The Devil's Due (14 page)

Now, instead of Livingstone staying to help the natives, he stayed because he'd found the Great Dark Ape! He and Stanley set out to capture the monster. It was derivative; it was shameless; it was Hollywood.

It was just as well it ended up on a shelf somewhere. It was beyond saving, Simon thought. He'd started to wonder if Alan Grant might be too. He and Elizabeth spent the remainder of the day trying to learn more about the people who had been with Grant that first night at Musso & Frank.

As Mr. Fox and Mr. Owl, as Elizabeth called them, had told them, Ruby's ascent from nobody to star was virtually rocket-propelled. And, her ascent to stardom coincided with meeting Benny Roth. That seemed to be a new wrinkle. Nearly everyone they spoke to was scared of Benny. They were scared the way children were scared of a bully. They wanted to tell you things, but didn't dare. It was clear that he was in financial trouble and that his brother refused to bail him out. That corresponded with what Jack told them on the phone last night. Benny Roth's bootlegging empire was slipping away from him.

Benny's brother Sam was well respected by most of the studio employees they spoke to, although, the writers seemed to have a more jaded view of him. His longtime connection with Thorn was troubling.

They'd tried to get a few of the secretaries in the main building to talk about Thorn, but they all said the same thing. “Isn't he charming?” “Oh, I don't really know anything about Mr. Thorn, but isn't he pleasant?” Everything about Mr. Thorn was vague. Vague and pleasant. Vague yes, but pleasant was hardly the word Simon would use. He was still bothered by their brief encounter with the man although he couldn't quite articulate why.

After nearly a full day spent, they were still no closer to understanding the threat to Alan Grant. As midday turned into afternoon, they decided to go to Grant's house and see if he was ready to share his secret.

Just as they were walking up the long drive to his mansion, the front door opened. Peter stood there with a young girl, no more than fourteen or fifteen. She argued with him and he placed a soothing hand on her shoulder. Her body trembled and she shook her head emphatically.

“I'm sorry,” Peter said. “I tried. He won't see you.”

“Please?” the young girl begged. “I know if he'll just see me—”

“I'm sorry, miss,” Peter said and angled her out the door.

The girl buried her face in a handkerchief and ran down the steps. Elizabeth started to say something to her, but the girl hurried down the driveway. Peter watched her go. His usually impassive expression was filled with sadness and frustration. He stepped aside to let them in. “I'm afraid he's in a mood.”

“Who was that?” Simon asked looking after the girl as she disappeared beyond the gate.

For a moment, Peter looked like he wanted to tell them, but he thought better of it. He gave one last look down the driveway and closed the door behind them. “Mr. Grant,” he said in clipped, cold tones, “is in the library.”

He looked at them once more before bowing and heading down the hall away from the library. Whatever was going on, it had bothered Peter enough for him to break form. The thought of the girl's face made Simon tense. What had Grant done?

Elizabeth knocked on the library door tentatively. “Alan?” Silence. After a moment, she knocked again. “It's Elizabeth and Simon.”

There was another pause, so long they thought he might have left the room, but eventually they heard a quiet, “Come in.”

Grant stood on the far side of the room looking out of the window, his hands clasped behind his back. He did not turn around to greet them.

Most people considered the kitchen the heart of a house. Simon guessed that was probably true, but if it was, the library was its soul. Grant's desk was devoid of paperwork. The books that lined the walls seemed to have been chosen more for their appearance than what was inside them. They were beautiful old leather volumes filled with dry material, probably as brittle as the pages they were written on. The whole room had the feeling of being designed and never lived in. What did that say, Simon wondered, about the man standing in front of them? And what of the girl? What had he done to her?

Elizabeth looked up to Simon with a worried expression. Grant hadn't moved or acknowledged them at all.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

“No.”

His voice was so soft Simon wasn't sure he'd heard him.

“Alan?” Elizabeth said, clearly worried.

He turned and forced a smile onto his face. “Yes, of course, I'm fine.”

The pain on his face was evident. Was there guilt there too?

“The girl who just left here wasn't,” Simon said.

