Duchess (4 page)

“Dash, I can order for myself.”

He smiled at her as he might a child. The band switched to a waltz.

“Would you like to dance?”

She drew in a breath. “Absolutely.”

He helped her up, and she didn't glance back as she headed toward the dance floor. He caught her hand and swung her into his arms.

“‘The studio thought you deserved it?'” She hissed into his ear, smiling for their audience, setting time to his lead.

“Red, don't be sore. It was my idea.”

“I thought they were from you.”

He twirled her around, moved her through the crowd. “They were.”

“And Fletcher, it appears.”

“Mostly me, Red.”

She ran her hand up around his neck, hating that he smelled good, clean, alluring. And tonight he wore a tuxedo, a black bow tie. Smart. “We need to talk, Dash. I talked with Clara today, and she said you were thinking of loaning me out—”

“Don't believe anything that Clara Bow has to say. She's a troublemaker, at best. She has no manners, and she's on her way out of Hollywood.”

“But is it true?”

He twirled her out, back in again, then dipped her slowly. She tilted her head back, and a flash popped.

Dash was smiling as he brought her back to her feet. “C'mon, I want you to meet someone.”

He took her hand and moved her through the dance floor then abruptly swung her again into his arms.

“I thought—”

“Just dance.” He held her close, turning her in a soft sway as a singer got up, crooned out a romantic jazz tune.

“What are we doing here, Dash?”

“Is this the girl, Dash?”

The voice came from behind her. But instead of releasing her, Dash turned them, kept dancing. The man had his hands in his pockets, was considering them with a smile, something of mischief in his expression. He had brown eyes that lingered on her, dark blond hair slicked back, a dandy tuxedo that belied his youthful face. She'd put him as younger than her, but he gave a tiny flicker of his brow that suggested he liked what he saw.

“Can I cut in?”

Rosie tightened her grip on Dash, and he seemed to consider it for a moment.

But no, this was the game, and she knew it the moment he released her. “Roxy, I'd like you to meet Rooney Sherwood.”

Rooney was about her height, and she could look him in the face, with her heels. She narrowed her eyes at Dash one moment before she lost in him the crowd.

And then Rooney had his arms around her.

Yes, he was young. Nothing of the smooth moves Dash had honed, but maybe she could like him a little for that.

“Nice to meet you, Rooney.”

“You too, doll. Dash says you're looking for a new part.”

She was going to murder him with her bare hands. “What's this, an audition?”

He smirked. “I like you already.”

She looked away, but he twirled her deeper into the floor, the mass of people. “I suppose Dash told you I am making a movie?”

“Are you now? How novel. In Hollywood even.”

He smirked. “Yeah. And I have to reshoot the entire dang thing. Most epic war movie ever made and not a pip of sound. Who knew the talkies would be so popular?”

She leaned back from him, met his eyes. “You're saying it's already shot?”

“Almost all of it. We'll keep the aerial sequences, maybe add some new ones, but yes, we have to start over, with a star who can speak English.” He smiled and it contained such a boyish sheepishness, she couldn't help but laugh.

He reminded her, in a way, of Jack, the way he stirred up with an idea, let it catch fire. He could catch her on fire too.

“Where are you shooting this epic, Mr. Sherwood?”

“I have a set built at the Paramount lot, but we have to go on location for the runway scenes. I have a fleet of airplanes parked up in Oakland.”

“A fleet.”

“Oh honey, you have no idea.”

He turned her again and tried something fancy, twirling her fast, moving her with her back to him. He put his hands on her waist, moved with her. “Think you might be willing to do a screen test for it?”

From this vantage point, she could see Dash, sitting at the table, his eyes on her. Irene had leaned forward, was talking in his ear, but he never took his gaze off Rosie, so much hunger in it, she missed a step.

“Who's in it?” she said over her shoulder.

“Just a couple of chaps. You might know one, Grayson Clarke?” He twirled her back around, and she caught his grin.

“Grayson?”

“He dies, sadly, but there's a regular tear-jerker love scene on the runway before he goes off to war.”

“I can't wait.”

“And another fella, a man named Lyle Hall. He's on loan from Paramount.”

“You're taking out lots of scripts, it seems.”

He turned her out, did a little step, twirled her back in. “I don't care what it costs. I need a bombshell, sweetie, someone who can add sparkle to our show.” He pulled her close, whispered in her ear. “I saw you in
Star for a Day
. I'll make you a star for longer than a day.”

She pushed away from him, smiling. “Oh, you're smooth, Mr. Sherwood. But I'm not a bombshell. I'm an actress.”

He wore a gleam in his eyes. “Honey, with those legs, that hair, you're so much bombshell a man might have to take shelter.”

She kept her smile, but heat burned her cheeks. Oh. Well. “But I can act too.”

“Of course you can.” His eyes roamed her face.

She moved her mouth close to his ear. “You're a lot older on the dance floor than you look. Can I ask, how old are you?”

He put his hand at the small of her back. “Twenty-four.”

Twenty-four going on twelve. She moved away, and his hand rose up her back. Still, he had enthusiasm; she'd give him that. “You have a lot of ambition for a man of twenty-four.”

Something flickered in his eyes, a flash of sadness. “Life's short. Can't waste any of it.”

The song ended, and she stepped away, clapping. He slid his hand down her arm, caught her hand. “Come, have dinner with me, and we'll talk.”

“I don't know.”

“Please?”

It was the way he said it, enough of a boy in his voice, that swayed her. So much like Jack she felt as if she were seeing her lost brother in his eyes, his smile.

Maybe Jack had been a scamp with the ladies too.

