As she draped herself over a rock on the beach in a series of shocking, suggestive poses, it became immediately obvious that her bathing suit lacked both top and bottom. It lacked everything, in fact, except a tiny twist of fabric that circled her flaring hips and dipped between her dimpled rear cheeks.
Paige gawked with the rest of the tourists gathered at the windows while cameras clicked and whirred and flashed all around her.
"The Swanset Wing is across the gardens," David reminded her, still grinning.
With a last glance over her shoulder at the starlet, Paige followed him through a set of glass doors into the formal gardens. Immediately the seductive scent of roses and a soothing peace enveloped them. After the chatter and the noise of the huge rotunda, the still, unruffled reflecting pools dotting the gardens offered a surprising tranquility. Few tourists wandered the crushed-shell paths, and even fewer made it to the wing at the rear of the gardens.
In fact, other than a bored, sleepy-eyed guard, David and Paige were the only ones in the modernistic building, dedicated to the movies of the twenties and thirties. Black tile floors and stark white marble walls provided a dramatic backdrop for still shots from classic Charlie Chaplin and Rudolph Valentino films. Screens set into the walls at various intervals flickered with scenes from old black-and-white melodramas.
"Look!" Paige nodded toward a room just off the main hallway. "This alcove's dedicated exclusively to Victor Swanset's films."
"So it is," David murmured, his eyes on the elaborately framed life-size portrait that dominated the far end of the alcove. It showed a brooding, intensely handsome man in his mid-thirties. He wore formal evening dress, with a dark cape flung over one shoulder and gloved hands curled around an ivory-headed cane. His glossy black hair was slick with brilliantine, as were his luxuriant mustache and his small, pointed goatee.
"This is a studio shot from The Baron of the Night," Paige reported, scanning the information engraved in marble beside the portrait. "Victor Swanset's first film, and one of two dozen he did for Albion Studios."
"Which he later purchased," David added, supplementing the engraved data with the intelligence he'd gleaned from Claire.
'' He made his own movies? "
"He made his own statement," David corrected. "The films Albion Studios produced in the late twenties and thirties became vehicles for Swanset's increasingly vocal criticism of British foreign policy. He felt England and the United States should have entered the war long before they did."
"To stop Hitler?"
"To preserve the old, aristocratic order," David drawled.
Paige studied Swanset's striking features and arrogant pose. She wasn't surprised that his debut as the Dark Baron had catapulted him to immediate international fame. Or that he'd want to maintain the old order.
"The British government appropriated Albion Studios during the war," David continued, staring up at the portrait. "They used it to churn out propaganda films. Victor Swanset was so outraged by this bastardization of his art and his property that he refused to make another movie. He left England in the early fifties, and never returned."
Paige turned away, disturbed by the haunting portrait. As she wandered through the alcove, she had the uncomfortable feeling that Swanset's eyes followed her. Shrugging off the eerie sensation, she studied a series of framed black-and-white stills. Although Swanset appeared to have brought the same dramatic power to all his roles, from defrocked bishop to desert sheik, none of the stills held quite the intensity as the portrait of the Dark Baron.
David bent to examine a typed notice pasted to a bare spot on one wall. "It says that one of the stills was vandalized and has been removed for repair. I wonder which one?"
"The guard would know," Paige offered.
He nodded, then swept the quiet, empty alcove with a keen glance. "I'll go ask. You sit tight."
His heels echoed on the tiles as he retraced his steps to the entrance. Paige drifted to the black leather bench in the center of the small room. She perched primly on its edge, in a vain attempt to keep the high slit in the side of her skirt from showing more than just thigh.
Her gaze wandered to the marble pedestal beside the bench. A small sign invited her to press the black button, so she did. She half turned, expecting to see one of Swanset's films flicker to life on the opposite wall. Instead, a hazy beam of light focused on the portrait of the Dark Baron.
