Picture Perfect Part 3

he said, touching her shoulder. He leaned closer and shook her lightly, shocked to notice that the pillow and blanket no longer smelled like him, but like her. "Jane, get up."

She blinked at him and rolled over. "Is it time?" she asked, and he nodded.

He made coffee while she was showering, in case she wanted something in her stomach before they left, but she wanted to go right away. He sat beside her in the pickup and drove in silence, letting all the words he should have been saying clutter the s.p.a.ce around him. I'll miss you, he had planned to tell her. Call if you get a chance. If anything happens, well, you know where I am.

Jane stared gla.s.sy-eyed at the freeway, her hands clenched in her lap.

She did not speak until they turned into the parking lot of the police station. At first, her voice was so quiet that Will thought he had heard her incorrectly. "Do you think he'll like me?"

Will had expected her to wonder aloud about whether she'd remember her husband the minute she laid eyes on him, or to speculate about where her home was. He had not expected this.

He didn't have a chance to answer. A flock of reporters pushed their way toward the truck, snapping flash cameras and calling out questions that tangled with each other in a knot of noise. Jane shrank back against the seat. "Come on," Will said, sliding his arm around her shoulders.

He pulled her toward the driver's-side door. "Just stick close to me."

Who the h.e.l.l was she? Even if she was this Barrett person, this anthropologist, and even if she'd discovered that hand, this kind of press coverage seemed to be a little overboard. Will guided Jane up the steps and into the main lobby of the station, feeling her warm breath make a circle against his collarbone.

Standing beside Captain Watkins was Alex Rivers.

Will dropped his arm from Jane's shoulders. Alex G.o.dd.a.m.n Rivers.

All these reporters, all these cameras had nothing to do with Jane at all.

The corner of Will's mouth tipped up. Jane was married to the number-one movie star in America. And she'd completely forgotten.

THE FIRST THING SHE NOTICED WAS THAT WILL HAD STEPPED AWAY from her. For a moment she was certain she wouldn't be able to stand on her own. She was afraid to look up and face all those people, but something was keeping her on her feet and she needed to see what it was.

She lifted her head and was bound by Alex Rivers's eyes.

Taboo.

"Ca.s.sie?" He took a step forward, and then another one, and she unconsciously stepped closer to Will. "Do you know who I am?"

Of course she knew him; everyone knew him, he was Alex Rivers, for G.o.d's sake. She nodded, and that's when she noticed how faulty her perception had become. Alex Rivers's face kept shimmering in and out, the way the heat rising off asphalt in the summer sometimes makes you see double. One moment, Ca.s.sie saw him glossy and larger than life; in the next, he seemed to be nothing more than a man.

An instant before he reached for her, all of Ca.s.sie's senses seemed to converge upon one another. She could feel the warmth coming from his skin, see the light reflecting off his hair, hear the whispers that wrapped them closer together. She smelled the clean sandalwood of his shaving cream and the light starch of his shirt. Tentatively, she stretched her arms around him, knowing exactly where her fingers would meet the muscles of his back. Anthropology, she thought, the study of how people fit into their world. She closed her eyes and fell into the familiar.

"G.o.d, Ca.s.sie, I didn't know what happened. Herb called me in Scotland." His breath fell just over her ear. "I love you, pichouette."

It was that word that made her pull away. She looked up at him, at this man every woman in America dreamed about, and she took a step back. "Do you have a picture?" she asked softly. "Something that shows, you know, you and me, somewhere?"

She did not question why, days ago, when she wasn't thinking clearly, she had so easily trusted Will; yet here she was asking for proof before she'd let Alex Rivers take her away. Alex frowned for a moment, and then pulled his wallet out of his back pocket. He handed her a laminated picture, a wedding photo.

It was certainly him, and it was certainly her, and she looked happy and cherished and sure. She gave it back to Alex. He put away his wallet and held out his hand.

She stared at it.

Somewhere behind her, she heard a desk clerk snicker. "s.h.i.t," the woman said, "if she got her doubts, I'll go with him."

She laced her fingers through Alex's and watched as his expression completely changed. The vertical line of worry between his brows smoothed, the thin line of his lips softened into a smile, and his eyes began to shine. He lit up the room, and Ca.s.sie felt her breath catch.

