Duchess (14 page)

“Do you want your wig, ma'am—”

“She doesn't need it.”

The voice, the refined, elegant accent slid through her, turning her body to fire.

It couldn't be. But yes, His Grace, Rolfe Van Horne, Duke of Beaumont walked into the sunlight, out of the shadows of the porch, as if he deserved a spotlight, dressed in a white linen suit, a straw fedora. He hadn't changed much—still wore an arrogance on his face, his blue eyes catching her, holding her fast. He stood between her and the sun, casting a shadow over her with his wide shoulders, the lean cut of his frame. As he stared down at her, for a moment the world simply stopped, the breeze stilling, the birds quiet.

She heard only his low, “Hello, Rosie.”

He sounded every inch a duke, and she called herself a fool for not realizing it right off, so long ago.

And so much for forgetting the power he had over her, the way her heart thumped like a fist inside her.

Her hand lifted to her head, this time not from reflex. She swallowed.

“I heard about your collapse,” he said, his eyes not leaving hers. “You look thin.”

That smarted. She blinked back the sting in her eyes. “Thank you, Rolfe. You can't imagine how delightful that is to hear.” She turned away from him, shaking her head.

He made a funny noise. “I didn't mean it that way.”

“I've been better, yes, but I'm doing marvelously, thank you.” She put her sunglasses back on, just in case he might see her eyes glistening. “What are you doing here?”

She winced at the sound of one of her metal chairs raking across the patio stones. He sat down, close enough for her to catch the spicy scent of his cologne. It scoured up memories of walking across a windy beach, the sand like icing between her toes.

“I have a proposition for you, Rosie. I've called you twice, but since you wouldn't talk to me, I decided to pay you a visit.”

“I never received your call.”

He took off his hat, held it between his hands, and for the first time, a chink appeared in that regal expression. “Yes, you did. I didn't tell them it was me, because…”

Oh. The independent screenwriter. Her stomach began a slow curl into a knot. “Because you knew I wouldn't see you.”

He ran his finger around the inside of his hat. Then he took a breath and set the hat on the table beside her, a hardness in his jaw. “I know we parted badly, but I believe we can put that behind us for a common good, something that I think will get us both what we want.”

“How do you know what I want, Rolfe?”

He looked away, toward Sammy, and a memory whisked up inside her, the image of him sitting in the sunshine, watching Rooney's airplanes do barrel rolls and loops in the sky. She loved his profile, the strong edge of his chin, even the whiskers that would soon darken his jaw.

She fought the urge to run her hand down his face, her thumb across his lips, and hated herself for even thinking it.

She simply couldn't be that fragile. Not now. She pulled her robe tighter under her chin.

“Is that Dashielle's son?”

“His name is Sammy.”

“And he lives here, with you?”

“He and his mother.”

His lips formed a tight line, a nod, then a curious frown. “I didn't expect that.”

What did he expect? That she'd throw the poor girl into the street? She sighed. “We don't do independent films at Palace Studios, Rolfe. I'm afraid you've wasted your time.”

He glanced at her, his eyes narrowing. “You've built quite an empire with Palace Studios out of the ashes of Dashielle's failure.”

“I like to think of it as his legacy. He is still very much here, in spirit.” Her gaze went to Sammy, playing now with an imaginary dog. She'd find one for him tomorrow, if she could. “I'm just trying to carry on what he began.”

“I know. I read the trades. You've made a valiant effort.” He paused.

She frowned.

“But I also hear the scuttlebutt among the studio heads. Palace Studios lives on a shoestring, and a handful of bad films could wash you under.”

“We're not that desperate.”

“Your board has approached Jack Warner with an option to buy.”

She stilled, the breath whooshing from her as if he'd slapped her. She put her hand to her head. “No—I—they…”

His expression softened, however briefly. “I'm sorry. I wondered if they'd told you.”

She met his eyes, lifted her chin. “They can't sell it. I own it.”

“If you can't pay your debts, then the bankruptcy court owns it.”

“We have films in production, staff writers at work—”

“You have directors like Rooney spending money hand over fist, and Fletcher overworking your extras into a lawsuit.” He lowered his voice. “And Bette Davis and Joan Crawford fighting over parts meant for you.”

She looked away. “Did you come here to punish me, Rolfe?”

A sparrow called from a nearby tree, the wind rustling the willow.

“No,” he finally said softly. “I came here because you need me, Rosie.”

Her gaze shot at him. “I hardly think that I—”

“How many times have you called Fletcher today? Has he returned even one of your calls?”

She had the terrible urge to slap him.

“There is only one director in the business willing to offer you a part. And that's me. Could you, for one moment, surrender that legendary pride and admit that maybe you could use some help?”

She folded her arms, closed her eyes.

She felt him settle on the chaise lounge at her feet.

“Rosie.”

The texture of his voice made her look up. He sighed, shook his head. “Listen. I forgive you for what happened. I think we can put it behind us.” He met her eyes but didn't soften his words further with a smile.

“I don't understand. Why would you—”

“Because I still believe in the actress I once knew.”

She searched his face for mocking, guile, but found nothing of it in his expression. “Why would you want to help me?”

“I have a movie, Rosie. One that I wrote…for you.”

“For Palace Studios?”

He shook his head. “No, for you. The part is—well, when I wrote it, I saw you playing it.” For the first time, he appeared chagrined, one side of his mouth tugging up, almost a smile.

“I forgive you
….”

“Why would you write a movie for me, Rolfe?”

