“1 wanted to tell you,” Belinda said softly. “You’ll never know how many times I wanted to tell you about your real father.” With a faraway look in her eyes, she gazed across the office. “We lived together for three months at the Garden of Allah. Errol Flynn was a great star, Fleur. An immortal. You look so much like him.”
Fleur brought her hand down on the desk. “How could you lie to me? All those years! Why couldn’t you have told me the truth instead of letting me wonder why my father sent me away?”
“Because I didn’t want to hurt you, baby.”
“Your lies hurt more than the truth ever could. All that time I thought it was my fault that Alexi banished me from the family.”
“But, baby, if I’d told you the truth, you would have hated me.”
Her mother looked fragile and helpless, and Fleur couldn’t stand to hear any more. She fought for control. “Why did Alexi send you to me? I know he did.”
Belinda gave a soft, nervous laugh. “Because he thinks I’m no good for you. Isn’t that silly, baby? When I saw the roses that night at the gallery, I understood he wanted me to go to you. That’s why I’ve been staying away.”
“Until tonight.”
“I couldn’t manage it any longer. I had to see if we could start over. I miss you so much, baby.”
Fleur held herself stiffly and stared at Belinda. Gradually her mother wilted. “I’ll go now. Watch out for Alexi.” She walked to the door. “And remember. I never meant to cause you hurt. I love you too much.”
Even after all this time, Belinda still didn’t understand that what she’d done was wrong. Fleur gripped the edge of her desk. “You pimped me.”
Belinda looked confused. “The man was Jake Koranda, baby. I would never have given you to anyone else.” She hesitated for a moment and then slipped out the door.
Fleur was exhausted by the time the last of her guests left, but the open house had been a huge success, worth every tired muscle. She slipped into the front hallway and passed through the door that led to her private living quarters in the back of the house. She smelled the eucalyptus she’d piled in wicker baskets, the only decorating touch her bank account permitted for now. Walking into the living room, she flicked on the lights, then collapsed on her secondhand couch. A fringed paisley shawl only marginally disguised its shabbiness, but the peaceful room began to soothe the jagged edges of her tension.
The two-story expanse of metal-paned windows in front of her had come from an old New England textile mill. Through them she saw her small, sunken garden with its lacework of tree branches. Pyracantha bearing bright orange berries climbed the high brick walls. Someday this nearly empty room would be a true haven. She imagined a warm combination of rich walnut furniture, cozy rugs, and antique tables topped with flowers.
The second-floor living room was an open loft fronted by a railing. Fleur wandered over to the railing in her stocking feet. She gazed down the expanse of industrial windows to the kitchen and dining area below. The weathered brick floor held the antique cherry harvest table Michel had given her as a housewarming gift. Now it was surrounded with mismatched chairs, but someday she’d own beautiful old ladder-backs and nubby hand-woven rugs.
She flicked off the living room lights and made her way to her bedroom. On the way, she unzipped her dress and stepped out of it. Wearing her bra and a pair of tap pants, she walked across her bare bedroom floor to her closet. The most beautiful couture wardrobe in New York was stashed away in a bedroom with only a secondhand chest of drawers, a creaky chair, and a double bed missing a headboard. She switched on the closet light and hung up her dress. While she gazed at the array of beautiful clothes Michel had made for her, she took the pins from her hair. As she shook it out, something in the periphery of her vision caught her eye. She gasped and spun around.
Jake lay asleep on her bed.
He lifted his arm and covered his eyes. “Do you have to make so much noise?”
The jeweled hair ornaments fell from her fingers. She stalked over to the bed, her hair flying. “What are you doing here? Get out! How did you get in? I swear—”
“Your secretary let me in.” He yawned. “She thinks I’m a better actor than Bobby De Niro.”
“You’re not. All you know how to do is snarl and squint.” She pushed her hair out of her face. “And you had no right to turn your cheap charm loose on my secretary.” First the basement fire, then Belinda, and now this. She kicked the mattress. “Out of here! This is my house.”
He flipped on the bedside light, and her body—the same body that refused to wake up for any of the men she dated—stirred to life. Although he’d shaved his mustache and cut his hair since the beach party, Jake didn’t look any more civilized. He looked rough and male and infinitely desirable.
He rested his weight on his elbow and performed his own inspection, which reminded her she was standing before him in a vanilla demi-bra and matching satin tap pants. He rubbed the corner of his mouth. “Does all your underwear look like that?”
“Except for my Strawberry Shortcake panties. Now haul your ass out of my bed.”
“Could you maybe put on a robe? Something flannel that smells like bacon grease.”
“No.”
He sat up and dropped his rangy legs over the side of the bed. “I understand you’re pissed I didn’t make your party, but parties aren’t my scene. Still, it was nice of you to invite me.”
“I didn’t invite you.” Will must have. She snatched up her robe from a chair next to the bed and shoved her arms into the sleeves.
Jake’s eyes slid over her. “Is it too late to change my mind about the bacon grease?”
She remembered what Kissy had said about the cool, blond bitch-goddess. She crossed her arms over her breasts and tried to look the part. “What do you want?”