Me, she thought, he wants me.

Alex Rivers let go of her hand and put his arm around her waist. "If you don't get your memory back," he whispered, "I'll just make you fall in love with me all over again. I'll take you back to Tanzania and I'll mix up all your bone samples and you can throw a shovel at me-"

"I'm an anthropologist?" she cried.

Alex nodded. "It's how we met," he said.

She bubbled at the thought of that. Her hand. It was her hand, after all; and through some miracle of G.o.d Alex Rivers seemed to be in love with her, and- Will. She turned to see him standing a few feet away and shrugged out of the circle of Alex's arm. "I am an anthropologist," she said, smiling.

"I heard," he said. "So did most of L.A."

She grinned at him. "Well. Thank you." She raised her eyebrows. "I wasn't really expecting it to end this way." She stuck out her hand, and then impulsively threw her arms around his neck. Over her shoulder, Will did not miss the flicker that iced Alex Rivers's eyes for a fraction of a second.

He loosened Jane's-Ca.s.sie's-arms and held them down at her sides, furtively slipping into her palm the piece of paper he'd marked with his address and phone numbers. He leaned forward to kiss her cheek. "If you ever need anything," he whispered, and then he stepped back.

Ca.s.sie stuffed the paper into the pocket of her jacket and thanked him again. She apparently led a storybook life. What would she possibly need?

Alex was waiting patiently at the door of the station. He framed Ca.s.sie's face in his palms. "You don't know-" he said, his voice faltering. "You don't know what it was like to lose you."

Ca.s.sie stared at him, absorbing the fear in his tone. She was frightened too, but that seemed secondary all of a sudden. Acting on instinct, she smiled up at Alex. "It wasn't for very long," she said softly, rea.s.suringly. "And I wasn't very far away."

Ca.s.sie watched Alex's shoulders relax. Amazing-when he seemed to be calmer, she felt better too.

Alex glanced out at the swarming media. "This isn't going to be pleasant," he said apologetically, as he anch.o.r.ed her close to his side and opened the heavy front door.

He held one hand in front of his eyes and pushed a path for them through the growing throng of paparazzi and cameramen. Ca.s.sie looked up, dazed, only to see a looming face and then the explosion of a flashbulb. The early air closed in around her throat and, blinded, she had no choice but to turn her face into Alex's chest. She felt him squeeze her arm, felt his heartbeat against her shoulder, and she willingly sacrificed herself to the strength of this strange husband.

CHAPTER FOUR.

THE Malibu apartment was known for its natural spotlights. It had been built with ninety-two plate-gla.s.s windows, strategically located for eastern, western, and overhead exposure so that no matter where you were, the sun placed you center stage. Alex stood in front of a wall of gla.s.s, beautifully backlit, running his thumb over the edge of an oval inlaid maple box. "You got this in Lyons, I think," he said to Ca.s.sie. She was sitting in a love seat the color of a blush, and when he sank to the floor in front of her, grasping her hand, she couldn't help but gasp. It was like having the character spring off the movie screen, suddenly flesh and blood.

It was an odd feeling, seeing a stranger a few feet in front of you and knowing that you had shared his bowl of cereal, warmed your feet against his calves, traded him your whispers in a soft, mussed bed.

Ca.s.sie wished she could throw herself into the charade, but she could not. Alex was the actor, not her, and she was painfully aware of the shifting zone that moved with her, blue and magnetic, forcing a distance between them even when they touched. Alex sighed. "You're not going to start acting like I'm larger than life, are you?" he said. "You never did before."

Ca.s.sie gave him a half-smile. She had been quiet on purpose, figuring the less she said, the less of a fool she'd make of herself. "This takes a little getting used to," she said. She glanced at the white alencon curtains, the pickled-wood coffee table, the pink marble sink of the wet bar.

Alex leaned close to brush a kiss against her forehead, and she couldn't help it, she stiffened. Since Alex had claimed her at the station, he hadn't hesitated to touch her. It was ridiculous, really, to feel as skittish as she would on a blind date, since Alex had said they'd been married for three whole years. Still, she couldn't seem to see herself in the day-to-day routine of a marriage. Instead her mind kept flashing through images she knew she'd been fed by the media: Alex Rivers at a black-tie benefit for AIDS research, Alex Rivers accepting a Golden Globe award, Alex Rivers juggling coconuts during a break on the set of Robinson Crusoe.

