If I Can't Have You (2 page)

The similarity was remarkable, though, and she could easily see other people mistaking this man for the long-ago film idol. But other people didn’t know
as much about Trevor; other people no longer idolized the star of the thirties, not the way Adriana did. For her he was larger than life—he was perfect.

No one else could ever live up to the man of her dreams.

Sunlight glinted off the chrome of the Duesenberg, drawing her attention away from the model to the car that had once belonged to Trevor. It looked just as it had that day in the thirties when the
Hollywood
star had driven it off the showroom floor. It was still painted primrose yellow, the color Trevor had specially ordered. The leather, cared for weekly to keep it soft and supple, was still the same pale green as the fenders. The only difference was that the vehicle now belonged to Adriana—just like most everything else that had once been Trevor Montgomery’s.

“Move to the front so I can get a better shot of the hood ornament and grille,” the photographer instructed, and the model trailed his fingers over the shiny paint as he moved. Once again Adriana noticed the differences. Trevor had walked with authority, with style. He had been more handsome than Tyrone Power, even Cary Grant, or so the biographies proclaimed; more dashing and daring than Errol Flynn; he was a man every woman desired and all men envied.

He was a man who had enthralled millions—then disappeared, leaving the world to wonder why.

“That should do it, Ms. Howard.” The photographer walked toward the car and Adriana met him there, pulling her scarf closer to her face before she reluctantly shook his hand. “I’ll get these developed within the week and let you take a look. This Duesey with that model of mine ought to look pretty good on the cover of your catalog.”

Mr. Paxton capped the lens of his camera and slung it over his shoulder. “I was wondering, Ms. Howard, what are the chances of you letting me
snap a few photos inside Mr. Montgomery’s house in
Santa Barbara
? Anyone can shoot photos here at
Sparta
, but
Montgomery
’s home is a complete mystery—to me and everyone else. I hear you’ve kept it just like it was sixty years ago when he dropped off the face of the earth.”

Adriana shook her head at his request.
Sparta
, this majestic estate, had been her home once. Now it was a tourist attraction, and the intrusion of photographers didn’t matter. But Trevor Montgomery’s house—the unpretentious adobe she now called home—was completely off-limits to prying eyes. Her privacy was too sacred to admit outsiders.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Paxton. I don’t allow anyone to take pictures of the rancho.”

Paxton shrugged as if being turned down was nothing new. “Well, it never hurts to ask.”

He rubbed a speck of dust from the hood of the car, then turned and looked pointedly at Adriana. ‘Just one more thing, Ms. Howard. Do you think he did it?”

That question again. Oh, how she hated that question. “Did who do what?”

A broad grin crossed Mr. Paxton’s face. “The murder, of course. Do you think Trevor Montgomery killed Carole Sinclair? Surely you have an opinion.”

“I believe in facts, Mr. Paxton. Not opinions.”

Adriana looked at her watch as she walked toward Mr. Paxton’s van. It was early afternoon, the photo shoot was over, and she didn’t want to talk, especially to a photographer. “The grounds will be closing soon. Thank you for coming all the way out here.”

Adriana looked from the photographer to his van, a subtle hint that his services and his conversation were no longer needed or wanted today. The model had already climbed into the passenger seat. His tie was loosened and he was blowing cigarette smoke
out the window, obviously uninterested in the history and beauty of Sparta, or the mysterious death of Carole Sinclair.

To her dismay, Mr. Paxton didn’t seem in any hurry to leave. Instead, he uncapped his camera and shot a few more frames of the mansion that resembled the Parthenon in size and detail, then, without warning, twisted and began snapping photos of Adriana.

Her hands flew up to block her face. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“It’s just a few photos, Ms. Howard. People never see you in public. Now I’ve got a few souvenirs to prove you really do exist,” Paxton quipped before opening the driver’s door and putting his camera inside.

She hated having her photo taken, hated having her picture in papers and magazines so people could gossip once again about Harrison Stafford’s heiress.