She let him pull her off the dance floor toward a large, round table. Grayson looked up from where he was huddled in conversation with a brunette and smiled. “Roxy!”

He stood, and she let him kiss her.

More flashbulbs, but she ignored them.

Dash's gaze burned her, and she sent him a scowl.

Across the table, two men in tuxedos turned their attention to Rooney.

“Rosie, I'd like you to meet my dialogue director, Luis Fishe.” Fishe rose and extended his hand. He had the good looks of an Englishman, white hair, dark eyes that considered her with a flick of his gaze. “Miss Price,” he said.

Clearly, this meeting wasn't a surprise to him.

And then her gaze settled on the other man.

And for a second, it jarred her, seeing him here, dark hair slicked back, in a tuxedo, wearing an expression she couldn't place. Something of a frown, she might even call it disapproval. “Rafe.”

“Hello, Roxy,” Rafe said. “Good to see you.”

Rooney looked at her. “So you've met my consultant.”

His consultant. She looked at Rafe, then Luis, and back to Rooney.

And then across the short distance to Dash, who'd risen from his chair, his expression stricken.

Because she got it then. The subject of the all-night meeting in New York City. Dash's heartfelt apology.

Even the way he'd held her on the train, as if trying to make up for his betrayal.

“Oh, I see how it is. This isn't a birthday party. It's a horse auction.”

She glanced at Dash. He was making his way toward them, and she shook her head just a moment before pasting on a smile. “Well, boys, how does it go? Do you want to examine my teeth perhaps? See how I trot? Check my hooves for rot?”

“Miss Price, I'm not sure I understand—” Rooney glanced at Grayson.

“Oh, please, Mr. Sherwood. You're not quite that smooth.” She leaned down. “And Grayson, I'm surprised at you. Although, maybe I should take it as a compliment you missed me so much.”

His smile dimmed. “It wasn't my idea.”

“Should have been. You might have gotten a commission.” She stood up, looked at Dash, who had reached the table, fear in his eyes. “What is a bombshell blond going for these days, Dash?”

“Roxy, please.”

She smiled. “Fear not, Dashielle. You chose well. I come from good society stock, even if you did turn me into a floozy.” She leaned close to him, spoke in his ear. “But remember, I'm my mother's daughter. I have a long, very specific memory.”

She leaned away and straightened his bow tie. “I'll leave you men to figure out my future.” She patted his cheek. “I'll be home, packing. What's the temperature in Oakland these days?”

“About seventy-five,” Rooney said and sat down, pulling out a cigarette. He met her eyes as he lit it, nothing of humor in them.

“How'd I do, Mr. Sherwood? Enough drama, enough sass for you?”

He drew in on the cigarette, something of a game in his eyes. “I think you're exactly what we need.”

She turned back to Dash. “See, Dash? I have this all under control. See you at the races, boys.”

She floated past them, past Fletcher, Irene, and even Clara, who met her eyes and winked.

As she gathered her cape, wrapping it over her shoulders, she turned, looked at Dash, puckered, and threw him a kiss.

And the lightbulbs flashed.

It wasn't that she didn't want the part, although who wanted to be in the middle of a war movie, the only woman, ogled by a company of men?

Or that Grayson and she didn't have on-screen chemistry destined to make them stars all over again.

Or that she didn't want to work on location. She wasn't some sort of princess, unwilling to do the job.

It simply galled her that Dash had sold her like chattel.

“You're just a commodity to Dashielle Parks. Don't forget that. If you give him your heart, he'll own you
.”

Clara's words ticked around in her head as she dangled her feet in the swimming pool, the water refreshing to her ankles. She wasn't sure why they'd purchased a house with a pool. She didn't know how to swim. Still, the surface sparkled brilliant diamonds under the blue-skied day and the sun baked her shoulders, seeping into her skin after a sleepless night.

She'd waited up too long, just in case Dash returned.

Just in case he might be sorry.

She flung a hand over her eyes, blotting out the sun, and let her memories balm her.

Too easily Guthrie walked in, even two years after saying good-bye. She never pictured him on the floor of her uncle's home, but always in his baseball uniform, usually the White Sox, because she was happiest in Chicago. She could see him coming off the field, glove in hand, searching for her under the brim of his hat. He'd take it off, shake off the dust, his blond hair showing fire in the sun. And when he found her, the look in his brown eyes could steal her breath from her chest. “
Hey, Red
.” He always had a strength about him, a fierceness, the kind a fighter carried around inside. But he directed all that energy at the game—and at loving her.

She ran her hand over her stomach, still remembering the feel of the child inside her, sometimes how Guthrie would loop his arm over her belly at night, kiss her neck.
“We'll call him Charlie
.”

“And if it's a girl?”

“Charlie
.”

She ran her hand over her eyes.

Silly. So long ago, she should be over it by now.

I miss you, Guthrie
.

Sometimes, if she listened hard, she could hear him answer her. “
I miss you too. And Charlie. I miss Charlie
.”

He had a right to miss their daughter. She, however, didn't. She wished she had the courage to ask Lilly to stop sending her pictures.

Or writing her stories of how Coco had her first tooth or rode on a horse with Truman, her new daddy. Or how she could speak.

Because, although Lilly didn't write it, Rosie only had to guess who Coco might be calling Momma. Still, despite the reminders of her loss, despite her mistakes, she couldn't stop herself from cherishing every mention of her daughter.

She'd done the right thing; this wasn't the right life for her daughter. But she couldn't help but wish…

No. Wishes were for children and naïve showgirls. She was neither anymore. Besides, Coco had a life—a good life—with a mother and a father. She couldn't destroy that.

Rosie sat up and wiped her eyes again, reached for her sunglasses.