a dramatic gesture with his glass without spilling a drop. "The enduring cycle of natural order. Do you understand?"

"Enduring cycles are my particular specialty."

For a moment he seemed to peer through her skin, and then he pressed his eyes shut dramatically. "I can feel your life force beating so strongly in the air that it steals my breath. You send out invisible vibrations with just the smallest movement of your head." He pressed his hand to his cheek. "I'm absolutely never wrong about people. Feel my skin. It's positively clammy."

She laughed. "Perhaps the prawns are a bit off."

He grabbed her hand and kissed her fingertips. "Love. I've fallen in love. I absolutely have to have you

in my film. From the moment I saw you, I knew you'd be perfect for the part of Lucinda."

Francesca lifted one eyebrow. "I'm not an actress. Whatever gave you that idea?"

He frowned. "1 never put labels on people. You are what I perceive you to be. I'm going to tell my producer I simply refuse to do the film without you."

"Don't you think that's a little extreme?" she said with a smile. "You've known me less than five minutes."

"I've known you my entire life, and I always trust my instincts; that's what separates me from the others." His lips formed a perfect oval and emitted a second smoke ring. "The role is small but memorable. I'm experimenting with the concept of physical as well as spiritual time travel-a southern plantation at the height of its nineteenth-century prosperity and then the plantation today, fallen to decay. I want to use you in the beginning in several short but infinitely memorable scenes, playing the part of a young English virgin who comes to the plantation. She never speaks, yet her presence absolutely consumes the screen. The part could become a showcase for you if you're interested in a serious career."

For a fraction of a moment, Francesca actually felt a wild, madly irrational stab of temptation. A film career would be the perfect answer to all her financial difficulties, and the drama of performing had always appealed to her. She thought of her friend Marisa Berenson, who seemed to be having a perfectly wonderful time with her film career, and then she nearly laughed aloud at her own naivete. Legitimate directors hardly walked up to strange women at cocktail parties and offered them film roles.

Byron had whipped a small leather-bound notebook from his breast pocket and was scribbling something inside with a gold pen. "I have to leave London tomorrow for the States, so ring me at my hotel before noon. This is where I'm staying. Don't disappoint me, Francesca. My entire future is riding on your decision. You absolutely can't pass up the chance to appear in a major American film."

As she took the paper from him and slid it into her pocket, she restrained herself from commenting that Delta Blood hardly sounded like a major American film. "It's been lovely meeting you, Lloyd, but I'm afraid I'm not an actress."

He pressed both hands-one containing his drink and the other his cigarette holder-over his ears so that he looked something like a smoke-producing space creature. "No negative thoughts! You are what I say you are. The creative mind absolutely cannot afford negative thoughts. Call me before noon, darling. I simply have to have you!"

With that, he headed back toward Miranda. As she watched him, Francesca felt a hand settle on her shoulder, and a voice whispered in her ear, "He's not the only one who has to have you."

"Nicky Gwynwyck, you're a horrid sex fiend," Francesca said, turning to plant a fleeting kiss on his smoothly shaven jaw. "I just met the most amusing little man. Do you know him?"

Nicholas shook his head. "He's one of Miranda's friends. Come into the dining room, darling. I want to show you the new de Kooning."

Francesca dutifully inspected the painting, then chatted with several of Nicky's friends. She forgot about Lloyd Byron until Miranda Gwynwyck cornered her just as she and Nicholas were getting ready to leave.

"Congratulations, Francesca," Miranda said, "I heard the wonderful news. You seem to have a talent for landing on your feet. Rather like a cat…"

Francesca heartily disliked Nicholas's sister. She found Miranda as dry and brittle as the lean brown twig she resembled, as well as ridiculously overprotective of a brother old enough to take care of himself. The two women had long ago given up the attempt to maintain more than a surface courtesy. "Speaking of cats," she said pleasantly, "you're looking divine, Miranda. How clever of you to combine stripes and plaids like that. But what wonderful news are you talking about?"

"Why, Lloyd's film, of course. Before he left, he told me he was casting you in an important part. Everyone in the room is green with envy."

"You actually believed him?" Francesca quirked one eyebrow.

"Shouldn't I have?"

"Of course not. I've hardly been reduced to appearing in fourth-rate films."

Nicholas's sister tossed back her head and laughed, her eyes gleaming with uncharacteristic brightness. "Poor Francesca. Fourth-rate, indeed. I thought you knew everyone. Obviously you're not as au courant as you want people to believe."

Francesca, who considered herself the most au courant person she knew, could barely conceal her annoyance. "What do you mean by that?"

"Sorry, dear, I didn't mean to insult you. I'm just surprised you haven't heard of Lloyd. He won the Golden Palm at Cannes four years ago, don't you remember? The critics are simply wild about him-all his films are marvelous allegories-and everyone is certain his new production is going to be a huge success. He works with only the best people."

Francesca felt a tiny thrill of excitement as Miranda went on to list all the famous actors with whom Byron had worked. Despite her politics, Miranda Gwynwyck was a terrible snob, and if she considered Lloyd Byron a respectable director, Francesca decided she needed to give his offer a bit more consideration.

Unfortunately, as soon as they left his sister's home, Nicky took her to a private club that had just

opened in Chelsea. They stayed until nearly one, and then he proposed again and they had another terrible row-the absolute final one as far as she was concerned-so she didn't get to sleep until very late. As a result, it was well past noon before she awoke the next day, and even then she only did so because Miranda called her to ask some nonsensical question about a dressmaker.

