Harvest Moon (5 page)

He wanted to direct her once more before he officially retired. He wanted and needed to know if the magic was still there, if they could become a winning combination for the second time.

Harold excused himself, walking away and leaving Regina alone with Oscar. She took another sip of her drink, then lowered the glass and smiled at the tall, spare, elegant black man. Oscar Spencer was old enough to be her grandfather. In fact he was twenty years older than her forty-seven-year-old father, but somehow she did not regard him as a father figure. She saw him as a protector. Quietly, surreptitiously, he had shielded her from the obvious and lecherous advances of some of the men on the movie set.

When she was first introduced to Oscar she had found herself staring mutely at the man whose quiet voice and gentle manner put her immediately at ease. After working with him she realized he never had to raise his voice to issue an order. A withering glance and a noticeable tightening of his moustached mouth usually indicated his displeasure, and no one appeared willing to challenge his authority on the set.

Oscar’s private life had remained that—private—though the tabloids did uncover that he had been twice married, both times to actresses. His first wife died in childbirth, giving him his only child, a son. The second divorced him within the first year of their marriage, citing irreconcilable differences.

She noticed that women of all ages were drawn to him, but at sixty-seven he did not seem the least bit interested in initiating an ongoing relationship. She had shared an occasional dinner with him, but only at his home. He always sent a driver to pick her up from her apartment, and after they shared a meal and
several hours of intelligent conversation, the driver drove her back home.

Taking another sip of the club soda, she noticed an unnaturally bitter taste on her tongue. A slight frown marred her smooth forehead. Perhaps the sliver of lime had given the liquid an acrid flavor.

“Is there something wrong with your drink?” Oscar questioned, seeing her frown of distaste.

She shrugged a slender shoulder, taking another swallow. “I don’t know. It was fine when I first tasted it, but now it seems so bitter.” Her words came out slurred, in a singsong fashion. She blinked furiously, eyelids fluttering rapidly as she tried focusing. Why was the room spinning? And why couldn’t she see Oscar’s face clearly?

Oscar’s graying eyebrows met in a frown when he noticed her dilated pupils. Reaching out, he pried the glass from her hand and poured the contents into a large planter.

“Let’s get out of here,” he ordered quietly. Curving an arm around her waist, he led her across the patio and around the rear of the house to an area where several dozen cars were parked.

Supporting Regina’s sagging body, he made his way over to a middle-aged man who jumped up from a chair at his approach. “Preston, please tell my driver to bring my car around.”

“Yes, sir.” He raced away to do the director’s bidding.

Regina felt her knees buckle as her head rolled limply on her neck. “Oscar.” Her voice was barely a whisper. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

Pulling a handkerchief from the breast pocket of his jacket, he held it close to her mouth. “Let it come up and you’ll feel better.”

She did not want to throw up—not in public. Then, whatever she had eaten or drunk refused to stay down. “No,” she moaned, pushing his hand away and swallowing back the rush of nausea.

Oscar solved her dilemma when he held her jaw firmly and thrust a finger down her throat. Within seconds she purged the contents of her stomach onto the octagonal-shaped flagstones. Her eyes filled with tears, which streamed down her cheeks. Her throat burned, her stomach muscles ached from the violent contractions, and she couldn’t keep her knees from shaking.

“It’s all right, Regina. You’re going to be all right,” he crooned over and over, wiping her mouth with the handkerchief.

The odor of undigested food was revolting, and Regina thought she was going to be sick all over again. What was wrong with her? What had she eaten or drunk to make her throw up?

The caretaker returned with the driver and stepped out of Oscar’s car. His eyes widened when he noticed the splatter on the flagstones. Wrinkling his nose, he cursed to himself. He hated the superficial, self-centered people who attended Harold Jordan’s parties. They always drank too much and wound up throwing up, and he always had to clean up after them. There were times when he let them lay in their own filth, while calling them pigs, and they were—overpaid, plastic pigs who wallowed in slop but were able to clean themselves up and then flash their perfect smiles to their adoring fans, who worshiped them as if they were royalty.

The chauffeur alighted and opened the back door. Oscar settled Regina onto the backseat of the car, then reached into a pocket of his slacks. He withdrew a large bill and handed it to Preston. “Here’s a little something for having to clean it up.”

The caretaker pocketed the money, smiling. “Thanks, Mr. Spencer.”

