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“Why don’t you go to your former lover? Surely he’ll help you. I’m certain he’ll rush to your side on his white charger, sword flashing, slaying your villains. Why don’t you go to Flynn, Belinda?”
She bit down on the inside of her cheek to keep her tongue in check. Alexi didn’t understand Flynn—he never had—but she couldn’t say that. Somehow she needed to ease his bitterness, even if it meant lying. “Those days at the Garden…They were like nothing that had ever happened to me. I mixed the two of you together in my mind. I made myself believe all my feelings were coming from Flynn, but after you left, I realized they were coming from you.” She’d rehearsed exactly what she needed to say. “I need help, and I don’t know where else to turn.”
“I see.”
But he didn’t see, not at all. She began pleating her napkin to avoid looking at him. “I—I’m out of money, and I can’t go back to Indianapolis. I—I’d like you to give me a loan—just for a year or so until I get the studios to notice me.” She took a sip of the wine she didn’t want. With Alexi’s money, she could go away, find someplace where no one knew her, and have her baby.
He didn’t say anything, and her nervousness grew. “I don’t know where else to turn. I’ll die if I have to go back to Indianapolis. I know I will.”
“Death before Indianapolis.” His voice carried a note of amusement. “How childishly poetic, and how like you, my sweet Belinda. But if I loan you this money, what would I receive in return?”
The page brushed by their table, brass buttons glinting. “Call for Mis-tuh Peck. Call for Mis-tuh Peck.”
“Whatever you want,” Belinda said.
The moment she spoke, she knew she’d made a horrible mistake.
“I see.” The words were a hiss. “You’re selling yourself again. Tell me, Belinda, what sets you apart from those overdressed young women the maître d’ is turning away at the door? What sets you apart from the whores?”
Her eyes clouded at the injustice of his attack. He wasn’t going to help her. What had made her think he would? She stood and snatched up her purse so she could get away before she humiliated herself by committing the unpardonable sin of crying in the public glare of the Polo Lounge. But before she could move, Alexi caught her arm and pulled her gently back into her seat. “I’m sorry, chérie. Once again I have hurt you. But if you keep throwing these knives at me, sooner or later you must expect me to bleed.”
She bent her head to hide the tears spilling down her cheeks. One of them made a dark smear on the skirt of her butterscotch suit. “Maybe you can take from someone without giving anything in return, but I can’t.” She fumbled with the clasp of her purse, trying to open it to get a handkerchief. “If that makes me a whore in your eyes, then I wish I’d never come to you for help.”
“Don’t cry, chérie. You make me feel like a monster.” A handkerchief, folded into a precise rectangle, dropped in front of her.
She closed her hand around it, lowered her head, and dabbed at her eyes. She made the motion as inconspicuous as possible, terrified that Van Heflin might be watching her, or the tiny blonde with him, or Veronique Peck. But when she raised her head, no one seemed to have noticed her at all.
Alexi leaned into the banquette and regarded her intently. “Everything is simple for you, isn’t it?” His voice grew husky. “Will you put away your fantasies, chérie? Will you give me your adoration?”
He made it seem so simple, but it wasn’t. He fascinated her. He even excited her, and she loved the way people looked at her when they were together. But his face had never been magnified on a silver screen until it was big enough for all the world to see.
He pulled a cigarette from a silver case. She thought his fingers trembled on the lighter, but the flame held steady. “I will help you, chérie, even though I know I shouldn’t. When I have finished my business here, we will go to Washington and be married in the French embassy.”
“Married?” She couldn’t believe she’d heard him right. “You’re not going to marry me.”
The harsh lines around his mouth softened, and his eyes filled with emotion. “Am I not, chérie? I want you, not as my mistress but as my wife. Foolish of me, non?”
“But I already told you—”
“Ça suffit! Do not make your offer again.”
Frightened by his intensity, she drew back from him.
“As a businessman, I never gamble foolishly, and there are no guarantees with you, are there, chérie?” He traced the stem of his wineglass with his finger. “Hélas, I am also a Russian. A film career is not what you want, although you don’t understand that yet. In Paris you will take your place as my wife. It will be a new life for you. Unfamiliar, but I will guide you, and you will become the talk of the city—Alexi Savagar’s child bride.” He smiled. “You will love the attention.”
Her mind raced. She couldn’t imagine herself as Alexi’s wife, always under the scrutiny of those strange, slanted eyes. Alexi was rich and important, famous in his world. He’d said she’d be the talk of Paris. But she couldn’t give up her dreams of being a star.
“I don’t know, Alexi. I haven’t thought—”
The planes of his face grew harsh. She felt him withdraw. If she refused him now—if she hesitated for even a moment—his pride would never allow him to forgive her again. She had only this one chance.
“Yes!” Her laughter was high-pitched and strained. The baby! She had to tell him about the baby. “Yes. Yes, of course, Alexi. I’ll marry you. I want to marry you.”
For a moment he didn’t move, and then he lifted her hand to his mouth. With a smile, he turned her wrist and covered the pulse that beat there with his lips. She ignored the pounding of her heart, the fearful rush of blood that asked her what she’d done.
He ordered a bottle of Dom Perignon. “To the end of fantasy.” He lifted his glass.
She licked her dry lips. “To us.”