Leaping out of bed, she cursed Cissy's maid for not having awakened her earlier and then flew across the carpeted floor of the guest bedroom, tugging open the sash on the front of her putty and salmon Natori nightgown as she moved. She bathed quickly, then threw herself into a pair of black wool trousers

topped with a crimson and yellow Sonia Rykiel sweater. After applying the bare minimum of blusher,

eye makeup, and lip gloss, then tugging on a pair of knee-high zippered boots, she dashed off to Byron's hotel where the clerk informed her the director had already checked out.

"Did he leave a message?" she asked, tapping her fingernails impatiently on the counter.

"I'll check."

The clerk returned a moment later with an envelope. Francesca ripped it open and quickly scanned the message.

Hosannas, Francesca darling!

If you're reading this, you've come to your senses, although it was absolutely inhumane of you not to have called before I left. I must have you in Louisiana by this Friday at the absolute latest. Fly into Gulfport, Mississippi, and hire a driver to take you to the Wentworth plantation according to enclosed directions. My assistant will handle work permit, contract, etc., when you arrive, and will reimburse you for travel expenses as well. Wire your acceptance immediately in care of the plantation address so I can once again draw an easy breath.

Ciao, my beautiful new star!


Francesca tucked the directions into her purse along with Byron's note. She remembered how exquisite Marisa Bererjson had looked in both Cabaret and Barry Lyndon and how jealous she had been when she'd seen the films. What a perfectly wonderful way to make money.

And then she frowned as she recalled Byron's comment about reimbursing her for her travel expenses. If only she'd gotten hold of him earlier so he could have arranged for her ticket. Now she'd have to pay for it herself, and she was almost certain she didn't have enough money left in her account to cover her air fare. This ridiculous nonsense about her credit cards had temporarily closed off that avenue, and after last night she absolutely refused to talk to Nicky. So where was she to get the money for a plane ticket? She glanced at the clock behind the desk and saw that she was late for her appointment with her hairdresser. With a sigh, she tucked her purse under her arm. She'd just have to find a way.


* * *

"Excuse me, Mr. Beaudine." The buxom Delta flight attendant stopped next to Dallie's seat. "Would you mind signing an autograph for my nephew? He plays on his high school golf team. His name's Matthew, and he's a big fan of yours."

Dallie flashed her breasts an appreciative smile and then raised his eyes to her face, which wasn't quite

as good as the rest of her, but was still mighty fine. "Be happy to," he said, taking the pad and pen she handed him. "Sure hope he plays better than I've been playing lately."

"The co-pilot told me you ran into a little trouble at Firestone a few weeks back."

"Honey, I invented trouble at Firestone."

She laughed appreciatively and then dropped her voice so that only he could hear. "I'll bet you've invented trouble in a lot of places besides golf courses."

"I do my best." He gave her a slow grin.

"Look me up next time you're in L.A., why don't you?" She scribbled something on the pad he handed back to her, ripped it off, and gave it to him right along with another smile.

As she moved away, he shoved the paper in the pocket of his jeans where it rustled against another piece of paper that the girl at the Avis counter had slipped to him when he'd left Los Angeles.

Skeet growled at him from the window seat. "Bet you she don't even have a nephew, or if she does he's never heard of you."

Dallie opened a paperback copy of Vonnegut's Breakfast of Champions and began to read. He hated talking to Skeet on airplanes about as much as he hated anything. Skeet didn't like traveling unless he

was doing it on four Goodyear radials and an interstate highway. The few times they'd had to abandon Dallie's newest Riviera to fly cross-country for a tournament-like this trek from Atlanta out to L.A. and back-Skeet's normal temper, prickly at best, turned completely sour.

Now he glowered at Dallie. "When are we getting in to Mobile? I hate these damned planes, and don't you start in on me again 'bout the laws of physics. You know and I know that there's nothing but air between us and the ground, and air can't hardly be expected to hold up something this big."

Dallie closed his eyes and said mildly, "Shut up, Skeet."

"Don't you go to sleep on me. Dammit, Dallie, I mean it! You know how much I hate to fly. Least you could do is stay awake and keep me company."

"I'm tired. Didn't get enough sleep last night."

"No wonder. Carousing till two in the morning and then bringing that mangy dog back with you."

Dallie opened his eyes and gave Skeet a sideways glance. "I don't think Astrid would like being called a mangy dog."

"Not her! The dog, you fool! Dammit, Dallie, I could hear that mutt whining right through the wall of

the motel."

"What was I supposed to do?" Dallie answered, turning to meet Skeet's scowl. "Leave it starving by the freeway?"

"How much did you give 'em at the motel desk before we left this morning?"

Dallie muttered something Skeet couldn't quite hear.

"Whadja say?" Skeet repeated belligerently.

"A hundred, I said! A hundred now and another hundred next year when I come back and find the dog

in good shape."

"Damn fool," Skeet muttered. "You and your strays. You got mangy dogs boarded away with motel managers in thirty states. I don't even know how you half keep track. Dogs. Runaway kids…"

"Kid. There was only one, and I put him on a Trailways bus the same day."

"You and your damn strays."

Dallie's gaze slowly swept Skeet from head to toe. "Yeah," he said. "Me and my goddamn strays."

That shut Skeet up for a while, which was exactly what Dallie had intended. He opened his book for the second time, and three pieces of blue stationery folded in half slipped out into his lap. He unfolded them, taking in the border of romping Snoopys across the top and the row of X's at the end, and then he began to read.