by Jenna Ryan
Aidan cast her a sly sideways glance. He shifted his hold when Sam, still far more aware of him than she wanted to be, would have extricated herself. “Stop fidgeting. I don’t bite. David’s a boom operator at Margaret’s old studio. He knows one of the bride’s granddaughter’s.”
“I’m not fidgeting.” She was, actually. “Did this grand-daughter get you on?”
“She’s an amateur computer hacker. The list was sacro-sanct. She took it as a challenge to break into Leo’s system and add my name.”
Sam stopped to stare at him, her discomfort forgotten, her expression incredulous. “In other words, we could get caught anytime.”
Sliding his hand to the small of her back—an even more disconcerting act—he steered her toward the canopied patio. “Not if we play our parts well.”
“I’m not an actress, Aidan.” Sam’s protest drowned in a spurt of mild panic. “I’m not even a good poker player.”
The smile that played on his lips suggested something, though what that might be, she didn’t care to find out right then. Not until she could get her emotions firmly back under control. She couldn’t remember the last time a man’s touch had affected her so strongly. Maybe it never had.
Well, one thing, at least she looked the part of a wedding guest Not flashy, but striking in a slim sheath of black silk with a side slit from ankle to thigh that showed off a sliver of garnet red when she walked. The design was clever. The gown shimmered under the light of a crystal chandelier, followed every curve of her body without clinging, had no shoulders or ornamentation, revealed very little, yet managed to look quite daring.
She’d swept her black hair up for the occasion with two black and silver combs. She wore a strand of black pearls at her.throat, a fine silver chain around her ankle and two solitary black pearl earrings in her lobes. Guido had gaped when he’d seen her. Even his cranky neighbor had nodded in silent approval. Only Aidan hadn’t made his feelings known, and that, Sam suspected, together with his preoccupied instructions to her, was what had really caused her stomach to coil into re-sistant knots.
Not that the situation didn’t warrant an attack of nerves, but he could have offered more than an impatient, “Come on, Sam, we’re late.”
A string orchestra played the theme from Cats on a raised white stage in what could only be termed a ballroom. More French doors opened to spacious patios. Some of the guests danced, others just stood and chatted. All drank champagne from the wrong type of flat-bottomed glass.
Connie’s assessment of age had been fairly accurate. There were few people under seventy-five, only the odd grand- or great-grandchild as far as Sam could see. The youngest of them played tag and hid under the linen-draped tables.
A passing waiter offered champagne. Aidan took two glasses and handed one to Sam. His green eyes surveyed her as he sipped Moët.
“In case I haven’t mentioned it, you look gorgeous.”
Maybe indifference was better. His gaze seemed to strip the dress from her body, leaving her exposed and vulnerable in a way she’d never been before. Still, she could be gracious. “Thank you,” she said, lifting her glass to her lips—and promptly choking on the first taste.
Aidan frowned. “Are you all right?”
“Fine.” She indicated the base of the stairwell outside the ballroom. “It’s Alistair Blue.”
Instantly guarded, Aidan’s green eyes followed her gaze. “So it is,” he agreed without inflection. “I wonder what he’s about?”
Despite her mistrust of Alistair, Sam took a moment to smile. Aidan’s accent became more pronounced when emotion moved in. The look in his eyes became more intense, as well. He might appear quiet and affable at first glance—to say nothing of handsome, virile and sensual—but he could pin and hold his quarry with nothing more than a simple stare. She hadn’t encountered that quality very often in the past, but she had occasionally wondered what it was that made certain peo-ple so much more dominant and daunting than others.
Whatever the answer, Aidan was definitely one of those people. Alistair Blue, ninety percent bravado, would be hard-pressed to measure up.
“Alicia?” a man’s suave voice inquired from behind.
Sam pulled her gaze from Aidan’s profile, summoned a dazzling smile and turned. Her smile froze at the sight of him. Even forty years after the latest photograph in Guido’s files, the elegant features and cap of thick silver-white hair were unmistakable. Thurman Wells bestowed his own charming smile on her.