Grant's perpetual façade slipped just the tiniest bit. “No, she wasn't.” His gaze darted to the photograph on his desk. There was nothing else personal in the room. Grant took two long strides, turned the photo face down and sat on the edge of the desk, blocking it from view. “But, she will be.”

“You sound rather sure of that,” Simon said. “Who was she?”

“No one for you to worry about.”

Simon did worry. How could he not? He knew Hollywood mores were nearly non-existent, but this was too much. “She's just a child.”

“I don't see what—” Grant started and then Simon's insinuation finally reached the gin-soaked recesses of his brain. “You don't think…”

“Simon,” Elizabeth said, shocked.

“I assure you, it is not what you think,” Grant said. “I would give my life to protect her,” he added sadly. “If I had one to give.”

Simon studied him carefully. For the first time, he believed Grant was telling him the truth, the whole truth, no theatrics, no embellishments, just a glimpse at his bare soul. What Simon hadn't expected was to recognize the pain in it. He himself had lived most of his life with it as a companion, keeping the rest of the world at bay.

“She is better off without me. Let's just leave it at that, shall we?” Grant said.

Elizabeth moved instinctively to comfort Grant, but he was still too raw. Simon knew that feeling as well.

Simon noticed some paperwork on the desk and a large, leather-bound book,
Black's Law Dictionary
. Simon arched an eyebrow.

Grant followed his gaze and smiled ruefully. “My will. For all the good it will do,” he said softly as he slipped the book back onto the bookshelf.

“I could use a drink. Anyone else?” Grant added quickly, trying to avoid Elizabeth's kindness. He looked around for a drink cart or bottle of something. He opened desk drawers and closed them with a touch of anger. “Damn it.”

“Don't use this room much?” Elizabeth asked, trying to give Grant room and time to recover.

She'd meant it lightly, but Grant stopped his search and regarded her sadly. “No. It's all the books.” He waved at the bookshelves and she scanned the shelves. “They make you think. I'm better when I don't think too much. Introspection is a bit like castor oil. It might be good for you, but it's so difficult to swallow.”

He opened and closed another series of cabinets. “Ah-ha!” he said in victory as he pulled a bottle and a few glasses from the recesses of a credenza. He poured himself a stiff drink.

“That won't help,” Simon said from experience.

Elizabeth slowly approached Grant. “But we can. We know you're in trouble. Let us help you.”

Alan lifted his glass and then set it down with a sigh. “Oh, my dear. If only you could. I'm just selfish enough to let you.” He picked up his glass. “But, lucky for you, there's nothing to be done.”

He downed two fingers of scotch in one gulp. “You can't save a man who's already dead.”

Jack leaned against the wall and watched her. He'd spent years trying to remember every nuance of her — the way she tilted her head and wrinkled her forehead when she was self-conscious, the way she bit her lower lip in concentration, the way her body had felt against his as they'd danced.

Workers in the costume department hurried past with racks of clothes, the metal wheels squeaking in protest. Betty finally looked up, sensing someone was watching her, and he pushed off from the pillar he'd been leaning against and lifted the bouquet of flowers in his hand as a greeting. When she smiled, his heart stuttered.

“Hello,” she said, the hint of a blush touching her cheeks.

He handed her the flowers. “Picked them myself.”

She frowned in disbelief until she saw the clump of dirt hanging off one of the stems. She fought down a smile. “Don't these grow around the commissary?”

He offered her his broadest grin. “Some still do.”

She gave up the fight and let her laugh bubble out. “You're impossible.”

No, he thought. Nothing was impossible.

Alan had closed off quickly after the incident with the girl at his house. Elizabeth had tried to get him to talk to them, but he'd all but sent them away. She'd seen the look in his eye though. Despite his words, he wasn't ready to give up. There was still hope. She had to believe there was always hope.

She planned on working on him again tonight. They'd all been invited, ordered actually, to appear at a gala event at Sam Roth's to celebrate a milestone for the studio, the release of its 1000th picture. Luckily, she and Simon had been prepared. Knowing they might have to attend a formal event they brought appropriate clothes. Although, looking at herself in the mirror now, Elizabeth felt a little uneasy.

