by Kari Bovee
There it was again. The indifference. It rankled her. She felt anger boiling up. “Speaking of people who work for me, what happened with Mr. Green? Why did you—or rather, what gave you the right to fire a member of my staff?”
Her staff. She cringed. She had no control over her emotions around this man.
“You’re referring to the world’s worst publicist?”
“Chet—”
“He put you in unnecessary danger.”
Confusion wrinkled her brow. “How so? I don’t see how visiting poor, motherless orphans is dangerous.”
Chet’s eyes narrowed and darkened. A small sense of triumph sparked within her at eliciting a reaction from him.
“He was responsible for your accident,” Chet said through gritted teeth.
She raised an eyebrow. “Oh really? How?”
“He spooked your horse.”
“He did not,” she said on a sigh. The feud between the two men was truly becoming ridiculous.
But Chet’s serious expression didn’t change. “He went behind the mare and prodded her in the flank, Grace. I saw it.”
His words stunned Grace into silence. She knew Donovan had stepped behind the horse foolishly, but surely he wouldn’t have purposely agitated the mare. Donovan liked her. In fact, he more than liked her. He treated her like a woman, not a job.
She glanced up at Chet. “That’s impossible. We were friends. He wouldn’t have hurt me on purpose.”
“Then you’d better choose your friends more carefully. I’m telling you, he intentionally spooked the horse after the guide clearly told us not to walk behind the mare. I even confronted him about it.”
Losing ground, Grace placed her hands on her hips. “Why would Donovan want to spook my horse?”
Chet hesitated. “He . . . he was jealous.”
“Jealous? Of what?”
“You and your ability to ride. He wanted to impress you, but you outrode him. It made him feel like a fool.”
“Oh.” She didn’t expect that response. “He told you this?”
“In a manner of speaking.” Chet coolly surveyed her, not giving an inch.
She lowered her brows, frowned, and looked away. She didn’t think Donovan could possibly be so cruel, or so shallow. Her head began to pound, and when she reached a hand up to her temple and gently massaged it, she saw concern written on Chet’s features but he said nothing.
She turned and walked out of the room. She needed to get ready for the party.
Chet shook his head. Weak. Donovan Green jealous of Grace’s riding skill was a stretch, but he hadn’t been able to think of anything else to say to her on the fly. He didn’t have the heart to tell her the truth.
A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. He opened it to find a bellman. “Mr. Riker, there is a telephone call for you in the lobby.”
“Do you know who it is?”
“Mr. Florenz Ziegfeld Jr., sir.”
Chet drew in a deep breath. “Very well. I’ll be there in a minute.”
He closed the door on the bellman, readying himself for the tongue-lashing he’d get in a few minutes. Hopefully Flo wouldn’t fire him for throwing that bastard off the train. If so, he’d have no protection from Marciano or his goons, who seemed to be everywhere. It would also leave Grace unprotected.
When he reached the lobby, he found the bellman standing next to a desk, guarding the phone. Chet took the phone from him and handed the kid a quarter.
“Hello?” he said into the receiver.
“Chet, old boy, how are you?” Flo sounded cheerful, bordering on giddy.
“Hello, Flo.”
“I received a telegram from Mr. Green. Seems he made it back to civilization in one piece. You actually threw him off the train?” Flo chuckled. “Brilliant, my man, just brilliant.”
Chet hesitated, letting the words sink in. “So you’re not angry?”
“Well, he got results, but I never wanted Grace to be hurt. I care about the girl. Plus, hurting the Follies’ newest star would be extremely counterproductive. Green proved reckless, and I would’ve chucked him off that train, too. The spin that you and Grace are lovers, however, is genius. As much as I tried to discourage you before, I think it adds spice to her story.”
“Spin that Grace and I are lovers? What are you talking about?”
