Darcy in Hollywood

by Victoria Kincaid

  Burton sighed. No doubt plenty of clients had said that to him.

  Okay, focus, he told himself. He had made a list of the things he wanted to discuss with Burton. Making lists made everything seem more under control. Darcy scanned the list now. “What about the fingerprints?”

  “The only usable prints they got out of the car were Lydia’s, so that’s a wash.”

  “Have you found the chauffeur?”

  Burton sighed. “No. The agency lost track of him when he moved back to Panama. And before you ask again about video cameras, we haven’t turned up anything useful. Most places don’t keep footage very long.”

  Darcy didn’t respond; he was too busy grabbing the arms of his desk chair—which prevented him from throwing things through the window. Is there a word for when you ask for information from someone and all the news they give you is bad? There should be.

  He could only imagine the footage on cable news if he were led away from his house in handcuffs. His career would be over. His fans might have forgiven the first infraction, but a second—along with abandoning an injured woman? Darcy would probably be blacklisted.

  He wished he could talk to Elizabeth. He didn’t know what she would say to him, but just hearing her voice would help soothe the ragged edges of his nerves. Probably the worst part of this ordeal was that he didn’t know how she was faring. He wouldn’t be surprised if she found herself doubting his innocence. That was only to be expected.

  “Do you want to consider a plea agreement?”

  “No.” Cradling the phone against his shoulder, Darcy opened his liquor cabinet and poured a generous, fortifying portion of scotch, enjoying the burn as the first gulp slid down his throat.

  Burton sighed. “Okay, but you’re playing a dangerous game here, Will.”

  “I’m not playing any game,” he growled at the lawyer. “I’m trying to save my butt without hurting someone else in the process.” It shouldn’t be that hard to do.

  “Just so you understand, the next time we have this conversation it might be inside a jail cell.”

  Darcy hung up before Burton could issue any more doomsday pronouncements.

  He opened up his contacts and stared at Elizabeth’s name, his thumb hovering over her number. It would be so easy. With the tap of his finger, he could unblock her number and hear her voice within a minute. He could arrange to see her. Somehow he knew that with her hand in his, all of this would be less overwhelming.

  At least a dozen times today, he had picked up the phone determined to dial her number, no matter the consequences. He threw the phone onto the desk with an oath. It wasn’t Burton’s prohibition that had stopped him from calling her. It was fear. He was better off not knowing for sure how she felt about him. Better to think that she believed in him. If he called, he might be forced to face the certain knowledge that she hated him. He knew it was cowardly. He knew he was hiding behind the legal restrictions. But it was better to preserve the possibility of hope than face the certainty of loss.

  He swallowed more scotch and eyed the bottle. Enough to achieve complete oblivion for the night. Enough to forget his fear that he had lost Elizabeth forever. Even if she believed him, would she want to date the man accused of hurting her sister?

  If the media learned of their relationship, they would have a feeding frenzy, haunting their every step. They would make Elizabeth’s life hell. For his sake and for hers, he should have already given up any hope of a relationship, but he didn’t have much else keeping him going at the moment.

  He knocked back some more scotch and refilled his glass.

  The time he had wasted! If he only he had gotten his head out of his ass earlier instead of worrying that she wasn’t the kind of woman he should be seen with. Why hadn’t he recognized earlier that his “obsession” with Elizabeth was love? They could have had months together, and Lydia’s accident might not have happened at all.

  Why had fate given him Elizabeth Bennet only to yank her away?

  Darcy thumped his glass down on the liquor cabinet. On second thought, he didn’t have the energy to get drunk. Why bother? His life would be a royal mess with or without a hangover. What a depressing thought.

  He glanced at the clock. It was only 9 p.m. and way too early for sleep, but lethargy seemed to weigh down his limbs. Bed seemed the only sensible destination.

  He hoisted himself from the chair and trudged toward the door. At least while he slept, he wouldn’t think about Elizabeth. He could only pray he wouldn’t dream about her.

