by Kari Bovee
Chet leaned down, grabbed Donovan’s collar, and hoisted him to his feet. “What else?” He placed his wrist against Donovan’s throat and applied pressure until the man’s eyes bugged out and his face began to turn red. Only then did Chet let up, ever so slightly.
“Okay, okay. Get off me.”
“Talk first.”
Donovan squinted and struggled for breath. “The car. In the city.”
Chet pulled his arm away from Donovan’s throat but pinned him up against the wall with both hands on his shoulders. The defeated publicist let out a gasp of air and leaned his head against the wall.
“The car?”
“The one that almost hit Grace.”
“Flo was responsible for that?”
Donovan nodded. “It was meant to be a scare tactic, not to harm her.”
Chet wrapped his fingers around the man’s neck. “Keep talking,” he said through gritted teeth and squeezed a little harder.
“Flo wanted it to look like Sophia’s supposed killer wanted Grace dead, too.” Donovan’s voice came out in a squeak.
Chet’s fingers dug into Donovan’s neck.
Donovan grimaced. Sweat trickled down his face and into his eyes. He blinked hard. “Are you going to let me go?” His eyes flicked across Chet’s face.
Rage burned inside Chet. Flo had played them all, used this buffoon to stage an elaborate production to further himself. The smarmy, I’m-untouchable-because-I-work-for-Flo look on Donovan’s face made Chet want to bash his head against the wall. Then Donovan’s last statement rang back in his head.
“What did you mean by ‘supposed’ killer’? Was that a publicity stunt, too? Or was Flo so angry that Sophia left him, he had her killed himself?”
“No, no. . . .” Donovan’s eyes widened again. “Flo would never go that far. We still don’t know how Sophia died, but murder works better for Flo, so that’s the story he’s going to tell.”
“Dammit.” Chet released his grasp, letting the crumpled man drop to the floor again. “This whole investigation is just—”
A charade.
Flo had sent Chet to California to investigate a murder knowing full well he might find nothing. At least he’d be paid for this sham, but what about Grace? This whole farce Flo created had torn up the girl, physically and emotionally. Lying to her about her sister’s death and then exploiting it? Manipulating her into an unwanted career? Putting her in harm’s way? It was unforgivable.
Chet glanced over at Donovan. The sight of the pathetic puppet made Chet want to explode. “Get up,” he ordered.
Cowering and using the wall for support, Donovan rose, inching away from Chet as he went.
Chet slapped both hands on Donovan’s shoulders, grabbing the fabric of his coat in his fists. He dragged him to the center of the room and, with one hand, swept Donovan’s hat up from the table. He shoved it onto the whimpering man’s head so hard it covered his eyes, then Chet hauled him to the door and out onto the platform. Grabbing Donovan’s collar and waistband, he hefted him up and shoved him over the railing of the speeding train car. He watched the mass of pinstriped suit roll and tumble onto the ground. After a few seconds, he saw the disgraced publicist get to his feet and run after the train. He’d never make it. Chet smiled, enjoying the rush of hot air slamming into his face and the dry, isolated New Mexico landscape speeding past. He brushed his hands together as if wiping off Donovan’s stink and went back inside.
After the doctor left, Chet lay on the bed facing Grace, watching her fitful slumber. She rolled her head back and forth, mumbling whispered words, her face twisted in torment.
The doctor had diagnosed her with a concussion, many bumps and bruises, but no broken bones or permanent damage, thank God. That damn Donovan Green. And damn Chet’s own inability to stop the horse from taking off.
He knew he’d catch hell for pitching Green off the train, and breaking the mirror, but the surge of rage he had felt at the man couldn’t be stopped. Flo had manipulated Chet and Grace, exploited them, and Chet wanted nothing more than to get Grace off this publicity fiasco. Marciano’s men were still on the train, however, which was an entirely different problem. He’d have to think it through, but for now, he’d make sure nothing dangerous happened to Grace again.
