That kicked off a new round of questions directed at Jenny and Will. Was Jenny sleeping with Kenzie again? Did they have plans for the future? Who were some of the other gay RADA students?
Desperately grateful for the distraction, Rainey fought her way through the crowd, holding Kenzie's arm in a death grip. Her burly driver, Jack Hammond, surged into the mass of people to meet them, forcing open a path to the car.
As Hammond threw open the door, Dame Judith Hawick joined Jenny and Will in front of the camera. Her stern gaze on Stone, she said in a voice that sliced through the tumult, "Have you no shame, sir? I had thought your kind couldn't possibly become more contemptible, but I was wrong. You're like those fools who claim Jane Austen was a lesbian because she and her sister shared a bed, as people often did before central heating." She shook her head sadly. "What a world we live in."
Rainey slid across the backseat of the car, pulling Kenzie in after her. He moved as stiffly as a marionette. Hammond slammed the car door, then leaped behind the wheel, started the engine, and pulled away from the shouting reporters.
Kenzie slumped into the comer of the seat, his eyes closed. He seemed to have shrunk, as if his flesh had drawn defensively close to the bones.
She took his hand. It was icy cold. "You're in shock, Kenzie," she said, trying to sound calm. "Can you talk?"
He opened blinded eyes. "Aren't you going to ask... if it's true?"
"Later, maybe." She chose her words carefully. "I don't much care what you did in the past, Kenzie. I care a lot about what happens in the present."
"Now comes the media crucifixion."
"Not if I have anything to say about it." But what could she do? Take one step at a time. "Is there any chance Nigel Stone has any evidence of what he's claiming?"
"I... doubt it."
She was painfully aware that he hadn't denied the charges, only the probability of evidence. "You need to get out of London. Better yet, out of England. If you stay here, the reporters will make your life hell. You won't be able to set foot outside your hotel without being mobbed."
A muscle in his jaw jerked. "I could not... endure that."
"Then you're leaving England." She opened the sliding door to the driver's compartment. "Skip the hotel and head straight to the airport, Jack."
"Will do." He hit his left turn signal.
She closed the sliding door again, thinking hard. Her baggage should already be on the jet, and her passport was in her purse. What about Kenzie? Damn, since he was a British citizen, he wouldn't have his passport on him.
He could do without clothes, but not a passport. She found her cell phone and punched in Josh's number, waiting impatiently through the English double rings. She was about to give up when he answered, sounding half asleep even though it was almost noon. He'd left the wrap party late, and had definitely had himself a good time.
Not bothering with small talk, she said, "Josh, it's Raine. A hellacious tabloid scandal is breaking out—utter nonsense, but Kenzie has decided to fly to the States with me to get out of the firestorm. He's not coming back to the hotel because reporters might try to intercept him there, so pack his things as fast as you can, and bring them to the airport. If you think that will take too long, just bring his passport."
Coming awake fast, Josh said, "I can do the packing, though his clothes will be wrinkled like crazy. I'll call a car now and be on my way in twenty minutes. London City Airport?"
"Right—the one you and Kenzie flew into. And thanks, Josh."
She shut off the phone and closed her eyes, shaking. Stone's highly public disclosure about Clementine was upsetting, but basically old news. The claims about Kenzie were inflammatory and dangerous, though. It was the sort of sex scandal the tabloids loved most—a famous man with a good reputation accused of breathtakingly sordid behavior.
What could be done to kill this in its cradle? If Stone had evidence of his charges, nothing could save Kenzie. If he didn't have proof, though, maybe the story could be spiked before anyone took it seriously.
Though Kenzie's friends had started damage control, heavier guns must be brought to bear as quickly as possible. From what Pamela Lake had said, Stone was disliked even by his colleagues. If he couldn't document his claims, they'd turn on him like jackals ripping apart a wounded member of the pack.
