know. The ‘personal friend’ of Goebbels. Sonny and Alan made her go. Jack’s worried about it.”
“Hmm. Well, don’t you worry about Téa and Jack. They’re killers, too. Be careful, Annabel. These movie stars seem like nice people who desperately need our love, but they’re not like you and me. They’re highly strung, so when they get nervous, they rear up and break things—and when they cause accidents, it’s usually the other guy who gets killed.”
It was just the kind of thing that Oncle JP would say, Annabel thought impatiently. She didn’t want advice, nor to even think about her uncle right now. She was counting on the fact that this party was a masked ball and nobody would recognize her to report back to Oncle JP. He himself would make sure that everything was in its proper place before the party began, but then he’d go home tonight to have dinner with little Delphine, as he did every night.
Annabel loved them both, but their modest, quiet routines sometimes made her feel quite old. She was only twenty, and the larger world with its fun and frolic beckoned, even with all its dangers supposedly lurking behind every bush, in this terrifyingly modern century.
* * *
When Annabel arrived at the villa, Jack was in the pool but hanging on to the side of it so that he could speak to a man standing above him outside the pool, bending down to talk. The visitor was dressed in light white flannels, and as he straightened up and headed toward Annabel, she recognized him as the young hotel heir.
“Bonjour, mademoiselle.” Rick glanced at her curiously. “What are you doing here?”
Annabel felt this was unduly nosey. “I do secretarial work for Olympia Studios.”
“Oh, is that so?” Rick asked, gazing at her with those smiling blue eyes. “Well, I just may invest in Jack’s new project. Maybe you and I will end up working together.”
She gave a polite smile but felt her usual irritation with him. Yes, he was handsome, but in a way that he himself clearly knew about; and that finely sculpted face never seemed to reflect any serious care in the world. In fact, his features were more perfect than those of most movie stars, who all had some quirky aspect, even a flaw, that made them uniquely fascinating.
Rick was evidently accustomed to women being enchanted by both his looks and his father’s money, which Rick would one day surely inherit. Perversely, Annabel enjoyed not being impressed by him as she gathered her steno pad and pencil to put away in her bag.
This seemed to make him try even harder to charm her. “And how is little Delphine?” he asked finally, this with a genuine smile. “Has she kept up with her swimming lessons?”
Annabel relented slightly, for Rick was the only guest who’d ever really noticed Delphine, much less cared about her, except for the tennis player. Annabel gave him a warmer smile and admitted, “Delphine and I haven’t been swimming much lately. Maybe we’ll go back to our lessons in the autumn, when it’s not so hot outside and things are quieter here.”
“Good idea. The water will still be warm enough. Wait till the tourists are out of the way. That guy who runs Olympia Studios is making his chubby daughter take swim lessons in the pool with the head lifeguard early each morning, before it officially opens up,” Rick said. “Poor Cissy. I made the mistake of going there early one day, and she insisted I watch her practice her dives, over and over again. Man, what a splash. She looked like a baby hippo in a watering hole.” He shook his head. “What a family,” he said as he sauntered off.
Jack had climbed out of the pool and was toweling off. He came up to Annabel and said easily, “Why don’t you have a look around Téa’s closet for that gown they sent over, the one with the mask? Don’t worry, she won’t mind. She lets friends borrow clothes all the time. Unlike most women, Téa doesn’t get attached to baubles and things. That’s why big men so often fail to impress her with showy gifts.”
Despite his assurances, Annabel found herself tiptoeing into Téa’s bedroom like a thief. She opened the closet door to a feast of silk and chiffon. There was a low-cut, slinky silver lamé number; a bouffant gold gown that looked like something from the Sun King’s court at Versailles; a midnight-blue taffeta; and a chic ruby-red silk number.
Upon closer inspection it was obvious that the beautiful bouffant gold was destined for this party, for it had a matching mask pinned to the hanger, as well as a matching wrap, slippers, and tiny purse—and even a golden wig that Marie Antoinette would have coveted.
