Legacy of Lies (15 page)

R
ather than make her guests drive up the coast to her Santa Barbara estate, Eleanor had booked the swank Rex Il Ristorante for the evening. The building, which had once housed the city's most elegant haberdasher, clothier to the Duke of Windsor and the Shah of Iran, among others, had been turned into a lushly romantic place—a tribute to Hollywood in its heyday.

Swathed in soft hues of peach, plum and mauve, the main dining room resembled the grand salon of a luxury liner. Art Deco chairs and cozy love seats were not merely furniture, but curvaceous, sensual pink shells and calla lilies; glass tables appeared to float on crystal bases.

Despite the lingering nervousness she felt from the moment she walked through the etched Lalique doors, Alex was absolutely enchanted.

She'd no sooner entered the room when she was greeted by her hostess. “My dear,” Eleanor Lord said, taking both Alex's hands in her beringed ones, “don't you look absolutely stunning!” Her gaze swept approvingly over the short scarlet sarong. Alex had spent hours sewing glittering
gold beads onto the strapless bodice. “I assume this marvelous gown is your own design.”

“It is,” Alex said with a smile.

“With such talent, it's no wonder you won an Emmy. You've no idea how pleased I am you could make our little party.”

Although the elderly woman's smile was warm and inviting, there was something about the way Eleanor was looking at her—deep and hard—that made Alex vaguely uneasy.

“I'm honored to be invited.”

“It's we who should be honored,” Eleanor corrected absently. Her gaze was riveted on Alex's face. “It's not often we're in the company of artistic genius.”

Alex laughed at that and managed to relax. Just a little. “That's definitely an exaggeration, but I was taught at a very early age that a proper guest never argues with her hostess.”

“That's absolutely right,” Eleanor agreed. Something indiscernible flashed in her eyes, something that came and went so quickly Alex nearly missed it. “It sounds as if your mother paid more attention to Emily Post than Dr. Spock.” Her voice went up a little on the end, turning the observation into a question, but before Alex could respond, a tall, distinguished, silver-haired man in black tie approached.

“Eleanor, don't tell me you're going to keep this lovely creature to yourself all evening,” he complained. “Not when everyone's dying to meet Hollywood's newest celebrity.”

The moment for private conversation had passed. Alex was introduced to a dizzying number of people, most of whom she'd watched on television and movie screens for years.

All the time she remained devastatingly aware of Zach, looking resplendent and too handsome for comfort in black tie. Having practiced her polite, casual greeting all afternoon, she waited for him to approach. An hour later, she was still waiting.

Finally, feeling a need for solitude, Alex climbed the stairway to the circular mezzanine promenade, where intimately arranged conversation areas allowed for private
tête-à-têtes
.

Settling into a comfortable, mauve-and-pink suede seashell, she watched the dancers glide across the black marble floor and found herself picturing a billowy, white tulle dance dress, shimmering with crystal beadwork, the type of dress Ginger Rogers might have worn. The type of dress that would be perfect for the oil man's wife to wear in the season's end cliff-hanger charity ball scene.

“Makes you wish you'd been around for the days of the Coconut Grove and the Copacabana, doesn't it?” an all too familiar voice murmured. Lost in her creative muse, Alex hadn't heard Zach come up beside her.

The deep sound strummed a hundred, a thousand, hidden chords in Alex. Feeling the color rise in her cheeks, she looked up into the ruggedly handsome face she'd tried so hard to forget.

She had to force herself to remember how to breathe.
Inhale.
“I half expect to see Rita Hayworth dancing cheek to cheek with the Ali Khan,” she admitted.
Exhale
.

Oh, God. It was happening all over again. What made her think she could ever forget this man? And the dizzy, terrifying, wonderful way he could make her feel.

“While he whispers sweet nothings in her shell pink ear,” Zach said, reminding them both of a time when he'd held her in his arms and told her again and again how beautiful she was. How sweet. How exquisitely unique. He
casually flicked a finger at her dangling gold earring. “Hello.”

“Hi.”
Stop that!
Alex instructed her lips, which had curved into a foolish, adoring teenager's smile.
Inhale.