Surprised, Paige watched as the beam increased in both diameter and intensity. The brilliant light dazzled her and gave the figure in the portrait a slowly sharpening three-dimensional quality. The picture's background faded, blurred by the light. The walls on either side seemed to disappear, until there was only Victor Swanset, the Baron of the Night, standing before her.
Her heart thumping, Paige sat rigid on the leather bench. She was suddenly, ridiculously convinced that if she put out a hand she would touch cold flesh and hard bone instead of canvas.
She half rose, wanting out of the alcove, when the image moved. Paige gave a startled squeak and fell back on the bench a thump.
It was only a movie, she told herself. Some kind of enhanced video imaging or something.
Despite these hasty assurances, she couldn't hold back a small screech when the figure in the portrait smiled at her. He actually smiled at her!
Gasping in fright, Paige scooted backward on the bench. She couldn't breathe. Couldn't speak. Couldn't swallow past the huge lump in her throat. The Baron seemed to be looking right at her.
When the shimmering image hooked his cane over one arm, she scrambled back another few inches.
When he stepped out of the portrait, she toppled backward off the bench onto the black tile floor.
"Don't be alarmed, my dear."
The measured, mellifluous voice raised the hairs on her arms. Crabwise, Paige scuttled back, away from the approaching image. The high slit in her skirt parted as her sandaled feet sought purchase on the slippery tiles.
An appreciative gleam darkened the Baron's eyes, and his waxed mustache lifted in a small smile. Bending over her, he held out a gloved hand.
"Don't be frightened. Let me help you up."
"David!"
"Your friend will return momentarily, I'm sure. Please, allow me assist you."
Since the shimmering image was at that point hovering directly above her, Paige had to choose between taking his hand and lying on the floor quivering like the spineless, terrified blob she was. Her whole body shook as she lifted her arm, inch by agonizing inch, toward his outstretched hand.
Blinding light from the projector bathed her arm in the same eerie glow it did the Baron's. Paige thought she would faint when she touched the white glove and felt solid flesh inside. She gave a tiny whimper of abject terror, closed her eyes, and let him pull her to her feet.
"Oh, my dear, I'm sorry to have frightened you so. Please, forgive me."
When nothing violent happened immediately, Paige opened one eye. She wasn't quite sure, but she thought she detected genuine remorse on the Baron's handsome face as he led her back to the bench.
"Here, sit down while I turn off the projector."
Paige collapsed onto the padded bench. She would've tumbled right off it again a moment later, if total shock hadn't held her pinned in place.
When the Baron pressed the switch for the projector, the dazzling white light disappeared. So did Swanset's handsome, youthful face. His smooth skin lost its firm tone and sank into wrinkles. Liver spots darkened his forehead. His hair grew thinner, sparser, duller, and his tall frame seemed to shrink into itself, until the Baron of the Night became a stooped, thin man in a conservatively tailored business suit. Only his dark eyes retained their intense, penetrating quality.
Paige glanced from the man before her to the dramatic image in the portrait, then back again.
''How... how did you do that?"
He gave a small, self-deprecating smile. "It's a new process I'm working o
n. One which digitizes images and projects them onto living objects. When perfected, this process could revolutionize filmmaking."
"Well, it certainly revolutionized me," Paige admitted shakily. "But I don't understand how you walked out of the wall like that."
His smile deepened, and he lifted his cane. Its tip disappeared into the portrait.
"This is what we call a molecular screen," Swanset explained gently. "It's composed of air bubbles, not solid canvas, as are those in movie theaters. The Baron's portrait is projected onto the bubbles, or, at certain degrees of intensity, onto the object behind them."
"Onto you," Paige murmured.
"Onto me," he concurred with a rueful twinkle in his eyes. "I must ask you to forgive an old man's vanity, my dear. I shouldn't have done it, I know, but I simply couldn't resist the chance to appear before a beautiful young woman as I once was."
He gestured toward the spot beside Paige on the bench. "May I?"
At her small nod, he leaned both hands on his ivory-handled cane and eased down. Once seated, he studied her face. "Will you be all right?"
