Phoenix Falling (32 page)

Kenzie woke when the morning sun struck his eyes. It took a groggy moment to recall the last sixteen hours. The drive up to London, the time with Charles, ending up in bed with his head pillowed on Rainey's shoulder. They were both fully dressed, though during the night someone had pulled the bedspread over them. Probably Rainey—he'd been nearly comatose.

Stiffly he got up and tiptoed to the bathroom. It was small, but had a shower, a terry cloth robe on the hook behind the door, and fresh toiletries, including a disposable razor. The servants who'd once lived here had never been so lucky.

A quick shower and shave helped clear his mind, though his emotions felt... flattened. The last good link to his early years was now gone.

He put on the robe and emerged from the bathroom to find Rainey blinking sleepily at him from under the bedspread. Her hair tangled across the pillow like spun amber, and she looked good enough to eat. It was a measure of his heavy spirit that he didn't feel even a trace of sexual response. All he wanted was to put his arms around her and go back to sleep again.

Since that wasn't practical, he sat next to her on the bed. "Thanks for coming, Rainey. It... helped."

"I'm glad for that, and glad I met Charles Winfield." She covered a yawn. "How lovely that you were able to give him the actor's equivalent of a Viking funeral, sending him off in a blaze of glory."

He hadn't thought of it that way. "I owed him more than I can ever repay."

"He's the first piece of your pre-Hollywood past I've ever met." The statement was without inflection, but she watched his face carefully.

"Charles and Trevor were the best part of that past."

"Trevor?"

Kenzie must be even more tired than he'd realized to say that. "Trevor was a friend of Charles's. He's shown in some of the pictures downstairs."

"I don't suppose I'll ever fully understand how much Charles meant to you," she said tentatively, "but it occurred to me that I can put a dedication to him at the end of
The Centurion
. Would you like that?"

His throat tightened. "Yes, and Charles would have, too."

He rolled Rainey onto her stomach and began rubbing her back. She gave a sigh of pleasure and stretched like a petted cat. "That feels so good."

The massage benefited him, too. Touching her always did. He gave silent thanks that Charles had died while he and Rainey were sharing this last interlude of intimacy, and not just because her support was a blessing. It was good that she and Charles had the opportunity to meet.

As Rainey's tight muscles softened, she asked, "Did Charles have any family?"

"None that would acknowledge him." Kenzie pressed his thumbs under the edge of her shoulder blades, looking for knots of tension. "He was the black sheep of an upperclass family. When he left Cambridge to act, they said that if he insisted on following a dissolute, disreputable life, he should take a stage name and leave them alone. So he did."

"Sounds as if you had a lot in common."

Ignoring the implied question, he said, "I'm the executor of his will. He wanted cremation and a small memorial service. He said once that he'd had his time in the spotlight, and an actor should know when it was time to leave quietly."

"I think English actors are much saner than American ones."

"So much of America is larger than life. Here, centuries of history are everywhere. It keeps things in proportion." He patted her elegant backside and stood. "Ready for a shower and breakfast?"

"I am now. Thanks, Kenzie." She got out of bed and leaned into him for a long hug. "Will they serve the classic British breakfast with eggs and bacon and fried bread and tomatoes and all those other wonderful cardiac killers?"

"Probably. Being saner than Americans, the English are much less obsessive about what they eat."

"I could get into that. Maybe I should buy a flat here." Yawning, she returned to her own room to shower.

After dressing, he stood at the window and gazed over London. On a Sunday morning, it was as quiet as it ever got. Thank God he'd have today before he resumed work on
The Centurion
. The sound stage scenes they were going to shoot would be the most searing in the whole movie.

God only knew where he'd find the emotional energy to get through this final week. He'd barely been managing even before Charles's death. If not for his nights with Rainey, he wouldn't have made it this far.

His mouth tightened. Charles would have said the show must go on. As a private tribute to his mentor, he must dredge up whatever it took to make these last scenes the best work of his life.

Then, thank heaven, he'd have two months to go into hiding before his next picture began shooting. Ordinarily he'd have Seth Cowan look for some small jobs to fill the time between pictures, but this time he wanted inactivity. He'd go to Cibola, where the Gradys had already moved into their new home. He'd be able to fix up the old ranch house the way he wanted, recover, and explore the spare, beautiful land he'd bought.

Explore, recover, and try not to think of Rainey.

* * *

Breakfast in the Ramillies dining room was as cholesterol-laden as expected, and Rainey relished every bite. Sometimes, a woman just had to live dangerously.

The residents were too well-bred to stare at the celebrities in their midst, though after they'd finished eating one woman shyly asked for autographs for her granddaughter. Several other residents stopped by to offer sympathy and share memories of Charles Winfield. Kenzie handled the condolences with his usual graciousness, but she could see signs of strain.

Deciding it was time for the anonymity of The Dorchester, where they were booked for that night, she gave Kenzie the wordless signal that married couples develop. He nodded and got to his feet and they said their goodbyes.

Realizing her hands were too empty when they left the dining room, she said, "I think I left my purse in Charles's room last night. Which way is it?"

Kenzie led her down the corridor and opened the door for her. Winfield's personal belongings hadn't been touched, but the bed was mercifully empty, and had been remade with a fresh bedspread. Rainey crossed the threshold, then halted at the sight of the trench-coated man studying the photos around the fireplace. He turned toward her, quickly sliding one hand into his pocket. Nigel Stone.

Seeing the reporter, Kenzie swore, "You damned vulture! Have you no shame?"

"Just a journalist doing my job," Stone said piously. "A washed-up actor dying isn't newsworthy, but you and your estranged wife spending the night reading plays to him is a great story."

