Duchess (9 page)

Bail out!

But no one appeared above the beast as it disappeared behind a rise in the terrain.

The crash rent the air, terrible, brutal, shaking through her, turning her brittle.

She couldn't breathe.

“Did you see him bail out?” she whispered.

Eddie didn't speak, his hands on the steering wheel as he bent his forehead onto it.

On the tarmac, a group of men—maybe medics—jumped into a truck.

No…no…

“Drive me over to the set,” she said, her voice shaky. She slipped down into her seat. Amanda climbed in, her hands shaking.

This would be just like God, at the helm of her destiny. What was she thinking, believing she could trust the Almighty with something so delicate as her heart?

Rosie wrapped her glove around the door handle, holding on as the car bumped toward the set. Rooney looked over at her then frowned and dismissed her for the directions he leveled at his crew. The dogfight in the sky, oblivious to the flames and smoke from the debris of the Gotha, now blackened the sky.

She got out before the car stopped moving. “Please tell me that no one has died,” she said to Jerry as he came toward her. “Please tell me that Rolfe bailed out.”

“We don't know,” Jerry said, coming up to her, his face whitened. “It's possible. What are you doing here, Miss Price—”

“Don't give me that. You know what I'm doing here.” She stood, hands on her hips, refusing to let panic have her.

But she wanted to weep when she saw more men hop on a truck and head out to the smoldering mess on the horizon.

“No, I mean, didn't anyone get ahold of you at the hotel?”

She looked at Jerry now, frowning. “What are you talking about?”

Jerry blew out a breath, glanced at Rooney, who was now stalking toward her. “You have a message from Fletcher. You need to go home right away.”

Oh, Dash, that dope. He just wouldn't leave her alone. “No. I'm not leaving.”

Rooney came up, sunburned, his eyes fierce. “What are you doing here? You gotta go back to LA. Sheesh, Roxy, what are you thinking? Dash is in a coma, and you're here on the set?”

She stared at him. Trying to fit his words into her head. “What?”

“Don't you read the papers?” Jerry signaled to someone behind her. “Dashielle Parks shot himself last night.”

She couldn't move. Just stared at Rooney. Dash—shot… “What are you talking about?”

She pressed her gloved hand to her chest. She—couldn't—breathe…

“Aw, Roxy. Ya didn't know.” Rooney looked immediately sorry, his rare compassion budding forth. “Eddie, take Miss Price to the hangar.”

He came up, touched her cheek. “We'll take care of this, darling. I got a plane for you. You go home and be with Dash.” He kissed her on the cheek.

She caught his hand. “Why did Dash—are you sure? But I just talked to him—”

“I don't know, doll.” He squeezed her hand then turned back to the dogfight.

And what about Rolfe?

Eddie slipped his arm around her waist, turned her back to the car.

But…

She climbed in, her legs nearly numb. Kept her eyes on the wreckage on the horizon as Eddie pulled away toward the hangar.

She said nothing as she watched the plume of black smoke as fire destroyed the final remains of Rolfe's warplane.

“I found him on the patio. We were supposed to have lunch, and when he didn't answer the door, naturally, I thought he might be on the telephone. I didn't expect—I didn't—Oh Roxy, there was blood everywhere…. How could he…?”

Fletcher sat on the wooden chairs in the hallway of St. Vincent's Catholic Hospital. Somewhere, through the wooden doors of the ward behind him, Dash's body lay in a coma, a ventilator pumping air into his body, a hole next to his heart where he'd pointed a Colt .45 at his chest and pulled the trigger.

She still couldn't get Fletcher's words into her head, her heart.

She stared at him, exhaustion bleeding through her. She still heard the buzzing of the prop in her ears, pretty sure that the flight in one of Rooney's warplanes from Oakland to LA had jarred free her teeth from her head.

Thankfully, a representative from the studio met her, but he'd abandoned her at the hospital door to plow through the gauntlet of press on her own.

Only to find Fletcher distraught and unraveling, pacing outside Dash's hospital room. He took one look at her and sank into a chair, wearing his age on his gaunt face.

“How bad is it?” She glanced through the window in the doors of the private ward. Nurses, the sisters of St. Vincent Catholic hospital, moved in and out of the ward carrying supplies, occasionally offering her a condolent smile.

“It's bad. He shot himself in the chest. If I hadn't shown up, he would have bled to death.”

“And his heart?”

“He had surgery to fix a tear, his lung collapsed.” He ran his hands down his face. “They told me that it's not looking good. They'll be surprised if he survives the night.”

She walked up to the window and peered in. Dash lay in a bed beyond her view, a curtain pulled for privacy.

Probably so the world didn't have to watch him die.

She turned away. Tried to get ahold of how everything had suddenly careened so wildly out of control.

“I don't understand; why would he do this?”

She looked up to see one of the studio agents manhandling a photographer from his stealthy perch in the hallway.

Rosie turned her back to him. She was still dressed in her sundress, ready to take back her destiny with Rolfe, who may or may not have perished in a flaming crash for Rooney Sherwood's epic motion picture.

Oh, she had just about enough of the stench of death, of the sense of her life slipping through her fingers.

“Fletcher, I talked to Dash two days ago. He seemed fine, if not angry. Typical Dashielle Parks, just wanting his own way. Are you sure this wasn't some crazy accident?”

Fletcher looked up at her, nonplussed. “Please don't tell me that the events of the last few days mean nothing to you?”

She frowned at him. Even Dash didn't know about the baby—she put her hand to her empty womb. “Of course they do. Do you think me heartless?”

It might be true, however, that she hadn't given enough thought about the child she'd lost. Dash's child. Her child. Someone with Dash's dark eyes, rogue good looks. A scamp of a little boy, or a darling, sassy girl.

