Duchess, page 5
Stuntmen. Aviators. She didn’t know what to call the crew of men who pirouetted through the sky in the World War I biplane replicas he’d built for his multimillion-dollar epic—or fiasco, depending on the one you talked to.
Already, Rooney had killed one stuntman. She’d heard the story shortly after arriving on set, of how he’d set up a plane to crash but forgot to tell the mechanic, who’d been stuck in the fuselage creating fake smoke. The poor mechanic went down with the plane.
Rooney nearly died himself just a few days ago while trying out a new kind of airplane, a prop plane that he took out as the sun sank behind the far horizon, beyond the sunbaked hills. She’d stood beside one of the many nameless crewmen and saw her salary go up in smoke.
Rooney had the luck of a cat, walking away from the wreckage. This time.
He’d just wanted to know if they’d gotten it on film.
After two weeks of shooting, she wanted to turn around and go home, where she’d strangle Dash for loaning her out to a madman.
“Your lemonade, Miss Price?”
The male assistant handed her a sweaty glass of lemonade as she sat in the canvas chair, holding an umbrella. What she wouldn’t give for a palm tree. A beach. A role that saw her as more than just a swell face on screen.
The assistant stood to watch the spectacle with his hand braced over his eyes. “Is that him?”
“Who?” she asked. She likely had a pile of scripts waiting for her. And certainly Photoplay had called.
However, it seemed they didn’t lack for material from Palace Studios. The current issue lay on her lap.
“It’s Rooney’s consultant. He’s a real war hero. He shot down Germans over Paris. He’s supposed to arrive today.”
Perfect. And she thought she’d escaped Rafe Horne.
She had no doubt Rooney would ask her to kiss him too. It seemed she’d kissed every sap going up to “die in battle.”
“Do you need anything else, miss?” the assistant asked. Jerry, she thought his name might be, an extra turned into lackey, still hanging around in the wild hope he might be needed to sacrifice his life on screen. She placed him at about nineteen. Handsome, but not so much he’d be noticed by the camera.
“Thank you. No.”
She took a sip of the lemonade. Already warm, the ice cubes nearly dissolved. She set it on the table and picked up the magazine. Her eyes watered, but they did every night they shot under the klieg lights. The carbon powder and ultraviolet burned her eyes. At least her headache had subsided. She’d sat up most of the night with a wet cloth over her eyes, rubbing her temples.
Not that Dash cared. She held up the photo taken of him at the Coconut Grove and tried to make out the woman with whom he might be dancing. The caption didn’t list the woman’s name.
Probably she didn’t have a name. Just another face from the casting line.
Still. Rosie ran her thumb down the profile of his face. She knew that smile—had it shine on her once upon a time.
Her throat burned.
“Miss Price!”
She sighed and turned at the voice. Another assistant, this time with pages. He thrust them at her. “Mr. Sherwood wants to retake the runway scene tonight. He’s rewritten it.”
“Of course he has,” she said. She took the pages, scanned them. “Oh good, another kiss with Grayson.”
The assistant grinned at her. Rosie sank into the chair, reading through the lines, the words of Mr. Fishe going through her head. “It’s a love scene, be seductive.”
She closed her eyes. She couldn’t even figure out how to do that with her own husband. Not unless they were trapped in a train car for three days.
Occasionally, I just need you to hold me—and mean it.
She just wanted to erase the memory of their trip home. And their fight.
“What do you want from me, Rosie?”
She hadn’t meant her answer. Or, maybe she had. But really, she couldn’t go backward. She had to take hold of what she still had.
Her career. Her public.
Her name. Bombshell Roxy Price.
As if to confirm everything he’d said, Dash hadn’t even come from the studio to see her the last time she went home. Three nights he slept at his office.
Not that he hadn’t called. Apologized. Sent her a bouquet of orchids.
But Dash was right. Their partnership had never been about love, and if she wanted to keep her career, she had to figure out how to play the sexy bombshell Rooney wanted.
