If I Can't Have You

by Patti Berg

  If I Can’t Have You

  by

  Patti Berg

  USA Today Bestselling Author

  Copyright © 2012 by Patti Berg

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems without permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review. This book may not be resold or uploaded for distribution to others.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.

  First published in the United States by Avon Books 1998

  First e-book edition: May 2012

  Second e-book edition: November 2012

  Cover design: Hot Damn Designs

  Author photo: Bob Berg

  Table of Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Other books by Patti Berg

  About the Author

  For Bob

  Acknowledgments

  My deepest gratitude to the movie legends of the ’30s whose films have given me so much enjoyment over the years, and who provided me with the inspiration for this book. Special thanks to my two favorite stars: Cary Grant—for the smiles, the laughter, and the romance. Errol Flynn—for an infectious laugh, for being a dashing and daring hero, and for having wicked ways. May your memory last forever.

  Prologue

  July 4, 1938

  What a grand night for dying.

  Trevor Montgomery gazed at the fireworks exploding over the swaying palms and the magnificent columns of Sparta, lighting the midnight sky with a profusion of sparkling colors. Off in the distance he could hear laughter and loud voices ringing out as partygoers gathered on one of the crowded terraces of Harrison Stafford’s palatial seaside estate, eating his food, drinking his liquor, and celebrating Independence Day in the grand fashion people expected from the self-made tycoon.

  Trevor had laughed with Harrison earlier in the evening. He’d let his closest friend beat him at a game of chess, and he’d strolled among the other guests with a picture-perfect smile on his face as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Inside though, deep down where no one could see, he felt scared, and alone; happiness, he realized, was part of his past. As if in a movie, Trevor had put his keen skills to work this night and deceived everyone. He was an actor, after all. A great actor.

  The only one he hadn’t fooled tonight was himself.

  When the mixture of too many sounds grew loud and oppressive, he’d walked away from the party, wandering through gardens fragrant with roses and honeysuckle and down a meandering path that led to one of the lower terraces and a pool where he’d swum just a few weeks before.

  Now, he stood on the marble steps of the Grecian temple Harrison had spared no expense in building, one hand tucked in the pocket of his crisply pleated trousers, the other pressed against a marble column for support. Instead of looking up at the rain of firelight, he cast his eyes downward and studied the reflection of a million sparkles on the calm surface of the pool.

  Slowly, he smiled. He couldn’t have picked a more glorious night or a more perfect place for his final performance.

  Casually, he unbuttoned his white dinner jacket and knelt to retrieve the nearly empty bottle of Chivas Regal that rested by his shoes. One glass of the potent liquor hadn’t been enough to satisfy his thirst, so he’d taken the bottle from the bar, surprising no one by his actions. It wasn’t the first time Trevor had been seen with a bottle of booze in his grasp, but it would definitely be the last. He tilted the bottle and swigged the few remaining drops of whiskey, no longer feeling the burn in his throat, feeling only the thrum of noise reverberating in his head. He’d consumed a fifth of liquor, maybe more, in the past twelve hours. It was amazing he felt anything at all when his sole purpose had been to completely numb his body and paralyze his mind.

  It was no use though. He couldn’t rid himself of the horror. Not the blood, not the knife, not the smell of death.

  The bottle slipped from his fingers, but he couldn’t hear the shatter of glass on cold hard marble, not when it competed with the crash, crackle, and bang of the fireworks exploding in the sky.

  As he had done a thousand times before, he ran his fingers through thick ebony hair, combing back the lock that insisted on falling over his forehead when caught in the cool night breeze. He’d perfected that gesture in front of the camera. Always the tall, good-looking, stalwart hero. Tonight, though, he played the coward.

  “Not one of your better endings, Trev,” he whispered to himself, then laughed one last time. “There won’t be any applause. Not tonight.”

  Taking a deep breath, he sucked in the scents of star jasmine, closely clipped grass, the obtrusive smoke and gunpowder from the Fourth of July festivities, and, from a distance, the salt air of the Pacific Ocean that he loved and would never see again.

  The time had finally come. He closed his eyes, asking forgiveness from the God he’d nearly forgotten, and casually walked down the steps and into the pool. He’d heard of people drowning while in a drunken stupor. Those were accidents, of course, and, with any luck, his friends would believe his death had been accidental, too. Suicide wasn’t his style. It was something he’d never even contemplated—until today.

  He took one last deep breath as water seeped through the silk of his tuxedo, into his shoes. He willed himself to remain calm, to relax. He let his arms go limp at his sides. His legs and body floated easily to the surface, and he pillowed his face comfortably in the water. His thoughts drifted from his fear of not being able to breathe, to his first screen test, to planting his hands in wet cement at Grauman’s, to the friends he would miss.

  And he thought about dying, and not having to remember the nightmare.

  Water lapped against his ears, a hollow, drumming sound. He heard the faint reverberation of a woman’s scream.

