Free Once Is Not Enough by Jacqueline Susann Page A

quality in his voice. Almost like a cut-off. An odd new hardness. The way it had been with the photographer in the lobby who had snapped a picture of them. He had seemed like a nice young man. He had followed them to the elevator and said, “Tell me, Mr. Wayne, how does your daughter feel being the—”
    But he had never finished the question. Mike Wayne pushed January into the elevator and snapped, “Beat it. This is no time for any on-the-spot interview.”
    She thought about the incident now. The whole thing had been so unlike her father. To him publicity had always been a way of life. She had been on the cover of a national magazine with him when she was nine. And she had felt so sorry for the young man in the lobby.
    When she had asked her father about it, he shrugged. “Maybe Rome did it to me. I don’t go for these guys who take pictures on spec—pictures that can turn up anywhere, in any cheap magazine. I’m all for giving an authorized interview or posing for a photographer for pictures to accompany a story. But I don’t like guys popping out from dark corners at me.”
    “But he was waiting in the lobby. He looked very nice.”
    “Forget it.” (Again that cold determined cut-off tone.) Then he had opened the champagne. When she toasted and said, “To us,” he shook his head. “No . . . to you . It’s your time now, and I’m here to see that you get it.”
    She lay in the dark bedroom. She had the whole night ahead of her. She should try to go back to sleep. But she was wide awake and thirsty. She was always thirsty after caviar. She slipped out of bed and went to the bathroom. The tap water was lukewarm. She decided to forget it and got back into bed. She switched on the dial of the radio beside her bed to an album station. She was just drifting off to sleep when the commercialbreak came, and an enthusiatic announcer began his pitch on a new diet cola. The way he began to sell that damn soda—suddenly she had to have a glass of cold water!
    She got out of bed. There was a big kitchen in the suite. She could get some ice . . . She started for the door and stopped. She had no robe! And she was wearing the short see-through nightgown. She opened the bedroom door cautiously and called out, “Daddy?”
    The living room was empty. She tiptoed out. She looked into the darkness of the dining room . . . the large den . . . and down some long corridor off the kitchen. Mike had said there were servants’ quarters. But the apartment was empty. She went to his bedroom door and knocked. Then she opened it. Empty. For a fleeting second she thought of Rome . . . and Melba. But he wouldn’t do that, not on her first night home. He had probably gone for a walk and run into some friends. She went into the kitchen. The refrigerator was stacked with Cokes, 7-Up, ginger ale, along with every kind of sugar-free diet soda. She took a Coke and poured it into a glass. Then she ambled into the living room. She stood staring out at the park. The tiny sparkling lights gave it a Christmas-tree effect. It was impossible to believe there was anything to fear in that soft darkness.
    Then she heard the click. Her father was fitting the key into the lock. Her first impulse was to run and greet him. Then she looked down at her nightgown. It was ridiculous to have bought something so short and sheer. But after three years of flannel pajamas at the Clinique, the sheer gown had been a symbol. Part of being well . . . and leaving. Well, she’d better tell him to keep his eyes closed and lend her one of his robes.
    The door opened and she heard the woman’s voice. Oh, good Lord . . . he had company. She looked frantically across the long living room. If she tried to make it back to her bedroom, she’d have to pass the foyer and run right into them. The nearest door led to his bedroom. She dashed inside just as they came into the living room. His bedroom was dark. Oh, God . . . where was the light? She groped along the wall searching