She lifted the lemonade and pressed it to her forehead. She had no idea how to be seductive.
“Ah, so you’re the beautiful oasis in this barren landscape. I knew I landed in the right place.”
She turned and shaded her eyes at the voice and found it in a man dressed in khakis, a short-sleeved shirt. A bomber jacket hung over his shoulder from his hooked finger. He wore an aviator cap and sunglasses.
She nearly didn’t recognize Rafe Horne. Not until he smiled.
It moved something forbidden inside her, despite her fury. “Come to check on your spoils of war?”
“Still pouting, I see?”
“Why are you bothering me, Mr. Horne?”
He pulled off his glasses. Yes, those blue eyes still had the power to unsettle her. She turned away.
“I came to make peace. I don’t know what happened between you and Dashielle Parks, but it sort of felt like I was in the middle of a dogfight without any ammo.”
“Funny. It was nothing. A miscommunication.”
“Rooney says you’re fabulous.”
“If he thinks that, maybe he’ll stop shooting scenes over and over.”
“He’s just a perfectionist. Wants to get it right.”
“He’s young and idealistic.”
Rafe smiled. “He is that.”
She considered him a moment then took her feet off the canvas chair opposite her. “What kind of consultant are you?”
“I’m working with the stunt pilots. I flew a Sopwith Camel during the war, and I’m going to be showing the stunt pilots a few tricks.”
“You’re full of surprises.”
“I was eighteen, and it seemed the most romantic thing to do.” He sat in the canvas chair. “I’ve never been so terrified in my life.”
She didn’t know what to do with that kind of honesty. Nor his disarming smile. Nor the way he took off his hat and let the air riffle through his hair. He had tanned forearms and strong hands, yet he held his hat as if he might be shy and needing something to hold on to.
She glanced at Rooney across the dusty tarmac, huddling with a group of garbed pilots. “It seems so long ago, doesn’t it? The war? I was in Paris in 1923, and I remember so many soldiers wandering the streets, still shell-shocked. Seems strange to make a movie of it.”
“Maybe people need to remember so it doesn’t happen again.”
She stared at him. Nodded. “Maybe.”
A biplane taxied by them and lifted into the air. She watched it go.
“Are you studying your lines?”
She looked at the pages. “It’s a love scene. I don’t do those very well.”
“I’m sure you’re lying.”
Oh. She sent him a coy smile, however. “Grayson hasn’t complained. Even if Rooney has.”
“Maybe you need some help?” Rafe winked at her.
She probably should be offended, but it only stirred something inside her. Still, her words faltered and came out more real than she intended. “I—I don’t think that’s a good idea, Mr. Horne.”
He chuckled. “Call me Rafe. And let me see these.”
She handed him the pages. He read them over, shook his head. “No wonder the scene feels stilted. These lines sound like they’ve been written by a man.”
“They were. Rooney Sherwood, as a matter of fact,” she said. She put her hand to her chest, mimicked the lines. “Oh, please don’t go, Joe. I don’t know how I’ll live without you.” She shook her head. “Even if she meant it, a woman wouldn’t say that to a man going to war, fighting for her country.”
“What would she say?”
She shrugged, but he didn’t fill in the silence, offer her suggestions. He just sat back and looked at her, as if studying her.
“I—I had someone who left for war. My brother, Jack. I watched him pack, and, yes, I begged him not to go. I was young and scared. And he was angry. But—but that was different.”
Rafe still had his gaze on her, the tease gone from his eyes.
“He wasn’t going off to war so much as he was running away. I—I think maybe a wife would say something different.”
“I heard a dialogue coach say once that everyone brings a piece of themselves to the stage. Find that piece. And you’ll be able to play this scene. What would you say?”
She closed her eyes and saw Guthrie, beaten, bloody, sprawled on her uncle’s foyer, searching her eyes. “I’d say, Please stay alive. Please come back to me. I refuse to breathe until I have you in my arms again.”