Time to summon the publicists. Though part of a publicist's job was getting attention for clients, equally important was scotching negative stories. Chloe, the smart, experienced unit publicist who'd worked on The Centurion set, was based in London. She must be called before the plane took off so she could use her local media contacts to undercut Stone's reports.
Next call: Barbara Rifkin, personal publicist for both Kenzie and Rainey. Barb was tops in her field, with some of the biggest stars in the business among her clients, and the protective instincts of a tigress. An entertainment reporter who ran a story that Barb didn't like risked never getting another interview with any of Barb's clients.
Then alert Naomi and Marcus Gordon. They also had tremendous influence in Hollywood. A lot of people owed the Gordons favors. God willing, they'd use their clout on Kenzie's behalf.
Rainey glanced at her watch. It was the middle of the night in California, so she'd hold off calling Barb and Marcus until a more civilized hour. As she looked up the private number of the unit publicist, she mentally rehearsed what she'd say. Outrageous charges by a reporter known for his malice. Complete nonsense. Make it go away.
If Nigel Stone could prove his story, she'd look like a gullible fool.
To hell with that. She would do everything in her power to protect Kenzie.
The phone rang in her hand, blasting adrenaline through her system. She raised it. "Yes?"
"Raine, Pamela Lake here. Is Kenzie Scott with you?"
Rainey stared at the phone. "How did you get this number?"
"You gave it to me."
"Oh. Of course." Remembering that she mustn't sound too concerned, she continued, "It's been such an exciting half hour that my wits are a bit scattered. Kenzie is here. Were you covering Charles Winfield's memorial service?"
"Yes, but I was off to one side interviewing the man who directed Winfield's last performance. Too far away to be part of the riot." Pamela's voice was sympathetic. "Kenzie didn't respond to Nigel Stone's charges. Does he want to make a statement now?"
Kenzie was in no shape to speak to anyone. "Of course he didn't reply! He'd just been yanked from grieving for one of his oldest friends by a journalistic ambush. Let me check if he's willing to talk to you."
Covering the phone with one hand but not enough to completely block sounds, she dropped her voice as low as it would go and muttered a string of barely intelligible curses.
Reverting to normal, she said, "If that's all you have to say, Kenzie, you'd better not say it." Speaking to Pamela again, she said lightly, "His comments on Nigel Stone's accusation aren't fit to be printed in a family newspaper."
The reporter chuckled. "That bad?"
"Usually Kenzie lets these wild stories roll off like water from a duck's back, but this time he's completely exasperated. You know how reasonable he is. He understands that reporters need to make a living, and he'll always allow pictures and give comments when he's interviewed in public. The stories he's made up about his past have been a way to provide copy while maintaining his privacy. Don't you think he's entitled to that?'
"I do, though not all reporters agree with me." Pamela paused, probably taking notes. "Is it fair to say that he denies Nigel Stone's story?'
"A loose translation of his statement is that sensationalist rubbish shouldn't be dignified by an answer." Her voice lowered. "My personal, off-the-record opinion is that Nigel Stone was inspired to this lunacy by one of the plot threads of The Centurion."
Any entertainment reporter who tried to read Sherbourne's original novel to figure out what that meant would be bogged down for days. Victorians wrote long and heavy.
"Kenzie is probably wis
e to avoid a slanging match over this," Pamela agreed. "Can't imagine what dear Nigel is going to produce as proof."
"Did Stone give any hints about that?"
"He claims Kenzie was born in London and named James Mackenzie, and he has a birth certificate to prove it."
"I'm sure he could produce the Prince of Wales's birth certificate if he wanted to, but that wouldn't put Kenzie in line for the throne," Rainey said dryly. "There are a whole lot of boy babies born in Britain every year. A birth certificate proves nothing."
"My thoughts exactly." Pamela's tone changed. "Are you really Clementine's daughter?"
"Yes. As I told Nigel Stone, it's not a secret. I simply decided that I didn't want to trade on either her fame or her tragedy." Nor did she want the pain that always followed discussing her mother.