Oscar managed a smile he did not quite feel and slipped onto the backseat beside Regina. He pulled her limp body close to his side, struggling to control his temper. What he wanted to do at that moment was return to the house and put his hands around Harold Jordan’s throat and squeeze the life out of his body. He stared at the driver’s broad shoulders instead.

Not turning around, the driver asked, “Where to, Mr. Spencer?”

“Take me home.” The three words were quiet—quiet and lethal.

R
egina drifted in and out of sleep, succumbing to the smooth motion of the car rolling over the hills and through the canyons of Los Angeles. She remembered someone picking her up and carrying her from the car, but not much else.

She was totally unaware that Oscar Spencer’s housekeeper had undressed her and covered her nude body with a freshly laundered pajama shirt belonging to her employer. She slept throughout the night as Oscar sat at her bedside watching her sleep. It wasn’t until the following morning that she awoke—disoriented, wondering why she wasn’t in her own bed at her own apartment.

She lay in bed, trying to remember what had happened the night before. Pushing a wealth of ebony curls off her forehead, she sighed audibly. She had gotten sick at Harold Jordan’s house. Oscar had compounded her dizziness and nausea by forcing her to regurgitate.

Oscar! Sitting up quickly, she realized she was at Oscar’s
house. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and managed to make it to the adjoining bathroom; she washed her face and rinsed her mouth with a cool, mint mouthwash, then searched the spacious, Spanish-style residence for its owner. Within minutes she found him in his study. He sat at his desk, his back to the door, talking on the telephone.

“You stinking son of a bitch!” he ranted through clenched teeth. “You know damn well what you did. You drugged her, Jordan! Don’t lie to me. All I have to do is have a doctor pump her stomach and have a lab analyze the contents. Don’t tell me what I won’t do. It’s over. I’ll make certain you’ll never get near her ever again. Don’t threaten me, you perverted cretin. One call to the police and you’ll be wearing a pair of bracelets that will require a key to remove.” He slammed down the receiver, his shoulders heaving.

Regina’s legs felt like blocks of ice. She hadn’t gotten sick because she had eaten something that hadn’t agreed with her. Harold Jordan had drugged her, and she did not have to guess why. He wanted her—in his bed. And because she hadn’t come to him willingly he had taken the initiative of putting something in her drink.

“Oscar.”

He swiveled the chair at the sound of her husky voice. Her hair spilled over her forehead and shoulders in a cloud of curling, raven spirals. The hem of his nightshirt ended above her knees, allowing for a generous view of her long, shapely legs.

Forcing a smile, he rose to his feet and closed the distance between them. He was impeccably dressed in a pair of dark linen slacks and a matching raw silk, long-sleeved shirt.

“Good morning. How are you feeling?”

Her large, dark gaze was fixed on his mouth. “Well, considering I was drugged.”

He shifted a thick gray eyebrow, nodding slowly. “I suppose you overheard my conversation?”

Her expression was impassive. “I heard enough. How did you know he drugged me?”

“It’s not the first time a woman has gotten
sick
at one of Harold Jordan’s parties.”

Closing her eyes, she wagged her head from side to side. “But why me, Oscar? I’ve seen Harold Jordan with enough women whom I assume are sleeping with him.”

He moved closer, cradling her slender face between his hands. “Don’t ask me why, Regina. All you have to do is look in the mirror. You’re a stunning young woman. And there will be a lot of Harold Jordans who will want you to share their beds.”

“But some of these women were very beautiful,” she insisted.

Oscar held her tortured gaze. “You are young. Very, very young. And there are some older men who like young girls.”

Hot, fat tears squeezed from under her eyelids and made their way down her cheeks. “When I sleep with a man I want that to be my decision. And only when I am ready.”

Kissing her on both cheeks, he pulled her closer. “There is a lot of ugliness beneath Tinseltown’s glitter and glamour, ugliness someone your age should not have to encounter. You should’ve been told that before you left home.”

Opening her eyes, she stared up at him. “I heard it, Oscar. I heard it all, and still I
had
to come.”

A wry smile curved his mouth under his clipped moustache. “You’ve heard it, yet you still had to come. The bright lights had your name on them, and they were calling you. You have it all, Regina Cole, yet you had to come. You have a perfect face, a perfect body, and an acting ability which rivals Katherine Hepburn’s and Bette Davis’s and you had to come to see if you could make it. Instead of you having to fend off Harold Jordan’s advances, you should be in a college lecture hall taking notes.”

