Prelude to Terror Read Online Free PDF Page A

for white silk pants and black shirt. High heels had been replaced with flat sandals, amber earrings with demure pearl studs. Beads were no longer worn as a tight neck-band; a simple long gold chain now broke the severity of the shirt. Eye-shadow was reduced in intensity, lipstick lightened and mouth reshaped. She hoped, as she surveyed the transformation, that it would reassure Colin Grant: this was the way he had first seen her. Basset’s good right hand, at the Arizona luncheon. It would also emphasise the fact that she had taken considerable trouble this afternoon to stay unidentified in New York. Caution had been, was still necessary; she would give him all the reasons why. If he came... Would he? She gave one last glance at her reflection in the mirror. You obviously believe he will turn up, she told herself. But only one half of her mind was on herself and her successful visit to Schofeld’s. (Not even the Times critic, who had visited Basset for an interview, had recognised her.) The other half was on Gene Marck, now waiting in the sitting-room next door. Or was he still ’phoning?
    He had arrived just before nine, when she was in the shower. A strange man, with moods that varied from hot to cold. Tonight he was in one of his coldest. He hadn’t even stayed beside her while she dressed; instead he had dropped two brief kisses that were almost as absent-minded as his excuse for retreating into the sitting-room to wait for a call from Washington. She guessed it was more business discussion with the architect who was reconstructing the Virginia house for Basset’s museum. Why hadn’t Gene stayed in his own room—at the end of this corridor, an arrangement to keep anyone from connecting the two of them—and received his nine o’clock call there? Once the call was over, he hadn’t returned to the bedroom. Calls of his own to make? Of course, he was worried. He always worried about details. Which was no excuse to use her sitting-room as a public ’phone booth.
    Anger had slowed her, kept her late, one way of administering a rebuke. Would he even be aware of it? Annoyance was dying; she could shake her head over her attempt at discipline. Gene was Gene. He had his own ways, and nothing would change them. He could be warm and passionate—she had never known such love. He could be detached and remote. But that, she reminded herself, was nothing to do with her. He had told her so. And he did have immense responsibilities. He was Victor Basset’s private accountant for the art collection—he kept score on purchases, values, restoration, insurance, all that heavy but important business, and added enough good advice to make him one of Basset’s favourite aides. My very favourite, too, she thought, and decided it was time to enter the sitting-room.
    Gene Marck put down the ’phone and rose to meet her. He was of medium height and careful about his weight, a healthy specimen with skin tanned by Arizona sun. His hair was thick and blond, with grey beginning at the temples. The diplomat’s look, Lois Westerbrook called it. (She had always liked men who were older. Gene was forty-eight.) Now he was studying her dress. “Very suitable,” he said with marked approval. “Well worth waiting for.”
    So his mood had improved. She could safely allow her own to sharpen. “I didn’t want to disturb your ’phone calls.”
    “Now, now,” he said warningly, but a quick smile softened his serious face, strong-boned, tight-lipped, transforming him into a warm and amiable man. It dropped away, just as suddenly as it had appeared. Once more he was business-like and alert.
    Worried too, she thought, noticing the furrow that deepened between his eyebrows, always a sign of stress. His clear blue eyes had that distant look as if he were seeing beyond her and this room. “How did you get on today? Did you meet—”
    He took her in his arms, interrupted her with a kiss. “Careful! My hair and lipstick! You don’t want Mr. Colin