“I’ve got a business deal for you, but you don’t seem to be in the mood to talk.” He rose and stretched. “We can discuss it in the morning while you fix me breakfast.”
“What kind of business deal?”
“In the morning. Where do you want me to sleep?”
“On a park bench.”
He sat back on her bed. “Thanks, this’ll be just fine. Nice, firm mattress.”
She gave him her coldest stare and tried to figure out how to handle this. As much as she wanted to, she couldn’t ignore his comment about a business deal, and he obviously wasn’t saying any more tonight. “Take the room at the end of the hall,” she snapped. “The bed’s too short for you and the mattress is lumpy, but if you bang on the wall, the rats will hardly bother you.”
“Are you sure you’re not going to be lonesome in here by yourself?”
“Oh no. I’m looking forward to sleeping alone for a change.”
His eyes narrowed. “Sorry to spoil your track record.”
She smiled. “It’s okay. A girl needs a little beauty rest now and then.”
That shut him up, and he left her alone.
She stomped into the bathroom and turned on the water to wash her face. What kind of business deal did he have in mind? Was it possible he wanted her to represent him? The idea made her queasy. Jake Koranda’s name on her client roster would give her instant credibility. Just like that, all her worries about the future of her agency would disappear.
She brought herself back to reality. An established superstar would hardly turn himself over to new management just because that new management happened to be an old lover. Unless he felt guilty and wanted to make it up to her.
Highly unlikely. She rinsed her face and reached for a hand towel. Still…if she could land Jake, she’d have taken a giant step toward making Fleur Savagar and Associates the gold standard for celebrity management.
The bravest, the fastest, the strongest…
She awakened late the next morning to the smell of freshly brewed coffee drifting up from the kitchen. She pulled on her oldest pair of athletic gray warm-ups and fastened her hair into a ponytail. When she reached the kitch
en, she found Jake sitting at the harvest table, his legs stretched in front of him as he drank a cup of coffee. She went to the refrigerator and poured herself a glass of orange juice. She had to play this just right. “I’ll make the toast if you make the eggs,” she said.
“Are you sure you can handle the responsibility? As I remember, cooking isn’t your strong point.”
“Which is why you’re making the eggs.” She pulled out a carton and set it on the counter for him along with a stainless steel bowl. Then she grabbed a grapefruit, dropped it on the cutting board, and severed it with one sharp thwack.
“Careful there.”
“I’m practicing for bigger and better things.” She gestured toward a bottom drawer. “If Bird Dog needs an apron, he can find one in there. Ignore the pink ruffle.”
“You’re all heart.”
Neither of them spoke again until they were settled across from each other at the harvest table. She could barely swallow her toast. In the clear light of a new day, the notion that he might sign with her seemed even more far-fetched, but she had to know for sure. She took a sip of coffee. “Don’t you have an incredibly expensive house somewhere in the Village?”
“Yeah, but too many people bother me there, so I sometimes disappear. That’s one of the things I wanted to talk to you about. Can we work something out with your attic?”
“My attic?”
“Your office manager showed it to me last night when she was giving me the tour. It’s a great space—private, self-contained. I need a place where I can hide out for a while and work. A place no one will think to look for me.”
She couldn’t believe it. Jake didn’t want her as an agent. He wanted a landlady! Disappointment choked her. She threw down her napkin. “Are you so used to people kissing your butt that you think I’ll do it, too?” She rose from her chair and pointed toward the door. “You’re not living in my house. Ever. Now get out. I’m sick of looking at you.”
He swiped at his plate with a triangle of toast. “I’m going to take that as a definite maybe.”
“Don’t even try to be cute. You’ve—”
“Let me finish. I told you last night that I had a business deal. Sit down and eat those excellent scrambled eggs while we talk about it.”
She sat down, but she didn’t touch her eggs.
He pushed his plate back and wiped his mouth with his napkin. “I can’t keep going on like this. The Caliber picture’s done, and I’m taking six months off so I can start writing again. If I don’t work this thing through now, I never will. I want you to represent me.”
She couldn’t believe she’d heard him right. He wanted her to be his agent? Her spirits soared. Their past relationship would make this the most difficult challenge she could possibly face, but she was tough enough to handle it. She struggled to pull herself together. “I’d be glad to represent you. I know I can make your life easier. As you might have heard, I’m offering total celebrity management to an elite group of clients. I can handle all your business and legal affairs, negotiate film deals, take care of publicity—”
He waved her off. “I have good people doing all that.”
She went absolutely still. “Then exactly what are you offering me?”
“I want you to handle everything I write.”
She stared at him. “Big deal.”
“If you want my name on your client roster, this is the way to get it.”
“You haven’t written anything since Eclipse!” She wanted to scream. “Your name as a writer on my client roster won’t get me anything but snickers.” She snatched up her plate and took it to the sink.
“You’re the one who blocked me, kiddo. Now all you have to do is unblock me.”
The plate broke as she set it down too hard. “Why do you keep saying that?”
“The problem started when you came along.”
“That’s no answer.”
His chair scraped the floor. “It’s all the answer you’re going to get.”
