Phoenix Falling (22 page)

Guessing there were about two dozen reporters and photographers waiting, he said under his breath, "It must be a slow news day, with no royal scandals."

"Or they want to get an easy story before we move to the country."

Since congestion forced the car to wait halfway down the block, he placed a protective hand on Rainey's back and they began walking steadily through the crowd. Kenzie was acquainted with most of the reporters, so he smiled lazily at the man who'd asked about feuding. "You need to find better sources, Henry. The production is going very smoothly. Not a prima donna in sight."

The reporter grinned, unabashed. "Of course you'd deny any trouble."

"Cooperation doesn't make much of a story," Rainey said sympathetically. "But what can I say? This is a great group of people to work with."

A tall blonde called, "Are you glad to come home to England, Kenzie?"

"Of course, Pamela." He gave her the smile guaranteed to scramble female thinking. "Where else can one get a proper cup of tea?"

Pamela gulped before shifting her attention. "Raine, is it true you put this production together just to get Kenzie back?"

Rainey's eyes narrowed. "Nonsense. I started work on
The Centurion
long before I met Kenzie, though I'll admit I'm delighted to have him as the lead. He's doing a marvelous job."

As similar questions were tossed at them, they continued toward the car. They'd almost reached it when a tall man with a sharp face barked out, "Where were you born, Kenzie? Where did you grow up?"

Thinking there was something familiar about the man, Kenzie slipped into a Scottish accent. "I was born in the Outer Hebrides, and my father said I'm the legitimate Stuart heir to the throne of Scotland. Bonnie Prince Charlie married Flora Mac-Donald, you know, by traditional Scottish handfast. They had a son, and bonnie Flora concealed the lad to save him from the Sassenach, giving him the name Scott. As the direct descendant of that son, I'll thank you to call me 'Your Royal Highness.'"

His statement produced roars of laughter. "That's a good one, Kenzie." Henry grinned. "What a headline that will make: 'Kenzie Scott Is the True King of England!' "

The sharp-faced man refused to be amused. "What's the real story? You've always hidden behind a pack of lies, and it's time to set the record straight."

Startled by the naked hostility in the reporter's voice, Kenzie said, "Sorry, I don't recognize you. What's your name and who do you represent?"

"Nigel Stone of the
London Inquirer
."

The tabloid was probably London's tawdriest daily, but it was the name that caused Kenzie to catch his breath. No wonder the reporter seemed familiar. They'd known each other once long ago, when Nigel Stone had been a feral, rat-faced boy called Ned. As a scandal-chasing reporter, he'd found the perfect profession.

Knowing the other man couldn't possibly recognize him, Kenzie smiled charmingly. "I'm a mere player, a projection of the audience's whims and fancies. Why spoil that with tedious reality?"

They reached the car, and the driver flung the door open. Kenzie bundled Rainey in and followed quickly, but before the door closed, he heard Nigel Stone bark, "You've got away with lies in the past, but no longer. I'm going to find out who you really are!"

Rainey slid across the seat to make room for Kenzie. As the car pulled away from the curb, she asked, "Your Royal Highness?"

His expression eased. "See what you're giving up by divorcing me? The chance to be the next queen of England."

"As if I didn't have enough problems with publicity!" She frowned. "If that Stone fellow tried, would he be able to uncover your mysterious past?"

"He could go back to my time as a student at RADA. No further."

Thinking Kenzie sounded very certain, she asked, "Did you spend your childhood abroad so there's no paper trail in Britain?"

He looked out the car window. "That's one possible explanation."

In other words, back off. Moving to safer ground, she asked, "What is it like to work in England again? You seem very British to me, but I've always sensed you have some ambivalence about visiting here."

He exhaled, still avoiding her gaze. "Britain is home in a way nowhere else can ever be, but not all the memories are good ones."

Everyone had painful childhood memories. His must be exceptionally bad to provoke such a reaction. "The movie business brings you back here with some regularity."

"And I come. Ambivalently."

Yet he'd never become an American citizen even though he'd been a legal resident for more than ten years. She supposed that said something about his feelings for his native land.

Once she'd guiltily examined his passport when he left it lying on his dresser after a trip to Cannes. The document said he'd been born in London on the February day and year he claimed, but she wondered if the information was true. Would Kenzie's determination to conceal his past extend to falsifying documents? Maybe.

Realizing she'd probably never know the truth, she settled back in her seat. Because Kenzie hadn't demanded a separate driver, they shared a car to and from the hotel. It saved a little money, and she enjoyed the treacherous pleasure of riding with him.

As promised, they both pretended that night in the cliff house had never happened—but the sensual awareness between them had been off the charts ever since. "The rehearsals are going so well that I'm getting cautiously optimistic about the results, even though I know there's many a slip twixt the camera and the final edit."

He turned from the window. "Not to mention the fact that the hardest part is yet to come. The rest of the production will be difficult for both of us. One might even say 'excruciating.'"

She shivered at how menacing the word sounded in his level voice. "Harder on you than on me, I'm afraid."

"You have to direct me, which you're going to hate, just as you're going to hate playing Sarah's more emotional scenes."

"You're beginning to sound as ominous as Macbeth's witches."

"They weren't only ominous. They were right."