“Congratulations on your Emmy.”

“Thank you.”
Exhale.

“I'm no expert on women's fashions, but according to my mother, who never misses an episode of ‘Blue Bayou,' you were a shoo-in to win.”

At the mention of Eve, Alex's smile turned warm and genuine. “How is she?”

“Wonderful.” He sat down across from her, close enough that their knees were almost touching. “I visited last month, and she's still glowing like a new bride. I think it must be love.”

Alex's soft answering laugh made Zach realize exactly how long it had been since he'd heard that rich, vibrating sound. And how much he'd mourned its absence. “That's sweet,” she said.

“I think so, too. She's wild about that dress you made for her, by the way. It was a very nice thing to do.”

“I had such a marvelous time at her wedding, I wanted to find some way to repay her.” Alex couldn't believe she'd actually brought up that magic, romantic night.
Stupid, stupid, stupid!

Zach had spent the past hour nursing a single drink while he made polite small talk. Sipping and smiling and chatting, all the time watching Alex. And now, as she crossed her legs, clad in shimmering stockings that reminded him of stardust, he had an urge to whisk her out of there and take her for a midnight stroll on the beach. Just the two of them. Alone, with only the full, benevolent moon and sparkling stars to keep them company.

“It was a good time, wasn't it?”

Not wanting to lie, but unwilling to admit it had been the best time of her life, Alex lowered her gaze so he wouldn't see the dangerous yearnings that had leapt into her heart.

She was wearing her hair the same way she'd worn it for the Emmy broadcast, piled high atop her head in wild, sexy disarray and looking as if it might tumble down over her bare shoulders with the slightest provocation. She'd precariously secured the bright concoction with a trio of jeweled combs. Zach had a perverse urge to pluck those combs loose so he could watch the gilt waves cascade free.

He reached out and brushed away an errant curl that had escaped to tumble down her cheek. At the feathery feel of his fingertip against her skin, Alex's mind emptied.

“I'm glad you came,” Zach said.

“I almost didn't.”

Another silence settled. They exchanged a long look rife with sensual temptations. Alex felt as if she were standing on a precipice and it would take only the slightest nudge to send her toppling over the edge.

Dragging her gaze from his, Alex glanced around with a casualness she was a long way from feeling. “Where's your wife?”

The question spoke volumes. Zach wondered if Alex actually thought he was coming on to her because Miranda was out of the country.

That wasn't the case, even though he admittedly wasn't as upstanding a husband as he'd been when he'd first met Alex. A few months after Mardi Gras, in a futile attempt to convince himself that what he'd felt for Alexandra Lyons could be felt for any intelligent, beautiful woman, he'd entered into a discreet, noncompromising, brief and emotionless affair with a local and very married television anchor-
woman, which had left him feeling guilty and even lonelier than before.

“We need to talk.”

“I don't think that's a very good idea.” Remembering where they were, and who they were, she glanced around to make certain no one was standing within hearing distance. “I'm sorry, Zach. But I'm not into sneaking around.”

“Dammit, I'm not asking you to—”

“I know.” She put her hand on his arm and felt the muscle tense. “You want to talk. But we both know it wouldn't stop at that, and eventually, although we wouldn't mean to, we'd end up hurting everyone.”

Did she think he wasn't hurting now? Hell, just being close to her without being able to touch her, to kiss her, was ripping his heart to ribbons. He was surprised that the mauve carpeting wasn't soaked red with his blood.

“Do you have any idea,” he said roughly, “how much I've missed you?” The hell with protecting his male ego.

“Yes. Because not a day has gone by since New Orleans that I haven't wondered if I did the right thing walking away from you.”

On the table in front of them a crystal Art Deco vase held a single pink rose. Unreasonably nervous, Alex began plucking unconsciously at the velvety petals. “But I know that I did. Because it's obvious that your relationship with Miranda—” there, she'd said her rival's name without choking “—is important enough to keep you in your marriage.”

“Dammit, Alexandra, you don't understand.”

“That's where you're wrong, Zach,” she said softly. “I understand only too well.”

