by JoAnn Ross
Feeling so strongly about putting marriage before maternity, Blythe now realized that without having realized she’d been doing it, she’d gone looking for a man who would make a good parent.
The problem was, she thought as she rolled down the window on her Jaguar and punched in the code for Alan’s electronic driveway gate, she’d been so intent on finding a father figure, she really hadn’t given enough consideration to what she wanted in a husband.
Alan was, as she was consistently telling Cait, solid and dependable. And although he did not pretend to either appreciate or understand her work, he had, in his own way, grudgingly come to terms with her career.
As a plastic surgeon, he was intimately familiar with the female body, which made him a good and thorough lover. But he didn’t make her blood burn. And he didn’t make her bones melt. And though she knew that there was a great deal more to a marriage than sex, she couldn’t get a conversation with Lily out of her mind.
It was when her friend had first arrived in Los Angeles, recently widowed, seven months pregnant and coming off a marriage from hell.
Blythe had just revealed her wedding plans, when Lily had asked, “Do you love Alan?”
“Of course,” Blythe had answered promptly, ignoring Cait’s exaggerated grimace. “I wouldn’t be marrying him if I didn’t love him.”
“And does he love you?”
“Of course.”
“Does he make you crazy?”
“If you mean does he have any nagging little flaws—”
“No.” Lily’s gaze had turned inordinately serious. “I mean, in bed. Does he drive you mad when you make love?”
The question had surprised Blythe. “That’s a rather personal question,” she’d answered.
But Lily had refused to give up. “You and Cait always told me about the men you slept with,” she’d pressed on, seemingly determined to discover the truth. “Why should this be any different?”
“Because Alan’s different.” Just as she’d hedged when Cait had asked a similar question, Blythe had not been about to admit to those times when she’d felt vaguely disappointed after their lovemaking. “He’s the man I love, Lily. The man I’m going to spend the rest of my life with. I don’t feel comfortable sharing our intimate moments. Not even with you.”
Lily had given her a long, unfathomable look. “I suppose I can understand that. And I realize I don’t have all that much experience, but the one thing I have learned, Blythe, is that if a man can’t make you fly, and you can’t make him burn, you’re probably letting yourself in for a lot of pain down the road.”
Now, apparently, with Connor, Lily had found a man who could make her fly. And although Blythe was not yet prepared to admit that Gage Remington—or that heated kiss they’d shared—had anything to do with her decision, the reason she’d come to Alan’s house this evening was to prove to herself that her upcoming marriage would be one of passion, as well as convenience.
She’d prepared carefully for the occasion. She’d bathed in Shalimar bath oils, had rubbed scented pink cream into every pore, then followed that up with a dusting of matching powder. The strapless teddy she was wearing beneath her short, black form-caressing silk slip dress was as scarlet as sin, designed to light any man’s fire. Her stockings were ebony silk, and her shoes boasted four-inch stiletto heels. She’d kept the shoes on impulse after wearing them in her last movie, where she played the adulterous, murderous wife of an FBI agent.
She’d applied her makeup with an artistic flair, exaggerating her dark lips and sultry eyes. Her hair was a wild tousled cloud that made it look as if she’d just left a lover’s bed. Looking at her, any man would know at first glance that this was definitely a woman with seduction on her mind.
Not leaving anything to chance, she’d stopped at a liquor store on the way and purchased a bottle of champagne. For the second time today, she was showing up at a man’s house unannounced. And although she’d been telling the truth when she’d informed Gage that such behavior was highly uncharacteristic, she was hoping to bring a little—all right, a lot, she admitted—of spontaneity to her relationship with her fiancé.
She rang the bell, but there was no answer. Since Alan’s Mercedes was parked in the circular brick driveway, she knew he was at home. Deciding he must be out in back, swimming laps as he did every evening after a long day perfecting the already glamorous features of movie stars, she took her key from her black satin bag and let herself into the house.
