Carey patiently stood back while Rutledge opened the door to the library after one knock and announced in his deep basso, “Count Charles Fersten.”
Sylvie jumped up and ran toward Carey, her silver hair shining in the lamp-lit room, the fuschia silk jumpsuit she wore an incongruous color amid the muted brown tones of old leather-bound books and cherrywood paneling. With dainty sandaled feet flying over the kilim carpet, she crossed the broad expanse of floor, her arms held wide. Carey braced himself for one of her impetuous hugs.
Rutledge discreetly shut the door at her first purring words. “I missed you, dear husband.”
“Ex-husband, Sylvie,” Carey murmured, gently extricating himself from her scented embrace, suspiciously wondering if he'd been lured here on false pretenses. “Where's Egon?”
“You look wonderful, darling,” Sylvie breathed in dulcet tones, her beautifully made-up eyes taking in the full impact of one of the handsomest men on six continents. “I like your new haircut.”
“It's not new.”
“It looks new,” she replied with a wifely intonation.
“Cut it out, Sylvie. I've been hacking my own hair for years and you know it.” Carey's streaked blond hair was spiky and unkempt, as usual.
“Well, I haven't seen you for so long,” she cooed, exuding seduction with practiced skill. “It looks different. Do you like my new Messilina outfit?” she went on, stepping back and holding out her arms so the svelte beauty of her silk-sheathed body was fully visible. “He did it exclusively for me.”
“Sylvie,” Carey said with more patience than he was feeling after an eight-hour flight, “I didn't fly all day to come here and exchange pleasantries. The Messilina's wonderful; he's got a helluva touch. You look marvelous, as always, but Egon better be here, or I'm going to want your throat. Right on the spot.” His hands were jammed into his jacket pockets, and his look bordered on glowering.
“What a suspicious man.” A small, studied moue accompanied the delicate affront.
“Living with you for two years develops the faculty, or one doesn't survive.”
“Not nice, love, but then you always were hard to handle with your evil temper,” she reproached with the tiniest smile.
“Hard to handle… because I won't take your orders twenty-four hours a day? True, Sylvie, I'm harder than hell to handle.”
“Pooh… you're no fun anymore. Can't you take a little teasing?” She looked up at him from under tinted lashes and softly said, “If I remember, you adored teasing in Yugoslavia and in Florence the first six months we were married.”
Carey looked back at her with a dark glance. “If you recall, Yugoslavia and Florence were only blurs; neither of us had a single straight day until we woke up in Rome at Easter. So if I seem serious in contrast to that, it's called living in the real world. Which I'd like to try and help Egon do, if you'd kindly show me which room he's strung out in.”
“No memories, Carey?” Her voice was soft, her violet eyes ardent. Although he was all business, she had other plans for his five-day stay.
He gazed at her and thought, as he had a thousand times over the past three years, how much Sylvie reminded him of Molly. Molly, the woman who loved him, but not enough. Molly, who married her fiancй because she was too frightened to tell her parents two weeks before the wedding-planned down to the last crabmeat canapй for over a year-that she was in love with someone else. It was probably the only reason he'd married Sylvie-that resemblance. Not exactly the memories she had in mind. “We had some good times, Sylvie,” Carey said kindly. “Now what you should do,” he went on with a pleasant smile, “is marry one of those young men hanging around on your yacht. You'd make some banker papa ecstatic.”
“They're boring, love. Everyone's boring, except you.”
“I'm boring now, too. Just work and ride, ride and work. Boring as hell.”
“Boring?” She ran a practiced glance over his body. Her hand, provocatively slow, touched him lightly on the fine wool of his jacket sleeve. “That will be the day.”
He moved back just out of reach in a casual way. “Swear to God, Sylvie. Even my mother is complaining of how dreary I've become. She compared me to my father the other day, and that's the ultimate in disparaging remarks about hermit types.” And yet, it was true. Since his days with Sylvie, Carey's life had altered drastically. He was working hard and doing some of the best filming of his career. He was riding better than ever, with total concentration, and it showed. He and Tarrytown had picked up firsts at Autueil and Liverpool and if the Hunt Cup race next week went well, he had a good chance at the triple crown in steeplechase. It had never been done before. Dickson-Smith had taken the Hunt Cup and Grand National in 1975, but came in second at Autueil. Which reminded him just how little time he had here with Egon before the race. “Now if you'll let me get my hands on Egon, I'll try to talk some sense into his beautiful addled head.”
CHAPTER 9
E gon was lying on his bed, his eyes half shut, looking at nothing. Three TV screens opposite the bed were tuned to different stations. Carey walked over to the elaborate communications system, pressed some switches, and the screens went dead.
“Goddammit, turn those on. I'm watching Dallas.” Egon's eyes remained unfocused for a moment, and then closed.
Carey approached the bed and said, “I'll turn it on in a minute. Hi, Egon. You're on the nod again, Sylvie says. Need some help?”
Egon's head turned in slow motion and his eyes filled with tears. “I'm scared, Carey. They bombed my car. You know that. They bombed my car. Sylvie won't give me anything. I'm out and she won't get me any more. I need a hit, Carey, now.” His skin was cold, moist, bluish; the hand he held out to Carey trembled.
Carey squatted down near the bed so that their eyes were level. Egon's pupils were contracted to pinpoints. “Egon, now listen to me. You've had too much already. You look like hell, like some damn ascetic monk. Have you eaten this week?”
“I haven't been hungry.” Egon's eyes closed.
Carey shook him hard, and his eyes slowly opened. “Listen to me, Egon. I've got five days before I have to fly back. Now I'm willing to hold your hand and talk to you and feed you spaghetti alle vongole-”
“With fresh raspberries for dessert,” Egon whispered.
“With fresh raspberries, you brat,” Carey said, grinning. “But you've got to take hold. You hear? I've only five days.”
Egon's eyes twitched slightly in his effort to smile. “I love you, Carey.”
“I love you, too, but don't get any ideas,” he bantered. “Now, do you think you can stand if I lift you up?”
“Sure, Carey.” But he was dead weight, although he pathetically tried to steady himself, sweat dripping from his tortured body. His slender form shuddered. “I need a hit. I can't make it,” he whispered, hanging in Carey's arms.
Carey felt his heart contract at the infinitely fragile ownership Egon had on his own life. His muscles taut with the effort, Carey lifted Egon into his arms and carried him over to a chair by the window. He lowered him into it, setting Egon's hands carefully on the chair arms for support. “I've got some chemicals,” he quietly remarked, bending close so Egon could see his face. “Just to take off the edge, but you have to promise to eat.”
Egon's voice was a thready whisper. “I'll eat, Carey. I promise.”
“Sit up, don't fall,” Carey cautioned, his smile kind and accepting. “I'll get a glass of water for these pills.”
After a touching attempt to swallow a few mouthfuls of food to please Carey, the drugs began to ease Egon out of his stupor. It reminded Carey of Vietnam, carrying a grown man, but the bed was large and white and clean when he brought Egon back from the chair, and there was a servant there to help him dress Egon in dry clothes. No mud, no blood, no stench of death. Ten minutes later Egon was sleeping, this time peacefully.