Annabel had brought her own makeup, and now she went to Téa’s vanity table and carefully did her face. But she discovered that she’d forgotten to bring her powder compact.
She studied the array of Téa’s cosmetic paraphernalia on the table. A black-and-gold lacquer box contained several jars of makeup. A matching cup held brushes. There were cut-crystal bottles and jars whose tops were all a matching black-and-tan enamel trimmed in gold, with gold scripting indicating that they contained custom-made creams of varying hues.
Some bottles were apparently missing from their slots, and there didn’t seem to be any pressed powder. Perhaps Téa had taken those things with her to Monaco.
Cautiously, Annabel opened a small drawer, next to the one with the silk scarves. There was no makeup there, just more scarves, and a book covered in pink satin that had Diary 1939 scripted in red embroidery in three languages. She recalled how Téa had scornfully said she didn’t use that diary. And right next to it was a tangle of that beautiful string of pearls, just thrown in the drawer without so much as a box or velvet pouch to protect it.
Jack had said that both of these were gifts from Sonny. Well, Téa was a woman who simply refused to be bought, and Annabel admired her for it.
In the last drawer, she found a large box of loose powder and a fluffy puff. She powdered herself lightly, then dressed quickly and carefully, feeling as if she were discarding her old life and stepping into a more glamorous future. She put on the wig and the gold mask, which was trimmed with sequins and gold feathers.
Gazing at her image in the mirror, she found it almost frightening. She looked like a firebird from a Stravinsky ballet. Well, maybe she could scare a few people tonight. She’d never done so before. It gave her the sense that, at least on this occasion, she could be anybody she wanted to be, even a dangerous woman! That would be fun.
Suddenly she heard a loud, angry male voice, which at first she did not recognize, coming from the next room. “I absolutely will not do it!” Jack Cabot was shouting in a tone she’d never heard from him before. “You tell Sonny he can find somebody else to babysit that brat of his! I tell you, I’ve already asked someone else. Never mind who.”
Annabel had come to the doorway, aghast. Jack was standing at the entrance to the villa, already dressed beautifully in a pale-grey summer tailcoat. His shined shoes gleamed. His black mask lay on a small hall table.
A short, bald man stood beside him, imploring, “Gimme a break, willya, Jack?”
Then both men glanced up at Annabel; the other man did not recognize her because of the mask, but he looked startled. “I thought Téa was in Monte,” he said.
“She is,” Jack said shortly, not looking up as he furiously lit a cigarette.
The man’s face registered the fact that an unknown female had just emerged from one of the bedrooms in the villa. Then he resumed his pleading. “Jack, I been Sonny’s PR man for thirty years. And I tell you, if you don’t do this favor for Sonny, he’ll never let you forget it. He’s already livid about Téa skipping out on this party. He thought she’d be back in time. So you just gotta escort Cissy to the ball.”
“Aw, dry up. Don’t tell me they waited till the last minute to find her an escort! Somebody else bowed out, right?” Jack demanded.
“Nope, it was Cissy who turned him down. Some cowboy extra who sings while he throws a lariat. Sonny’s trying to turn him into something bigger, a movie star. Anyway, she was s’posed to go with him, but she said he said something rude to her today when he saw her in her swimsuit.”
“Then get a lifeguard to escort her! Why should I be rude to my date?” Jack demanded.
“Sorry about this, Miss,” the man said briefly in the direction of Annabel. But he was not to be dissuaded. “Jack, believe me, you don’t want to piss off Sonny right now, when he’s moving heaven and earth to rescue that film of yours.”
“Sonny could have gotten any actor to play Prince Charming tonight. He’s doing this just to humiliate me,” Jack said furiously, exhaling smoke from his cigarette.
“No, no. You don’t understand. The poor kid’s been on a starvation diet just to be presentable for parties like this one. It’s a big deal, for her, for Sonny. And this party is a charity event. So be charitable. Look at it this way: if you’re kind to Cissy, she and her mom will be singing your praises to Sonny forever.”