Her eyelids fluttered, and she moaned softly as she opened her eyes. The motion of the train gently rocked the bed, and the sounds of the wheels chugging gave the room a drowsy atmosphere. She rolled her head back and forth, as if working out a kink, and then stopped, looking directly at Chet. Her glassy, unfocused eyes blinked at him. Despite her injuries, she looked as radiant as a golden goddess. Her silky hair fanned out on the pillow like pure, thick honey.
“Am I dead?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.
“Yes.” He leaned closer to her. “And so am I, and we’re in heaven. Or almost in heaven. We reach California in about fifteen hours.”
Her eyes lingered on his face, as if studying its contours. “I really thought I was going to die.”
She truly could have died, and the notion made his heart palpitate with regret that he hadn’t been able to prevent the accident.
“The last I remember, there were hooves flying, dust choking me, and my foot was caught in the stirrup. I was struggling to break free, but she just kept dragging me and dragging me.” She paused, looked directly into Chet’s eyes. “I didn’t think I was going to get out of that situation.”
“But you did,” he said, smiling.
“Yes.” She lifted her head slightly and looked around the bed. “Wait, what are you doing here?” Her eyes clouded with sudden confusion.
Sensing her discomfort, he pushed himself upright and away from her.
“The doctor said you needed to be watched. I got tired. It’s late, so I thought I would lie down.” He started to get up, afraid he’d frightened her. In truth, he’d been unable to resist staying as close to her as possible. At least until he was sure she’d be all right. He hadn’t wanted her to wake up disoriented and alone.
“No, don’t go. Having you here makes me feel. . .safer.” Her cheeks flushed the color of a soft pink rose. “You said it was late. What time is it?”
He pulled on the chain hanging from his pocket and produced a gold watch. “Eleven thirty.”
“How long have I been here?”
“Nine hours.”
Her eyes widened. “You’ve been here that whole time?”
He nodded.
“And Donovan?” she asked. “Where is he?”
“Gone.”
When she squinted her lovely green eyes, he could see her mind working. Could she know, on some kind of subconscious level, what truly had happened?
“Where did he go? Why?”
“We can talk about it later.”
Her eyes moved to the sparkling chandelier now dancing in rhythm with the train’s incessant movement. Chet sat silently watching her long, sable lashes rise and fall with each blink.
“I’ve never come so close to death before.” She looked into his eyes. “I mean, when Sophia and I were on the streets, she always provided for us. And then, there was the car that almost hit me, but you reacted so quickly. You saved me. But when I was hanging from that stirrup, the world racing past, I felt it was the end. I was going to die.”
Chet couldn’t bear to watch her struggling with her feelings. He reached out and stroked her hair.
“You know what went through my mind?” she asked. “What I felt?”
Chet twirled a silky lock around his fingers, wishing he could grab a handful of her brilliant tresses.
“Sadness. Regret that I hadn’t found out what happened to Sophia, that I’d never seen anything or lived anywhere beyond New York, that I’d never experienced . . . a man.”
Chet raised his eyes to hers, and for once, she did not shy away from his gaze. She held it steady. Chet fought the impulse to smother her with kisses. He raised himself up on his elbow, his eyes never wavering from hers.
<
br /> “It’s not too late. You lived. And I will help you find out what happened to Sophia.” He couldn’t bear to tell her that Flo may well have intentionally exaggerated the mystery behind Sophia’s death—or at least made use of it in a disrespectful and unforgivable manner. No need to tell her that just yet, though. “You can still experience all those things, and I’m confident you will.”
Grace looked away and fingered the lace of the bedsheets. When she directed her emerald gaze back to him, Chet leaned toward her, his face hovering over hers. He placed his hand in her hair and slowly ran his fingers through it. She gazed at him, her eyes full of curiosity and wonder—and desire. He bent lower and brushed his lips lightly against hers, waiting for her to protest. Instead, she closed her eyes and pressed her hand against his face. He melted into the heaven of her soft lips for a few, brief seconds and then gently pulled away.
