Читать книгу Mind Over Matter: the classic story from the queen of romance that you won’t be able to put down - Нора Робертс - Страница 7

Preproduction meetings generally left his staff frazzled and out of sorts. David thrived on them. Lists of figures that insisted on being balanced appealed to the practical side of him. Translating those figures into lights, sets and props challenged his creativity. If he hadn’t enjoyed finding ways to merge the two, he never would have chosen to be a producer.

He was a man who had a reputation for knowing his own mind and altering circumstances to suit it. The reputation permeated his professional life and filtered through to the personal. As a producer he was tough and, according to many directors, not always fair. As a man he was generous and, according to many women, not always warm.

David would give a director creative freedom, but only to a point. When the creative freedom tempted the director to veer from David’s overall view of a project, he stopped him dead. He would discuss, listen and at times compromise. An astute director would realize that the compromise hadn’t affected the producer’s wishes in the least.

In a relationship he would give a woman an easy, attentive companion. If a woman preferred roses, there would be roses. If she enjoyed rides in the country, there would be rides in the country. But if she attempted to get beneath the skin, he stopped her dead. He would discuss, listen and at times compromise. An astute woman would realize the compromise hadn’t affected the man in the least.

Directors would call him tough, but would grudgingly admit they would work with him again. Women would call him cool, but would smile when they heard his voice over the phone.

Neither of these things came to him through carefully thought-out strategy, but simply because he was a man who was careful with his private thoughts—and private needs.

By the time the preproduction meetings were over, the location set and the format gelled, David was anxious for results. He’d picked his team individually, down to the last technician. Because he’d developed a personal interest in Clarissa DeBasse, he decided to begin with her. His choice, he was certain, had nothing to do with her agent.

His initial desire to have her interviewed in her own home was cut off quickly by a brief memo from A. J. Fields. Miss DeBasse was entitled to her privacy. Period. Unwilling to be hampered by a technicality, David arranged for the studio to be decorated in precisely the same homey, suburban atmosphere. He’d have her interviewed there by veteran journalist Alex Marshall. David wanted to thread credibility through speculation. A man of Marshall’s reputation could do it for him.

David kept in the background and let his crew take over. He’d had problems with this director before, but both projects they’d collaborated on had won awards. The end product, to David, was the bottom line.

“Put a filter on that light,” the director ordered. “We may have to look like we’re sitting in the furniture department in the mall, but I want atmosphere. Alex, if you’d run through your intro, I’d like to get a fix on the angle.”

“Fine.” Reluctantly Alex tapped out his two-dollar cigar and went to work. David checked his watch. Clarissa was late, but not late enough to cause alarm yet. In another ten minutes he’d have an assistant give her a call. He watched Alex run through the intro flawlessly, then wait while the director fussed with the lights. Deciding he wasn’t needed at the moment, David opted to make the call himself. Only he’d make it to A.J.’s office. No harm in giving her a hard time, he thought as he pushed through the studio doors. She seemed to be the better for it.

“Oh, David, I do apologize.”

He stopped as Clarissa hurried down the hallway. She wasn’t anyone’s aunt today, he thought, as she reached out to take his hands. Her hair was swept dramatically back, making her look both flamboyant and years younger. There was a necklace of silver links around her neck that held an amethyst the size of his thumb. Her makeup was artfully applied to accent clear blue eyes, just as her dress, deep and rich, accented them. This wasn’t the woman who’d fed him meat loaf.

“Clarissa, you look wonderful.”

“Thank you. I’m afraid I didn’t have much time to prepare. I got the days mixed, you see, and was right in the middle of weeding my petunias when Aurora came to pick me up.”

He caught himself looking over her shoulder and down the hall. “She’s here?”

“She’s parking the car.” Clarissa glanced back over her shoulder with a sigh. “I know I’m a trial to her, always have been.”

“She doesn’t seem to feel that way.”

“No, she doesn’t. Aurora’s so generous.”

He’d reserve judgment on that one. “Are you ready, or would you like some coffee or tea first?”

“No, no, I don’t like any stimulants when I’m working. They tend to cloud things.” Their hands were still linked when her gaze fastened on his. “You’re a bit restless, David.”

She said it the moment he’d looked back, and seen A.J. coming down the hall. “I’m always edgy on a shoot,” he said absently. Why was it he hadn’t noticed how she walked before? Fast and fluid.

“That’s not it,” Clarissa commented, and patted his hand. “But I won’t invade your privacy. Ah, here’s Aurora. Should we start?”

“We already have,” he murmured, still watching A.J.