Like the man himself, Alan Sturgess’s house exuded cool control. Glass and silver predominated, giving an almost operating room sterility to a living room that had been professionally decorated in shades of gray. Tasteful graphics—nothing too bold or avant-garde—hung on the pale gray walls, illuminated by track lighting along the ten-foot ceiling.
The furniture, like the art, was contemporary. Italian black leather and molded, modular pieces covered in black-and-gray striped upholstery blended perfectly with black lacquer bookshelves and glass-and-chrome tables that seemed to float atop the plush pewter carpeting. A collection of small sculptures was displayed on chrome-and-glass shelves.
An ebony onyx figure of a nude was set atop a black pedestal; when Alan had first revealed that he considered the svelte female figure to be the perfect female form, Blythe, comparing the nude with her own curvaceous body, had felt depressed. Time hadn’t changed her feelings.
Refusing to allow herself to be intimidated by an inanimate object, Blythe crossed the room and opened the doors to the terrace. Moonlight created mysterious shadows in the mist that hung over the ocean. The water in the tile-lined pool gleamed a brilliant, crystal clear aquamarine from the underwater light.
She heard the sound of water lapping against the side of the pool. Expecting to see Alan slicing through the warm water with his long, perfect stroke, as she approached the pool, she was surprised to see him in the shadows of the circular steps.
What was even more surprising was that he was not alone.
He had a woman backed up against the cantilevered brick coping. Although his mouth was over hers, and his hands were on her chest, Blythe suspected he was not performing artificial respiration.
Growing aware of her presence a moment after she saw him, he turned. His hands fell to his sides. “Blythe.” He recovered quickly. Amazingly, his voice was as cool and collected as always. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
“I’d say that was more than a little obvious.” Using every bit of her acting skills, Blythe kept her tone as calm as his. Anger was bubbling up inside her, like molten lava from a volcano; with Herculean effort, she pushed it down.
He left the pool, allowing Blythe to get her first good look at his companion. Brittany Carlysle had been just another pretty waitress-bit player until Dr. Alan Sturgess had performed his make-over magic on her. Some planing on her nose, a bit of silicone to the cheeks and chin, breast implants and selected liposuction had turned the former University of Texas cheerleader into an up-and-coming sitcom star.
As Brittany stood there, in the shallow end, meeting Blythe’s gaze without an ounce of remorse, it occurred to Blythe that Alan had definitely not stuck to his avowed slender ideal. With water wings like that, the starlet would definitely never be in danger of drowning.
Determined to keep things civilized, when she was tempted to throw the champagne bottle she’d almost forgotten she was carrying at her fiancé’s head, Blythe said, “I suppose I should apologize for interrupting.”
“It’s not how it looks.” Picking up a towel from a lounge beside the pool, Alan wrapped it around his waist.
“Please.” Why was it that the lying irritated her more than the sex? Blythe shook her head. “Don’t treat me like a fool, Alan. All three of us know that it’s exactly how it looks.”
“You’re the one who canceled our dinner tonight. Just as you’ve canceled so many other plans since you became obsessed with making that damn movie about Alexandra Romanov and Patrick Reardon’s tawdry tale.
”
How was it, Blythe wondered, that such a talented, intelligent man could sound like a petulant five-year-old? And how dare he try to turn the blame on her?
“I know. And I was feeling bad about that.” She lifted the dark green bottle by its neck. “So I decided to surprise you by saying goodbye in style.” Although her voice was calm, her eyes were not. Passion born of fury, not of desire, radiated from every fragrant pore. “But I see I should have called first.”
Turning her attention to the television actress, Blythe said, “Hello, Brittany.”
“Hi, Blythe.” Rather than the embarrassment she would have expected to see, Blythe viewed a certain triumph on the woman’s perfect face. “I’m so sorry you had to find out this way.”
“Find out?”
“Brittany—” Alan warned, half turning toward her.
“Alan and I have been lovers for months.”
“Really?” Blythe arched a sable brow. “Before or after your surgery?”