Oh. She sank down onto the bench beside him. Maybe Dash
had
cared for her—and just didn't know how to show it. Maybe she shouldn't have been so unkind, so angry with him. “I—I didn't know what to say. I didn't know, Fletcher. And then it all happened so fast.” She folded her gloved hands together. “I never expected him to care.”

“Not care? How does one not care about losing two million dollars?”

She stilled. Looked at him. “Two—million—dollars?”

“Maybe more.” Fletcher ran his hand into his thinning hair. “He told me he'd invested the studio funds, but he didn't tell me how much until the market fell on Friday. Then, this morning, when he got the news of last night's market crash—”

“What crash?”

“
What crash
? Do you not follow the news at all, Roxy?” Fletcher stared at her as if she might be a child. “The stock market in New York City. It crashed this week. First on Friday, and then—well, Dash put everything Palace Studios had into the market, hoping to revive us.”

“I know things were bad—that's why Dash loaned me out to Rooney. But I thought—”

“They're worse than bad. We have nothing left.” Fletcher sighed, covered his face with his hands. “I don't blame him for trying to escape it all.”

Escape? She stared at Fletcher, something hot rising inside. “Well, I do.” She stood up. “I think he has a lot of nerve. He's not the only one with something at stake here. We were supposed to build the studio together. That's why we—” She closed her mouth. Glanced over her shoulder. Yes, press congregated at the end of the hall, near the nurses' station, probably tuning to her every word.

She turned and marched to the swinging doors.

“You can't go in there—”

“Watch me.”

The scent of ammonia and iodine smarted her eyes as she entered the room. A nun rose from her station, but Rosie held up her hand. “I'm his wife,” she snapped and headed toward Dash.

“Visiting hours aren't—”

“I won't be long,” she said, beginning to tremble.

Dash lay in a metal-framed bed, an oxygen cannula under his nose, tubes connecting him to fluids being pumped into his body. A white cotton blanket outlined his strong, lean body. He'd only grown more handsome over the years, with those high, regal cheekbones, his dark hair that simply wouldn't behave, the five o'clock shadow of a bona fide playboy. No wonder she'd fallen in love with him, over and over.

Why she still loved him now, really.

He didn't look like himself today, the dashing and dark studio executive. Or even the college boy she'd met and fallen for in Paris.

She didn't know this man, gray and broken, too many bandages and tubes to be Dashielle Parks.

She pressed a hand to her mouth, her eyes blurry. No, this couldn't be Dash. Dash laughed and teased and made her feel beautiful.

Dashielle Parks didn't give up. He took the world by the tail, tamed it, made it his own. He lived by his Technicolor dreams, believing in the impossible.

Made her believe in the impossible.

“How dare you.” She drew in a quick breath. “How dare you do this? We had a deal, Dash. A
deal
. You'd make me a star, and I'd make you rich. I'm
trying
, for Pete's sake. What do you think I'm doing up there, week after week? Rooney nearly killed me—and then you go and do this?” She clenched her teeth, cut her voice to low. “Why didn't you wait for me? I would have kept my word.”

She was shaking even as she moved toward the bed. Someone had pulled up a vigil chair and she grabbed the back of it. Leaned over it to talk into his ear.

“We were supposed to be partners. To build something. To show the world that we didn't need to play by their rules, that we could write our own futures. ”

She wanted him to open his eyes, but she would have settled for a twitch, even a glower. But he couldn't even keep that part of his promise. The one to rise to her accusations, to keep up with and even tame the temperamental bombshell Roxy Price.

She bowed her head, both hands on the chair. No. This was not right. “Listen.” Her voice trembled. “Just wake up. I forgive you, okay? I just—I need you to wake up, Dash.”

Please respond. Please…

Her breath turned to fire in her chest as she watched his face. Nothing moved on his countenance, his lashes dark against his cheeks.

She looked away, blinking fast. “You're so—you're so stubborn. Arrogant, really. You just always have to have things your way. I should have figured that out in Paris, when you told me I wasn't the marrying kind.” She turned back to him. “Then why did you marry me, Dash?” She wiped her cheek, drew a faltering breath. “Why did you marry me?”

She came around, stood in front of the chair. Touched his hand, remembered how he'd held hers, first in Paris then before the justice of the peace in Hollywood. She wove her fingers between his. Swallowed. “Oh Dash. You can't break my heart. Not like this.” She lifted his hand, pressed it to her forehead. “Please, Dash. Don't leave me. You have no right to leave me.”

“No. He has no right to leave
me
.”

The soft, even angry voice made her turn. Irene Marshall stood at the end of Dash's bed, her face white, looking drawn and exhausted.

And she looked very, very pregnant.

She wore a long-sleeve, drop-waist, navy blue dress, with lace at the neck and cuffs. And a string of pearls at her neck.

Rosie's gaze went to her belly, and Irene curled a hand over it, as if to protect it.

No…

She looked back at Dash. Oh no. “Please don't tell me that Dashielle Parks is the father of your child.”

Irene's breath hitched, but Rosie heard venom in her voice when she finally said, “We were going to marry the moment you two were divorced.”

Rose swallowed. Closed her eyes. “Of course you were.”

“We were!”

She turned to her. “Is that what Dash told you?”

Irene's mouth opened, closed. Her eyes sharp, despite her grief. She turned away, pressed a hand to her mouth. “Why do you think he loaned you out to Rooney? It wasn't for the studio. It was so you'd be out of the way.”

Rosie swallowed, her chest closing in on itself.

“I think he was hoping that you'd find someone else.” Irene turned back, her eyes red. “You did, didn't you? That stuntman?”

Oh.

She glanced at Dash. Oh, that scoundrel. He'd probably even sent the press to hunt up a scandal.