"I grew up listening to Clementine's records," Pamela said nostalgically. "'Heart Over Heels' got me through more than one broken romance when I was single. She really conveyed the pain of loving, but also hope for the future. I cried for days when she died. I think she was the greatest female rock singer ever."
"I agree, but I'm not exactly impartial."
Pamela's manner turned professional again. "While we're on difficult subjects, are you still saying there's no reconciliation in the wind between you and Kenzie? The two of you looked very much together this morning."
Rainey hesitated. She was already using the reporter, and she didn't want to lie any more than necessary to a woman who had been decent and helpful. "The honest truth is that I don't know what's happening, Pamela. If there should be any dramatic announcements in this area, I promise I'll call you first. But don't hold your breath."
"Fair enough. Good luck at making a getaway."
Rainey said good-bye, then called Chloe, the unit publicist. After going through her prepared spiel and securing Chloe's fervent cooperation, Rainey turned off the phone, unable to bear talking to anyone else, even Val. The rest of the drive to the airport was in silence. Kenzie stared blankly out the window, nearly catatonic.
With nothing to distract her, questions about Kenzie's past circled compulsively through her mind. Could his intense secrecy be because he really had been a gay hustler?
Every fiber of her body protested that it couldn't be true. The passion between them couldn't possibly have been faked, not for almost four years. While it was theoretically possible he was bisexual, she'd never seen him show a hint of interest in another man. He'd always behaved like a straight male who was entirely comfortable with his own sexuality.
Yet even if Nigel Stone had lied, there had to be some connection to Kenzie's mysterious past. Kenzie's reaction was so violent.
Could poverty have driven him to turning tricks to survive? She supposed it was possible. She even wanted to believe it, but the thought didn't ring true. Kenzie would have found some other way to survive poverty.
How would she feel if it turned out that Kenzie really was bisexual? Starkly she recognized that she didn't want it to be true. She had plenty of gay friends, had worked with gay and bi people and never thought twice about what they did on their own time. This was... different.
Reluctantly she acknowledged that if Kenzie was attracted to men as well as women, it would explain his conviction that he shouldn't have married her and would never marry again. It also explained his reaction to playing Randall, a man ambivalent about his feelings for another man.
Perhaps Kenzie had been so caught up in the white heat of their early affair that he thought he'd be straight forever, only to realize later that he'd been wrong. Maybe drifting into a meaningless affair and letting Rainey be the one to leave was his way of letting her down as gently as possible.
It was all horribly logical.
She wrapped her arms around herself, shaking. She didn't think that anything could stop her caring for him, but dear God, she didn't want this to be true!
Chapter 31
Awareness returned in sluggish fits and starts. Vibration surrounded him. An airplane, he decided.
Hazily he reconstructed what happened after Nigel Stone had tossed his bombshell. Thinking of Charles, assuming Stone was no longer a threat, he'd been caught completely off-guard. His brain had splintered, leaving him as paralyzed as he'd been when starting school and a teacher demanded answers he couldn't give. As an adult, he'd learned enough clever, self-deprecating sound bites that he was almost always able to give a ready reply. Not this time.
Luckily, Rainey's brain didn't crash the way his did. She'd responded beautifully, then taken him away before his disintegration was public. His memories of what followed were fragmentary. His friends rallying to confuse the issue. Honest, incorruptible Rainey lying like a trouper on the phone. Boarding the jet. Josh arriving with his luggage, panting and unshaven, but still efficient.
Those events seemed so distant they might have happened to someone else. The encounter with Nigel Stone was different. The words with which the reporter smashed the fragile, blown-glass illusion that had been Kenzie Scott were acid etched in his brain.
He rubbed his aching head. Rainey had given him some kind of pill, which had seemed like a good idea at the time. In retrospect he regretted it. Medications always left him dazed and disoriented.
