Phoenix Falling (38 page)

She sighed, her gaze coming back to him. "This isn't the time or place to talk. After we're both back in California and have caught up on our sleep, we can sort this out with a phone call. Most of the legal work has already been done, so a new petition should go through very quickly."

The reasons to divorce hadn't changed. She'd just laid the burden of it on him. Diabolical, even though that hadn't been her intention. "Whatever you want, Rainey."

"What a pity I don't really know what I want."

Not daring to wonder what that might mean, he said, "Are you coming to the memorial service tomorrow?" When she nodded, he continued, "Shall we go together?"

Accepting his olive branch, she said, "That would be nice. I wouldn't want to miss it." Very erect, her soft gown rippling like spring water, she turned and walked to the buffet, where she was welcomed with another long hug, this time from Laurie, the line producer.

So he was going to have to get the divorce. It would be easier to gnaw his arm off like a fox caught in a trap.

* * *

Charles Winfield's memorial service packed the small chapel to overflowing. He'd made many friends over the years, and a dozen distinguished members of the British theatrical community had asked to speak in his honor.

As executor and organizer of the service, Kenzie spoke first. He kept his remarks short, saying only that he owed his career to Charles Winfield, then recounting an anecdote that showed Charles at his most charming and generous. Struggling to keep his voice from breaking, he ended with, "Charles told me once that he had no family, but he was wrong. The British theater was his family, and today we all mourn his loss."

Rainey gave a smile of approval when he returned to his seat beside her. She wore a severe, tailored black suit, and looked even more alluring than the night before.

As the service unfolded, she quietly took his hand. He squeezed hers gratefully. Saying good-bye to his mentor and oldest friend was a painful reminder of all of the other losses of his life. For better and worse, Charles had been the last link to his childhood.

The service ended with a powerful organ rendition of the hymn "Jerusalem." Slowly the crowd began to leave, with knots of people reminiscing and making plans for lunch. Several, including Dame Judith Hawick, paused to exchange memories of Charles and to thank Kenzie for organizing the service.

Just before they reached the carved double doors, they were intercepted by Jenny Lyme and a man who looked vaguely familiar. She hugged Kenzie hard. "That was perfect, Kenzie. Charles would have been delighted by the turnout." She gestured to her companion. "You remember Will Stryker, don't you? He was with us the first year at RADA, then dropped out to study set design. He's the best in London."

"Of course I remember." Kenzie offered his hand. "Good to see you again, Will."

Jenny turned to Rainey and said warmly, "You don't know me, but my name is Jenny Lyme and I'm a huge admirer of your work."

If her aim was to counter any jealousy caused by the tabloids' stories, she succeeded. Rainey extended her hand, saying with equal warmth, "As a matter of fact, I do know you, or at least, your work. Your ITV series,
Still Talking
, was wickedly funny. I wish I had your talent for comedy. Have you considered doing movies?"

Jenny shook her head. "No, I'm the approachable girl-next-door type that does best on television. I can't do larger-than-life the way you and Kenzie do."

Kenzie suspected that given half a chance Rainey and Jenny would become friends. After a few minutes of chatting, they said their farewells and stepped outside.

It was an overcast morning, and mourners leaving the chapel were hit by a barrage of electronic flashes and television lights. "Damnation," Kenzie muttered under his breath. "I'd hoped the service wouldn't be noticed by the press hounds, but I suppose that was too much to expect."

"At least they have plenty of celebrities to choose from," Rainey said as she took his arm. "Look suitably sad for the camera, and we'll be out of here in no time."

Since the occasion was a memorial service, the reporters were well-behaved. Kenzie spotted the hired car waiting nearby at the curb. The plan had been to drop Kenzie at the hotel, then take Rainey directly to London City Airport, but maybe he'd go with her to the airplane. The longer he could put off saying good-bye, the better.

They were nearing the car when a harsh, familiar voice barked, "I know the truth now, Scott."

Blood chilling, Kenzie turned to see Nigel Stone bearing down on them, flanked by a photographer and a television cameraman. The last few days had been so demanding that he'd half forgotten about the reporter and his bizarre crusade. Josh monitored the tabloids daily, and had assured him that Stone was saying nothing Kenzie needed to know.

Stone's eyes gleamed with vicious triumph. He knew. This was no longer a ploy to increase circulation, but a full-blown, malicious attack. The reporter had remembered their early acquaintanceship. The whole, vile truth would come out, and there wasn't a damned thing Kenzie could do. His vision began to blacken and his stomach twisted with the sick knowledge of inevitable destruction felt by a man plunging from a cliff.

With one hand Stone shoved a microphone in Kenzie's face while the other held up a copy of the
Inquirer
. The headline screamed, "The Queer Truth about Kenzie!" "Would you care to comment,
Jamie Mackenzie
," the reporter sneered, "on your first career as a male whore?"

ACT III

Walking the Labyrinth

Chapter 30

Rainey gasped. How dare Nigel Stone say something so slanderous!