“Good morning, David. I hope we haven’t thrown you off schedule.”

She was as sleek and professional as she’d been the first time he’d seen her. Why was it now that he noticed small details? The collar of her blouse rose high on what he knew was a long, slender neck. Her mouth was unpainted. He wanted to take a step closer to see if she wore the same scent. Instead he took Clarissa’s arm. “Not at all. I take it you want to watch.”

“Of course.”

“Just inside here, Clarissa.” He pushed open the door. “I’d like to introduce you to your director, Sam Cauldwell. Sam.” It didn’t appear to bother David that he was interrupting his director. A.J. noticed that he stood where he was and waited for Cauldwell to come to him. She could hardly censure him for it when she’d have used the same technique herself. “This is Clarissa DeBasse.”

Cauldwell stemmed obvious impatience to take her hand. “A pleasure, Miss DeBasse. I read both your books to give myself a feel for your segment of the program.”

“That’s very kind of you. I hope you enjoyed them.”

“I don’t know if ‘enjoyed’ is the right word.” He gave a quick shake of his head. “They certainly gave me something to think about.”

“Miss DeBasse is ready to start whenever you’re set.”

“Great. Would you mind taking a seat over here. We’ll take a voice test and recheck the lighting.”

As Cauldwell led her away, David saw A.J. watching him like a hawk. “You make a habit of hovering over your clients, A.J.?”

Satisfied that Clarissa was all right for the moment, A.J. turned to him. “Yes. Just the way I imagine you hover over your directors.”

“All in a day’s work, right? You can get a better view from over here.”

“Thanks.” She moved with him to the left of the studio, watching as Clarissa was introduced to Alex Marshall. The veteran newscaster was tall, lean and distinguished. Twenty-five years in the game had etched a few lines on his face, but the gray threading through his hair contrasted nicely with his deep tan. “A wise choice for your narrator,” she commented.

“The face America trusts.”

“There’s that, of course. Also, I can’t imagine him putting up with any nonsense. Bring in a palm reader from Sunset Boulevard and he’ll make her look like a fool regardless of the script.”

“That’s right.” A.J. sent him an even look. “He won’t make a fool out of Clarissa.”

He gave her a slow, acknowledging nod. “That’s what I’m counting on. I called your office last week.”

“Yes, I know.” A.J. saw Clarissa laugh at something Alex said. “Didn’t my assistant get back to you?”

“I didn’t want to talk to your assistant.”

“I’ve been tied up. You’ve very nearly recreated Clarissa’s living room, haven’t you?”

“That’s the idea. You’re trying to avoid me, A.J.” He shifted just enough to block her view, so that she was forced to look at him. Because he’d annoyed her, she made the look thorough, starting at his shoes, worn canvas high-tops, up the casual pleated slacks to the open collar of his shirt before she settled on his face.

“I’d hoped you catch on.”

“And you might succeed at it.” He ran his finger down her lapel, over a pin of a half-moon. “But she’s going to get in the way.” He glanced over his shoulder at Clarissa.

She schooled herself for this, lectured herself and rehearsed the right responses. Somehow it wasn’t as easy as she’d imagined. “David, you don’t seem to be one of those men who are attracted to rejection.”

“No.” His thumb continued to move over the pin as he looked back at her. “You don’t seem to be one of those women who pretend disinterest to attract.”

“I don’t pretend anything.” She looked directly into his eyes, determined not a flicker of her own unease would show. “I am disinterested. And you’re standing in my way.”

“That’s something that might get to be a habit.” But he moved aside.

It took nearly another forty-five minutes of discussion, changes and technical fine-tuning before they were ready to shoot. Because she was relieved David was busy elsewhere, A.J. waited patiently. Which meant she only checked her watch half a dozen times. Clarissa sat easily on the sofa and sipped water. But whenever she glanced up and looked in her direction, A.J. was glad she’d decided to come.

The shoot began well enough. Clarissa sat with Alex on the sofa. He asked questions; she answered. They touched on clairvoyance, precognition, Clarissa’s interest in astrology. Clarissa had a knack for taking long, confusing phrases and making them simple, understandable. One of the reasons she was often in demand on the lecture circuit was her ability to take the mysteries of psi and relate them to the average person. It was one area A.J. could be certain Clarissa DeBasse would handle herself. Relaxing, she took a piece of hard candy out of her briefcase in lieu of lunch.

They shot, reshot, altered angles and repeated themselves for the camera. Hours passed, but A.J. was content. Quality was the order of day. She wanted nothing less for Clarissa.

