Duchess (7 page)

His thumb ran over her hand, sending tingles up her arm, through her entire body. His eyes met hers, and they turned her inside out.

She turned away, shaking, heading up the beach, away from Rafe.

She didn't want this, the feeling of teetering at the edge of something she couldn't have. Something that would only end up destroying her. Clara's words had bounced around in her head for the past week, “
You gotta keep ahold of your heart, or Hollywood will break it to pieces
.”

Rafe Horne would break it to pieces.

Besides, it was all a fantasy. As soon as they finished shooting, he'd fly away.

She'd return home to reality. To Dash and the Studio's mechanisms.

And, Dash was right. She couldn't divorce him. The press would find out. Her public would turn on her. Would think she slept her way to a role via the casting couch.

Thank you, Dash.

Even if she did divorce him, he'd keep the studio
and
her contract. Who knew where he'd loan her out next. Mozambique, maybe, for a Tarzan remake. He'd put her in a sarong and make her swing from vines.

Rafe's hands slid over her shoulders, wrapped around her, and he began to hum. She recognized the song.

“Love me or leave me, let me be lonely. You won't believe me…
.”

“I love you only,” he said into her ear, his voice turning her body hot under the cool breezes of the evening. The waves rolled onto the shore like applause in the swaddling of the night.

She hooked her hands onto his arms, let the rest of the song seep into her, whispering the words. “I'd rather be lonely than happy with somebody else.”

He hummed a few more bars. Then, “There'll be no one unless that someone is you…”

She closed her eyes, let them burn, and tasted salt on her lips.

“What's the matter, Roxy?”

She shook her head as she opened her eyes and stared out into the ocean. On the other side of the bay, the starlight of San Francisco glittered.

She sighed against the loneliness hollowing her through. No, no, she couldn't let herself fall for Rafe. Not really. “The movie's nearly in the can. I—I don't want it to end.”

He turned her. Met her eyes. Oh, he had the power to unravel her, especially with the waves reaching for them, the cool ocean breezes tickling her skin.

He tipped up her chin and kissed her.

She should have put her hands to his chest and pushed him away. Should have listened to Clara's words.

Maybe should have even remembered that she vowed to belong to another, in word and deed, and that briefly, she and Dash had become man and wife.

But it didn't feel like it.

She forgot it all as Rafe wove his hands through her hair, angling her head, deepening his kiss.

Rafe.

She wound her arms up around his shoulders and sank into him, letting herself relax, letting his arms curve around her back, pull her to himself.

He tasted like the wind. And the night. She wanted to hide here forever.

He lifted his head, found her eyes. “Roxy—I—after this movie, I want you to come away with me. I want to marry you.”

Marry. The word slapped the sense right back into her. Marry. See, this was what happened when she let her heart venture too far out of her grasp. She backed away, pressed a hand to her face. Shook her head.

His expression fell. “What—I'm sorry. I'm moving too fast—”

“No—” She held up her hands. “Just…”

“What is it?”

She stared at him, the moonlight on his face, enough of a five o'clock shadow to turn him into a bona fide war hero, so much emotion in his eyes, he could make her hand over her heart.

No.

She couldn't do this again. Not only was she not free, but a man like Rafe, a stunt pilot, just might end up in a fiery wreckage.

And then she'd have nothing left of her heart. She couldn't be the girl who cared about marriage or a family or a ring on her finger. That was her life with Guthrie.

That was the life of Rosie Worth.

She never needed Roxy Price more than right now.

“No, Rafe. You don't want to marry me.” She flicked her hand across her cheek, found a dangerous smile. “Trust me.”

He stood in the sand, frowning as she walked toward him. The wind had her hair, pasted her dress to her body.

“I—I think I do,” he said, his gaze travelling over her.

Yes. She smiled. “No, darling. Besides, the studio wouldn't let you. Dash has me on a leash. You saw that.”

Mostly true, and she reached for him, ran a trail with her finger across the well of his throat. Her heart thundered.

“I could talk to him. Buy out your contract—”

“You can't afford me,” she said, winking. “But that doesn't mean we can't have some fun.”

He caught her hand. “Roxy, what are you doing?”

She stepped close, wove her hand around his neck. “Shh.” She kissed his neck, took the opportunity to smell the wind on his skin. Yes. Enough of her silly vows. Dash hadn't kept his, had he?