"Returning to the real world?" Rainey's quiet voice asked.
"Only because I can't think of an alternative." Wearily he swung his feet to the floor and buried his face in his hands. He'd removed his jacket and tie and kicked off his shoes before crashing, but he still wore his formal white shirt and dark suit trousers. James Bond after a bender.
Across the cabin, Rainey was curled up in a deep seat with a book in her lap. She'd changed from her tailored suit to silk slacks and a tunic, but the bruised shadows below her eyes revealed how much she was suffering.
He stood and made his way to the well-stocked bar in the main cabin. The damned airplane looked like the same one they'd flown home in after The Pimpernel, at the start of the purest happiness of his life. The irony of being in the same plane now was too heavy to miss.
He poured a triple shot of scotch into a glass. Not a single malt, but he wasn't feeling picky.
Rainey followed him, trying to sound casual when she said, "Drinking might not be a good idea after taking a tranquilizer."
He knocked back a third of the whisky. "Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn."
She sighed. "Then I'll have to hope the amount of time that's passed will save you from yourself."
He dropped into one of the wide leather seats. Where the hell did he go from here? For that matter, where the hell were they? Light showed outside the window, but since they were following the sun westward, that would be true for a long time to come. "Where are we?"
"About an hour east of New York." She took one of the facing seats. "I had the pilot change the flight plan from Los Angeles to New Mexico. I thought Cibola would be a lot more peaceful than California."
Rainey was a genius. The thought of the secluded ranch was like a beacon in endless night. A place where he could hide from the world forever.
He swallowed more scotch. Alcohol, one of the oldest and most disreputable of crutches. He'd worry about the wisdom of it later. "Your restraint in not asking questions is impressive."
"I figure you'll tell what you want me to know when you're ready to talk about it. If you ever are." She hesitated, then said slowly, "One possibility that occurred to me is that you were a runaway teenager who turned some tricks to keep from starving. A lot of kids do that. The lucky ones escape."
He closed his eyes, drifting in limbo, so detached that the horrors of his childhood seemed to belong to someone else. That made it easier to speak, since Rainey deserved to know the truth. "Not a bad guess, but more charitable than I deserve. I was exactly what Nigel Stone claims: a gay whore."
After a long silence, she asked, "For how long?"
"Five years. From age seven to age twelve."
She gasped. "Dear God, that isn't prostitution—it's
child molestation! How did it happen?"
"My mother was born somewhere in rural Scotland. Around age seventeen, she ran off to London. She might have been pregnant already, or maybe that came later. There's a lot I don't know about her."
"Do you know who your father was?"
"Haven't the foggiest."
She laughed without humor. "Something we have in common."
"Among other disasters we both suffered." He finished his first drink and went for another, this time filling the glass with ice first.
As he took his seat again, she said, "I've never seen you drink so much."
"If the plane were equipped for it, I'd run the alcohol directly into my veins."
He pressed the icy highball glass against his forehead, remembering his mother. She'd been tall, dark-haired, and green-eyed. Beautiful, and terribly, terribly fragile. "My mother called herself Maggie Mackenzie, though I suspect that wasn't her real name. Since I look like her, only God knows what paternal genes might have been involved."
"So Nigel Stone's birth certificate for James Mackenzie is legitimate?"
"Quite possibly."
"You said there was no evidence tying you to Stone's accusations."
"He can't prove I'm the person listed on the certificate. There isn't a shred of documentation on me from the time Jamie Mackenzie was seven and dropped out of a London council school and when Kenzie Scott started at RADA eleven years later. I didn't exist." He didn't really now. His whole life had been smoke and mirrors.
"How did you go from being the child of a single mother to...? "Her voice faltered. "...to prostitution, then studying at the world's most famous drama school?"
"Whoring was the family business. My mother didn't have any other skills," he said bluntly. "She raised me the best she knew how, even after I started school and the teachers told her I was retarded.
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