Suddenly he stood up, bathed in sunlight, and Ca.s.sie lost track of her thoughts. She did not remember Alex, she did not feel comfortable around him, but she was fascinated by him. The silver shine of his eyes, the proud line of his jaw, the muscles corded in his neck, all called to her. She studied him as she would Michelangelo's David: fluid, beautiful, but far too steeped in his own perfection to be singled out for her.

"It's a good thing we came here," Alex said. "If you're overwhelmed by the apartment, I can't imagine what you'd think of the house."

On the way to the Malibu Colony, Alex had tried to jar Ca.s.sie's memory with descriptions of their three homes: the house in Bel-Air, the apartment in Malibu, and the ranch just outside of Aspen, Colorado.

He said that they spent most of their time at the house, but that Ca.s.sie had always preferred the apartment because when they were married she'd redecorated it.

"What's it like?" she had pressed, eager for some detail that would shake free her past.

Alex had just shrugged. "It's little," he said.

But when the Range Rover pulled up to the towering whitewashed building, Ca.s.sie had stared at the rounded edges, the princess's turrets, the tiers and tiers. The last thing it was was little. "It looks like a castle,"

she had breathed, and Alex had thrown his arms around her. "That's what you said the first time you saw it," he'd said.

"Ca.s.sie?" She jumped now at the sound of her name. She hadn't even heard the telephone ring, but Alex was holding the receiver, mouthpiece covered. "Herb says he won't sleep until he sees that you're all right."

He took a step closer to her and laid his palm against her cheek, his eyes darkening. "Well, I don't give a d.a.m.n," he said. "You've got to rest."

He lifted the telephone to his ear. "No, Herb," he said. "Five minutes is too long. No-"

Ca.s.sie stood up and put her hand on his arm. It was the first time she had actually reached out to touch Alex, instead of him touching her. He turned to her, the telephone forgotten, his eyes locked onto her own. "It's okay," she said quietly. "Tell him to come over. I'll be fine.

I don't want to rest."

He murmured something into the telephone and she watched the way his lips formed the words. She waited for him to hang up, but he didn't. He cupped his hand over the receiver again and moved closer, until they were separated by the s.p.a.ce of a breath.

Ca.s.sie did not close her eyes as Alex kissed her. Her hand fell away from his arm to hang at her side, and she tasted faint traces of coffee and vanilla. When he pulled away, she was still leaning toward him, her eyes wide and waiting for the flood of memories she was certain would come.

But before that could happen, Alex gestured helplessly at the phone.

"I have to talk to him. I left Macbeth mid-scene, you know, to get you.

Poor Herb has to clean up the mess I made." He ran his hand over her hair. "Why don't you poke around a little? I promise, no more than five minutes."

As Alex turned away and started rattling questions into the telephone, Ca.s.sie moved downstairs to the middle level of the apartment. She wondered if she should change her clothes before Herb arrived. She wondered who Herb was.

She started toward the master bedroom, where Alex had showed her, earlier, a closet full of silks and rainbow cottons that belonged to her.

She reached the arched hallway Alex had pulled her through before.

This time, she stopped to look at the pictures that hung against the stark white walls. There was one of Alex on the beach outside the apartment, buried up to his chest in sand. Of Ca.s.sie herself, grinning, her arm thrown casually around the shoulders of a skeleton. There was a picture of a dog she did not recognize, and one of Alex on a rearing horse. Finally came a photo of Ca.s.sie in bed, white sheets pulled just up to her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, a lazy smile across her flushed face.

She thought of the pressure of Alex's kiss. She tried to imagine his hands tracing their way down her spine.

She looked at the picture again, and she wondered if Alex had taken it.

HERB SILVER WAS FIVE FEET TALL, BALD, WITH A HANDLEBAR MUStache and pointed ears that made Ca.s.sie think of a Munchkin. He met Alex at the door of the apartment and shoved a greasy brown paper bag into his arms. "So, I figure it's lunch and what's a goy like you going to have in his kitchen?" His eyes darted behind Alex's substantial height, searching for Ca.s.sie, pushing Alex aside as he began to rummage in the bag. "There's pastrami on rye with sauerkraut for you, and three knishes and for G.o.d's sake, don't eat all the forshpeis by yourself this time. Ah!" He held out his arms to Ca.s.sie. "You were trying to give me my third heart attack?"

