a man for his money, you fuck him for his fame.”
She let out a muffled cry as he advanced on her. He caught her by the shoulders and jammed her against the wall. His hand grabbed her jaw, but before she could scream again, he’d covered her mouth with his own. He bit at her lips, forcing them open. She tried to clamp down on the tongue he thrust into her, but his fingers closed tightly around her throat, their message clear. He was Count Alexi Nikolai Vasily Savagarin, omnipotent overlord of serfs, entitled by birth to take possession of whatever he desired, and she must subjugate herself to him.
When his rape of her mouth was complete, he pulled back. “I am worthy of respect. Flynn is a fool, a court jester. He lives on charm and then whines when things go badly. But you are too stupid to see that, so I must teach you.”
She gave a strangled sob as he reached under her skirt. He pulled at her panties and separated her legs with his knee. Ignoring her sobs, he possessed her with his aristocratic fingers, invading each place he imagined Flynn had claimed. Through her horror she felt his arousal hard against her thigh. His assault was an act of possession, a living out of the divine right of czars, an indelible reaffirmation of the proper social order in which the nobility outranked any movie star.
She was crying when he opened her blouse, so she didn’t notice his gentler touch. Her tears fell on his hands as he pushed her bra aside and caressed her breasts, kissing them with a tenderness Flynn had never displayed, murmuring to her in French, perhaps even Russian, words she didn’t understand.
Slowly he soothed her. “I am sorry, my little one. I am sorry to have frightened you.” He turned off the lights, picked her up, and cradled her in his lap. “I have done a terrible thing to you,” he whispered, “and you must forgive me-for your own sake as well as mine.” His lips touched her hair. “I am your only hope,
He stroked her hair until her body relaxed.
As Belinda fell asleep in his arms, Alexi stared into the quiet darkness. How could he have let himself fall so foolishly in love? This woman, whose hyacinth-blue eyes worshipped men with anthems of adoration, stirred feelings in him he hadn’t known he possessed. He’d been raised to live his life only from a position of strength, and for the first time in years he was uncertain what to do. He didn’t doubt his ability to win her love-such a task was trivial, and she already cared far more than she was willing to admit. No, winning her love didn’t frighten him. It was the power she’d gained over him that was so terrifying.
He’d been taught self-discipline at an early age. He remembered as a small boy being ill with some childhood disease that left him burning with fever. His mother had come into his bedroom, a composition book dangling from her ringed fingers, her eyes hard. Was it true that he had not finished his Latin translation? He explained he was sick.
Spartan boarding schools shaped the heirs to France’s great fortunes into men worthy of their family names. That was where the last remnants of childhood had been stripped from him. At eighteen, he began gaining control of the Savagar fortune-first wresting power from the aging trustees who’d grown fat and lazy on his money, then from his mother. He’d become one of the most powerful men in France, with homes on two continents, a priceless collection of European masterpieces, and a string of teenage mistresses who catered to his every whim. Until he’d met Belinda Britton, with her untainted optimism and child’s bright view of the world, he hadn’t realized anything was missing from his life.
Belinda awakened the next morning, still dressed in her clothes from the night before, the thin chenille spread thrown over her. Her eyes fell on a piece of hotel stationery propped against the pillow. Quickly she read the few lines of spidery handwriting:
She crumpled the note and pitched it to the floor. Damn him! After what he’d done to her last night, she was glad he was gone. He was a monster. She swung her feet over the edge of the bed, only to feel her stomach pitch. As she fell back on the pillow, she closed her eyes and admitted to herself that she was afraid. Alexi had been taking care of her, and without him, she didn’t know what to do.
Throwing her forearm across her eyes, she tried to reason away her fears by reconstructing James Dean’s face in her mind-the disobedient hair, the sulky eyes and rebellious mouth. Gradually she grew calmer.
She spent the rest of January trying to reach her contacts. She placed telephone calls, wrote notes to the studio executives she’d met through Flynn, and began making the rounds again, but nothing happened. The rent came due on the bungalow at the Garden of Allah, and she was forced to return to her old apartment, where she fought with her roommates until they told her to move out. She ignored them. Stupid cows, content with so little.
Disaster arrived in a pale blue envelope. A letter from her mother informed Belinda her parents would no longer support her foolishness. Enclosed was their last check.
She made a halfhearted attempt to get a job, but she’d been feeling sick, plagued by mysterious headaches and a perpetual upset stomach, like a case of the flu that wouldn’t quite take hold. She began hoarding what little money she had left, going without the meals she didn’t want to eat anyway, eliminating her trips to Schwab’s, and wondering how such horrible things could be happening to the woman Errol Flynn had once adored.
The knowledge that she was pregnant with Flynn’s child finally hit her the morning she couldn’t force herself to get dressed. For two days she lay in her rickety bed, staring at the stained ceiling, trying to comprehend what had happened. She remembered horrified whispers about Indianapolis girls who’d gone too far, rumors of shotgun weddings or, even worse, no weddings at all. But those were girls from the wrong side of the tracks, not Dr. Britton’s daughter, Edna Cornelia. Girls like her got married first and then had babies. To do it the other way around was unimaginable.
She thought about trying to contact Flynn, but she didn’t know how to locate him. Besides, she couldn’t imagine him helping her. And then she thought about Alexi Savagar.
It took her two days to locate him. He was staying at the Beverly Hills Hotel. She left a message.
The late February afternoon was cool, and she dressed carefully in a butterscotch velvet suit and a white nylon blouse that hinted at the lacy detail of her slip beneath. She wore pearl button earrings and a string of cultured pearls she’d received for her sixteenth birthday because her parents didn’t want to bother with a party. Her hat was a butterscotch tam, jaunty and carefree perched on the side of her head. With the addition of proper white cotton gloves and slightly improper needle-pointed heels, she was ready for the drive to Schwab’s, where she left her battered Studebaker and called a taxi to deliver her to the elegant porte-cochere that marked the entrance of the Beverly Hills Hotel.
Flynn had taken her to the Polo Lounge several times, but she still felt a thrill as she stepped inside. She gave the maitre d’ Alexi’s name, and followed him to a curved banquette facing the door, priority seating in the most famous cocktail lounge in the country. Even though she didn’t like martinis, she ordered one because it was sophisticated, and she wanted Alexi to see her with it.
While she waited for him, she tried to calm herself by studying the other patrons. Van Heflin sat with a tiny blonde. She spotted Greer Garson and Ethel Merman at separate tables, and, across the room, one of the studio executives she had met when she was with Flynn. A page dressed in a brass-buttoned jacket came through. “Call for Mis-tuh Heflin. Call for Mis-tuh Heflin.” Van Heflin lifted his hand, and a pink telephone appeared at his table.
As she toyed with the long, cool stem of her glass, she tried not to notice that her hands were trembling. Alexi