His lips tightened into a dark line. “Because every time I sat down to write, your face appeared before me. I couldn't escape you.”

He didn't sound happy about that, and she had the strange urge to apologize.

“This is your role, if you want it.”

She considered him. He seemed serious, his blue eyes intent in hers. He'd lost his smile, just met her gaze.

She didn't know what to make of him, this misplaced forgiveness, this too-generous offering. She let out a harsh laugh. “Wait. I get it. It's a jungle movie, and I get to wear a sarong and end up burning at the stake, someone's dinner.”

He didn't smile.

“I was kidding.”

“It's a war movie called
Red Skies over Paris
about a woman who loses the man she loves, only to discover that he isn't who he says he is. She is strong and beautiful and helps save lives as she realizes who she is.”

Her smile fell. “That's not a part for me.”

“It's exactly the part for you, I promise. In fact, no one can play this part like you can.”

She picked up her orange juice, running her thumb down the side, leaving a trail in the sweaty glass. “We'd have to run it by Fletcher, and even then, I'm not sure he'll go for it. He's got a full plate.”

“I have a director already.”

She looked up. “That, I'm sure won't work. Fletcher is very choosy about his directors, that is, if he doesn't take it himself.”

“He doesn't have a choice. I'm paying for it, so I'm producing it.”

She blinked at him. “The entire production? That could be in the millions.”

He didn't look away. “I have put my estate in arrears, but I believe the sum will cover it.”

She took a sip of the juice, let it cool her parched throat. “When do you want to start production? We'll have to look at the studio schedule.”

“Immediately,” he said. “And we don't have to fit it into the studio schedule because it will be shot on location. In Europe.”

Her words sluiced out of her.

He took the orange juice from her grip, placed it back on the table. “I estimate it taking nearly a year or more, with all the location shoots, editing, and production. And then there's the promotion.” He caught her hand, and she couldn't deny that, for a moment, his touch traveled all the way up her arm, into her chest, her heart.

He still had such power over her, she could almost taste her longing. She swallowed it away.

“I will rent a sound stage in Vienna for any final shots, and then you'll have to stay with me to promote the film across Europe before we bring it to America.”

“And in the meantime, Fletcher and the board will steal Palace Studios from beneath me, Joan Crawford will become the next Palace starlet, and my career will be in ashes.”

“No. In the meantime, you will become not only an American movie star but an international star as well. You will have billing above the title in countries where you cannot even pronounce the name of your movie. And when you return to America, you will be a woman of intrigue and acclaim. Most of all, you will bring into the coffers of Palace Studios receipts that cost you nothing. Nothing but your trust in me.”

“Why would you do this, Rolfe?”

He ran his thumb over her hand. “Because I believe in the woman I saw on the set of
Angel's Fury
, the one who made an entire crew of men cry with her brilliance. Her beauty.”

She couldn't breathe past the closing of her throat. Her eyes burned, and she blinked away the heat in them. “I—but I'm no longer beautiful, Rolfe.”

“Let me be the judge of that, Rosie. Besides, your hair wasn't the beauty I was referring to.” He pressed her hand between both of his, and for the first time, the hard edge of his eyes softened. “No one can play this role like you can. If you don't do it, I won't produce it. But if you trust me, you will get everything you've always wanted.”

She stared at his hands holding hers, wanting to pull away, refraining. “You can't give me that, Rolfe. It's not possible.”

He said nothing then, but she watched as he lifted her hand and pressed his lips to it. Then he smiled, something of a challenge in his eyes. “Try me.”

“Have you lost your mind? You can't leave. Not now. Not when the board is trying to sell the studio, and all your parts are being gobbled up. An entire year, in Europe? There will be nothing left of the studio when you return.
If
you return.” Irene sat on the velvet settee in the corner of Rosie's boudoir, the sun a thin, vibrant line dissecting her closed velvet drapes. She still wore her suit dress, having stormed down the hall the minute the driver left her at the door.

Sammy lounged on the floor next to her, reading another Hardy Boys mystery. “You are planning on returning, right?”

Quietly moving around them, Louise had begun to package Rosie's clothing, the elegant gowns, her day dresses, shoes wrapped in tissue, her silk undergarments in cloth bags. She hadn't traveled overseas since—since Paris. Since the year she'd fallen in love with Dash while cavorting through the streets of France.

Since the year she'd met Rolfe Van Horne while waiting to run away with Dashielle in a French park.

She should have stopped then, looked into Rolfe's eyes, and realized that he was her future. At least she hoped so.

If she ever needed a new script, something epic and beautiful and enough to remind her of why she'd fled to Hollywood and Dash's promises, it was now. She should be grateful, not terrified that Rolfe Van Horne had snuck back into her life.

Most of all, she shouldn't have spent the last four nights staring at the whitewashed ceiling, replaying their conversation, looking for nuances of his feelings for her.

She couldn't—wouldn't—fall in love with him again. Not when he'd so easily walked out of her life last time.

“I forgive you
.” No, that didn't mean he still loved her.

He probably just pitied her.

A job. A role. A second chance. She wouldn't let her loneliness destroy it.

Besides, if all went well, she'd have the applause of her fans to fill the lonely places.

“Of course I am coming back. And I promise, they won't sell the studio while I'm gone. Not without my say. Palace Studios is being well compensated for my absence. You should have seen Fletcher nearly salivating over his new, improved budget. He doesn't seem to care a whit about the fact that I'm leaving.”