Ring of Fear
- Автор: Маккефри Энн
- Язык: английский
- Жанр: Научная фантастика
Электронная книга - «Ring of Fear». Краткое содержание книги:
“Michaels might contest that statement,” Rafe remarked quietly, “but I’d say Marchmount’s being blackmailed.”
I said nothing, watching as Mrs. Madison (I simply couldn’t bring myself to call her my mother-in-law) fussed over Marchmount. He had certainly failed terribly since…
“Don’t,” Rafe said, and when I looked at him question-ingly, his eyes were dark. “And don’t feel sorry for him, Nialla. His memory’s not gone; he’s high.”
“He doesn’t act drunk.”
“Drunk? He’s not drunk, Nialla. He’s on drugs. Didn’t you notice his eyes? The wide pupil? The vague smile and lack of association?”
“I’m for that.”
“Good to see you again, Ralph,” said one of those over-hearty voices that can puncture eardrums. “You always marry the prettiest girls.” Before I could turn, I was whirled around and bussed with thick wet lips, “And the most kissable.”
I wanted to wipe my mouth of the distasteful impression, but the man was looming over us, his presence a combination of an expensive, musky cologne, active male, and alcohol.
“I can always count on you, Paddy,” Rafe said in a dry tone, gathering me back against him, away from the hearty, heavy man.
“Paddy Skerrit’s the name, in case you didn’t get it first time around. Wendy babbles so you can’t catch names. Tied the knot Tuesday in Sunbury, I hear?”
Rafe agreed to that, making no attempt to encourage conversation.
“Going to put her to work for you, huh? I expect”- and he gave me a buffet on the shoulder which hurt-“that Russell Donnelly’s girl knows horses, eh? Never thought you’d stick the bloodstock game, Ralph, but you inherited something from Big Mike after all, I guess. Say, you didn’t dump that Fairchild-Hiller stock did you? No? Good lad. Hold on to it. I know it’s going up again. Sure can’t go down further.” And the man’s florid face lost its bluff geniality as he introduced this sober topic.
Rafe, too, looked grave, and sipped at his drink. “I’d say it hasn’t hit bottom yet.” Then he launched into a discussion of debentures and coupons and percentages that were incomprehensible to me. I hadn’t actually thought of Rafe as a businessman-outside of horses-but Paddy Skerrit soon stopped patronizing remarks and listened to what Rafe was saying, so I assumed he was knowledgeable indeed. Sam came by with a tray of hot hors d’oeuvres. Skerrit scooped up a fistful and began popping them into his mouth like so many peanuts.
One of those gauntly thin women who looked exceedingly elegant at twenty feet slid up to me. Very brilliant dark eyes scrutinized me from sunken sockets. The skin of her face was so tautly stretched across her face bones it looked painful. There wasn’t an ash-blonde hair out of place in her teased coiffure, and not a line in her face.
“You must really mean it this time, Ralph,” she said, smile-less, although her tone of voice indicated she was being amusing. Her eyes flicked to the coral necklace. “He never broke out the family jewels for the others, my dear,” she said to me, and her hand on my arm was dry and stiff.
“You’re looking well, Iona. Taken any good cures lately?” Rafe said.
She shrugged, and the neck skin wrinkled, completely destroying the illusion of youth in her face.
“I don’t dare relax these days, Ralph. Too many fascinating things happening.” And her eyes slid over me as she turned her head toward the tableau of Madison, Marchmount, and Urscoll. "Think she'll be next in the family, dear?" And there was malicious amusement in her slurred question.
Paddy Skerrit snorted contemptuously at the idea. "Nonsense. The man's got a bum heart."
"I think Wendy rather fancies herself in the role of the doting, ministering angel, don't you, Ralph?" Iona's eyes glittered with a hungry expectation.
"My mother has fancied herself in many roles," Rafe replied casually.
"They say Marchmount's lost heavily since the scandal over his trainer. Ooops, sorry," she said, patting my arm with a familiarity I found very offensive. "Of course, the state of the market doesn't help much, does it? And he had all that money in railroads. I told him, and I know you did, too, Paddy, when we were at Palm Springs, that railroads are out, definitely passй. I've unloaded all I had. Transferred to airlines, though I don't like what Pan Am has been doing since they split."
"What? Eschewing foods, Iona?" Rafe asked. I couldn't believe the pun. Or that they didn't get it.
"I'm sick to death of food products," she said in a voice that was almost a snarl. She tossed off the last of her drink and called out to Sam, holding her glass up significantly.
"Now, Iona, you promised…" A David Niven type hurried up and took the glass from her hand. His eyes had a sort of harried, anxious look, though he smiled around pleasantly.
"What I promise, Terry, and what I decide to do are often miles apart," she said in a hard, shrewish voice.
Terry swallowed nervously, encircling her thin waist and drawing her against him placatingly.
"And this party's dead. Dead. Dead!" She went on, glaring at me. "I don't know what's happened to Wendy since she took up with Lou. She used to give good parties, with lots of fun, and people worth talking to. Now she's hiding away and being so… so parsimonious. I need a drink! Sam!" She broke away from Terry and stalked across the terrace to the bar. Terry followed.
"Gawd! She just got dried out," Paddy remarked in what he used for a stage whisper, but if Iona heard him, she was more interested in obtaining a drink.
More guests arrived at that moment, three men and a black-haired woman who kept her arm hooked through her escort's as if she would actively resist being parted from him. I was so astonished at the costume of the tallest man that I really didn't look much at the others. He was one of those long thin people who appear taller than they actually are. He affected muttonchops, long wavy hair that was clean and probably styled, though that style didn't suit him. He wore a white see-through lace shirt, an ornate medallion, white drill pants, and sandals that, mercifully, showed clean feet and polished nails. But he was completely out of place in this milieu.
"Ralph, darling, so you've done it again," the woman exclaimed, inclining toward me, so that I realized we were to touch cheeks. She wore an exceedingly expensive and heavy perfume. "I'm Nancy McCormack, and this is my husband, Ted." But Ted was not the man to whom she was attached. "Jeff Fermaugh"-she edged closer to him (if possible)-"and the outrageous one is Bobby Wellesley. Bobby, I told you Faith would be here. There she is at the bar."
The men had shaken my hand and said appropriate things to Rafe as she made the introductions. Abruptly Bobby Wellesley's limp hand left mine, and he lurched toward the pretty fair-haired girl talking with Dennis.
"I used to see you at Agnes du Maurier's place when you had red hair," Ted McCormack said, eyeing my cropped head.
"Nialla got singed at Sunbury," Rafe said, and I realized he liked Ted McCormack. "G-Barn finally caught fire, and Nialla went in after her gelding. Damn fool."
"You did too," I said, a little self-conscious under Ted McCormack's admiring eyes.
"Rode out of the barn on the nag's head," Rafe said, grinning.
"Horse safe?"
"Lost some hide, but so did Nialla," Rafe replied, indicating my legs. "Gelding got a cinder lodged in the off-hind, but that's healing nicely."
"Jumper?"
Rafe laughed. "You'd probably recognize him as Juggernaut, Ted."
McCormack reacted with a surprised double-take. "You don't mean this little bit of nothing rides that bastard?"
"Rides him like he was a Sunday-canter-in-the-park hack." And Rafe beamed with pride at me.
"Live up to your red hair, don't you? Sorry about your father, Nialla. He was a damned good trainer." McCormack's eyes flicked from me to Marchmount, reclining on the glider, and his expression was perceptibly disgusted.