She smiled through her tears. “You sound like my father.”

“That’s because I’m old enough to be your father.” He returned her smile, wiping away her tears with his fingers. “In fact, I’m old enough to be your grandfather. And if I
were
your father, I’d cut you off without a penny and force you to come back home.”

She took in a quick breath of astonishment. “Daddy would never do that to me.”

Oscar’s smile widened. “Of course he wouldn’t. That’s because you’re his precious little princess.” His expression sobered. “If you were my daughter I doubt whether I’d be able to do it, either.”

Her expression matched his, giving her the appearance of being much older than seventeen. “My parents weren’t thrilled that I decided to pursue an acting career instead of going to college. But there was nothing they could do about it once I graduated from high school.”

“But you graduated two months shy of your seventeenth birthday. Legally you are still a minor and their responsibility.”

“That’s true. We had round-the-clock marathon discussions, and in the end they gave in. Both knew that I had to fulfill my dream or I would spend the rest of my life floundering while trying to find myself.”

“They are truly exceptional parents, Regina. I still don’t think I would’ve let my seventeen-year-old daughter leave home for a movie career.”

“That’s because you don’t have a daughter, Mr. Spencer. I bet you wouldn’t have raised the roof if your son left home at seventeen.”

He shrugged a shoulder, the gesture both masculine and elegant. “Boys are different.”

“And you’re a sexist,” she teased, offering him a warm smile.

“I suppose I am. I must remind you that I’m a product of my generation. We raised our sons and protected our daughters. And
because I don’t have a daughter, as of right now I’m unofficially adopting you. I’ll make certain what Harold Jordan did to you will never happen again.”

Combing her fingers through her hair, Regina pushed it off her forehead, her gaze never straying from the older man’s face. “You think I need another father?”

“No. What you do need is someone to look out for you until you’re able to protect yourself, or until you come to your senses and return to Florida.”

She stared up at him from under her lashes, her delicate jaw tightening with a surge of determination. “I’m not leaving. A thousand Harold Jordans will not force me to walk away from my acting career until I’m ready to leave.”

“And you’re going to leave, Regina Cole,” Oscar predicted sagely. “I doubt if you’ll complete more than three films.”

She felt a shiver of apprehension snake its way up her spine. “Why would you say that?”

“Wisdom and instinct, my child. And I’m going to live long enough to tell you I told you so.”

Regina did not want him to be right. She did not want the heated, verbal confrontations with her parents, the thousands of hours she spent with drama coaches while sacrificing the time she should have spent with her friends and family members, to be negated.

Oscar Spencer was wrong. She would not walk away from her acting career. Not until she tired of it. And she hoped she wouldn’t tire of it until she was an old, old woman.

Oscar Spencer kept his promise. He became her surrogate father and protector. Regina continued to rent and share her apartment with the other actress. However, in the coming weeks she found herself spending more and more time at the director’s house. They established a habit of sharing dinner—every night. There were times when he sent her home with his driver, but
many more when she slept over in the bedroom where she had spent the night following her drugging episode at Harold Jordan’s house.

She hadn’t heard from or seen Harold since that night, but realized that in less than a week she would be forced to come face-to-face with the man who had maliciously and methodically planned to rape her. She would attend the Academy Awards ceremony with Oscar, but regardless of the outcome she had made a decision not to attend any of the post-awards parties.

She sat at the table in the dining area at her apartment, studying the script her agent had delivered to her the day before. Vertical lines appeared between her eyes as she shook her head. It had taken only one reading for her to reach a decision. She could not consider the leading role.

The soft chiming of the telephone startled her, and she reached for the cordless phone lying inches away on the table. Pressing a button, she said softly, “Hello.”

“How do you like it?”

She recognized her agent’s gravelly voice immediately. “I like it, but I can’t consider it.”

“Why?”

“You know I won’t take my clothes off.”

A long, lingering sigh of frustration came through the receiver. “Regina—Baby Doll—don’t do this to me. You know you’re perfect for the part.”

Her frown deepened. “Simon, don’t fight with me. You know I don’t do nude scenes.”