They had a farce of a marriage. And maybe she wouldn't give Rafe her heart, but perhaps she could find something close enough to it.

“Roxy.” Rafe's voice rumbled beneath her hand. “What are you doing?”

“Isn't this what you really want, Rafe? Roxy Price, all to yourself.”

She wound her arms up around his neck, plastered her body to him. Urged his neck down for a kiss.

And for a second, the briefest of moments, she had him. She heard him groan, a soft surrender in the center of his chest as he wrapped his arms around her, catching her up, kissing her back, as if she might be right. As if she belonged to him, his mouth on hers, hungry, even amazed.

And in that moment, she let Roxy vanish and became herself. Needing Rafe. Surrendering just a little of her heart into his arms.

“No.”

Then, as if she might be made of fire, he let go, shoved her away, held her at arm's length. He was breathing hard, shaking his head. “No, Roxy. What's going on here?”

“Isn't this what you want? The fantasy?”

He let her go, stared hard into her eyes. “No. I told you. I want the reality. I want the real Roxy Price.”

She pressed her hand to her lips, as if to wipe away his touch. “This is the real Roxy Price.”

“But it's not the real Rosie Worth!”

She stared at him, the words like a slap, stealing her breath. “How do you know my real name?”

“I know a lot more about you than you think.” He stepped close to her, reaching for her, even as she yanked her arm away from him. His voice softened, so much it could wound if she let it.

“Rosie, you don't have to play a part with me.”

She stared at him, his words undoing her. What did he know? And how much? “I'm not—”

“Don't.” His tone silenced her, but his expression softened as he came close, cupped her face in his hands. “Okay. I get it. For now. I've waited this long. I guess I can wait until you're ready.”

Then he kissed her again, this time so gently, she thought she might cry.

No, she was already crying. Weeping because, yes, Hollywood could cost her everything.

Rooney Sherwood would get her killed yet. Rosie ached everywhere, down to her toes as she lay in her hotel bed, reliving the moment when, in an effort to get a realistic final shot, Rooney perched a cameraman on the wing of a taxiing Sopwith Camel, catching her and Grayson in a kiss as she sat on his lap.

Which, of course, made it nearly impossible for Grayson to steer the plane, his rudimentary pilot talents turning into folly when he drove them off the runway and into a ditch, turning the plane over on its nose.

Really, they hadn't been moving that fast. But she'd flown from the cockpit and landed eight feet away in the dirt.

Grayson had hung up in the cockpit and broken his arm.

And Rafe, well Rafe nearly lost his head.

Perhaps, if anyone would lose his life, it would be Rooney, because four men had to pull Rafe away from Rooney and hustle their director off the set.

They'd taken her to the hospital, just in case, but she'd only sported a few bruises and hadn't stayed overnight.

She still suffered from a backache that could cross her eyes. She groaned and curled into a ball under her cotton blanket. Outside, the October Sunday sunshine beckoned and the voices of the cast drifted up from the poolside area.

Clearly, Rooney hadn't returned. He'd probably gone to Los Angeles to scrounge up more extras for his next change in script.

At this rate, the epic might be finished sometime in the next century.

At least they had a day off. Her head pounded, and she put a hand to her forehead. Hot, as if she had a fever.

The breeze drifted into the window, and she closed her eyes, trying to relax through the spasm in her back. She let herself smile at how Rafe had scooped her up, muscled her to his convertible, and driven her himself to Oakland's Highland Hospital.

It would probably make the papers, her hanging on to his neck as he carried her into the emergency area. The look on his face had scared her, though.

He loved her too much for her own good.

A knock at her door jerked her free of where her thoughts were spiraling her. Like into his arms. Like abandoning everything and running away.

Yet again.

No. She groaned as she sat up. “Yes?” Probably Rafe, coming to check on her. She reached for her robe.

“A telephone call for you, ma'am. At the front desk.”

She winced, flopped back. “Take a message.”

“He called twice yesterday, ma'am. The clerk forgot to deliver your messages.”

He. She had an idea who that might be. Still, Dash rarely chased her down. “I'll be right down.”

She got up, pressed her hand to the small of her back. Leaned on the white wicker bed frame. Maybe she'd spend all day in bed. She had more pages to read, thank you, Rooney.