She didn’t even try to hide her animosity. “And how am I supposed to unblock you? On my back?”
“If that’s what works for you.”
Before she could take a swing at him, he detoured toward the coffeepot. “I need some help working through the block. Whatever went wrong happened when we were making Eclipse.”
She threw the broken plate into the trash. “You don’t have to write. You sure don’t need the money.”
“Writing is what I do, Flower. Acting is satisfying, and it’s made me rich, but it’s writing that lets me breathe.” He turned away, as if confessing even that small amount compromised him. “I won’t be living in your pocket. All I want is privacy. And I don’t need to tell you that if I start writing again, your agency will pick up a fat piece of change.”
“That’s a big ‘if.’ And why do you have to write in my house?”
He shrugged off her question. “I just do.”
The same old Jake. He dangled little pieces of himself in front of her, then snatched them back before she could get a good look. But even as a dozen venomous thoughts raced through her mind, she knew he’d boxed her in. She had to take the chance, despite the risks she could see all too clearly. If only she hadn’t planted the stories about the two of them…She imagined people’s smirks if word got out that she’d committed herself to representing a writer who didn’t write anymore. Everyone would say that Jake was only letting her use his name because they were sleeping together. They’d point out that he didn’t trust her to handle his film deals, just a writing career that had gone sour years ago. She’d look like a woman trying to build a business from her bedroom.
But what if she could get him to start writing again? What if she could break through that block and get him to produce another Koranda play? She wouldn’t have to worry about gossip then, or about her money running out. It was a gamble she couldn’t pass up. At the same time, she had to make sure she wouldn’t be paying a personal price for once again getting involved with the man who’d hurt her so badly.
The gossip began two days later, but not about Jake. On Monday afternoon as Fleur was about to leave the office to have lunch with a talented new singer she hoped to woo, she received a phone call from a network vice-president she’d gotten to known.
“There’s some gossip floating around I think you should hear about,” he said. “Somebody’s going out of their way to remind people of those broken modeling contracts you left behind when you fled the country.”
She rubbed her eyes and tried to sound unconcerned. “That’s old news. Isn’t there anything better to gossip about?”
“It’s lousy PR for a woman trying to start a business based on client trust.”
He didn’t need to spell it out for her. The implication was clear. If she’d broken contracts before, she’d do it again. She could think of only one reason for those stories to resurface now. Alexi had made his next move.
The young singer didn’t show up for lunch, a message Fleur had no trouble interpreting. She got back to the office in time to take a call from Olivia Creighton.
“I’ve been hearing some terrible stories about you, Fleur. I’m sure none of them are true, and you know how I adore you, but after what happened with poor Doris Day and all her money, a woman can’t be too careful. I’m not comfortable with instability.”
“Of course not.” Fleur thought of the six antique Baccarat goblets and case of Pouilly Fuissé Olivia had sent her just the week before to celebrate her contract for Dragon’s Bay. Now the celebration was over. She made a lunch date for Olivia to meet David Bennis With his leather elbow patches and his smelly pipe, he radiated stability better than anyone, and Fleur hoped he could reassure Olivia, but as she headed for David’s office, she didn’t like the feeling that she was once again using someone else to solve her problems.
Later that day, she found Michel in the second floor of a converted factory in Astoria, where weary seamstresses were working on the garments for his collection. H
e had less than seven weeks left, and he was exhausted from the strain of trying to get everything together so quickly. She wished she didn’t have to add to his worries, but she couldn’t postpone telling him what was happening any longer. By now, Alexi understood exactly how important the success of Michel’s collection was to her, and she didn’t need a crystal ball to figure out where he’d try to strike next.
Michel straightened the scarf she’d tied at the neck of her white cashmere sheath. He had to reach up to do it because she was wearing the stiletto heels that were a standard part of her business wardrobe ever since she’d realized her height sometimes worked to her advantage. She told him about the missing invitations and the fire. Michel listened in silence. When she got to the end, she squeezed his arm. “As of tonight, I’m putting this workroom under twenty-four-hour guard.”
He looked physically ill. “Do you really think he’ll go after the samples?”
“I’m sure of it. Destroying the samples before you can show them is the way he can do the most damage.”
He gazed around the workroom. “If we make it through this, there’ll be something else.”
“I know.” She rubbed her cheek. “Let’s hope he gets bored. There’s not much else we can do.”
Jake settled into the attic a few days after the party, but he didn’t spend much time there the first week, opting instead to stay in his townhouse in the Village and attend rehearsals of a revival of one of his older plays. Once Fleur heard his footsteps late at night as she fell asleep. Two days later, she heard the sound of water running, but she never heard a typewriter.
To her consternation, word immediately got out that she’d be representing Jake’s so far nonexistent future literary endeavors. The last thing anyone in his West Coast office wanted was for her to succeed at what they hadn’t been able to accomplish, and she suspected they were responsible for the leak. That, coupled with continued stories about her broken modeling contracts, was chipping away at the small amount of credibility she’d been able to build up. A well-established actor and rising young writer she’d been close to signing both backed off, and Olivia was getting increasingly skittish.