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for a moment. "The question's not only
trivial," he growled at last. "It's goddamned stupid!"
    He brushed past her on his
way out, leaving Liz — for the second time that day —
agape.
    "He doesn't mean that,
dear," said Netta apologetically, wringing her hands. "Truly. I've
never seen him this angry. He would never talk to someone like
that."
    "I see," said Liz, shaking
with indignation. "Then I guess we both imagined it!"
    "I mean, he's always a
perfect gentleman," Netta said.
    "With gentle ladies, you
mean," said Liz grimly. He'd looked at her
... answered her
... stormed past her, as if she were some low-life
panhandler.
    "I mean with everyone," his
housekeeper insisted. "But Mr. Eastman's been under tremendous
strain. You simply can't imagine," she said, her voice trailing
off. She was shaking her head and looked exactly the way a
housekeeper in a Gothic mansion should look: distressed, old, and
loyal to the bone.
    But Liz was unmoved. As
far as she was concerned, Netta's master was ruder than either
chimes or rap
music. "Well!" she said crisply, tapping her foot on the marble
floor. "Now that I'm here: would you like to show me where the
event is going to be held?"
    Netta furrowed her brow
with uncertainty and studied the closed doors. "Yes," she said,
suddenly making up her mind. "Why not?"
    She knocked once on one of
the paneled doors and then opened it. Liz followed her into what
was obviously East Gate's Great Room, a soaring affair of dark and
gleaming elegance. From the parquet floor and exposed timbers to
the deeply silled windows topped by panels of stained glass,
everything about the room suggested excessive wealth and power.
Nothing about it was timid or subtle. Nothing about it was even
remotely feminine. It was a statement of pure male
dominance.
    The seating was grouped
into several arrangements of sofas and chairs, most of them covered
in dark, rich tapestries, each grouping with its own exquisite
Persian rug. One armchair stood out from the rest. It was the only
one in the room made of tufted leather, with big rolled arms.
Obviously it was an old favorite, worn soft by generations. In that
chair, which was positioned in front of a massive fireplace heaped
with ashes, sprawled an older, thinner, and altogether calmer
version of Jack Eastman.
    He'd been deep in thought
when they walked in. He, too, seemed angry, although there was no
hint of a scowl on the etched features of his still-handsome face.
Liz decided, on the spot, that this man would never permit himself to scowl: it would
take too much energy.
    When he realized that
Netta had someone with her, he stood up from the leather armchair
and said pleasantly, "I beg your pardon."
    He looked expectantly at
Liz. He had the same blue gaze as Jack Eastman — and yet not the
same at all. There was something about the way he looked at her.
There was no doubt about it: he was taking her in, from her head to
her toes. Liz was glad, after all, that she was
well-dressed.
    "This is Mrs. Coppersmith,
Mr. Eastman. Mrs. Coppersmith is planning the — oh, what is it?
The event," she
said.
    "Ah. Good. Has Jack
supplied you with a guest list?"
    Liz shook her
head.
    He turned to Netta. "Round
up the usual suspects for her, then, would you, Netta? Make sure
you include children. We must have some somewhere."
    He took up his wineglass
and raised it to them in an amiable toast. "Well. I'll leave you to
it, then," he said, and he left.
    Netta sighed and relaxed
visibly; it was obvious that she had no heart for confrontations
such as the one the two women had just overheard. She tweaked the
belt on the simple brown dress she wore, pushed her plastic-rimmed
glasses back on her nose, and adjusted the set of her broad
shoulders into normal-business mode.
    "All right, then. The
party will be in this room. The ballroom is far too big," she
added, "and besides, it's pretty much unfurnished. I don't know if
you've planned a menu yet, dear, but Mr. Eastman — Jack, that is