Maybe Rafe would read with her. Make her laugh. Help her live in the fantasy before it crumbled and she had to tell him the truth.

I'm married to Dashielle Parks
.

Yeah, she could wait on that conversation. But it was the only defense she had left.

The only thing keeping her from giving in, letting him inside Roxy Price to the woman he made her believe she was, letting him steal her heart.

She knotted the gown then gripped a chair as another spasm flared in her back. She shot a look in the bureau mirror. Maybe she needed a turban before she headed out in public. And some lipstick.

Sufficiently attired, even for the press, she headed downstairs, a strong hand on the railing as the pain in her lower back fisted her again.

The clerk held the phone out for her when she finally descended. Unfortunately, the cord didn't reach over to the whitewashed rattan chairs. She stood at the counter, a hand pressed to her spine. “Hello?”

“Please tell me that the pictures in
Photoplay
aren't the reason you didn't come home this weekend?”

She opened her mouth, had no words. Hello to you too, Dash.

“Rosie?”

“Please, are you serious? I'm not the only one making a splash in
Photoplay
. Besides, what photos are you talking about?”

“There's one with you sitting with your feet on a man's lap. Another with you sitting on a lounge chair, it looks like at some amusement park. What's going on up there? Are you having an affair?”

“What? No. Nothing's going on, you dope. Not that you would care, but that's Rafe Horne. He's a consultant on set for Rooney—who nearly killed me yesterday, by the way. You might see a picture of Rafe carrying me to the hospital, although who knows what tripe
Photoplay
will print as the caption.”

Silence.

“Dash?”

“I—I know you don't like our agreement, Red, but—”

“Agreement? Since when was what we have an
agreement
? Convenient, perhaps. As long as we're talking about
Photoplay
, who is the brunette that I keep seeing you with?

“She's no one.”

Rosie didn't expect it to hurt, for his words to wrap around her like a claw, digging into her. “So there
is
a she.”

He drew in a breath over the phone line, and she could imagine him, on a Sunday, in his linen pants, a cotton shirt untucked, maybe barefoot as he paced the tile floor of their hallway, one eye on the pool, the other on the driveway, trying to decide his next destination.

“I wanted you to come home this weekend, so we could talk.”

“About what? Our marriage? Our
partnership
?”

“Yes. Red, the last thing we need is a scandal right now. We can solve this without drama.”

“Solve what? Wait. Are you going to ask me for a
divorce
?”

She glanced at the hotel desk clerk, aware that her voice had ricocheted through the room. He turned away.

Their clandestine marriage wouldn't be secret for long. She imagined the clerk taking down her every word.

“Please, Rosie. It's not—I just need to talk to you. Face-to-face, like old friends.”

“Have we ever been friends, Dash?”

“I thought we were.”

She rubbed her forehead. She still had a fever, her brow sweaty.

“Just come home, please. Soon.”

“Do whatever you want, Dash. I don't have a home anymore.”

She banged the receiver onto the cradle with such force the phone shivered, the bell resounding through the lobby.

And she'd attracted an audience. She turned to storm back up the stairs and saw the crew watching her from their table outside on the patio.

And then Rafe. He'd risen and stood by the open doors, wearing the face she'd seen at the Grove. Shock. And a little horror in his blue eyes.

Oh. He'd heard.

He took a breath.

Nothing but the fan breached the silence.

“I can explain,” she said softly, taking a step toward him.

“You're married?” The way he said it, a little tremor in his voice, she wanted to weep.

She shook her head. Then nodded. Then shook it again. “I… It's not what you think.”

“I think you're married to Dashielle Parks,” he said, this time less shock, more finality, more anger.

The crew turned away, shuffling cards, their voices deliberately raised. She pressed a hand to her back, which spasmed again. She closed one eye in a wince and reached for the edge of a rattan chair. She missed and hit the palm tree in a pot beside it. Even as the spasm passed, she righted herself, finding her aim on the chair.

“Are you okay?” Rafe came toward her, concern tempering the anger written on his face. Good, kind Rafe. She loved him then.

And it made her want to weep. “No. I ache everywhere. But that's beside the point. Here's what you don't understand.” She took a step toward him, cutting her voice lower. “Dash and I got married a year ago—a business arrangement. We… He doesn't love me.”

“I know.” Rafe growled.

“What do you mean?”