Chet heard the crinkling of paper on the other end of the line. “‘Ziegfeld Star Survives Brush With Death,’” Flo’s voice took on the monotone quality of reading aloud. “‘War hero turned bodyguard, Chet Riker, swooped in to rescue Grace Michelle, sister of the late Sophia Michelle, after a bruising fall from a runaway horse. The lovers had just completed a promotional tour stop at the St. Cecilia’s Orphanage outside of Albuquerque, New Mexico, when Miss Michelle’s horse bolted, dragging her a long distance. Riker galloped after her and returned with Miss Michelle unconscious in his arms. No bones were broken, and the couple continued their trip to Hollywood, California, where the new star will be auditioning for a motion picture.’ It’s brilliant, I tell you!”
Chet took in a breath. She’s not auditioning for anything. And lovers? Hardly. “Who blabbed to the paper?”
“You do remember the reporter and photographer who traveled with you to the orphanage.” Flo said.
“I do,” Chet’s voice betrayed the fact that he was not at all amused. Why the hell does Flo think this trash is good publicity? His latest stunt nearly got her killed.
“Look, Chet. I know you are upset at this. But anything that draws attention is good for the show.”
Chet flinched, not sure how he felt about Flo’s last words. He decided to ignore them. “I saw some of Marciano’s men on the train,” he said instead. “Do you know anything about that?” Chet could hear Flo exhale, probably smoking one of his expensive Cuban cigars.
“Yes, well, I’m not surprised that he’s on your tail. He’s investing a lot of money in Grace, so he’ll want to keep tabs on her. Don’t let them rankle you, Chet. Stay the course.”
“What about Lillian Lorraine? Are you aware she’s on the train, too?”
The silence on the other end answered the question before Flo could speak. “No. Dammit. What’s that woman up to? Must be sour grapes. I didn’t give her the show so she’s gone to California to lick her wounds. Probably trying to get a picture or—”
“Or what?” Chet pressed.
“She’s picked up a bad habit—a drug habit. Cocaine. I think she’s getting it from Joe, but she’s always out of money.”
“She told me she had an offer for a picture.”
“Neither here nor there,” Flo said. “Not my problem any longer.”
“And what’s this Donovan mentioned about you concocting a story of murder. Sophia’s murder? Am I on a boondoggle here, Flo?”
He could hear Flo puffing on his cigar, then exhale.
“Until you, or the police, find out what really happened, it only seems reasonable to suspect it was murder.”
Chet sniffed. So Flo stilled played the murder angle.
“You’re a PI. Act like one. And, Chet,” he said, his voice growing more insistent, “don’t spill anything to Grace. Keep her in the dark until we sort this out. That’s an order.”
Chapter Nineteen
An hour later, Grace and Chet arrived at Billie’s suite dressed for the party. Chet seemed distracted and aloof, and didn’t offer any conversation. Grace didn’t either. What could she possibly say to lighten his dark mood? Feeling tired already, Grace didn’t have the energy to concern herself over Chet’s feelings. She had to dredge up enough of it just to get through this party.
Billie greeted them at the door. “Darling! You look simply marvelous.”
Grace leaned close to her and made two air kisses on each side of Billie’s glittering face. Despite her melancholy mood, Grace was relieved that Billie received her with such friendliness, despite what she now knew about Flo and Sophia. Grace couldn’t help but smile at the pixyish woman, a beau
tiful elf with red waves of curly hair. She now understood why few people disliked her, aside from Sophia.
It was said around the theater that Billie had a special hold on Flo, one that no other woman had been able to cultivate. Sophia certainly hadn’t. Grace remembered Charles’s words about Flo loving Billie above all others and Billie knowing it, but what was it about Flo that made Billie put up with his affairs?
Billie slipped an arm around Grace’s shoulder. “The papers have been filled with your ordeal. You look strikingly well considering what you’ve been through.”
“Thank you,” Grace said. “I’m doing much better. Your hospitality has been unsurpassed. Thank you for everything.”
“You are a love. And here is your handsome Prince Charming we’ve been reading about! How are you, Chet darling?” She flashed a stunning smile at him. “You two are simply divine together—simply di-vine.”
Grace felt a rush of blood rise in her cheeks and she noticed Chet flinch.