Then they brought out the cards.

She’d nearly taken a step forward, when the slightest signal from Clarissa had her fuming and staying where she was. She hated this, and always had.

“Problem?”

She hadn’t realized he’d come up beside her. A.J. sent David a killing look before she riveted her attention on the set again. “We didn’t discuss anything like this.”

“The cards?” Surprised by her response, David, too, watched the set. “We cleared it with Clarissa.”

A.J. set her teeth. “Next time, Brady, clear it with me.”

David decided that whatever nasty retort he could make would wait when Alex’s broadcaster’s voice rose rich and clear in the studio. “Miss DeBasse, using cards to test ESP is a rather standard device, isn’t it?”

“A rather limited test, yes. They’re also an aid in testing telepathy.”

“You’ve been involved in testing of this sort before, at Stanford, UCLA, Columbia, Duke, as well as institutions in England.”

“Yes, I have.”

“Would you mind explaining the process?”

“Of course. The cards used in laboratory tests are generally two colors, with perhaps five different shapes. Squares, circles, wavy lines, that sort of thing. Using these, it’s possible to determine chance and what goes beyond chance. That is, with two colors, it’s naturally a fifty-fifty proposition. If a subject hits the colors fifty percent of the time, it’s accepted as chance. If a subject hits sixty percent, then it’s ten percent over chance.”

“It sounds relatively simple.”

“With colors alone, yes. The shapes alter that. With, say, twenty-five cards in a run, the tester is able to determine by the number of hits, or correct answers, how much over chance the subject guessed. If the subject hits fifteen times out of twenty-five, it can be assumed the subject’s ESP abilities are highly tuned.”

“She’s very good,” David murmured.

“Damned right she is.” A.J. folded her arms and tried not to be annoyed. This was Clarissa’s business, and no one knew it better.

“Could you explain how it works—for you, that is?” Alex idly shuffled the pack of cards as he spoke to her. “Do you get a feeling when a card is held up?”

“A picture,” Clarissa corrected. “One gets a picture.”

“Are you saying you get an actual picture of the card?”

“An actual picture can be held in your hand.” She smiled at him patiently. “I’m sure you read a great deal, Mr. Marshall.”

“Yes, I do.”

“When you read, the words, the phrasings make pictures in your head. This is very similar to that.”

“I see.” His doubt was obvious, and to David, the perfect reaction. “That’s imagination.”

“ESP requires a control of the imagination and a sharpening of concentration.”

“Can anyone do this?”

“That’s something that’s still being researched. There are some who feel ESP can be learned. Others believe psychics are born. My own opinion falls in between.”

“Can you explain?”

“I think every one of us has certain talents or abilities, and the degree to which they’re developed and used depends on the individual. It’s possible to block these abilities. It’s more usual, I think, to simply ignore them so that they never come into question.”

“Your abilities have been documented. We’d like to give an impromptu demonstration here, with your cooperation.”

“Of course.”

“This is an ordinary deck of playing cards. One of the crew purchased them this morning, and you haven’t handled them. Is that right?”

“No, I haven’t. I’m not very clever with games.” She smiled, half apologetic, half amused, and delighted the director.

“Now if I pick a card and hold it like this.” Alex pulled one from the middle of the deck and held its back to her. “Can you tell me what it is?”

“No.” Her smile never faded as the director started to signal to stop the tape. “You’ll have to look at the card, Mr. Marshall, think of it, actually try to picture it in your mind.” As the tape continued to roll, Alex nodded and obliged her. “I’m afraid you’re not concentrating very hard, but it’s a red card. That’s better.” She beamed at him. “Nine of diamonds.”

The camera caught the surprise on his face before he turned the card over. Nine of diamonds. He pulled a second card and repeated the process. When they reached the third, Clarissa stopped, frowning.

“You’re trying to confuse me by thinking of a card other than the one in your hand. It blurs things a bit, but the ten of clubs comes through stronger.”

“Fascinating,” Alex murmured as he turned over the ten of clubs. “Really fascinating.”

“I’m afraid this sort of thing is often no more than a parlor game,” Clarissa corrected. “A clever mentalist can do nearly the same thing—in a different way, of course.”

“You’re saying it’s a trick.”

“I’m saying it can be. I’m not good at tricks myself, so I don’t try them, but I can appreciate a good show.”

“You started your career by reading palms.” Alex set down the cards, not entirely sure of himself.

“A long time ago. Technically anyone can read a palm, interpret the lines.” She held hers out to him. “Lines that represent finance, emotion, length of life. A good book out of the library will tell you exactly what to look for and how to find it. A sensitive doesn’t actually read a palm so much as absorb feelings.”