"I doubt if I'll ever be able to walk into another movie without swallowing a few dozen tranquilizers first, but aside from that, I'm fine."
Swanset gave a low, delighted chuckle. The sound rippled over Paige like deep, dark velvet brushing across her skin. Millions of women must have swooned when they heard that husky laugh, she thought in some astonishment. Particularly when it was accompanied by the heavy-lidded, blatantly masculine stare Swanset raked her with.
"You really are a most beautiful young woman," he murmured, his gloved hands curling around his cane. "That costume you're wearing enhances your charms quite deliciously, Miss—?"
Paige went very still as his gaze lingered on the gold collar of her halter. In the terror of the preceding few moments, she'd forgotten the reason she'd come to the Victor Swanset Wing of the Palais des Festivals in the first place. The reason came rushing back with soul-shattering intensity.
He cocked a brow, politely awaiting her response.
"Ames," she supplied, in a small, breathless voice. "Meredith Ames."
Oh, God! Was he going to ask her for the microdot? Frantically she tried to recall David's itemized list of instructions for just such a possibility.
First... First... Dear Lord, what was first?
The sound of approaching footsteps reined in Paige's spiraling panic.
David's deep voice preceded his arrival on the scene by a tenth of a second. "No luck with the guard. He doesn't have any idea—"
Both his voice and his footsteps ceased abruptly.
Paige swung around on the bench. She had never been more glad to see anyone in her life. She had never been more glad to see David, her David, in her life.
His red shirt and tan slacks stood out in startling contrast to the sterile white-and-black decor. As did his strong, athletic body and gleaming, steel blue eyes. There was nothing sterile about David, Paige thought in a rush of relief. Nothing ephemeral, like the shimmering image of the youthful Victor Swanset. David was real. He was solid. He was hers.
The instant communication she felt with him at this moment went deeper than mere visual identification. With the heightened instincts of an animal for her mate, Paige knew that she would recognize David even if he stepped out of a molecular screen wrapped in the body of Michael Jordan.
Unfortunately, her brief flash of absolute identity with, of belonging to, this man vanished when he caught sight of Victor Swanset on the bench beside her.
David, her David, disappeared in an instant. In his place stood the stranger she'd seen last night in the mirror.
Only someone as attuned to him as Paige was could have noticed the switch. It was so swift, so subtle. She caught the almost imperceptible tightening of his jaw. The slight shift in the planes of his face. The hint of menace in his walk as he strolled into the alcove.
"Ah," Victor murmured. "Your gallant returns."
Rising to his feet with the aid of his cane, he nodded politely. "You are this delightful creature's David, are you not?"
"I am," he replied, laying a light hand on her bare shoulder. Neither Paige nor Swanset missed the significance of his possessive gesture. He might be hers, but there was no doubt that she was also his.
This time Paige had no objection whatsoever to being claimed like a lost toy poodle. Even by this stranger, who was almost, but not quite, her David. In fact, she would've been more than grateful if he'd tugged on her electronic leash at this very moment and walked her right out of this bizarre situation.
A life of adventure, she decided, wasn't all it was cracked up to be.
"I fear I frightened your lovely companion," Swanset said, with a charming, apologetic glance at Paige.
Frightened wasn't quite how she would have described it, but she never used the kind of words that sprang into her mind at that moment. Not in public, anyway.
"I couldn't resist the opportunity to demonstrate a new technique I'm working on," the aging star explained.
"The Swanset visual imaging ionization process?"
Victor's smile broadened to one of pure delight. "You're familiar with my work?"
"I'm an electronic engineer by trade. My firm is very much involved in preparing for the transition to the information highway. Your pioneering work in visual imaging will ease that transition."
"Ah, yes, this information highway one hears so much about. An interesting concept, is it not? Channeling all information, whether written, visual, or audio, through a single network, into millions and millions of homes around the world."