  ***

  The lobby of True Colors was a busy place. On one side, a bunch of kids were playing or watching video games, cheering or reacting to things that happened on the screen. On the other side, two girls played air hockey while a boy and someone of indeterminate gender were hunched over a computer together. Elizabeth was the only one occupying the big, squishy mismatched sofas near the door, but it wasn’t long before Garrett bounced into the room. She would swear he had grown a little taller, and he had dyed his dark hair a bright blue.

  “Hey, Ms. Bennet! You wanted to see me?” He sank into the worn sofa across from hers. The color might have been green at one time, but it was now an indeterminate gray.

  “Yeah.” She summoned a smile for him. There was undoubtedly trauma in his background—as there was for most of the kids at the shelter—but Garrett always had a quick smile and cheerful disposition.

  “How are things going?”

  A broad grin spread across his face. “Great! I’ve got a part-time gig working with the sound designer for Sonic Boom 3. The tagline is”—he held up his hands—“‘The loudest movie you’ve ever heard.’ It’s been a blast.” He shoved his hands in the front pocket of his hoodie. “But I guess you didn’t come all the way out here to check on me, did you?”

  “No.” Garrett was the fifth person she’d approached about helping Will, and it didn’t get any easier. But she was determined. “You heard about Will’s troubles? That he was accused of hurting my sister?”

  Garrett’s expression darkened. “I don’t think Mr. Darcy could have done it. He told me he doesn’t have anything to do with drugs, and I believe him. I don’t care what the police say, he’s not the kind of guy who—”

  “Whoa!” Elizabeth cut the teen off. “I agree with you.”

  His eyes widened. “You do?”

  “Absolutely. You were on the set; you saw how he avoided Lydia.”

  Garrett nodded enthusiastically. “Like an STD.”

  She covered her mouth to hide her laughter. “Exactly, so I know he wouldn’t have given her drugs or driven her anywhere.”

  The teen grinned. “Good deal. Good deal.”

  “I hope you can help me prove that it wasn’t Will.”

  “I’m down with that. But how?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know exactly. When did you last see him?”

  “At the wrap party, but I talked to him on the phone a couple times since.”

  Elizabeth sighed. She’d been hoping that someone would provide an alibi for Will. Even establishing his whereabouts earlier in the afternoon would help. But it appeared that he really had been home alone. Still, there were other ways Garrett might be of assistance.

  “I’m trying to locate the guy who we think is actually responsible: George Wickham.”

  Garrett started. “The dude who was on the set?”

  “You know him?” George had only been an extra for a couple of scenes.

  “Yeah, he, um, made himself known. He was skeevy. Kept offering me drugs. I think he figured a homeless kid would be into that shit, but I don’t appreciate being stereotyped, you know?”

  “So you didn’t take him up on the offer?”

  Garrett frowned. “Nah. I wouldn’t get mixed up in that crap. I’d get kicked outta the shelter for one thing.” His voice had gotten a little loud.

  “I’m not accusing you of anything,” Elizabeth said, holding out her hands. “Honestly, I’m just searching for someone who c
an help us find him.”

  Garrett scuffed his sneaker on the fraying carpet. “I wish I could.”

  “Do you know anyone who might know where Wickham is?”

  “Uh-uh. All the True Colors kids stayed away from him. He was trouble.” He squinted at Elizabeth. “So you think he gave your sister some pills and then took her for a joy ride?”

  “Yeah, but we can’t prove it. She remembers hanging with Wickham, but she doesn’t remember anything from that day, and we can’t find him.”

  Garrett crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back into the sofa. “So you think, what? Come to the homeless kid because he’ll know the drug dealers?”

  Damn. Am I guilty of stereotyping Garrett?

  The teen chuckled and pointed at her. “Man, you should see your face. It is way too easy to make you feel guilty. Of course, it makes sense to ask me. Everyone at the shelter knows someone who uses.”

  Whew. “So you’re not offended?”

