They were angry and worried and hostile. And that hostility was directed at her.

Syd Melnick did not find the drive from Beverly Hills to Pebble Beach enjoyable. For the entire four hours, Cheryl Manning sat like a stone, rigid and uncommunicative, in the seat beside him. For the first three hours she had not allowed him to put the top down on the convertible. She wasn't going to risk drying out her face and hair. It was only when they approached Carmel and she wanted to be recognized going through town that she'd permitted the change.

Occasionally during the long ride, Syd glanced over at her. There was no question she looked good. The blue-black hair exploding in a mass of tendrils around her face was sexy and exciting. She was thirty-six now, and what had once been a gamin quality had evolved into a sultry sophistication that became her well. Dynasty and Dallas were getting long in the tooth. Audiences eventually got restless. There was a definite move to say "Enough" to the steamy love affairs of women in their fifties. And in Amanda, Cheryl had finally found the role that could make her a superstar.

When that happened, Syd in turn would be a big-time agent again. An author was as good as his last book. An actor as bankable as his last picture. An agent needed megabucks deals to be considered topflight. It was again within his grasp to become a legend, the next Swifty Lazar. And this time, he told himself, he wouldn't screw it up at the casinos, or blow it on the horses.

He would know in a few days if Cheryl had the part. Just before they left, at Cheryl's insistence, he had phoned Bob Koenig at home. Twenty-five years ago, Bob, fresh out of college, and Syd, a studio gofer, had met on a Hollywood set and become friends. Now Bob was president of World Motion Pictures. He even looked the part of the new breed of studio head, with his rugged features and broad shoulders. Syd knew that he himself could be typecast for the stereotypical Brooklynite, with his long, slightly mournful face, receding curly hair and slight paunch that even rigorous exercise didn't help. It was another thing he envied Bob Koenig for.

Today Bob had let his irritation show. "Look, Syd, don't call me at home on a Sunday to talk business again! Cheryl did a damn good test. We're still seeing other people. You'll hear one way or another in the next few days. And let me give you a tip. Sticking her in that play last year when Leila LaSalle died was a lousy judgment call, and it's a big part of the problem with choosing her. Calling me at home on Sunday is a lousy judgment call too."

Syd's palms began to sweat at the memory of the conversation. Oblivious of the scenery, he pondered the fact that he had made the mistake of abusing a friendship. If he wasn't more careful, everyone he knew would be "in conference" when he phoned.

And Bob was right. He had made a terrible mistake, talking Cheryl into going into the play with only a few days' rehearsal. The critics had slaughtered her.

Cheryl had been standing next to him when he called Bob. She'd heard what Bob said about the play's being the reason she might not get the part. And of course, that triggered an explosion. Not the first one, nor the last.

That goddamn play! He'd believed in it enough to beg and borrow until he had a million dollars to invest in it! It could have been a smash hit. And then Leila had started boozing and trying to act as if the play were the problem…

Anger parched Syd's throat. All he had done for that bitch, and she'd fired him in Elaine's in front of a roomful of show-business people, cursing him out at the top of her voice! And she knew how much he'd sunk into the play! He only hoped she'd been conscious enough to know what was happening before she hit the concrete!

They were driving through Carmel: crowds of tourists on the streets; the sun bright; everybody looking relaxed and happy. He took the long way and threaded along the busiest streets. He could hear people comment when they started to recognize Cheryl. Now, of course, she was smiling, little Miss Gracious! She needed an audience the way other people needed air and water.

They reached the gate to Pebble Beach. He paid the toll. They drove past Pebble Beach Lodge, the Crocker Woodland, to the gates of the Spa.

"Drop me off at my bungalow," Cheryl snapped. "I don't want to bump into anybody until

I get myself together."

She turned to him and pulled off her sunglasses. Her extraordinary eyes blazed. "Syd, what are my chances of becoming Amanda?"

He answered the question as he had answered it a dozen times in the last week. "The best, baby," he said sincerely. "The best."

They'd better be, he told himself, or it was all over.

The Westwind banked, turned and began its descent into Monterey airport. With methodical care, Ted checked the instrument panel. It had been a good flight from Hawaii -smooth air every foot of the way, the cloud banks lazy and floating like cotton candy at a circus. Funny; he liked the clouds, liked to fly over them and through them, but even as a kid he had despised cotton candy. One more contradiction in his life… In the copilot's seat John Moore stirred, a quiet reminder that he was there if Ted elected to turn over the controls to him. Moore had been the chief pilot for Winters Enterprises for ten years. But Ted wanted to make this landing, to see how smoothly he could bring the plane in. Set the wheels down. Land on his feet. It was all one, wasn't it?

Craig had come forward an hour ago and urged him to let John take over.

"Cocktails are ready at your fahvoreet tahbl' in the cornaire, Monsieur Wintairs."

He'd done his flawless imitation of the captain at the Four Seasons.

"For Christ's sake," Ted had snapped, "no more of your impersonations today. I don't need that now."

Craig had known enough not to argue when Ted decided to stay at the controls.

The runway was rushing toward them. Ted eased the nose of the plane up slightly. How much longer would he be free to fly planes, to travel, to have a drink or not have a drink, to function as a human being? The trial would begin next week. He didn't like his new lawyer. Henry Bartlett was too pompous, too conscious of his own image. Ted could imagine Bartlett in a New Yorker ad, holding up a bottle of Scotch, the caption reading, "This is the only brand I ever serve my guests."

The main wheels touched the ground. The impact inside the plane was almost unnoticeable. Ted threw the engines into reverse. "Nice landing, sir," John said quietly.

Wearily, Ted brushed his hand over his forehead. He wished he could get John over the habit of calling him "sir." He also wished he could get Henry Bartlett over the habit of calling him "Teddy." Did all criminal lawyers think that because you need their services, they have the right to be condescending? An interesting question. Had circumstances been different, he wouldn't have had anything to do with a man like Bartlett. But firing the man who was supposed to be the best defense lawyer in the country at a time when you're facing a long prison sentence wouldn't be smart. He had always thought of himself as smart. He wasn't so sure anymore.

A few minutes later, they were in a limousine heading for the Spa. "I've heard a lot about the Monterey Peninsula," Bartlett commented as they turned onto Highway 68. "I still don't see why we couldn't have worked on the case at your place in Connecticut or your New York apartment; but you're paying the bills."

"We're here because Ted needs the kind of relaxation he gets at Cypress Point," Craig said. He did not bother to hide the edge in his voice.

Ted was sitting on the right side of the roomy back seat, Henry beside him. Craig had taken the seat facing them, next to the bar. Craig raised the lid of the bar and mixed a martini. With a half-smile he handed it to Ted. "You know Min's rules about booze. You'd better drink up fast."