“I’m afraid not,” she said, extending a graceful hand. “My name is Sam Giancarlo. I’m here with Mr. Robert Brodie from the BBC.” Where the lie came from she couldn’t have explained; it simply formed and with it the strong sense that the deception could indeed be pulled off. Unless, of course, these people spent a great deal of time in England.
If Aidan was shocked, he covered well, accepting Thurman Wells’s impressed arch of brow with equanimity. “How nice. On which side of the camera do you work, Mr. Brodie?”
Aidan had a devastating smile when he chose to use it. “I’m no actor,” he replied honestly. “Mr. Wells, isn’t it?”
He’d done precisely the right thing, bringing Thurman Wells’s frequently mentioned ego to the fore.
“You flatter me,” the aging actor demurred, his modesty false yet not unbecoming. “Until recently I hadn’t made a film for more than three years.”
Sam scrambled through her memory. Guido had told her the latest title. “Four Candles Burn,” she recalled in the nick of time. “You’re very talented, Mr. Wells. I particularly enjoyed some of your earlier work.”
His laugh had a pleasant ring. “The prime of my life—I was fortunate to have been a part of the studio system.”
Aidan used a less tactful approach. “Fortunate also that you were able to work with Margaret Truesdale and Mary Lamont?”
“Mary!” Thurman’s head came up sharply as if yanked on a string. “I’m sorry.” His lashes lowered at once in apology. “I have certain, er, dealings with Mary even now.”
A grunt from his left shoulder signaled the arrival of another guest Thankfully, it wasn’t Leo Rockland. Beyond that blessing, however, Sam didn’t recognize the man.
He reminded her a little of Anthony Quinn at eighty. His brows were a harsh slash, his eyes hazel, his hair mostly gray. Unlike Thurman he had a tumbler of Scotch whiskey in his hand and a matter-of-fact expression on his face. Straight from the hip, Sam thought, her guard lowering a few cautious notches.
“Stan Hollister,” he said with a trace of a Texas accent. “Did someone mention Mary Lamont’s name?”
Sam glanced at Aidan, who replied smoothly, “We admit to a certain curiosity. Ms. Giancarlo was hired by the wife of my superior to collect background information on American personalities for a book she’s comprising on intriguing people of the twentieth century. Mary Lamont, Margaret Truesdale and Anthea Pennant certainly fit into that category.”
At Thurman’s mildly troubled expression, Sam tacked on a reassuring, “We’re not connected with the media, Mr. Wells. This book will be strictly factual, based entirely on personages. There’s no witch hunt involved. I agree with Mr. Brodie, however, when he says that we are increasingly curious about these women and their final unfinished movie.”
“The Three Fates.” Stan took a long swallow. “I directed Margie and Thea in it.”
“And Mary?” Aidan asked.
Stan gave a short laugh. “There was no directing Mary by that time. She was fired—not from the movie, that went onto the shelf when Margaret left—but from the studio.”
“She was abnormally upset,” Thurman added with an ill-disguised grimace. “She’s been in a similar mental state ever since.”
Sam thought of Alistair Blue and realized that, as Mary’s ex-husband, Thurman must still feel responsible for her welfare. It was an admirable if somewhat misguided trait
He seemed to settle down after that, enough so that he matched Stan’s wry chuckle. “I was married
to both of them, you know. Margaret first, naturally.”
“I’ll bet Mary loved that,” Aidan murmured into his champagne.
“Transparent as glass was our resident witch,” Stan said with more bitterness than Sam would have expected. Mary Lamont must have been a hellion to have left so much bad feeling in her wake.
“I heard she was confined at an institution in Cypress Canyon,” she remarked in a conversational tone.
Thurman choked on his wine, recovering only when Stan patted his back. “How did you learn that?” he rasped.
Aidan cast Sam a silent look of warning.
“It’s not as well kept a secret as you might think,” she returned carefully.
Thurman seemed horrified. “The Times didn’t…”
“Not the Times, Mr. Wells, but ‘Who’s News’ knows and I think Hollywood Beat as well.” What they didn’t yet know was that Mary had escaped.
“Figures,” Stan said in an undertone. His expression, one of tempered sympathy for Thurman, who had, according to the gossip columns of the day, borne the brunt of Mary’s pre-confinement rages, was laced with cynicism. “The press had damned well better not splash this all over the front pages. She’s supposed to be out of the country. That’s the release on her, isn’t it, Thurman?”