She heard her words, felt them run through her, grab ahold of her bones. Yes. Her voice softened. “If I had to, I’d give my last breath to you to make sure you come home.”
She opened her eyes.
Rafe wore a strange expression, his forehead drawn into a frown. He said nothing for a long time then finally licked his lip and sighed. “Yes, that works. If I were your husband, I’d make sure you never forgot me.”
He handed the pages back to her. Stood. Looked away from her. “Good to see you again, Roxy.”
Rosie. But she held the name in as he walked away.
No, not Rosie. Roxy. Roxy Price, actress. “You too, Mr. Horne.”
“He’s going to die.”
She stood with the crowd of extras, her hand cupped over her eyes as she watched Rafe’s plane stall and arrow toward the ground.
“No, he’s not.” Rooney stood with his hands on his hips, still looking every bit the twenty-four-year-old millionaire at the helm of a project too big for him. He wore director’s pants, a white shirt rolled up at the elbows, argyle socks, and he held a megaphone in his hand.
All the better to shout your name in humiliation, dearie.
Rooney was brash and, yes, terribly handsome when he wasn’t running around on the set, perfecting every shot. Obsessed, even.
But he was also dangerous. Sometimes Rooney actually climbed into the cockpit, donned goggles, and took to the air to show off his directions.
At least he’d finally put the seductive runway scene in the can. She thought of Guthrie and saying good-bye and even talked Rooney into letting her rewrite some of the lines enough that they seemed real. Then she’d kissed Grayson off to war in the backseat of a Model A and had the set crying.
Even she felt like crying.
Which meant it must be good. Oh, she hoped.
It didn’t make playing the scene any easier with Rafe Horne standing in the shadows beyond the klieg lights, watching. But she didn’t think of him.
Much.
“He’s going to hit the ground!” an extra screamed from behind them.
“I’m not paying him to crash,” Rooney said.
Please, God, no. Rosie couldn’t breathe as she watched the plane plummet.
“Pull up,” Rooney muttered.
Suddenly, the plane nosed up, and miraculously, to the gasps of the crowd, Rafe buzzed the airfield.
Rooney turned to his cameraman. “Did you get it?”
The cameraman nearest him signaled a thumbs-up.
Rosie though she might faint. She’d been feeling woozy all day anyway.
“That’s a wrap. Reel it in, boys.” Rooney headed out to where Rafe now landed his plane, the wheels spitting out dirt. “We’ll take the night off.”
The night off. Perfect. A night alone in her hotel room. She gathered up the pages for tomorrow, her sunglasses, and then headed toward the hangar, where a driver would take her back to the hotel.
The extras were assembling at the craft service table for a quick bite to eat, but Rosie headed for her convertible, tying a scarf under her chin. She’d change out of costume in her hotel room and take a long shower. Occasionally, the press camped outside the Sands Hotel, where Sherwood had purchased rooms for the duration of the shooting. They’d like her showing up in her filmy dress, and probably the studio would add some sort of pre-movie caption under it to start the publicity wheels turning. Always a photo op.
She climbed into the backseat. “The Sands,” she said to the driver.
“Roxy!” She heard the voice but didn’t turn. She didn’t want Rafe to see the fear that still flushed her cheeks.
Rafe put a hand on her door, jumping on the running board, a little out of breath. He bore the raccoon eyes of an aviator, and he grinned at her, windburn on his chin. “Where ya going so fast? What about dinner?”
She picked up a bamboo fan. She couldn’t look at him, not at his tan forearms, not the way he grinned at her.
She was a married woman. Sort of. On paper, at least.
Oh brother. Dash didn’t even return her phone calls anymore.
“I’m tired and hot, Mr. Horne. I’m headed back to the hotel—”
To her surprise, Rafe hopped into the seat beside her. “No, you’re not.” He leaned forward to the driver. “Take us to Neptune Beach.”
“What? No. You can’t just kidnap me.”