Herb Silver was Alex's agent at CAA. He had moved to L.A. over twenty years earlier, but he told everyone that even though you could take Herb Silver out of Brooklyn, you couldn't take Brooklyn out of Herb Silver. Ca.s.sie reached out and hugged him, his head coming under her chin.

Herb kissed her on the mouth. He ran his hands lightly down her arms as if he were checking for broken bones. "So, you're fine?"

Ca.s.sie nodded, and Alex stepped forward, offering her half of a paperwrapped knish. "She's perfect," he said with a full mouth. Herb raised an eyebrow. "Does the girl have a voice of her own?"

"I'm fine," Ca.s.sie said. "Really." She looked from Alex to Herb and then back at Alex again, silently thanking the little man for forcing his entry this afternoon. With Herb added to the mix of her mind, Alex couldn't help but seem more familiar.

Alex clapped an arm around Herb's shoulders and led him upstairs to the dining room. "Ca.s.sie-can you get the plates? All right, Herb, tell me what Joe's doing in Scotland."

Ca.s.sie wandered into the kitchen, grateful for something to do.

Somehow the ordinary things, like finding plates, or cooking, or watching the shower steam up the bathroom, made her feel at home. Alex had seemed so much less threatening that morning when they were doing things together-him pouring juice and her finding the ice, standing side by side and chopping peppers for an omelette, picking up a stack of papers the wind had scattered to the floor. There was an intimacy to simple tasks, things everyone knew and everyone did, that formed a floor of false comfort and security beneath even two strangers.

Herb and Alex were talking in the dining room, a running river of syllables she caught from time to time. Ca.s.sie looked from one cabinet door to the next, wondering where the dishes were. She opened the door closest to her. Tablecloths, and a breadbasket. The door beside it revealed winegla.s.ses.

"Joe's filmed the six lousy scenes that don't revolve around you- the witches, and something or other with Banquo. He says Melanie did a tour de force with the hand-washing bit." Herb watched Ca.s.sie open a third and fourth cabinet, bite her lip, and then check beneath the sink. "What's with her head?" he whispered to Alex. "She's still a little meshugge?"

Alex shrugged. "The doctor told her it's going to take some time for her to remember who she is, and what the h.e.l.l knocked her out." His eyes followed Ca.s.sie as she finally opened the cabinet that held the dishes. "In the meantime, I figure I'll just keep her near me. Safe." He grinned at his agent. "s.h.i.t. If I can't bring back her memory, I don't know what can."

Ca.s.sie brought back three plates and a stack of paper napkins. She hovered at the edge of the table, the outsider. "I could only find winegla.s.ses," she said.

Herb waved toward her chair. "Just sit. We can drink out of the bottles." He unwrapped a sandwich with a colossal amount of meat jammed between the slices of bread, and Ca.s.sie watched his mouth contort to seal around the bulk of it. "I hope you've thanked your lovely wife, Alex, for the free PR." Herb pinched Ca.s.sie's cheek. "Nationwide coverage of the heartbroken Alex Rivers shielding his wife is exactly the kind of pre-Oscar coverage we need." He held his sandwich inches from his mouth. "It can't hurt all your buddies at AMPAS to see you being a family man before they cast their Best Actor and Best Director votes.

You know, I'm going to call Michaela this afternoon and see if we can't milk this on Oprah. You can plug Taboo, maybe we can get Ca.s.sie on for the last five minutes-"

"No." At that last word, Ca.s.sie jumped. Alex hadn't spoken particularly loudly, but he'd slammed his fist on the table so forcefully that he had cracked one of the hand-painted tiles that made up its surface.

Ca.s.sie watched a tiny line of blood trickle down Alex's wrist, but he did not bother to wipe it away. His eyes narrowed, and he leaned across the table toward Herb, upsetting a bottle of soda. "You will not exploit my wife on television to stack my odds for the Oscars."

Herb blotted his mouth with a napkin, as if he were used to this kind of outburst every day. "Okay, okay," he said.