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Her glass sat on the floor next to the pile of record albums. She crouched in the midst of them and picked up the album that lay on top. The soundtrack from the Western Devil Slaughter. She stared at the picture on the cover.
Jake Koranda. Actor and playwright. Devil Slaughter was the second of his Bird Dog Caliber movies. She loved them both, even if the critics didn’t. They said Jake was prostituting his talent by appearing in junk, but she didn’t feel that way.
The cover photo depicted the movie’s opening scene. Jake, as Bird Dog Caliber, stared into the camera, his face dirt-creased and weary; his soft, sulky mouth slack, almost ugly. Pearl-handled Colt revolvers gleamed at his sides. She leaned back, shut her eyes, and reached for the fantasies that made her feel better. Gradually the sounds of the distant cars slipped away until she could only hear his breathing and feel his hands on her breasts.
Yes, Jake. Oh yes. Oh yes, my darling, Jimmy.
The record album slipped from her fingers, jarring her back to reality. She reached for her crumpled pack of cigarettes, but it was empty. She’d meant to send someone out after dinner, but she’d forgotten. Everything was slipping away from her. Everything except the daughter she’d never let go.
She heard the sound she’d been waiting for, Alexi’s footsteps on the stairs. She splashed more scotch in her glass and carried it out into the hallway. Alexi’s face looked drawn. His newest teenage mistress must have worn him out. She walked toward him, her robe slipping over one naked shoulder.
“You’re drunk,” he said.
“Just a little.” An ice cube clinked dully against the side of her glass. “Just enough so I can talk to you.”
“Go to bed, Belinda. I’m too tired to satisfy you tonight.”
“I only want a cigarette.”
Watching her carefully, he drew out his silver case and opened it. She took her time pulling one out, then stepped past him into his bedroom. Alexi followed her. “I don’t remember inviting you in.”
“Pardon me for entering kiddieland,” she retorted.
“Go away, Belinda. Unlike my mistresses, you’re old and ugly. You’ve become a desperate woman who knows she has nothing fresh to bargain with.”
She couldn’t let his words hurt her. She had to concentrate on the awful obscenity of his mouth covering Fleur’s lips. “I won’t let you have my daughter.”
“Your daughter?” He took off his jacket and tossed it over a chair. “Don’t you mean our daughter?”
“I’ll kill you if you touch her.”
“Bon Dieu, chérie. Your drinking has finally driven you over the edge.” His cuff links clanked on the bureau as he discarded them. “For years you have begged me to include her in our family.”
Even though he had no way of knowing about the phone call she’d made, she had to fight to sound calm. “I wouldn’t be too confident. Now that Fleur’s older, you don’t have many holds left on me.”
His fingers paused on his shirt studs.
She forced herself to go on. “I have plans for her, and I don’t care any longer who knows that you’ve been raising another man’s daughter.” It wasn’t true. She did care. She couldn’t bear the idea of her daughter’s love turning to hatred. If Fleur discovered Alexi wasn’t her father, she wouldn’t understand how Belinda could have lied to her. Even worse, she wouldn’t understand why Belinda had stayed with him.
Alexi seemed amused. “Is this blackmail, chérie? Have you forgotten how much you love your luxuries? If anyone learns the truth about Fleur, I’ll cut you off without a penny, and you know you can’t survive without money. How would you keep yourself in scotch?”
Belinda walked slowly toward him. “Maybe you don’t know me as well as you think.”
“Oh, I know you, chérie.” His fingers trailed a path down her arm. “I know you better than you know yourself.”
She gazed into his face, searching for some softness there. But she could only see the mouth that had crushed her daughter’s lips.
The morning after Solange’s funeral, Fleur woke up before dawn to the sound of someone in her room. As she eased her eyes open, she saw Belinda throwing clothes in her suitcase. “Get up, baby,” she whispered. “I have your things all packed. Don’t make any noise.”
Belinda wouldn’t explain where they were going until they’d reached the outskirts of Paris. “We’re staying with Bunny Duverge for a while at her estate in Fontainebleau.” Her eyes darted nervously to the rearview mirror, and lines of strain pulled at the corners of her mouth. “You met her when we were on Mykonos this summer, remember? The woman who kept taking your picture.”
“I asked her not to. I hate having my picture taken.” Fleur couldn’t smell any liquor, but she wondered if Belinda had been drinking. It wasn’t even seven o’clock. The idea upset her nearly as much as being awakened at dawn and dragged away from the house without an explanation.
“Fortunately Bunny ignored you.” Once again, Belinda’s eyes darted to the rearview mirror. “She called me a couple of times after I got back to Paris. She thought you were my niece, remember? All she could talk about was how striking you were and how you should be a model. She wanted your phone number.”
“A model!” Fleur leaned forward in her seat and stared at Belinda. “That’s crazy.”
“She says you have exactly the face and body designers want.”
