The self-enchanted : Mae Murray : image of an era (1959)

way's busiest angels. One word from him and a playwright had a chance, a musician's star rose or a dancer's. He talked and everyone laughed at his wit; Mae could not think what to say. It was a relief when someone asked her to dance. He was a powerful man, thick-shouldered, his face and neck bursting with color as if he ate nothing but rare roast beef. Jack deSaulles, social lion, former Yale quarterback. He put his arm across her shoulders and leaned against her, as he bent over to speak to Otto Kahn. His arm was heavy; she didn't know how to escape it. With the boys you met in show business, you just said, "Keep your hands to yourself, please." But this was a man. Then abruptly someone lifted the heavy arm, a hand grasped her elbow and a deep voice said, "This happens to be my dance, Jackson." She saw the pearl studs first, gleaming against his glossy shirt. Then she saw his square-jawed, dark, sullen face. He looked through and beyond DeSaulles. She couldn't move for the tension between the two men. Every woman in the place must envy her ! "Jay O'Brien," DeSaulles said bitterly. "I've met Miss Murray and this dance is mine. Come, dear." As the music swung into a tango, he put his hand to her waist and deftly swept her onto the floor. He danced well, with authority, holding her clasped so close she could smell his clean flesh and lilac vegetal. This was all new but familiar, as if it had happened before. She lifted her eyes. No, she'd never seen him. The face was as chiselled as any statue's and as imperturbable. Only a muscle flexed in his jaw. "We've met before," he murmured into her ear. "I was at the theatre, you were adorable." It was the sort of performance Jack Barrymore might have given after having had a few too many. But the words, which would have left her cold in the theatre, made her tremble in his arms. "I feel as if we had met," she said breathlessly.