Jack looked at Annabel. She didn’t dare speak and reveal her identity, but she nodded slowly. He raised his eyebrows in disbelief, so she nodded again, this time more firmly.
Jack muttered, “It would almost be worth it, to drive Sonny crazy by making him hear his daughter and his wife rave about me for the rest of his life.”
“Attaboy!”
“I didn’t say I’d do it.”
“Man, if you don’t take Cissy, then Sonny will want to know who this girl is that you’re taking instead, and he’ll go out of his way to make trouble for her, too,” the PR man said meaningfully, jerking his head toward Annabel.
She froze, thinking of what Oncle JP would say if this whole thing blew up.
It was that last bit that seemed to convince Jack. “I never thought of that,” he admitted.
“Sure, you don’t wanna make trouble for this nice lady, do you?” the PR man agreed.
Jack gave a deep sigh. “Get Cissy presentable. Will you at least do that for me?”
“Sure, sure. That family’s had everybody working on her all week. Masseuse, manicurist, seamstress, hairdresser, makeup lady, the works.”
The PR man pumped Jack’s hand in a grateful handshake and then hurried off.
Jack turned to Annabel, still scowling. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “You look beautiful.”
“Thanks,” she said in a small voice. Jack took her hand and kissed it as if he meant it.
He picked up his mask, an ornate black affair with gold trim and black feathers. He took her hand again, and she followed him outside. They stood by the pool for a moment.
“You’d better not keep Cissy waiting,” she said, resuming her old role of a hotel employee.
He sighed. “I’m going straight to the bar to get a stiff drink. Looks like I’ll need it tonight.” And he went off with the attitude of a man heading for a firing squad.
Annabel watched him go down the path to the hotel. The moon had already risen in the blue sky, which would soon darken and be dotted with stars. It was a beautiful night for a ball. She could even hear, very faintly, the stirrings of the first big party at the hotel, the sounds of a band tuning up, the distant murmur of voices. There would be other big parties this month. But she surely wouldn’t be invited to them.
She walked out to the front gate of the Villa Sanctuaire, still unwilling to give up her borrowed wings from Téa’s closet, feeling like a Cinderella who hadn’t even gotten a single dance with her prince before her carriage turned back into a pumpkin.
“Bonsoir, princesse!” came a voice from the path. She knew who it was; Scott was probably on his way to the party, too.
“Stood you up, did he?” Scott could not resist saying. “The bum.”
“It wasn’t his fault,” she began, but he waved her off.
“I know, I know. I heard the whole thing. How could I help but hear him howling? Personally I think Jack should have stuck to his guns. Suppose Cissy falls in love with him tonight? And her mama and papa demand he marries her? Then he’s really in the soup.”
“You imagine the most extreme things—just to turn them into your short stories!” Annabel chided jokingly. Scott was always so fatherly with her that she could not help teasing him sometimes, the way a daughter would scold.
“That is precisely why people like me become authors,” he replied. “The human race is so damned unmanageable that we have to invent a new world we can at least influence, if not control. You like my mask?” he asked, producing a small, foldable one from his pocket. It was a simple style, just an eye mask. “They’re giving these out at the hotel for people like me who don’t have those elaborate custom-made ones. See? Blue for the men, red for the women.”
Annabel said suddenly, “Where did you get that tailcoat?”
“I borrowed it out of Jack Cabot’s closet while he was swimming,” he said easily. “The studio sent him three of them to choose from. So he never even missed it.”
“This is Téa’s gown,” she confessed. “But I at least got permission.”
“For the gown, or for the man?” Scott could not resist saying slyly. Annabel pretended she hadn’t heard him. He said, “Well, at least I don’t have to go stag to this party, after all.”
She hesitated only a moment, then followed him down the path. “I don’t know how I’m going to get away with this,” she confessed, suddenly nervous. “If any of the staff or guests recognize me, someone is bound to report me to my uncle!”
“I’ll tell everybody that you’re a princess who speaks only Arabic,” Scott suggested. “Don’t worry. Everybody’s in disguise tonight.”