Phoenix Falling

by Mary Jo Putney

  "You could have found a better way of ending things once you decided you wanted out."

  He grimaced. "I'm too right-brained for advance planning. Rather than thinking the situation through, I let events drift until they exploded in a way that was far crueler than anything I'd have consciously chosen. That was unforgivable on my part."

  "Few things are truly unforgivable." Painful though this discussion was, at least they were finally talking honestly. "If either of us had shown an ounce of common sense, we could have gone our separate ways after our post-Pimpernel fling, and avoided all of the painful messiness of marriage and divorce."

  "Common sense has never been my strong point." He smiled faintly. "Think of the trauma of divorce as adding to your creative repertoire."

  "I prefer to get my experience vicariously." But he was right. No matter how rotten an event, it could be thought of as fuel for the creative process.

  "Some things should be experienced directly." He tugged her blanket down, exposing her to the waist. "I agree that once we go back, it should be as if this never happened. But common sense says that since tonight is off the clock, we ought to take full advantage of it." He bent forward to kiss her navel, swirling his tongue in a circle.

  She gasped as her lower belly tightened in response. "If... if you do that again, I'm going to be in no condition to analyze whether your thinking is warped."

  He did it again, and she stopped thinking entirely.

  * * *

  Val looked up from her desk when the office door opened, sighing with relief when she saw that it was Rainey, who seemed to have survived her abduction. Heading for the espresso machine, she asked, "Any catastrophes strike while I was gone?"

  "Nary a one. Probably because it's Sunday, and at least some of the world isn't working."

  "But you are. What about Marcus?"

  "He's having lunch with friends in Santa Fe. I've been covering for you, in case you'd rather not have to explain your extended disappearance with Kenzie."

  The espresso machine gurgled disgustingly as it delivered a shot into Rainey's cup. As she took milk from the refrigerator, she said, "You might as well ask what happened before you perish of curiosity."

  "I could make a pretty good guess about what happened, but I wouldn't mind hearing the gory details."

  Rainey foamed heated milk into her cup, then settled into a stuffed chair. "Kenzie took me to see some kittens and to a great barbecue shack, then to an amazing bed-and-breakfast apartment carved into a cliff."

  "I read about that place. I'd love to stay there sometime."

  "It was incredibly peaceful—a world away from the stresses of moviemaking. We talked about Sarah, and Kenzie persuaded me that I'm the best choice to play her."

  "Great! I've thought all along that you'd do a dynamite job in the role."

  Rainey made a sour face. "Everyone seems to think that but me. However, the practical arguments are strong, so I guess I'll have to do it. Kenzie had a copy of the script, so we did a read-through."

  "So you rehearsed. How staid."

  "It was, until we jumped each other's bones."

  Val's brows rose. "I thought you were determined to keep the relationship all business."

  "We were struck by temporary insanity caused by playing two people who desperately long for each other." Rainey shifted to a cross-legged position in the chair. "Which is probably why I resisted the idea of playing Sarah so vehemently."

  That made sense. It must be disorienting to play a woman who wants a man when one didn't want the man. Or wanted the man, but didn't want to. "I see the problem, but the jumping of bones is treacherous. It's the easiest thing in the world to go to bed with someone you're breaking up with. Familiarity, uncertainty, and yearning for better times are a great formula for wild sex. But in my experience, it screws your emotions up royally."

  "Too true. We did some long overdue talking, which was good." Rainey drew her feet up onto the chair. "I even wondered for a nanosecond if I should ask him if it was worth another try, but luckily the moment passed."

  Val shoved the papers she'd been working on out of the way and propped her chin on her hand. "Would you want to get back together with Kenzie?"

  Her friend frowned. "If he was decent husband material, maybe. But how can I live with someone I can't trust?"

  "Not even worth trying." Val debated whether to say more. She'd arrived in New Mexico wanting to despise Kenzie, but hadn't managed it. Underneath his distractingly good looks, he had a rare kindness and consideration. But it took more than that to make a decent husband. "Is Kenzie completely unreliable, or did he just screw up once, and doesn't want to ask for a second chance?"