The fact, as much as she wished otherwise, was that Zach
was married. That was all she needed to know. End of story.

At least it should have been. But although she'd tried her best to avoid thinking about Zach, tried to convince herself that he'd been nothing more than a Mardi Gras fling, she now realized that their time together in New Orleans had left behind some smoldering embers that only needed the slightest breath of air, the most fleeting touch of a match, to ignite.

 

Miranda arrived late at the gala party. The first thing she did when she entered the room was grab a flute of Mumm champagne from a passing tray. Sipping the bubbly liquid, she began idly looking around the room, trying to locate her aunt's newest folly.

She spotted the interloper talking to, of all people, Zachary. And from the look on his face, Miranda realized that Eleanor wasn't the only one intrigued with Alexandra Lyons.

She tossed down the champagne, following it with two more in rapid succession. Then, fortified for battle, she crossed the room with long, purposeful strides.

“Darling!” she gushed, ignoring Alex completely as she captured Zach's face between her palms and gave him a long, inappropriately intimate, openmouthed kiss.

“I would have been here sooner,” she said when they finally came up for air. “But my plane was stacked up for hours over LAX. I barely had time to throw on a decent dress and redo my face.”

“You look lovely as always,” Zach said on cue, wiping the scarlet lipstick from his mouth with his handkerchief.

He recognized the long, sinuous, skintight black gown as being from Yves Debord's latest collection. Even with her generous discount, the evening dress had been outra
geously expensive. Although she'd assured him that the design was the very height of fashion, Zach thought the dress, with its layers of jet sequins, made Miranda resemble a snake. Or an eel.

“And you always say the right thing. I suppose that's only one of the reasons I adore you so.” She gave him another wet kiss that stained his cheek and made Zach wonder what the hell his wife was up to now. He couldn't remember the last time Miranda had shown him even a scintilla of affection.

As if noticing Zach's companion for the first time, Miranda cast wide, expectant, green eyes Alex's way. “Zachary, darling,” she cooed, “you're forgetting your manners. Aren't you going to introduce me to your friend?”

Of course, Zach realized. Miranda was staking her claim, on the Lord's empire, as well as on her husband. He could practically feel No Trespassing being stamped on his chest.

“Miranda, Alexandra Lyons. Alexandra, this is Miranda.” There was a brief, all too noticeable pause. “My wife.”

“Not
the
Alexandra Lyons!” Miranda looked at Alex as if admiring a newly cut precious stone. “The Emmy-winning costume designer the entire city is abuzz about?”

Miranda's photographs, which had graced the glossy pages of last month's
Town and Country,
had not begun to do her justice. Her blond hair swung in sleek, polished wings; there was an innate superiority in the way she dressed, the way she moved, the absolute perfection of face and figure. Zach's wife was a dazzling blend of glacial beauty and smoldering sexuality.

Alex hated her on sight.

“I'm not sure the entire city is abuzz,” she said mildly, steadfastly ignoring the apologetic look Zach was trying to send her way. “But yes, I did just win an Emmy.”

“I knew it!” Miranda clapped her hands. A diamond the size of the Taj Mahal glittered coldly on the ring finger of her left hand. “Of course I'm much too busy to watch the telly, but my dear Aunt Eleanor would never miss an episode of your little show. I do believe she's hooked,” Miranda confided in a conspiratorial tone.

“Along with much of the television-viewing world,” Zach broke in, determined to somehow spare Alex his wife's whip of a tongue. Although their marriage bed had become as arid as the Sahara, for some reason he could not understand, Miranda was an insanely jealous woman.

Woe to the female who was caught talking to him alone, double woe to the woman who dared to smile at him, even in passing. And woe, woe, triple woe to the poor unsuspecting female who might display even the faintest interest in Miranda Lord Baptista Smythe Deveraux's latest husband.

As she returned Miranda's predator smile with a bland, polite one of her own, Alex found herself grateful for the woman's interruption.

She could not—would not!—let herself fall in love with Zach. No way. Absolutely not. Only fools fell in love with married men, Alex reminded herself. Fools or women with strong suicidal streaks.