She moved closer to the van and faced Paxton head-on. “I didn’t pay you to take photos of me, Mr. Paxton. What I did pay for was this shoot, and every piece of film you’ve used. Unless you want to forgo payment, I’ll expect those negatives of me to be returned with the other negatives and the developed photos.”

He grinned, undaunted by her remarks. “I suppose that could be arranged.”

Reaching into his shirt pocket, Paxton pulled out a cigarette and lit it. She wished he would leave, but he casually leaned against the van and stared at Adriana. “I’ve heard rumors that you know the truth about the murder and about Trevor Montgomery’s disappearance.”

“You shouldn’t listen to rumors,” she said coolly. She had dodged questions like that for years. Just because she now owned Trevor Montgomery’s home, his cars, and nearly all his other belongings,
just because she was reputed to be an expert on his life, didn’t mean she knew the truth about that night.

Again she looked at her watch. “I have an appointment, Mr. Paxton. You have my business address. Please send the photos—and the negatives—when they’re ready.”

“Why don’t I deliver them personally—to your home. Santa Barbara’s not too long a drive from L.A.”

Adriana shook her head. “Send them to my store in Hollywood. Please.”

Mr. Paxton sucked on his cigarette, blew out a puff of smoke, and saluted her with two fingers before he climbed into his vehicle and drove away.

Adriana watched the silver van cruise slowly down the winding cobblestone road, hoping that was the last she’d see of Mr. Paxton.

“You’re deep in thought.”

Adriana spun around at the sound of the familiar voice. ‘Just another nosy photographer,” she said, smiling softly at the elderly gentleman. “Hello, Elliott.” She wrapped her fingers lightly around his wrinkled hands and leaned close, briefly touching her cheek to his.

The old butler pulled away in his ever-so-proper manner, yet the smile he offered was warm and comforting. “I should have come outside earlier. From the look on your face it appears that man’s upset you dreadfully.”

“No more than any other photographer,” Adriana answered, brushing off the incident as if it didn’t matter. “Actually, my mind was wandering. That’s all.”

“Back to the past, I suppose,” Elliott said, standing formally in his conservative black suit and tie, looking just as dignified as he had when she’d come to Sparta twenty-three years ago, at the age of six.
“You do realize, Miss Adriana, that you’re becoming more like Mr. Stafford every day.”

“I can’t think of better footsteps to follow in,” Adriana responded, fondly remembering Harrison Stafford, her guardian and mentor, who’d given her everything a person could ever wish for, except the privacy she craved.

Pulling the black silk scarf from her head, she dropped it on the passenger seat in the Duesenberg, and took Elliott’s arm in spite of his half-hearted attempt to draw away again. She didn’t have to hide from Elliott, only from curiosity seekers.

Walking up the steps leading to the mansion, she snapped a yellow rose from a bush blooming in a marble urn, and tucked the fragrant flower into Elliott’s lapel. He was nearly eighty and much more a father figure than a servant. Over the years he’d lectured her about proper etiquette and perfect posture. He’d told her it wasn’t polite to swear. And he’d stood at her side and cried right along with her when Harrison Stafford had been buried.

She missed Elliott DeLancey more than she missed living at Sparta. Fortunately she could still come and go as she pleased, and Elliott would always be there, as a special reminder of the life she’d once known.

When they reached the massive carved entryway, Elliott opened the door and stepped aside for Adriana to enter the foyer. She set her black-velvet handbag and sunglasses on a marble-topped table underneath a six-foot oval mirror framed in 14-carat gold leaf. Adriana had grown up in these rooms filled with treasures collected from around the world. The bed she had slept in as a teenager came from the Palace of Versailles, and as a child she’d romped around marble statues of the gods that had been salvaged from Greek and Roman ruins. She’d played hide-and-seek in rooms where intricately painted mummy cases and suits of armor stood at
attention. She’d eaten off gold-plated dishes that were a gift from a king, and played with dolls that had once belonged to a queen.