"Get the hell out of here right now." Kenzie stalked forward, looking ready to remove the other man bodily.

"He may have taken something of Charles's," Rainey warned. "He shoved his hand into his pocket when he saw me."

Kenzie's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Robbing the dead. You're even more despicable than I thought."

"I swear I took nothing that belonged to Winfield. She saw me put away a tape recorder I use for notes." Stone pulled a small voice-activated recorder from his deep coat pocket.

"Is he telling the truth, Rainey?"

"What I saw was about that size and shape."

Accepting that, Kenzie said, "Out. Now. Unless you want to give me the pleasure of dragging you out."

Stone ambled toward the door, taking his time. "Don't get your knickers in a twist. I just wanted to look around."

Rainey grabbed her purse from under the bed and followed the men toward the front door. Just before stepping outside, Stone paused, his hard gaze on Kenzie. "I've only seen eyes that shade of bright green once before," he said meaningfully.

"Haven't you ever heard of colored contact lenses?" Kenzie yanked the front door open, and found a group of reporters and cameramen waiting.

Rainey groaned. Running a press gauntlet was the last thing they needed. As Stone joined his colleagues, she moved to Kenzie's side. "Let's get out of here."

Face like granite, he draped a protective arm around her shoulders and they started for his car. Reporters stepped back to let them through, intimidated by his expression, though questions came from all sides. Rainey bowed her head, wishing the small car park was closer.

Pamela Lake, a reporter she knew slightly, shoved a folded newspaper into Rainey's shoulder bag. "Take a look at this, and call me if you have any comments." Intent on escape, Rainey barely noticed.

A harsh voice rose above the others. "Is it true Charles Winfield died of AIDS?"

From behind, Nigel Stone laughed nastily. "Probably. Everyone knew he was queer as Dick's hatband."

Rainey could feel the fury that blazed through Kenzie. He spun around, and for a moment she feared he would strike Stone.

Instead, he placed a hand on the reporter's shoulder in a gesture that looked casual, except for the bruising power of his grip. Stone gasped and tried unsuccessfully to jerk away.

"Charles Winfield did not have AIDS," Kenzie said in a voice that could cut glass. "Nor would it have been relevant if he had. Judge him by his fine acting, his wit, his generosity, and the friends who will mourn his passing,"

Kenzie released Stone so abruptly the other man staggered, then pulled out his keys and used the remote to unlock the doors. Rainey dived into the safety of the Jaguar gratefully, and within thirty seconds they were off the grounds of Ramillies Manor.

She exhaled slowly. "Your eyes really are that shade of green."

"I didn't say they weren't. I just asked Stone if he'd ever heard of colored contacts." Kenzie's voice was blackly humorous.

"I wonder if he'll recognize the weasel wording." She thought about the reporter's comment on Kenzie's eye color. "Do you and Stone have a history?"

"'Twas long ago and in another country and besides, the lad is dead."

She suspected that answering with another fractured quote meant that Kenzie had known Stone, and didn't want to talk about it. Next topic. "Did Charles have AIDS, or did that reporter just ask because he was homosexual?'

"Technically I told the truth—he didn't have full-blown AIDS. But he was HIV-positive, and that contributed to his overall condition. He chose to drift out of touch with many of his friends, not wanting pity, or to have them uncomfortable around him." Kenzie slowed until he could safely pass a bevy of bicyclists. "Charles grew up in a world where gays stayed solidly in the closet. He wouldn't have liked being outed posthumously."

"Between HIV, smoking, and British breakfasts, it's a miracle he survived as long as he did." Survived, and flourished, and died on his own terms. Not a bad way to go. "Did his family cast him off because of his sexual orientation?"

"I'm sure that was a large part of it. He found the theater far more welcoming."

Where people like Kenzie would protect Winfield's privacy even after his death. "The theater has always been a world unto itself. From what I've read, even in Greek times actors were outsiders. People like us were considered weird and wild and surely immoral, but accepted because of our talents. That's as true in Hollywood as it was twenty-five hundred years ago in Athens."

"Accepting diversity is perhaps the best thing about show business. No matter how strange one is, there's room if one has talent."

Kenzie's words were general, but the way he said them sounded very personal. "Even if one of those reporters does out Charles, he's beyond being hurt by it. I expect he'd prefer being buried in his closet, though."

"There's much to be said for closets. If Britons are saner than Americans, maybe it's because we don't feel compelled to air our dirty linen in public."

"There are Americans who will tell you more about their personal lives than you really want to know," Rainey admitted. "Heck, they'll do it at high noon in front of television cameras. But some problems really do need to be aired, or they'll fester."

Would it have helped if Kenzie had been less secretive? Perhaps. But she had her share of things she'd rather not talk about. "I suspect that actors who talk too much about their addictions and sex lives risk harming their careers. A little mystery, that sense that there is always more to know, is an asset to a star."

"The secret of my success." His smile was ironic.

"You laugh, but I think it's true. For someone so famous, you've done a terrific job of being an enigma." After she'd married Kenzie, her movements had become vastly more interesting to media gossips. Knowing she could soon return to relative obscurity was a silver lining to the divorce. "Where are we heading? The Dorchester?"

He nodded. "I'd just as soon not drive down to Devon again."

"I'm sure Josh and Val packed us both very efficiently." Her gaze fell on her purse, which she'd dropped on the car floor by her feet. The rolled newspaper made her curious why Pamela Lake had stuffed it in her bag.

The tabloid wasn't the one that employed Pamela, though the reporter's card was clipped to the front page. Definitely a response was hoped for.

Rainey's gaze dropped to the photograph that dominated the front page, and she gasped with shock.

"What's wrong?" Kenzie asked sharply.