If he continued, he wouldn’t be able to stop. He wanted to taste her, linger as long as possible, express the feelings that had been building inside him for days; but danger still loomed, and he needed his mind sharp, focused, unclouded. To fully protect Grace from whatever hell Flo had planned, and himself from Marciano’s hoodlums, he needed to remain emotionally removed from her. Besides, he didn’t like feeling overprotective, as if someone belonged to him. He had to get clear of Marciano before he could begin to get solidly back on his feet. This was no time to fall for a girl, no matter how beautiful and innocent.
Confusion swept her face.
“You need to rest,” he whispered, reluctantly releasing her hair. He sat up and lifted himself off the bed. “I will be sitting in the parlor, right outside your door.”
Chapter Eighteen
JUNE 9, 1920 - LOS ANGELES, CA
When they arrived in Los Angeles at two o’clock the next afternoon, Lucile helped Grace dress and prepare for the motorcar trip to Beverly Hills.
“We’re staying at the Pink Palace—the Beverly Hills Hotel,” Lucile said, her voice raised in suppressed excitement. “Everyone who is anyone in show business has stayed there.”
“How exciting.” Grace tried to muster some enthusiasm, but her bones hurt too much.
Billie had dispatched two baby-blue—her signature color—Rolls-Royce limousines to meet them at the train station. One of the drivers, a stately older gentleman, was sent to drive the four travelers while the other would transport the luggage.
Rows of palm trees swayed lazily along the road. Balmy air and soothing warm sunshine created a languor Grace could almost taste. Her aching body calmed, and soon her muscles melted under the tender administrations of the caressing sunshine. No wonder Sophia had wanted to be here.
The moment she thought of her sister, a vise closed in on Grace’s throat and she swallowed hard, sending a spasm of pain down her neck. She consoled herself with the thought that she was getting closer to finding out what—or more likely who—had caused Sophia’s death. But now, to endure the journey, which had been made painful by her injuries, she focused on the beautiful Southern California scenery as they drove up Wilshire Boulevard toward the sweeping green hills.
Grace glanced over her shoulder at Lucile, Nicole, and Chet, all silently sitting in the back seat. Chet was gazing out of the window, his hat pressed low on his forehead, his square jaw flexing. She wondered what he was thinking about. Her? The kiss they had shared? He had kissed her, hadn’t he? Yes, she was sure of it. She could still feel the gentle pressure of his lips and the way his kiss tasted. It surprised her how much she wished they would become lovers. But Chet’s mysterious behavior left her feeling confused—desired one minute and dismissed the next. It didn’t matter. It could never be. She wasn’t free to love anyone; Flo would make sure of that.
Even now, as Chet’s blue-gray gaze drifted out the car window, his expression aloof and distracted, memories of the kiss sent Grace reeling, making her forget the pain of the accident. She turned and faced the road again. Those few moments with Chet had taken her to a place she’d never been before. Her fingers and toes tingled at the thought.
When Chet said something Grace couldn’t hear and Nicole giggled, a jolt of irritation pierced her armor. She sighed as misery edged out her blissful memory and seeped back into her bones like black bile.
At last, they finally arrived at the hotel, and the drivers swung the oversized automobiles into the circular drive, where the party was greeted by an assortment of valets and bellhops. A tall and gawky teenager escorted Grace to one of the more lavish bungalows—a split plan with two bedrooms separated by a large living area, bar, and dining room.
Mint-green walls, trimmed with gleaming white molding and trim, decorated the interior of the bungalow, and the cool, serene hideaway smelled of citrus breezes. French doors from each bedroom extended out onto a private patio. Doors to another patio situated off the living area could be completely removed; thus bringing the outdoors in. The pleasant, spicy aroma of eucalyptus trees and the tang of lemon groves wafted into the room. As the dewy moisture of the air sank into Grace’s skin and the warmth of the sunshine radiated through the windows, she began to forget the tumble of emotions Chet caused within her.
An ice bucket with champagne stood waiting on the coffee table in the living room. A greeting card lay next to it. Alone in the cottage now, Grace picked it up and read it:
To my newest and brightest star. May your success be monumental.
