"Kristine Kathryn Rusch - Beautiful Damned" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rusch Kristine Kathryn)

I knew, without being told, that this was my neighbor. I almost called to him,
but felt that to do so would ruin the perfection of the moment. He stared
until
he finished his cigarette, then dropped it, ground it with his shoe, and,
slipping his hands in his pockets, wandered back to the party -- alone.

CHAPTER III

The Next afternoon I was lounging on my sofa with the air conditioning off,
lingering over the book review section of the Sunday Times, when the crunch of
gravel through the open window alerted me to a car in my driveway. I stood up
in
time to see a black Rolls Royce stop outside my garage. The driver's door
opened, and a chauffeur got out, wearing, unbelievably, a uniform complete
with
driving cap. He walked up to the door, and I watched him as though he were a
ghost. He clasped one hand behind his back and, with the other, rang the bell.

The chimes pulled me from my stupor. I opened the door, feeling ridiculously
informal in my polo shirt and my stocking feet. The chauffeur didn't seem to
notice. He handed me a white invitation embossed in gold and said, "Mr.
Fitzgerald would like the pleasure of your company at his festivities this
evening."

I stammered something to the effect that I would be honored. The chauffeur
nodded and returned to the Rolls, backing it out of the driveway with an ease
that suggested years of familiarity. I watched until he disappeared up the
hill.
Then I took the invitation inside and stared at it, thinking that for once, my
Midwestern instincts had proven incorrect.

The parties began at sundown. In the late afternoon, I would watch automobiles
with words painted on their sides climb the winding road to Fitz's mansion.
Apple Valley Caterers. Signal Wood Decorators. Musicians of all stripes, and
extra service personnel, preparing for an evening of work that would last long
past dawn. By the time I walked up the hill, the sun had set and the lights
strung on the trees and around the frame of the house sent a glow bright as
daylight down the walk to greet me.

Cars still drove past-- the sleek models this time-- drivers often visible,
but
the occupants hidden by shaded windows. As I trudged, my face heated. I looked
like a schoolboy, prowling the edges of an adult gathering at which he did not
belong.

By the time I arrived, people flowed in and out of the house like moths
chasing
the biggest light. The women wore their hair short or up, showing off cleavage
and dresses so thin that they appeared to be gauze. Most of the men wore
evening