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wig and makeup, you look so damn much like her that even I find it difficult to believe you're not Carol. And yet you're such a contrast to Carol! So pale and silver-blonde and-shy. I'm right, aren't I?
    Why did you really agree to this little charade, Anne?"
    "You already answered that yourself, Harris. Remember? When you said how persuasive Carol could be." Anne shrugged. "And it was an adventure for me, of course. My life up till now hasn't been half as interesting as Carol's must be!"
    Harris Phelps sighed. Disappointment or exasperation? Anne wished he'd stop talking, stop trying to psych her out. She didn't want to think beyond going through with this and getting it over with. Then she'd make an appearance as herself at the party in Carol's suite after the play.

Chapter Four
    HARRIS PHELPS WAS INTRIGUED with Anne Hyatt. He was used to another kind of woman-women who were flamboyantly beautiful and bold and very willing, especially when they discovered how rich he was. He was also used to hiding his real emotions under the mild facade he chose to present to the outside world.
    Harris had inherited money, and had turned his father's millions into a billion or more of his own. He looked like-and was-an epicure who could afford his tastes. Of middle height, he kept himself trim with exercise, massages, and steam baths, and had a medical checkup once a month. He played passable tennis and excellent golf. His hair was carefully styled, and his small mustache added what he thought of as a debonair and slightly rakish look to his face. Only the Phelps nose kept his features from being classified as regularly handsome. The long, proudly curved nose belied the thin and sensitive lips; it was the nose of a robber baron, a strong and unscrupulous man used to getting what he wanted, no matter what the means. But most people who met Harris Phelps and listened to his incessant, almost gossipy stream of chatter passed him off as just another playboy with inherited money-and forgot to be cautious, which worked to his advantage.

    Harris called himself a dilettante of the new school; in a bygone age he would have been called a patron of the arts. At the moment he was interested in the performing arts-motion pictures and legitimate theater. A hobby-and why not? He could afford half a dozen hobbies if he wanted to, but he needed the challenge. He had other ambitions too, but he was smart enough and patient enough to know that this wasn't yet the time to move toward them ...
    Anne was raptly watching the stage again. Gazing at her classically beautiful profile, Phelps caught himself wondering again what it was that really intrigued him so about this woman. She wasn't his type as far as mistresses went. He liked to be seen with long-stemmed, big-breasted women, especially those who were well-known in their Own right. Like Carol Cochran. He was Carol's official man-friend of the moment, but that didn't mean too much; both he and Carol understood that the arrangement was nothing permanent, leaving them both free to look elsewhere. He knew that what Carol really saw was his money-but that was only fair, because Carol herself was just another trophy to him.
    But Anne Hyatt-Anne Reardon Hyatt, Harris corrected him-self-was something different. He'd seen her first as Richard Reardon's daughter-and he was one of the few men who knew what Richard Reardon stood for and the extent of the man's awesome power. But he'd begun to see her as a woman, see through to her deeply hidden potential, during the past hour that he'd been acting as chaperone and mentor.
    So she was divorcing her husband and breaking loose from the confines of a rigidly protected life. He couldn't blame her. But was she really as virginal and untouchable as she seemed? No gossip about her in Washington circles; Harris recalled hearing from Melissa Meredith that Craig Hyatt's wife was a mouse of a woman! Of course, one learned to discount half of what Melissa said; she was a