  "Last night he said in as many words that he isn't cut out for marriage, and ours was a mistake from the get-go."

  "This is just an impression on my part, but when you're around, there's an awareness about him," Val said slowly. "As if he's always watching you, even when he isn't. It's not the reaction of a man who is indifferent to a woman."

  Rainey sniffed. "Sex, pure and simple."

  "It's more than that. There's a kind of... I don't know, protectiveness, maybe. Caring. Suppressed yearning."

  "Even if you're right, which I doubt, it wouldn't matter. Do you know what it's like to be married to a high-maintenance charmer? Women lusting after him and trying to figure out how to ditch me. Teenagers waiting outside the gates of the house to throw their panties at him. People staring at me and wondering how I managed to capture such a prize, and how long it would be before the Sexiest Man in the World dumped me." Rainey set her cappuccino aside and wrapped her arms around her knees.

  "Try to relax—you're on the verge of tying yourself into a pretzel," Val said. "I'd hate that, too, but it sounds like it's the world that's high maintenance, not Kenzie."

  "Technically you're right, but it doesn't make much practical difference. He was just a speed bump in the highway of my life, and things are a lot simpler when he isn't around." Rainey rose and went to the fax machine, flipping through the new pages. "The sooner we get to England and finish shooting this movie, the better."

  Val returned to her paperwork. Maybe Rainey was right about that her husband no longer had feelings for the woman he'd married. But Val couldn't shake a suspicion that there were some pretty complicated currents below the surface of that relationship. More complicated than Rainey wanted to admit.

  Chapter 15

  Kenzie sipped on a cup of good English tea as Rainey rehearsed a scene with Richard Farley, the very distinguished actor playing Sarah's father. The combination of Marcus Gordon's contacts and a first-class script had given The Centurion an impressive lineup of experienced British character actors.

  They were nearing the end of a week of intensive rehearsals in London before filming began again. Though the New Mexican shoot had been mostly action, with the only important talking scenes those between Kenzie and Sharif, the English portion of the movie was almost entirely character interactions so rehearsing was essential.

  Sir James Cantwell, the aging and even more distinguished actor on Kenzie's right, said loftily, "Neither you nor Miss Marlowe are working terribly hard."

  It was the sort of comment allowed a man who'd been a star when Kenzie was a very green RADA graduate, awed to be sharing a stage with a giant of the British theater. Mildly he said, "We're saving the raw emotion for the camera."

  Sir James gave him a wicked glance. "Or you've been ruined by Hollywood. You were a promising stage actor as a lad, but after all those action movies, you need to be reminded how to act by some real players."

  Kenzie grinned. "That, too."

  Sir James's gaze went back to Rainey. Even casually dressed in slacks and sweater with her apricot hair tied back with a scarf, she had a compelling presence. "What is it like to be directed by a woman one is in the process of divorcing?"

  "It's... interesting. Luckily, we're on good terms."

  Though not as good as that one night inside a cl
iff. Now that they were surrounded by people, there was no chance that rehearsing would slide from professional to personal. Just as well, since he still hadn't recovered from the emotional backlash of one night's intimacy.

  Calm and controlled, Rainey gave no sign that she'd been affected at all. Perhaps that night had given her the closure she'd needed, and she'd put the marriage behind her. For her sake, he hoped so.

  "I've never done a movie with a female director before," Sir James mused.

  "Then it's time you did. Rainey's good. She has a clear vision of what she wants the movie to say, and she knows how to communicate that to cast and crew."

  "She's learned to do that on her first production?" Sir James said, intrigued.

  Before Kenzie could answer, Rainey glanced in their direction, saying hopefully, "Surely John's father will know. Papa."

  "My cue," Sir James murmured, rising to join Rainey and Richard Farley. "I know that my son needs a sweet girl like you," he boomed, bluff and utterly sure of himself and his world. "I'll admit that being held captive by savages put the boy off his feed a bit, but don't worry. He'll be cured when he's wed."