  A dark void filled him then, he felt tired, he wanted to sleep, and ...

  Chapter 1

  July 5, 1998

  “Just a little farther to the left. A little farther. There, right there. Now, put one foot on the running board. Perfect.”

  Adriana Howard stood in the shadow of a twisted Monterey pine and listened to the clicking of the camera as she watched the photographer dart about shooting left angles, right angles, highs, and lows. Through dark glasses she observed the model being photographed. He stood perfectly still, one hand in his pants pocket, the other resting on the edge of the car as the Pacific Ocean breeze wafted through his hair, blowing a dark black lock over his forehead.

  The photographer said he’d found the perfect Trevor Montgomery—but he was wrong. This man didn’t have the same broad shoulders, the same slim
waist and hips. The cleft in his chin wasn’t as pronounced. His eyes didn’t sparkle or brood with as much intensity. And he didn’t look nearly as good in black tie and tails.

  The similarity was remarkable, though, and she could easily see other people mistaking this man for the long-ago film idol. But other people didn’t know as much about Trevor; other people no longer idolized the star of the thirties, not the way Adriana did. For her he was larger than life—he was perfect.

  No one else could ever live up to the man of her dreams.

  Sunlight glinted off the chrome of the Duesenberg, drawing her attention away from the model to the car that had once belonged to Trevor. It looked just as it had that day in the thirties when the Hollywood star had driven it off the showroom floor. It was still painted primrose yellow, the color Trevor had specially ordered. The leather, cared for weekly to keep it soft and supple, was still the same pale green as the fenders. The only difference was that the vehicle now belonged to Adriana—just like most everything else that had once been Trevor Montgomery’s.

  “Move to the front so I can get a better shot of the hood ornament and grille,” the photographer instructed, and the model trailed his fingers over the shiny paint as he moved. Once again Adriana noticed the differences. Trevor had walked with authority, with style. He had been more handsome than Tyrone Power, even Cary Grant, or so the biographies proclaimed; more dashing and daring than Errol Flynn; he was a man every woman desired and all men envied.

  He was a man who had enthralled millions—then disappeared, leaving the world to wonder why.

  “That should do it, Ms. Howard.” The photographer walked toward the car and Adriana met him there, pulling her scarf closer to her face before she reluctantly shook his hand. “I’ll get these developed within the week and let you take a look. This Duesey with that model of mine ought to look pretty good on the cover of your catalog.”

  Mr. Paxton capped the lens of his camera and slung it over his shoulder. “I was wondering, Ms. Howard, what are the chances of you letting me snap a few photos inside Mr. Montgomery’s house in Santa Barbara? Anyone can shoot photos here at Sparta, but Montgomery’s home is a complete mystery—to me and everyone else. I hear you’ve kept it just like it was sixty years ago when he dropped off the face of the earth.”

  Adriana shook her head at his request. Sparta, this majestic estate, had been her home once. Now it was a tourist attraction, and the intrusion of photographers didn’t matter. But Trevor Montgomery’s house—the unpretentious adobe she now called home—was completely off-limits to prying eyes. Her privacy was too sacred to admit outsiders.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Paxton. I don’t allow anyone to take pictures of the rancho.”

  Paxton shrugged as if being turned down was nothing new. “Well, it never hurts to ask.”

  He rubbed a speck of dust from the hood of the car, then turned and looked pointedly at Adriana. ‘Just one more thing, Ms. Howard. Do you think he did it?”

  That question again. Oh, how she hated that question. “Did who do what?”

  A broad grin crossed Mr. Paxton’s face. “The murder, of course. Do you think Trevor Montgomery killed Carole Sinclair? Surely you have an opinion.”

  “I believe in facts, Mr. Paxton. Not opinions.”

  Adriana looked at her watch as she walked toward Mr. Paxton’s van. It was early afternoon, the photo shoot was over, and she didn’t want to talk, especially to a photographer. “The grounds will be closing soon. Thank you for coming all the way out here.”

  Adriana looked from the photographer to his van, a subtle hint that his services and his conversation were no longer needed or wanted today. The model had already climbed into the passenger seat. His tie was loosened and he was blowing cigarette smoke out the window, obviously uninterested in the history and beauty of Sparta, or the mysterious death of Carole Sinclair.

  To her dismay, Mr. Paxton didn’t seem in any hurry to leave. Instead, he uncapped his camera and shot a few more frames of the mansion that resembled the Parthenon in size and detail, then, without warning, twisted and began snapping photos of Adriana.

  Her hands flew up to block her face. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “It’s just a few photos, Ms. Howard. People never see you in public. Now I’ve got a few souvenirs to prove you really do exist,” Paxton quipped before opening the driver’s door and putting his camera inside.

  She hated having her photo taken, hated having her picture in papers and magazines so people could gossip once again about Harrison Stafford’s heiress.