She wasn’t the least bit in awe of this place. After all, at one time Sparta had belonged to her. That was a long time ago, though. Even so, each time she walked through the doors she felt at ease, comforted. This was once her home. She’d been loved here, cared for by one of the greatest men who’d ever lived, and his memory filled every room.

“Will you be staying for dinner?” Elliott asked, interrupting her thoughts of the past.

“Thank you for the offer, Elliott, but I can’t stay long. I’m going upstairs for a while, then down to the gardens and pool.”

“Perhaps you can come another time. This big old place isn’t the same without you.”

“I’ll be here for Thanksgiving. Christmas, too.”

“That’s a long way off. Come before... if you can.”

Adriana brushed a quick kiss across Elliott’s wrinkled skin. “I’ll do my best.”

She watched Elliott cross the room, his highly-polished black shoes clicking on the floor, his tall, gentlemanly figure reflecting in the black and white squares of marble tile until he disappeared into another room, and she remembered the most important reason she’d come to Sparta today.

It was the fifth of July—eight years and one day since Harrison Stafford died; sixty years and one day since Trevor Montgomery disappeared. She’d come every year on the Fourth to pay her respects... to remember. She’d never been late before, but this time work had interfered. Harrison would definitely have understood her need to take care of business first.

She ran up the circular staircase, the high heels of her black-velvet sandals clicking on the marble.
Slowly she opened the door to Harrison’s rooms and stepped inside. This part of the house was off-limits to the public. This part of the house still belonged to her. She’d bequeathed all of the land to the state, from the top of the hill to the valley on one side and to the ocean on the other. She’d given them the magnificent mansion, too. But not all of it. This wing of the third floor she’d kept. Besides her, only Elliott, her closest friends, and the housekeepers were allowed inside.

There was a fifty-seat screening room where she’d sat with Harrison and watched old movies. There was a small indoor pool where she’d helped him exercise after the first of his three strokes. The library was filled with his favorite books, and framed photos of friends, acquaintances, and a huge assortment of pictures of Adriana—from age six to age twenty
-
one.

He’d been the best of friends, and she missed him terribly, especially when she remembered their days together.

“Come in. Come in,” Harrison had encouraged her the first time she’d sneaked into his suite. In the dead of night, after her father, the curator at Sparta, h
ad drunk himself to sleep, she
explored other rooms in the mansion, but it had taken months before she’d found the nerve to check out Harrison Stafford’s inner sanctum.

“I didn’t think you’d be awake,” she’d said, walking slowly across the room and standing close to his chair.

“I never was much of one for sleeping at night.” He’d folded his paper in his lap, closed his eyes, and leaned his head back into the soft, burgundy leather. “In the old days we had parties here till the wee hours of morning. When everyone was gone, then I’d sleep.”

“I’ve never been to a party,” Adriana whispered,
fearing the old man might be falling asleep.

His eyelids jerked open. “Never? Surely you’ve had a birthday party or two?”

“No, sir. My father doesn’t like parties.” Adriana backed away. “He wouldn’t like me being here, either. I’d better go.”

She remembered the deep frown on Harrison’s face, and the way he brought one index finger to his lips. “I can keep a secret. Can you?”

Adriana nodded. She’d never tell her father she’d been talking to his employer, that she’d been wandering around the mansion. He’d told her not to, and he didn’t appreciate disobedience.

“Good. I get tired of sitting around this place at night with no one to talk to but Elliott. Besides, he doesn’t like the movies the way I do.” He leaned close to Adriana. “Do you like watching old movies?”

“My father doesn’t like...”

Harrison interrupted her with his laughter. “Does your father like anything?”

“Gin,” Adriana answered innocently.

Harrison’s laughter died just as Elliott, mussed hair, disheveled robe, and bare feet, pushed through the main door of Harrison’s suite.