Charmed, but far from sold, Alex held out his. “I don’t quite see how you could absorb feelings by looking at the palm of my hand.”

“You transmit them,” she told him. “Just as you transmit everything else, your hopes, your sorrows, your joys. I can take your palm and at a glance tell you that you communicate well and have a solid financial base, but that would hardly be earth-shattering news. But…” She held her own out to him. “If you don’t mind,” she began, and cupped his hand in hers. “I can look again and say that—” She stopped, blinked and stared at him. “Oh.”

A.J. made a move forward, only to be blocked by David. “Let her be,” he muttered. “This is a documentary, remember. We can’t have it staged and tidy. If she’s uncomfortable with this part of the tape we can cut it.”

“If she’s uncomfortable you will cut it.”

Clarissa’s hand was smooth and firm under Alex’s, but her eyes were wide and stunned. “Should I be nervous?” he asked, only half joking.

“Oh, no.” With a little laugh, she cleared her throat. “No, not at all. You have very strong vibrations, Mr. Marshall.”

“Thank you. I think.”

“You’re a widower, fifteen, sixteen years now. You were a very good husband.” She smiled at him, relaxed again. “You can be proud of that. And a good father.”

“I appreciate that, Miss DeBasse, but again, it’s hardly news.”

She continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “Both your children are settled now, which eases your mind, as it does any parent’s. They never gave you a great deal of worry, though there was a period with your son, during his early twenties, when you had some rough spots. But some people take longer to find their niche, don’t they?”

He wasn’t smiling anymore, but staring at her as intensely as she stared at him. “I suppose.”

“You’re a perfectionist, in your work and in your private life. That made it a little difficult for your son. He couldn’t quite live up to your expectations. You shouldn’t have worried so much, but of course all parents do. Now that he’s going to be a father himself, you’re closer. The idea of grandchildren pleases you. At the same time it makes you think more about the future—your own mortality. But I wonder if you’re wise to be thinking of retiring. You’re in the prime of your life and too used to deadlines and rushing to be content with that fishing boat for very long. Now if you’d—” She stopped herself with a little shake of the head. “I’m sorry. I tend to ramble on when someone interests me. I’m always afraid of getting too personal.”

“Not at all.” He closed his hand into a loose fist. “Miss DeBasse, you’re quite amazing.”

“Cut!” Cauldwell could have gotten down on his knees and kissed Clarissa’s feet. Alex Marshall considering retirement. There hadn’t been so much as a murmur of it on the grapevine. “I want to see the playback in thirty minutes. Alex, thank you. It’s a great start. Miss DeBasse—” He’d have taken her hand again if he hadn’t been a little leery of giving off the wrong vibrations. “You were sensational. I can’t wait to start the next segment with you.”

Before he’d finished thanking her, A.J. was at her side. She knew what would happen, what invariably happened. One of the crew would come up and tell Clarissa about a “funny thing that happened to him.” Then there would be another asking for his palm to be read. Some would be smirking, others would be curious, but inside of ten minutes Clarissa would be surrounded.

“If you’re ready, I’ll drive you home,” A.J. began.

“Now I thought we’d settled that.” Clarissa looked idly around for her purse without any idea where she’d set it. “It’s too far for you to drive all the way to Newport Beach and back again.”

“Just part of the service.” A.J. handed her the purse she’d been holding throughout the shoot.

“Oh, thank you, dear. I couldn’t imagine what I’d done with it. I’ll take a cab.”

“We have a driver for you.” David didn’t have to look at A.J. to know she was steaming. He could all but feel the heat. “We wouldn’t dream of having you take a cab all the way back.”

“That’s very kind.”

“But it won’t be necessary,” A.J. put in.

“No, it won’t.” Smoothly Alex edged in and took Clarissa’s hand. “I’m hoping Miss DeBasse will allow me to drive her home—after she has dinner with me.”

“That would be lovely,” Clarissa told him before A.J. could say a word. “I hope I didn’t embarrass you, Mr. Marshall.”

“Not at all. In fact, I was fascinated.”

“How nice. Thank you for staying with me, dear.” She kissed A.J.’s cheek. “It always puts me at ease. Good night, David.”

“Good night, Clarissa. Alex.” He stood beside A.J. as they linked arms and strolled out of the studio. “A nice-looking couple.”

Before the words were out of his mouth, A.J. turned on him. If it had been possible to grow fangs, she’d have grown them. “You jerk.” She was halfway to the studio doors before he stopped her.