“Dammit, Brittany, shut up,” Alan snapped, in danger of losing his composure for the first time since Blythe’s arrival. Which wasn’t all that surprising, she considered. Cheating on a fiancée was one thing. Fooling around with a patient could definitely get a physician called before the state medical board.
“Don’t worry, Alan.” Blythe was not nearly as upset as she should be under the circumstances. “I have no intention of turning you over to the AMA.” She turned on a stiletto heel. “Don’t bother seeing me out.”
“Dammit, don’t go.” He grasped her arm. “Not yet. We need to talk.”
“Really, Alan.” She pried his fingers off her bare, night-cooled skin. “What on earth could we possibly have to talk about?”
“Our marriage, of course.”
“Marriage?” The man was one surprise after another. “How can you talk about marriage after this?” She cast a disparaging glance toward Brittany, who’d left the pool like Venus rising from her half shell and was currently taking her time climbing into a thong bikini bottom.
“What happened with Brittany has nothing to do with us,” Alan insisted. “Or our marriage.”
Blythe wondered when she’d become such a bad judge of character. She’d known Alan was judgmental and, given the chance, controlling. She’d accepted the fact that he was stiff and sometimes boring. She’d also gotten used to the idea that not only did he disapprove of her profession, but he was also vehemently opposed to her starting her own production company. He’d also made no secret of the fact that he thought the subject matter of her first independent project was exploitive. Actually, the word he’d used, on more than one occasion, was trash. But at least she’d believed that he was a man of integrity. Obviously, she’d been wrong.
“Are you saying the same thing would have happened if we’d gotten married?”
“Don’t be so naive, Blythe.” An edge of irritation crept into his tone. “This is Los Angeles. Men sleep with other women every day. And their wives sleep with other men. But that doesn’t mean that they can’t have a meaningful marriage.”
A knot of betrayal and disgust tightened in her gut. “I’m going to try to forget you ever said that.” She began walking away again, her long stride sweeping her across the brick, through the still open French doors, into the house.
She was marching across the room when he caught up with her again. “Dammit, you’re not being at all reasonable. You’ve known from the beginning that our marriage wasn’t going to be based on any shared passion.”
That was precisely what she was doing here tonight. To convince herself otherwise. Blythe paused, mildly curious. “What, exactly was our marriage going to be based on?” she asked coolly. “In your opinion?”
“Mutual success. We’re both famous in our own right, Blythe. And wealthy. You know I’m not with you because I want to bed a movie star and I know you’re not with me for any financial support or social status.”
His fingers curved around her bare shoulders to draw her to him. “Together we can rule this town.”
Looking up at him, Blythe was reminded of an old quote about being able to put all the sincerity in Hollywood into a gnat’s navel and still have room left over for a sesame seed.
Before she could answer, his head swooped down and he took her mouth in a long hard kiss that tasted of frustration edged with anger.
As she stood still for a kiss she neither wanted nor enjoyed, Blythe suddenly found herself thinking of her parents. Still happily married after thirty years, they held hands while walking on the beach, slow danced cheek to cheek at celebrity fund-raising balls and, if her mother could be believed, continued to neck in the back row of darkened movie theaters.
“As difficult as it will be for you to understand this, Alan,” she said, shrugging away from his touch, “I have no interest in grasping or wielding social power and I loathe the idea of being any man’s trophy wife.”
She began walking toward the front door again. “Have a nice evening.”
“Dammit, Blythe, you’re making an enormous mistake. If you’d stop being so emotional and listen to reason, you’d see that we can get past this.”
“The thing you don’t seem to understand, Alan, is that I have no desire to get past this.”
As she passed the ebony statue, Blythe was tempted to send it crashing off its pedestal. Determined to retreat with dignity, she resisted the urge.
However, having never claimed to be perfect, she gave in to impulse and slammed the immense mahogany door behind her.
3
AN HOUR LATER, Blythe was sitting on a lounge, out by the pool of the famed Chateau Marmont, staring out over the lights of the city, drinking the exquisite Tattinger.