“And oh my.” Billie placed her palm against her chest. “It’s such a pity about Sophia. What you’ve been through, you dear girl.” She clucked her tongue against her teeth, and Grace’s skin prickled at the hint of condescension and distinct chilliness in Billie’s voice.
“It’s so brilliant of my Flo to see that you’re protected,” Billie went on. “He’s simply wild about you, darling. You do know that, don’t you?”
“I’m grateful for all he has done for me.” Grace hoped her smile seemed sincere.
“Come. Let’s join the party.” Billie pulled Grace into the magnificent suite. High ceilings with thick crown molding lined the room. Lavish drapes in pastel moiré taffeta softened the room, looking very much like billowing gowns puddled on the parquet floor. The suite consisted of three bedrooms, a living area, bar, dining area, and kitchen. Additionally, a large, semicircle balcony overlooked the lush valley.
Elegant ladies and distinguished men crowded the rooms. They sat or stood in small circles, smoking cigarettes, drinking, laughing, and talking. Grace and Billie entered, Chet behind them.
Billie stood close to Grace and then tapped her fingernails on her cocktail glass. “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the future star of the Follies, Miss Grace Michelle!”
Everyone turned toward Grace and greeted her with polite applause. She displayed her best smile and nodded at the guests, even as her stomach lurched. Although she was growing somewhat used to being the center of attention, she still didn’t like it.
A waiter appeared with a tray of champagne glasses and offered one to Grace, then Chet. Grace accepted and toasted the crowd. They toasted back, the word cheers echoing around the room, and then everyone resumed their superficial conversations. Grace noticed only one woman who didn’t raise her glass. Instead, she glared at Grace with a vehemence that made her stomach sink. Something familiar pricked at Grace’s memory, but she couldn’t place the woman.
To her right, an auburn-haired starlet engaged Chet in conversation. Suddenly alone, Grace took her drink and sought solace on the balcony. The warm, moist air caressed her skin, and she breathed in the fresh aroma of night-blooming jasmine. She let the beauty of her surroundings relax her. A full moon cast soft beams upon the citrus groves, making them almost luminescent, and the stars shone brilliantly, like silver slivers in the sky.
Feeling a presence behind her, Grace turned, presuming it was Chet. Instead, a tall, broad-shouldered man with unusually long, cinnamon-colored hair and a full, closely cropped beard smiled at her.
“It’s a great pleasure to meet you, Miss Michelle. I’m Timothy O’Malley.” His melodic voice revealed an Irish brogue. He took her hand and pressed it to his lips. His whiskers tickled and caused a tingle to course through her hand, up her arm, and into her chest. “May I join you out here?”
“Of course.”
“I find these parties a challenge.”
“As do I,” she admitted.
“Too many people, too noisy.”
“Yes.” Grace nodded in agreement, relieved she wasn’t alone in her discomfort.
As Timothy O’Malley sipped his champagne, his green eyes were confidently fixed on hers, leaving Grace feeling somewhat transfixed. The man oozed charm. He moved closer to her and focused his gaze on her hair, brazenly lifting a hand to caress the loose twist that Lucile had fashioned.
Although charming and handsome, his boldness made her feel twitchy. His closeness was too intimate. Instinctively, Grace stepped back, but he matched her steps. She turned her shoulders to the left and then the right, seeking an escape. He responded by pinning her against the stone railing, resting one of his arms next to her, and leaning his head close to her ear.
“You’re exquisite,” he murmured. Grace could smell the alcohol on his breath and feel the vapor hot and insistent in her hair. She inched to the left, delicately trying to sidle past him, but he moved with her again.
“I really should—” she started.
He placed his fingertips gently on her lips, and then trailed them from her mouth, to her chin, and down her neck. Panic fluttered in her chest like a frightened bird. When his hand approached her breast, Grace snatched it and held it fast.
A chuckle emerged deep and resonant from his throat. “Sorry, lass.” He stepped back to a more comfortable distance. Grace felt the air seep out of her lungs in guarded relief, but she eyed him with caution. She stiffened as she leaned against the rail, trying to get even more distance from the man.