“And what’s eating you?”

If he hadn’t said it with a smile on his face, she might have controlled herself. “I want to see that last fifteen minutes of tape, Brady, and if I don’t like what I see, it’s out.”

“I don’t recall anything in the contract about you having editing rights, A.J.”

“There’s nothing in the contract saying that Clarissa would read palms, either.”

“Granted. Alex ad-libbed that, and it worked very well. What’s the problem?”

“You were watching, damn it.” Needing to turn her temper on something, she rammed through the studio doors.

“I was,” David agreed as he took her arm to slow her down. “But obviously I didn’t see what you did.”

“She was covering.” A.J. raked a hand through her hair. “She felt something as soon as she took his hand. When you look at the tape you’ll see five, ten seconds where she just stares.”

“So it adds to the mystique. It’s effective.”

“Damn your ‘effective’!” She swung around so quickly she nearly knocked him into a wall. “I don’t like to see her hit that way. I happen to care about her as a person, not just a commodity.”

“All right, hold it. Hold it!” He caught up to her again as she shoved through the outside door. “There didn’t seem to be a thing wrong with Clarissa when she left here.”

“I don’t like it.” A.J. stormed down the steps toward the parking lot. “First the lousy cards. I’m sick of seeing her tested that way.”

“A.J., the cards are a natural. She’s done that same test, in much greater intensity, for institutes all over the country.”

“I know. And it makes me furious that she has to prove herself over and over. Then that palm business. Something upset her.” She began to pace on the patch of lawn bordering the sidewalk. “There was something there and I didn’t even have the chance to talk to her about it before that six-foot reporter with the golden voice muscled in.”

“Alex?” Though he tried, for at least five seconds, to control himself, David roared with laughter. “God, you’re priceless.”

Her eyes narrowed, her face paled with rage, she stopped pacing. “So you think it’s funny, do you? A trusting, amazingly innocent woman goes off with a virtual stranger and you laugh. If anything happens to her—”

“Happens?” David rolled his eyes skyward. “Good God, A.J., Alex Marshall is hardly a maniac. He’s a highly respected member of the news media. And Clarissa is certainly old enough to make up her own mind—and make her own dates.”

“It’s not a date.”

“Looked that way to me.”

She opened her mouth, shut it again, then whirled around toward the parking lot.

“Now wait a minute. I said wait.” He took her by both arms and trapped her between himself and a parked car. “I’ll be damned if I’m going to chase you all over L.A.”

“Just go back inside and take a look at that take. I want to see it tomorrow.”

“I don’t take orders from paranoid agents or anyone else. We’re going to settle this right here. I don’t know what’s working on you, A.J., but I can’t believe you’re this upset because a client’s going out to dinner.”

“She’s not just a client,” A.J. hurled back at him. “She’s my mother.”

Her furious announcement left them both momentarily speechless. He continued to hold her by the shoulders while she fought to even her breathing. Of course he should have seen it, David realized. The shape of the face, the eyes. Especially the eyes. “I’ll be damned.”

“I can only second that,” she murmured, then let herself lean back against the car. “Look, that’s not for publication. Understand?”

“Why?”

“Because we both prefer it that way. Our relationship is private.”

“All right.” He rarely argued with privacy. “Okay, that explains why you take such a personal interest, but I think you carry it a bit too far.”

“I don’t care what you think.” Because her head was beginning to pound, she straightened. “Excuse me.”

“No.” Calmly David blocked her way. “Some people might say you interfere with your mother’s life because you don’t have enough to fill your own.”

Her eyes became very dark, her skin very pale. “My life is none of your business, Brady.”

“Not at the moment, but while this project’s going on, Clarissa’s is. Give her some room, A.J.”

Because it sounded so reasonable, her hackles rose. “You don’t understand.”

“No, maybe you should explain it to me.”

“What if Alex Marshall presses her for an interview over dinner? What if he wants to get her alone so he can hammer at her?”

“What if he simply wanted to have dinner with an interesting, attractive woman? You might give Clarissa more credit.”

She folded her arms. “I won’t have her hurt.”

He could argue with her. He could even try reason. Somehow he didn’t think either would work quite yet. “Let’s go for a drive.”

“What?”

“A drive. You and me.” He smiled at her. “It happens to be my car you’re leaning on.”

“Oh, sorry.” She straightened again. “I have to get back to the office. There’s some paperwork I let hang today.”

“Then it can hang until tomorrow.” Drawing out his keys, he unlocked the door. “I could use a ride along the beach.”