“There comes a time, in every woman’s life,” she said, “when the only thing that helps is a glass of champagne.” She refilled her glass from the dark green bottle, then held it up to the moonlight to judge the level of champagne remaining. “Bette Davis. In Now, Voyager.... No. That’s not right.”
She shook her head. She knew she was getting a bit tipsy, but at this point, didn’t care.
“Old Acquaintance, 1943. And she said it to Miriam Hopkins.” Having always prided herself on her encyclopedic memory of the movie business, Blythe nodded her satisfaction.
Then tossed back the champagne.
Where the hell was she? Gage slammed the receiver down for the third time that hour. When he hadn’t gotten an answer at her hotel bungalow, he’d decided she must have been spending the night with that uptight, socialite nose doctor fiancé. But a call to Alan Sturgess had revealed that although Blythe had been there earlier, she’d returned to the hotel.
There was a flinty edge to the plastic surgeon’s tone that suggested all was not going well in the romance sweepstakes. Gage found that idea eminently appealing.
“You’re a bastard, Remington,” he growled as he began dialing her number again. While he certainly wouldn’t wish a broken heart on Blythe, neither did he want her to marry Alan Sturgess.
After several rings, the hotel operator came on the line to tell him what he’d already figured out for himself. That Blythe wasn’t answering her phone.
He could, of course, leave a message. But nine years on the force had Gage thinking the worst. Carjackings were becoming more and more common in L.A. A lone woman, driving an expensive car like her Jaguar, was, unfortunately, at risk. Even in the upscale Pacific Palisades neighborhood where Sturgess’s house was located. Even at a ritzy place like the Chateau Marmont.
“Hell.” He dragged his hand through his hair and considered his options. Then he left Bachelor Arms, and headed up into the hills.
He found her out by the oval swimming pool, staring into the serene blue water.
“You didn’t lock the door to your bungalow,” he said abruptly, dispensing with any words of greeting. When he’d arrived to find the door unlocked and Blythe gone, he’d suffered a jolt of icy fear. While all the time she’d been drinking champagne out by the pool l
ike the goddamn movie star she was. Her skirt was hitched up, revealing the lacy tops of her thigh-high stockings. The contrast between the jet stockings and creamy porcelain skin caused a low, deep pull that only served to irritate him further.
“I guess I forgot.” Blythe didn’t question what Gage was doing here. At this point, she was beyond questioning anything.
“She forgot.” He shook his head with very real disgust. “Why don’t you just send out an invitation to the Manson family while you’re at it?”
“They’re in prison.” Her tongue was thick. Despite childhood elocution lessons, her words were slightly slurred. “I saw him on one of those television newsmagazines not too long ago. He’s crazy, you know. Absolutely insane.”
She shook her head. “Then again, maybe we’re all crazy, living in this town.” She polished off another glass and reached for the bottle again.
Gage grabbed it away. “You’re drunk, Boss Lady.”
“Am I?” She considered that for a long, drawn out moment. “Perhaps just a little.” She held out her glass, obviously expecting him to refill it. “But not enough. Not yet.”
Having never seen a hint of Blythe having a drinking problem, he wondered what the hell had happened between this afternoon and now.
“Far be it from me to interfere with your little party, but I feel obliged to remind you we have an early flight tomorrow.”
“I haven’t forgotten.” She airily waved her glass. “And for your information, I’m unrelentingly prompt. I have never missed a flight in my life. Are you going to pour me some champagne or not?”
“If you’re stupid enough to fly to Europe with a hangover, far be it from me to stop you.” He poured a few inches of the sparkling liquid into the Baccarat flute. When she continued to hold her glass out, he muttered a curse and filled it to the crystal rim.
“Thank you.” She smiled at him. “You’re welcome to help yourself.” She crossed her legs with a sensual swish of silk. “Although I’m afraid I only brought one glass outside.” She glanced back over her shoulder toward the building. “There are more in my bungalow.”