Kenzie's arm spasmed under her hand. Glancing up, she saw that his face seemed to have turned to granite. Something was disastrously wrong.

She gripped his arm hard, digging in her nails in an attempt to jolt him from his paralysis. "That's almost as wild as some of your own stories, Kenzie," she said lightly. "Though I think your claim to be the true king of England is more believable."

She gave him a quick glance. Kenzie had the rigid expression of a man who'd been mortally wounded.

Guessing that he wouldn't be able to come up with a coherent response, she swung her gaze to the reporter and said with delicate contempt, "Have you considered writing a novel, Mr. Stone? Obviously fiction is your strong point."

His eyes narrowed with malice. "While researching your husband, I discovered that your mother was Clementine, rock star and drug addict. Father unknown. Care to comment on why you're so ashamed of her you've kept it a secret all these years?"

"My mother's identity has never been a secret, Mr. Stone." She managed, barely, a cool smile. "I'll admit I don't make a point of mentioning who she was. I never wanted to trade on her fame to help my own career, particularly since I lack her musical talent."

Anger at her calm reply sparked in the reporter's eyes, but there was no opportunity for further talk because pandemonium had broken out. Other reporters crowded around shouting questions while mourners emerging from the chapel demanded to know what was going on. The twenty feet to the hired car looked like a mile.

Behind the television camera, Rainey saw Jenny Lyme, her expression appalled. Rainey sent her a fierce mental plea:
If Kenzie is your friend, help him!

Jenny seized her escort's arm and the two of them pushed between Kenzie and the television camera. "How bizarre!" she said with her famous husky laugh. "I've known Kenzie since our first day at RADA, and trust me, Nigel darling, he's
not
ga
y
." She batted long, dark lashes at the reporter, her voluptuous and totally feminine figure angled to the best advantage.

"Sadly true." Will Stryker became deliberately flamboyant. "Every gay student at RADA tried to seduce Kenzie at one time or the other. I mean really, who could resist? He was
so
gorgeous." The set designer gave an exaggerated sigh. "He always declined and went off with a girl. Polite but terribly, terribly straight. Near broke my heart."

That kicked off a new round of questions directed at Jenny and Will. Was Jenny sleeping with Kenzie again? Did they have plans for the future? Who were some of the other gay RADA students?

Desperately grateful for the distraction, Rainey fought her way through the crowd, holding Kenzie's arm in a death grip. Her burly driver, Jack Hammond, surged into the mass of people to meet them, forcing open a path to the car.

As Hammond threw open the door, Dame Judith Hawick joined Jenny and Will in front of the camera. Her stern gaze on Stone, she said in a voice that sliced through the tumult, "Have you no shame, sir? I had thought your kind couldn't possibly become more contemptible, but I was wrong. You're like those fools who claim Jane Austen was a lesbian because she and her sister shared a bed, as people often did before central heating." She shook her head sadly. "What a world we live in."

Rainey slid across the backseat of the car, pulling Kenzie in after her. He moved as stiffly as a marionette. Hammond slammed the car door, then leaped behind the wheel, started the engine, and pulled away from the shouting reporters.

Kenzie slumped into the comer of the seat, his eyes closed. He seemed to have shrunk, as if his flesh had drawn defensively close to the bones.

She took his hand. It was icy cold. "You're in shock, Kenzie," she said, trying to sound calm. "Can you talk?"

He opened blinded eyes. "Aren't you going to ask... if it's true?"

"Later, maybe." She chose her words carefully. "I don't much care what you did in the past, Kenzie. I care a lot about what happens in the present."

"Now comes the media crucifixion."

"Not if I have anything to say about it." But what could she do? Take one step at a time. "Is there any chance Nigel Stone has any evidence of what he's claiming?"

"I... doubt it."

She was painfully aware that he hadn't denied the charges, only the probability of evidence. "You need to get out of London. Better yet, out of England. If you stay here, the reporters will make your life hell. You won't be able to set foot outside your hotel without being mobbed."

A muscle in his jaw jerked. "I could not... endure that."

"Then you're leaving England." She opened the sliding door to the driver's compartment. "Skip the hotel and head straight to the airport, Jack."

"Will do." He hit his left turn signal.

She closed the sliding door again, thinking hard. Her baggage should already be on the jet, and her passport was in her purse. What about Kenzie? Damn, since he was a British citizen, he wouldn't have his passport on him.

He could do without clothes, but not a passport. She found her cell phone and punched in Josh's number, waiting impatiently through the English double rings. She was about to give up when he answered, sounding half asleep even though it was almost noon. He'd left the wrap party late, and had definitely had himself a good time.

Not bothering with small talk, she said, "Josh, it's Raine. A hellacious tabloid scandal is breaking out—utter nonsense, but Kenzie has decided to fly to the States with me to get out of the firestorm. He's not coming back to the hotel because reporters might try to intercept him there, so pack his things as fast as you can, and bring them to the airport. If you think that will take too long, just bring his passport."