She thought about the brilliant scene he'd just done with Sir James. Kenzie knew the character of John Randall inside out. If he said that the next weeks were going to be excruciating, he was undoubtedly right. Now that it was too late, she wondered if the end product of a movie justified what she was asking of him.

Was it too late? As soon as the thought struck her, she dismissed it. Too much money, too many people, too much trust, were bound up in this production. Marcus Gordon might give her a second chance if she failed to deliver a movie as strong as her vision, but he'd never forgive her if she turned coward in the middle.

"You look like you just bit into an apple and discovered half a worm."

Kenzie's voice snapped her out of her reverie. She said, "I was having a horrified moment of wondering what I got myself into with this project."

"You'll survive, Rainey. You always do. It's a most intimidating virtue." Kenzie stretched out and closed his eyes, ending the conversation.

Maybe sharing a car wasn't such a great idea after all.

Chapter 16

It didn't take long for Nigel Stone to move into action. The next morning Rainey and Val had a quiet breakfast together in Rainey's suite, both of them skimming the London newspapers to check coverage of the production. Val picked the
Inquirer
from the pile, then whistled softly. "Hell and damnation. Take a look at this."

Rainey accepted the tabloid with a sinking heart. The whole front page was a sinister-looking photo of Kenzie with a headline that screamed, "Do You Know Who This Man
Really
Is?" She flipped to the story inside. A double-page spread with a blaring head asked, "Rich Man, Poor Man, Beggar Man, Thief? Is Britain's Most Popular Movie Star a King or a Criminal?"

Half a dozen photos of Kenzie showed him in roles where he played dark and dangerous characters, or wearing as few garments as possible, preferably both. Since he was a workaholic who'd made a lot of movies, the tabloid had plenty of material. One shot was of her and Kenzie in a steamy embrace in
Lethal Force
, a thriller they'd made together the year before. The caption below asked ominously, "Did Raine Marlowe Leave Kenzie Scott When She Discovered the Real Man Behind the Handsome Mask?"

The sneering text said that Kenzie Scott claimed to be British, but his stories about his past were one long string of lies designed to make fools of his countrymen, who generously accepted him as one of their own. Stone challenged his readers to come forward if they'd known Kenzie Scott in his youth. The
Inquirer
would pay handsomely for early photos. Together, Nigel Stone and his readers would uncover the truth!

Rainey swore. "This makes Kenzie sound like an ax murderer. Can he sue the
Inquirer
for libel?"

Val shook her head. "Everything is done with questions and suggestive pictures. They don't actually accuse him of anything, so there's no libel."

A pity. Knowing Kenzie wasn't much of a newspaper reader, Rainey stood, retrieving the tabloid. "I'd better show this to Kenzie so he's prepared."

His suite was just down the hallway from hers. She knocked crisply. "It's me."

A minute passed before the door opened to reveal Kenzie in a bathrobe and damp hair. A faint shock jolted along her nerves. Stupid, stupid, stupid. It was hardly the first time she'd seen his chest, and a great deal more.

He ushered her in with a courtly gesture. "I suppose the obvious, vulgar implication of your calling on me is too much to hope for."

"In your dreams, Scott." She handed him the newspaper. "You're not going to like this."

His levity vanished as he saw the front page. "You're right. I don't."

He turned to the story with the granite expression that appeared whenever the subject of his past came up. She said hesitantly, "I've tried to respect your privacy, but under these circumstances, I need to know if anything illegal might turn up."

His mouth twisted. "You think I'm a criminal?"

"No, but I've had to wonder what you're so secretive about. If really catastrophic information might become public, I'd like some advance warning. It's my neck the investors will chop if the production is jeopardized by something you did."

"You can relax. There are no outstanding warrants for my arrest."

Which was not the same as saying that he had a guiltless past, but she didn't pursue the point. "Anything else that might cause trouble if it's made public?"

After a long silence, he said, "There are... incidents that would make splendid tabloid headlines, but no one will come forward to talk about them."

She sighed. "Why am I not more comforted by your confidence?"

"It's all you're going to get, but don't worry. Nigel Stone will be swamped with spurious leads that I'll be able to deny with complete sincerity." He handed the tabloid back. "If you'll excuse me, I need to get ready for the last day of rehearsal."

Troubled, she returned to her suite, hoping that whatever her husband wanted so much to hide would stay hidden.

* * *

Thoughts of Nigel Stone's crusade to unmask "Britain's most popular movie star" gnawed at Kenzie all day. There was almost no one left who could connect the boy he was with the man he became, and those few had good reason to stay silent. But...

When the rehearsal ended, he told Rainey, "You can have the hired car. I'm going to visit an old friend."

She managed not to ask where he was going, barely. "Have a nice evening."

Since reporters waited in front of the building, he used the back door and hailed the first taxi he saw. "Ramillies Manor, please."

A half hour ride in heavy traffic brought him to a quiet corner of Kensington. Though it had never been a manor, the sprawling Victorian brick house made a handsome retirement home. He entered the familiar beveled-glass front door. The elderly receptionist finished up a phone call, then greeted him with a smile. "Why, Mr. Scott, how nice to see you again. Mr. Winfield will be ever so pleased."

"How is he doing?"

She sighed. "He has good days and bad days, but he never complains. Such a fine gentleman. I believe he's taking the sun in the garden now. You know the way. Shall I send out a tea tray for the two of you?"