She'd actually gone to the hotel salon and had her hair done. It was an extravagance, but the more they looked their parts, the more information people might be willing to share. And besides, it looked great. Back home, she was more of a wash and wear girl. She rarely got her hair done and, although it had taken forever and a day, she had to admit it looked wonderful. They'd smoothed it down and then set it into these perfect undulating waves. Add the dress and she barely recognized herself.

The dress was a bias-cut gown made from the most beautiful midnight blue silk satin. The top was shaped like a halter, the fabric clinging from the ribs to her knees and then flaring out in silky ripples. She looked in the mirror. It was slinky.
She
was slinky. She'd never been slinky before.

Simon came in to the bedroom dressed smartly in his single-breasted classic black tuxedo and swearing at his cufflinks. “I can't get these damn things on. Would you…?”

When he looked up, the rest of his sentence failed to materialize. His expression went from shocked to dark with desire and back to shocked in mere seconds.

“What…” He cleared his throat.

“Would you do me up?” She turned her back to him, facing the mirror again.

He looked at her reflection. His gaze drifted down her body, lingering over the areas where the dress left little to the imagination.

She tilted her head and swept her hair to the side to give him access to the not fully zipped zipper.

He broke away from staring at her and reached for the zipper. “Elizabeth,” he said, his voice rough with desire and emotion. “You…” He said and then gently touched the bare skin just above her waist and ran his finger slowly up the contour of her spine. The shiver that followed his touch made her breath catch. “Aren't wearing…” His warm finger traced a circle between her shoulder blades.

“A bra?” she said surprised her brain could actually form a coherent thought.

He frowned and hmm'd in response.

“I'm not wearing underwear either,” she said in a conspiratorial whisper. “Going commando.”

She tried to make light of it. To be honest, she was feeling rather exposed and vulnerable. “Fashion dictates what fashion dictates,” she said by way of explanation.

Simon's eyes found hers in the mirror. They were dark, almost angry. “Elizabeth…”

She couldn't tell if he was genuinely upset with her or not until his hands slid down to her waist and pulled her back against his body. Definitely not.

He bent down and whispered in her ear. “Stay here with me.”

Now, it was Elizabeth's turn to lose her train of thought. Her mind was fuzzy and she felt more than a little dizzy. With one long finger, Simon eased her hair off her shoulder and kissed her neck. It was a feather light kiss and she felt the warmth of his breath as he whispered in her ear again. “Stay.”

Elizabeth's eyes fluttered. It was wrong; they had to go. Despite those thoughts, she leaned her head back against his chest giving him better access. “Simon…”

He hmm'd again as he kissed his way down her neck to her collarbone.

“Alan,” Elizabeth managed to say. “We need to go… to help Alan.”

“Let him get his own girl,” Simon said between kisses.

Elizabeth eased around in his arms and touched the edge of the bruise that still shone on his jaw. “It's important.”

She could see the desire in his eyes, feel it in his body as it pressed against hers. The intensity in his expression was nearly overwhelming. He gently brushed her hair back from her face. “If it were ever a choice between you and the world,” he said, “the world would be damned.”

Elizabeth pushed up onto her tiptoes and kissed him tenderly. When she pulled back the fierceness in his eyes had softened, but the fire of his passion for her never did. She left the comfort of his arms and walked to the doorway.

She tried to be as sultry as she felt and put one hand high on the doorframe. “We can pick this up wh—” She stopped and her hand fell down to her side. “What am I crazy?” She walked back over to him. “Just don’t mess up my hair.”

Simon laughed and pulled her to him. Alan and the rest of the world could wait.

Elizabeth had thought Alan's mansion was impressive. It was a chicken coop compared to Sam Roth's. A long drive wound its way through manicured lawns up to the main house. The circular drive at the top of the hill was crowded with cars and limousines.

Simon helped Elizabeth out of the backseat and paid the driver. They fell in with the rest of the arrivals and walked across the gravel driveway to the front door.

A fully staffed coat check was set up in the foyer. Elizabeth let her wrap slip off her shoulders and handed it to one of the attendants.