  “Nah.” He laughed. “It’s way too easy to wind you up. Besides, I’d do anything to help Will. He’s been beyond awesome to me. I’ll ask around, see if anyone knows where Wickham might be holed up. Why do they think Mr. D. did it anyway?”

  “This guy came forward and said he saw Will get out of Lydia’s car after the accident.”

  “What’s the dude’s name?”

  “Flip. Flip Markham.”

  Garrett stiffened.

  “Do you know him?”

  “Yeah, you could say that.” He rubbed his chin, staring at the opposite wall like he was trying to decide what to say. “The thing is…he’s likely to be a customer of Wickham’s.”

  Excitement fizzed in Elizabeth’s veins. Finally, a breakthrough! “How do you know that?”

  Garrett pushed both hands through his bright blue hair. “Aw, man. This is embarrassing. I used to date Flip. We broke up because of the drugs. He wouldn’t stop using.”

  “No judging.” Elizabeth couldn’t care less about Garrett’s love life at that moment. “Did he know Wickham back then?”

  “Not that I’m aware. But Flip used to hang out at Worldwide Studios sometimes. It was near where he lived with his cousin, and sometimes people would give him money for odd jobs. Running errands and stuff.”

  For the first time in a week, Elizabeth felt a little lighter. “Would you be willing to tell the police what you told me?”

  “’Course. I’d do anything to help Mr. D. Problem is Flip won’t wanna say anything to them. He won’t confess to lying. He’ll clam up real tight.” Garrett leaned forward on the sofa, scowling.

  What was he suggesting? “That’s a problem for the police,” Elizabeth cautioned. “Let them handle it.”

  “Of course.” Garrett snorted. “Do you think I’ll go and beat up the dude? Have you met me? I’m like a hundred and thirty pounds soaking wet!”

  Elizabeth laughed. “All right, I’ll take you to meet the detectives working the case. Hopefully it’ll make them more aggressive about searching for Wickham.” She sighed, aware that this was only the first step in a long process. Or… “Unless you think you might be able to get the information out of Flip. Did you part on good terms?”

  A slow smile covered Garrett’s face. “Flip’s been dying to get back together.” He gestured to himself. “I mean, who wouldn’t want a piece of this? I’m betting he’d confess to setting up Mr. D. if I acted all impressed and shit.” His eyes widened. “Would I get to wear a wire? Please tell me I can wear a wire.”

  “Probably.” This was so not Elizabeth’s area of expertise. “We’ll need to find someone who can help.” Jane was her partner in the investigation; maybe she knew someone with the necessary knowledge.

  Garrett was practically quivering with excitement. “David, the guy who I’m working with on Sonic Boom 3, he knows how to rig a mic so it isn’t seen. He’s a friend of Mr. D.’s. He’d totally help.”

  Elizabeth blinked, a little nonplussed at how quickly she had become the director of a sting operation. But this opportunity was too good to ignore. Still… “Garrett, I don’t want you to do it if it might be dangerous. Will wouldn’t want to risk your getting hurt.”

  “Pssh. The worst that might happen is I get a hickey.”

  “Okay,” Elizabeth decided. “Let’s do it.”

  ***

  A week of virtual house arrest at Pemberley was undoubtedly better than being confined in most other locations, but Darcy was beginning to feel cooped up and claustrophobic. He’d even taken to visiting rooms he didn’t usually frequent, such as the basement or some of the twelve guest rooms, just for a change of scenery. When he found himself watching a reality TV show about a family that collected antique sewing machines, he knew he’d hit rock bottom.

  But every time he was tempted to call Raoul, he reminded himself to check the security monitors in the room off the kitchen. The cameras outside the gates gave an excellent view of the paparazzi lounging by the side of the road, just beyond the edge of Darcy’s property. Smoking cigarettes and chatting with each other, the camera crews and reporters were just dying for something to happen. At the slightest suggestion that Darcy might exit Pemberley, they’d jump in their cars and follow him, observing his every action. At least within the privacy of Pemberley, he might have relative freedom from scrutiny.