“You’re a big girl now, Baby Doll. By the time filming begins you’ll be eighteen and—”

“It wouldn’t matter whether I was eighteen or eighty,” she interrupted. “I’m not going to do nude scenes.”

Simon Garwood smothered a savage curse under his breath. “What do you want me to do?”

“Tell them to take out the nude scenes and I’ll consider it.”

“What if I tell them to use a body double?”

Regina heard a distinctive beep come through the wire. “Hold on, Simon. I have another call.”

As soon as she depressed the button she heard the excited babble of raised male and female voices. “Hello?”

“Oh, my goodness—”

Her pulse quickened as she heard Oscar’s housekeeper’s trembling voice. “What’s the matter, Miss Brock?”

“Mr. Spencer just took sick. The emergency medical people are here and…”

Closing her eyes, she tightened her grip on the telephone. “Is he alive?”

“I think so. But he’s so still.”

Even though she was sitting, Regina felt her knees shaking uncontrollably. “Where are they taking him?”

Sobbing, Miss Brock gave her the information, and a minute later she told Simon she would get back to him, then called the car service to pick her up.

She did not remember changing into a pair of faded jeans, oversize T-shirt, and a pair of running shoes. At the last moment she braided her flowing hair into a single plait and covered it with a navy-blue baseball cap. It was only when she was seated in the back of the late model Ford sedan that she pulled a pair of sunglasses from her purse and slipped them on. When she strode through the doors of the small, private Los Angeles hospital she was unrecognizable as the actress who had been nominated for her role in
Silent Witness
.

She asked the clerk at the admitting desk for Oscar Spencer’s condition, lying smoothly when she introduced herself as his granddaughter. The clerk told her she had to wait until the admitting doctor completed his examination.

Regina lost track of time as she sat waiting on a nearby chair. She alternated staring at a clock and counting off the minutes
with pacing. Two hours had passed before a middle-aged doctor approached her. His somber expression told her what she loathed hearing.

He extended his hand. “I’m Dr. Rutherford.”

Rising to her feet, she shook the proffered hand. “Regina Simmons.” She had decided to use her mother’s maiden name. “How’s my grandfather?”

The doctor pointed to the chair she had just vacated. “I think you’d better sit down, Miss Simmons.” She complied, and he sat down beside her. “Your grandfather’s condition is grave.”

Her eyes widened behind the dark lenses. “How grave?”

“A CAT scan detected a large mass on his right lung. We’re going to need you to sign some papers so we can remove it.”

Closing her eyes, she swayed slightly as she bit down hard on her lower lip. How could she sign? She wasn’t a relative. And besides, she was only seventeen. What did she know about giving permission for an operation?

Oscar had a son. A son who was a doctor. A son who hadn’t seen or spoken to his father in more than two years. She studied the doctor’s angular, patrician face. The green scrubs were not flattering to his sallow complexion.

“If…if he doesn’t have the operation…” She couldn’t continue.

“Without the operation I doubt whether he’ll survive the year if the tumor spreads to the other lung.”

“And with it?”

“We won’t know if the mass is benign until it’s biopsied. If it isn’t, then the worse case scenario will be that he’ll probably have to undergo radiation or chemotherapy to save the other lung, or keep the cancer from spreading. These procedures could possibly prolong his life by several years.”

A wry smile curved her mouth. Oscar Spencer had promised to protect her, while the responsibility for his very existence was
suddenly thrust upon her because she had elected to masquerade as his granddaughter.

She did not have a choice. That was taken out of her hands the moment he led her out of Harold Jordan’s house.

“Where do I sign?” she asked in a firm voice.

The doctor patted her hand in a comforting gesture. “You’ve made the right decision, Miss Simmons. The clerk in the admitting office will have everything ready for you.”

After signing the necessary documents for Oscar’s surgery Regina lost track of time. She waited in a small, sunny room filled with large potted plants and colorful prints on the cool, beige walls. She made three trips to the hospital’s coffee shop, each time purchasing large containers of the strong brew.

Becoming a Californian had changed her. She now drank coffee though she had never consumed it before, while eating less meat and more vegetables. She wasn’t quite a vegetarian, but there were weeks when she did not eat fish, chicken, pork, or beef. The result was a loss of nearly ten pounds; ten pounds she could not afford to lose. Standing five-ten in her bare feet, she now tipped the scales at one hundred twelve pounds.