  Kenzie sat back in his chair, enjoying the fact that Sir James was acting at full wattage, probably to show up lazy colonials who'd worked regularly in Hollywood. Responding to the challenge, Farley also began to emote as if the cameras were rolling.

  Reacting to the men, Rainey moved fully into Sarah, capturing the girl's combination of innocence and determination. That lasted until her next scene with Kenzie. Rainey cut back from torch to pilot light. Kenzie was equally subdued as the two British actors sat down and looked pained.

  Having his share of actor's pride, in Kenzie's next scene with Sir James he cranked up the emotional intensity. On the verge of breakdown, John Randall was struggling desperately to prevent himself from falling apart in front of his father, whose good opinion he craved.

  Kenzie played the scene without histrionics or overwrought body language. Instead, every word was torn bleeding from his soul. The long, shabby room fell utterly silent. Even Sir James looked impressed.

  "Well done," Rainey said when the scene ended. "Another day of rehearsal and we'll be ready to roll." She checked her watch. "This is a good place to stop for the day. See you in the morning."

  Scraping chairs and murmuring arose as cast and crew prepared to leave. Pulling on his jacket, Kenzie asked Rainey, "Are you satisfied with how rehearsals are going?"

  "So far, so good, except for you and me. I trust that we'll both hit the marks when it counts." She smiled. "One of the pluses for casting you in the lead is that you're so good at nailing the first take. Very economical."

  "I'm quite the bargain, especially on a tight budget," he agreed. "Sir James was wondering how you learned to direct so well on your first project."

  "When you were shooting that film in New Zealand, I directed a couple of episodes of Star Pilgrims for television."

  "Really? I've never seen your name on the credits, and I don't think I've missed any." They used to tape the show and watch it together, since the science fiction series was well-written, well-produced, and highly escapist. It had been a ritual that involved large bowls of popcorn and turning off professional judgment so they could simply enjoy.

  A flicker in Rainey's eyes indicated that she also remembered those evenings. "Exactly. Did you know that the Star Pilgrims executive producer is an old buddy of mine? She was willing to give me a chance to get some experience. Since she didn't mind me using a pseudonym to avoid publicity, I became 'R. M. Jones.' My first day on the set I was terrified, but pretty soon I developed a touch for coaxing good performances out of blue-skinned aliens."

  "R. M. Jones? I remember seeing that name. Where Angels Dance was one of yours, wasn't it? That was the best episode of the season."

  "That was because of the script." But she smiled, and for a moment their gazes caught with unwanted intimacy. Popcorn and pleasures.

  The moment ended when Val called, "Rainey, Kenzie, your limo is waiting outside. You go on back to the hotel, Rainey. I'll close up here."

  "Thanks. I'll see you later then."

  Kenzie followed Rainey, opening the door for her. "Why Jones?"

  Her smile faded. "When I was a kid and wondered about my father, I'd think of him as Mr. Jones. My mysterious progenitor. Jones was as good a name as any."

  As they went down the stairs, he wondered if it was possible not to be haunted by speculations about an unknown parent. Probably not.

  They passed the porter at the building's front door, and stepped out into shouts and electronic flashes. "Miss Marlowe, what about the reports of feuding on the production?"

  "Did you fire Jane Stackpole because she and Kenzie were having an affair?"

  "I've heard talk of a reconciliation between you two. Care to comment?"

  Kenzie's jaw tightened. Usually celebrities were photographed arriving and leaving London and largely left alone otherwise, but his and Rainey's personal situation had created extra interest. They'd both given interviews about the production, ignoring questions about their relationship and talking about what a great film The Centurion would be. That was the protocol—no matter how much one might want to be somewhere else, one didn't badmouth the current production. Until now, that had been enough to keep the tabloid press happy.

  Guessing there were about two dozen reporters and photographers waiting, he said under his breath, "It must be a slow news day, with no royal scandals."

  "Or they want to get an easy story before we move to the country."