“A shy one,” he said, draining his glass and blinking his attractive eyes. “I apologize for my manners. You’re just so bloomin’ breathtaking.”
Grace raised her chin. “I’d appreciate it if that didn’t happen again.”
He stepped back another six inches. “I swear,” he said, placing his hand over his heart, “on my dead mother’s grave.”
“Thank you.”
He grinned at her like a satisfied cat who’d swallowed the canary. She wanted to scoot past him, but still, he blocked her way. She pressed her hand against his chest, and he stepped back, letting her through.
“You didn’t come to the party just to see me, did you?” she asked, emboldened by her newfound self-respect.
O’Malley smiled and tucked his free hand in his jacket pocket. “No, I must admit, I did not. But it was a nice little perk to meet you.”
“And why are you here?” Now that she’d established her boundaries with this Irish imp, Grace felt comfortable extending the conversation.
His smile turned to another deep, throaty chuckle. “Oh, I forgot, you are new to California, aren’t you? You have no idea who I am. How delightful.”
Grace squinted her eyes, trying to guess at what game he was playing.
“I’m the director of Billie’s latest film,” he told her.
Crimson crept up Grace’s throat and face. Of course, the Timothy O’Malley. She’d read about him in Variety and had heard Flo talk about him many times. Not in the best of terms, either. Flo was jealous of the smooth-talking Irishman, and Grace could see why.
“Don’t fret, lass. Actually, it’s rather pleasant to meet someone who has no idea who I am. Again, I must apologize for my brash behavior a few minutes ago. I’m used to a bit different, well, reception from women.”
“You mean you’re used to women throwing themselves at your feet?”
Now it was O’Malley’s turn to blush.
“I see you’re not the average starlet.”
“No. Not the average starlet.”
“Aye, I’ve offended you again.” O’Malley ran a hand through his auburn waves.
Grace pursed her lips, and the silence grew thicker. Thankfully, Chet stepped out onto the balcony. “Are you all right?”
“Yes,” Grace said. “I was just saying goodbye to Mr. O’Malley. He’s the director of Billie’s latest film—very big in Hollywood, as he’s been telling me.” She turned her attention back to the brash O’Malley. “Goodbye, Mr. O’Malley. It was a . . . um, a pl
easure to meet you.”
“The pleasure was all mine,” he said, bowing and clicking his heels together. “If you are ever in need of work, please give me a call.” He reached into his jacket pocket, retrieved a calling card, and handed it to her.
Grace took the card and brushed past both him and Chet. She looked back to see Chet straighten his tie and follow her back in to the party. Where had he been when Timothy O’Malley had nearly accosted her? A wave of disappointment made her suddenly very tired.
Looking around the crowded room she could tell she had already been completely forgotten. Except by one woman—the woman who had refused to toast her. Grace shuddered at the ominous stare from across the room. Who was she?
Suddenly, Billie moved toward Grace. “Darling, you must be exhausted,” she said, placing an arm around Grace’s shoulders.
“I am. I’d like to go if you don’t mind. It’s a lovely party, but I’m still not feeling well.”
“I completely understand. You go rest. We’ll try to manage without you.” Billie pulled her forward and smacked two air kisses, one on each side of Grace’s head.
Once outside in the breezy night air, Grace inhaled deeply and felt the tension drain from her limbs. Chet appeared behind her.
“Thank God I’m out of there. I don’t know how much longer I can endure this. I just want to go home to New York.”
“It’s going to be worse there.” Chet moved next to her.
Maybe so, she thought, but at least in the theater, she could retreat into her own little world a bit easier, and no one there tried to stare her down at parties. Here, she had no escape.
“You’re right, I suppose. How did I get into this mess? All I want to do is design and sew costumes.”
Chet shoved his hands into his pockets and kicked at a pebble on the ground. “Is that really all you want?” His eyes met hers.
Grace blinked and swallowed, his meaning clear, but his words startled her. It would be no use denying her feelings; she knew full well that he’d sensed them.
“You know it’s not,” she said, barely audible.
“So any interest in that famous Irish director?” His tone hinted at sarcasm.