Love always, Flo
Grace curled her lip, already tired of what little fame she’d experienced. She tossed the note on the sofa, flopped down, and propped her feet up on the coffee table.
A bellboy knocked on the frame of the open door. “Excuse me, Miss Michelle. I have a message from Miss Burke.”
Grace rose from the sofa, took the note, tipped the boy, and thanked him. She turned the message over in her hand. Billie had invited her to a reception—a black-tie event—in her honor—in one hour. Images of past parties crowded her head. She knew this one would also involve too many people, too much liquor, hypocritical small talk, petty anecdotes, and leering men.
And how would she dress to hide the bruises on her arms? She wished she could wear the daring dress that had caught Chet’s attention—the backless silver one with the plunging neckline.
Footsteps approached the suite. Grace glanced up as Chet came through the doorway, a bellhop struggling with her luggage behind him.
Grace stood there fiddling with the envelope in her hands. For the first time all day, Chet looked at her. She felt adrenaline pump as his blue-gray eyes met hers.
“Feeling okay?” he asked.
“Tired. But I want to talk to the police about Sophia, as soon as possible. Could you arrange that?”
“But the party. I need to be there with you.”
She tilted her head. “How do you know about the party?”
“It’s my business to know. Actually, I just saw Lucile. She was already fretting over what you should wear.”
“Then first thing tomorrow. Please. Could you arrange a meeting?” she asked again. “My entire reason for coming on this trip is to find out what happened to Sophia. Everything else has been about what Flo wants. But me, I only came to make sure my sister’s killer would be found.”
“You’re assuming she was murdered, and we don’t have a lot to go on yet. It may not have been murder.”
“If that is the case, then I will feel so much better.”
Chet offered a brilliant smile, and she felt her reserve melt.
“Tomorrow,” he said. “You know, if you’re up to it. You might actually try to have some fun. You’ve been through a lot lately. Try to relax and enjoy yourself. We’ll find out what happened to Sophia. I promise.”
Grace raised her chin, trying not to let her emotions overwhelm her.
“Don’t think of it as work,” Chet added.
“But it is . . . and for you, too—the fearless bodyguard who has saved this lady more than once.”
“It’s what—” A look
of disappointment clouded his eyes.
“You get paid for,” she finished for him. “I know.”
They stood in silence, looking at each other. His eyes, never blinking, bore into hers until her chest felt ready to cave in. She could scarcely breathe, nor could she move. Just as Chet seemed about to speak, Lucile burst into the room, Nicole trailing behind her. Grace inhaled sharply, relishing the rush of much-needed oxygen as it filled her lungs. Still, she rolled her eyes. Would she ever again have any privacy?
“We’ve got to get you ready for the party, darling,” Lucile said. “I’ve brought body makeup for those bruises, poor dear. How are you feeling?”
“I’m quite tired. Lucile, I—” She wanted to ask if there was any way she could get out of going to the party.
“You won’t look tired when I’m finished with you.”
Grace wanted to groan out loud.
“Nicole, start her bath, would you, dear?” Lucile asked. “I’ll get the gown ready. The silver one.”
Grace suppressed a smile, glad she would get to wear the dress she knew Chet liked.
Nicole, who stood gazing longingly at Chet, managed to tear her eyes away from him and disappeared into Grace’s bedroom.
Grace glanced at Chet to see if he had responded to Nicole in any particular way, but to Grace’s delight, his eyes were locked on her.
“You’ve become friends?” Grace asked him, nodding toward her bedroom to indicate Nicole.
“Well, I wouldn’t go that far,” he said.
She raised her brows, pleased at his remark. “She won’t say anything to me.”
Chet sank his hands into his pockets and rocked back and forth on his feet. “You two don’t have much in common, and . . . well, she works for you.”
His words landed like a punch to the stomach.
“Like you.” She knew she shouldn’t have said it, but she wanted more than indifference from him. Even anger would be better than apathy.
He straightened his back and crossed his arms over his chest. “Yes.”