Victor looked into the distance, his dark eyes gleaming with a vision of a world he might not ever see. A world that would explode with ideas, images, sounds. One that would exploit the new technology encoded on a tiny sequin attached to Paige's glittering gold collar.
Swallowing, she resisted the urge to lift her hand to her throat and cover the gold band.
With a tiny shake of his head, Victor recalled himself to the present. "May I be permitted to make amends for frightening your lovely companion so? Perhaps you both might join me for dinner, Mr.—?"
"Jensen."
His dark eyes widened. "But of course! Dr. David Jensen. I've read the paper you presented at the international symposium this week. It's brilliant, quite brilliant."
If David was surprised that this aging recluse had obtained a copy of the highly technical paper that provided his cover for this mission, he didn't show it.
"Please," Swanset insisted. "You must join me for dinner. To allow me to apologize for discomposing Miss Ames so, and, perhaps, to discuss further your paper."
David glanced down at Paige, as if politely seeking confirmation of her wishes.
"Dinner would be wonderful' she managed with a small smile.
"Fine. Shall we say tomorrow evening? My car will pick you up at the..." "The Carlton."
"The Carlton. At eight o'clock, then."
With a gracious bow to Paige and a nod to David, he strolled out of the alcove.
When the clicking of his cane on the tiles had faded, David slipped a strong hand under her elbow. "Come on, let's get out of here."
Paige wasn't surprised to find that her knees were still shaky. Grateful for both David's support and for the opportunity to put some distance between herself and the Baron's portrait, she clutched at his arm as he led her back out into the gardens. In the rose-scented arbor, he swung her around and curved a hand around her neck. Tilting her face up to the light, he scanned it anxiously.
"Are you all right?"
"More or less."
His fingers curled into her skin. "I just about lost it when I walked in and saw Swanset sitting next to you." "I did lose it."
With a small, embarrassed laugh, she described the abject terror that had toppled her onto the floor when the star made his dramatic appearance.
"Damn!" David muttered, resting his forehead against hers fo
r a moment. When he lifted his head, his blue eyes gleamed down at her with a combination of resignation and reluctant admiration.
"You have your own inimitable style, Jezebel, but you do get results."
Paige basked in the glory of his praise for all of twenty seconds, then sighed.
"I'd take full credit for this coup, except for one small detail," she said gloomily. "We really don't know if Victor Swanset invited us to his villa to get his hands on my microdot or to pick your brain about your brilliant paper."
Chapter 11
When she walked out of the Palais des Festivals, Paige experienced a sharp sense of disorientation. With all that had happened, it seemed as though she and David had been inside the huge convention center for hours, if not days. Yet the sun still hung high overhead, and bright diamonds sparkled on the bay. The scent of spring drifted along the Croisette, and even the traffic moved more slowly, more politely, as though the drivers were taking the time to enjoy the balmy afternoon.
"Do you mind walking a bit?" David asked as they approached a rank of waiting taxis. "We can have lunch at one of the beach cafes, then, if you're up to it, take a stroll through the Allees."
At the mention of the Allees, the nervous tension still gripping Paige shifted focus. She shoved aside the lingering jitters generated by her meeting with the Baron of the Night and instantly started worrying about Maggie's meeting with Antoine the bookie.
By the time this great adventure of hers was over, she thought, she was going to have an ulcer.
"I could use some fresh air," she said truthfully.
David smiled and slipped on a pair of aviator-style sunglasses. "Me too."
At any other time, Paige would have delighted in fee spectacle that presented itself as they strolled along the palm-lined boulevard. If ever a city had been made for people-watching, it was Cannes, especially at this time of day. The previous night's revelers were just emerging for a late branch. All along the Croisette, the idle rich rubbed shoulders with camera-laden tourists. On the white, pebbly beaches, northerners who'd come to escape the cold, drizzly wet stripped down to string bikinis, or less, and displayed their pale bodies beside those of tanned sun worshipers. Paige managed to refrain from gawking the way she had at the well-endowed starlet posing on the beach at the Palais.
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