“Let's just say I know. A man doesn't love a woman and then—then—”

“Cheat on her? Trust me, that's standard behavior for Dash. He ramped it up when he became my boss. Or should I say, owner. I was such a fool— Oh!” This one seemed to wrap around her entire body, clamp down. She clasped her hands over herself, bent into it.

Rafe grabbed her arms. “You don't look so good. You need to sit down.”

“I'm fine. I just need rest.” She met his eyes. “Listen, Rafe. I never meant to hurt you. I don't love him. I'm just… It's just a business arrangement.”

He searched her face, as if testing it for the truth. She put it all right there into her eyes, hoping he wouldn't ask for more.

And then something kicked her, right in the back. A blow, but from the inside, as if something unlatched, broke free.

Her body spasmed and her legs buckled. “Oh!” She reached out for Rafe, and he caught her as she went down.

Wetness streaked down her legs. The room tilted, her body feeling suddenly hot. Heavy.

“Roxy, you're bleeding!” Rafe said.

Bleeding?

And then her entire body began to convulse, drawing in on itself. And she knew.

Even as Rafe yelled for help, even as she put her arms around her waist, breathed through the pain. Through it all, she called herself an idiot for not recognizing the symptoms. She'd been here before.

Baby number two, lost to miscarriage.

Rafe stood with his back to her, at the hospital window, staring out as she shifted herself awake. Her body ached, and she felt raw and empty under the cotton blanket of the metal bed. They'd put her in a private room—probably Rooney's doing. Or, more likely, Rafe's, arranged while they'd taken her into surgery.

She remembered Rafe's face at the door as they wheeled her away, pinched with fear.

Clearly, between then and now, the doctor had told him exactly why she'd lost so much blood. Why she'd fainted in his arms on the way to the hospital.

Why he could never believe her when she claimed she and Dash weren't really married.

“Rafe?”

He turned, and with the glow of the daylight behind him, she couldn't see his face. Just the outline of his shoulders, the way he shoved his hands into his pockets, as if defeated.

Then, he sighed and walked into the light.

He may have been crying, betrayed in the red cracks in his eyes. He hadn't shaven, although he'd changed his shirt, probably soiled with her blood.

She couldn't look at him. A bouquet of flowers sat on the table at the end of the bed. Orchids.

“I had to stay to make sure you were okay.” He put on his hat, a brown derby. “I guess you are.”

Rafe moved to the door.

“Just like that? You won't let me explain?”

He stopped at the foot of her bed his head down. He closed his eyes, wincing. Then, “What's there to explain, Roxy? You were pregnant. Maybe you should be glad I'm assuming it's Dash's and not someone else.”

Her mouth opened.

He lifted his head, met her eyes. Shook his head. “Sorry. I'm just… I—I believed you. Or I guess I just wanted to. I wanted to believe that you were more than what I saw. Believe that you weren't the type of girl to marry the studio director to get a role—”

“That's not what happened.”

He held up a hand. “I should have known Dashielle Parks would win in the end.”

“What are you talking about? Dash didn't win—”

“He married you, didn't he? I call that winning. Or, at least I did.”

She ground her jaw. “Listen. Dash and I have known each other for years. We started the studio together. He needed an actress, and I wanted to become one. So I married him. He gave me studio shares, and I gave him control of my contract for the next seven years, and we agreed to share the profits.”

“That's not all you shared.” His mouth tightened in a dark, unforgiving line. “I suppose I should be offering my condolences. But it sounded from your phone conversation that maybe you weren't expecting to start a family together.”

She looked away. But out loud the plan, their so-called marriage did sound so…foolish. Even, naive. “I just wanted to start over. To be someone else. And marrying Dash seemed to be the way to do that. He gave me security.”

Rafe gripped the end of the bed, his knuckles white on the metal frame, and nodded. “Why would you want to be someone else, Rosie? What is wrong with being you?”

There went the use of her name again. She frowned at him. “What do you know about me, Rafe? I don't understand—how do you know my name?”

He drew in a long breath, and the light of the room cast a glow over his face, the chisel in his chin. His eyes, so dark, even fierce on hers as the sunlight cast over his face.

And suddenly, she knew. “We
have
met. We met in Paris, seven years ago. You helped my brother Finn get his boat out of the pond at
Jardin Tuileries
.”

He took a breath. “You were waiting for Dash. He came up while we were talking.”