  Since congestion forced the car to wait halfway down the block, he placed a protective hand on Rainey's back and they began walking steadily through the crowd. Kenzie was acquainted with most of the reporters, so he smiled lazily at the man who'd asked about feuding. "You need to find better sources, Henry. The production is going very smoothly. Not a prima donna in sight."

  The reporter grinned, unabashed. "Of course you'd deny any trouble."

  "Cooperation doesn't make much of a story," Rainey said sympathetically. "But what can I say? This is a great group of people to work with."

  A tall blonde called, "Are you glad to come home to England, Kenzie?"

  "Of course, Pamela." He gave her the smile guaranteed to scramble female thinking. "Where else can one get a proper cup of tea?"

  Pamela gulped before shifting her attention. "Raine, is it true you put this production together just to get Kenzie back?"

  Rainey's eyes narrowed. "Nonsense. I started work on The Centurion long before I met Kenzie, though I'll admit I'm delighted to have him as the lead. He's doing a marvelous job."

  As similar questions were tossed at them, they continued toward the car. They'd almost reached it when a tall man with a sharp face barked out, "Where were you born, Kenzie? Where did you grow up?"

  Thinking there was something familiar about the man, Kenzie slipped into a Scottish accent. "I was born in the Outer Hebrides, and my father said I'm the legitimate Stuart heir to the throne of Scotland. Bonnie Prince Charlie married Flora Mac-Donald, you know, by traditional Scottish handfast. They had a son, and bonnie Flora concealed the lad to save him from the Sassenach, giving him the name Scott. As the direct descendant of that son, I'll thank you to call me 'Your Royal Highness.'"

  His statement produced roars of laughter. "That's a good one, Kenzie." Henry grinned. "What a headline that will make: 'Kenzie Scott Is the True King of England!' "

  The sharp-faced man refused to be amused. "What's the real story? You've always hidden behind a pack of lies, and it's time to set the record straight."

  Startled by the naked hostility in the reporter's voice, Kenzie said, "Sorry, I don't recognize you. What's your name and who do you represent?"

  "Nigel Stone of the London Inquirer."

  The tabloid was probably London's tawdriest daily, but it was the name that caused Kenzie to catch his breath. No wonder the reporter seemed familiar. They'd known each other once long ago, w
hen Nigel Stone had been a feral, rat-faced boy called Ned. As a scandal-chasing reporter, he'd found the perfect profession.

  Knowing the other man couldn't possibly recognize him, Kenzie smiled charmingly. "I'm a mere player, a projection of the audience's whims and fancies. Why spoil that with tedious reality?"

  They reached the car, and the driver flung the door open. Kenzie bundled Rainey in and followed quickly, but before the door closed, he heard Nigel Stone bark, "You've got away with lies in the past, but no longer. I'm going to find out who you really are!"

  Rainey slid across the seat to make room for Kenzie. As the car pulled away from the curb, she asked, "Your Royal Highness?"

  His expression eased. "See what you're giving up by divorcing me? The chance to be the next queen of England."

  "As if I didn't have enough problems with publicity!" She frowned. "If that Stone fellow tried, would he be able to uncover your mysterious past?"

  "He could go back to my time as a student at RADA. No further."

  Thinking Kenzie sounded very certain, she asked, "Did you spend your childhood abroad so there's no paper trail in Britain?"

  He looked out the car window. "That's one possible explanation."

  In other words, back off. Moving to safer ground, she asked, "What is it like to work in England again? You seem very British to me, but I've always sensed you have some ambivalence about visiting here."

  He exhaled, still avoiding her gaze. "Britain is home in a way nowhere else can ever be, but not all the memories are good ones."

  Everyone had painful childhood memories. His must be exceptionally bad to provoke such a reaction. "The movie business brings you back here with some regularity."

  "And I come. Ambivalently."

  Yet he'd never become an American citizen even though he'd been a legal resident for more than ten years. She supposed that said something about his feelings for his native land.

  Once she'd guiltily examined his passport when he left it lying on his dresser after a trip to Cannes. The document said he'd been born in London on the February day and year he claimed, but she wondered if the information was true. Would Kenzie's determination to conceal his past extend to falsifying documents? Maybe.