Thurman rubbed his lined forehead. “I believe so. I hope so.”
Aidan, who’d been watching both men closely, offered a guileless, “Have either of you heard the name Helen Murdoch?”
Stan’s gaze snapped to Aidan’s unrevealing face. Thurman simply froze. Surprisingly, it was Stan who spoke. “Where did you hear that name, Mr. Brodie?”
The lie formed quickly on Sam’s tongue. “From me. As a matter of research, I spoke to some of the patients at the hospital. Not Mary herself of course,” she hastened to add. “Apparently, Mary mentions the name Helen Murdoch a lot”
Stan muttered, “This has all the earmarks of a nightmare unfolding.”
Aidan saved the day by procuring a fresh glass of whiskey from a passing waiter and handing it to him. “Perhaps you’ll tell us about The Three Fates then. That should be a safe enough subject”
Thurman’s relief was tangible. He finished his champagne in a single swallow and located another.
Stan merely shrugged and patted his pockets, searching, Sam presumed, for a cigarette. “There isn’t a great deal to tell, Mr. Brodie. The film died before completion. The canisters went missing soon after, leaving those of us who were involved with only our memories as souvenirs of the event”
“What about Anthea?” Sam prompted. “Do you know if she’s still alive?”
Thurman tossed back a full glass of Moët. His polished actor’s smile returned. “Thankfully, my dear, we haven’t heard from Margaret or Anthea for more than forty years now, and it’s grateful that I am—good heavens, I must be catching your Irish lilt, Mr. Brodie—not to be privy to the knowledge.” Lowering his voice, he leaned toward Sam in a conspiratorial fashion. “In or out of Oakhaven, Mary Lamont would ride herd on the devil if she thought he possessed information she wanted. Best to play deaf monkey where she’s concerned.”
“You’re slurring, Thurman,” Stan admonished, pulling him firmly upright. “Hello, Leo,” he said in the same stern breath.
Leo Rockland? Sam stiffened, or would have if Aidan hadn’t caught her arm and spun her with him to face the man.
“Good evening, Leo,” he greeted, his tone and expression pleasant. “It’s good to see you again.” At the man’s confused frown, he tacked on, “It’s Robert Brodie. We met three years ago at the studio.”
The man’s blank face lit up. “Ah, yes, Robert, er—”
“Brodie.”
Sam would have confirmed this new lie if she hadn’t been in a mild state of shock. Leo Rockland was, by all accounts, eighty-three years old. If someone had told her he was a hundred and three, she would have had an easier time believing it
He looked ancient—frail and shrunken, all skin and gnarly bone. He had a thin, sweet face, tufts of messy white hair and baby blue eyes. He was also shaking, badly, so much so that Sam feared a too vigorous handshake might knock him off balance. He used no canes, but she saw a woman in a starched white uniform hovering close by.
More unnerving than any of those things, however, she detected a trace of a Liverpool accent when he spoke. She prayed that he was unfamiliar with both the current BBC hierarchy and the British gentry.
Recognition in the latter area was unlikely, but the BBC thing could pose a problem. Why did lies always tend to back-fire? she wondered forlornly.
“Sam Gian—Gian…” Leo stumbled on the name, then gave a contrite little smile. “Yes, well, it’s lovely to meet you at any rate, my dear.” He clasped her hand with his cold, blue-veined ones. His eyes, bird-bright despite his aged appearance, moved from her to Aidan and back again. “Are you and Mr. Brodie engaged?”
Sam opened her mouth but it was Aidan who supplied, “Unofficially. Maybe we’ll follow your lead one day, Leo. Congratulations on your marriage.”
Startled by a prospect she hadn’t entertained, but which was not the shock it should have been, Sam echoed Aidan’s sen-timent, adding a cautious, “Where is the new Mrs. Rock-land?”
“Bathgate,” Leo corrected. His blue eyes twinkled. “After all these years, she preferred to keep her family name.”
“You mean—” a delighted smile lit Sam’s face “—that this is her first marriage?”