“Watch me.” Rafe leaned back, spreading his strong arms across the edge of the seat, taking up too much room as the driver pulled out of the hangar and into the sunset. A mild September breeze fanned through the towering palm trees as they drove along the shore, the waves calm, almost languid. The sun hung low on the horizon, a simmering ball that licked her skin.
She narrowed her eyes at him. “Where are we going?”
“Don’t tell me you’ve been here for nearly three weeks and haven’t been to Neptune Beach.”
She didn’t want to tell him how she spent too much of her time reading her script, trying to figure out how she really felt about delivering the lines.
He’d taught her something that day a week ago, even if she’d never tell him. Finding that real emotion brought life to her scene. Made her into a real actress, if only for a moment.
A real actress with a bombshell body and brilliant platinum hair. Perhaps she shouldn’t forget the real reason why Rooney—and probably Rafe—wanted her on set. Not that she blamed Rafe for his attention. Rooney dressed her in little more than a nightgown. That made sense—the silky dress, the white fur in the middle of war-torn London.
“I have lines to read. And—”
He looked her over then. “You’re a funny one, Roxy. You’re all siren and lights on the outside, but inside, you’re quiet and even shy.”
She was? She glanced at him as he lowered his aviator sunglasses.
“It’s time to teach you how to have some fun.”
“I have fun.”
“Yeah. I see you sitting on your balcony at the Sands, reading while the rest of the cast is out by the pool. You’re a real troublemaker.” He smirked, and she wanted to smack him.
But she smiled and the fight left her as they turned out of the airport toward Alameda.
She leaned her head back in the seat and closed her eyes. He hummed beside her, not talking. But she could smell him. A hint of airplane exhaust, sweat, sunshine. And sitting next to him felt easy. As if she could breathe, finally, the ocean-soaked air.
She must have fallen asleep because he nudged her awake in the parking lot as the driver drove them to the curb. “We’re here.”
She sat up, cleared her eyes. A Ferris wheel loomed before her, in front of an enormous building maybe three blocks long, with a red-tiled roof, stuccoed exterior. She smelled hot dogs and cotton candy, heard music, the bells of a carousel.
“It’s an amusement park,” she said as he got out and came around the car and opened her door before their driver could manage it.
He gave the driver a bill. “We’ll be back in a few hours. Make yourself comfortable.” Then he took her hand. “C’mon. I’ll buy you a swimsuit.”
“I’m not going swimming,” she said, but he pulled her into the entrance, a looming tower with a red cap on the top. Beyond the striped red awnings, she spied an enormous swimming pool, patrons kicking through the glistening water.
Inside the pavilion, Rafe steered her toward the gift shop and found her a black swimsuit, a bathing cap, a robe. He purchased a pair of trunks for himself.
“Meet you on the deck,” he said as he steered her toward the ladies’ dressing area.
She couldn’t believe that she found herself changing, donning the suit, the cap, the robe. Or that she obeyed him and found him cordoning off two beach chairs in the sand beyond the pool, grabbing an umbrella to shade them. He waved a waiter over to order drinks.
“Just an orange juice for me,” she said.
“And me. I promise, there will be no champagne.” He winked at her.
The sound of frivolity filled the air, from the shrieks of children, splashes in the pool, music from the carousel, and an announcer calling out something from the high-dive area.
“In the summer, they have water polo tournaments and boxing matches and later, if you want, we can go over to the dance pavilion and cut a rug to the band.”
She drew in a breath, the air salty from the ocean combing the shore just beyond the oak trees. He stared at her, smiling, an odd look on his face.
Right then she had the strangest sense that, yes, she knew him.
“Where are you from, Rafe? France?”
He shook his head. “Belgium, actually. It’s a little country south of Holland. But I spent a lot of my life in England. Studied at Cambridge. Flew for the RAF.”
“That’s where you got your flight training.”
“Where I enlisted, yes. I fought for England then went back to Belgium to get married.”
That stilled her. “You’re married?”
“No.”
She leaned back, remembering the pain in his eyes on the balcony in New York City. She didn’t want to ask—
“It didn’t work out. She didn’t want me.”