  She moved closer to the van and faced Paxton head-on. “I didn’t pay you to take photos of me, Mr. Paxton. What I did pay for was this shoot, and every piece of film you’ve used. Unless you want to forgo payment, I’ll expect those negatives of me to be returned with the other negatives and the developed photos.”

  He grinned, undaunted by her remarks. “I suppose that could be arranged.”

  Reaching into his shirt pocket, Paxton pulled out a cigarette and lit it. She wished he would leave, but he casually leaned against the van and stared at Adriana. “I’ve heard rumors that you know the truth about the murder and about Trevor Montgomery’s disappearance.”

  “You shouldn’t listen to rumors,” she said coolly. She had dodged questions like that for years. Just because she now owned Trevor Montgomery’s home, his cars, and nearly all his other belongings, just because she was reputed to be an expert on his life, didn’t mean she knew the truth about that night.

  Again she looked at her watch. “I have an appointment, Mr. Paxton. You have my business address. Please send the photos—and the negatives—when they’re ready.”

  “Why don’t I deliver them personally—to your home. Santa Barbara’s not too long a drive from L.A.”

  Adriana shook her head. “Send them to my store in Hollywood. Please.”

  Mr. Paxton sucked on his cigarette, blew out a puff of smoke, and saluted her with two fingers before he climbed into his vehicle and drove away.

  Adriana watched the silver van cruise slowly down the winding cobblestone road, hoping that was the last she’d see of Mr. Paxton.

  “You’re deep in thought.”

  Adriana spun around at the sound of the familiar voice. ‘Just another nosy photographer,” she said, smiling softly at the elderly gentleman. “Hello, Elliott.” She wrapped her fingers lightly around his wrinkled hands and leaned close, briefly touching her cheek to his.

  The old butler pulled away in his ever-so-proper manner, yet the smile he offered was warm and comforting. “I should have come outside earlier. From the look on your face it appears that man’s upset you dreadfully.”

  “No more than any other photographer,” Adriana answered, brushing off the incident as if it didn’t matter. “Actually, my mind was wandering. That’s all.”

  “Back to the past, I suppose,” Elliott said, standing formally in his conservative black suit and tie, looking just as dignified as he had when she’d come to Sparta twenty-three years ago, at the age of six. “You do realize, Miss Adriana, that you’re becoming more like Mr. Stafford every day.”

  “I can’t think of better footsteps to follow in,” Adriana responded, fondly remembering Harrison Stafford, her guardian and mentor, who’d given her everything a person could ever wish for, except the privacy she craved.

  Pulling the black silk scarf from her head, she dropped it on the passenger seat in the Duesenberg, and took Elliott’s arm in spite of his half-hearted attempt to draw away again. She didn’t have to hide from Elliott, only from curiosity seekers.

  Walking up the steps leading to the mansion, she snapped a yellow rose from a bush blooming in a marble urn, and tucked the fragrant flower into Elliott’s lapel. He was nearly eighty and much more a father figure than a servant. Over the years he’d lectured her about proper etiquette and perfect posture. He’d told her it wasn’t polite to swear. And he’d stood at her side and cried right along with her when Harrison Staff
ord had been buried.

  She missed Elliott DeLancey more than she missed living at Sparta. Fortunately she could still come and go as she pleased, and Elliott would always be there, as a special reminder of the life she’d once known.

  When they reached the massive carved entryway, Elliott opened the door and stepped aside for Adriana to enter the foyer. She set her black-velvet handbag and sunglasses on a marble-topped table underneath a six-foot oval mirror framed in 14-carat gold leaf. Adriana had grown up in these rooms filled with treasures collected from around the world. The bed she had slept in as a teenager came from the Palace of Versailles, and as a child she’d romped around marble statues of the gods that had been salvaged from Greek and Roman ruins. She’d played hide-and-seek in rooms where intricately painted mummy cases and suits of armor stood at attention. She’d eaten off gold-plated dishes that were a gift from a king, and played with dolls that had once belonged to a queen.

  She wasn’t the least bit in awe of this place. After all, at one time Sparta had belonged to her. That was a long time ago, though. Even so, each time she walked through the doors she felt at ease, comforted. This was once her home. She’d been loved here, cared for by one of the greatest men who’d ever lived, and his memory filled every room.

  “Will you be staying for dinner?” Elliott asked, interrupting her thoughts of the past.

  “Thank you for the offer, Elliott, but I can’t stay long. I’m going upstairs for a while, then down to the gardens and pool.”

  “Perhaps you can come another time. This big old place isn’t the same without you.”

  “I’ll be here for Thanksgiving. Christmas, too.”

  “That’s a long way off. Come before... if you can.”

  Adriana brushed a quick kiss across Elliott’s wrinkled skin. “I’ll do my best.”

  She watched Elliott cross the room, his highly-polished black shoes clicking on the floor, his tall, gentlemanly figure reflecting in the black and white squares of marble tile until he disappeared into another room, and she remembered the most important reason she’d come to Sparta today.