“First and last” Ms. Bathgate joined them. The name Olivia DeHavilland sprang to mind—lovely, plump and grand-motherly; gentle Southern accent She took her new husband’s arm and offered the group a winsome smile. “I do hope you’re not wearing my husband out with shop talk.”
More introductions were made. Frederika Bathgate, called Freddie, nodded in somber sympathy when the subject of Sam’s research came up. “Poor dear Margaret. There she stood at the pinnacle of her career and she had to leave. To this day, none of us knows why, nor where she is right now. Anthea, either.”
Leo beamed at his bride. “Freddie was an actress, too.”
“A bit player,” she said, blushing.
“You were on Mary’s hate list even so,” Stan put in.
Leo’s sparrow eyes met his at once in silent remonstration.
Freddie patted her ample bosom in the region of her heart. “Mary Lamont. The name gives me palpitations. She was a little, well…”
“Off?” Aidan suggested.
“I think we’ve exhausted the subject of Mary Lamont,” Thurman interrupted. Was he swaying slightly?
Sam glanced at Aidan, who made a barely perceptible motion with his head. Time to make a graceful exit.
She mustered an apologetic smile. “You’re right, Mr. Wells. If you’ll excuse us…”
Their departure raised no objection, only a generally murmured, “Enjoy the party,” from the group, and a more frantic, “I need something stronger than this champagne-flavored Kool-Aid,” from Thurman.
“Did we learn anything?” Sam asked doubtfully as Aidan, his hand once more cupped around her elbow, steered her toward the orchestra.
“Enough to know that they know more than they’re admitting.”
“Thurman does, anyway,” she said. Giving in to temptation, she leaned against him slightly. There wasn’t an ounce of spare flesh on his body. Bet he’d look better than Leo at eighty. “He sent Alistair Blue to Oakhaven—a fact you might have mentioned earlier.”
“I might have,” he agreed. “But I didn’t know you then. As for the others, we can only guess how much they know—with the possible exception of Freddie.” He frowned. “What are you doing?”
Her head twisted from side to side. “Looking for Alistair.”
“He left ten minutes ago.”
“Why didn’t you—?”
“Punch his lights out?”
She made an exasperated gesture. “Force a confession from him.”
“Here?”
“Well
, no, I suppose not. All right, so what do we do now, Sherlock?” With a feeling akin to frustration, she stepped away. It was too hard to think when she was pressed up against him.
He noted the action but made no move to stop her. A slow smile curved his sensual mouth. “We move to Plan B.”
“Which is?”
His green eyes glinted. “We skulk.”
TERRIFIC IDEA, Aidan chided himself three hours later. They hadn’t learned a damned thing except he was convinced more strongly than ever that they all knew about Mary’s escape—Thurman, Stan and Leo.
Halfway through the party, the sky over Los Angeles had grown overcast. He drove his borrowed black Jeep now through the misty night toward Sam’s home.
She lived in the tower portion of a twenties’ hilltop mansion that had been converted into apartments in the late sixties. Stairways ascended through palm trees, rocks and willows to her front door. A mountain goat would find the climb a challenge. Lucky then that he’d been born part Highland goat, Aidan reflected with distant amusement.
“That was quite a party,” Sam observed as they drove. “Not overly informative, but it felt like we stepped back in time for a while. I don’t think any of them know where she’s hiding, though.”
Aidan’s contemplative gaze rose to the turbulent blackness above. Thunder rumbled over the Hollywood Hills to their left. The scent of her perfume washed over him, causing his muscles to tighten. “I don’t trust Thurman,” he said finally.
“I don’t trust any of them—but I still don’t believe they’re giving her sanctuary. I think our best bet would be to search for Anthea Pennant. She might know something that could help us. Freddie told me that Anthea understood Mary. She was one of the few who did.”
Aidan sent her a skeptical look. It was a mistake to do so with her wearing that damned black scrap of a dress, but he couldn’t avoid it forever. “Do you think that’s fair to Anthea? She probably guards her privacy as rigorously as Margaret does.”
Sam blew out an exasperated breath. By hazy lamplight her eyes appeared almost pure gold. “I only want to talk to her, Aidan, not sic every press hound in the city on her. I’m a researcher now, remember?”