  Georgiana called every day. She had volunteered to come for a visit to stand in solidarity with her older brother, but he had refused. He had expended considerable energy to ensure that the public eye was not trained on his sister; he didn’t want to give them any reason to focus on her now.

  Charlie had called twice, full of bonhomie and false cheer, but they had exhausted useful conversational topics fairly quickly. Ricky had called a couple of times as well, but his connection to the Bennet family made conversations strained. Darcy hadn’t heard from his parents, which was just as well. Aunt Catherine had already informed him how he was doing everything the wrong way.

  The worst part of waiting was the suspense. He didn’t know if or when the police would charge him or what the charges might be. Burton tried to keep Darcy informed, but the police didn’t always answer his questions. Seven days of waiting for the other shoe to drop. Darcy’s nerves felt like a frayed bit of rope.

  Giving up television as a lost cause, Darcy wandered into the library. Usually he found the wood paneling and musty smell of books to be cozy and comforting, but today it struck him as particularly dark and ominous. He had entered with the purpose of finding a book to provide some distraction. After all, there were dozens of books he’d been meaning to read; he might as well take advantage of the free time.

  Strolling past rows of books, he ran his eyes over the titles. Elizabeth would enjoy this one. I wonder if she’s read that one; I’d love to discuss it with her. This is one set in Tuscany; if only I could visit Italy with Elizabeth. This one would make her laugh—

  Darcy turned abruptly away from the shelves when he realized what he was doing. She had never been in Pemberley’s library, and yet Elizabeth haunted it.

  If I’m arrested and get five years, will she wait for me? He snorted. Don’t be ridiculous, Darcy. She probably took a sledgehammer to every one of your DVDs in her collection. I bet she spits on the ground when your name is mentioned. Or maybe she says, “Will? Will who?”

  Oh Lord, I’m getting morose.

  But Darcy wasn’t willing to concede defeat just yet. Maybe the library had been a bust, but surely there was something that wouldn’t remind him of how he had lost the best thing that had ever happened to him.

  Yeah, said a snarky voice in the back of his head, I could return to the home theater and watch Hoarders Switzerland: Cuckoo Clocks Gone Wild.

  He wandered to the windows overlooking the manicured lawns and tree-lined drive. The library had one of the best views of the front lawn. From this perspective he couldn’t see the fence or the gate that kept the paparazzi from invading, just massive trees and precisely cut grass. It was beautiful, but…
He knew he was staying in Pemberley voluntarily. Still, he couldn’t escape the feeling that the paparazzi were his jailors.

  The ringing phone provided a welcome relief; he’d even take a telemarketer offering him a new roof. Hell, he’d take the new roof if the guy would come and talk to him.

  Maybe I’m getting a little desperate. Maybe I should hire someone to come and talk to me.

  He grabbed the cordless handset. “Yeah?”

  On the other end of the line, Burton cleared his throat. “Will, a warrant’s been issued for your arrest.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Just when Darcy thought he couldn’t sink any lower, now he could feel the tug as he was pulled inexorably, spiraling down a drain. I was wrong about just wanting this to end. He’d take five more days, ten, thirty, a year of uncertainty over the certainty that they would arrest him. “What?” he croaked into the phone. He had known, theoretically, that this was a possibility but hadn’t allowed himself to believe it would actually happen. I haven’t done anything wrong.

  “I’m sorry, Will. Officers are on the way over to take you to the station. I advise you not to give them any trouble.”

  Darcy briefly considered what would happen if he ran away. But it wasn’t easy to go on the lam with a famous face. No matter how he disguised himself, someone would recognize him.

  “I’ll cooperate.” His voice sounded calm even though Darcy felt as if a superball bounced around inside his body.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  “Good. I’ll arrange bail. You probably won’t have to stay overnight.”

  Jail. Oh my God. They were talking about jail. He experienced a kind of incredulous sense of unreality combined with nausea. How had it come to this?

  Somehow he managed to keep level, almost dead, tone in his voice. Well, at least the acting training was good for something. “What should I take with me?”